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lolita-lollipop · 2 years ago

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Oh, oh! I have an avatar idea/request. I haven't seen the new movie yet but I always loved the idea of maybe a teen reader getting dragged to Pandora with their semi-negligent parents. Like they love their parents but they never have anytime for the reader. Reader gets signed up for the avatar program as a way to keep them entertained and out of the way of their busy scientist/military parents. They don't usually get to leave the base but sometimes they get to go on little excursions not far from it to do test runs and see what their avatar body is capable of and how their age effects things. However, on one of these trips something bad happens and the reader gets separated from the scientists and their escorts and now finds themself lost and scared in the jungle (and possibly unable to return to their human body).

PLATONIC JAKE SULLY (+ a lil sully family) X READER

(A/N I don’t know why I ended up feeling weird this, I think it’s because it reminds me of wattpad days. Kinda long, enjoy)

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Mayday mayday- theres a fire in the engine- the chopper is coming down.

You were always told by your parents to keep quiet, to stay on the sideline as to not hoard any attention that could reflect badly upon them, stay silent, stay obedient. Thats always how it was with them. You knew they loved you, even if they had a hard time showing it, even if it meant they talked to you about ten minutes in a day.

At least you were guaranteed a safe home, food, clothes, and a comfortable life. That is, until you were volunteered (voluntold) by your parents in the avatar program, it was supposedly a test to try the DNA pairing on a younger subject. And your parents had said it would be good for you to see where they work, but you knew that it was just because you were too “needy” in their eyes.

Of course, when you were told that you would be accompanying them on their work trips, you were elated, theyd never invited you before! Then you learned it was on another planet. After a few fights, as always, you ended up agreeing. After all, they said it was safe.

So two months later, a billion tests later, and a new blue humanoid created with your DNA, you had settled into pandora. It was strange to be honest, you were possibly one of the only people on the planet under the age of 21, and not educated as if you were a harvard professor.

Everything was out of bounds, you couldnt ever go to your parents lab, couldnt go outside, couldnt even meet your new blue body. Most of the time you sadly sat, turning into a human statue in your small room with your books. Of course you didnt complain, you never would,

you never did.

Then, you got to integrate yourself into your new body. And your brain, along with your DNA, was finally conjoined. You were wary at first, it was so surreal, after all you were changing bodies. But once you actually did it, you were so glad your parents signed you up.

All of a sudden you were strong, not just strong, but coursing with energy, you felt as if you could fly, or crack boulders in half, it was so surreal. The same feeling you might get as if you were underwater your entire life, and finally got your first breath of fresh air.

You never wanted to leave, never wanted to go back into your cubicle of a bedroom where you could barely breath without feeling inferior. Your legs moved before your mind did, and before you could comprehend, you were standing in the middle of the strange fruit fields with the nurses chasing you down. Your parents would be pussed if they saw you. But at this point? You didnt even care.

You didnt even care

---

As the months passed by your place at the laboratory had been established, you were correct in assuming that you were the youngest here, and that made the research you were contributing to far more interesting. You learned so much about these people, this species.

Primarily, the function of your avatar was completely optimal, you could walk, talk, breathe, and act like all of the others could. There was just one little thing.

Your life was better than it ever was, you didnt even need your parents to love you, you had so many people who already did. 90% of the time you spent beong tested on while doing daily activities. Youd only left the base to go into pandora twice, and that was just to see the land, see the place youd be living for a long time. While it could sometimes be boring, it was far better than your life back home.

After some time, your parents requested that you be taken to a farther laboratories in the mountains, which hurt a lot, but you couldnt say no. they had to transfer yur human, and your navi body. It was so strange to see yourself. Your human self, in other eyes.

So, here you are now. Clutching tight onto the seat of the large helicopter, your human body was encased in an airtight bed, an oxygen mask pressed tightly to your face. Your eyes were practically glued onto your human body, and you were barely able to peel them away, you looked so different when seeing yourself from different eyes, so weak.

It made you sad to know how everybody else saw you. You just stared, at least you got to be away from the two scientists you wished you could call your parents.

In your trance, you hadnt noticed the pilots in the front yelling at eachother, or the scientists rushing around the aircraft seemingly in a panic. It wasnt until the leather seat underneath you began shaking aggressively that you looked up.

There was smoke, but no visible fire, and the aircraft seemed to be dragging, instead of darting swiftly through the air like youd seen all the other planes do, almost like it was too heavy. It slugged, and slowly drifted down.

Panic slowly overtook your senses, you werent sure what was happeningm but by the looks of it, it was very bad. Understanding that you knew absolutely nothing about emergency procedures, You tried to stay put as well as you could, knowing anything you tried to do would just make things worse. But then, a large pop bellowed through the sky, and instead of dragging slowly, the helicopter began to plummit. Then you had to start moving.

Gravity threw you into the other end of the helicopter, and you frantically had to grip at the edge of the opening in attempts to not fly out. THings flew out of the sides, including a few screaming scientists… and the white bed with your human body in it. You watched it fly though the air towards the forest floor with wide eyes, slowly letting your grip slip. In your distraction, you didnt pay any attentuon to the other large objects flying out of the plane.

A large box containing some kind of lab supplies crashed against you, smashing you in the face, and knocking the breath right out of your lungs. And like the rest of the helicopter, you too began falling so abruptly that you couldnt even do anything more than scream. Clutching your head with your hands, you curled up, and just fell.

When you hit the ground, it was pain. And then nothing but black.

----

The flutter of your eyes, the feeling of your fingers against hard dirt, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh wafting in the air. You werent quite conscious, but you werent nececarilly unconscious either. Just there.

When you were finally able to peel your eyes open, there was so much green. Glowing mushrooms strungs across trees, large leaves dripping water, little bugs littered throughout the dirt, white veins growing across your hands and feet. Little glowing bugs that looked like dandelion fuzzthat bounced around across you.

That peace only kept for so long though, and as you realized the depth of your situation, that your helicopter crashed in the middle of a pandora forest, your human body had to be dead so it's amazing that youre even alive right now, and you have no contact to anybody who could save you.

And so, you cried. Unsure of what else to do.

Soft sobs slowly transitioned into rough, ugly crying. Maybe it was the panic, or maybe it was just pent up anxiety being given the oppurtunity, maybe even both. But you cried, without any reguard for what could be watching.

Naturally, as you were face down in the dirt, crying to your hearts content like a baby, you payed no care, nor attent to the sound of hooves traveling your way, or the sight of the native people stampeding towards the disturbance, the noise. They came came to a halt upon seeing you though, covered in seeds from ey-wa. The deity clearly did not want them to harm you, after all, you were just a young girl. Even if you were a human. \

“Call jake.” a womanly voice announced amongst the group in a foreign language, she was loud enough to alert you of their presence. Your head perked up, and in doing so made the pain in your back shiver through in small bursts, a wince left your lips.

You stared at the group in fear with wide eyes, trying to push yourself farther an farther away, which did nothing but unsettle the little white bugs all over you. They floated away towards them, and they stared back with even wider eyes. They werent really sure what to do, usually they would kill any trespassers, but you were protected, so should they grab you and take you back? Or do they leave you alone? They would have to let jake decide.

They stared at you, trying to get close, you stared at them, they muttered in their language, sounding far more than confused. You slowly scooted back, wincing the entire time out of pain. Any attempts to stand up were halted, as the white roots around your feet made the ground slippery, and just made you clumsily fall back down. It was humiliating, like watching a fish flop around out of water.You stayed quiet, you always did.

They all went silent within a few moments though, and the sound of more hooves echoed through the forest around. You didnt know what was happening, but clearly it was important, and you got the impression that it was not good for you. So you clutched the tree next to you, and stretched as far as you could to see what was happening.

And it struck fear in you. One of the largest Na-vi people youve ever seen, at least 10 or 11 feet, with braids that had long strands of silver interlocked, and the piercing green eyes of a hunter. He stared at you, and you stared right back. When he opened his mouth you expected more of that fooreign language, but instead, it was english.

“Why are you here? What happened?” he questioned, dismounting the horse like creature, and pulling out his braid from the connection. He was wearing some kind of beaded shirt, unlike the others,

The Navi around seemed to await every word he spoke. You perked up at the sound of english, happy to find the familiarity, however, youre pretty sure half of the bones in this body were broken, and it just caused you pain. YOure body let out a whimper before you could stop it.

At the noises that left you, the male quirked an eyebrow, and instead of the angry, almost terrifying look that was spread on his face, was a face of concern. You were so young, so small, he very well couldnt hurt you, and you had to be important, eywa wanted you safe, even if the goddess of the land didnt, he felt the need to protect you.

He had many children, and his youngest was soon growing old, and would eventually leave him. You were just so small, and you looked so young, you reminded him of kiri, abandoned, alone. He couldnt leave you.

He began growing closer, catching your gaze and holding it, he put his hands up and put his weapon down. Just trying not to scare you. When he opened his mouth you were expecting that language you couldnt understand, but to your pleasure, it was english.

“How bad are you hurt kid? I saw the smoke, eywa can heal you. I just need you to come with me” he reached his hand towards you, motioning for you to latch on. When you made no motion top grab it, he held your unrelenting gaze, and scooped his arm under your torso, shushing you when you cried out in pain. He held you tightly, tucking you in the knook of his arm. For a moment he seemed distracted, his eyes drawn to the floating white puffs above. What were those anyway?

You held your breath as he remounted the horse, and spoke a few words in that awful language you couldnt understand, with a squeal from the thing you were on top of, it began moving, along with the navi around you. The man gripped you tightly and pressed you close to his chest, one hand on the horse, one around your waist. You winced again, trying to hold back tears, everything hurt.

“It's okay, youll be alright, we can heal you, got it?”, you stayed quiet.

And in nothing but a few moments, It was calm again. Youd never actually met any of the natives, but you had thought it would be far more scary than this, your parents said they would snap and try to kill you. They didnt, in fact, and this man, this navi seemed so human. So kind. You felt so comfortable, he made you feel so comfortable.

The sound of the hooves against the dirt, this mans light breathing against your ear, the warmth soaking from him to you, his hand pressing you close, the way he looked down at you, amking sure you were comfortable. How he seemed to hover, to protect. Like a father should. At least thats what you thought.

You stared at him, and his eyes locked with yours, a small smile flashing at you. It just made him squeeze you tighter, god, it was just so endearing, so adorable how you stared. You looked so much like neytiri.

It only took a few minutes of him holding you for you to fall unconscious, probably because of the excessive blood leaving your system, or the physical attatchment you were already beginning to feel, or the lack of sleep. Either way, you ended up dozing off, and curling closer to him.

---

Once again, you had to peel your eyes open, but this time it wasnt as unpleasant. Instead of a muddy, veiny floor, covered in bugs, in agony. Instead, you were wrapped in some kind of cocoon, on top of a warm blanket or some kind of plant.

There was a woman sitting next to the pod you were in, smashing down some string smelling plant in a bowl. Her eyes were so green, and she was so beautiful. When she noticed you were awake, she put the bowl down, and hovered closer.

“That is my son, nateyam” the woman pointed to you, or more to the thing under you, in which you had previously mistaken for a plant, but instead, which you probably shouldve realized sooner. Was a navi. He looked to be a few years older than you, at least 17 or 18.

You shifted and sat up, trying to exit the cocoon, but to your embarrassment, your foot got caught in the edge, and you flew over, the boy you had been lying on top of grabbed you and hoisted you back up. You shook his hands off and stood up. Now realizing that there were other navi around too, they also looked young, maybe a family?

The man from earlier, who you assumed was their leader of some sort, appeared around behind the woman, and wrapped his arms around her waist with a smile, holding your gaze. You panicked, understanding now that you were with a bunch of strangers, and your parents, if they even cared, probably thought you were dead.

“I- i have to get back- they wont know that im okay-” you croaked out, your voice was hushed, and rough, like youd been screaming for hours on end, you shook nateyams hands off of you, and stood up straight, meeting the woman in the eye, she looked worried.

“Who is they? Do you have family where you live?” the woman answered, clearly she was his wife, or his mate, as they would call it. She had a thick accent, and a strong voice, commanding. So that man, jake, he couldnt be a native, he talked l

“Uh- yeah- i guess. I lived where the labs were. Uh- the humans? They have a building somewhere- i don't know-” you rushed out, not knowing how long youd been gone, they mightve already pronounced you dead. Meaning they wouldnt look for you. The boy behind you hushed you, tryign to calm your panic, and placed a hand on your shoulder. Only for you to shrug it off.

The navi around locked eyes, contemplating their next words. of course they knew where the humans stayed, jake lived there for half a year, they hated them, when they werent burning down their forests, they were killing their animals, their people. They would kill you. You couldnt go back. Even if it meant lying to you.

“There havent been humans on this planet for a long time”

What

What were you supposed to do now?

Where were you supposed to go?

You were stuck.

Oh god.

———————————————————————

Can somebody please comment with an honest opinion- I’m gonna take this down if y’all think it’s bad.

I think I’m being coo coo for cocobonks insecure right now but I need to know.

Thanks for requesting, and for reading! Have a wonderful day!

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axelsagewrites · 2 years ago

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Jon Snow x Wildling!reader; were she doesn't trust him at all and she's always going against him, bickering all the time...and it has smut maybe a more bottom!Jon who's at that point still not so experienced??? Lots of teasing on her side during the smut... :)

Jon Snow*MiLady

Pairing: Jon x F!Wilding!Reader

Platonic: reader x Ygritte, daughter!reader x Mance

Summary: Jon Snow found himself sharing a tent with a wilding girl who loved to rile him up

Warnings: swearing, smut, loss of virginity, praise kink, f receiving oral, piv sex think thats it?

Word count: 4800

Masterlist Here

Requests Open

If anyone but Ygritte had brought a crow into your camp, you would’ve been right beside your fellow free folk demanding he either be thrown out or killed. However lucky for her Ygritte she was your closest friend and the reason you were still alive. Something she reminded you of as people voted on how to handle the crow.

You found it amusing how he was so quick to bend the knee to a king he never met, especially one who wasn’t even the king. Tormund apparently looked more the king than Mance, something you knew he would brag about for weeks. The crow told Mance he wanted to be free, but you knew it was a lie and so did Mance. Your interest was peaked from the corner of the room as he began to describe Craster leaving his new-born son in the woods and what came for it.

This time when Mance asked him why he was really here Jon, you had learned his name, answer seemed to be sincere. “I want to fight for the side who fights for the living." He spoke.

Murmurs fell over the crowd as your fellow free folk debated whether he could be trusted. The better question was if he was worth the risk. You still didn’t move from your spot in the back corner, but you did look up, meeting Ygritte’s eyes. Her gaze was strong, and you could feel the threat behind it.

Mance debated Jon’s words in a few moments of silence before turning his head to face you, “And what say you (Y/N)?” Mance asked. This time the crows’ eyes fell on you.

They were soft behind the harden gaze. He had obviously seen so much already but you had seen more. You pushed yourself off the wall and walked closer to where the crow stood, his eyes not leaving you, but you now refused to meet his, instead keeping yours on Ygritte. “You brought me a crow?” you asked her.

Ygritte smirked, “I brought you Jon Snow,”

“I already have plenty of snow,” you said causing Tormund and others to snicker, “Do you talk to all the crows to decide if you should shoot them?”

Ygritte glared at you. You glanced at Jon who was now wrapped in even more confusion. Why was the king asking someone else’s opinion? Clearly, he was not a wildling. “You owe me,” Ygritte reminded you, ignoring your question.

Your eyes fell back on Jon Snow who stood up straighter under your gaze. You internally smirked at his actions. There was silence in the room as your eyes roamed the crow. Finally, you glanced at Ygritte one last time before walking back to your corner, “I say he can stay,” you said and Jon nodded at your words, attempting to speak but you cut him off, “For now,” you added.

Mance nodded at your words and turned to his lieutenant, “Get the boy a new cloak,”

The new cloak didn’t help much as no one could forget a face like Jon Snow’s. everywhere he walked in the camp the children would pelt him with snow. You laughed at the irony. Ygritte kept trying to stop them to little avail. She tried to scatter the children as they pelted him again when she spotted you laughing across the camp. Ygritte stalked over to you. “Can’t you help me get them to knock it off?”

“Why would I do that?” you snorted at her question. You rolled your eyes as Jon rushed to catch up with his protecter. “He’s kind of like a dog,” you mused to her, but she just rolled her eyes.

“If you told them to stop, they’d have to,” she said ignoring your insult.

Jon had been in camp for only a couple of hours and clearly no one had explained anything to him, “So are you like the wildling queen?” he asked.

You grimaced at the suggestion, “Do you assume everyone is a king?”

Jon glared at your words, “That was an honest mistake,”

“Are all southerners so ready to bend the knee?” you asked with a smirk.

“I’m a northerner,” Jon spat.

You laughed as you began to walk away, Jon following behind you and Ygritte behind him, “A northerner who can barely walk in snow,”

“There’s like 9 inches of snow!” he shot back.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that shot out your lips as you turned to face him, “I’ll keep that in mind next time im cold, Snow,” you smirked.

Jon’s face flushed pinker than the cold had already nipped it, “I didn’t mean it like that! And you know it,”

“Are you always so miserable?” you asked, turning back to face where you were walking. You were walking to where some of your men were preparing hot stew, something you needed to help with the admittedly high snow.

Jon just sighed behind you and ignored your question. “So, what are you then? Queen, princess, general?” he asked.

“Why does it matter?” you asked as you got in line for stew, Ygritte cutting in front of you and Jon behind you.

“I want to know who I’m talking to,”

“Are you blind?” you snipped, growing hungrier by the minute. “Or just an idiot?”

“Are you?” Jon said, causing you to stop moving and turn to face him, “Why did Mance need your permission?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, “He didn’t need my permission, just my opinion. Which by the way is usually right so don’t prove me wrong,”

“And why does your opinion matter to a king?” he asked as Ygritte walked away with her stew.

As you took the bowl from the man you turned to face Jon again. “His daughter,” you smirked, and you could see Jon’s face pale.

“So, you’re a princess?”

“Maybe to the south,” you said, “Here I’m his first man, his council. What you people call a hand,”

“My father was a hand,” he said as he reached for his own bowl of stew.

“I never asked,” you said as you stopped his hand, “Who said you could eat?” you asked, and Jon’s face fell.

His shock was quickly replaced by anger as he stomped to where Ygritte was sitting on a log. You laughed as you picked up his bowl before walking to join them. You held the bowl out to the crow who looked up at you with a cold stare. “I’m not that bad,” you shrugged, holding it out closer for him to take.

“How kind,” he said, rolling his eyes. You smacked the back of his head for that, “Hey!”

“Shut up,” you said as you reached into your pocket and pulled out the fabric you wrapped your spoons in. you passed Jon one without saying anything and he seemed shocked but less angry this time, “Eat,” you told him and finally he did.

After your food Jon stopped being your problem till the sun began to set. That’s when Ygritte approached you with her next problem, “Where’s the crow sleeping?”

“Fuck would I know?” you said. You were just about to go into your own tent when she had caught you. The day had been long, and Jon was far from your only problem. “Ask Mance,”

Jon stood a couple of feet behind Ygritte, “He said to ask you,”

“Ask Tormund,” you said as you rolled your eyes and went to walk into your tent, but she grabbed your arm to stop you.

“He said the same thing,” she smirked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me? How is the crow my problem now?” you asked.

Jon stomped closer to where you debated with Ygritte, “I’m right here you know,”

You held your hand up to him, motioning him to shut up as you continued talking to Ygritte, “Stick him in a spare tent,”

“No ones willing to give him one,”

You sighed knowing you wouldn’t have given him your peoples spare supplies either in their shoes. “Does he have furs?”

“Oh, aye I carried furs all the way from the wall encase I came to camp with yous,” Jon said.

You held back a laugh and kept an annoyed face on as best you could. Snarky Jon was better than formal Jon. “Can’t you keep him?”

“I share a tent with two other folk who’d skin him in his sleep,” she said, and you sighed knowing she was right, “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Right fine fuck fine okay,” you said, running a hand through your hair, “Just fuck off and I’ll deal with it,”

“Thank you,” Ygritte yelled as she was already running away before she could change her mind.

You sighed and began to walk to go into your tent, “What about me?” Jon asked, rushing to follow.

“You have legs. Keep up,” you said as you entered your tent, holding the flap open for him to get in. “Hurry up im cold,”

“Oh, so wildings do get cold,” Jon smirked as you began to secure the tent entrance shut to block out the harsh wind.

“Do you want to sleep in the snow?” you asked as you turned to face him. He just rolled his eyes in response. You ignored him as you began to light a couple candles to light the dim tent. “You can borrow my spare furs. Don’t ruin them crow,” you warned.

“Don’t worry your precious furs are fine with me milady,” he said as he looked around the tent.

You grabbed one of your furs and threw it at him, “Don’t call me that,” you said.

“What?” he asked, “Milady? Are you not a princess milady? Do you have another title milady? What would milady like?”

“Milady would like you to shut the fuck up,” you almost yelled as you sat on your own pile of furs that acted as a bed and began to remove your cloak, flinging it into the corner of the tent.

Jon laughed as he internally celebrated his mini win before he looked around the tent awkwardly, “Where am I supposed to take these?”

You looked up at him, eyebrows knitting in confusion as you took off your boots, “You’re sleeping in here. With me. Unless you’d prefer the snow?”

“I don’t think your father would- “

“I am his daughter not his possession,” you said as you finally got your second shoe off. “and if its my honour your worried about just know us free folk have another definition of honour,”

“And what’s that?” Jon asked.

You stood up from the furs and grinned, “Well part of it is you not killing me in my sleep. At least wake me up first,” Jon just grumbled something under his breath, and you rolled your eyes, “Are you gonna stand there all night? Get ready for bed dumbass,” you said.

“Fuck off,” Jon said; however, he did as he was told as he laid his furs on the ground and began to take his cloak and boots off.

You ignored the crow as you began to fix your hair for bed. You looked down to where Jon was getting under the furs with his clothes still on, “Are you that cold?” you asked.

“What?” Jon asked but a blush fell on his face as you began to remove your outer layers. “Oh,”

You grinned as you stripped down to a lose long shirt you wore under your other clothes. “I forgot you crows didn’t do the whole sex thing,” you said. Jon avoided looking at you as you sat on your furs, deliberately not going under them. The shirt covered your torso and tops of thighs but apparently your legs were too scandalous for him, “Relax, we’re not having sex. I know you crows don’t have it in you,” you laughed.

“I could!” he protested, his eyes flashing to meet yours then quickly moving away, “But I took a vow saying I wouldn’t take a wife,”

“Who said anything about marriage?” you asked.

Jon rolled his eyes as he began to shed his own outer layers. You kept your eyes on him, smirking as he flushed under your gaze, “Can I help you?” he asked as he took his tunic off.

“You already said no to that,” you grinned, and his flush only depend. “Have you ever had sex?” you asked as you decided to retreat under your furs.

Finally, Jon could look at you without going red, “I made a vow- “

“I meant before that,”

“I was just a boy then,” Jon said who was now in just an under shirt and pants. He climbed under his furs you had gave him as you watched, “Why are you staring at me?”

You laughed at him as he scowled, “Never seen a crow without his clothes on,” you said, “Not half bad,” you laughed as you took the under shirt you had on off, puling the furs up to cover yourself, “Not as good as a wilding though,”

Jon rolled his eyes, but his face was red after he noticed you were now naked in the tent, “Of course you’d say that”

“Want me to prove it?” you offered, sitting up more so the furs slipped down slightly.

Jon blushed more, “No I believe you,” he stammered.

“Do yous not sleep naked?” you asked, deciding to give him some mercy.

Jon laid down, turning to face you on his side still a couple of feet apart. “Some do I suppose. Im always scared someone will walk in,”

“No one will walk into this tent,” you assured him.

Jon snorted, “What? Would Mance kill them?” he asked.

You pulled the dagger out from under your furs, “No, I would,” you grinned, and you saw a look of fear and impress fall on his face. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to get blood on my good furs,”

Jon rolled his eyes before turning to face the other wall. You grinned as you settled down to sleep. However, sleep did not come. Despite the furs you had you felt the chill as a storm seemed to be over the camp. The frigid air beat the side of the tents and whistled in the wind. You had decided to not blow out two candles so you could make sure the crow wasn’t planning to kill you, but it now helped you ask you rolled over to see Jon shivering in his furs.

Admittedly you had gave the boy one of the more scraggily ones and he only had one while you had several. You could tell by the cold he would not be asleep and was merely making. You sighed as you sat up, keeping the furs covering your chest, “You cold?” you asked, already knowing the truth.

“Why do you care?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

You sighed as you moved some of the furs around, “Get under,” you told him and this time Jon opened his eyes, “Toss that one on top and come on,”

“What?” Jon asked as he sat up in his own makeshift bed.

“You’re shivering so much your teeth are gonna break. Get under the furs,” you told him. Jon seemed to debate it, “Your southern honour doesn’t apply here. Get under the furs,” you commanded him.

This time Jon seemed to listen. He got up and quickly fling the fur he had on top of the pile you had on you, and shimming in in between your pile of furs, “I’m not a southerner,” he protested as he joined you in the furs, letting out a sigh as the warmth surrounded his body.

He accidentally nudged into you, and you yelped at his cold skin, “Your like ice!” you squealed.

Jon grinned as he rolled over to face you, “More like snow,” he said. You rolled your eyes, telling him to fuck off under your breath and in response Jon pressed one of his icy hands to your waist.

You squirmed under his touch as he laughed at your yelping. His hands were probably colder than the ice outside but despite this you still wanted his hand on your waist. He pressed the back of the other to your cheek, “You’re playing a dangerous game snow,” you warned him, teeth chattering.

“And whys that?” he asked. Gods was that smirk attractive.

You grabbed the wrist by your face and pushed it back while grabbing the other off your waist, forcing him onto his back with his hands pinned by his head, “I’m quicker,” you smirked. You were now straddling the crow’s waist, your chest exposed and only inches from his. The way his breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened made your grin grow. “Crow got your tongue?” you asked.

“You might be quicker but I’m stronger,” Jon stuttered out.

However, he made no attempt to make you move which only made you laugh, “So you’re choosing to have a naked woman on top of you. How dishonourable of you Jon Snow,” you tutted.

Jon scowled up at you, “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said and this time you laughed loudly causing his face to go red.

Your laughter stopped when the bastard flipped you onto your back, your legs now wrapped around his waist as he held himself above you. Jon now had your own wrists pinned above your head, allowing you to look down to see his body above you. The nightswatch did something right you had to admit when you saw how toned he was from what his undershirt revealed.

Your eyes scanned over him deliberately slowly before meeting his eyes. “I could get used to this crow,” you said before wrapping your legs tighter around your waist, you pulled him closer causing you to rub against his crotch which you could feel hard against you. You saw his face flush as you chuckled, “You might have honour but he,” you said, grinding against the crow again, “does not,”

“Shut up,” Jon grumbled as he avoided your gaze, but he made no attempts to remove your legs.

You removed your legs from around his waist, causing him to finally glance down at you, “If you want me to stop, I’ll stop,” you said and once again he looked away like a scared puppy, “but no one but us has to know what happened in this tent,” you finished.

Jon looked down at you, his eyes filled with desperation and longing, “Can I kiss you?” he finally asked.

This time your smile was gentle as you pulled your hand free of his before pulling his head closer to yours and placing your lips onto him. Despite loving to tease you could tell how nervous the boy was, so you started the kiss slow, unsure if he had ever kissed anyone before this. His lips were far gentler than any wildings and his hair was soft in your grip.

You tugged gently on his curls causing him to moan against your mouth. You took the opportunity to slip your tongue into Jon’s mouth who gladly let you. You felt his tense body relax against your touch as he rested more of his weight on you.

His arms rested beside either side of your head to keep him up. Taking on of his hands, you brought it down your body, placing his hand on your breast. You could sense his nerves and pulled back slightly, laughing gently, “You can touch me, I don’t bite,” you said, pressing another small kiss to his lips before adding, “much,”

Jon didn’t argue with your smarminess this time and instead gently squeezed where you had placed his hand before diving back into your lips, desperate for your touch. Your other hand slipped away and began to roam down his chest then down his body, feeling his abs underneath his shirt and causing him to shiver.

Then you moved your hand down lower, playing with the band of his under clothes. You felt his stomach tense again under your touch. “I have an idea,” you told him before flipping him back onto his back before he could protest. With his hips under yours, you grinded down onto his hard member causing Jon to groan and his eyes to flutter shut, “We’ve barely even started and look at you,” you cooed down at him.

Jon tried to argue but you rolled your hips against his again and another moan fell out his pretty lips. “Do it again,” he begged. You complied once more before stopping, moving your hands to pull of his shirt so you could trace his abs, “Please,” Jon begged again.

“You’re cute when you’re desperate,” you told him before your eyes flickered back to his body. You trailed your hands over his chest, and you felt Jon buck his hips into yours. In response you lifted your hips up away from his, “You need to be patient,” you warned the crow, “Im much nicer to boys who listen,”

“I’m not a boy,” Jon argued, and you smirked at his words.

Brushing the hair out his face, you looked down at him as he glared at you, “Prove it,” you told him before pressing your hips down, grinding into him again causing him to moan louder this time, “Men don’t beg for me to do this,” you said as you continued rolling your hips against him, “They beg for much more,”

“Please,” Jon begged, his hands moving to grab your hips which you decided to allow, enjoying how they dug into your flesh, “I want to feel you,”

“But do you deserve it?” you asked, still rolling your hips against him, trying to ignore the wet spot that was growing against him and wetting his underclothes.

Jon let out a whine when your hips met his again, “I’ll listen I promise. I promise I’ll be good,” the way he shamelessly begged to be touched made you want to tease him more, but you were afraid he wouldn’t last long enough for it to be worth it.

You hummed at his words, your fingers trailing down his body before arriving at the hem of his remaining clothes. You leant down to press a kiss to his throat as you slid the clothes down his legs. Jon quickly shimmed them off. Now you could see his hard cock that was already red and dripping with precum.

Jons hips bucked as you took his member into your hand, running your thumb over the top. “If you don’t keep still ill stop,” you warned, and Jon did his best to comply as you slowly began to pump your hand up and down. He began to whimper under your touch, begging under his breath to feel you. You moved up to hover over his cock again, running its tip over your wet folds, “Beg me,” you said.

Jon cursed under his breath, his eyes rolling back at the sensation of you against him, “please,” he whimpered, “please just-fuck,” Jon gasped as you sunk down onto him, his eyes screwing shut.

You gasped yourself as you took him in, he was bigger than you had expected. Giving yourself a moment to adjust, you rested your hands on his abs to keep yourself up. Once you began to feel more comfortable you began to roll your hips again, feeling him move deeper into you as you did. “Fuck you feel so good,” you praised, hands gripping onto him. Jon was still moaning under neath you, but you saw a bashful smile cross his lips when you complimented him. “You like that?” you asked moving faster, “Like when I tell you how good you are?”

“Mhmm,” Jon agreed as he let out a string of shameless moans.

You moved your hand to grab his, pulling it up to grab your chest, “Are you scared to touch me crow?” you asked as you used your hands to move his.

“I’m not scared,” Jon said, his breath shaky.

This just made you grin, “Not scared him?” you said, “What pretty noises you're making for me… am I making you feel good?" you asked, and you felt Jon twitch inside you.

You began to roll your hips slower but deeper, feeling yourself hit off his pubic bone, “Fuck please don’t stop,” Jon moaned.

“Aw is the crow gonna cum?” you asked, grabbing his jaw before leaning down to kiss it all while your hips still rolled against his. “You’re such a mess right now you know that?”

“I don’t care,” he stuttered, his breath beginning to catch in his throat.

You continued to leave kisses along his jaw line and neck. “It’s hot when you talk back to me,” you said, your lips grazing his ear before giving it a quick bite.

“You said you don’t bite,” Jon moaned.

“But you like it don’t you?” you said, biting his jaw gently causing him to moan. “You’re so pretty like this,” you said, sitting back up to allow yourself to move your hips better. You sped up you’re bouncing, and you felt Jon squeeze your tits tighter and his cock twitching more.

“I’m gonna,” Jon started to saw, his hips rutting up against yours. You sped up slightly, wanting to savour your last few pumps, before quickly pulling off him. Jon whined but your hands instantly replaced your cunt and within two strokes he had came all over his stomach as you rested over his thighs. “Fuck,” Jon panted as he tried to catch his breath.

You laughed as you fell over to lay beside him, also out of breath. “Maybe you’re not so bad after all,” you said as Jon whipped his stomach off with a cloth you passed him.

“Is that so?” Jon asked, throwing the cloth to the side, “What about you?” Jon asked as he rolled over to face you.

“What about me?” you asked.

Jons hand trailed over your thighs, his fingers mere inches away from your wet cunt, “You didn’t, you know,” he said, his cheeks flushing.

“It’s okay I don’t mind,” you told him as you went to push his hand away.

Jon gripped your thigh to stop you, “But I wanted you to,” he pouted.

You raised an eyebrow at the man, “What did you have in mind?” you asked.

Jon trailed his fingers closer to your core which was beginning to feel so empty without him in it, “My watch brothers told me about this thing you do to women to make them,” Jon began to stammer out his words. “You know,”

“You want to make me cum,” you confirmed, and Jon gave you a sheepish nod. You laid back into your furs, settling yourself in. “Show me what how the crows do it,” you told him.

Jon hesitated for a second before he began to shuffle down, his head disappearing under the furs. Your eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, but a moan ripped through your throat as Jon placed a kiss to your cunt. The wildings didn’t do it like this. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew he had to be smirking as he began to lick a stripe up your cunt. He began soft at first before he began to lap up your juices, his tongue massaging your core. You didn’t stop the moans as he continued to kiss and lick you.

Then you felt his fingers tease your hole and you felt a knot tighten in your stomach as they slipped into you. Jons tongue trailed up to focus on placing sloppy kisses to your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you. You moaned his name when you felt his fingers curl inside you. Your skin felt hot as his face was buried in your cunt, his spare hand gripping your thighs.

Your hands were knotted in his curls, keeping his face where you needed him. The knot in your stomach tightened with every curl and pump of his fingers. The pressure continued to build as he kissed your clit before taking it in his mouth and lightly sucking it. the feeling sent you over the edge. You gripped his hair even tighter as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue which never stopped till you let go of his hair as you began to come down from your peak.

“Why so quiet now?” Jon teased as he came out from under the furs, his face soaked with your juices.

You were almost gasping for breath as you pulled the furs to cover you, “Is that how the lords please their lady’s?” you asked him.

Jon grinned at you, placing a kiss to your cheek, “I’m not sure,” he confessed, “I just wanted to kiss you there,”

#jon snow #jon snow imagine #jon snow smut #jon snow x y/n #jon snow x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones smut #got #got imagine #got smut #request

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sevs-corner · 16 days ago

Text

Yapping about the TF 141 reincarnation-soulmate au

‘Cause I wanna put out something (my brains worms are too itchy they need to be let out) but care not for formats so here we are

I was working thru a one-shot but mentally died at how i kept thinking of how the next line would go and i didnt want that pressure when im alrd being crushed by acads lol

OG Idea here! Masterlist here!

Chaotic reading ahead

Price feels guilty for proposing the idea to the guys that there maybe a 5th person involved

He’s seeing their relationship crumble before his very eyes as each recon and intelligence gathering mission comes out empty and a bust

They’re all down in dumps

Until one day, the new recruits come in and they feel a tingle inside of them

Sensing this familiar feeling, they all looked at each other and dressed up as fast as they could

Running thru the base and the courtyards were all of the new recruits were situated

Seeing these high ranking men come out, the newbies immediately stood at attention and saluted

Collecting themselves (they had to at least try to keep an image of decency) they nodded and commanded them to be at ease

Once they did, they split up and went to follow the wringling feeling thats feathering up in their soul

They can feel its pulsation growing louder

Their hair standing on ends

And then you lock eyes with them.

Immediately, their eyes shine.

But they were so happy that they had ignored your’s hadn’t.

That zing? Never happened.

But why would they care? They only cared about touching you the moment they saw you.

Thats what exactly Soap did— gathering you in his arms and he could just feel at how his soul be put back together, healed and whole.

The others did the same in a group hug, crying and sighing in relief.

The emotions were high and all the memories were overloading their brains.

So they missed it.

Missed at how you screamed bloody murder for them to let you go.

Missed at how you were begging to be stopped being thrown around.

Missed at how you tears were in fear— not happiness.

You didn’t know what was happening— why these high ranking officers were suddenly muffling you in their arms, touching you in all sorts of ways that just made it so inappropriate, uncomfortable, and just inconsiderate of how you felt.

You didn’t like being snuck up on or people touching you.

It was just too much.

So much so that the other people in your previous squad ran to get a superior, because there was no way in hell they were getting four burly men off you.

Only when Soap had finally calmed down did he notice and felt how you were in distress and disarray that he roared for his other partners to let go.

This snaps the three of them out of and they stare down at you— red eyes, tears stricken cheeks, hands shaking

Oh they fucked up.

But why?

They couldn’t ask why until they were shoved aside by a medic who was trying to calm you down and take your vitals— your mates somewhat besides you as they try to relax you as well

The tf 141 men hear a booming voice behind them and they knew they were in deeeeeeep trouble with Laswell

The men were happy but guilty— what happened? Was meeting all four of them at the same time overwhelming for your psyche? Did soul memories overload you?

Did those memories traumatize you?

What were you doing before you all meet again?

Even with all their memories intact, the last memory they could search for you in their subconsciousness was one of their firsts lives with you

And they feel so fucking bad that its been eons since they’ve last seen you.

It goes so far back- way too back that there’s not enough time in this timeline to make it up to you, and they’ve already fucked it all up.

Seeing your adverse reaction to them being in the same room made their hearts sink, throats tight despite the their souls singing at the sight of you.

You were so scared of them.

Seated so far away from them as your eyes screamed for them to stay away, but they couldn’t— not when you’re like this…

But Laswell snaps them out of it, explaining the point that it was because of them that you were acting like this, reacting like this.

So, they stayed still, obeyed and did what they were told— only so they could have a chance to hold you, pamper you, treat you so well that you’ll always remember to go back to them.

Though, their feel their souls burn at the thought of you already being taken and being violated through their force of forcing a soul connection with you earlier.

How were you already taken?

You shrugged, saying that your current partner was there for you, even if you didn’t have a zing.

You…didn’t have… a zing?

But, didn’t you feel them earlier— when your eyes connected to their’s?

No, you didn’t.

You just heard their stomping and looked up to see it, only for those same boots to go running straight at you like a stampede.

You didn’t know why didn’t you feel anything.

And they don’t know what’s worse.

To have not met you and kept chasing forever.

Or to be healed up again, only to be broken once more by the very person who fixed it.

Unknowingly.

#no beta we die like soap #crackfic #cod mw2 #cod x reader #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #price x reader #soap x reader #tf 141 poly #ghost x reader #gaz x reader #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #sevs yaps

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cafecourage · 10 months ago

Note

Little Red Riding Hood where Reader is Little Red but also a werewolf

Love Interest and rest of chain can be assigned however

(Cause I'm always down for a fairytale au)

I did a little twist on this. Idk if this was what you wanted. I had to ask doggo experts for how doggos act around each other. I am leaving this off on a small cliff hanger because I do want to write more of this.

Twilight didn’t trust the new person in the group. Well. It’s more like he didn’t know what to think of her. She came in like a hurricane running after the Shadow like it was her prey. Then when the dust settled and she calmed down the group quickly learned of why. The short of it being that for some reason the Shadow attacked her brother and she took chase. Which then led to her to finally agree to join the chain. Much to the Ranchers chagrin. However, he knows better than to start an unnecessary fight. Twilight could be civil.

Civility could only go so far.

Little Red, as Warrior’s likes to call her, noticed Twilight’s presence and slight unease of her and ran with it. Twilight couldn’t understand just why she was always running circles around him talking about this and that. It confused him to no end when she instantly would stick to him even when he was wolfie. He had to on more then one occasion threaten to bite Little Red’s hands. She never cared or backed away from Wolfie when he showed a bit of aggression. “He is going to bite you.” Wild warned her as he watched Little Red try to play with Wolfie.

She looked up at Wild while holding Wolfie’s face, “what? No the baby is just playing.” That comment only made Twilight growl more.

“Baby? Wolfie isn’t a baby.” Wild was torn between being completely amuse and helping Twilight out as he did know about his slight distrust of Little Red.

“No no no, Champion. This is a wolf pup. He has to be like…” Her attention draws to the wolf as she observes the good boy. “Man… I have to say maybe 10? He is very small even for that age. Wolfie is like an adult dog size but he is definitely a wolf.” She boops the snoot and quickly pulled back as Twilight tries to bite her hand again. This only makes her giggle more.

“I think your wolves might be just bigger than my Hyrules.” Honestly to Wild, Wolfie was the same size as most wolves, but he just shrugs and not questions that further. Twilight couldn’t understand why you were like this, he wonders if it was just an eccentric thing. He has met a lot of weird people in his life and Little Red might be one of them. After being free from your grasp he takes it upon himself to run away for now. Only because you don’t tend to grab his face while being Twilight and thats the most annoying part of being wolfie around you.

It wasn’t until they finally came to her era that he finally understood.

The village Little Red lived in was small, but cozy. It reminded Twilight of his own home. People tended to light up when seeing Little Red. But given the size of the group following them most villagers tended to just say hi and remarks that they needed to talk to her later. “My house is a bit further.” Little red said pointing to a path that ran into the woods. “It’s just me, my brother and Grandma oh and our cat. I’ll make sure to keep her out of your stuff. But we should have room to fit everyone.” She explains as the path slowly clears up to a cottage in the wood with a small garden. There was a small pup running around in the yard playing with said cat. Who was purely annoyed at ready to pap the puppy in the head.

Little Red’s eyes brightened “Link!” She calls out gaining the Pups reaction.

She dashes towards the house as the puppy starts running towards her. They meet halfway and the puppy shifts into a young boy. “You’re back! You’re back!” This Link giggles as he gets lifted in the air by his sister and spun around.

“I am! For now.” Little red nuzzles her brother’s face as she shifts her grips on her brother to put his weight on her hip. “Boy’s this is my brother. Link these are the adventurers I’ve been traveling with.”

She turns to the group with a smile. The chain was utterly confused and silent before Wind speaks up “Did he transform into a wolf?”

#twilight (not lu) speaks #linked universe x reader #luxreader #linkeduniverse x reader #monkey bread #I had to make this Twilight centric

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chaifootsteps · 3 months ago

Note

With Moxxies origin, wouldn’t it have made more sense if Moxxie just lied about his home ring? This would explain why he didn’t fit in with the wrath imps in harvest moon and wasn’t used to the culture. It would also have more impact to find out he lied to Millie of all people, because it makes you wonder, “why would he do that? He trusts Millie.” And while Millie is upset and questions it, Blitzø understands. A turn around of the usual dynamic.

Moxxie: Oh no, no, I hate this place. I grew up right over there.

Blitzø: I thought wrath was your old stomping grounds Mox?

Moxxie: Shit, busted. Okay. I haven’t been honest. This may be hard to believe, but I didn’t grow up on a ranch in the wrath fields.

Blitzø: Thats actually not hard to believe. I get it. I’m a greed imp too. Not the prettiest place.

Moxxie: I didn’t know that.

(After meeting Crimson)

Millie: Mox, why did you lie to me about where you’re from, and how come I haven’t met your Pa before?

Moxxie: I just don’t like to talk about this part of my life. I’m ashamed of the things that happened here. I’ll explain everything later Millie.

(Maybe you could add Blitzø telling Millie that some people aren’t proud of their families or where they grew up. This is something Millie struggles to understand, since she’s so proud of her own.)

I feel like there are ways to make new ideas fit with your story, and if they have an obvious inconsistency at first, you can adapt that into characters voicing the same confusion and questions the audience may have. Then just provide an in-universe answer. Book no more explanatory Twitter threads needed for your show.

Don’t just throw shit at the wall and hope it sticks. Or less graphically, don’t paint a wall green then later touch up the paint with blue and call it the same colour. Paint it turquoise.

It makes sense that Moxxie would lie about his home ring since he changed his own name just to hide from it. And that twist even makes the story and conflict better. At the dinner table Millie might even bring this lie up, having Crimson use it to try and drive a wedge between them. Because what else is he lying about? Same with Blitzø going to wrath after leaving Verosika, but in the next episode say to stolas that hes never been there. Both cant be true.

This episode just missed so many marks. On paper, Crimson and Chaz are a good dynamic duo of villains, one serious and dangerous, the other the less scary comic relief. You could have kept Crimsons scene very dark and serious, then after it ends and he goes upstairs to bed, Chaz does the dumb dick jokes. You keep Crimson as a threat, and keep the silliness you wanted, just keep that part focussed on Chaz. That’s what a comic relief is.

I just feel like the show needs consideration of its audience. There are ways to resolve plot holes by adapting the story slightly, even use them to create new reveals and new conflict.

There are absolutely ways to resolve plot holes by adapting the story slightly and ways to paint a green wall turquoise and all of this other extremely good and actionable writing advice. Unfortunately, Viv's solution to writing dilemmas is a mixture of "Do whatever and let the fandom harass anyone who points it out" and "add more rape."

#Anonymous #helluva boss critical #vivziepop critical #viv stuff #actual blog post

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

Text

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum.

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you.

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while.

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.”

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same.

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more.

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along.

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?!

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat.

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch.

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered.

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily.

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully.

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic.

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again.

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him.

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something.

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing.

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code.

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement.

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite.

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language.

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now.

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t.

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc angst #f1 x reader

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twstfanblog · 5 months ago

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Is it mean of me to want Yu in the Manhwa AU to end up with someone outside of the trio? (if she ends up with anyone at all) like good living is the best kind of revenge in this situation where the people who wronged you won't ever know what they did wrong. Idk but if I were to be betrayed like that, I don't think I could stand to look at their faces, much less get along with them. Maybe she picks one of her new friends or maybe she inherits Crowley's title and land and becomes an inspiration to young ladies everywhere as a successful and independent badass.

The world is her oyster now that she's not chained down by those cinderblocks.

Not mean at all! There's one Manhwa called Kill the Villainess that does that and I LOVE IT.

This is mainly to clear something up. But Yuu doesn't want revenge in this new timeline, she just wants a happier life than what she had before

And she's been having it! She's got more friends than ever, even though she's made herself a shut in Yuu is content.

When she re-enters society thats when the boys start to slowly try to creep in. Yuu still keeps them at an arms length and thats because she thinks they still hate her. She got closer to Azul again because Azul lied about who he was. And in those few weeks they spend talking again, Yuu's crush on Azul reawakens though she thinks these are new feelings for a new person.

Of course, the lie comes to light because Azul got too comfortable and slipped up while they were having a private meeting. Yuu realizes who Azul is and tries to leave immediately. Azul honestly has a breakdown. The man falls to his KNEES, gripping onto Yuu's dress, just TEARS. Begging her to not leave, he's changed, he's better, he's sorry, he's so sorry, she deserved better than what he was and he is now! Please don't leave him, please-

Yuu, conflicted beyond belief because in her mind, THIS is her first time seeing Azul in A DECADE, and he's begging her to stay with him. In the end, Yuu manages to kneel down and help Azul through his sobfest. Once he's all cried out and thinking clearly again, the embarrassment hits and he tries to shy away a bit. Yuu manages a little laugh and pokes him in his cheeks, teasing him a bit like when they were kids. It's soft and it makes them both relax a bit more.

Azul apologizes for his breakdown, saying he'd...understand if Yuu never wanted to see him again...

Yuu...hesitates because...does she never want to see Azul again? She stopped talking to them because she thought thats what THEY WANTED, that they wanted her to leave them alone. She's leagues happier than she was in her first life, but she still MISSED THEM.

Yuu realizes that's dangerous, that she never questioned WHY they hated her, if they really did hate her, because it doesn't seem to be the case now. Is it possible that in this new life, they never hated her in the first place? And she just abandoned three of her closest friends without warning?

Yuu tells Azul she'll send him a letter, but to not contact her first. And that's way more than Azul ever thought he was gonna get, so he agrees. They leave on... neutral terms.

Yuu doesn't want revenge because she honestly stopped talking to the boys because even after her death, she still CARES ABOUT THEM. And if her not being in their lives was going to make them happier, then so be it.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #yuu oc #malleus x jamil x azul x yuu #manhwa au

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ugly-pickle · 1 year ago

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wait!- ☆ scara

CHARACTERS: idol!scara x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: scara had always promised you that he will always love you and will always have time for you, but he never confirmed that hes a man of his word…

GENRE: angst 🦢 (comfort from another at the end)

W/C: 1.3k

C/W: cheating, moaning, hinting of intoxication, kissing, toxicity, and cussing (if theres anything that i missed let me know!)

A/N: a lot of people liked my previous post so it motivated me to make another! im still new at this so please keep that in mind if a few bits are off (IT’S REALLY REALLY REALLY CRINGY). most grammatical errors are also intentional!

your boyfriend, scara, has a performance today and youre really excited. you received flowers, theyre beautiful. maybe this is an apology for the lack of affection and being more grumpy towards you lately, i mean to be an idol certainly is tiring, isnt it? so it makes perfect sense why he’s acting like this… right?

as always, he gave you tickets to his concert. you couldnt get the chance to say goodbye to him because he left so early in the morning, so youll make it up to him when you meet him backstage.

you got dressed and headed out the door, youre excited to see your beloved scara preform, because he looked happy while doing his job, you were excited to see his smile because… well, he doesnt smile at you anymore… but you quickly brush it off, i mean, being an idol is very stressful.

youve arrived, you tried to enter backstage but some bodyguard stopped you, “hey! what do you think youre doing missy?” you sigh, he must be new, “scara is my lover, i just want to see him,” you try to explain but the bodyguard cuts you off and says “thats what they all say,” he rolls his eyes. “no! really, i am!” you show the bodyguard a picture of you and scara together kissing, “oh” the bodyguard grunts, “so youll let me in?” you look up at him, he looks a bit uncomfortable, “well uhm… ive been given specific orders to not let you in… im sorry,”

“w-what?...”

you heard him loud and clear, the world around you begins to spin, but you quickly ground yourself by comforting yourself with false hopes. maybe hes just planning a surprise for you back there, i mean, it might explain why you got flowers, yea! that must be the reason… you hope.

you found your spot, perfect timing too! the concert begins, you see scara. you melt when you see a smile on his lips, he looks so happy. the crowd screams, theyre chanting 5wirl (the name of their group). venti, xiao, kazuha, heizou, and scara is greeting the audience with warms smiles and kind words.

after a while, the performance ends, it was quite long actually, but it felt so short, time does fly when youre having fun. you head to the backstage doors, hoping that the bodyguard lets you in this time. as you make your way to the backstage doors you see scara’s back in your peripheral vision. hes in a secluded place, he looks like hes trying to be hidden from the crowd, makes sense. you decide to scare him, as you get closer you can see a beautiful lady’s lips pressed against scara’s. you hear the sounds of kissing and soft moaning coming from them.

your heart shatters into a million pieces, it broke so bad that you swore you heard it make a shattering sound. tears fall down your face, youre so stunned that you cant even form words, instead, a pathetic whimpering sound escapes your lips. scara turns around to see where the strange sound is coming from.

his eyes widen a bit, but he immediately regains his composure. “stop crying like a baby and get over it, youre just a nuisance in my life,” now scara was just stomping all over your already broken heart. these simple actions somehow drained all of your energy, just standing was exhausting, not wanting to waste time or energy you give him an “ok,” and you turn around and leave.

you arrive at your shared apartment and decide to eat and rest for a little, so when he comes back you can properly confront him. but, he comes back the next day, hes wasted and the smell of sex is clinging onto him. he walks past you and immediately collapses on the couch and knocks out cold.

when he finally wakes up, youre making dinner. he remembers the encounter from last night. his eyes wander, wanting to look at anything but you. something in the trashcan catches his eye, the flowers. theyre pretty but it didnt come from him.

youve finished cooking, you see scara sitting at the table. you sit down, and placed your meal in front of you and you start to eat. “…what about mine?” scara asks you with a quiet voice. “oh wow, youre initiating a conversation with the nuisance. well, if you must know, that having to take care of you is quite tiring and ive realized that youre quite troublesome and it would be better if you werent in my life. so, kunikuzushi, im breaking up with you.”

hes taken aback when you use his birth name, “h-hey y/n, i didnt mean what i said yesterday… i regret it, it was just the heat of the moment,” he says, his voice trembling a bit. you sigh, “that still doesnt change the fact that you cheated on me, pack your bags and leave, this is my apartment after all,”

his trembling demeanour quickly turned aggressive, “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH LOVE AND TIME IVE SPENT ON YOU?” you scoff, “WHAT LOVE? WHAT TIME? SURE, YOUVE PROMISED ME THESE THINGS BUT HAVE YOU EVER FULFILLED IT? EVER SINCE YOU BECAME AN IDOL, EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU CHANGED,”

the two of you are now yelling. “WELL, BEING AN IDOL IS TIRING, AND BEING BOUND TO ONLY YOU IS TIRING. ANEMO RESEMBLES FREEDOM, I CANT JUST BE BOUND TO YOU. A-AND SHE LOVES ME FOR WHO I AM” youre hurt, you stop yelling, “she loves you for who you are today, but will she when you have nothing?” “NO ONE LOVED ME WHEN I HAD NOTHING, WHEN I WAS NOTHING-“ “I FUCKING DID”

your voice begins to break, “i loved you when you had nothing, i was the one who helped you get back on your feet,” you sigh, hot tears now spilling down your face, “im gonna take a walk, and when i come back your things better be packed.” you leave the apartment, “you didnt even get to enjoy your meal,” he mumbles to himself. he begins to pack his things.

youre walking towards the park, youre tears making your cheeks glisten in the sunlight. you spot kazuha admiring the scenery, hes sitting down on a bench with a pen and notebook in hand, you assume he was making song lyrics or a haiku. you walk up to kazuha and wipe away your tears, “u-uhm hey kazu,” you sit down beside him. “oh hey y/n! nice seeing you here!” his voice is warm and comforting.

“im surprised that you arent swarmed by paparazzi yet,” you giggle, “me too, the quiet is very relaxing. my day has become better now that youre here. wheres scara?” you can feel your eyes watering up “we broke up… he cheated on me,” kazuha hugs you, patting your back, tears are now falling down your face. “you dont deserve that, you really dont, youre one of the most amazing people that i know.”

tip tap tip tap tip tap

you hear the sound of footsteps running, it’s probably someone jogging. kazuha tucks your hair behind your ear while looking you in the eyes.

“WAIT!-“

kazuha presses a gentle kiss on your forehead. you turn your head to see who had just called out, it was scara, he was standing there in shock, tears slipping down his face. “YOU BITCH KAZUHA,” scara yells at him. the bouquet of flowers you threw out earlier was now in his hands. “YOU LIKE Y/N, DONT YOU? YOU HAVE HER THESE FLOWERS, RIGHT?” scara scoffs, “and what if i do? theres no harm in having a crush, unlike cheating on your lover. and, i did give those flowers to her, so what?”

scara turns to you “b-baby you still love me right? a-and not this bastard, right?” his voice seems desperate, “kunikuzushi i-”

A/N: UHMM I LITERALLY HAD NO IDEA HOW TO END THIS- I AT LEAST TRIED LOL ┐༼ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°༽┌

(ngl i wanna make a part 2 because the ending was so messy ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º· )

TAGLIST @justaxiaosimp @mommykukki @xdrin @midnight-pluto @boomie-123 @scaramochies @dnsuhwr874y @hopefulceladon @yukinenikora @akusiapaakudimana @mai-yay @uhfhfhfhf

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin angst #scara angst #genshin wanderer #wanderder #wanderer x reader #wanderer angst #wanderer #genshin scara #scaramouche #scaramouche angst #angst #idol scara #anemo

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flowerfreya · 6 months ago

Text

Top chef Reality TV

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Concepts about this

Top chefesque reality tv show

Simon Riley is the videography for a top chef type show ,he’s been videography for reality tv for the past ten years the pay is not the best but he likes that with this type of work he is able to take off 4 straight months if he wanted to

He never gets attached to any of the contestants , he doesn't even watch the show when its done with production

You get casted after being in the final interviews for 2 years straight and you have been watching this show since you were a teenager with your grandma , she passed and thats when you decided to apply.

You've been working in New York as a sous chef for 4 years and you don't have that much experience but you know that you can cook and you have been watching the show for so long that you know what you need to do to win.

The first day on set you are so nervous but there is no camera crew in the room just the host which makes it easier to focus.

“Today we want you to make something with eggs”

You knew this challenge was going to happen. You mean it is one of the most basic ingredients that can make almost anything. You decide to make a frittata, which is basically an opened quiche. It is a little risky and a lot of people that attempt to make the frittata usually fail. But you know you got this. You are sweating by the end of this , hair sticking to the back of your neck and your breath is coming out in short breaths. The dish does not look the best but it is done and it's not raw.

You finish in the middle of the pack which is fine with you. You are just happy to be done.

You meet Simon when you are filming the candid's, they wanted me to narrate why you decided to make the dish and how stressed you are. You took a liking to Simon almost immediately and you couldn’t even see his face , he was wearing a face mask and had a camera covering a lot of his face. But he was exactly your type , dark , mysterious , and very much not interested in you. You don’t know why you always get a crush on guys that would literally not care about you at all but somehow you do.

You hate doing these clips , you are not good at them because you know your thought process but making them into words that people that don’t cook would understand is hard for you. You are so awkward and the producer very much feeds you what to say.

"So I decided to make a frittata" you say to the camera

"Why did you decide to make a frittata?", the producer ask , moving his finger signaling to keep going with your thoughts.

"Because I didn't want to make a quiche" you deadpan back.

And you notice that Simon smiles. And you become delusion.

You start to do things that a girl with a high school crush would do, put a little more makeup on when you have to film, start wearing more black… you almost do it subconsciously because you want him to want you for you but if you have to trick him then maybe that won’t be so bad.

#simon x reader #task force 141 #TV production AU #freyawrites #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you

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oreoov · 1 year ago

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HIHII POOKIE!! IM INLOVE W YOUR WRITING SO I RLLY WANNA REQ!

Imagine like you were shipping bestfriend!kazuha/xiao (pick whichever!) with someone else, but he likes you and gets abit frustrated when he keeps giving you hints but their so subtle you don't notice em?

FEEL FREE TO PICK HOW YOU WANNA END IT, MWAH!!

☆ ─ 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄? 𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 .. .ᐟ

bestfriend!xiao x gn!reader / angst (?) & fluff / modern au <3

note ; bye i screamed when i saw this BUT OFFCCCC, i was gonna do kazuha because likes hes just so hdidjdisidi but i haven't done xiao in a while so YEAHHH, BTW ILYY TYSM FOR REQUESTING <33

synopsis ; xiao kept giving you subtle hints that he likes you ... but you never seemed to noticed them, and even started shipping him with someone else ..?

the bell finally rang after what felt like hours on end ... you and xiao were making your way to the cafeteria together, right before some girl bumped into xiao as she was in a hurry.

the sudden crash had caused her to drop all her books, and like what any person would do, xiao helped pick them up and returned it to who it belonged to. he even gave her a subtle smile as she thanked him before leaving.

"oooohh!! was that a smile i saw? hmm?" you teased him as you both resumed your walk to the cafeteria.

xiao gave you a confused look as he didn't understand why it was a big deal to you. "you're the one who told me to smile more ..?"

"okay well─ umm─ thats different!! you dont usually smile at people ... or .. YOU LIKE HER? is that it?!" you were literally onto nothing ...

from a confused look, he turned into a 'wtf?' look ... "what? i smile a lot more with you anyways ..." xiao mumbled the last part as he thought it was quite embarassing to say, he just hoped you would catch on already.

but you completely ignored what he said and started feeding your delusions to him again!

"its okay to admit that you were kinda into her xiao, you guys made eye contact for like 0.2 seconds ... like, dude she literally wants you so bad .."

"???"

"it's okay xiao we know you're new to all this."

"no i dont like her─"

"shhh ... i dont wanna hear it!"

but he likes you, not some random girl he crashed into, and might've thought that you would already notice .. maybe he needs to make it more obvious?

the next day as you were both passing the lockers in the hallway, you couldn't help but notice the girl that crashed into xiao yesterday.

"omg, thats the girl from yesterday!! you should totally talk to her right now, this is literally your chance!" you said as you nudge xiaos elbow.

but he didn't want to. he wasn't interested at her at all, especially when there's someone way better right beside him after all.

"how many times do i have to tell you? im not interested in her whatsoever." xiao groaned as you kept insisting to.

"but why notttt? you guys would look cute together .. plus shes super pretty too ..."

"no, even you look better than that?" xiao looked at you, just for him to turn away again as his gaze meets yours. you're the prettiest one in his eyes and no one else! was it that hard for you to understand?

xiao was laced with frustration as you kept babbling nonsense about xiao and that oh, so, pretty girl and how cute they would be together.

you probably didn't even seem to notice that he basically just called you pretty ...

he was on the verge of confessing to you right then and there. but at the same time, he couldn't. what if you didn't feel the same way? what if you were just purposely ignoring the hints he gave you as a sign of rejection? he would never know.

meanwhile, you noticed that xiao has gone quite. has he grown upset? "heyy .. alright im sorry! i didn't know you'd get that upset ... ill stop now i promise!" you mumbled with a pile full of guilt.

"if i were really to be with her, how would you feel?" xiao unexpectedly blurted out, he was even surprised at his own words. but still, he wanted to know.

"uhh .. wha- what do you mean?" you were bewildered by the sudden question. it was unsual for xiao to ask such things, especially with his cold demeanor.

"if i were to be with her, wouldn't that mean most of my time with you would be taken away?"

the thought of that had never came across your head. it actually doesn't feel right anymore. in simple words, the thought of another girl taking xiao away from you? hell no ...

there was an awkward silence between the two of you before you finally spoke up. "i dont know ..."

xiao sighed as he set his eyes on you. "good, cause i don't know what I'll do if you were with someone else either." xiao mumbled out quitely, barely even audible.

but you heard it. you heard all of it, is he trying to say that he ...

"huh?"

xiao huffed as he still needed to explain it to your slow brain. "archons, how oblivious are you? i like you. was that not clear from the start?"

you didn't know why, but you felt like you had to chuckled a bit at his frustration. "okayy, okay im sorry!! okay but i swear i noticed a bit but i wasn't sure alright??"

"and yet you were so sure that i liked that other girl when i don't even know her name .."

"IM SORRY!!! but i guess i like you too by the way ... hehe .."

even that was enough to leave xiao completely flustered.

extra notes : HELP THE ENDING WAS KINDA SCUFFED IM SO BAD AT WRITING CONFESSION STUFF SORRY LMAOO also this was not meant to be that sad 😭

─ masterlist.

#xiao x gn reader #genshin impact #genshin fluff #genshin x you #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #xiao angst #xiao #xiao x reader #adeptus xiao #xiao fluff #xiao imagines #xiao headcanons #xiao x you

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blacklegsanjiii · 7 months ago

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First of all im so sorry for the long askbut!! New parent idea 💥💥 i present to you: King

Now hear me out, you might be thinking ‘really??? King from wano the bird guy?? Why tf’ but my good sir there are multiple reasons

1. Fire! King is from a race called lurarians (he’s infact the last of his people because theyre world wide known as beautiful because of their white hair, dark skin and beautiful black wings) lurarians are also known to be able to set themselves on fire! So that fits prettyyy well with sanji

So if we take pt 1 with us and expand it...

2. Test subject ✨ we all know Sanji is judge 3rd expiriment and also that vegapunk has made the seraphims of the warlords combined with kings lurarian DNA to make very strong clones. Judge and vegapunk were also in a science group together so they might have some shared notes and materials...

So that brings me to the parent King au...

What if vegapunk and judge kept in touch and decided to keep King in germas dungeon for the foreseeable future because its very well guarded etc etc so he is essentially both vegapunk and judges labrat

And when judge is busy with Sora and Reiju he notices that while reiju hasnt failed his expectations for power, he can always do better so with the quadruplets he also decides to mix kings lurarian DNA in for even stronger child soldiers (so 1234ji have 3 bio parents lmao)

Maybe this alters their appearance also a bit? (Mini baby wings 🥺 that they hide becausd its a weakness maybe 124ji got them amputated later in life while sanji ofcourse kept his hidden)

But anyway canon continues and sanji gets thrown into the dungeon with his mask... Here he meets a huge winged man. First days maybe weeks they dont really talk but sanji is a child and starts talking to king because he's lonely

They startbonding and in the next almost year that sanji is stuck there they really learn to love each other and sanji shows king his baby wings and king just decides 'yup thats my kid' teaches him to groom and how to fold/hide them without being in to much pain

But then vegapunk and judge fight and split up, king was originally vegapunks labrat so he is also taken from sanji.

Canon continues with them both respectively escaping,king tried to find sanji but couldnt bc germa is very stealthy and nobody knows where they are so he joins kaido etc etc

And then they meet again in wano.

Thoughts :0?

I had to double check King's age to make sure this is plausible and yeah, he's 47. He can fully adopt Sanji. I support this fully, fire boys unite! Also imagine Heterochromia!Sanji, one blue eye and one red.

King who is Vegapunks labrat being experimented on for a good while before Reiju and the quads come along, hell, even before Sora coming along. Captured as a teenager and being held captive and tortured for years. Eventually he's locked in the dungeon and left there to rot even after Vegapunk leaves to focus on other things but leaves him in Germa. No one really interacts with the Lunarian except to bring him food and water to keep him alive in case they do decide they want to do something with him again. What it could be he doesn't know what more they could do.

Judge however has gotten married and had a daughter already but notices her flaws and while she's not a full failure, he could do better. So he infuses the Lunarians DNA with those of his coming sons, despite his wife taking that poison she won't be able to do much to get rid of that at least. He can deal with the other failures she causes later but right now he's unworried. Even when the children come, the third one is wrong, he's blond instead of darkhaired, he's easily bruised. Unfortunate really. He had high hopes for that one particularly, for the stealth instead of brute force the others were for.

He sees the wings and knows he still at least has the Lunarian DNA, he might still have some use. Maybe.

He's not and it's clear by the time Sanji is six. Weak and crying and frail compared to his siblings. He has a full range of emotions which even Reiju doesn't have. Disgusted Judge throws him in the dungeon, a metal cover his head and unconcerned if he dies down there, Sanji screaming and crying for him to come back. Apologizing to his father over and over again as if it will change anything. It doesn't. He's trapped alone in the cell but there's someone down here with him. There's a man, tall with white hair and black wings like he has, only a few years older than his mother. He's telling Sanji to quiet down, no one will come get him. Sanji can't stop crying so he apologizes and sits in the back of his cell. King gives his real name to the kid, introduces himself as Alber to the boy, he is a boy after all, small and frail and so utterly broken and too young to be there. He knows what it's like to be a failure after all. It takes all of a day for King to see the small black wings the kid has. His wings are in awful condition: Bald spots, cuts, bruises, broken feathers. King remembers what that was like, the uncomfortable feeling and itching, those wings are from Lunarians though, so this kid has his DNA or there's another Lunarian here possibly. Both are bad options, no one should be forced to live as he has. No one.

They're together for a year and some change and in that time 124ji find out about Sanji and King almost burns the little princes for what they're doing. They have wings as well, atrophied and unworked like his are. He can only stretch his so far in this cramped cell. He hears the crunch of bones in the younger's cell. He throws fire at them once and is doused in water unforgivingly. They're incredibly close, King hasn't told the boy this where his wings come from and Sanji asks if he's where his red eye comes from and King says probably, albeit he's confused about that, he's only seen the blue one.

He teaches Sanji how to preen and hide his wings more comfortably and for protection. King tells him they will be his pride and joy and he will be able to fly with them. Sanji says he hopes so. They've been together for a year and some change when they take King away from Sanji. They tranquilize him and the last thing King hears is Sanji screaming and begging for them not to take him. He wakes up to Vegapunk telling him it's time to continue their work. King stays for a year, working on getting his wings back to functioning, preening and carrying for them. Then he escapes. It's a mess getting out but he needs to get out. Needs to find Sanji, his son. He will find his son.

So he breaks out and goes hunting for Germa but hears the kids saying Sanji better be dead since he's out of the dungeon, which means he escaped. As relieved as that makes him it means he has more searching to do. He looks and looks for years and years. He doesn't find him though and ends up in Wano under Kaido, working his way up to becoming an All Star. He hides who he is and decides he'll wait, maybe Sanji will pass by.

Sanji on the other hand is going through canon mostly normally, I think having King there would partially impact how he views woman but also for as much flirting as he does he doesn't actually sleep with anyone. Zeff found out he has wings while on the rock because he's crying about how fucked they are. Zeff is staring at the black wings attached to this kid and helps him hide them when they're saved, threatens the doctor to keep quiet.

Zeff helps Sanji rehab them before Baratie opens and after it does he lets the boy fly to his heart's content. Patty and Carne will save him if he falls in the water, he can still swim but his wings are not made for water. Is he still amazing at it? 100% but like, he's not a duck or a penguin. He's part Lunarian. He wears coats like the vice admirals and admirals do. Off his shoulders to hide his wings, to keep them safe as he goes about his day. He doesn't really over heat thanks to his Lunarian traits but when he gets cold, it's so fucking cold to him.

When he joins the crew everyone thinks he's kind of prissy with the full suit+extra jacket thing he has but...he's illegal. He's an illegal race and if he gets found out he's fucked. Drum island is when Luffy and Nami find out. Sanji is begging for Kureha and Chopper to not tell anyone which they assure they won't. Kureha does tell him he's lucky he only broke his back and not his wings. Chopper says they're in desperate need of preening and Sanji admits he hasn't done it since he left the Baratie because he didn't want to get caught. He mumbles it all of course but Nami and Luffy are looking at the black monstrous wings as they unfurl and Chopper is amazed at them. They're huge. He has to have a ten/fifteen foot wingspan(if not more but anime logic) and Luffy asks how you preen wings and Chopper shows him despite Sanji insisting he can do it himself. It's too late and Chopper and Luffy are preening a wing and it feels good. Zeff didn't even preen him, not unless Sanji asked and Sanji was too proud to ask normally. Even Nami touches them and is surprised how soft they are.

They leave with Chopper and make it off Drum island and to Alabasta and meet Ace. Sanji is fine in the heat, he's in so many layers though it concerns everyone but he waves them off. He's sworn Nami and Chopper to secrecy but not Luffy because he bought his silence with meat. Sanji is so lucky he didn't inherit more traits from Alber because that cigar marine is tailing them and here and if it wasn't for these covers over his wings h would put to death immediately. Even as they take Alabasta back he doesn't uncover his wings. Not until they leave again and Nami is getting upset with him saying they need preened and that she'll do it while he's on watch. Nico Robin has joined the crew and he doesn't trust her that much and he'd rather not trouble Nami at all but she basically throws him to his knees and starts preening. If Sanji moves to help she threatens to raise his debt which he doesn't understand.

Robin probably knows but no one has else finds out until post TS. He can sill sky walk, he still learned it and to keep his secret. But no one else knows, not until WCI/Wano. Sanji notices his brothers wings are gone and Sanji is the only one left with them. The black wings he cannot cover with his red cape so at least one is always showing as well as his red eye. It has wigged some of his crew out until he showed both eyes at the same time and Robin called him interesting in the way she does some poneglyphs or rituals she reads about.

It made his stomach turn. Just as it is now as he's being called interesting again and Pudding is saying their kids have wings like he does. Big Mom says she thought Lunarians are extinct and Judge says they are. The quadruplets are only infused with the DNA, not actually Lunarian. Sanji wants to vomit.

He'd claim to be an illegal race than to be a Vinsmoke. So during the escape he claims it. He flies and it's awkward so it's a combination of sky walking and flying. Carrying Luffy and Nami to safety. His bounty skyrockets as they head to Wano. It's higher than Zoro's as Nami preens his wings and Luffy coming to help after he's had a nap and some food that Sanji made. He's wanted dead or alive with Vinsmoke as his last name unfortunately and being Lunarian added to his list of crimes.

Everyone seeing his wings in Wano is new and he asks everyone not to touch them. Zoro is confused because the fuck cook? I'm your rival? And Sanji shrugs because he doesn't know what else to do. Then fights keep happening. He uses the raid suit a couple of times, the second time is the worst. He's fighting Alber, he's sure of it. He's so fucking sure but he's drilled through buildings and he's certain Alber is going to kill him for this.

Maybe after the raid Sanji finds a moment alone before Zoro and Luffy wake up. Maybe King the Wild Fire finds him and they talk and catch up. Maybe King preens his son's wings like he always wanted to. Maybe King joins the crew.

Maybe King went to the East Blue, found the Baratie, met Zeff. They would bond over the Eggplant. Sanji's second place in the bounties. When he gets to Egghead he has no sympathy for Vegapunk, he does for Kuma and Bonney but for what he's done to his family? Never. He will never forgive him.

#black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #cat burglar nami #monkey d. luffy #straw hat luffy #vegapunk #vinsmoke judge #vegapunk one piece #answers #king the wildfire #king one piece #lunarian!sanji #heterochromia!sanji

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