#i have been drawing this picture this last winter

[nopeemi]

they were schoolboys, never held a

[izuris]

yeah this is my art piece it's called "oh my god it sucks so bad" enjoy

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Champagne Problems

♥ masterlist | request rules | 12 days of ficmas

♥ pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

♥ synopsis: the two of you end up at a party with different intentions

♥ wc: 2k - as always none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing, angst, and alcohol (drink responsibly please lol) !!!

♥ a/n: TONS of angst in this fic so get ready lol <3 i've been wanting to put out this fic for SO long you don't understand. tagging bestie @theonottsbxtch

Charles was head over heels in love with you—it was a shame, really.

You sat on your shared king sized bed in a sparkly dress, observing your boyfriend as he slipped on a gold watch. 

“We need to leave soon mon amour,” he said, wandering over to you and kissing your cheek. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

You nodded and adjusted the jewelry on your hand.

Charles folded the cuffs on his sleeve, “You alright?”

“Mhm,” you nodded with a fake smile.

You hadn’t seen Charles in months because of his work. Ironically the first place he wanted to take you was a gala... For his work.

The two of you met because of your love for F1. The narrative of Ferrari brought you together and despite his promises to be there for you, he always left them unfulfilled.

You were alone. Way too often. Left by yourself to take care of Leo and be his wag.

You and Charles wandered outside the apartment to his car. He opened the door for you—like a gentleman. But you couldn’t shake this melancholic feeling whenever you’re around him.

-

”Hey, where’s Charles?” Arthur, your boyfriend’s younger brother asked with a smile.

You shrugged, taking a sip of your drink, and gazing at the room full of talkative people. The second you got there he wandered off to find Pierre. You couldn’t even blame him. This was for business after all.

”Hm, that’s odd. I’d expect him to be with you.” he scrunched his nose. “I remember one time last year—he was so excited to come home for winter break and see you. He would talk about you all day to me on the phone,” Arthur chuckled.

You gave him a faint smile. That was the Charles you fell in love with. Alas, he was across the room talking to someone else’s girlfriend.

“Well, let me know if you see him. I’ll see you in a few weeks for Christmas, yeah?”

You swallowed hard, pausing before a response.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” you smiled with a nod.

“Great, Maman said she already got you gifts,” he laughed. “I’ll see you around Y/n.”

He nudged your shoulder with an infectious smile, wandering off with a drink in hand.

God, why did this have to hurt so fucking much.

-

“Thank you all for being here,” a man said into a microphone, commanding the room to silence. “It has been an incredible season, but now we must start planning for the next one. Thank you to all our sponsors who are able to make this happen and congratulations to all that we have done this year.”

He raised his glass of champagne, leading everyone to follow and clink theirs together. You sat at a round table with your closest friends from the industry, Pierre and Kika as Charles got up to ask the man at the front of the room something. He came back with the microphone in hand and turned it on.

He stared down at you, eyes peering lovingly into your soul.

“Y/n… you are the most beautiful, kind, intelligent woman I have ever met,” he spoke into the mic, elicting a few ‘awh’s’ from the crowd and drawing at least a hundred eyes to you.

Charles slowly bent down, grabbing something out of his suit pocket.

Your eyes widened and you tried to say something but you couldn’t. Every word was trapped in your mouth, despite your jaw being on the floor. Plenty of gasps and whispers came from the room. You could see Kika’s eyes light up, clearly ecstatic for you.

“I don’t really have a whole speech planned,” he laughed softly. “All I can really say is how much I love you… Will you marry me?”

He flicked the ring box open, revealing a gold ring with a huge diamond.

You paused, trying your best to take in everything that has happened before shaking your head.

“Charles… can we talk about this somewhere else?” you whispered.

Charles' expression dropped instantly. He knows what that really means.

More gasps. More gossip.

Clearly the whole room knew what it meant too.

“Is she fucked in the head?” you heard someone from the crowd whisper.

Followed by, “If she won’t marry him I will,” and “What a shame.”

”I’m sorry Charles, I’m gonna get a Lyft.” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

Kika looked at Pierre completely stunned. This was certainly not how the two of them thought the night was going to go. This was certainly not how you thought the night was going to go.

Kika’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she ran after you, pushing the two glass doors open to find you sprinting down the long set of stairs.

“Y/n, wait!” she shouted after you.

You sat at the bottom step, waiting for your ride to arrive.

She stopped beside you, “I can drive you home,” she mumbled.

“That’s alright, I already paid for it.”

She sat down beside you and put a warm hand on your shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

You grabbed her hand gently, feeling the coldness of her gold rings. You shook your head no.

She wrapped an arm around your shoulder, forcing your head to rest on her shoulder.

She kissed your head sweetly, “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered in your hair.

-

You tossed your things on a table right next to the front door and kicked off your heels. You strut over to your kitchen and opened the fridge in hopes to find more alcohol. You were already probably drunk on Dom Perignon and your own tears, but with everything going on you might as well try to forget the horrendous night.

You grabbed a small glass from a cabinet and closed the fridge door, flinching when you saw Charles standing in the dark.

“Jesus Christ, Charles…” you whispered, pouring yourself some straight Vodka.

You braced your hands on the side of the marble counter, closing your eyes. Maybe if you close them tight enough he’ll disappear.

You sighed, “I don’t know how to start this conversa-“

“You said no?” he whispered. You could hear the heartbreak in his words.

You swallowed hard, looked around the room—anywhere but his eyes.

“I never said no…” you trailed off.

“But you meant no, right?”

You thought about marrying him before. A lot, actually. Racing, Traveling, Family. But there was always one thing missing from every daydream. And that thing was Charles.

You can’t follow him around the country for his job and even if you did—is that who you wanted to be? Just the wife of Charles Leclerc? 

“I don’t think you can truly be committed to this relationship. This isn’t what I need, and that’s okay.”

“I can't truly be committed?” he scoffed. “I'm not truly committed enough to get down on one knee?” 

Your relationship this past year wasn’t what you wanted. But one day it will be what someone else wants, and that’s what he deserves.

“C’mon Y/n, I love you-“ he muttered.

“Love isn't always enough,” you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

Ah, the painful truth.

You watched as his face dropped, fully taking in the cruelness of your words. 

“Charles, I’m sorry…” you whispered, tears forming in your eyes. 

“Just go. Dégage de chez moi, I don’t want to see you right now.” (translation: get the fuck out of my house) he muttered harshly. 

-

It’d been a year since you last saw him. That night you packed up all your things as he slept at Arthur’s. You were gone by the time he got home.

You still spent time in the F1 scene. You had friends there too, but it still felt a little cruel. You didn’t fall out of love, at least not with someone like Charles—that doesn’t happen. 

If the circumstances were different you might have been married. You would’ve had a beautiful ring, a beautiful family, and a beautiful man. 

“Y/n,” Kika shouted through a laugh, half sprinting in her heels. Her right hand settled on your bicep and her left took your forearm, yanking you towards a group of women. 

“C’mon, I haven't seen you in months,” she said, causing you to crack a smile. You rolled your eyes and slipped off your bar stool, ready to get a little tipsy with your friends. She was right. It had been way too long since you had a girls night. The last one was before you lost your status as a wag. 

Today it was you, Kika, and Rebecca—all in elegant outfits that perfectly fit your vibes. Kika in a black long sleeve, off the shoulder neckline number, Becs in a sparkly red one that she luckily got to keep after modeling, and you in a short white satin dress with spaghetti straps and some matching white heels. 

“You look like you need a drink,” Rebecca said, looking you up and down. 

You sighed, “I haven’t been to an F1 event since you know…” 

She rolled her eyes, “That's exactly why you need a drink. Forget about him and have fun with us. Your favorite sport should not be attached to the memory of a man.” 

Great point. 

“Come here,” she dragged you back to the bar Kika pulled you from. 

She ordered three martini’s on the rocks, extra olives.

She handed you one of the glasses, “We’re going to meet up with Lily M and Carmen in about an hour alright? We’ll be out of this place in no time and you won’t even think about you know who.” 

“Where are we going?” you asked, sipping the drink with your eyebrows raised. 

“It's a surprise,” Kika said with an eye roll as if to say “duh”. 

You spent the next hour drowning in new conversations and shots. Sure you were at someone’s work party, but it’s not like you had to be professional. No one seemed to give a shit what Charles’ “Ex Wag” was doing.

“Carmen and Lily are outside, are we ready to go?” Rebecca asked, peering up from her phone. 

“Yeah, I just need to find the bathroom and then we can go,” you lied, grabbing your clutch off the circular table. 

You wanted to step outside and get a quick bit of fresh air before you returned to the group. They were doing something amazing in order for you to move on from your past relationship, but all you could think about was something you shouldn’t be. 

It's been a year, you should be over him, right? Too bad the pain didn’t stop at Charles. It was his whole family. God, you missed Arthur so much. You missed fighting with him about what Christmas movies to watch and hanging out in the Ferrari garage together. You missed Lorenzo and his older brother-like wisdom. You missed Pascale and how she welcomed you with open arms into the family. Fuck, you felt like a traitor. 

You sighed and wandered off onto the balcony, picking at the rhinestones on your purse. You leaned over the railing, letting the cool wind kiss your skin. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” an accented voice said from behind you. You would recognize it anywhere. 

Charles took his place beside you, avoiding eye contact. It took a good minute before you were able to respond. 

“I- uhm… I heard you and your new girlfriend broke up. I'm sorry,” you muttered. What an odd way to start this conversation. You weren’t even sure if it was true, you heard it in a tabloid. 

He hummed, “I suppose love wasn’t enough to save us.” 

Ouch. 

You scoffed, “Yeah I guess not.” 

The silence was loud. 

“Sorry,” he whispered in a change of tone. Maybe even a change of heart. “It’s good to see you again.” 

“Yeah,” you whispered back, unenthusiastic. 

“The family misses you.” 

You smiled slightly. That was good to hear. “You can tell them I miss them too.” 

“...I miss you.” 

He placed his hand on top of yours slowly, gently rubbing his thumb across yours. His cold silver rings brought flashbacks to your mind.

You looked up at him, tears begging to fall from your lashes but you kept it together; at least until he was gone. 

You squeezed his hand like you used to, “‘l’ll see you around, Charles.” 

You had to remind yourself why you said no everyday. It didn’t matter if you loved him and it didn’t matter if he loved you. You won’t settle for second in his life.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

taglist; @sainzzreputaticn @theseerbetweenus @yawn-zi

[wheneverfeasible]

Wiggly Wednesday?

The brain worms are here again.

I honestly hate Christmas and avoid doing too much for it. However, an idea came to me suddenly and I can’t stop thinking about…

Secret Santa Steddie AU.

In one of Steve’s high school classes senior year, they’re assigned a Secret Santa project. They all put their names in a Santa hat and have to draw one out (returning it for another if it’s their own) and that’s the person they have to secretly give a gift to, either homemade or purchased, but there’s a cap of like…whatever the equivalent of $20 today is back then. Idk.

This is supposed to be a team building type of exercise, something to foster camaraderie, after say maybe a huge argument/fight broke out between Tommy and his group and the Freak, Eddie Munson, as well as some other nerds. Steve is exhausted and doesn’t care for Tommy’s bullshittery anymore, so he didn’t really get involved, though Eddie did throw a few digs his way. Which was hurtful but probably deserved.

Anyways, Steve draws out Eddie’s name.

For the next week or so the last fifteen minutes of class are devoted to questionnaires and such where the students answer questions about themselves directly or they fill in answers to widely asked questions, all used to let the Secret Santas learn about their recipients. Some people take it more seriously than others.

Steve gets to know more about Eddie, who is more blasé about it all, obviously not expecting anyone to give him something good (if they give him anything at all) since he has no friends in the class and most people don’t like him. So Steve, who has never paid Eddie any amount of attention before in the past but has been now and finds himself intrigued, starts observing Eddie outside of class.

Steve knows he could buy Eddie something music related. An easy cop-out gift. But the more he observes Eddie, the more he gets to see the tiny cracks in the Freak persona whenever he spies on him, sees the nerdy but also kind person beneath the leather jacket. And…okay…maybe he starts to develop a sort of crush without realizing that’s what happens.

Maybe he bribes other nerds about Hellfire Club and Eddie and makes certain they don’t squeal about him asking (he doesn’t realize he comes off as threatening, he just thinks he’s being urging), maybe he hears Eddie mention things and then he goes and asks Dustin what they mean, learning it’s from a book series about midgets and some jewelry or whatever, and so an idea forms.

While shuttling the kids about after school, Steve asks Will if he’d be willing to draw something for him, which Steve would pay him for. Will, obviously excited because it’s his first commission job and Steve pays him fairly, agrees.

(Steve may also purchase a patch at the record store they stop at—Will’s request as he wants to buy something for Jonathan—because it reminds him of Eddie, but that doesn’t matter.)

Yadda yadda ya, it’s time to exchange gifts. The teacher has allowed them to drop them off leading up to the Friday before winter vacation to keep the mystery alive.

When Eddie gets his, he’s expecting something more like a prank gift. Instead, he’s gifted a colored drawing (sadly not enough time for a painting) of Eddie dressed as someone named something like Spider or Arrow Gone or whatever, Steve doesn’t really know, but it’s him fighting off a horde of monster things with a flaming eyeball in the background and further back is an erupting volcano.

Steve doesn’t know what the hell is going on, not really able to absorb the massive info dump Dustin gave him, but Will assured Steve that the dude was cool and the battle depicted was awesome and important when he dropped off his old yearbook for model reference. Will’s opinion was enough for Steve of course. He just hoped Eddie liked it, and the patch that he rolled up with the picture.

Eddie is, of course, gobsmacked and trying his hardest not to show it. He scans the classroom to try to figure out who could have given him such an amazing gift, but no one even looks at him. There’s no way he would ever suspect the truth.

Steve ended up getting a can of Farrah Fawcett spray, which everyone laughed at and assumed was a joke gift for a jock, but Steve noticed a small twitch of a smile on Tommy’s face, the only one besides Dustin now who knows his secret.

Later, Eddie’s battle vest is adorned with the patch he received in his gift, a red and black Leviathan cross, but Steve doesn’t know what happened to the drawing. He hopes it didn’t get trashed.

It’s not until later, after everything with Vecna and recovering what was salvageable from the trailer, that he found the picture safely secured behind a glass frame hidden in Eddie’s room. It’s only then that Steve realizes that he might have been a little bit in love with Eddie “the Freak” Munson all this time.

~

Aaaaaaaah sorry this is a little bit of a nebulous ending here. Does this story follow canon and Eddie is dead, never knowing who his Secret Santa is? Or is Eddie recovering from his injuries, fated to recognize Will’s art style and thus learning the truth behind one of his most prized possessions? Who’s to say 🤷

I’m just gonna tag my perma list because I’m lazy. Anyone can be happy to consider this a tag for their own future brain worms tho!

Hostage Hotties:

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @honeii-puff @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-wierdlife

@everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes

[luveline]

hey love!!!! i hope you are doing well 🫶🫶🫶 if you feel so inclined could we get another coworker frenemies james?? i loveeeee him ☹️

thank u for requesting 💌 fem, 1k

James can’t fucking stand you, but in a fun way. You feel worse about him, he’s sure. He’s sitting in his car waiting for you to get out of yours, pretending to look for something rather than have to share the elevator up to the office with you. 

He hasn’t figured out a good comeback yet for what you’d said about his rugby pictures yesterday as you left, and he hates when you win, because you smile all smug and he finds it adorable. You don’t deserve a smile like that, you’re insipid, and annoying, and you take a full day to reply to his emails. 

He digs his hand into the door handle and pushes it out. The winter cold hits him hard and immediate, makes him wish he wore his thick coat with the hood even if Remus says it makes him look like he works in the deep arctic. 

There’s less slow on the ground than there has been for the last few days, snowdrift melting in the day and turning to ice at night when the temperature drops. There’s no sun out yet to warm him. He shoves his hands into his pocket and begins a careful trek from the parking lot to the stairs leading up to the office. 

You’re taking steps slow as his further in. He’d hoped you’d be gone. He’s stupid for not looking, now you both have to do an awkward shuffle where the other can see, what if he trips? You aren’t looking his way, but he’s sure it would draw your attention. If he trips in front of you he might quit, he—

You’re about two steps away from the flat entrance to the office building when you slip. 

In honesty, it's not as bad a fall as it could’ve been, your foot slips on the step and your knee hits the stone, then the other, your hand tight on the handrail but unable to save you. Your gasp is horrible, tight and too quiet, considering the surprise. 

James pauses. 

He could pretend he didn’t see. But if you turn at any point and see him, you’ll know he’s witnessed it, and that’ll be ten times as awkward as if he were to just keep on walking. 

He can’t walk past you. He never could. You don’t get along, but James isn’t the type of guy who can leave someone kneeling on the wet ground. 

Foregoing caution, James hurries across the last stretch of slushied ground to grab you. He feels cruel at first, his hand under your armpits and yanking you up, but the ice is dead slippery and you can’t find purchase, letting out another strange gasp as he rights you.

You turn your face to identify your saviour. 

“Oh,” you say, breathing funny, “of course.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” you ask.  

“Are you okay?” he frowns at your frown, though they’re of two different calibres. You look angry. James is concerned. 

“What do you think, James?” 

You yank out of his arms and turn away from him. 

He shouldn’t have grabbed you without asking. He probably hurt you a little with the force of it, but he’d thought picking you up would be best. Less humiliating, perhaps. 

You sniffle. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. He wishes he could say he spoke gently, but your annoyance churns his own, and he’s starting to sound mad too. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Listen, sit down. You have a long coat, just sit for a second.” 

Your shoulders tighten, but you sweep your coat under your thighs and struggle to sit down on one of the icy steps. He can imagine the cold of it under your bum and your palms as you begin to fold in on yourself, and it’s only then he notices the blood on your knees. “Oh,” he says. (And later, years in the future, he might admit to sounding heartbroken). “Your knees.” 

You pull at your skin. “Awesome. That’s really cool.” 

You sound upset. James finds he can’t ignore that, either. He feels like a dick standing over you and so he crouches, and that feels worse, but he stays like that, facing across from you, hand begging to touch your poor scratched knees. Your eyes widen ever so slightly in response, their waterlines heavy with tears, shimmery and waiting to fall. 

“The last time I fell up here I thought I broke my arm.” 

A tear breaks free from your lashes, streaking heavy and slow down your cheek. “What?” 

“I smashed my arm coming down. It hurt for days, and I had a bruise in a line.” He raises his arm to draw a line across his sleeve. “Right here.” 

“I thought you were better coordinated than that.” 

“That’s not what you said yesterday about my photos,” he reminds you. 

You laugh under your breath. A second tear tips down the other cheek. 

“It’s easily done. The ice is pretty bad.” 

“Don’t patronise me,” you say. Your voice is missing its usual disdain. You just sound sad. 

“I’m not patronising you! You just take everything I say the wrong way.” 

“Then don’t say it the wrong way.” 

“Maybe we should go inside and find the first aid kit. How does it feel?” 

“I slipped,” you say hotly. “I’m fine.” 

Then why are you crying? Floods of tears on your cheeks, your hot breath a cloud that kisses your nose. If it were Remus sitting here in tears, James would already be hugging him. If it were Sirius, he’d have patted him on the back by now. It is so, so odd to see you crying. So weird. It makes his chest twist. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine! Just go upstairs and tell everybody already.” 

“Tell them what?” 

“I don’t know. That I’m a baby.” 

He tilts his head, can’t help it, leaning in mildly too close. “You’re a baby?” he asks, fondness leaking into his tone. “Because you fell? Everybody falls.” 

“‘Cos I’m crying,” you mumble. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone. Then you’ll tell everybody I cried when I nearly broke my arm, it’s a lose-lose situation.” 

He’s stupid for talking to you like this. Like you’re friends, and like you can stand to be near him. You don’t look disgusted as his finger brushes your leg, just below your sore cut, and you’re not mad anymore. The ferocity drains from your face and leaves behind a sniffly, embarrassed frown. 

“Won’t tell anyone,” he says quietly.

“Thank you.” 

James didn’t fall up the stairs the last time it snowed. He didn’t hurt his arm or cry, he’s too remarkably coordinated for that. He lied, and he’ll lie to Remus when he asks why it took you both as long as it did to get upstairs. You slipped and he helped you. There were no heart-hurting tears. It’s a secret he doesn’t mind keeping for you. 

[eowynstwin]

a wake-up call / neighbors

previous

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - “Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest. - ao3

Three knocks on your front door wake you up.

The sound feels at first like the thump of your own throbbing brain against the inside of your skull. Awareness comes back to you slowly, in gradiated shades of stiff joints and greasy skin. You shift, and find you’re still on your couch, still in your clothes from last night. Your eyes are filmy, sticky with dehydration—you blink several times to clear them, to little effect.

The knocking, a three-beat staccato, comes again.

“One second,” you croak irritably, cupping your forehead with your hand. Your skull might come apart, you think, if you move too much.

Your entire body feels like it is suspended from loose, tangled marionette strings as you struggle to sit up on the couch, and you wobble to that effect as you stand. Somehow, your flat has tilted at thirty degree angle, likely sometime in your sleep. You make it to the door at an oblique, having to lean on the jamb as you open it, and to add insult to injury John is standing on your doorstep like a clean, shining beacon of sobriety.

He’s in a dark shirt and jeans. His hair is casually neat, as if he’d styled it with his fingers. He looks fresh-faced, as if he’s been awake for hours already.

“That’s not fair,” you groan. 

His brows draw together over cool blue eyes. “Jesus, love,” he says, looking you up and down.

You think you should say something back. But your head is too full of ache and interrupted sleep—and the bright shock of his presence—to produce anything intelligent.

“John,” is all you say, and you sound absolutely pathetic.

“Was gonna accuse you of standing me up,” he says ruefully, “but I see that’s not the case.”

“No,” you say dumbly. The fact that he’s come to seek you out gets tangled up in the strings. “Um.”

It is so far out of the ordinary as to be dreamlike. John’s knocking belongs on the other side of your wall, not your door. His boots belong on his own doorstep, making room for your house slippers at the time of your choosing, not his.

“Am I still drunk?” you wonder aloud.

John gives that little huff-laugh of his. “I doubt it.”

You rub your face. “Have I overslept?”

“Just a bit,” he replies. “I’ll admit, when I didn’t hear you move around this morning, I got worried.”

“I fell asleep on the couch,” you confess. You put a hand to your forehead as your brain throbs again. “Oh, I shouldn’t have drank that much.”

“Love,” says John, gentle and soft, “why don’t you let me in, and I’ll make you some breakfast?”

You blink, and you’re sure now that you’re still drunk. 

John. In your flat. Cooking?

“I’m not fancy in the kitchen, but I manage alright,” he suggests further. His gaze is warm on yours, brows lifted encouragingly.

“…Sure,” you say, and shuffle to the side to let him in. If this morning is determined to be strange, you might as well not get in its way.

He gives you a small smile and crosses the threshold. 

Your flat shifts again; as he enters your living room, it seems to shrink, or maybe it’s just that John fills your home in a way no one ever has. His body, his presence, casts new light on the interior that throws its existence into unfamiliar repose. Details—the softness of your furniture, the cozy clutter of books and knickknacks spread across every available flat surface—offer unmeasured insight into who you are, more than you might ever have intended to reveal to John.

It’s only when he’s halfway to your kitchen that you realize one detail—the bright fucking pink of your vibrator, still on your coffee table—is glowing like a neon sign.

And your previous night’s activities come flooding back. 

Your body, draped over his. The scrape of his beard on your hand, your face. 

The furious grind of your mons against that toy as you pictured him taking you, drenched in hot shower water and pressed bare to the tile wall.

You are fully, painfully awake now. You stare, frozen in shocked terror, waiting for him to catch sight of it, but his head does not turn in its direction. He passes by it with no indication that he even noticed.

You dart over and snatch it behind his back, shoving it deep into your dress pocket, and grab up the empty water glass for an excuse. Then you have to put a hand to your head as your vision swims from the sudden movement.

“Have eggs?” John asks over his shoulder. He enters your kitchen. “I can make ‘em any way you like. Fried, over easy, sunny side…”

“Um,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut, “scrambled.”

You follow after him, and lean against the wall to watch as he opens your fridge. His hand engulfs more of its handle than yours ever has; the musculature of his powerful body visibly shifts beneath his clothes as he has to bend down to root around the shelves.

He is broad in your kitchen. As broad as he’d been between your legs, in memory and in fantasy.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he straightens and puts the eggs, butter, and milk on the counter. Your breath hangs suspended in the shallows of your lungs when he catches your gaze.

His brows crease again. “You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

“Um,” you say, again, because it’s the only sound your brain will reliably supply.

To your horror, he comes to you, and—oh, god—takes your face in both hands.

“You’re warm,” he says. “Do you feel sick, love?”

Your brain supplies nothing now. It is so unfair, how good he looks the morning after drinking nearly half a bottle of scotch. His features are velvet-soft, so easy and wonderful to look at that you stop feeling your headache entirely.

“I really think I might still be drunk,” you admit, sounding pathetic.

His thumbs rub into your temples as he smiles at you. “Hell of a hangover, then.”

The pressure of his fingers is an incredible relief, and you close your eyes as you give into it. You feel, if your knees suddenly gave out, that he would easily be able to hold you up like this, as if you weighed nothing. His hands are a little cool from rooting around in your fridge, and the rest of him is warm, standing close enough that his body heat reaches out to you with the freshness of a recent shower. You want to fall into that warmth, bury your face in his chest…

Your eyes fly open. You hear your own voice again—I wanted to touch you, and I wanted you to hold me. You feel, again, the echo of his body between your thighs. Your heart starts beating wildly in your chest as embarrassment, hot and acidic, pumps through you.

“I think I need to sit down,” you whisper.

He strokes your temples, and surveys your face with a gentle gaze. “Sure, love. Go ahead.”

And then he releases you, and you try to remember how to walk as you return to your living room. There is no relief to be found as you sit down on your couch, which is indented by the dissatisfied night.

“How’d you sleep?” John asks from the counter. You hear him crack a few eggs into a bowl. This is the first time cooking has happened in your kitchen with you outside of it, and the cognitive dissonance of it does not help to steady you.

“Like the dead,” you say, rubbing your sore neck. Then, you decide to lie to him. “I—I think I passed out before the door even closed last night.”

John looks over his shoulder at you, and he smiles. The vibrator sits cold in your pocket. Are you imagining that glimmer in his eyes? “Wouldn’t be surprised. You were pretty out of it.”

“I didn’t end up drinking the whole bottle, did I?”

A chuckle. “Not quite.”

“Didn’t you drink as much as me?” You try to recall, and think you can remember him matching you glass for glass. “Why aren’t you out of commission?”

“The army never cares if you’re hungover, I’ve found,” says John. “Guess I learned to stop caring too.”

You hear the sizzle of whisked eggs spreading over a hot pan, and for a while there’s only the sound of John moving a spatula around.

You watch him in your kitchen, his back to you as he stands at the stove. His long-sleeved shirt clings to the breadth of his shoulders, planes of shifting muscle underneath casting shadows through the soft cotton. The collar hangs a little low down his neck, leaving enough room for the dark hair at his nape to curl as it dries.

It makes something in your stomach twist, twinning your nervous hunger with unstable desire. It’s something that wants to walk back into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his trim waist, press your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Want anything else?” John asks. “Could make some toast.”

“Eggs are fine!” you say too quickly.

The spatula scrapes softly against the pan again. As he turns to open your fridge, you swear you see him grinning. 

Heat blooms across your face. SAS. Of course he could feel you looking at him.

It does not take him very long to finish cooking. Space bends once again as he leaves your kitchen, as he comes to you with a plate balanced on one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. You feel smaller than you ever have as he approaches, and sets the meal in front of you on the coffee table. 

“Hope it tastes alright,” he says, sitting down beside you. He sinks into your couch cushions, far more dense than you are, and looks quite comfortable doing so. “I made ‘em how I like ‘em, but no guarantee you’ll feel the same.”

You look from him to the eggs, which are golden yellow and steaming pleasantly. “You didn’t make yourself anything?”

There is a softness in his eyes when you look back to him. You’ve seen it before—it’s there every time you hand him a new book. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Just eat.”

You can’t protest when he’s looking at you like that, so you obey, suddenly ravenous once a forkful is between your teeth. The eggs are whipped to a wonderfully soft fluff, salted perfectly, and you think you can taste the barest hint of butter. You can’t help shutting your eyes to savor the taste.

“Good?” John asks. “I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook, but I think I’m all right at eggs.”

Usually you like to add things when you make the same dish—potato chips, broken up into little crumbs, or a dollop of sour cream and salsa. For once though, right now you’d be disappointed by all that. 

They wouldn’t be the eggs John made for you.

The thought makes your stomach twist again. “Delicious,” you say. “Thank you.”

He watches you eat, and you try not to feel self-conscious. He seems almost—satisfied by this, by feeding you, more than you would expect him to be. But then, this has always been the case with John. You have never understood why the smallest of things you do have such an impact on him, but they do nonetheless.

“John,” you say. “About last night…I wanted to apologize.”

Dark brows crease as you set the empty plate down. “What for?”

“I got so drunk,” you say. You won’t look at him, face heating, strangling your own fingers in your lap. “You—you had to carry me home, and I’m so embarrassed by the things I said, I was so inconsiderate.”

“That’s not—”

“You must have felt so uncomfortable,” you continue, “you were so nice to take me out, and there I was acting like a lush with no self-control—”

“Darling, it’s fine—”

“And then after, the way I—I pawed at you—”

He says your name—fully and clearly, firmly—and it catches you so off guard that your words halt in your throat. You finally meet his gaze.

John’s eyes have always been windows. Portals into the truth of him, freely offered, without hesitance or fear. You think John knows himself in ways few men do—knows every corner, every crack and crevice, and refuses to hide any of it from himself or anyone else. As if he is not afraid of being seen for what and who he is; as if he has seen it all already, and cannot be daunted by it.

What you see now is undisguised. Untempered. John Price wants you. And he has no fear that you can see it.

“Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest.

The question catches you off guard, throwing you with its directness. The only thing keeping you upright is his gaze, the steady certainty of its own intention. Strong even under the weight of suspense. 

You swallow, and take a shaky breath. “John,” you say, “I was so drunk...”

His eyes flash. John moves, leans forward, and you are speared, held in place much the same way you had been at dinner, by his presence alone. “I know. But did you mean it?”

The breath trapped in your lungs calcifies, solidifies into hard, pressing nodules of catalyzed fear and desire that trap the seeds of any response in your chest. You tear your gaze away from him, finally, stare at the empty plate on your table. He does not touch you, but you feel the phantom weight of his hand on your knee. The warmth of his body against yours.

“We hardly know each other,” you whisper shakily. It is a flimsy scrap of an excuse, even to you. “We—we barely know each other at all.”

“Love,” John says, low and soft. You turn to look at him again. His lips part—

Your phone rings.

You exhale hard, strings suddenly cut. John closes his eyes, breathes out, and then leans back again.

You retrieve your phone from where you’d flung your purse last night, off the couch and to the opposite wall where it lays on the floor. When you see the caller ID, you want to throw the phone back across the room, but you take a deep breath and answer anyway.

“Ben,” you sigh, and to your furious embarrassment it comes out as a croak.

“Hey, sweets, Liv is—wait. You sound awful,” comes your coworker—and ex-boyfriend’s—voice through the earpiece.

“Rough night,” you say, closing your eyes against sweets. You then look at John. His gaze is fixed on you.

“Oh, sorry,” Ben says. “Anything I can do?”

He could have not called. “Tell me about Liv,” you prompt him.

“Right! She’s out. Flu.”

“Oh.” You blink, and watch John retrieve your plate and glass. He takes them to the kitchen and runs the faucet low, so the sound won’t interfere with your call. 

You’re not sure how you know that that’s his intention, but you do. 

“That’s awful.”

“And inconvenient. We need another instructor for the trip.”

Can John hear what Ben is saying? He looks up from the sink, lifts one brow when you meet his eyes. There’s humor there, a kind of rueful empathy for dealing with the nonsense of coworkers.

You want to hang up. You want to answer his question right then and there. 

“When?” you ask.

“Two hours. I know! I know it’s short notice,” he says, animatedly contrite. “Sorry. But we’d love to have you, it’ll be fun! I can even pick you up, if you like.”

“No, that’s alright,” you sigh. “But okay, I’ll start packing. Just send me the details, yeah?”

“Sure, sweets,” Ben replies, “can’t wait to see you! I’ve missed hanging out, you know? Even after…everything.”

The gravitational force of John’s presence—the shift and bend of your flat around him—snaps in half. Reality asserts itself like a recurring headache. 

Suddenly you’re in your flat, phone to your ear, unshowered from last night and coated in a layer of grease. The vibrator is a useless weight in your pocket. You are a useless girl hungover in day-old clothes.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say noncommittally, and hang up.

John gazes at you expectantly from over the sink.

“Work trip,” you say, and you wonder if you sound as dazed as you feel. “Last minute, I…I need to get ready.”

John blinks, and then grins, amused. Crow’s feet gather in the corners of his eyes. “You know, I’m usually the one in that situation.”

Suddenly he is too much to look at. You tear your gaze away, look at your phone in your hands. You feel very exposed, ashamed somehow. “I’m sorry,” you say.

You hear the easy drum of John’s boots out of your kitchen, across the room, and then he’s in front of you. His hands are in his pockets, arms slung loose at his sides. “What for?”

“For…”

He steps closer to you. Your heart leaps in your chest, and you have to look up at him, unable to resist the pull he has on you.

The line of his mouth is gentle, and you stare too long at the divot of his Cupid’s bow. Beneath the soft lines of his brows, his gaze is soft, fond. More so than you deserve.

“I don’t really know.”

The long muscle in his neck shifts as he tilts his head. You swallow, unconsciously mirroring the gesture.

“John…I…”

His gaze drops—rests on your lips, and returns to yours.

“Love,” he murmurs, low and humming. “Did you mean it?”

His voice slides across you like physical touch, and every hair feels like it’s standing on end.

Yes. Yes, of course you meant it, every word. It feels so obvious to you, so blatant, and the shame of it holds you by the throat. You are not important enough to inflict upon John Price. You are trembling, meek, afraid of stepping outside your own door sometimes. What is that in comparison to him? Him, who comes home shaking off the dust of places you’ve only ever heard of. Him, who you’ve learned can swear in six different languages. Him, who has stuffed more life than you thought possible into only a handful more years of living than yours.

Of course you want him. Moths are always drawn toward flame. How could you not?

“John,” you say in your smallest voice. You hate the way it sounds—like an admission of guilt. “What if I did?”

He doesn’t move, but you see the shift in him anyway. A coiling, almost,  energy banking as he studies you, searches your face. His hands remain in his pockets. He watches you for a long moment, and you can’t possibly imagine what he might like in what he sees.

“Ball’s in your court, then,” he finally says, soft and low in his chest. “Whatever you want from me, love, you can have.”

You want too much. You can’t give enough back.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” you say on a shallow breath. “Our—us. What we already have.”

He steps closer to you. Close enough that his shirt brushes the front of your dress. Close enough that his clean, soft warmth near-envelops you, the exact same way you’d been wishing for earlier. He does not reach out, like he did when he thought you were sick. You cannot decide if this disappoints you or not. You feel shaky without his hands on you, feverish and embarrassed, and you fear desperately that he can see that as he holds your gaze, that you are completely open to him in a way that leaves no space for the truth to hide. 

“You won’t,” he says, steady and solid.  

You take a trembling breath, swallow to clear your throat. “I…”

He withdraws one hand from his pocket, slowly, and brings it upward. Feather-light, he curls his index finger under your chin, caressing his thumb so terribly gently beneath your bottom lip. You cannot help flinching, anticipatory want recoiling from the very thing it was aching for in surprise, and for a split second you are newly scared that he’ll take his touch away.

But he doesn’t. The windows of John’s eyes stay open, and there is nothing but intent behind them. You realize he knows. He knows that you’re reluctant, that you’re unsure, that you are pulled to him like a falling star to earth and also terrified of burning up in the process. 

He understands.

“I’m a patient man, love,” he purrs, and you realize too that he is excited by this, by you. “I can wait. As long as you need.”

next

[justwinginglife]

The Waiting Game

The line between friends and lovers is dangerously thin and Soshiro Hoshina likes to fucking cartwheel down that tightrope like it's his personal plaything.

Any stranger walking by could see he was clearly checking you out, but if asked, he'd simply shrug and say something about how it was his duty as your friend to make sure your fly was zipped or your socks were matching. He never thought to make himself less obvious as he took in the sight of your shirt that dangled just a little too low or your pants that hugged your curves just a little too tight. He didn't have to. If you claimed to notice his wandering gaze, you'd be setting yourself up for a witty rebuttal. He might say, "Oh, look who's paying so much attention to me, if I didn't know better, I'd say you liked me," or even, "Don't go telling me you didn't wear those clothes on purpose, we both know the truth." He had all sorts of banter at the ready, quips locked and loaded. He wanted to corner you, to checkmate you, to coax a confession from your supple lips. Of course he loved you. But it was much more fun to make you admit you loved him too.

And you did. You wore that shirt on purpose, you wore those pants on purpose. You bent over in those pants on purpose. But two could play at this game, and you were awfully good at chess.

If he was a tightrope walker, you were a sword swallower. You could take anything he'd throw at you, gulp it down, lick your lips, and have room for seconds. Maybe throw in a burp for good measure.

So the circus act continued, both of you juggling offense and defense, both of you thinking yourself the lion tamer. It was anyone's guess at this point, who would cave in first.

You pictured the two of you on your deathbeds, your hands wrinkled with age, still trying to wring a confession from each other's throats. It was honestly a terrifying notion, thinking that eighty years from now, your feelings might accompany you to the grave, unvoiced, unreciprocated. But it hadn't been eighty years yet, it had only been one, and your pride was still in prime condition, even despite Soshiro's attempts to wear it down.

When he bragged to you about his hot date, eager for your reaction, you simply pointed him to your favorite flower shop and told him what to buy her. When he ended up not going through with it because some mysterious illness overtook him, an illness that only lasted the length of what would have been the date, you simply smirked and remarked on how convenient it was that his condition was so particular. He had shrugged, saying, "Maybe I was allergic to her, who knows?" You had laughed and he had smiled. Then you both went about your usual day, stealing time from each other whenever you could, sneaking glances, subtly inching closer, the distance both an inch and a galaxy apart.

The gap only widened when Captain Ashiro relayed to the Third Division news of the Winter Ball. It was like prom for soldiers, and when you heard the announcement, you felt like you were right back in high school- everything infamously familiar, right down to the nerves that threatened to swallow you whole.

You could always pull the, "You're single, I'm single, let's go as friends," card. But you weren't sure that either of you would be content with that resolution. Neither one of you wanted to resign yourselves to a night of awkwardly sitting at a side table, using small talk to fill the simmering silence, as you watched other couples slow dance their way into oblivion.

But unfortunately for the both of you, rather than declare a draw, your little game with each other continued, even as the event drew nearer. You'd ask him who he was going with, feigning nonchalance, and he'd dodge the question, feigning ignorance.

At some point, you bought yourself a dress, though you had no idea why. There was only a week to go, and still, no one had asked you for the pleasure of your company on that night, not even him. You weren't sure you should even go. But still, you let your hopes drape from a hanger in your closet, in case maybe he decided to overturn the chessboard, throw the match, ask you out.

Narumi beat him to the punch.

When you asked him why he was asking you so late in the game, he merely shrugged, saying he hadn't realized the ball was happening in the first place, but now he knew and he wanted you.

Soshiro had caught wind of it.

He ignored you until an hour before the dance.

He knew you liked to hide on the roof when you got nervous, and as he climbed the stairs to the top, he begged you to be there. He hoped you were having second thoughts about going with Narumi. He hoped you were pacing in your dress, waiting for him to whisk you away, because he was ready to whisk you away. He had dragged his feet through this whole fucking charade, and now he suddenly found his own pace too exceedingly, disgustingly slow for his liking.

When he got to the roof, all that awaited him was a cold breeze and the night sky. He collapsed on the floor, leaning back to take in all the stars. He didn't care anymore if he got his suit dirty, he only wore it for you anyway. His finger traced patterns of constellations as the white of his breath stained the air. He wished on every single star that he could see you tonight, all dressed up and gorgeous. He didn't have to see you to know you looked stunning. But he had planned to go home after he finished this sulking session. He didn't want to see how happy you looked with Narumi. Of all the people, why did it have to be him? The idea of you with anyone else but him made him ache, but the idea of you with Narumi made him want to tie a noose around his neck.

Another half hour of brooding later, he decided he needed to go home. That, or freeze to death, which would serve him right. But he turned towards the door and suddenly, there you were, his light in the dark, his warmth in the cold. And you were dazzling. He knew you would be. You always were, no matter what you were wearing.

"Y-you're here."

You nodded. "I'm here. And you're here. Why are you here?"

He pulled his jacket tighter around him. "This is your spot."

You raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it is. Were you looking for me?" You tried to keep the hopefulness out of your voice, but it seeped into the frosty air all the same.

He fidgeted with his cufflinks, nodding slowly.

You began walking over to him, and he knew you were going to sit down so he quickly took his jacket off for you to sit on. He didn't want to ruin your dress.

You shook your head at him. "You look freezing, put your jacket back on. How long have you been out here anyway?" You threw his jacket back around his shoulders, plopping down next to him, unbothered by your dress.

He blushed and looked away. "That's not important."

The silence resumed.

"It's your favorite color." You blurted out suddenly, desperate to fill the air with something, with anything.

He immediately knew you meant your dress. He had noticed. "It's nice."

You coughed.

He chuckled. "Alright, it's more than nice. You look breathtaking. Seriously, I'm having trouble breathing with you so close to me." He teased as he nudged you with his shoulder, trying to make light of the awkward situation.

"You don't look so bad yourself. Even for someone who's half frozen to death. So why were you looking for me?"

He bit his lip. "Had a, uh, question... for you."

You settled your head on his shoulder and you felt him tense up. "And what's this question of yours that's so important you almost gave yourself frostbite?"

"Will you.... will you go to the dance with me?" He held his breath as the words left his mouth.

You laughed. "Little late, don't you think? We're about a half hour away from it."

He groaned. "I know, I know. But don't go with Narumi. Please don't. He wouldn't know romance if it shit in his lap. He doesn't know how to treat a woman."

You smirked. "And you do?"

He looked at you properly for the first time that night, his gaze locked on yours with a sudden sense of determination. "Yes, I do. If that woman is you. I know everything about you. I have to. Knowing you is the second greatest pleasure of my life."

"And..." The words caught in your throat, "And what's the first?"

"Loving you."

Your heart soared in your chest. "I love you too."

"So will you be my date to the dance? And the rest of my life?"

You kissed him in response.

Suddenly the cold faded from your bodies, the frigid air rescinding itself from your lungs, as your warmth intermingled in a display of passion.

"So, what should I call this, checkmate?" You teased him as you pulled away from his lips, leaving him wanting more.

He rolled his eyes but nothing could make him less smitten than he was right now. "I call this me throwing the match."

"Well, better late than never, baby."

You kissed him again.

And then the both of you danced the rest of the night into oblivion together.

[fast-burn]

day 13: free use for winter warmers, maxiel, explicit, 1k

If it's a race weekend, there is a whole protocol involved. There are schedules to cross-reference and inconspicuous paths to travel around the back of the paddock. They have to do it out of sight, tucked away in someone's driver's room. Even if the media is expressly forbidden from publishing any pictures, the track is still always crawling with fans who all have cinema-quality cameras on their phones.

At the factory, it's easier.

Max can push Daniel down between his knees, under the table at some boring meeting, and everyone just politely averts their eyes. He can have Daniel in the little office space they've set aside for him to take Zoom calls, or in the middle of the cafeteria, or on top of the RB19 if he wants. Or like now, after another hundred laps in the sim when he's groggy and his eyes are practically square from staring at the data all day.

He catches Daniel's wrist before he can walk past for a coffee break and tugs him until he stumbles and sprawls into Max's lap.

"Max," Daniel complains, echoing GP across the room.

"What? I just need a little pick-me-up." He's already stiffening in his pants. He can usually hold off, but the beauty of this arrangement and of being at home base is that he doesn't have to. That's the deal.

GP looks at his watch. "Alright, we'll take twenty minutes then, instead of ten." There are mutters of agreement, and most people wander off for caffeine and a piss. Daniel starts unbuttoning.

"You're a naughty boy," teases Daniel, eyes twinkling as he shoves his jeans down with his underwear, just enough to expose himself. "Insatiable today. What is this, the third go?"

Max doesn't answer that, just leans forward in his seat and kisses Daniel. There's no language in Daniel's contract about it--the one thing that Daniel doesn't have to give Max, but does anyways. When Max reaches around, Daniel's hole is puffy and hot. Daniel sighs and deepens their kiss, tilting his head and licking into Max's mouth. Max presses his middle and ring finger inside Daniel. He thrusts them a little, curls them, then uses the leverage to encourage him up so he's balanced on the frame of the sim rig, right where Max wants him.

Lube and come slick Max's fingers as he draws them out, leftover from the tail-end of lunch. Daniel's mouth is shiny with spit when he finally leans back enough that Max can pull out his dick. And then Daniel sits right down on it.

Max hisses at the sudden tight heat, can't help but thrust up, hips colliding with the tight muscle of Daniel's cheeks, and then he can't stop. The movement of his cock fucking in and out sounds squishy, sloppy, like Daniel is just a fleshlight that Max has been jizzing into all day. Which. Isn't far off the mark.

"Is it gonna hurt your feelings if I can't come this time?" Daniel asks him, rocking in-rhythm to Max's desperate pounding.

"Yes. No, you," Max gasps, "I think. I think you can."

"Nuh-uh," Daniel murmurs and brings Max's hand to his soft dick. "Here, feel."

Max groans, "Daniel please."

Daniel shakes his head. "You can beg all you want, but I'm fucked out."

It's not fair. If their positions were switched, Max could come all day long if Daniel wanted it. He could just leak like a faucet, dribbling and wetting his clothes with it and everywhere he sat down and everything he touched. There would be no end to it.

Max shifts his hips, thrusts up at an angle that he knows will drag the head of his dick against Daniel's prostate.

"Oh, oh," Daniel groans and Max beams. He feels Daniel throb in his hand.

"See? You can come."

"Nah, don't think so." He leans down and licks up Max's neck, sucks on his earlobe and scrapes his teeth across it, sparks of pleasure tinging in his wake. "You're not gonna last that long, I can tell. It's okay, just use me. I'm good for it. You made me all loose."

Max clenches his abs and his fists and tries to hold on, but then Daniel kisses him again, and well. It's only natural that he climaxes, tired and besotted as he is.

"Phew, that was a pretty nice one," Daniel says as he climbs off Max's lap, grunting like an old man as he straightens his knees. Max has enough brain power to reach up and spin Daniel around, bend him over the steering wheel so at least he can see.

Daniel used to wax, which Max thought was insane behavior and told him to stop. Now he can watch his come dribble out and smear it into the whorls of dark hair around Daniel's hole. He sucks his thumb and his fingers, licks Daniel's ass and slides his tongue inside until Daniel is whining and Max can't taste anything but spit. All clean.

"Okay, I'm good," Max says, and is satisfied by the way it takes almost a full minute for Daniel to get himself organized. Daniel is hard now, but you snooze you lose.

Daniel shoves his palm in Max's face, pushing him mostly-gently back into the seat. "You maniac," he says and rubs the heel of his other hand against the bulge in his jeans. "Look what you did to me."

"I told you that you could come. Go ahead." But the rest of the team is starting to trickle back in now.

Daniel shakes his head. "Maybe I'll wait until I get home. Then you won't be able to participate."

He won't, though. Max is sure of it, that Daniel will corner him on the way out the door at the end of the day and he'll ask for Max to watch, or to fuck him again, because he's not allowed to just take, he has to beg for it instead.

Thank god that Daniel likes this just as much as Max does.

[godisshook]

I’ve had a crush on my roommate since we met in the summer, and I thought he liked me too, but he said we couldn’t when I finally got up the nerve to ask him out before break. He said he had to do something first, and left for break. I was so sad, but then on new years he texted me his resolution had been to become a “real man” for me this year… any idea what I should expect now that break is done?

A Real Man

You hoped that winter break would be a nice break from the weight of your confession to your roommate, Sean, but it was all you could think about. Had you made a mistake? Did you miss the signal?

You had talked with Sean occasionally, but not as much as on New Year's. While you didn't believe in all the superstitions around it, you still silently made a wish for the new year; making Sean yours. As the new year rolled in, you celebrated alone, hoping your wish would come true.

Fortunately, the wait wouldn't be long. Just a few minutes past midnight, you get a text on your phone from an unlikely source, Sean. Soon, the two of you were in full conversation. With plans for the new year being discussed, he drops a bomb. “Just letting you know, my resolution is to be a real man for you this year," he texted.

Intrigue came over you as you continued to text back and forth with him. As the conversation died down, he sent a final message that stopped you in your tracks. "Hope to see you soon, until then, hope these can hold you over." He sent the message with two attached photos, and as you scrolled up to see them, your jaw dropped.

The photo leaves you breathless, as you lay witness to just what he meant. He was huge, practically unrecognizable. Drooling over the pictures, to rushed to reply, "I hope to see you soon!" You winced at the exclamation mark in your text, hoping you weren't coming off too thirsty, but dirty thoughts were buzzing throughout your mind.

With winter break drawing to its close, you decided to leave early for campus, packing your bags and booking your flight. While you mainly wanted the extra time to pack, being able to see Sean too wouldn't hurt at all. You scheduled an Uber before getting on your flight, not wanting to bother anyone for a ride on campus. With goodbye texts sent, you got on the plane and dozed off as you got in the air.

As your plane begins its descent, you come to. You start to check for any missed texts, when you're met with one that catches your eye.

"I'll come get you from the airport."

Sean attached two photos of him and simply replied, "I'm ready." You trembled at the certainty of his response, even through text, and braced yourself for the car ride home.

As he put your suitcases in the car, his muscles bulged through his tank top, making your heart flutter. "Thank you so much," you said as you put your duffel bag in his car. "This is the treatment you deserve," he said as he laid a kiss on your forehead. You blushed, not used to this level of chivalry. The two of you recapped your winter breaks on the ride back, with giggling and somber moments included.

He brought your luggage inside, and you were entirely confused as to the sudden change in character. With the last of your bags inside, you demanded an explanation. The two of you sat down as he began to explain. "I know it sounds crazy, but I knew I wasn't right for you back when you first asked," he said. He continued, "That was my wake-up call, and so I had to get things right so I could live up to my promise." His expression darkened as he got closer, now standing above you. "I want to show you just how ready I am if you let me." Your reply was breathy, as your voice began to tremble under his dominance. "I want you, Sean." His response came in a dark tone:

"Kneel."

Your body responded before your mind could, as you kneeled on the floor, grasping onto his massive hands. He pulled down his pants, and his cock rose up in an instant. Looking over his huge dick, you wondered how you were going to suck it. Hoping to not have that question answered, you began giving him a handjob, your hands made minuscule against his massive cock.

But it was clear that wasn't enough. Sean looked down and moved your hands off his dick. His rock-hard cock was once more in your face, and you knew what was coming next.

Opening your mouth wide, he slid his cock inside your mouth. As he filled you up, you were forced to breathe from your nose, as his cock went further and further down your throat. Sean threw his head back in pleasure and began slowly sliding his cock out, immediately leaving you wanting more. In an instant, his hand was now gripping your head, as thrust his cock in and out of your mouth.

Cum had filled every part of your throat, and your face was a mess. He had asserted himself. His softer side revealed itself as he helped clean you up, picking you up and taking you to the shower, where he finally fucked you, his cock filling you like a key in a lock. It was bliss. As hot water made the heat inside you burn even hotter, you couldn't help yourself from coming, and Sean, noticing your release, sped up his thrusts to catch up to you.

The both of you finished your shower, even messier than when you entered. You both slept in Sean's room that night, as you cuddled deep into him. Sean had shown exactly what he meant, and you were overjoyed. It was looking like a wonderful start to your semester, and you thanked your lucky stars that your wish came true.

[chilling-seavey]

Winter Warmers: Day 20 — Thigh Riding & Matching Pyjamas

↳ A/N: I got carried away with this one... Also, thank you to this anon who honestly helped inspire part of this idea!!  

↳ Summary: A night of tea and reading only lasts for so long in your house.

↳ Word Count: 1747

↳ Warnings: 18+, thigh riding (duh), minor dirty talk, mentions of spit, ruining clothes...

↳ Winter Warmers Prompt List | The Way It Goes Masterlist

George had never been that much of a reader but in the right moments, in the festively decorated living room, by the light of the fire and the glittering Christmas tree, with a mug of tea in hand and you tucked under his arm, nothing felt better than a good book. You both held a novel of your own in hands despite the way you were cuddled side by side, arms intertwined and balancing books and mugs, reading away. Only the crackling of the fireplace filled the serene night.

You had purchased your little family a matching set of Christmas pyjamas that year now that your son was somewhat old enough at almost two-years-old to fit into any of them. They were a wonderfully soft plaid of red and black, bottoms and a matching button up top, and the three of you looked straight out of a magazine when you wore them all together. The picture perfect family. It was something you had always dreamt of but never thought would be yours. Sometimes, life really did feel straight out of a novel. 

George’s lips pressing against your temple in a warm kiss pulled you out of the pages of your book. You glanced at him from under his arm with a fond, “What was that for?”

He shrugged, lifting his mug of tea to his lips, “Nothing.”

You snuggled closer into his side and his arm instinctively wrapped tighter around you until his forearm was tucked across your chest. His book was closed in his hand, forgotten about. Yours, on the other hand, was still very much open and very much interesting to you, drawing your eyes back to the scene printed on the pages. 

George read over your shoulder for a few moments before his fingers started wandering, caressing the soft material of your pyjama shirt until his thumb eventually found the bud of your nipple and he gave it a little swirl. You shifted to get him to move, your eyes still trained in on your page. 

But you could feel his breath on your neck with how much you were snuggled up beside him and between that and his wandering fingers, he was quite distracting. George leaned in towards you, kissing absentmindedly at the shell of your ear, underneath, down your neck, in feather-soft touches. His lips were extra warm from his tea, almost hot against your skin.

“What’re you doing?” you mumbled, squirming as his ghostly kisses made you shiver. 

“Nothing.” he repeated innocently. 

“Liar.” you announced without tearing your eyes away from your page. 

George gently pinched your nipple through your shirt. You flinched slightly, finally dropping your book so the pages straddled your thigh to keep your place, and you lolled your head back against his shoulder to look up at him with a pointed glare. He then kissed your nose, the apple of your cheek, the corner of your mouth that subsequently turned up at the corners at his affection. 

You puckered out your lips a little, a silent invitation. George licked his own briefly and then pressed a proper kiss to your awaiting lips, sharing one then two then three. 

“If you wanted attention, you could have just asked for it.” you reminded him.

“I didn’t want to interrupt; you looked so content.” protested George, his coy smile ever present on his handsome face. 

You scoffed and leaned forward to set your book and your mug of tea down on the coffee table, “You definitely still interrupted.” 

George’s mug and book joined yours and then you settled back under his arm, your hand falling naturally against the soft material of his plaid pyjama pants, right over his thigh. Your eyes met again, calm smiles, and then his hand reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear before trailing over your jaw. 

“You’re so beautiful.” he whispered adoringly. 

You scoffed bashfully, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest whenever he complimented you, and your fingers gently scratched over his thigh in silent appreciation. With a shared smile, you whispered back to him, “I love you.”

George’s smile only widened, “I love you more.”

Your reply was almost immediate, fingers dipping along the inner seam of his plaid pants as you gazed into his eyes with a playful sparkle, “No, you don’t.”

He laughed lightly, nodding, “Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

You were snuggled so close on the couch that you could feel his warm breaths falling against your cheek and when you turned to face him a little more, your leg draped over his and tucking between his knees, you could feel the momentary halt of his breath. His arm followed you around your shoulder, his eyes unwavering from your face like you were all he wanted to look at. His hand started to slowly rub up and down your bicep, creating a tingling sensual touch that had your heart flipping in your chest. 

George’s voice was a little lower when he finally replied, deep and velvety right up against your ear, “I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree, Mrs. Russell.”

The use of your married name never failed to turn you into putty in his hands and you broke into a bashful smile and hid your face in his neck. George just chuckled and took his arm from your shoulders to rub his large hand up and down your back lovingly while his other hand tangled in the back of your hair to keep you snuggled close. 

After just a moment, you pulled away from his neck to look him in the eyes again. There was so much to read behind his irises as he gazed at you like that in the warmth of the living room. Your fingers found home in the fabric of his pyjama shirt, right over his heart, rubbing gentle circles as you shared a loving gaze by the firelight. His hand slid from your hair to gently trace your jaw, slender fingers lingering at your chin to keep your face turned upwards towards his as his eyes flitted down to your lips. 

He took your chin between thumb and forefinger with a gentle tug just as he leaned in to meet you halfway, capturing your lips with his in a searing kiss. You inhaled sharply into the kiss, your hand flying from his chest to grab the side of his neck to keep his lips on yours. You met his eager pace with ease, even as his tongue pushed its way into your mouth. 

In the dizziness of his kiss, you could barely acknowledge his hand sliding down your back and over the curve of your ass in those plaid pyjama bottoms. He pulled away just enough to drop his palm down in a lazy smack. Your leg nudged up higher between his, body turning a little more until your crotch was just about pressed against the side of his thigh. 

George pulled away after a moment, greedy hands grabbing your hips to almost pull you onto his lap. You moved with his demands without protest, soon straddling his thigh with your arms strewn around his shoulders, pressed chest to chest, breathing in anticipation into each other’s mouths. His hands groped your ass over your pants that matched his, his voice a dreamy whisper, “Let’s ruin these.”

It was almost a promise, the way he said it, so demanding and needy all in the same. You could only lean down to swallow it up with your lips, tasting his pretty sounds with your tongue as he moaned into your mouth. His hands pulled you closer at the same time, forcing you to rut against his muscular thigh through the layers of fabric between you. The friction was sizzling. 

When you pulled away to breathe, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a brief moment before breaking between you. Your hands pressed down flat against his chest, pushing yourself up to square your shoulders on his lap, giving yourself more of a leverage to start to grind on his thigh a little stronger. George just gaped up at you for a moment, hands on your waist and only barely helped guide you along because you know exactly what you want and he would always be more than willing to let you do just that. 

He could just never get enough of you—you brought out the selfishness in him to an extreme—and so his hands moved to start to unbutton your pyjama top. You didn’t stop the gyrations of your hips, far too into the friction to stop, letting him do as he pleased as he finally pulled open your shirt to reveal your bare chest beneath. His hands went first, groping your breasts in his warm palms as if he were trying to pull you into your motions that way. The tightness of his grip had you gasping faintly, hips jumping against his thigh, fingers grasping onto the front of his shirt. 

“That’s it,” George breathed lowly, his voice rich and addicting with his eyes all over you, “Christ, you have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

And then his mouth was on your chest, taking one of your nipples in his mouth as his strong arms wrapped around you to help move you faster. He moaned against your breast, coating you in spit and kisses over your flushed skin, bodies moving together in a dire need to get off. 

He kept you grinding on his thigh until you were so sensitive that you were nearly crying, his shirt wrinkled and stretched from how you tugged mercilessly at it, wanting more, more, more. A little praise and a little dirty talk from your husband helped to finish you off, speaking to you in a low, rumbling whisper of how beautiful you were, how much you turned him on, how much he wanted to see you come all over his thigh. 

When you collapsed against his chest in tremors of pleasure, he held you close and kissed your temple, telling you how much he loved you into your hair. After all that, you had honestly soaked through your brand new pyjama pants and left a wet spot on his at the same time. But if that wasn’t enough, only minutes later, his shirt was also victim as he came up the front of it by your hand, staining the dark red and black plaid in creamy white.

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[ohmytyong]

the color of you [teaser]

cover art made by @/salgoolulu on Instagram

“you picture your emotions through words, while I try to voice out my own feelings with photos”

PAIRING: college student!jaemin x college student!reader (female!reader) x college student!mark

GENRE: fluff, angst, strangers to lovers au, college au, 90s au, love triangle au, best friend!jisung, best friend!yeri, suggestive (if you squint)

TEASER WARNINGS: none!

WC: tba (TEASER WC: 1,8k)

‣[PLAYLIST]: margaret by lana del rey (ft. bleachers), frozen by sabrina claudio, bonfire by wave to earth, yosemite by lana del rey, blue by troye sivan (ft. alex hope), naked by sabrina claudio, let the light in by lana del rey (ft. father john misty)

SUMMARY: winter to spring to fall — seasons change all the time, and life takes turns you never saw coming. as you’re trying to figure out your true love in your career path, you’re also trapped between the hearts of two boys who try to teach you how to find your real colors, by teaching you how to love.

A/N: finally a glimpse of what i've been working on (and still am) for over six months. the writing process is painfully slow, but this story feels like nothing i have ever written before. it feels intimate to me, and i can't wait to share the full story with all of you <3

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Thursday, October 9th, 1997

Τhere is a fine line between love and passion. It is easy to confuse one for the other, and sometimes the boundaries become so blurry that love merges into passion and passion merges into love. Passion is a state of being — it resembles a phase of complete ecstasy that you wish would last forever. It fills you with a sudden burst of happiness that is so strong, it needs to become temporary, otherwise its effect weakens.

Love is more of a state of living — it draws you in, it roams around you like the strong scent of cologne, it captivates you in an invisible way, almost as if it does not exist, and no matter what your state of mind or being is, it will always find you in the form of solace. This is exactly what gives it longevity in its effect.

You tried to keep a mental note of these thoughts for the time being until you could write them down, before you completely forgot about them and they ceased to exist.

You were standing outside your favorite café in Seoul, patting your hair and brushing your fingers through thick strands to untangle them. Fall was your favorite season when you could hear the crunchy sound of leaves under your shoes or the patter of raindrops on your umbrella, but one thing you were certainly sure of was that you were not particularly very fond of the wind.

With a firm push on the door, you stepped inside the place you liked to call your second home and, almost in a cartoon-like way, you rushed towards the front counter, drawn in by the magical, mythical, delicious scent of caramel.

The boy behind the counter was busy placing pastries in a paper box and didn’t immediately notice your presence, even though you thought that he could sense how much you were craving that cup of hot caramel latte you were dreaming about all morning.

“Jisung,” you raised your voice as you spoke, and the boy jolted up in the air at the sound of somebody calling his name, the box of pastries in his hands flying everywhere around him. You liked to mess with him in this way because of his sensitivity towards abrupt loud noises. You didn’t want to, but it always spread your lips into a smiley smirk when he would jump around and drop whatever he was holding. Exactly what happened right now.

“Oh my God, Y/n,” he said breathlessly, pressing one hand on his chest to calm his heartbeat. You let out a soft giggle at his reaction and he narrowed his eyes at you. “I just like to tease you, Ji,” you said as he bent down to pick up the box and the now dirty pastries. He threw away the pastries in a trash can under the counter and placed the box aside in the counter behind him. He rolled his shoulders backwards as he came towards the cash register and swayed his head left and right to move his bangs out of his face. “Alright, alright,” he whispered to himself and he cleared his throat, straightening his back even further. He flashed a wide smile towards you and spoke in a voice that seemed loud to him, but to your ears it still sounded like his usual velvety soft tone. “Welcome to Caramel Craze, what can I get you?”

“Just my regular, Ji,” you said and he kept a note of your order on a small scratch pad, even though he knew your order by heart. “I’ll go sit down at our table, you can come join me when your shift ends. Also, just so you know, Yerim is coming too so be more alert. You know I go easy on you with the jumpscares but she doesn’t,” you said and he laughed at the mention of your friend Yerim, who liked to tease him just a little bit more.

“Okay, you go sit and I’ll be back with your order,” Jisung said and you stretched your arm to ruffle his hair playfully.

You always sat at the table furthest back in the shop right next to the wall-length window. Whatever the season, you enjoyed the access to viewing the outside world through the perspective of the glass that separated you from the people on the other side of it. Today, the atmosphere was covered by dark clouds of gloom that seemed harmless, with no intention of rain. You hadn’t realized how angry the wind was until you looked at the way the branches of the trees moved back and forth to the wind’s direction and the people struggling to walk through the windy force. Behind the glass window, it was peaceful and quiet.

You sat down at your and your friends’ designated table and took out your sketchbook and pencils. Looking around the small coffee shop, you noticed a girl standing, waiting in line to order her drink and possibly a little sweet treat to go along with it. She was wearing a long plaid skirt, falling down to her ankles, paired with a short jean jacket that ended right at the start of her waist. What if she added a leather corset? The length of the skirt kinda throws me off. Maybe a shorter skirt, chunkier shoes, different texture on the jacket-

You picked up your pencil and quickly drew lines that resembled a female human figure. Eyes darting from the girl to your sketchbook, back at the girl and your sketchbook again, you started gaining inspiration for new clothing designs. That’s why you decided to study fashion design; the possibilities of mixing and matching colors, patterns and textures were endless, and your creative mind couldn’t help but be fascinated by the art of fashion.

You were drawing quick rough sketches of clothes, making small changes here and there, trying to find a new, innovative, interesting design to present in class. For the last couple weeks, you were completely stuck and couldn’t create anything. The scholarship abroad wouldn’t be yours if you presented some boring, mediocre stuff.

Lately, you found yourself deprived of inspiration. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why this was the case, but anytime you picked up your pencil to draw new patterns of clothes, your hand automatically moved away from your sketchbook and gravitated towards the pocket-sized notebook you kept on the side of your desk, and all you could do with your pencil was to write words.

the flowers inside my mind wither and fall;

dark fog covers the sky that hangs above my consciousness

i hate to see you wilt —

perhaps a new seed will grow on the ground

and replace the void with color

regeneration mirrors the art of becoming again

Setting your sketchbook and pencil on the side, you moved to take out the small notebook from the front pocket of your bag, flipping the pages to find a blank one and quickly writing down the words that came to your mind at that moment. This is what you always did when you felt stuck. You could never voice the thoughts occupying your mind, so you wrote them down instead. It was always easier to put them in place this way.

A loud bang resonated in the small café and you jolted up in surprise, dropping your pencil on the table. This is probably how Jisung feels, I get it now. You lifted your head to see your friend Yerim setting her bag and extra books on the table as she sat down on the chair across from yours.

“You scared me, Yerimie,” you said in a shaky voice and her lips lifted up to a smirk. “And I thought Jisung was the fun one to tease,” she said.

You scoffed at her comment and dismissed it. Yerim’s eyes dropped to the sketchbook and pencils scattered everywhere around the table, peeking at your trembling designs and the black smudges all over the pages that covered the designs you didn’t like.

“Still on designer’s block?” Yerim asked and you shook your head lightly. “I actually made some progress today,” you smiled, “I might have some ideas about what to make. These are pretty much the very first draft of it. If you can call it a draft,” you said pointing at your sketchbook.

Yerim hummed in understanding, but her eyes betrayed her true thoughts. Doubt? Hope? Simply processing what you said? You couldn't tell.

“Hey, listen, I have an extra class right now so I won’t stay, wanna meet me later in the library? I know you prefer studying here but I just came to pick up my coffee,” Yerim said. As if they communicated telepathically, Jisung approached your table holding two plastic cups with your beloved coffee shop’s logo on them. The intensely sweet scent of caramel betrayed what the liquid inside the cups was and you felt dizzy even at the thought of finally tasting the drink you were so desperately craving.

“Here you are, girls,” it felt almost as if Jisung mouthed the words by how softly he spoke. With shaky hands, he placed the cups on the table and smiled at himself for successfully bringing them all the way there without dropping them and spilling the hot coffee all over the shop’s floor.

“Are you coming too, Ji? To the library,” Yerim turned to him and Jisung nodded eagerly. “Of course! I’ll be there after my shift ends. Sorry Y/n, I can’t stay at the café all day, it's getting boring and it reminds me of work,” Jisung apologized to you and frowned.

“Don’t worry, guys, I’ll join you. Besides, apparently I also need to find this book I need for my project. You can go and I’ll meet you there later,” you said and you were going to keep your promise. 

Yerim grabbed her things and leaned over the table to give you a hug. She winked at you and waved at both you and Jisung on her way out the coffee shop. Jisung smiled and shook his head at Yerim’s sassy attitude and you couldn’t help but smile too at how adorable he was.

“You’d better get back to work Ji, or else someone out there is gonna rob all the money you keep in the cash register,” you reminded him and his posture stiffened, smile dropping and eyes widening when he remembered that his shift, in fact, hadn’t ended yet. 

“Oh, you’re right. But wait,” he said, putting his hand inside the pocket of his apron, only to take out a soft caramel cookie wrapped in sealed plastic packaging. He slid it into your hand under the table and offered you a shy smile. “It’s on the house. You need some energy,” he said softly as he walked away towards the back of the café.

You looked at the cookie and quickly put it inside your bag. You were sitting alone once again, blocking your surroundings as you stared outside the window to take a look at the outside world. The wind had calmed down significantly.

* .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

TAGS: @peachjaem00 @hyuckieslove @bbyyhyuck @vdollys @positionslab

@matchahyuck @renjun-fairy @back2jisung @xxxx-23nct @doieslefttoe

@uwuheeseungie @markleefuckme @letmein2urheart

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[llondonfog]

Since now we have Tsum Silver in JP, I just want Lilia to go through absolute baby fever. HE NEEDS TO TREAT SILTSUM LIKE HIS BABY ALL OVER AGAIN!!!

" . . . I suppose I might have known," Lilia hums, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he lounges against the doorframe and crosses his arms. "Is this where you've been hiding all along, hm? You've given him quite the scare, you know— he's running frantic all around the castle grounds trying to find where you've wandered off to all on your own."

Nestled between the bat-patterned bedsheets and carelessly scattered homework assignments, Silver's tsum blinks sleepily up at him, the picture of unrepentant, bleary innocence. It makes no move to wriggle itself out of the cozy little burrow, and Lilia's grin only softens. In a funny way, he's all too suddenly reminded of those early cottage days— of Silver buried so far into his quilts during the bitterly cold Briar Valley winter, that stubborn tuft of moonlit hair poking out from the blankets like a beacon, a lighthouse drawing Lilia close until he could wrap the child up in the warmth of his arms instead and pepper his giggling face with good morning kisses.

A strange pang pricks his heart at the memory, and Lilia shakes his head with affected disappointment at the once again dozing creature, rubbing a hand absentmindedly against his chest. "I ought to scold you for distressing him so," he mutters with no real heat behind the words, floating the short distance over to the bed and settling down among the mess. "He's a good child, too good for his own heart. I won't have you causing him any grief, no matter how adorable you are— do you hear me?"

A gentle poke to the tsum's plushy cheek begets no response, not that Lilia was truly expecting any with how eerily similar the creature resembled his son in not just looks, but behavior. It merely snored on in complete disregard to Lilia's words, and yet somehow . . . Lilia could swear it looked even more at peace than it had moments prior. Up close like this, if he ignored the uniform tucked around its tiny body, he could believe that he'd somehow found himself seventeen years in the past. He could believe that they were tucked away in the serene safety of their forest home, and that he was once again watching in the dumbfounded awe of a parent in breathless admiration of their baby's first slumber.

Deep in the pocket of his uniform jacket, Lilia can hear his phone buzzing, texts no doubt from Silver asking if his father has had any luck scouting out the dormitory for his wayward tsum. He'll text him back, of course he will— he doesn't want to prolong his son's distress anymore than it already has. But for now, for a moment, he can't bring himself to glance away from the tsum happily sleeping in his bed— perhaps it just might open its eyes and look at him. Perhaps it might yawn, stretching tiny, perfect little arms and sharing a crooked, perfect little smile under those silvery bedhead bangs.

"Good morning, Toto! I had the most interesting dream last night, do you want to hear about it?"

[aois-amaterasu-painting]

Ruki (on X):

From January to July, so many things have happened.

Amidst the whirlwind of days, I questioned what is right and what is normal? While swaying between emotions and reason, I was constantly making various choices, and desperately running through each day.

In such times, I was supported solely by everyone's concerned voices and the words "I love you."

Thank you always.

And although it's been a while, I wrote on Instagram. I hope this reaches everyone who loves me. ✉️

It's been about two months since my last post.

Seeing the closet still filled with winter clothes, I realized that this year, for me, there was no spring. Time stopped in winter, and then summer came.

I noticed that I had been putting off such a basic thing as living, and I finally did a long-overdue wardrobe change the other day.

Life is built on daily choices, an accumulation of decisions.

Only you can decide if those choices and your life are right or wrong.

The responsibility for your life is yours and yours alone.

I feel that trying to conform to the standards of "normal" for others will only make you feel more miserable when you are going through a tough time.

It's the same for everything; it's okay not to be "normal" as measured by someone else's standards.

No matter the relationship, I believe it's impossible to fully understand all of someone's inner struggles and pain. Fans' pain and our pain, human wounds vary from person to person.

Therefore, the way and speed at which wounds heal also vary for each person. The way you accept things too. It's okay if it's not the same.

Because the heart is a place that cannot be seen from the outside, others can't understand those wounds, and in fact, even we ourselves cannot measure how deep our wounds are.

Everyone, might be forcing a smile on the outside, and when they come home, no one sees the emptiness they are feeling, and they probably don't want to show it to anyone.

The way I've spent my days, I was told, wasn't very human-like, but I think that's okay.

Now, rather than sadness, I feel loneliness.

Because I am human, I know that I will meet them again someday.

So, thinking that way, I am accepting it now.

Although I feel lonely without Koron and Reita, for now, goodbye. This reminded me of when I wrote the lyrics for QUIET.

And when the day comes that we can meet again, I want to live in a way that I'll be told, "You lived a good life."

In reality, there are four of us now, but not as a mere illusion; another face is vividly present in my mind.

So, the feeling of being five members is not a lie. That will surely be forever.

After thinking about it all, I've come to the conclusion that I need to start living each day in a way that will leave a lot of proof that I lived.

I want to create music and things with more love than ever before.

Although my core approach to making music hasn't changed, what I feel I want to draw and leave behind now has changed significantly.

I want to cherish every moment, even the most ordinary ones, like taking pictures of everyday life, going to different places and feeling the scenery, the smells, all the things that I can only feel at that moment.

And if you're feeling overwhelmed right now, I think it’s okay to put everything on hold and take a break without overthinking it. It’s okay to stop pushing yourself for a while.

If I hadn’t taken a step back, I wouldn't have reached this mindset.

Then, bit by bit, listen to music you love, visit places that bring you joy, and heal your heart.

I'm gradually doing that myself too.

I hope everyone can find their own way of healing.

And if this band, the GazettE, can become something that saves or heals even just one person, I will overcome anything.

To me, everyone who waits for us is my reason for living.

The only place where you can let out everything you can't express in daily life, I believe, is at live concerts.

So, I hope we can share that extraordinary space where we can shout and make noise together as much as possible.

I've said it before, but there will be more opportunities to meet from now on. Or rather, I will make them.

I want to increase the time I can enjoy with everyone who loves me, so please wait for it.

Next is Toyosu PIT announcement, so please check it out.

Thank you for reading such a long post. I'll write again

2024.07.18

[choccy-milky]

hey! They already asked you but I don't know if you forgot hehe, what are the mbti of Clora and Sebastian? 😸

OK, I FINALLY HAVE AN ANSWER!! took me a hot minute to figure out sebs, but after reading all the pages and comparing, i do think entp fits him the best. also i saw this picture on pinterest about a relationship between isfj and entp and its so true, esp the "do not listen to each other's advice, still get each other out of trouble" LMFAO. also the 'protecting isfj at all costs' 🥺🥺🥺im soft. (ALSO DONT COME AT ME I KNOW I SPELLED KNOWLEDGEABLE WRONG IM TOO LAZY TO FIX IT😭) OKAY!! and its been a while so i'll be using this ask to reply to a buncha others🙏🙏

my fanfic does follow the plot of the game, but with sebastian added to every sidequest/story mission. and then from around the third (niamh's) trial, it starts to branch more into (mostly all) original stuff!^^

yes actually LMAO, clora's lawley-slap wasn't even planned. but as i was writing it i started to get so offended on her behalf i was like GIRL, SLAP THIS BITCH🤬 so she did😇😇 id say its normal, yeah! even tho i stick to my outlines, a lot of what happens just kinda happens without my prior planning as i begin to write bahaha, especially dialogue scenes.

aw, im glad u like my blog so much and that it can help u even in the smallest of ways 😭thank u!!💖💖

BAHAHA AWW TYY IM GLAD U LIKE IT SO MUCH!! i saw u re-reading it recently on wattpad and ur comments always have me dying. also im just gonna address your other ask here in this one, but as u know seb has now met mr.clemons, and you 10000% nailed the dynamic between seb and clora's dad LMFAOO, they will absolutely bond over disagreeing with how careless she is and wanting to protect her/stressing over her LOOL. ty again for all ur messages, i love seeing how much u love my art/fic😭💖

OMG u are so right i need to draw this

also god idk....following the sebinis example, i guess they'd be...sebora?? reminds me of sephora LMAO. ive also had someone call them "alliteration shipping" which i think is so cute BAHAHA. HONESTLY PPL CAN JUST SAY WHATEVER THEY WANT, i aint picky.

oh god its been too long since ive read the books (tho i do really wanna re-read them esp in the winter) but my fav movie is half blood prince, just because i love all the ron/hermione moments and the highschool drama BAHAHA. what do u mean harry potter isnt a romcom??? ok and last but DEFS not least

THE UNHINGED ENERGY OF THIS ASK CRACKED ME UP SO MUCH WHEN U SENT IT BAHAHAH, couldnt even fit the whole thing in my screenshot. IM GLAD U LIKED/HATED THE CHAP, and also your pfp just makes everything you say funnier, i love it LMAOOO. ty🙏🙏

[shegatsby]

I'm sorry but I have another idea for a story😅 please take your time to write it again and if you do it can I maybe be "♡🌸"-anon? I hope you had a really good time the last few days and weeks and that you're healthy! Same for anyone else reading this! Now onto the idea..

Hannibal and reader are already married and reader is a tattoo artist, one day when Hannibal comes home from work he sees reader sitting on the couch and sketching a tattoo, the tattoo is deer antlers(wink wink lol-) with vines around them, when he asks who the tattoo is for reader says that its for him and then they go on and on about why its fitting for Hannibal and he's just listening to her rambling before he stops them and asks if they could do a heart tattoo with the words Mischa, Readers name and the name of their child. (I know Mischa is from Hannibal Rising but I like to think that the movies are all connected to the show so.. yeah that would be amazing <3) Reader would say that they already thought of doing a design like that and they accidently slide the wrong way on the iPad and Hannibal sees a picture that says "Congratulions for a second child!" and idk, the rest is up to you!^^

Sorry that its so long again but its just super cite and yeah.. anyway, a good rest of the day to all of you! I hope all of you are healthy and stay/are safe! And I feel with everyone thats also a bit pissed at the situation with Tik Tok and UMG🥲

-♡🌸

A/N; Girll I haven't been writing Hannibal fics for a long time but here we go. Thank you for the request. xxx

You were preoccupied and didn't even heard the door. Soft yet determined steps approached you from the back and strong arms wrapped around you, you looked up to meet your husband's welcoming gaze, he he seemed tired because his work was consuming his hours more than usual. His hands were cold due to the fact that it was a harsh winter day in Baltimore, ''Hey.'' you said smiling, ''Hello dear.'' his voice softened. ''How long have you been sitting here and designing new drawings my love?''

You were self conscious about your designs before you could respond he added, ''Who is this for?''

His interest was piqued ''Do you like it?'' you asked testing the waters. Hannibal observed the design on the tablet, it was deer antlers with veins around them, ''Yes, I actually like it but you didn't answer my question dear.'' he replied with a questioning look in his maroon eyes, ''Its for you and I'm glad you liked it.''

He seemed confused, ''For me? Why do you think this dsign is suitable for me?'' he genuinely asked. You cleared your throat before speaking, ''In many cultures, the deer is a symbol of spiritual authority. During a deer's life the antlers fall off and grow again and the aniaml is also a symbol of regretion. In Christian imagination, the deer is a symbol of piety, devotion and of God taking care of his children: men.'' you explained, emphasising on the word ''children'' your eyes glowing with passion.

''And you my love,'' you held his hand, ''you are everything and more to us.'' you meant yourself and your daughter Mischa. As if the toddler had sensed that you were talking about her she started crying from her room. ''I'll get her.'' Hannibal said and kissed your temple gently. In moments he came back with Mischa in his arms, he was swaying her gently, ''Cna you also make something,'' he began and caught your attention, you admired the love he held in his eyes for you and your daughter and your hand went to your stomach without realizing, ''Mischa's name in a heart, maybe?'' he suggested, ''I already have.'' he was surprised that you already had thought about it, ''Can I see?''

You showed him the design you had made few weeks ago, ''And I also have other designs maybe you'll like them more.'' you said and moved to the gallery to show more and he made you pause, he held your hand, ''What is it?''

You got a picture of pregnancy test on your latest photos, 'you looked up to meet his gaze, hi clicked on the picture and saw that it was positive, ''Honey are you-'' he began but couldn't finish, ''Yes, yes I'm pregnant!'' you bolted to your feet and hugged your husband and daughter, Hannibal was holding Mischa with one hand and the other hand moved to your neck and kissed you passionately, you let him dominate the kiss. When you parted you were out of breath, ''I'm going to be a father.. again.'' his maroon eyes were glowing with love and warmth for you, Mischa and the new member of the Lecter family.

[dragonagecompanions]

In Dragon Age Inquisition do you like the winter palace uniforms? Do you like everyone matching? What do you think the inquisitor and companions should wear? Please feel free to draw or add pictures of the outfits if you want.

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer within a certain amount of time or at all.

I hate the uniforms! Every companion should have been styled differently, and buckle up because under the break are my OPINIONS. All images came from Pinterest, I am trying my best not to use art.

Cassandra: There is no statement quite like a warrior in full armor, and Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast was born to make that statement. Add a cape with the Inquisitions heraldry and you will leave no one in doubt that the divines right hand is still strong.

Varric: Kirkwall’s most famous author has a brand— don’t taint it! Dark leathers and earthy tones speak of the adventures of Lowtown with the champion, off set by metallic accessories to remind all that the Merchants Guild’s deshyr is more than he seems.

Blackwall: If he is still known as a warden then you bring him in the full brilliance of his rank, in the blue and silverite of Thedas’s last and truest heroes.

If his secret is out best not to bring him to Orlais.

Solas: The Inquisition’s resident rift mage should not be relegated to a terrible hat and no introduction. Let the egg shine for once in the sort of graceful robes that put all the elegance of that long frame to use. We never see Solas fancied up, and for once we deserve too— while maintaining the more neutral tones he seems to prefer.

Vivienne: Let the woman shine. Morrigsn is almost swallowed up in her velvet monstrosity, heavy handed ina dramatic sweep of stuffy brocade. But Madame de Fer has come for war, and her dress is equal elegance and armor.

Sera: With the right mix of humor and haute, even Skyhold’s Red Jenny can turn heads in Orlais. If nothing else she will be a distraction.

Dorian: You know he wept over the terrible military coat. Dress the Tevinter mage in the shadows and secrets of his homeland!

The Iron Bull: Dress him down. Go the full rope work, the full paint . Play up the quantity element, the edge of fear, the strength of muscle and mind. Drive Orlais wild, and he will learn any number of things.

Cole: Gove him a fun hat and cape. No one will remember him anyway, might as well dress him up a bit.

Mod Fereldone