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ANGST PIECE
I'm fucking depressed lmao
So I wrote this Shane angst piece.
Shane writes a letter to the farmer - Short
TW: Suicidal ideations/Angst
570 words
Ao3 Version here:
Apologies for this letter. You know I’m far from being the best with words. But having them swimming incessantly in my mind, it’s clear they want out. And the healthiest way is writing them down. See, I do remember and use your coping strategies.
Babe, I don’t want to upset you. Hell, I might even rip that stupid letter out after I’m done. You don’t need to know. You deserve to know. Because you made me believe we are a team, that I wasn’t alone anymore. Before you, I had no plan, nothing. I was willing to die without ever second guessing myself. I didn’t. Fate or some shit had it that I meet a dirty farmer who pushed me toward help and my family, and later became part of my own.
This is where lies the issue. You see, I should have died before meeting you.
Disappear and become a faint memory sounds better than what I am now. I’m not unhappy. I can even say I can recall moments of happiness.
It’s funny. As I wrote this our wedding song came on the radio.
But I’m scared terrified, almost every day. It’s harder and harder to fight the thoughts in my head. I promised I would never revert back to - how did you call it again?- “socially acceptable self-harm”. And I won’t. But fuck it’s hard to ignore the call of the bottle.
I don’t want the thoughts to hurt you, what we have. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s increasingly difficult to see the worry in your eyes. I’m not strong like you. And you don’t deserve that. I keep imagining how your life would be if I was never there for you to choose me, somehow. You would have found someone strong, healthy, stable. Someone which what WHOSE mind doesn’t try to annihilate on a daily basis. Someone you can rely on, and who would make you happy. Someone who can shield your beautiful eyes from tears, grief, and concerns.
Baby I’m not unhappy. I love you. I love us. But I should have died before meeting you.
It’s too late now. You make me smile, you give me comfort, strength, and safety. See how I repay you.
The anguish on your face, love, breaks my heart. You deserve to be the happiest in the world, but when the thoughts win I know I can’t bring you anything good.
And it kills me.
I can’t let you down. I fight the urges. I’m tired. I’m trying to be strong. For you, for Jas, even for myself. Deep down I know you all would be happier, and I should have died before meeting you.
You lock me back on earth. You show me how life is worth living. Fuck you make me want to live. Babe I don’t wanna die.
I swear I don’t
Life would have been easier for everyone. You keep telling me you’re happy and I believe you. You tell me you love me, and I believe you. But imagine how much happier you would be with a mentally stable husband. It must be so hard to love me. It must be soul crushing to know that it doesn’t matter how many times you hold me in your arms and kiss me, I will always think that you deserve better.
Honey, I don’t wanna die, but I should have died before meeting you.
#fanfiction writer#stardew valley#stardew valley fanfic#fanfic short#fanfiction letter#fanfic#ao3#ao3 fanfic#fanfiction#ao3 writer#archive of our own#sdv shane#sdv#stardew valley shane#shane stardew valley#stardew shane#shane x farmer#sad chicken man#failed writer#angst#light angst
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Imagine this: youre in college, and after all those boring classes you come to your job at the donaldsons that includes riding him in the couch for as long as your legs allow you.
Tashi just coming home to thats sight and just making herself a afternoon drink unbotherd.
Dbsnhxhsb
omg shut up???🥲
warnings; all smut not much plot, older!art, so much potential for this series aghhh
a/n; art is an ear freak i literally feel it in my balls he loves it when u suck on them ears (he did it to tashi so he likes doing it to others too <3)
the front door clicks and you wander through, in this teensy little white tennis dress that art told - no, commanded - you to wear when you came to work. the dress that shows the strain of your hard nipples through the fabric, swollen into points like diamonds, the one that slips upward and reveals the perky swells of your ass, the barely covered seam of your pussy when you trounce up to him, chirruping nonsense and smiling at him like he’s the only man in the world.
he murmurs something indiscernible - a pleased noise that reverberates at the back of his throat - and you lean over the back of the couch, sliding your manicured fingers across the expanse of his chest, chin tucked to his neck.
“hi.”
“hi, baby,” he murmurs in that low, rasping way that turns your insides molten.
fast forward no more than ten minutes, and you’re both bare, art’s thick fingers curled round your waist as he uses you as a fleshlight, lifting you up and down like a ragdoll and watching, entranced, as your cunt flares and parts for his thick cock; you sob and babble, slumped forward against his chest, nails digging into porcelain skin, teeth scraping along art’s cheekbone.
“i know, baby. i know,” he grunts, and you’ve never heard a sound like it. your cunt clenches, a soft silk wrap around his cock, and he’s turning his head to suck at the corner of your mouth, all spit and drool and tongue, so much of it that it drips from your chin, globs of it pooling between your tits.
the front door clicks and you’re both too lost in each other to care as tashi comes through the living room and enters the kitchen; art hooks one of his huge hands under the crease of your knee, lifting your leg until it’s draped over his forearm, bracing his feet against the leather of the couch as he jackrabbits up into you. you make a sound somewhere between a moan and a scream, and then tashi’s figure is crossing by you once more, drink in hand, lithe fingers nudging at your jaw to examine your expression. she bends at the waist, pinches your pert little nipple and rolls the bud between her fingertips, and smirks - fucking smirks - as your pussy clamps down on him like a vice; art lets out a stuttered breath, pulls you down onto him, and cums on the spot.
neither of you quit writhing against each other; he has at least another load in him, cock already chubbing back up encased in your spasming walls, no doubt an angry red and drooling precum. tashi settles herself on the armchair opposite you, already disinterestedly flicking through tv channels.
“want my mouth on you,” you whisper, face pressed just below his jaw, breathing hot air onto his neck.
“in a minute, baby,” he supplicates, grunting as he sheathes himself further into your tight warmth, balls heavy and swollen and slapping against your ass with every filthy rock of his hips.
tashi crosses one leg over the other, the picture of boredom, and says, “bite his ear. he loves that shit.”
you do just that, teeth rolling over his lobe as you suck the sensitive skin into your mouth.
he almost cums again, hands sliding up and over your back to still your movements so he doesn’t blow his load right there.
oh, tashi’s going to have fun with you. mould you into a perfect little toy for her husband, take some of his intense, fervent pining off of her, let you be the center of his world so she can focus on improving his game.
she might even keep you if you’re lucky.
#love letters#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x tashi duncan#art x reader#art donaldson drabble#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fluff#art donaldson fanfiction#art x you#challengers film#challengers movie#challengers fic#challengers fanfiction#challengers x reader#challengers x you#art donaldson#tashi duncan#tashi duncan x reader#tashi duncan x you#tashi x art#tashi x reader#art challengers#challengers#writers on tumblr#writer#writing#writing for fun#art 🎾
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Steddie soulmate AU where Eddie is a famous musician, everyone assumes he doesn't have a soulmate. Eddie was just smart and doesn't confirm, doesn't want to go through rabid fans who claim to be his soulmate. He's had too many show up wearing his initials they tattooed on themselves even before he was asked about soulmates in an interview.
Enter Steve Harrington who works as a nurse. Just casually on his third nightshift in a row in the ER. Sipping some coffee trying not to fall asleep when they get the call about some confidential patient coming in.
Eddie comes in for some injury. Steve has 0 clue who he is, just says "You look familiar, did we go to school together?" And Eddie practically falls off the stretcher at Steve's feet. Goes all googoo eyes at him. Steve being mildly concerned because Eddie's heart rate keeps skyrocketing (its because Steve is touching him).
One of the other nurses can't help but try and get the gossip from Steve, who is very much confused as to why she cares about this random patient. She tells Steve who Eddie is, and he's just like ???? Okay???
Steve doesn't admit it but the picture she shows is HOT. It's Eddie, flipping off the camera, tongue out. He's covered in tattoos, including the word 'sorry' written in a weird script on his middle finger. He's shirtless and his pants are so low that Steve can see the dip of his hips creating a v and-
Steve has to walk into the supply room to get himself under control. Pretends it doesn't mean anything and goes back to his job as his heart thuds rapidly in his chest.
Eddie tries not to pass out when they draw his blood, Steve holds his hand. It feels right. Eddie can't help wanting to ask," Hey, do you have a soulmate?" But he hates being asked that question, so he won't.
Until Steve bends over, his scrub top lifting up slightly. Eddie can't help glancing at his ass, but then he can't breathe. Because on his lower back is the initials EJM.
"Steve G. H?" Eddie asks as his voice goes up an octave. Steve turns, bewildered ," How did you-?" "Edward James Munson." Eddie whispers.
Oh
#Eddie uses a temporary tattoo to change the G to look like an O and the H into a weird looking R#Adds the other letters for the word Sorry and just is like cool looks good I guess#Anytime anyone asks about soulmates he just raises his finger and everyone assumes he doesn't have one and is rude#He's just being honest!! He is showing his soul mark!!#Steve is like “excuse me” goes to the bathroom used only for meltdowns and stares into the mirror#It's his third night!!His hair isn't even styled!! His scrubs have a stain on the top!! And THIS is what he looks like meeting his soulmate#Steve knows Robin is somewhere cackling at this he just knows it#Soulmate AU#Steddie#Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson#Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington#Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson#Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington#Jade is Talking#Also idk if we know their middle names but this is fanfiction I control the characters now
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⋆ ˚。⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚。⋆⋆ ˚。⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚。⋆⋆ ˚。⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚。⋆⋆ ˚。⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚。⋆⋆ ˚。⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆
"but professor, i've never gotten anything lower than an A+ before!"
professor sturniolo sighs softly, rubbing the stubble along his jaw as he eyes you, licking his lips. you bite your lip in nervousness, feeling the familiar feeling of heat pooling in between your thighs whenever you were around your teacher. his intense, azure eyes that would wander hungrily over your gaze didn't ever escape you ━ you couldn't deny the obvious attraction you had towards him, either. you knew it was wrong, but you couldn't help it, especially when you were his favorite student.
but after seeing the B+ on your most recent paper, your mind was spiraling and you had started to think otherwise. "i'm so confused on what i did wrong, mr. sturniolo."
"listen, y/n, your work was done well, but it was lacking," professor sturniolo explains to you, shaking his head slightly as his eyes bore into yours, "this wasn't your best work, you and i both know that. you could've done better."
a huff escapes the pout of your lips, your arms crossing against your chest. professor sturniolo's eyes wander down to where your perky, perfect breast are almost peaking out from above the white button up top you've paired with your denim skirt, just barely grazing the curves of your ass. a low rumble leaves his lips, and he clears his throat to cover it up, eyes raking over you shamelessly.
and you don't miss the way he stares.
he raises an eyebrow as you walk closer to his desk, stopping just in front of his desk where he sits in his chair. he leans back with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, manspreading as he watches the way you stare down at him pleadingly whilst pressing your plush thighs together.
"is there anything i could do..." you whine lowly, your eyes traveling down to the bulge in his work slacks, "to raise my grade?"
he chuckles lowly, his eyes darkening with a sinister gleam in his eyes. professor sturniolo tsks, shaking his head slightly before beckoning you over to him.
"get on your knees angel, hm?" he instructs you, and you nod eagerly.
you tucked your skirt under you, knees pressing against the carpeted floor of the classroom as you slowly crawl in front of him, wide eyes staring up at him as you await his next command. he feels his cock twitch in his pants upon seeing you on your knees for him, face level with his still clothed erection.
"such a sweet girl..." he hums lowly, reaching his hand out to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping over you bottom lip, "willin' to break the rules jus' to raise your grade? such a naughty little thing, ain't ya?"
you whine lowly, feeling the heat pool your underwear upon hearing the way he described your current predicament ━ it was so wrong, but you couldn't help the way your body reacted to the simplicity of his hand grazing along your cheek.
"please sir, need you," you plead, wide eyes filled with lust and pleading as you stare up at him.
"go on angel, have me."
professor sturniolo lifted his hips up as he unbuttoned his slacks, sliding them down towards you ━ you eagerly slid them past his knees, gulping slightly when you saw his erection prodding against his underwear, begging to be released. he lifts his hips up once more to slide his underwear down and once they unclothe his cock, your eyes widen ━ he's big. his angry, mushroom tip is reddened with precum leaking from it. his eyes narrow at you predatorily, watching the way you take him in.
"s-so big, sir," you say, mouth watering as you look back up at him, "please, can i taste you?"
"course you can, baby," he urges, caressing your cheek, "know you can take all of me, c'mon."
you scoot closer to him until you're eye level with his dick, slowly moving forward as you lick a stripe up the underside of it ━ a low groan leaves your professor's lip, clearly having been waiting for some type of contact. you reach a hand up to slowly stroke him, watching as his eyelids become lidded as he hungrily gazes down at you.
"y'gonna tease your professor, hm?" he warns you, "gonna have to make me feel good if you wan' that A+."
without warning, you take the head of his throbbing cock until it hits the back of your throat, earning a low growl from your professor, his head lolled back in ecstasy. you raise your head up, before going back to take him again. "fuckk, there ya go, angel..."
you stroked the rest of what couldn't fit in your mouth, watching his expressions morph as you continued sucking him off. professor sturniolo's hand goes down to create a makeshift ponytail, gripping your hair harshly as he forces your head all the way down, your nose brushing against his pelvic bone as he fucks your face with vigor.
"takin' me so fuckin' good, doll," professor sturniolo says darkly, his hips snapping up as he drives his cock down your throat, "breakin' the rules jus'- fuckk- cause ya didn't like ya grade? gonna make you take me, you dirty slut..."
his filthy words have you moaning around his cock, and your hand goes down and slips inside of your underwear, rubbing circles around your clit. professor sturniolo's cock begins twitching inside of your mouth, signaling he was close.
"m'close, angel," he growls, his thrusts into your mouth growing sloppy, the wet, lewd noises sounding throughout the classroom. spit trickles down the sides of your mouth, and you could feel your throat becoming hoarse but you didn't care. you can feel yourself closer and closer to your own orgasm, your slick coating your fingers as you rub your clit faster.
"gonna fill that pretty mouth up with my cum," professor sturniolo groans possessively, "is that what you wan'? want your teacher to fill your dirty mouth up with his seed?"
the moan you suddenly let out around his cock gives him his answer as he looks down at you, tears filling your vision from you gagging around him ━ the tears spur him on further, hips bucking into your face roughly before his legs sputter, cock twitching as hot, white spurts of cum shoot down your throat, followed by multiple praises of your name slipping from professor sturniolo's lips.
he coaxes himself through his orgasm, guiding your mouth away from his dick, a loud pop sound following. a low whine leaves your lips as you come undone on your fingers, your arousal dripping down your thighs as you pant heavily.
professor sturniolo smirks down at you dangerously, drinking in the sight of your puffy lips, mascara streaking your eyelids as your eyes are glossed over, the scent of sex clouding around you both. his hand reaches out to yours, pulling it up towards you. he hums as he tastes your arousal on your fingers, lustful gaze on you as he licks his lips. "y'taste so fuckin' heavenly."
a small giggle leaves your lips as you stare up at him. "does that mean i get an A+ now?"
#kiwi's love letter 💌#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#the sturniolo triplets#matt sturniolo#matt sturniolo imagine#matt sturniolo imagines#matt sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo x reader#matt sturniolo x you#matthew bernard sturniolo#matthew sturniolo smut#matthew sturniolo x reader#sturniolo fandom#sturniolo imagine#sturniolo smut#sturniolo triplets imagines#sturniolo triplets imagine#sturniolo triplets smut#sturniolo triplets x reader#sturniolo x reader#sturniolos#sturniolotriplets#the sturniolos#matt sturniolo fanfic#matt sturniolo fanfiction#sturniolo fanfic#professor!matt 𝜗𝜚#student!reader 𝜗𝜚
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Could you write a fic where the reader is Stark’s daughter and he catches her and Peter fooling around in her room/main room whilst they think he is out?
caught in a web of kisses
pairings: peter parker x f!reader, tony stark x daughter!reader
brief: (requested!) misunderstandings and compromising situations with peter lead to a whole of cackling and screaming throughout the stark tower compound. a brief look into the life of y/n stark and your struggles with your stupidly overprotective dad and chaotically cute boyfriend.
tags: humour. fluff. borderline crack fic. "enemies" to lover. established relationship.
a/n: thank you so much for requesting! i appreciate it :) it always makes fills me with so much joy to know someone seeks out my writing <3
requests are open!
wc: 1.4k
Perhaps it wasn't your smartest idea to pretend to absolutely despise your father's intern in front of your parents and the Avengers but . . . well- how could you possibly resist yourself when it was so much fun sharing sneaky, mischievous smiles with Peter as you both shot teasing glares across the room to maintain your appearance as rivals?
Plus, it was just a little prank to keep your relationship with Peter, as well as the days spent at the compound, more interesting. If anything, you and Peter were single handedly entertaining the entirety of Avengers with your debates and arguments. You were fairly sure they had bets going on about the two of you. It was harmless, really.
And it wasn't like you were going to keep it from them forever! You would tell them . . . eventually. You just- hadn't thought anyone would find out like this. With you and Peter in such a . . . compromising situation?
You almost let out a small groan of exhaustion as you sunk into the unnecessarily large couch your dad had purchased for the lounge, melting into Peter's side as you fiddled with the remote to lower the lights and dim the windows. Pouting at the sliver of light that still managed to peek through the sunroof, you let out the smallest huff as you closed that as well before turning to take a glance at your boyfriend.
He let out a small yawn before shifting with your attention on him, cuddling into you tighter as he murmured, "You sure no one will be back for another 2 hours? 'Cause I swear if we get caught because you wanted to take a nap on the couch, I will never let you live this down."
Snuggling deeper into the blanket you'd draped over the two of you, you couldn't help but let out the smallest breathless laugh as you responded, "That's if they don't kill you first."
"Hey!" Peter quipped, voice growing the tiniest bit slurred as the nap you promised him began to look awfully tempting, "I'll have you know that I think your dad and also everyone else is quite fond of me, alright?"
You couldn't help but let out a snort as you mocked, pretending to push up fake glasses on the bridge of your nose as you raised the pitch of your voice, "I'll have you know-"
The gentle whack you got on your arm made you stop mid-sentence as you giggled, answering your boyfriend more seriously, "Everyone's schedule says they have stuff going on until at least 6:00, unless they were all just to magically-"
"What happened to, "God dad, if I have to see your stupid intern's face one more time, you're going to have to hold me back from stealing your repulsors and pulverizing the shit out of him?""
You're entire body pauses as you feel Peter tense in your arms, the both of you wincing in sync as you slowly, cautiously, turn your head around to face your dad, voice dragging out as you say nervously, "Uhm...so you see-".
Peter's bewilderment is audible as his head snaps to you, eyes furrowed in confused amusement as he hisses, "Why the fuck are you starting to quote Dhar Mann right now?"
"Peter", your dad interrupts, tone much too pleasant for the situation at hand and consequently sending both your spines into automatically locking up straight as you await his next move, fight or flight instincts activated, "You have 3 seconds to run."
"Mr. Stark, we can talk about this-"
"3 . . ."
"Oh shit!", your boyfriend scrambles, legs tangling into themselves and the blanket in his attempts to get free and run as he presses a ragged kiss to your forehead while declaring muffled through his panicked breath, "If I don't make it out of this alive, just know I wanted you to have my babies and be Y/N Parker-Stark."
The confession sends a surprised wheeze to rack through your body as you see him begin to take down the hallway, sparing a glance over his shoulder at you and your dad before maneuvering himself onto the ceiling and into the vents.
Your eyes tearing up from laughter, you try to speak through your immobilizing giggles as you address your dad, "Dad, father dearest, please- come on- spare him-" "2 . . ." "Dad! C'mon- you have to admit . . . from a completely scientific and objective lens with zero romantic emotions taken into account, considering all the teenage boys out there, Peter is definitely one of the better choices", you tried to level, summoning the critically-acclaimed award winning Y/N Stark inside of you and not the moderately concerned girlfriend worried that her boyfriend's cause of death may in fact be the same repulsors Peter had helped your father tweak in the lab earlier today. How unfortunately ironic. Shuffling over, albeit a bit awkwardly, to where your dad stood, you cautiously peered closer at his profile, trying your best to assess exactly how much trouble you were in. You knew deep down, he truly wasn't all that upset, though, maybe a bit grumpy about having been kept out of the loop for this long. In fact, you were positively confident he was quite happy with who you had chosen. Despite all of his teasing and successfully accomplished fatherly duties of bullying the both of you, it was stupidly evident how much he cared for Peter like a son. Not just anyone was allowed to intern for the Tony Stark, after all.
Lost in thought, you couldn't help but yelp slightly and flinch into your father's side as a muffled voice echoed down from the ceiling, cooing, "Aww Y/N, you really mean that?"
Cursing at your boyfriend's surprising lack of self preservation skills taking into consideration his literal job and particular set of talents, you glared upwards. Hoping your disappointment at his lack of distance somehow radiated through the insulated plaster, you deadpanned, "No, I was just playing. I wish I'd gotten with Harley."
"What?!" squeaked Peter, like a little vent rat, his offended gasp echoing in time with your dad's final countdown.
Giggling once again at Peter's frightened scuttling at the realization that he was out of time, you quickly reached to grip at your dad's suit clad bicep before he could make a motion to call at the Iron Man suit, your voice taking on a more serious tone as you asked softly, his opinion and approval still highly valuable to you, "You're ok with me and Peter dating though? Genuinely?"
The twitch of his signature smirk on the corner of his lips and the nodding glint in his eyes sent a happy thrill through your heart, instinctively grinning wide as you squealed and rushed to give him a tight hug, speaking through a stifled smile into his chest, "Ok, you have my consent to go squish my little spider now. Please don't bring him back to me flattened or burnt- I quite like how he is now." Your father's wrinkled nose and vocal sound of disgust at how you'd addressed his intern sent you into another fit of laughter as he spoke, "Ground rules since I know the kid's out of his freaky super-hearing range. One, ew. Never address him like that again, I might vomit. Two, if I see the two of you touch, I am immediately invoking a 50 year social-distancing ban between the two of you. 6 feet and everything. I'll throw in permanent masks if I ever catch you two kissing. Three, . . . no promises."
"In response- One, . . . no promises. Two, you don't want spider grandbabies crawling up the walls? All I'm hearing is that we can't get caught. Three, I'll tell mom", you grinned pulling back, your gaze filled with amusement and the look of humoured adoration you often had reserved specifically for your dad as he let out a little whine in complaint at your threat of telling Pepper.
It would just be a little rough up. You know, the classic "hurt my daughter and you're dead" speech. And Peter was Spider-Man! He'd be fine . . . probably.
mailbox ༶•┈ peter parker's mailbox! ┈•༶ send letter
#✩ belxveds#-ˋˏ belxveds wrote ༶ peter parker!#➵ ✩ ◛ ༶ oh belxveds ┈ they’ve sent letters!#peter parker#peter parker x stark!reader#peter parker x reader#peter parker x you#peter parker x y/n#peter parker x fem!reader#peter parker fanfiction#peter parker fluff#peter parker x reader fluff#tony stark#tony stark x daughter!reader#tony stark x reader
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Just some royal shuggy
Inspired by this painting below
#drawn by me#fanart#anime#one piece#buggy one piece#buggy fanart#captain buggy#buggy the clown#op buggy#buggy pirates#buggy#shanks x buggy#buggy x reader#buggy the genius jester#buggy thoughts#buggy x oc#buggy op#buggy opla#opla#opla s2#shanks#shanks op#shanks one piece#shanks opla#shuggy#shuggy fanart#shuggy fanfiction#one piece fanart#one piece fanfiction#one piece fan letter
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letters across time (one-shot)
summary: after having moved to rome for a fresh new start, you begin to receive letters from an unlikely stranger that you begin to develop feelings for... only to come to the heartbreaking realization that the two of you may never meet.
pairing: marcus acacius x fem!reader content warnings: angst (with a happy ending), strangers-to-lovers trope (?), mutual pining, mentions of war and death, sorry - i've got a lack of historical ancient roman knowledge but trying my best lol, deviation from the film (lucilla dies before marcus - sorry, wanted marcus to be single / widowed which only fuels his hatred for the emperors), reader has a nickname (rose), excuse my poor attempt at speaking italian, no use of y/n. word count: 9.4k a/n: so i'm really stepping out of my comfort zone with this one, but i've been obsessed with marcus a since gladiator 2 came out (and honestly who else hasn't lol). also a bit of a tidbit - my first ever tattoo is with the latin saying ad maiora so i had to fit it into this story hehe. if the characterization seems off or if the historical aspect of ancient rome / dialogue is inaccurate, please bear with me - it's my first ever marcus a fic and first time writing in that time period... anyway, huge thank you to @jolapeno for hosting this "dear-uary" challenge <3. my epistolary is letters and my prompt is here. hope you all enjoyed this!
Finally settled in, you walk out to your small balcony and take a seat. It overlooks the famous Colosseum and despite the sounds of chatter coming from nearby, you have to wonder how this place looked centuries ago. Rome had always been a place you wanted to visit, but never did you think that you’d move here.
You don’t speak the language (yet), and the apartment you moved into was surprisingly affordable given the location. An elderly couple owns the small building and when you had approached them about a vacant apartment listing, they were more than eager to have you move in. It wasn’t at all luxurious–the apartment building. It was very dated, remnants of ancient Rome decorated throughout the building. It almost felt like you were transported back to that time period, given the decoration that filled not only your apartment but the entire building itself.
The couple could speak a little English, asking plenty of questions that a usual landlord wouldn’t ask.
American? Yes, you answered.
Married? No, you replied with a heavy sigh–memories of your last relationship flickering in your mind.
A beautiful girl like you, not married? No, you repeated–now trying to end the conversation in hopes that you don’t have to go into detail why you uprooted your entire life into one suitcase.
You had noticed the way the older woman’s smile drops, can see her eyes softening at the sight of you. It’s almost like she knows, like she can understand why you’re here. She’s the first one to say that you got the apartment–the brief meeting lasting only twenty minutes.
It’s yours, she said.
You had told them you weren’t sure you could afford it, given how close it was to the Colosseum and knowing that it was one of the hottest tourist spots. There’s a lot of foot traffic that surrounds this area and you’d be lucky to have found an apartment this fast.
Whatever you can pay, the husband had chimed in. We will accept.
Then, the woman had touched your arm–gentle, light, almost feather-like and you could have sworn the warmth radiated throughout your entire body. This place, this couple–it felt familiar, it felt like home.
You nodded in agreement and you shook hands with the husband before the woman hugged you gently.
And now, sitting in your new apartment, this didn’t feel real. You still feel like you’re running, like you’re looking over your shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the sun begins to set, the sky soon turns a shade of orange and you let out a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding.
A flood of relief washes over you.
You’re safe.
This is your fresh start.
And you remember what the woman had told you when they had given you the keys to your new apartment: Ad Maiora, cara mia, she whispered, eyes staring into your own. A fleeting gaze of understanding. You asked her what that meant and she smiled, patted your hand and answered, Towards greater things, my dear.
After finding luck with your apartment, you doubt that your luck would continue. But now, a month later, you have a steady job at a coffee shop that’s within walking distance and the elderly couple–Giovanni and Antonia–have begun teaching you Italian. Most nights, they invite you to their apartment for dinner where they ask you about your day along with a detailed lesson in learning Italian. Some nights, though, they ask you to teach them English–living so close to a famous tourist area, they encounter plenty of Americans and they believe it’d be good for business if they learned how to speak the language.
Rome starts to feel more like home as the days pass. Giovanni and Antonia have welcomed you with such warmth that they soon find out the reason for you moving here. You told them you left America for a fresh start–having just gotten out of a very toxic relationship and a very meaningless job. You wanted more for yourself and you knew that staying in America was only going to keep you complacent, stagnant.
Antonia had given you a hug at the end of that night–a hug that you had gotten so used to receiving, a hug that you found so much comfort in. They reminded you so much of your grandparents that had raised you–those were the only good memories that you dreamt of, a time where you could be a young girl again, running around in your grandparents’ home.
You feel much freer, more at ease, safe now that you feel fully settled in here. And one day after work, you walk up the two flights of stairs to your apartment and unlock your door. There’s an envelope on the hardwood floor–almost like someone had slipped it underneath your door. There’s no writing on it, no name addressed on it, but you pick it up anyway and notice that it isn’t sealed. You set it on your small rounded table and walk to your kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine–this is routine for nights when you don’t have dinner with Antonia and Giovanni.
You take a quick sip of your red wine and then move to your bedroom, removing your clothes to change into much more comfortable clothing–shorts and an oversized crewneck, your hair now pulled into a messy bun. You’re barefoot when you walk back into the kitchen to retrieve your wine glass. As you pass the rounded dining table, you notice the envelope. Someone must have had to slide it underneath your door on purpose, right?
You take the envelope and then walk out to your balcony, sitting on one of the seats as you set the glass on the small table. Slowly, you pull the letter out of the envelope and open it, the writing in neat cursive. You shouldn’t be reading it, especially if this was meant for someone else.
Confused but intrigued, you continue to read.
Lucilla died today. I was not there to bid her goodbye. I had given her a promise–that this campaign will be my last. All of Numidia–for the glory of Rome… all for nothing. Writing this journal entry surely is treacherous–I could be punished for it, but what is the point of it all? This is not Rome. This is not the Rome I had promised to fight for. Lucilla–I am sorry, my lady. I will love you for the rest of my days and cannot wait until we meet again. Your blue eyes, your smile… Your laugh and your voice–I will carry it with me, my love. I will speak with the Senate. I will–I will do what is right, what must be done. For you. For Rome. Acacius
You’re unsure of what you just read. Lucilla. Numidia. Acacius. Rome. It almost seems like this is a journal entry–the feel of the paper, the cursive writing. Maybe you shouldn’t have read it, but you’re curious. Something inside you tells you to write back–almost like a tug, a pull that you feel in the pit of your stomach. So, you grab a piece of paper and a pen and begin writing–not in cursive, though.
Dear Acacius, I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can say to make things better and I’m not even sure if time helps either… Shit happens. It sucks, and I want to say that life goes on, but it doesn’t. At least not for the person who lives. I lost my grandparents when I was eighteen–it crushed my entire world and set me on a path that I’m still trying to fix. I know this isn’t the same as losing a wife or a partner and I’m not even sure if I’m making any sense. I just–I know what loss feels like and it fucking sucks. Anyway, I think this might have been sent to me by accident and I’m sorry that I opened it and read it. It wasn’t my intention. So, I’m just gonna send it back to you–somehow–but… I hope things get better for you, Acacius (really cool name, by the way!). Best wishes, A stranger
You fold your letter and place it into the envelope with Acacius’s original piece of paper. You then close the envelope, grab your glass of wine and walk back into your apartment, setting the envelope onto your dining table so that it’s visible for you tomorrow morning to ask Antonia about.
The following morning after getting ready for work, you notice that the envelope is gone. You furrow a brow in confusion, beginning to turn over your entire apartment to find the envelope–contents of your letter along with Acacius’s journal entry inside of it. When you realize that you’re late for work, you decide to call in sick and quickly leave your apartment to descend the stairs to speak with Antonia.
She’s in the community garden, tending to the roses and when she sees you, a bright grin lines her lips. She stands and pulls you into a hug without hesitation.
“Cara mia, no work today?”
You shake your head and ask, “Antonia, there was an envelope in my apartment last night. Do you know who might have slid it under my door?”
“Envelope?” she shakes her head, confusion written across her features. “Like a letter?”
“Well, not really?” you answer. “It seemed like a journal entry. They talked about Lucilla, about Numidia–”
“Lucilla? My dear, she was the daughter of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.”
“Wait, that was centuries ago.”
Antonia nods. “And Numidia,” she sighs. “So very tragic.”
“Antonia, who’s Acacius?”
“General Acacius?”
“G–General?”
“Cara mia, cosa sta succedendo?” asks Antonia. My dear, what’s going on?
You shake your head. “Nothing. Um, I’ll have to skip tonight’s dinner with you and Giovanni. Mi dispiace.”
“Cara mia–”
You give her a hug and walk back inside your apartment, determined to find out more about Acacius.
Marcus returns to his chambers, distraught and overcome with grief. His bed–once shared with Lucilla–now remains cold and empty. He can’t bring himself to lie in bed, yearning for his wife who is no longer alive. After Numidia, he was more than ready to return home–returning home meant returning to Lucilla, but when news of her death finally reached him, he no longer found the need to go back to Rome, despite the emperors’ orders.
But Marcus was a man of honor. He would ask Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla for a period of rest from war, to fully grieve the loss of Lucilla. He can’t even think about attending the emperors’ ceremony that’s dedicated to his success in Numidia–how can he when Lucilla is no longer here?
He hears a knock on the door and he walks–barefoot–to open it. He sees a chambermaid on the other side–she has a look of sympathy across her features with a hint of fear.
“G–General,” she mutters. “There is a letter for you.”
“A letter?” he asks, confused.
She nods and extends her hand. Marcus takes the envelope from her and gives her a single nod, dismissing her silently. She turns on her heel and Marcus shuts the door, walking towards the candle that illuminates a small table. He takes a seat, pours himself a cup of wine before he begins to open it. He holds two pieces of a paper–one he’s familiar with and when he opens it, he realizes it’s the journal entry that he had written–and the other, much more smooth, less texture, more white in color. When he opens it, his eyes widen at the writing–all capitalized, not written in cursive.
He reads the first line and realizes that this is a letter to him. He reads it with interest, eyes still slightly widened at the choice of words that he’s not used to.
Shit sucks.
Cool name.
It’s signed A Stranger and he isn’t sure how his journal entry even got into the hands of someone else. He doesn’t have any information aside from the fact that your writing is unusual and the words you use are out of the ordinary.
But, he finds comfort in your letter. He’s known loss before–plenty of his men understand what he’s going through–but somehow talking to a stranger who doesn’t truly know who he is provides a sense of relief. He doesn’t have to be General Acacius in his response to you–he can just be Marcus.
So, he grabs a piece of paper and his quill and begins writing to you.
Dear Stranger, Thank you for returning my journal entry. I am not sure how that fell into your hands and it is quite alright that you read it. However, for some reason, I feel some relief knowing that I am not alone. Maybe my journal entry was meant to find you… Do you believe in that? In fate? Anyway, I am sorry for your loss as well. Loss is… Well, it is a part of life but that does not mean that it is pleasant either. I am sure the path that you are on now will lead you to greater things. There is a saying–if you are familiar–Ad Maiora. It means towards greater things. Also, what do you mean by ‘cool name’? It is quite interesting that my name is associated with some kind of temperature… unless I am misunderstanding. In any case, you may call me Marcus. If you are comfortable, may I ask what your name is? I hope this letter finds you well, stranger. And I hope I get to talk to you again. Best wishes, Marcus
He re-reads his letter, furrows a brow and sighs. It sounds desperate–a plea to get you to talk to him again because he feels less alone when he’s writing to you. He isn’t sure how this letter will get to you, but he keeps his journal entry and your letter and places his reply back into the envelope.
Marcus spends the better part of his night drinking, having ended up falling asleep at his desk and the envelope magically disappearing by the time he awakes the following morning.
You awake the following morning, having fallen asleep on your couch with your laptop and notebook scattered on the coffee table. You had spent the entire night researching Acacius. Antonia was right–Marcus Acacius was a General for the Roman empire, serving under the rule of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. Empress Lucilla was his wife, but had died while he was on his way back from Numidia. But all of this–it happened centuries ago. 211 AD. And Acacius ended up dying–right in the center of the Colosseum after he was forced to fight in the arena after the emperors found out his plan of treachery.
There’s no way that the person you had written to the other day was the same man you had researched–he was dead. Surely, you can’t be writing to someone from a different time period and to someone who is no longer alive. Right?
You sit up from your couch and notice the same envelope magically resting on your coffee table. Quickly, you grab it and pull the letter out. Same paper, same writing.
It’s from Acacius.
You read it quickly, a small smile lining your lips and a quiet giggle escaping you. You feel a wave of emotion when you read his reply; it’s obvious this man is clearly still alive but how could it be possible that you’re communicating with someone who lives in an entirely different time period? And how come the envelope is your only string tying you to him?
After you finish reading his letter, you grab your notebook and pen and begin writing your reply.
Dear Marcus, You can call me Rose. It’s my favorite flower and I grew up helping my grandma with her garden, which was filled with roses. You’re cute, Marcus. Cool name meaning… You have a nice name. I think that translates the same? Ironically enough, Ad Maiora is something I’m trying to remind myself when I have tough days. A good friend of mine mentioned it to me when I moved here. It’s been something that keeps me going every day… the hope that I’m moving in the right direction. And fate… I don’t think I believe in it. We all have free will and everything we do in life is a choice we make… like my choice in getting into a relationship with a really bad man. Would you call that fate? I like talking to you too… and I feel less alone too. Can I ask a question, by the way? What year is it? Best wishes, Rose
You take Marcus’s letter and set it aside, folding your reply and placing it back into the envelope. You’re sure that it’s going to disappear during the night and you hope that you can wake up the next day with a response from Marcus.
Marcus attends his ceremony, dressed in white and gold as he feigns a look of pride, a forced smile when he’s standing in front of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. It makes his blood boil–the fact that these two young men are parading him around like he’s done something so great, so grand. All he can see is the unnecessary bloodshed, the bodies burning in that pit. All he can feel is the emptiness in his soul–Marcus doesn’t want to be here.
And not once did they give their condolences over the loss of Lucilla. Marcus asks for a respite from this war, but they don’t grant him that luxury. He has a cut along the side of his neck due to Emperor Geta placing a sharp blade along his skin. As soon as the ceremony is over, Marcus retreats to his chamber where the envelope that disappeared that morning magically appears on his desk.
Still in his white and gold attire, he quickly opens the envelope and reads your letter. He lets out a breath of relief as he sits down and reads your words over and over again. It gives him comfort–something he desperately needs right now.
There’s something in the way your words put him at ease. He still has to put Lucilla to rest and he isn’t looking forward to it–that the next time he sees his wife will be in a coffin.
He grabs a piece of paper and begins writing to you.
Dear Rose, That is a beautiful name and a beautiful flower. There are gardens filled with them here. Now, when I see a rose, I will think of you. Cute–I have never been called cute before. That is certainly a first, thank you. I believe in fate, Rose. I believe that everything happens for a reason… But I am sorry to hear that you had to endure a difficult relationship. It pains me to hear that you were mistreated and I surely hope that you are far from him now. I believe that we have crossed paths for a reason. Maybe we will never know why, but I am surely glad that we did. You can ask me any question you like and I will be more than happy to answer. It is 211 AD–do you not know the year? Also, I assume that you live in Rome since these letters are coming rather quickly. The next few days will be… rather difficult. I am planned to bury my wife and I am not sure if I will be available to reply, but if you send me a response… I will do my best to write to you when I can. I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to Lucilla. She was an amazing woman. She had to sacrifice a lot in her life–she was very brave, strong, resilient… I should have been there at her bedside. I should have held her hand when she took her last breath… I failed Lucilla. What kind of man does that make me? If you choose to never respond after this letter, I understand. I just–there’s something in the way your words bring me comfort, puts me at ease, gives me a sense of relief… Anyway, I must go now. Until we speak again, Rose. Best wishes, Marcus
He folds his letter and puts it back in the envelope, ensuring this time that he passes it along to the chambermaid.
Later that night, you come home after having spent dinner with Antonia and Giovanni. You’re welcomed with the sight of the envelope sitting neatly on your dining table. You set your things down immediately and grab the envelope, taking the letter out and sitting down on the couch.
Your heart breaks slowly as you read Marcus’s letter. You can feel his guilt through the words on the page and when he confirms the year he’s living in, it all but crushes you. This is a man that you’re slowly developing a friendship with and you know that it isn’t going to last long.
As you continue to read his letter, you feel tears sting your eyes. So, you don’t hesitate to begin writing your response back to him.
Dear Marcus, With you, I’m starting to believe in fate. Would you believe me if I said the year I live in is 2025? I’m not sure how to explain how we’re able to exchange letters from different time periods, but… here we are. It’s possible. I just don’t have an explanation for it. I can assure you that I am no longer in a relationship with that man and I am very much far from him. I moved to Rome about a month ago and I love it here. I can see the Colosseum from my balcony. I’m sorry that the next few days will be difficult. I can’t imagine the pain that you’re feeling–losing the one person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. Lucilla sounded like a great woman, Marcus. I know saying sorry doesn’t change anything, but I don’t know if there’s even anything I can say to make things better. I’m sure Lucilla knew… I’m sure she knew that you did your best to get to her. I’m sure she knew that you wanted to be there with her… And you know, maybe you don’t have to say goodbye. The ones we love don’t ever really leave us, do they? We continue living to keep their memory alive. You didn’t fail, Marcus. Sometimes, things happen out of our control. Not being there for her at the end isn’t a reflection of who you are as a person, or as a husband. I’m willing to bet that if you had it your way, you’d have been there for her. Maybe wherever you were… you wouldn’t have gone if you had a choice. Finally, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sorry. I hope the next few days give you some closure, Marcus, and when you’re ready, I’ll be right here waiting. Best wishes, Rose
You take his letter and put it on the pile you’ve collected before you place your reply back into the envelope. You turn your back for a moment to grab a glass of water and when you turn back around, the envelope is gone.
Marcus awakes that morning to the sight of the envelope. He can’t explain how it just vanishes and reappears out of thin air on his desk. He pulls your letter out of the envelope and reads what you have written.
2025? Surely, that’s a lie. There is no way he’s exchanging letters with someone centuries into the future. He has to wonder if this is some sort of joke, if maybe the emperors put someone up to this. As he continues reading though, he feels tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over. Your words–it provides a sensation of warmth that blossoms in his chest. He wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s a good man.
Marcus rereads your last sentence repeatedly, commits it to memory as he begins thinking of what he has to do today.
I’ll be right here waiting.
He doesn’t have time at the moment to write you back, so he keeps the envelope and letter separate from each other. He takes one last look at your letter before he leaves his chamber.
The next few days, you’re anticipating a response from Marcus. He did warn you that he wouldn’t write back until he’s able, but you still can’t help the disappointment you feel when the envelope doesn’t appear for the next few days. Antonia and Giovanni notice a change in your demeanor since you’ve been receiving the letters–they notice the excitement in your eyes, a much freer spirit, but you tell them it’s because you’re finally feeling more and more comfortable here in Rome.
You learn more about Marcus through your research and you try to find someone who can explain the phenomenon that you’re experiencing. How is it possible that you’re communicating with a man from a different time period? Sure, there are theories about time travel but that never felt real to you.
At the end of the week, you’re already getting anxious. It’s been four days since Marcus’s letter. You have to wonder what he’s doing, how he’s doing. You know how his life ends, and you have to wonder what would happen if you told him. That would change so many things, right? It would not only change history, but it would ultimately change the trajectory of how the world is now.
On the fifth day, Marcus is exhausted. Saying goodbye to Lucilla had only fueled his anger for the emperors. He has a plan in place and he knows what end he will meet if he gets caught, but at this point, he has nothing else to lose.
After he buries Lucilla, he finds some time to ask around if anyone knew a woman named Rose. When someone would respond with a nod, there’s a flutter of excitement that he feels in the pit of his stomach but he’s left disappointed every time. Every Rose he’s met so far has no idea of the letters and he’s starting to believe that maybe you do live in the future–centuries into the future. It leaves him with an unsettling sensation in his chest, a sad reality that there’s a likely possibility that Marcus will never get to meet you.
Now, he finally has some time alone. So, Marcus sits at his desk, rereads your letter once more before he takes his usual paper and quill out to begin writing a response to you.
Dear Rose, I am sorry for the delay in my response. The last five days have been very difficult for me, but every time I saw a rose… I thought of you and it brought me a lot of comfort that I did not realize I needed. I want to express my gratitude to you, Rose. Your last letter–I kept it close to me at all times during the last few days here. Somehow, knowing that you’re waiting for me helped me get through each day… and knowing that I get to write to you again helped me through the difficult moments I endured. Ad Maiora, I suppose. Towards greater things… and I think that greater thing is you. I buried Lucilla yesterday. She still looked so beautiful, but she looked… peaceful. She endured a lot of hardship in her life and there is some comfort that I feel knowing she’s no longer in pain. She no longer needs to fight… and I believe you are right. The ones we love do not ever leave us. We keep their memory alive and Lucilla will always hold a special place in my heart. I must be completely honest with you, Rose. I am the General of the Roman army. I have a lot of blood on my hands… all for the glory of Rome, but you are right. If I had a choice, I would have been by Lucilla’s side from the start. I am conflicted… It is difficult to fight for this version of Rome. So much bloodshed, so many lives lost… all for nothing. I should not be writing this–it is certainly punishable, but I am exhausted, Rose. If you do live in 2025–which does not seem possible–how does Rome look like then? You say you moved to Rome. Are you happy here? I also tried to look for you. Asked around about you, but I did not get anywhere. There isn’t anyone by the name of Rose that knows about these letters. Do you really live in 2025? Lastly, tell me more about you. I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose. I hope that is okay. Best wishes, Marcus
He folds his response and places it into the envelope. Right before his eyes, it suddenly vanishes and Marcus is sure that he must be hallucinating. He’s exhausted and hasn’t had much sleep since he’s gotten back, but he has no other explanation for it.
You awake the following morning to see the envelope on your coffee table. Excitement fills your veins and you quickly walk over to the envelope, carefully taking the familiar piece of a paper out. You begin to realize the letters you have begun exchanging with Marcus are becoming longer and longer–it brings a smile to your face and heat rising in your cheeks.
You sit on the couch, pull your legs underneath you and grab the blanket to drape over your lap as you finally read Marcus’s letter. He thought of you–the last five days and he thought of you. When he finally tells you the truth about who he is, you feel a sense of relief. You had been afraid that you’d accidentally let it slip that you know who he is, despite already telling him that you live in the future.
The last sentence in his letter brings you back to reality. You feel the pit in your stomach drop at the realization that this is as far as you’ll ever get with him. Sooner or later, this letters will end but you can’t help the feelings you’ve begun to develop for a man you will never meet.
I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose.
It’s almost like he knows what will happen to himself–maybe he knows that the plan he eventually comes up with is a death sentence once the emperors find out.
You know you shouldn’t get attached, but you get your notebook and pen and write back to him anyway.
Dear Marcus, I must say, it’s such a relief to hear from you. I wish I could have been there for you, with you… supporting you. If I’m being honest, it’s hard to hear that you’re going through a difficult time. Makes me want to go back into time and pull you into a hug. Do you think that’s possible? Time travel? You sure know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you? You make me blush sometimes with the things you say. Are you sure you’re real? A lot of the men here certainly don’t talk like you do–you can definitely teach them a thing or two. I'm starting to think our saying is Ad Maiora, isn’t it? Moving to Rome led me toward a greater thing… one after the other, and it finally led me to you. I’d say that’s fate, wouldn’t you? And General Marcus Acacius–sounds so formal, so official. You must be very important, aren’t you? Like I said, I wish I could pull you into a hug. I hope, at least, knowing that I’m here to listen is enough though. Also, if talking about this is punishable, then maybe we should be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you… Yes, I live in the year 2025. I’d be surprised if someone lied to you and said they knew about the letters we’ve been exchanging. Rome is… different than what you’re used to. There are no emperors. The colosseum is no longer in use–there aren’t anymore gladiators. I’ll attach a photograph of me and my balcony, maybe it’ll help you believe me. Well, what do you want to know? I’m an open book, Marcus. Ask away. Can’t wait to hear from you again. I have missed you. Love, Rose
You sign the letter without thinking, but you don’t bother to change it or rewrite it after you realize the word you used. You hope it isn’t too forward or too insensitive. You grab your Polaroid camera and quickly walk out to your balcony. You face the camera to yourself and smile, pressing the button to take the picture. Once it develops, you go back inside and fold your letter. After a few minutes, the Polaroid develops and you look down. It’s a good picture and gives a good view of the colosseum in the background.
Placing the letter and the Polaroid into the envelope, you close it and surprisingly see the envelope disappear.
“So it is real,” you whisper to yourself, a smile lining your lips as you already begin counting down the time before you receive a reply from Marcus.
Later that same night, Marcus sees the envelope on his desk as he gets ready for bed. He sits down instantly at his desk and uses his candle to illuminate your writing.
But he sees the Polaroid and takes it out of the envelope. Marcus lets out a quiet breath when he sees you. He isn’t sure what exactly he’s holding or how this managed to capture a realistic photograph of you but he’s distracted by your beauty to even notice the colosseum in the back. He’s still reeling over Lucilla’s death, but there’s something in the way your smile and your bright eyes somehow puts him at ease.
“My lady,” he mumbles. “Lucilla, if you can hear me, please forgive me. This woman–She is helping me through this, through your loss.” Marcus shuts his eyes, guilt and desire mixing together. Guilt because he’s still dealing with the grief of losing Lucilla, and desire because you are absolutely stunning. Marcus isn’t even surprised–this is exactly how he pictured you when you began exchanging letters with him.
Marcus turns his gaze to your letter, but his eyes flicker to your picture repeatedly. You really do live in the future and you will always be so out of reach.
Then, he sees the word you sign your letter with. A warmth washes over him. His lips curl upwards just slightly and he begins to write.
Dear Rose, This–This picture, it is you, yes? I cannot explain how something like this exists, so it must be true that you do live in the future. So far into the future. But you are breathtaking, Rose. Absolutely beautiful. Your smile and your eyes… there’s a kindness and warmth to them. The man you had been in a relationship with before truly did not realize what he had because any man would be lucky to have you. The colosseum in your photograph–it looks old. If what you say is true, no gladiators and no emperors, then can I ask… is your world a better place than what it is here? I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life. This is not to say the life I currently have or have led is not great, but a man can still dream, right? A hug from you sounds very nice. I imagine that I would feel even more at peace with my arms around you. I am not too sure about time travel, but if these letters are any proof of what’s possible, then maybe time traveling is too. Though, if anyone is doing the time traveling, I would rather it be me. I do not want you to be in this time period here, Rose. I do not want you to be around such men because there are bad men here too. Maybe more worse here than there. If I may be honest… I cannot stop looking at you. I believe I’m going to keep this very close to me from now on. I am sorry that I cannot provide the same type of picture of myself–we do not have this here… but maybe I can think of something else… An open book, hm? Well, I know your favorite flower. I know that you are starting fresh here in Rome… I suppose I should ask what do you like to do then? If you are living in the future, what is there to do? I am unsure if you have experienced this yet, but this envelope… it seems to be the reason why we are able to exchange letters. It vanished before my eyes the other day, Rose. I cannot explain how or why that happened, but maybe this is fate. Exchanging letters across time sounds impossible, but for some reason, the Gods wanted us to meet. That sounds like fate to me. I will wait for your next letter, Rose, and I have missed you too. Until then. Love, Marcus
He quickly folds the piece of paper and gently slides it into the envelope, not bothering to wait for it to disappear because his attention is pulled to your photograph. He brushes his thumb across it gently–wishing you were here.
The following morning, you’re awake far too early but excitement fills your entire body when you see the envelope sitting on your dining table. You make a cup of coffee and open it, having grown accustomed to Marcus’s neat cursive. You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks when he compliments you, can feel the butterflies in your tummy.
I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life.
You feel your heart tug just a little–the harsh truth that you will never get to meet him becomes more and more real as you continue to exchange letters with him.
He’s seen it too–the envelope disappearing without a trace. You can’t explain how it’s possible and there is a part of you that no longer wants one. Time travel–there isn’t a way that’s possible and even if it was, how would it even work?
You grab your notebook and quickly begin writing to him, setting your cup of coffee down. You lift the cup away from the paper, taking note that it left a coffee-stained circle at the top corner of the page.
Dear Marcus, You are very sweet… I’m sure there are more pretty women there. I’m just… me. But Rome… it’s beautiful here. It’s always been a place I wanted to visit. I never did think I would end up moving here and now, I can’t even imagine ever leaving. Considering your time period, I would say the world now is much better. I think you would like it… it might take some getting used to–it’s so very crowded here, but I think you would like it. I suppose that’s all we will have, isn’t it? Dreaming of a different life… Or maybe I’ll learn how to time travel and bring you here. I love the beach. I love the water, the sunsets… It’s calming, almost peaceful to me. There’s just something about the sounds of the waves, the feel of the water, the sight of the sky that just puts me at ease. The beach was the one place that I felt like I could get away from everything. It became my safe haven, my safe place… What about you? General Marcus Acacius–what do you like to do? I have also seen this envelope just disappear. I don’t have an explanation for it either, but maybe you’re right. Maybe there is a reason why we’re able to communicate across time. Do you think we’ll ever get the chance to meet face to face? You know, if I learn time travel… Sometimes, when I go to bed, I pray that I dream of you. I think it’s the closest I can get to ever meeting you. I imagine what you would look like, what your voice would sound like… How it would feel like to be in your arms. I would assume I’d feel like how I would if I were at the beach–safe, calm, peaceful. If by some miracle I’m able to time travel, may I come visit you instead? I think it would be much easier for me to go back in time rather than you come here. Some things might change if you were to leave your time period and come to mine… Looking forward to your next letter, Marcus. Love, Rose
You fold your letter and place it in the envelope, already counting down the hours until you receive Marcus’s reply.
Marcus finally sits at his table after an exhausting day at the colosseum. He doesn’t find the violence entertaining like everyone else. It’s unnecessary and he wants no part of it, but he has to put on a facade for the emperors. He still plans on speaking with the senate, to conjure up a plan to somehow overthrow Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla.
However, he’s conflicted with so many emotions. The grief and loss he feels over Lucilla lingers in his chest, but he feels hopeful–excited whenever he sees the envelope on his desk. If he goes through with his plan and he ends up getting caught, Marcus knows what the consequence will be. He knows that it’s ultimately a death sentence if the emperors find out, but his mind drifts to you whenever he thinks about what his end might be.
His eyes drift to your picture on his desk, a small smile curling his lips. He dreamt of you last night, after he had written his response to you. He dreamt that he was in your world, somehow lying in a bed with you in his arms. It was the first time since losing Lucilla that he had woken up with a feeling of ease–just dreaming about you brought him that sense of peace.
Marcus takes your letter out and reads it with a smile. Once he finishes reading, he begins writing back to you.
Dear Rose, I dreamt of you last night. The Gods answered me and I dreamt of you. I dreamt that I was in your world, sitting on that balcony in the picture I received from you. I have this image of you–smiling and laughing–ingrained in my mind. It puts me at ease. Talking with you has been my safe haven, I suppose. Things have been difficult here ever since I got back and it’s lonely without Lucilla. I am sorry to bring her up. These letters have been able to get me through each day. Your picture, too. Lately, I have been dreaming of a different life than the one I am living. I have been a soldier for most of my life, Rose. I do not think there’s a day that has gone by where I have not fought… And it is tiring. The beach sounds like a great place to just get away from it all, I agree. Here, though, I like to go to the gardens. More so now than before. I am usually surrounded by roses and it makes me feel closer to you. I am ready to retire, Rose. I am ready to spend the rest of my days in quiet–possibly far, far away from Rome. Maybe near a beach, hm? That would certainly be another place where I can be reminded of you. I will pray to the Gods for a miracle that we get to meet one day. I didn’t think it would be possible to exchange letters with someone from a different time, so maybe being able to meet face to face may not seem so out of reach… I imagine that I would feel safe and calm with you near too. Your beauty, your words… The way you have made me feel… It all reminds me of Lucilla, but in your own way. I am a man of honor, Rose, and Lucilla will always have a piece of my heart, but… you have become the reason why I am able to get up every morning. I look forward to the next time I see this envelope because it means I get to talk with you. Maybe tonight, we can meet in each other’s dreams, Rose. Until then, my lady. Love, Marcus
Days turn into weeks and your letters with Marcus become more and more frequent. You’ve tried to teach yourself the theories of time travel, but you’re just as confused as when you first started. The more you talk with Marcus, the more you begin to realize the magnitude of your feelings for him. You try to tell yourself that developing feelings for a man you won’t ever meet–a man who’s already dead–is only going to set you up for heartbreak.
But despite knowing how this might end, you still exchange letters with him anyway.
Marcus is set to meet with the Senate tomorrow and he knows that if he gets caught, it will be his death sentence. There won’t be any way that he will be able to get out of it. He holds onto your letters–and especially your picture–when the days and weeks become more difficult for him. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla require his presence at the colosseum and Marcus finds it increasingly exhausting to sit there and feign interest.
When he gets back to his chambers every day, the envelope is there waiting for him. He reads your letters repeatedly before he can even write a response. The way you talk about your world–it helps him escape his reality. He begins to realize just how deeply he feels for you and it saddens him because despite how strongly he feels, Marcus knows that you two may never get the chance to meet.
Later that night, you see the envelope and feel the excitement rush through you. However, once you open the letter and begin reading the words on the page, you feel your heart drop–tears building at the corners of your eyes. This feels almost like a goodbye…
Dear Rose, I am set to meet with the Senate tomorrow. In secret. I realize that this might be the last letter I will ever write to you, but I will be praying to the Gods that it won’t be, but if it is… I wanted to write to you one last time. You have given me hope, have made me feel alive when I had lost everything. Coming back to Rome after Numidia, after losing Lucilla–I could not find the will to live, but then I received your first letter. It was fate. You saved me, Rose. You continue to save me. I wish I could see you. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could hold you. I know I said in a previous letter that I would want to spend the rest of my days in quiet… but I think that has changed. If I had it my way, I would spend the rest of my days with you. I imagine what my life would be like with you. I imagine a lot of laughter. I imagine that we would be at the beach or maybe at the garden and we would have plenty of meaningful conversations. I imagine my mornings would be one of my favorite times of the day because I would get to wake up every morning with you by my side. If this is the last time I get to speak with you, just know that you now also have a piece of my heart, Rose. I will carry your photograph with me forever. I will hold onto the conversations we’ve had and the letters we’ve exchanged. If I do not make it… please remember that you deserve all of the good things in the world. You deserve to always be happy. You deserve to live your life the way you want. You deserve to be with someone who will cherish the very ground you walk on because you deserve nothing less. When I sleep tonight, I will dream of you… like I always do, Rose. Yours forever, Marcus
You know what he means when he says he’s going to speak with the Senate tomorrow. You’ve read what will happen–after all, you know exactly how history plays out after having researched the history of Ancient Rome and Marcus.
You can feel your heart breaking–the ache in your chest beginning to throb almost painfully. You know how Marcus’s story ends, but you can’t let him go. You had been hesitant before–altering history–but you have to tell him. You may never get to meet him, but you don’t want this to be the end.
Grabbing your notebook, you begin to write your response. Almost fifteen minutes later, you fold it in half and place it inside the envelope, watching it disappear yet again before your eyes.
Marcus awakes that morning with a knot in his stomach–his eyes glance over at your photo before he catches the envelope. He sits up from bed and walks towards his desk, pulling out your letter and reading it carefully.
Dear Marcus, Don’t. Your last letter feels like a goodbye, and I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to say goodbye, not yet… Not ever. I shouldn’t be telling you this because I’m sure it’s going to alter my own reality, but I don’t care. I don’t want to let you go. You’re going to get caught. No matter how many times you’ve rehearsed it in your mind, you will be caught. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla will find out and they–they will not take it lightly. They will make you fight in the colosseum and that is where you will die. I know how your story ends and yet, I made a choice to continue exchanging letters with you. I knew that our story would only end in heartbreak, but maybe… Maybe there’s still a chance for us. I am begging you, Marcus… Please do not do it. Don’t go to the Senate. Just–Just leave Rome. Live the rest of your days in quiet–away from war, away from the bloodshed, away from the emperors. You no longer need to fight and I understand… I understand that you made a promise to Lucilla, to yourself, but I cannot lose you and maybe this makes me selfish, but– You saved me too, Marcus. I will spend the rest of my days figuring out how to transcend time… to find a way where you and I can finally meet. Fate brought us together, right? We will figure this out. I will figure this out. This is not the end of your story, Marcus Acacius. Do you understand me? And this certainly isn’t the end of ours. At the end of the day, we still have a choice… If you decide to still go through with it, then I will understand. I know you are a man of honor, Marcus. And if you do decide that you will go to the Senate tonight, then I hope you know how deeply I feel for you too. I didn’t think I would ever love again, but you… You nestled your way into my heart and made a home there. I go to sleep dreaming of you. When I wake up, you are the first person I think of. I love you, Marcus. Yours forever, Rose
He sits at the edge of his bed, rereading your letter over and over and over again. You know how his story ends and you know exactly what will happen when he goes to meet with the Senate tonight. He should have known that you’d be aware of his history–you live in the future after all.
Marcus isn’t afraid to die–in fact, it’s something that he’s come to terms with a long time ago, but for once, he doesn’t want this to end yet. He doesn’t want to let you go either and maybe, maybe you two will never meet, but he would rather die an old man exchanging letters with you.
He reads the last sentence repeatedly and he can’t help the way the words stir something in him–the butterflies he feels in the pit of his stomach, his heart beating faster–you love him.
Marcus knows what he needs to do now.
The rest of the day seems to drag on–the minutes trickling by ever so slowly. Even at work, you can’t concentrate. Antonia and Giovanni pick up on your distraction, but you reassure them with a fake smile and tell them that you’d just rather spend the night alone.
You know it was selfish to tell Marcus the truth, to practically beg him to stay, but you couldn’t imagine continuing to live your life with the possibility that you could save his life. You had only been exchanging letters with him for a little over a month, but you couldn’t help the feelings that you had begun to develop for him. The way your heart races faster when you see the envelope, or the way your stomach flips when you read his letters.
In your free time, you had been trying to learn how to time travel. It seemed almost impossible, but you didn’t want to quit. You couldn’t explain how you’re able to exchange letters with someone who lives centuries in the past–and if that was possible, then surely it was possible to time travel.
Somehow.
You enter your apartment later that night–you can feel the nerves settle in the pit of your stomach when you slowly open the door. You can hear your heart beating in your ears, heart rate slowly picking up when your eyes scan the dining table.
No letter.
Your stomach drops, so you close the door and then move your gaze to the coffee table.
Nothing.
Tears begin to pool at the corner of your eyes and you realize that Marcus had made his choice. You sit on your couch, bring your legs to your chest and cry into it. The sob builds and builds until you let out a quiet whimper, tears now streaming down your face.
He was gone.
Forever.
A week later and you finally get the courage to go back to work. When at work, you fake a smile–feign happiness, but when you get back home, you cry yourself to sleep.
Antonia and Giovanni leave you dinner at your front door, but you don’t bother to open it. You aren’t hungry–you haven’t had an appetite since Marcus’s last letter. You wonder if he ever received your letter and if he did, did he read it?
And if he did read it, what went through his mind?
And when you admitted that you loved him, did that scare him away?
When you open your front door later that night, you set your things down and begin walking into the living room until you finally see it.
The envelope.
Your heart leaps out of your chest.
You waste no time in opening the envelope, quickly taking out the letter and breathing out a sigh of relief when you see his familiar cursive writing.
Dear Rose, I am sorry that I have not written back to you. I had a change of plans after your last letter and had to strategically plan how I would be able to execute it. I am no longer in Rome. You were right–I no longer need to fight. I faked my death–with the help of some trusting men of mine–and am far away from that place. I am living the rest of my days in the quiet–I now live in a small village where no one is familiar with who I am or what I have done. It is almost like a fresh start–a chance for me to live a different life… a life that I might have chosen from the beginning if I had the choice. I want to thank you, Rose. For telling me the truth, for warning me. I am much happier now than I have ever been, and I am more than ready to spend the rest of my days with you. Traveling to this village was not easy, but you gave me the strength–like you always do–to keep going. I love you, Rose. I wanted to tell you that once I was safe–once I was finally settled in. Ad Maiora, right? Towards greater things... So, my lady, what do you say? Shall we continue our story together and maybe–one day–finally meet? Yours forever, Marcus
the end...?
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character#marcus acacius#general marcus acacius#gladiator 2#marcus acacius x female reader#marcus acacius x reader#marcus acacius fanfiction#marcus acacius fanfic#gladiator 2 fanfic#gladiator 2 fanfiction#general marcus acacius fanfiction#general marcus acacius fanfic#story: letters across time#jolapenosdearuary#marcus acacius angst#general marcus acacius angst
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Rafe coming home after a long day and all he wants to do is suck your titties while you get your self off on his lap
just thinking about it makes me feel butterflies. i need this so bad my god. also thank you for sending this in <3
“i missed you so fucking much” rafe whispers as he places sloppy kisses on your neck while you’re sitting on his lap, desperately rocking your hips back and forth on his thigh, trying to release the tension in your body. his hands are gripping your sides tightly as he guides your movements, his thumb drawing slow circles on your skin under your shirt.
“you’re always on my mind. every minute of the day. don’t ever wanna leave you again” he hastily takes off your shirt, unable to wait any longer before he also skilfully removes your bra with one hand. he moves his head back and stares at you in admiration, taking in your beauty. “god, you’re so fucking beautiful. wanna suck your pretty tits so bad baby, show you how much i missed you”
he moves his head to your tits before taking one in his mouth, his tongue sliding over your nipple, causing you to moan as you throw your head back. you quicken your movements as he flexes his thigh, putting more pressure on your clit as you grip his shoulders to support yourself. his mouth continues to the other one, sucking it more aggressively while playfully biting your sensitive nipple. it feels like you’re in heaven at this moment as rafe continues sucking your tits while he whispers sweet words to you. “my pretty girl. my baby. my everything”
#♡ — love letters.#♡ — anon ¡! ❞#nsfw.daydreams#rafe cameron#rafe cameron smut#outer banks#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x fem!reader#rafe cameron x female reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron drabble#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron fanfic#rafe cameron fic#outer banks smut#obx smut#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron prompt
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Hey, imagine, you're Big Bro's other half.
Usually, he doesn't come home for the night. For obvious reasons. As a marine, he's obligated to sleep at the marine's barracks, in case of emergencies and stuff.
But sometimes, he gets a day or two off the job, and he gets to come home to you. He even gets to sleep in the next morning! He'll let himself do some oversleep because you're there and he can relax. Those are special days to him, no amount of hard work will be worth the trouble if he can't even have that.
And you know he's there, and he will be there, with you, in your shared bed, because he's always home by dusk. Whenever you can, you'll meet him halfway so you can go look at the sunset, like the cutesy couple you are, holding hands as you tell one another about whatever you did while you two were apart.
But still. Every time you wake up, and he's right next to you...
You can't help yourself but get all giddy with a big, toothy grin on your face. Because it makes you so happy to have him all to you, even if just for a day or two.
So you slowly turn your body to face him, if you weren't already, and you silently look at his sleeping face. Listening to his light snores.
You don't often catch him talking in his sleep, except when you're awake and he's still deep in slumber.
Usually, it's just a whisper of your name. Sometimes, it's your nickname instead. You snicker when that happens.
And then there was this time.
When you woke up, you were already facing him, and he was holding you in his arms, still asleep, as always.
You smiled at this soft moment, completely enamoured with this guy.
He started grumbling a bit between snores. You heard an approximation of your name, too. Then another snore, one more grumble, and then-
"Marry... me... Grrm..."
He went back to soft snores.
While your heart was pounding and your cheeks burning. He was still sleeping. Your big, sweet, clumsy idiot of a marine boyfriend. Who had asked for you to marry him in his sleep. Still fast asleep.
Literally dreaming of marrying you.
How did you miraculously manage to not wake him up with a warm hug and a huge kiss? You still have no idea.
Not too long afterwards, he had barely opened his eyes that he felt your nose touching his, soon followed by your lips, and he leaned into you with a smile as you kissed.
"Good morning to you, too", he greeted you with a raspy voice.
"Do you remember what you were dreaming about?" you immediately asked with an innocent smirk.
He looked at you. He stared at the ceiling. Something seemed to come back to him.
"Did I... say something in my sleep?" he hesitantly wondered as he looked back at your hardly concealed grin.
His cheeks had gained a bit of colour.
"Maybe~"
"It wasn't something embarrassing, right?"
When you didn't answer despite your smile, he groaned as he buried himself under the bedsheets, hugging you and hiding his face by pressing his nose onto your chest.
"What were you even dreaming about?" you chuckled at his sudden shyness, wrapping your arms around his head. You started playing with his hair. He loved whenever you did that.
"You..." he eventually admitted.
"I'm flattered~ Was I doing anything special?"
"You weren't. I was."
"And what were you doing?" you asked softly, your voice now a whisper.
"I was..." he had lowered his voice to match yours. "I was asking you something."
You didn't question him further, waiting for him to go on.
He came back from under the covers to look into your eyes.
"Was it what you heard me say?"
"I don't know. I won't if you don't ask me again."
He lowered his gaze, thinking.
He didn't want to ask. Not while you were in bed, of all places. He had planned to make that question special, at least more than it would have been if he had just done it at home. He didn't know how he wanted to do it yet, but he wasn't expecting to do it like a spur of the moment thing... or in his sleep.
His eyes darted back to your face. Your soft smile. Your own eyes showing a sort of glint, as in silent anticipation. Like you were glad, already...
He sighed, eyes closed, frustrated at himself. His brother would laugh at him later, when he'd tell him about how things happened, for sure.
But when he opened his eyes again, he was smiling at you. He knew what your answer would be, anyway. He had already asked, after all.
"Will you marry me?"
#one piece imagine#fan letter big bro#one piece fan letter#one piece fanfiction#one piece x reader#gn reader#gender neutral reader#kiara writes#fluff#one piece#one piece fan letter fanfiction#greengrocers big brother#fan letter big brother#marine big brother
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НАСТЯ РАСПУТИНА - NASTYA RASPUTINA
#nastya rasputina#the mechanisms#my art#closeup on the letters because they took very long and i had to redo them because before i wanted to write “anastasia nikolaevna romanova”#and then i read a fanfiction before bed so angsty that i realised my mistake did nastya rasputina instead lol
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Letters to Home
Read on AO3
"Live," she pleads. "I don't want you to sacrifice yourself for this war—for me. I just need you to come back. Please...please come back to me." . Zuko writes the letters whenever he can. During a break from a council meeting, late at night in his chambers, after another training session with Azula—all he does is write to her. Because he needs to let her know that he's alright and their plan is working. She needs to know that he'll come back.
#zutara#atla#zuko#avatar the last airbender#katara#atla fanart#zutara au#atla art#atla fic#atla fanfic#zutara fanart#zutara fic#zutara fanfiction#zutara art#Letters to Home#Leave the City Series#Leave the City AU#zuko fanart#zuko x katara#prince zuko#katara x zuko#atla zuko#katara art#katara fanart#katara of the southern water tribe#atla katara#Zuko is a spy during the first half of season three#He writes and sends letters to Katara during that time. These are those letters#There is so much implied here#So much backstory to unveil. Where did things start to divert from canon? Why is Zuko doing this? What is his history with Katara?
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𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏
𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.
Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader
Word count: 5k
Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.
A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡
The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it.
“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers.
You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”
“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”
“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up.
She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”
You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”
“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”
You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”
Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”
Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.”
As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath.
She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl.
Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common.
“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations.
“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him.
Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound.
Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.
You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.”
They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter.
“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat.
“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”
“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.
“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”
You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.
In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting.
As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink.
With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it.
Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall.
It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen.
“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove.
“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?”
“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”
“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.
“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly.
Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.
You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan.
Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.”
Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?”
You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”
The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that.
“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.”
Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have.
“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.”
Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?”
“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task.
“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.”
You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared.
“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste.
Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again.
Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.
“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?”
“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes.
For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion.
When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles.
And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere.
You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story.
“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.
Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia.
You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”
“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed.
Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.”
The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water.
“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions.
For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others.
Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.
“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”
Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned.
You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon.
“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared.
“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.
You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop.
“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.”
Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.”
Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”
“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.”
“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.
Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.”
“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”
Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.
You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month.
As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself.
— — — — — — — — — — — —
Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.
Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.
He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.
“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.
“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.
Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”
He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.
The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.
What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.
Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.
“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone.
“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again.
Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend?
“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”
He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.
“A cute one, too,” you admitted.
Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.
“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.”
Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.
“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”
Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door.
“Did you forget something?”
By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him.
Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”
For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening.
“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.
He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.
“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”
Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.
Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.
“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.
“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”
Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.
You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.
“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”
Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”
“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”
Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him.
Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.”
“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly.
“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle.
“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.”
“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.”
For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.
“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”
“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”
Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”
“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”
He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”
You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket.
This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡
౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]
Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress
#love letters 💌#my writing 🪐#f1 fanfic#f1 x reader#f1#f1 fanfiction#f1 fic#f1 imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen#max verstappen x you#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen fanfic#max verstappen fluff#formula one#mv1#formula 1#mv1 x reader#mv1 fic#mv1 imagine#mv33
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“shhh, shhh..I know, I know..” with finnick pls 🥺
pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader
warnings: this takes place after the poison fog, r is badly injured and finnick takes care of her
hunger games masterlist
You twitch against Finnick’s chest in the tall grass, rough like sandpaper against your wounded face. You’re covered head to toe in blisters from the fog, eyes half lidded as you begin to lose consciousness from the pain.
Katniss’ strangled wail is muffled and far away in your ears and you barely register the words.
“The water! The water helps.”
You drag yourself from where you’ve collapsed on top of your fiancé; crawling along on your elbows, you make it a couple of feet at most before you’re exhausted; your entire body is burning, skin raw, every little touch flaring up every nerve ending inside of you.
There’s a rustling next to you as Finnick is lifted and dragged to the shallow pool of water a few feet away; there’s a splash and a gurgled scream as Katniss and Peeta start to clean his blistered skin.
“Finnick,” you gasp, your concern for him overriding the searing pain for a split second. “Finn,” you croak again, eyes heavy.
It’s quiet for a minute, the only sound the whispering of leaves brushing against each other. All the while you lay face down, trying to peel your eyes open where they feel like they’ve been superglued shut.
Thick fingers pull at your jaw and your head turns; your neck is stiff and the touch feels like the lick of a flame against your bulging wounds.
“C’mon,” It’s Peeta. “Gotta get you to the water.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got her,” comes Finnick’s voice and his hands pull you up by the armpits. You hiss and squirm away from his hold, the skin on skin contact causing too much pain.
“I know, honey, I’m sorry.” He speaks in that soft voice you love, the one reserved just for you. “It’ll feel better soon.”
He lowers you into the water and you scream. It’s a pain unlike any you’ve ever felt before, white-hot and scalding. It’s like you’re bleeding from every pore.
“Shhh, shhh… I know, I know.” He winces as the blisters start to lodge free from your skin and you relax, sagging in his arms.
“‘S better,” you slur. Your eyes snap open as you grapple for purchase against Finnick’s neck; your thumb rubs circles into his cheek. “You’re okay? You’re sure you’re okay?”
He laughs, incredulous that even at a time like this, he’s where your worries lie. Pointed teeth glare back at you as you thumb at his bottom lip and smile.
“I’m fine. Just worried about you.”
“I feel better. I’m okay now.”
His muscular arms engulf you, wrapping around your waist now it’s finally safe to touch you again.
#finnick odair x you#finnick odair fluff#finnick odair x reader#finnick odair fanfic#the hunger games finnick#finnick x y/n#finnick x you#finnick x reader#finnick odair drabble#thg fanfiction#thg fandom#thg fic#thg finnick#writer#writers on tumblr#writing#fanfic writer#fanfic#fanfiction#love letters#ily#finnick odair#finnick imagine#hunger games finnick#the hunger games
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── ୨୧ ! 𝗔𝗟𝗪𝗔𝗬𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦
𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader
SUMMARY: Where Y/N and Chris are secretly in love, but Chris is the one that acts shy around her; OR 4 times Chris loved Y/N from afar and 1 time he didn't.
WARNING: None.
REQUESTED?: Yes, by anon.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.
༻✦༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✦༺
Y/N and Nick had been inseparable since they were children, having grown up together in Boston, their bond of friendship was the strongest among all others. Nick was the type of boy who exuded energy and extroversion, while Y/N was more thoughtful and quiet, and the two of them fit together perfectly.
So, when the triplets decided to move to Los Angeles to better advance their career on YouTube, the girl went with them. Her high school years were over, and, as luck would have it, she had received her acceptance letter to the LA college she wanted to attend.
Obviously, her closeness with Nick throughout her life brought her close to Matt and Chris equally, as the three of them came as a complete package to any relationship, regardless of which trype it was.
The only difference was that with Chris, things were different. A strange and unfamiliar feeling grew more and more inside Y/N's heart whenever he was around, making her blush and stumble over her own words. It didn't take her long to realize that she was madly in love with the youngest triplet, but the fear of rejection prevented her from confessing her feelings.
What Y/N didn't know was that Chris also had deep feelings for her. However, he was also paralyzed by the fear of ruining his friendship with Y/N, or worse, destabilizing the girl's friendship with his brother if his feelings weren't reciprocated. So the two were content to flirt shyly and exchanging furtive glances and meaningful smiles that spoke volumes about their feelings.
But there was something more, something that everyone but Y/N seemed to notice. When she was around, Chris transformed completely. His posture softened, his smile became more genuine, and his eyes shone with a special tenderness reserved just for her. He became more embarrassed and cautious, as if he was afraid of messing up in front of the person he secretly loved.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
1. Shyness
The sun was beginning to peek shyly through the window curtains when Y/N woke up. She snuggled under the sheets for a moment, enjoying the feeling of comfort. With a soft yawn, the girl got up from the bed and stretched momentarily before putting on the Fresh Love hoodie that was on her gaming chair, throwing her hair up in a quick ponytail.
Y/N walked down the stairs of the floor she shared with Nick towards the kitchen, following the tempting aroma of fresh coffee and warm toast.
Inside the kitchen, Matt was talking about a movie he watched the night before, Saltburn, while Chris laughed loudly at the faces of disgust and strangeness Nick displayed at certain scenes.
"Wait, you reminded me of a TikTok I saw yesterday!" Exclaimed Chris, his eyes shining with excitement. "It was from a guy who apparently wrote a song about a girl who looks innocent but ha-"
Before he could continue, Y/N entered the room with a smile on her face.
"Good morning, boys!"
Chris's face instantly turned a bright shade of red, and he swallowed hard, abruptly stopping talking. He looked down at his plate with a sudden intensity, as if he were trying to concentrate on each bite of his food.
"Good morning, Y/N." Nick smiled, breaking the brief moment of awkward silence. Matt just nodded, chewing on the piece of toast he had in his mouth.
Y/N approached the counter behind the table, noticing the sudden discomfort in the air but choosing not to comment on it.
"What was the TikTok about, Chris?" She asked softly with her back turned to them, standing on tiptoes and opening one of the cabinets above the stove, retrieving her favorite mug.
"I... Um." He fake coughed, clearing his throat. "I think I... forgot." The last word came out in a subtle whisper.
Y/N smiled, feeling the skin of her face burn at the thought of how shy the boy became in her presence, shaking her head quickly to shake off the thoughts when Nick started talking again, bringing up another topic.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
2. Admiring from afar
The Space Camp Wellness studio was filled with vibrant energy as Nick, Chris, Matt, and Y/N prepared for yet another promotional photo shoot. Nick, as the founder of the lip balm brand, was busy adjusting the final details, while Y/N was preparing to be one of the models in that series of pictures that would be used to promote the new line.
Sitting on the other side of the room, Chris, Matt, and Nick exchanged hushed murmurs among themselves, discussing the details of what the next steps for Nick's brand would be. However, to Chris, the sounds seemed distant, completely muffled to his ears.
His eyes remained fixed on the girl, watching every movement she made as she changed her positions. He couldn't shake the feeling that the whole world seemed brighter when she was around, his heart beating wildly against his chest.
"Chris, you're drooling again." Matt teased, giving the boy a playful poke in the shoulder.
Chris blinked, brought back to reality by his words. He blushed slightly, embarrassed at being caught.
"Shut the fuck up, I'm not drooling." He barked back, trying to hide his flushed state.
"Oh, come on, Chris. Everyone knows you're head over heels in love with Y/N." Nick laughed loudly, exchanging knowing glances with Matt.
Chris squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find a suitable response to his brothers' teasing. He knew he couldn't deny his feelings for Y/N, but he also didn't want to make the situation more awkward than it already was.
"You two are ridiculous." He grumbled, looking at Y/N again.
His eyes widened when he saw her already watching them, her gaze carrying a curiosity as to why they were laughing so loud - not that it was something strange coming from the brothers.
The brunette quickly turned his neck to the side, focusing his eyes on a random place while scratching his stubble, gulping loudly.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
3. Acts of service
The frigid air of Boston circulated Y/N as she walked alongside the triplets, enveloped by the welcoming atmosphere of their hometown. The night was particularly cold, with a biting breeze that made everyone shrink into themselves for warmth.
"Oh my God, it's so cold!" Y/N commented, rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm them a little.
Chris, who was next to her on the outside of the sidewalk, immediately noticed her cheeks flushed by the wind. He frowned, feeling a tightening of concern in his chest when he saw her body shaking slightly, being covered only by a long-sleeved blouse and thin leggings.
"Here." The boy said, taking off his hockey jersey and offering it to her. "You can use this to protect yourself from the cold."
Y/N widened her eyes in surprise, stopping her steps abruptly.
"But what about you, Chris? You're going to be cold-" Chris shook his head, cutting her off.
"Don't worry about me. I can handle the cold better than you can. Besides, you need to stay warm or you will cath the flu."
Finally convinced, but still reluctant, Y/N accepted the jersey, feeling the comforting warmth that emanated from the fabric as she took it in her hands. She smiled wide at Chris, slipping it over her shoulders, his Dior parfume automatically filling her nostrils, warming her heart.
Chris watched in silence as Y/N wrapped herself in his jersey, name and number clearly visible on her back, lightly covered by the strands of her loose hair. An intense blush took over his cheeks, a feeling of heat different from the cold taking over his body.
He felt his heart speed up to a thousand miles per hour, pressing his lips into a thin line to stop the involuntary smile.
"It looks good on you. Better than on me."
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
4. Distraction
The kitchen of the triplets' house was full of energy as the brothers prepared to record another Wednesday video for their YouTube channel. Nick adjusted the camera and arranged the equipment while Chris and Matt arranged themselves in the two chairs behind the wooden table, facing the tripod.
Chris, especially, was beaming with enthusiasm, his words flowing with energy as he addressed the camera after Nick positioned himself behind the two, giving the go-ahead to begin recording.
"What's up, guys? Welcome back to our YouTube channel! Today, we have a-"
He was in the middle of introducing the theme when Y/N passed through the divide between the living room and kitchen, her hands holding her phone and her eyes fixed on the screen, heading towards the stairs that led to her shared floor with Nick.
Chris's gaze instinctively shifted towards her, his heart racing almost automatically as his pupils seemed to take the shape of a little heart, his eyes following her every step and his mouth opening slightly.
His brothers, noticing Chris's sudden distraction, began laughing, teasing him as he struggled to regain focus.
"Wow, Chris, I think someone's a little distracted." Matt, who was sitting next to him, joked, receiving a hard slap on the shoulder in response.
Chris blushed a red hue, embarrassed at being caught. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide his state as he tried to remember what he was about to say.
"Hm..." He cleared his throat, still a little disconcerted. "Where did I stop?"
Nick laughed louder, stumbling back and slamming his back against the stove, cursing loudly as he tried to steady his balance.
"You were talking about the challenge we're going to do today, but I think you were more interested in keeping up with Y/N than recording the video." Matt scoffed, smirking to the lens.
Chris shook his head, adjusting the cap over his hair in an act of nervousness, his mind still a little clouded by the sight of Y/N.
Needless to say, he got almost every picture of the challenge wrong, his mind replaying the image of the girl he loved over and over for the rest of the day.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
5. When he finally makes a move
The night silently enveloped the house, as Chris found himself lost in his own thoughts, his body lying flat on his bed and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He knew it was time to finally confront his feelings for Y/N and express the love he had been secretly holding onto for so long. However, he was feeling completely lost on how to do it.
With his heart beating wildly in his chest, the boy decided to seek advice from Matt. His brother always knew what to say. Chris walked quickly up the stairs, going to Matt's bedroom door, knocking gently with his closed fist against the wood before turning the handle, opening it.
"Matt?" He asked, his voice slightly shaking with anxiety as his eyes darted around the room, quickly finding the boy in his gaming chair, playing something on his computer. "Can I talk to you?"
Matt looked up, frowning in concern when he noticed the boy's distressed eyes.
"Of course, did something happen?"
Chris entered the room, closing the door behind him and walking over to the bed, sitting on the edge in front of his computer desk.
"Nothing happened, I just... need some advice." Chris began, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment at being so vulnerable. "I've finally accepted that I love Y/N, but I don't know how to tell her... I'm scared of ruining everything, Matt."
Matt smiled slightly, taking the headphones off his head and placing it on the keyboard before moving the chair so that he was facing Chris.
"Why don't you write her a letter?" Matt shrugged, crossing his arms and watching his reactions.
"A letter? Isn't that too old-fashioned?" The youngest frowned, pushing his bangs back with his right hand, expanding his vision.
"With every girl you've ever been with, you've always been direct, unrestricted, and unromantic. But with Y/N it's different, right?"
"She's not just another one, Matt." Chris rolled his eyes, feeling disgusted as he remembered all the times that he tried to erase his feelings for Y/N.
"Exactly, so treat her like she isn't, be romantic and different, surprise her."
It took days for Chris to finally have the courage to open his heart in a letter. He wasn't used to revealing his feelings often, so writing them down on paper was harder than it seemed. But the day finally arrived, and surprisingly, it didn't take more than an hour for Chris to finish his words.
The brunette spent the rest of that day wandering around his room while carrying the letter hidden in the front pocket of his hoodie, looking for the ideal moment to give it to Y/N.
His courage to hand it to her face to face was almost non-existent, and that's why he used the only moment when the girl moved from her room to Nick's. With shaking hands, he placed the letter on Y/N's bed, leaving it in a place where she would certainly find it.
One last look at it, and Chris turned abruptly, running back to his own room with his face flushed with shyness and anxiety.
Meanwhile, Y/N returned to her room, unaware of the surprise that awaited her. Her heart beat with strange anticipation as she approached, immediately noticing the letter carefully left there.
Hesitantly, Y/N took it, feeling the weight of the paper in her hands. She took a deep breath before opening it, her eyes widening comically as she recognized the handwriting, her eyes running quickly through the words with a mix of surprise and excitement.
As she read Chris's passionate declaration, Y/N's heart seemed to expand in her chest, overflowing with all the best feelings.
To my Y/N,
I am completely sure that I have loved you since the moment I understood the meaning of the word love. I remember the day I noticed that I felt something different about you; we were 14 years old and you showed up at our house to spend the day with Nick, and as soon as you saw me, you smiled the most beautiful and wide smile I've ever seen, taking away all my breath.
Whenever I go to sleep I think about you and, maybe, an us, wondering if you feel the same. And whenever I wake up, I can only imagine what it would be like to have you on the other side of the bed, forever in my arms.
What would it be like to have you? This probably sounds cliché and ridiculous, but I created a whole imagination of what it would be like, and I know it would be a dream come true.
And I tried so hard to resist it, out of pure fear and cowardice of losing you and your company, but resisting you became my most difficult task.
Everything about you makes me feel more alive and lighter. The sound of your voice seems to silence all the noise in my head, and your smile erases all the bad smoke in the world around me. And suddenly there's only you.
If you gave me the chance, I would make you feel everything and much more than you already made me feel.
Say the word and I'll be your yours.
Always,
Chris.
Y/N remained static for long minutes, letting the magnitude of what she had just read sink into her heart and mind. She felt her fingertips numb and her heart racing so much that she was almost sure it would jump out of her chest and run to wherever Chris was.
And then, with renewed determination, the girl got up from her bed, running downstairs towards Chris's room, goosebumps rising through her body in anticipation.
Upon arriving at the door of the room she dreamed of being able to live in one day, Y/N raised her closed fist, knocking it against the wood with nervousness, anxiously waiting for an answer.
When Chris opened it, their eyes met in a moment of pure connection, and Y/N knew it was the right thing to do.
"Chris." She began, her voice soft but shaky. "I love you too."
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matt turning his stuffed animals away before he fucks you 🙈🙈🙈
he would sooooo do thus omfg....
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅
your lips clashes with matt's messily, as you pulled him in by the collar of his shirt — his body was pressed solidly against yours, clothed erection subtly grinding against your clothed pussy causing you to whine from the tension.
"need you, matt," you breath as you pull away from him slightly, biting down on his bottom lip.
matt's gaze on you turns lustful as he stares down at you, a smirk gracing his features as he lifts your shirt over your head hurriedly — suddenly his movements halt, and you watch him curiously as he takes his stuffed pug and turns his face the opposite way on his beside desk before he hovers back over you with a smirk.
"matt, the thing isn't real," you giggle, as his hands grip your hips whilst he slides your shorts down your body.
"can't let him see me fuck you senseless, baby," matt breathes, ridding himself of his own pants showcasing his fully erect cock in his boxers.
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Discord Drabble challenge - Aug 2024
Prompt: Restart
Word count: 137
Potter,
This letter is to express gratitude on behalf of my mother and myself for your speech before the Wizengamot. Although egregiously sanctimonious,—
Potter,
You needn’t have — Why—
I NEVER WANTED YOUR HELP
Potter,
Was one life debt not enough to hold over my head?
I don’t deserve—
You continuously insert yourself into my life until I can think of nothing else. Dreams and waking hours consumed by your green eyes and disfigured face, your back pressed to my chest surrounded by heat and smoke, your arse—
Do all trainee Auror uniforms fit like that or is it just yours that is so tight it’s indecent?
Potter,
What happens now?
Potter,
I don’t think I’ve really hated you for years.
Potter,
Thank you.
-DLM
P.S. Mother has invited you for tea. Saturday 3pm. Don’t be late.
#drarry#hpdm#draco x harry#drarry microfic#drarry drabble#Draco Malfoy attempts to write Harry Potter a letter#harry potter fanfiction#discord Drabble challenge#epistolary
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