#sry this is a couple days late!!

[twohundredpower]

“Watch out!”

Amidst the raging snowball fight that was unfolding before him, Lloyd noticed a familiar face in the crowd in need, and acted without so much as a second thought. Grabbing the plastic sled he’d been using as a shield, the brunette slid across the slippery surface; blocking the onslaught of snowballs from absolutely pummelling Eiden. When they died down for just a brief moment, he turned to the other; offering him a hand off the ground.

“You alright, Eiden? I figured you’d be good at this sort of-- whoa!” and there went another snowball, flying right over Lloyd’s head. “C’mon, I made a fort over there we can hide behind! Let’s run!”

  ❱❱  :   —   ( @kleinstar​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ )

[rueclfer]

heyy there can i request some more touya headcannons? i really enjoy your way of picturing him because it’s just so canon and he’s kinda a lovely dick y’know. whatever comes to ur mind. thank u so much!!

weelll since you gave me so much freedom here r some touya as a housemate hcs ANNDD a moodboard bc i enjoy the visualization <3 since we talked abt this the other day too !! (i yapped so hard here sry sry this is so indulgent)

bakugou's and sero's version too hehe

housemates // touya todoroki

touya hates the idea of living with a complete stranger or one of his siblings, so what other option does he have other than forcing his best friend (crush) on a lease with him?

the newfound freedom definitely puts him on his ass for a few weeks. barely sleeps. eats like shit. trash is scattered everywhere. several unpacked boxes. it stays like this until fuyumi comes over to check our the place and gives you two a hard scolding to get your shit together.

more often than not, you'd end up waking up on the couch with your legs sprawled out across his lap and his upper half leaned over the couch arm rest in deep sleep. staying up so late was probably one of his favorite things about living together. being able to talk as loud as you wanted, watch movies late into the night, look over the city from your balcony- he found solitude in existing with you.

if he wasn't already codependent before moving in together, just know his ass will be GLUED TO YOU. you'd be doing work in your room and he'd barge in and flop down on your bed without a word. maybe he'd gotten a bit too comfortable.

if he's feeling extra annoying that day, he'd bring in his guitar and amp and keep asking you to rate his riffs until you entirely give up on work and give him some attention.

is it obvious his love language is quality time? not only that, gift giving too. he's like a fucking crow.

"look what i found. it's a rock. for you."

makes him soooo giddy to see your display of the rocks, feathers, and dried up flowers he picked up for you on his walk. sometimes you'd come home and there'd be a new addition to the ever growing collection.

ofc you'd return the energy in a different way. touya will not cook for himself. ever. he eats like shit as an internal rebellion against the healthy diet he was forced upon as a kid, but you will not allow that boy to rot himself from the inside out!! he can expect several tupperwares of portioned out meals with notes attached to the lids if you know he'd be home all day by himself.

"to t <3. if you don't eat every last bite i'll find out and it'll hurt my feelings and i might combust into flames or something idk don't risk it!"

i can also imagine him holding back tears whenever you ever come into his room to hand him a bowl of cut up fruit. the first time you do it he'd be speechless like jaw dropped taken aback. has he ever felt love like this??? i think not.

despite all of the kind gestures, he's still touya todoroki. hides your keys if you annoyed him that morning by rushing him in the bathroom and makes you a few minutes late to class/work. chronic door slammer. pisses with the door wide open. no sense of privacy and do not gaf to knock. always locking himself out -> i feel strongly about this like imagine coming home after a long day and he's sitting out in the hallway with a pouty face waiting for you hehehe.

i don't think he'd realize this crush until a few months after you've moved in together. how could he when you two practically already act and bicker like an old married couple?

yes- peanut butter belongs in the fridge. no- it doesn't. stop leaving your socks everywhere. you forget to flush again. stop slamming the doors. you ate my chips, didn't you? don't lie. did you really need to put the mugs up that high? (he does it on purpose, and tightens the lid to every jar too.)

it wasn't until one late evening when he comes home to find you frantically mixing a doughy substance in a large metal bowl. you never bake, but you have your own oven now, so why not?

"god, finally. help me, my arms hurt." you groan, shoving the bowl in his hands. "i think i fucked up."

he sees the hurricane aftermath of your kitchen- flour everywhere, egg shells left on the counter, every single jar imaginable opened and scattered around. he could be teasing you about the mess, but god you looked so beautiful with that stupid wrinkle in between your eyebrows as you read over the recipe, and the streaks of flour across your pant leg from wiping your hands, and the way you swipe away the stray pieces of hair falling in your face with the back of your hand- oh fuck.

he thinks he's falling in love with you.

he swallows it, but he starts acting kinda weird around the apartment.

like he's.... avoiding you?

living with his best friend whom he just so happens to develop a crush for, would eat him alive. he locks himself in his room and chain smoke out his window while he's stressing the fuck out. he told you he'd stop smoking, but he's sure you'd understand the need for it right now. he hopes you can't smell it.

i also think he'd be a stress cleaner lmaaoo he cannot sit still with his thoughts for too long, so the headphones are ON and blasting and he'll definitely use that as a scapegoat + the loud ass vacuum for ignoring you if you try to talk to him while he's on this cleaning frenzy.

you think he's sick LMAO imagine the pain he feels when you come knocking on his door and calling out that you're leaving a bowl of soup and cough medicine outside his door for him. he doesn't tell you that yeah he's sick but *not in that way*

lovesick. that boy is lovesick!!!!!!

how do you avoid your housemate while you figure out how to control your feelings?

he confesses via note that he leaves on the kitchen counter. really simple tbh nothing too extravagant, but he signs off by telling you that he's staying crashing at fuyumi's for a couple days.

you text him a string of obscenities to get his ass back home and he does (he's scared of you).

he CAANNOOTT talk about his feelings in an adult way. he is sitting on the complete opposite side of the couch, twiddling his thumbs, and staring down at his feet like a child while you reread his confession note out loud to him. you find his discomfort hilarious but endearing. he finds you unbearably insufferable.

jesus the amount of times in that apartment where he would storm off to his room whenever you two got in an argument or you pissed him off...old habits die hard, you guess, because this isn't the todoroki household anymore and you aren't scared to lose that deposit and kick a door down.

once you corner him and get him to open up about his feelings the air in the room suddenly shift!! the clouds are clearing and the sun is shining woooowww look at what good communication can do.

sharing an apartment with your BOYFRIEND is no different than sharing one with your best friend. i think he'd like to keep your separate bedrooms to have your own space, but you'll rarely sleep apart.

so! many! new! traditions!

helping him dye his hair on the first saturday of every month. biweekly horror movie marathons. counting the communal piggy bank ever couple months. trying new takeout spots until you find THE spot for every category- chinese, pizza, ramen, etc etc.

and finally, an everlasting mark on your first apartment together: a small carved out heart around your initials left on the inner corner of a kitchen cabinet done with his pocket knife on a random weekday evening while you two are cooking dinner together.

-

touya tag: @moonchild701 @kaldurahms-lover @themultifandomgirl @devilslittlehelper @porusuniverse @ratatellie @katbug37 @ggriwm

[kithtaehyung]

would u? (3tan717) | myg

3tan717 drabble #1: would u? pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series: masterlist | three tangerines | 3tan717 rating/genre: pg (18+) ; fluff ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: you see a certain fruit-centered trend online.. and decide to test it on yoongi note: i am so so so sorry this is out on the very last day of feb but things have been absolute bananas lately! tbh i’m surprised this is even getting posted on time and i have even more to do after this is shared but eff it shibal!!! note 2: as promised, this is dedicated to the people that submitted the answers i’m using for this drabble: anon, grapes / @yoongrace, and apryl @aprylynn for this idea hehehe! also i literally just finished this so it's legit unedited so i'm sry for any mistakes! off to go prep for events now! warnings: 3tan yoongi as always, working yoongi??, kitchen, period cramps suck but yoongi to the mf rescue drop date: feb 29th, 2024, 10:03pm est word count: 2.3k

-

-

Ugh. 

Why does this have to happen every fucking month. Why can’t it happen every three? Or six? Or never ever ever? 

Groaning, you roll over, burying your face into the pillow on Yoongi’s side. 

To some degree, you feel placated, probably due to his scent still lingering next to your dismay. He had to get up early to finish a track, but he assured you can be in the room. 

You can hear a little bit of what he’s working on as it bleeds through his headphones, and even just this sliver of sound gives you chills. Not just because of what it sounds like, but the sole fact that Yoongi’s letting you even listen in the first place. 

Huffing out a bit of amusement, you remember the last time Yoongi let you stay while he worked—albeit at his place while he went to the studio. 

Damn, how much you’ve grown since then. All those memories, those quiet times and tumultuous times, everything leading up to now. How time has molded you with knowing hands. 

However, no matter how much has changed all these months, some things have not wavered, like the fact that you needed to be sure he was okay with it—and his answer making you absurdly shy. 

Did he really have to say that you’re either staying or he’s gonna leave? That scheming motherfucker! 

Some drum beats hit your cheek before you realize the menace himself is playing multiple different ones. It’s only a couple hits before he moves onto the next, and you’re about to lift your hea—

“Fuck, where the hell is that kick?” 

Your laugh is stifled by cotton. As tickled as you are to hear Yoongi like this, you don’t wanna do anything to distract him. 

But by doing so, that causes your body to tighten and fuck, it hurts. It hurts to move, it hurts to laugh, it hurts to just exist. God, you want him to come back and join you so bad, but you don’t wanna be that person. 

…Yet. Maybe if it gets so bad you can’t even sleep? 

“Found you! Fucking finally. Thought you could hide from me, huh?” 

Oh, fucking hell, he’s adorable. 

Yeah, there’s no way you’re making him drop everything right now. This is too precious of an afternoon to stop. 

Exhaling a mile long breath, you fight through your pain and feel for your phone, groaning as you shift yourself. When in position under sheets and warm sunlight, you cycle through apps as a distraction. 

Scrolling. Scrolling. Smiling at some animal videos a bit before scrolling again. 

After all of five minutes, you start to see a trend on your feed, and suddenly get the idea to try it on Yoongi. It’s simple and harmless, right? 

You [3:30pm]: would u peel an orange for me 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, and you lift your head slightly to see if he looks at his phone. 

When he does, he checks it really quick before setting it back down on his desk, back to clicking on his screen. 

Ah. Damn. He must really be in the zone because… 

Uhh. 

Blinking, you watch as Yoongi rolls his chair out to get up, setting his glasses down and heading out of the room with a light swing of his chains. 

Uh. What just happened? Did you upset him? You’re so stunned that his swift exit has you wanting to get up and follow him.  

But ow. Ouch. It’s maddening how much your cramps are getting to you. 

Bearing the punches to your gut, you start sliding out of the bed, straining and sucking in sharp breaths just to stand and pull Yoongi’s comforter over your tension. 

Padding out the bedroom, your worries make your steps tiny and heavy, and you regret sending that text because you literally just said you weren’t… gonna…

On the dining table—quiet—lie three tangerines, peeled and placed next to vibrant scraps while your lover peels a fourth with diligent, devoted hands. 

And you can’t even form words that match how you feel. 

Your vision swims right as Yoongi looks your way, his body stilling before he puts the fruit down. 

When he approaches with concern, you answer his silent questions through hiccups, “I—I thought you left cus—you were mad.” 

“Huh?” 

“I don’t even know,” you swallow, gesturing to all of your lower half and feeling him hold the slipping blanket. “It’s just… this, I guess.”

“Does it hurt?” 

“Like a motherfucker.” 

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, doll. Hold up.” Handing you the comforter, Yoongi goes to his cabinets in the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of medicine before walking it over. “You gotta take something as soon as you feel it. Don’t let it get this bad.”

“I know,” you groan, resting your head on his shirt and inhaling his healing presence. “I didn’t wanna bother you.” 

Your forehead is kissed. “You’re not bothering me. Especially with something like this.” 

“Okay.” 

He walks away again to grab some water, and you watch as he pours some into an electric kettle before starting it up. 

Glancing back at the fruit, you sigh, clutching the bottle of pills while feeling the weight of his comforter. He’s probably not pleased with the way it might drag on the ground, so you gather it and pick the end chair to sit on. 

And then you sigh, “Sorry for making you peel those. I didn’t even plan on eating anything.”  

“Too bad. You’re gonna eat what I make you anyway.” 

Wait, he’s cooking? He has work to do! “You’re working, though. Don’t worry about me right now.” 

“It’ll be quick.” 

“What are you making?” 

A glass bowl and pan are procured from random places before Yoongi blinks in place. “Uhh.. You’ll see.” 

As he clunks them onto his counter and stove, you watch with hearts for eyes as he bustles around the kitchen space. Even doing things as simple as washing his hands, opening his fridge, and simply grabbing a knife gives you pause. 

And this is when you realize that you can watch Yoongi do absolutely anything and be amazed. 

Even when he stands, watching you with a look that’s wait why doesn’t he look—

“Take the medicine, baby girl.” 

Oh. 

Snapping out of your trance, you nod. “Sorry.” 

Yoongi continues to give you glances until you swallow down the painkillers, satisfied enough to continue his cooking venture when you take the second one. 

As the sun paints the apartment in marigold and light, you keep watching with a smile as he brings the kitchen to life. Butter sizzles in a pan, tangerines are getting halved on a board, and something is getting mixed with a whisk. 

Who knew that the neighborhood fuckboy would have a whisk on hand? Not the younger you, that’s for damn sure. 

But here Yoongi is, in the flesh, whisking away with veiny forearms that have you thinking the most absurd thoughts during this time of the month. The only thing that would cut through the raging horniness would be getting up to see what the hell he’s making. 

It’s starting to smell familiar though. But he put the tangerines in the pan so you don’t even know what to expect right now. 

Walking up—blanket left behind—you observe the kitchen before peering over his broad shoulder. “Mm.. Smells like pancakes.” 

Yoongi doesn’t answer, but when you see the consistency of the batter, you realize you’re correct. “Oh, it is! I’m smart.” 

“You are,” he laughs. “But you didn’t get it all the way right.” 

“No?” 

“Nope.” Yoongi then gently gets you to move before he pours the batter over the slices, and you crane your neck to watch as he evens it all out. “Just one tangerine pancake.”

“Oh, okay,” you scoff, earning a laugh at your side. “Whatever, chef.” 

“We’ll see what you say in a bit.” 

Is he gonna leave it or flip it? Probably the latter. 

“K. Gonna flip that once it’s done.” 

Nice. You smile to yourself, loving how you’re starting to really be on the same page. Nudging him, you keep watching as he lowers the heat and sets the lid on the pan. “What now?” 

“We wait,” he responds, dusting his hands together before cleaning up his mixing bowl. “And I’m gonna see if we have any sugar.”

Damn it, Yoongi cannot keep saying that two-letter word. It’s starting to be detrimental to your health. “I can help.” 

“S’ok,” he assures, nose upturned. “Just watch me work.” 

“Oh, I’m very good at doing that.” 

At this, Yoongi turns and gives you a smile that immediately reminds you of summer, and you almost feel like crying again. 

“I’ve actually never tried this, but. We’ll see if this works.” 

With nothing snarky, or teasing, or fake to say, you reply with a smile and a genuine, “I’m sure it will.” 

When he keeps staring, his eyes lower to your lips, and you don’t care that you probably look like a wreck, or feel like one. Because the way he’s looking at you now makes you glow. 

If only the kettle didn’t decide this was the moment to stop boiling. 

You were probably about to get the kiss of your life. 

But Yoongi halts in his tracks before shifting to get a mug, setting it down with a thud before checking on the pancakes. Pancake. Whatever that delicious-smelling thing is gonna be. 

“There’s some tea packets in that right drawer. Help yourself cus I’d rather you pick.” 

Chuckling, you oblige before scooting over. After seeing a small jar of granules on the counter, you start rummaging through the drawer, exploring the various options while hearing the sound of a plate behind you. 

Ah, Yoongi’s flipping it. 

As you turn, you’re just in time to watch the muscles in his back protrude through his shirt as he flips the pan, impressed as he sets the plate down because holy hell that looks great. 

“Sugar, sugar, sugar… Suga, suga, suga.” 

Laughing, you interrupt his silly search as you grab the jar you just saw. “Suga suga, how you get so fly?”

Yoongi stops to see what’s in your hand, and he huffs through a grin before grabbing it. “Thanks, doll.” 

You keep humming the song that’s now wedged into your head as you watch him sprinkle bits on the pancake. 

“I don’t have a blowtorch,” he admits, “But I do have this.” 

Rolling out a drawer, Yoongi takes out a long lighter before holding it to the sugary top, humming the same song you were just singing without even knowing it. As the sugar slowly but surely heats, you both keep humming and basking in a calm afternoon. 

And you don’t even feel the pain anymore. 

“Go ahead and sit, babe.” 

“You sure?” 

“Uh huh.” 

Following instructions, you make your way to the table, cocooning yourself in his comforter again as you await the cutest meal you’ve had in weeks. Months. Lifetimes. 

Speaking of lifetimes… You hope every version of you meets every version of him. No matter when. No matter where. Because you want every version of yourself to find happiness, and Yoongi has been the one to help you finally find it. 

And he certainly passed whatever the hell this orange theory thing was supposed to be. 

Plates are set down to break you out of introspection, and you glance up with eyes sparkling. 

When Yoongi raises a brow, you just smile. When he asks what’s gotten into you, a chuckle escapes before you shake your head, 

“Nothing, baby. Just didn’t expect all this from that text.” 

As he plops into the next chair, you love the way the sun settles on his skin. Highlights his hair. Shimmers in his eyes. 

“Don’t even need to ask, babe.” He captures your attention with a calm look. “I was waiting for any distractions anyways.” 

So this was for him, too? Good. 

Grabbing your fork, you giggle. “Sounded like you were having a little trouble over there.” 

“I was! This is what I get for not saving my shit.” 

Both of you sit back in laugher as you throw your hands out. “Do that!” 

“I’m lazy!” 

“Tough shit!” 

“I know!” 

Grinning, you loll your head before waving your fork out. “You’re gonna save those sounds, and you’re gonna remember this day and thank me.” 

Yoongi just tightens his lips in a smile, eyes creased and glimmering. “Maybe.” 

“Yes. I’ll stand there and watch you until you do it.” 

"Really.."

For the rest of the afternoon—with full bellies and clear minds—you rest on the edge of Yoongi’s bed, forcing him to find the files he needs and watching him groan his way through saving everything. 

Constantly laughing at the ridiculously random names he’s assigning them.

When he’s done, you watch as he spins around in his chair, heart thumping with anticipation as you’re met with a waiting pair of eyes.

Breathtaking. 

When he leans in, you feel incredibly shy. Always, always, always. This will forever remain the same.

And—just as well—Yoongi's kisses will forever taste like tangerines. 

Three of them, to be exact. 

-

-

fin. :)

-

how did the first 717 drabble go! | join the discord hehe

a/n: nothing much to say other than i love y'all so much! i will try responding to anything when i can (there's literally still all the 3tan12 feedback to get to) but i do read all the commentary sent in and it keeps me going strong :'))) so thank you again for being here and being amazingly patient with me. off to work on more things but i shall be back once the wild weeks are over!

a/n 2: suga suga how you get so flyyyy hahaha

[starlovesganyu]

love letters!

❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀

them receiving a handwritten note at work!

various characters x gn!reader

characters: fu xuan, kujou sara, ganyu

warnings: none

a/n: idk why i didn't start writing hsr earlier

also another short one sry

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

fu xuan -`✮´-

• lucky for her, the letter is a similar pink to her hair, so when it falls out of her bag as she's walking to her office, her coworkers just assume it's a normal letter

• until they notice the big red heart sealing it shut

• she tries to keep herself composed and professional, but the red creeping into her face is unstoppable

• whispers and snickers and be heard from the onlookers in the commission-seeing the master diviner flustered is a rare sight indeed

"quiet everyone! let's get back to work!"

• when she enters the safety of her office, she'll gently open the letter

• the first line already has her blushing uncontrollably

• when she returns home, she tries to act stern and tell you how unprofessional this was, but just seeing and holding the letter again has her all red and holding back a smile

• completely crumbles and just hugs you tightly and shoves her face into your chest

• mumbles a "thank you" and "i love you" while staring at the ground with her forehead resting on your chest

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

kujou sara -`✮´-

• upon seeing the pink letter carefully tucked into her training bag, she quickly glances around to make sure that no one is watching

• gently tears open the envelope to reveal a very childish valentines day card with pop-out hearts and everything

• can't contain her smile as she reads about everything you love about her

• unfortunately becomes too engrossed in the letter and doesn't notice the soldiers peeking around the corner of the barracks

• a click of a kamera gives away their location

• she's promptly pulled back into reality and quickly (and carefully) hides the letter back into her bag and chases after the soldiers to reprimand them

its too late

• has trouble focusing on her training the rest of the day because she can't stop thinking about you

"t-thanks for the letter S/O, but did you really have to give to me during training?"

• places the letter in a secret compartment in her desk

• wraps her arms around you extra tight when you two cuddle that night <3

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

ganyu -`✮´-

• she thought it would be another normal day at the yuehai pavilion, but when ningguang walks into her office with her hands behind her back and the smirk on her face, it all goes out he window

"looks like you have a delivery ganyu..."

• the bright red qilin quickly snatches the pink envelope and shoves a laughing ningguang out the door

• after composing herself and double checking the door to make sure it's locked, she gently opens the envelope

• will be blushing from head to toe, the tips of her ears practically steaming as she reads through your letter

• takes her a while to read, as every other line she has to put the letter down to quietly squeal and kick her feet like a schoolgirl

• carefully packs the letter back into the envelope and places it on her desk, away from anything that could damage it

• when she leaves the pavilion, ningguang gives her that smirk again, and she has to fight the urge to throw a scroll at ningguang with all her adeptal strength

• extra shy when she's around you the next couple days

• also will be extra cuddly when you share a bed!

thanks for reading!

[leclsrc]

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.”

[itgetsdark-x]

Hellooo I have a teeny tiny request: dbf!joel taking readers virginity 👀👀 what do you think? The idea just struck me and i believe this would be soo hot but also cute 😳 sry i‘m just a sucker for intimacy 🙈

Anyways it‘s just an idea, no stress, i love your writing 💕

A/N: wheeew, thank you for the request anon! I tried to write Joel a little softer here and it just had me in a mess! I hope this is okay for you and you enjoy it!! I’m sorry for the delay, honey <3

Summary: Joel was always hanging around your house and your dad, one way or another. You wanted him, and badly. He needed to be your first.

Word Count: 3.9k

Characters: dbf!joel miller x virgin!reader (f)

Warnings: 18+, minors dni! fingering (f receiving), first time reader, unprotected p in v (do better pls), slight praise kink if you squint, age gap (everyone is of legal and consenting age, reader’s age not specified)

It was a warm spring day, you were sat in the garden with a beer in your hand; across from you was your dad and his best friend, Joel Miller. Joel was almost a permanent fixture around your house now, he had been in your life for years and it was near impossible to imagine life without him, or how life was before him. 

He was a handsome man, close to your father’s age and admittedly, you had quite the crush on him and had done for a few years. Of course you hadn’t acted on it, you didn’t want to upset your dad or ruin anything in your life but then there were the lonely nights that you spent alone, your fingers rubbing at your clit frustratedly, never managing to finish, as you imagined the older man taking your virginity. You knew it was wrong but it didn’t stop you from fantasising, only now, it seemed to happen more frequently. 

You smiled as you sipped your beer, your mind wandering as your father and Joel were in deep conversations; occasionally you would throw in a laugh or reply to something either of them said but for the most part, you just enjoyed soaking up their conversations and the late evening sunset. 

You weren’t really sure how you had got to your age and hadn’t slept with anyone yet and part of you felt shame that you hadn’t, thanks to the throwaway comments from your friends or the way the media portrayed casual sex. You felt inexperienced and the longer you went without it, the feeling of shame and nerves only seemed to grow, you cursed society and your friends for making you feel that way. You had boyfriends previously but the time never felt right for you, and for that, you were proud of your morals and how you stuck to them. A lot of the time, when you didn’t put out for a partner, they left you and it was frustrating, and more importantly, hurtful. Still, no one ever felt right, no one ever seemed to compare to Joel in your mind. 

The sun had fully set by now, your dad and Joel were still arguing back and forth about something trivial and you laughed fondly as you watched them two of them. You had gone inside and to get a blanket which was now wrapped around your shoulders, the chill of the evening not effecting you. 

“Sweetpea, I’m gonna head inside and get some rest. Thank you for a lovely day and night.” Your dad spoke to you, fully addressing you. You smiled into his side as he gave you a brief hug and kissed the top of your head. 

“You okay to see yourself out? You’re more than welcome to stay the night. Y/N can setup the pullout for you!” Your dad offered to Joel. 

“I’ll finish up my beer and see how I feel after, thanks bud. I’ll see you in a couple days, at the bar, if I don’t end up staying. Thanks again.” Joel spoke, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine. 

“Don’t catch a cold.” Your dad said, peering down at you when he felt you shiver. “I love you, sweetheart.” 

“I love ya too, dad. I’m fine. Goodnight.” You called to him as he closed the patio door behind him. 

A silence fell between the two of you, you placed your bottle onto the garden table and looked up to the sky, stars were slowly starting to twinkle in the evening’s dusk and you sighed. 

“What’s up, princess?” Joel asked, he often called you various pet names but that one always hit differently. 

“What does sex feel like?” You asked nonchalantly. 

Joel spluttered on his mouthful of beer and placed it down, clearing his throat. “Has your daddy not had the chat with you?”

“Well duh, of course he has but he hasn’t exactly told me what it feels like.” You huffed frustratedly, now looking at Joel. 

“I uh, I don’t know how to answer that question, really.” Joel admitted quietly. “Have you, uh, have you not?” His question tailed off as you shook your head in response. 

“Nope.” You hugged again, wrapping the blanket tighter round you. “Can’t even manage to cum when I touch myself either.” 

Joel shifted in his seat, somewhere in his mind he pictured you laid out on your bed, your fingers buried deep in yourself with a frown as you tried to work yourself to release. He pushed those thoughts deep down and shook his head. 

“Well it’s different for guys, princess. A lot easier.” He shrugged, hoping you would drop the conversation. 

“Yeah but you’ve obviously had sex with women!” You said casually. 

“Obviously.” Joel retorted. 

“Exactly, so like, you know how to make them cum unless, Joel Miller, you’re openly admitting you don’t know how to please a woman.” You laughed. 

“I know how to please a woman!” He defended. “Plenty of women, and I ain’t ever had complaints.” 

“Show me.”

It was a throwaway comment, the beers you had consumed flowed through your veins and made your lips a little looser than normal. Before you had registered it fully, the words had fallen from your mouth. 

“I’m sorry?! What?!” Joel asked, his voice a raised whisper. 

“S-show me… I want my first time to matter, Joel. I want it to be with someone who knows me and cares about me. You care about me, right?” You asked, getting out of your seat and sitting into Joel’s lap, your blanket discarded. 

“Princess. I can’t… I… it wouldn’t be right…” He mumbled, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. “Your daddy would kill us both.”

“I’ll be quiet, please Joel… I’m desperate. Please.” You begged, your voice high and whiny. “I’ve seen the way you watch me, your eyes follow me around like a lost puppy. Especially when I wear little dresses. I’ve noticed it and I’m telling you right now, I feel the same.”

Before Joel could argue again, you dipped your head down and closed the space between your faces to place and innocent kiss to the male’s lips. As soon as you made contact you moaned softly into it; his lips were soft against his rough facial hair and it made you wetter than you could have imagined before. 

Joel held his hands up innocently, unsure whether he should indulge in this moment or not but there you were, sitting in his lap needy and innocent, quite literally begging for him. Cautiously he began to kiss you back, one hand came up to hold your cheek and the other held your knee gently. He commanded the kiss, tilting your head to the right angle as he dipped his tongue into your mouth to explore you further. He could taste the beer on your breath and the faint cherry of your chapstick, it drove him mad and he wanted more. 

“You’re gonna kill me.” He whispered almost silently. “Are you sure you want this? You won’t be able to have your first time again, are you sure you wanna waste it on me?” 

“Joel,” you stopped him from rambling further. “Anytime I’ve touched myself I’ve imagined it was you, I want you so badly. Please show me how to do it.” You whined. 

Joel’s hand tensed gently on your knee, the fact that he was the star in your late-night thoughts made him wanna take you right there and then. 

“Inside. We need to go inside, I’m not fuckin’ you on the table. Not for your first time, anyway.” Joel teased with a wink. “You’re gon’ have to be real quiet for me though, little girl.”

You stood from Joel’s lap and nodded eagerly. “Of course I’ll be quiet, scouts honour.” 

Joel laughed, a short breathless noise and followed behind you as you led him inside and upstairs to your room. 

As soon as you quietly clicked your door shut, the tension seemed to fill the room once more and you stood awkwardly by the bed. 

“Come sit, relax, princess.” Joel said quietly, his voice soft and hushed. 

He sat on the foot of your bed and gently tapped the space next to him, you happily obliged and sat down next to him. You looked up at him and swallowed roughly. 

“You nervous?” He asked gently and you nodded in response. “That’s fair enough, I promise I’ll be real gentle with you, darlin’ and if you wanna stop at any point, you tell me and we stop. This is all on your terms, okay?” He asked tenderly, brushing your hair out of your face to cup your cheek. 

You leant forward and caught Joel’s lips in a quick kiss. “I — what do we do now?” You asked. 

“What have you done before? Have you ever touched a guy before?” Joel asked and you shook your head to say no. “So you’ve never touched a guy’s cock before?”

“N-no!” You replied, almost ludicrously. “A guy tried to make me once but I left in tears and that was that.” You admittedly quietly and Joel stroked his thumb tenderly across your bottom lip. 

“Okay, well that’s not going to happen here. I’ve got you now. Okay?” He asked. 

“Okay.”

“Let’s start by getting you out of your clothes and comfortable on the bed, is that alright?” Joel asked. 

You nodded again, not trusting your voice as Joel removed his hand from your face to gently pull your t-shirt over your head. He then worked on your jeans, he unbuttoned them and you stood to shimmy them off your legs, you stood there a little awkwardly as Joel took in your form and admired your body. 

“Look at you.” He breathed, his rough hands smoothed over your sides and cupped your ass gently. 

You let out a quiet giggle as your cheeks flushed a light pink in embarrassment; no one had ever complimented your body before. 

“J-Joel, can I see you now?” You whispered, your voice shaking with pure anticipation. 

He smiled at you and gave a simple nod before he pulled his grey T-shirt over his head and pulled down his jeans before discarding them with your clothes. Your eyes roamed the expanse of tanned skin, hair peppered his chest lightly and a dark trail led down to his boxers where you could clearly see his half-hard cock. You had dreamt about his moment, being able to see Joel in such a state and it made your privates throb with need. 

“Why don’t you lay back and show me how you touch yourself, pretty girl.” Joel said smoothly, sitting down next to you on the bed again. “I can help from there.”

“Okay…” you muttered, quickly standing to shed your damp panties before you got onto your bed and laid down so your back was resting against your pillows. 

Joel shifted so he was positioned next to you, he was laid on his side and he watched eagerly as you let your thighs drop and you spread yourself further for him to see. He held back a groan as he watched your fingers dip between your wet folds as you began to circle your clit. You let out a high-pitched moan before you clamped your teeth into your bottom lip to silence yourself from making another sound. 

You screwed your eyes shut and your brows furrowed together as you rubbed at your clit harshly, trying to bring yourself closer to orgasming but never quite getting there. 

“Woah they’re darlin’, slow it down a notch… or ten.” He chuckled quietly, his hand coming to rest on top of yours to slow your movements down with ease. 

“Do it for me.” You huffed, opening your eyes to search for Joel’s. “Please.” You whined. 

Joel took your hand in his and brought your slicked fingers up to his mouth, he sucked them eagerly and moaned softly as your arousal flooded his mouth. Your eyes shot open widely, shock flooding them and you throbbed as you watched him. You rubbed your thighs together and whimpered weakly. 

“Sh sh shh, darlin’.” Joel cooed when he released your fingers from your mouth. 

He gently pried your thighs apart with his hand, your own fell to the side of you and your fingers toyed nervously with the sheets below you. 

“I’m gonna touch you, princess but you’re gonna have to be real quiet and you’re gonna need to relax for me.” Joel instructed sternly but his voice was edged with softness. 

You looked at his face and bit on your bottom lip, nodding your head in agreement. Joel ran his fingers through your wet slit and he bit back a groan at how wet you were already, so receptive and needy for him to touch you. You shifted under his touch, it felt so different to your own fingers or when you would hump at your pillows in frustration. His skilled fingers found your clit quickly and he circled the sensitive bud with delicious pressure, you bit back a loud moan and looked at Joel with mild confusion at how it could feel so good so quickly.

“Feel good?” Joel asked quietly, his breath fanned gently over your lips. 

“S-so so good!” You whimpered, your voice shaking as Joel worked his fingers perfectly over your clit. 

“Is it okay if I finger you? You wanna see how it feels to have my fingers in you? I’ll be really gentle, princess.” 

You nodded eagerly, not trusting your shaky voice to form a proper sentence. Before you had time to fully register it, Joel was gently pressing a finger into your tight hole, there was slight resistance as your wet heat stretched around his thick digit. You mewled quietly, the noise partly out of pain but mostly pleasure. 

“Shhh, I know, baby girl. I know. You’ve got this.” He whispered, kissing your cheek and your neck, trying to distract you from any discomfort as Joel’s palm met your body. “I’m gonna move my finger now.” He whispered and your body fluttered with adoration as he talked you through what he was going to do next. 

Just as he said, Joel pulled his finger out and gently pushed it back into you. He felt almost alien as he worked his finger in and out of your tight hole, he felt amazing and somewhere in your mind, you thought how you always wanted Joel in you. His thumb gently circled your clit and whilst you were distracted with the intense pleasure, he gently pushed a second finger into you, stretching you further and your eyes balled shut instantly. 

“Baby girl, you gotta relax for me. That’s it, atta girl, doing such a good job. I know, I know.” He cooed, his voice was so soft and it sent shivers down your spine as his thumb still circled your clit whilst his fingers scissored you open. 

“Feels…” you whined. “Feels so good!” You whispered, your eyes opening to look at Joel. “Please kiss me.” You asked tenderly. 

He obliged happily and his lips pressed to yours in a passionate kiss, his tongue invaded your mouth and you laid there as you took all he had to offer you. His fingers moved in you with ease now as you adjusted to the foreign stretch and somewhere in the depth of your belly, something bubbled and grew deeper. You had come this close before but never managed to get yourself over the edge. You moaned into Joel’s mouth, a little too loudly as he quickened his pace. 

“Fuck Joel,” you cursed against his lips as you panted, your chest heaved in your bra. 

Joel smirked, using his spare hand to free one of your breasts from your bra and he sucked your nipple into his mouth; his teeth nipped gently at it before he sucked on it a little harsher causing your back to arch up to him. 

“Something feels weird.” You mumbled, your voice was a quiet gasp. “Feels like I need to pee or something.” 

You felt embarrassed, not sure what was happening, usually when you got this far you would stop and go use the bathroom before coming back and trying again to make yourself cum but it never happened. 

“Mhmm, means you’re close. Means you’re gonna cum on my fingers.” Joel whispered, his breath fanned out onto your damp nipple and it caused a shiver to run down your spine. “That’s it, cum for me, please, princess.” Joel pleaded. 

Your thighs shuddered at his words, your hips spasmed upwards and you brought your hand to your mouth to keep yourself quiet as you felt yourself get slicker and cum around Joel’s fingers, your walls fluttered around his fingers and he praised you quietly, his mouth back near your neck. 

Joel pulled his fingers out of you and you grimaced at the lack of being full. He teasingly ran his fingers through your soaked folds and he groaned softly into your ear. 

“You’re so wet, you came so hard for me. Such a good girl. Was that your first time? You never managed to do that?” Joel whispered his praises. 

“Mhm, n-never managed to do that. Felt so good.” 

“Now imagine how good my cock would feel… you think you’re ready for that, little girl?” 

“Please.” You breathed, your hand shakily reaching for Joel’s hard member in his boxers. Your hand delicately palmed him through the thin fabric and you gasped at the feeling of him, he felt impossibly big compared to his fingers and your tummy fluttered with nerves and deep arousal. “You’re so… big!” 

Joel laughed and switched his position on the bed so he was situated between your thighs. “Promise to be so gentle with you.” He whispered, awkwardly shifting out of his boxers so he was finally fully naked. 

Your hands hungrily roamed the vast expanse of Joel’s skin and you hummed in appreciation, the moment you had dreamt of so many times was finally here and you couldn’t quite believe it. 

“Fuck me, please. Just do it already, I’m so turned on I’m shaking.” You whispered, making sure your voice was a hushed tone and it was true, your limbs shook with the anticipation of what was to come and you were shivering under Joel’s gaze. 

You had discarded your bra and laid there fully naked for him, he brushed his cock head against your clit and you let out a loud gasp, the different sensation taking you by surprise. Joel looked at you and cocked an eyebrow as warning and you nodded, taking the hint and bit on your bottom lip. 

“You have to stay quiet otherwise your daddy is gonna hear you being such a good girl for me and I know you don’t want him to see how needy you are for his best friend’s cock.”

He took his length and gently, so incredibly gently pressed the tip of himself into your hole. You bit down harder on your lip and your fingers scratched at Joel’s shoulders, trying to anchor yourself to him as he inserted himself slowly into you. 

Your nails left harsh crescent moon shapes into the skin on Joel’s shoulders as he bottomed out inside of you, you stretched around him and he held your cheek tenderly as you adjusted around his thick member. 

“I know baby girl, I know. Shh, such a good girl. That’s it, so good for me.” He whispered, his sweet praises sending a delicious shiver down your spine and straight to your core. You turned your head and pressed a kiss to his hand as the sting of the stretch finally started to wear off. 

“You can move now…” You muttered softly. 

Joel nodded and his hand left your face to hold your hips tightly as he pulled his hips back and sensually rolled them forward to push back into you. You whimpered, the noise was loud and it echoed into your room. Joel tutted and one of his hands clamped gently over your mouth, he squeezed your face gently as he built up a steady pace. 

His cock fucked into you, he managed to roll his hips just right and soon enough we was hitting the soft spot inside your spongy walls that had you moaning pathetically under Joel’s palm, the noises were drowned out as his hand squeezed over your mouth harder. 

“Touch your pretty little clit for me, princess. I want you to feel how good it is to cum on a cock. On my cock.” Joel groaned as your greedy hole sucked him in deeper and harder. 

You took Joel’s instructions and two fingers circled around your clit, you took onboard what Joel said earlier about going slower and it worked wonders, your eyes rolled back into your head as your stomach knotted tightly like a coiled spring. Your mouth opened under Joel’s palm and as you were about to speak, Joel stalled his hips. He was buried deep in you and instead of pulling back to push back into you, he rolled his hips so the tip of his cock nudged into you deeper than before. Your eyes fluttered shut, your fingers sped up and Joel took the chance to finally push back into you roughly. That perfectly timed dance had you cumming around Joel’s cock, the spring in your stomach snapped and you fell apart at the seams as Joel fucked you rougher. 

You whimpered as the overstimulation kicked in and Joel took you for his own, he fucked into you quicker than before and you laid there taking everything he had.  

“Where do you want me to cum, princess?” Joel asked. 

“M-mouth.” You shuddered out.

“Naughty girl.” He chuckled lowly and pulled out of you, you winced at the feeling, already knowing you would feel sore tomorrow. 

Joel positioned himself on the bed, knelt beside you as you sat up and timidly reached your hand up to wrap around his length. You gave a few testing stroke and he nodded down at you, encouraging you to move your hand faster. You did exactly that, your fingers worked nimbly around him as you stroked him to orgasm. You opened your mouth eagerly, your tongue sticking out and you made a small noise as the first spurt of his hot cum landed on your tongue. 

“Good girl, that’s it. Fuck you’re gonna kill me, look up at me with my cum on your tongue. That’s it.” He groaned, his voice low and sultry as your eyes locked with him. 

You couldn’t help but smile as you swallowed down every drop Joel had to give you. Your tongue licked at your lips as Joel swiped his thumb across your cheek. 

“Fucking hell, princess.” He huffed, collapsing onto the bed next to you. 

You couldn’t help but giggle and you rolled over to look at the older male. “Thank you, Joel. I really appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me. Thank you, for trusting me with your first time.” He looked down at you, his hand reaching out to tenderly touch your cheek as he captured your lips in a soft kiss. 

You smiled into the kiss as your fingers tickled through the hair on his chest absently. 

“Never wanna stop feeling this good.” You hummed. “You wanna stay here with me for a bit? Please?” You asked shyly as if you hadn’t just had the male in you moments ago. 

“Okay princess, just till you fall asleep. Don’t wanna have to explain that one to your daddy.” He laughed softly and kissed your forehead once as your eyes fluttered shut for the night. 

———————————————

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thanks for the requests, my inbox is always open for new ideas and I love chatting with y’all so much <3

——————————————

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

Sweetheart

Summary: Emily and you have had tension for a while, and she's always had a soft spot for you and while at her apartment true feeling come to light.

Word Count: 1.2k

Fluff, slight angst, kissing

Pairings: Emily Prentiss x fem!reader

!NOT PROOFREAD!

Legal but significant age gap

(a/n: omfg this is so shit i'm so sorry)

Emily's pov:

"Wait you like her!?" JJ asked me for the millionth time since I told her since I told her I had a crush on the new agent that joined the team. Her name is Y/n Y/l/n, she's perfect. Her laugh is captivating and simply angelic, she's got such a lovely personality that just pulls me in, and she's so goddamn gorgeous.

"Yes, JJ I like her." I'm starting to think telling her wasn't a good idea.

"Oh you so have to ask her out!" JJ squealed in delight.

"Are you insane!? She's like half my age and my subordinate jayj, I can't do that!" My face starts to heat up just thinking about telling her.

"Okay we'll please, think about it! She definitely likes you back em I promise you that much. Before you even try to argue, have you seen the way she looks at you? She's basically in love!" JJ's smile was infectious, naturally I started smiling as well (and because I can't think about y/n/n and not smile).

"I'll think about it okay? Deal?" She looked happy with that answer as she began to leave my office.

"Oh and JJ please could you get everyone into the meeting room, we have a case." I asked politely.

"Yeah of course." She smiled as she closed the door.

I let out a sigh and actually thought about the deal I had just made. I'm going to have to talk to her before JJ (and most likely Garcia and Tara at this point) get to her first. 

I leave my office and go to the round table where everyone is slowly filing in.

"Hello my furry friends, we -clearly- have a case!" Garcia says, her usual chirpy voice echoing through the room. "There has been a serial killer targeting specifically lesbian couples right here in Virginia." Damn. This is going to be a long case.

Time skip to when they've arrived

Reader pov:

Jeez, this case hits way too close to home. Just let us girls love girls. You know?

"Okay, Tara, Rossi you go to the first scene and see what you can find, Derek, JJ and Reid go to the local PD set up and talk to the families, Y/l/n you're with me, we're going to the second scene." Everyone scrambled off to their respective SUV's as we got off the jet.

Just the thought of being alone with Emily was making me nervous. She's so amazing in every way, her smile, her laugh, her nose, her personality. She's perfect. And her hair, the grey hair is doing something to me. But she's my boss and she's older than me and ugh, it'll never happen. Emily always been really close to me though, staying late to help me with paperwork, talks over coffee at lunch, her hand grazing over my back, our fingertips brushing as she hands me a file... I know I'm reading too far into it but I wasn't.

"You ready?" Her soft voice snaps me out of my trance.

"Yeah, I'm ready." I smile at her as we get in the car. I sit down and she looks over at me, making my cheeks flush a light pink.

"You alright?" Emily asked, gently placing her hand on my thigh. My cheeks flush and even deeper red at that simple touch and she seems to cotton on. This is going to be a long day.

"Yea-yeah I'm fine don't even worry" I see her lips pull up into a smirk as we begin to drive, she doesn't show any sign of moving her hand so I just let her be, enjoying the feeling of her warm touch.

Time skip to after the case (cba to write a case sry)

"Hey you." Emily said as she came up behind me and trailed her fingers over my lower back as she came to stand beside me.

"Hey, you okay?" She smiles at me and my knees almost buckle right then and there.

"Yeah I'm okay sweetheart are you?" Oh. My. God. The nickname, you see that puddle on the floor? That's me.

"I'm good." My cheeks flush a crimson colour as she pressed her fingers against my face.

"You're feeling a bit warm, you sure you're okay? Actually don't answer that, you're going to say yes not matter what. You're coming to mine tonight." This wasn't an uncommon occurrence as she's always been protective over me.

"I'm not sick I promise." I say slightly embarrassed because she's the reason my cheeks are so warm.

"Okay but you're still coming to mine, okay?"

"Not gunna argue with that."

"Good, you shouldn't."

We both gather our stuff and get in the car to drive to Emily's.

Time skip to when they're at Emily's

I walk into her apartment and put down my bag, turning to face em.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" She laughed as she spoke.

"No, no. You're fine." I smiled as I shamelessly studied her features, not bothering to hide anymore.

"Honey come on, why are you staring?" She moved closer as she said this holding her hands on my hips and gently guiding me closer to her.

"You're just so beautiful em." I mutter, my breath fanning over her face.

"Oh sweetheart please don't do this to me, I want you so bad but we both know it can't happen. I'm your boss and, I'm so much older than you." She bent forward and placed our foreheads together.

"Emily please-" she interrupts me,

"No love, I want nothing more than to be with you but be realistic. I'll get old faster than you and you'll loose interest and then.." I don't let her finish as I smash my lips onto hers.

My head is spinning as her lips glide over mine in perfect sync. My hand threads through her silver hair and rugs her closet to me, her tongue grazes my bottom lip asking for entrance and I grant her exactly what she wants. Her tongue slips effortlessly into my mouth and she instantly takes control of the kiss. She backs me into a wall and holds one hand on my waist and the other holding my cheek.

We pull away after a while and she still doesn't look like she thinks this can go anywhere.

"Why won't you let me love you?" Tears well up in my eyes, I was trying not to be too emotional but the fact that Emily was denying herself live and happiness because she thought she wasn't good enough broke my heart.

"Oh my love, please don't cry, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just let me love you em, please."

"Okay."

"Really?"

I pull her into my embrace and she taps the back of my thighs signalling for me to jump. I'm now clinging onto her koala style, still against the wall, and her head is buried in my shoulder, I'm placing tender kisses along her hairline, telling her how much Ill take care of her and how much I love her.

"I love you."

"I love you too sweetheart."

[dokidokidraft]

MHA boys HC pt.3

includes: Keigo Takami/Hawks, Touya Todoroki/Dabi, Hanta Sero Warning: tiny bit of suggestive content for keigo! (meant to be fem!reader but no pronouns/body type mentioned)

~Keigo Takami/Hawks~

-Going flying with him before bed ✨ he’ll take you all around the city and back again. Even if he’s tired, you can’t get out of it.

-Always has to make sure a feather is on you at all times. You have a necklace with one of his. He often tickles you from it when he’s at work and bored

-Good morning and good night texts

-Dinner with him looks like him just scarfing everything down and going to bed. Unless he’s on a day off, then you guys might watch a movie later

-Loves chicken. If you make some for him he would have literal hearts in his eyes

-Please, I just want to steal his jacket

-Pretty lazy. After work he’ll just chill in the apartment. If you ask how his day was you’ll just get a “it was fine” and he won’t elaborate unless you really push it

-Chronic manspreader

-Lots of suggestive comments

-He’s definitely a bit of a perv once you get to know him. Just pervy words though, he’ll never act on them. “Hey baby bird, what if I told you those pants will be on the floor in a few hours?” Usually never means it though

-Probably doesn’t have time for a lot of dates, but he apologizes repeated and eventually makes it up to you

-Helps you with your makeup. He’s a model, so he probably can do it better than you (sry). He especially loves to do your eyeliner to match his

-Wears earrings (dying for this man rn) once he met you he made sure they matched with your outfits whenever you guys go out

-*winks*

~Touya Todoroki/Dabi~

-Doesn’t really like to go on dates, thinks they’re a waste of time. If you guys do go on a date, its late at night, somewhere outside

-OR shopping dates to hot topic (he will then parade you around in your new clothes, showing you off around the LoV is his favourite pass time)

-Teaches you how to fight. He’s kinda a bad teacher but he’s trying

-You often run your hands over his scarred torso and tell him he’s beautiful. He got emotional the first couple times (if his tear glands weren't burnt he would be crying)

-Definition of big spoon. But like…big spoon when you’re on top of him (?) you’re lying on his chest while he’s on the couch, his arms wrapped around you and just staring at the ceiling. You’re so small in his arms ^-^

-Give. Me. His. Leather. Jacket

-Emotionally closed off. You ain’t getting a reaction from him, I’m sorry

-Needs help with his hair. I’m 110% sure that it’s bleach/dye damaged

-He’ll steal buy you jewelry. Often times with a cerulean gem so it matches his eyes

-Encourages you sm. You wanna get a piercing? Already booking you an appointment. Tattoo? Yes ma’am. New dress? Suddenly the money has been sent to your account. You don’t even know where the money comes from (and you don’t dare ask)

-While you (might) want the safety of a studio, he gladly does his own piercings. They usually get infected though, so just be ready for some serious complaining

-Husky voice 24/7

~Hanta Sero~

-Attempted to do the Spider-Man kiss scene with you. Ended up falling down and getting a mild concussion ✨

-Lays in his hammock with you. He’s a lazy boy and takes lots of naps

-B e a n i e s

-Definitely goes skateboarding & tries to show you how

-Sleepovers with him are the best because he has endless snacks and drinks. Also has a dvd player for his fav movies

-Button 👏 up👏 shirts👏

-Will randomly start speaking in Spanish. Best part is the nicknames “Mi amor”. Even better if gives you little hand kisses

-He’ll always “forget his notes” so you have to go over to his dorm and help him. Always ends up with the 2 of you making out though ;-;

-Flirty as hell (but only around the bakusquad so he can show u off)

-Reads tons of manga (canon) so he’ll probably read em with you 🫰

-He’s honestly super chill and won’t get jealous easily. He’ll give people little glares but that’s about it

-Does the Killua walk (you know what I’m talking about)

-Tape fixes everything

-“your mom” whenever he’s losing an argument

Hope you guys enjoyed!

@Kimyou draft I have neverwritten hcs for Sero before so I hope these were up to your expectations!

[cumulo-stratus]

Be mine[a.h]

Aaron asks you to be his valentine, despite being together for almost 2 years. And surprises you with a nice dinner.

WARNINGS- mentions of drinking/being tipsy, mentions of eating

Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader ][ fluff, valentines day ][ masterlist!!

Taglist: @mvndfvelds | @mindfullycriminal | @luce-reid | @khxna | @il0vebeingdelulu

join my taglist here!

a/n- sry this fic is like a week late- BUT a fic is a fic

0.7k

Aaron could feel how tired you were as soon as you were through the door. It had been a long day, and you just wanted to spend a quiet evening with your boyfriend. Aaron had a couple days off, as his team had just finished with a tough case last week. 

You practically collapsed into Aaron's arms as soon as your bag and shoes were off. You had discarded them in a pile near the door, forgotten for Aaron's embrace and the bouquet of flowers he'd handed you. 

“Aaron- this is sweet, but you didn't have to! You know I don't really care about things like Valentine's Day,” you said with a smile. But Aaron just pecked your lips and said “But I do- and you deserve a romantic night,” 

his smile was the slightest bit bashful, as if you wouldn't be celebrating your 2 year anniversary in only a couple weeks. 

After putting the flowers in a vase on the table, you went to go take a shower, washing all the grime of work off your body. You emerged from the shared bedroom in some pajamas and an old stretched out t-shirt of Aaron's. 

When you entered the living room, ready to eat, you instead found Aaron standing nervously in the middle of the room with a single rose plucked from the bouquet and some kind of heart shaped lollipop. 

His smile was bright but bashful, crossing the room to you. You were surprised but delighted, wondering what he would do. You were almost two years into the relationship and this wonderful man still surprised you everyday. 

“Will you be my valentine..?” Aaron's voice was slightly timid, a strong contrast to his normal demeanor. 

You chuckled, your eyes practically hearts as he offered up the aforementioned heart shaped lollipop. 

“Of course I will, my love- but you don't need to ask, we're in a committed relationship honey, it's assumed” your words were chastising but your tone was far from it. Aaron just chuckled to himself, looking slightly embarrassed.

“I know.. I just, thought I'd double check” you were both grinning now, and instead of responding verbally, you just pecked Aaron on the lips and took the lollipop pop from his hands. The wrapper made a crinkling noise as you unwrapped it and popped it in your mouth. 

Suddenly, after a momentary pause, Aaron perked up again. “Oh- I also made dinner for us! Your favorite,” Aaron's smile was warm as spoke, causing your cheeks to heat up. 

“You made me (whatever you want)!! Aaron have I ever told you how much I love you,” you had a lovesick smile at the caring gesture after taking the lollipop out of your mouth. The smile stuck even when you kissed him on the lips softly. He mumbled against your lips, “you tell me all the time,” 

You both chuckled lightly as he took your hand, leading you into the kitchen were he had set up everything needed for an at home dinner date. 

“Oh- Aaron- you even put out candles?” You gushed, then insisted that you take videos to send to your friends, and brag about your boyfriend of course. 

Aaron nodded in response, your now very blushy boyfriend pulled out a chair for you and motioned you to sit down. You did, with a smirk as he pulled out his own chair for himself.

The dinner went nicely, the laughter didn't stop flowing, and neither did the wine. Both you and Aaron were slightly tipsy as you changed into pajama pants and t-shirts (both Aaron's), before flopping down on the bed in the now darkened room. Both of you were facing each other.

“Happy Valentine's Day my love,” Aaron mumbled with a warm smile. Your faces were mere inches apart from each other, and you could feel Aaron's warm breath fanning your lips. 

You pressed a soft kiss against his lips, his slotting into yours. “Thank you, today was lovely,” when you had finished speaking, the conversation died naturally. 

Aaron wiggled you and him under the covers, as the old apartment windows didn't do much to keep out the blistering February air. 

For the rest of the night, or at least until both of you fell asleep, the only words spoken were sweet nothings into the darkness of your shared apartment as Aaron ran soft, comforting patterns up and down your side with his thumb. 

The End

[sxtja090]

Hi there.Can you draw Harumi Shirai secretly puts a teddy bear to sleeping Kid Hanzo?

sry for the late request but here it is!

Hope you enjoy! finally a request with one of my fav characters Hanzo! (eventhough its the mk1 verison)

i'm trying to go through the requests atm. Been feeling rlly tired these couple of days, i cant really seem to sleep, sleeping pills doesnt rlly seem to work anymore :,)

[hold-him-down]

13, 32, 42, 47, 48 and 50 for Leo

p.s. sry for being so greedy 🫣

from this ask game.

13) How much time are you forced to spend by Ivan's side?

"Most of the time, when I'm awake," Leo says, voice hoarse. "He has six workers under contract right now, I think." His eyes stay on the floor as he speaks. "In the beginning, it wasn't as bad, though. He only recently took a–" he swallows, choosing his words carefully "–took a particular interest in me. On nights that he wants me to fight, I usually... I don't, do what he wants, and so I c..." He pulls in a deep, heavy breath. "I don't get to sleep until the last of the guests leave, and then he usually has his men clean me up and bring me to him. When I wake up, it's bec-cause he's woken me up, and I spend most of the day with him in some form."

He forcibly draws in another breath, the color draining from his skin as pauses, closing his eyes.

"On days that he's busy with business, he usually leaves me to his men. I don't know which is better." ( -Leo, answered during the middle of the Ivan contract)

32) Where do you feel safer - with lots of people in the room or with Parker alone?

"With Parker alone," Leo says gently. He smiles, a sad but hopeful thing, and half-shrugs. "When he's alone, I feel like he's more genuine. I know Parker is imperfect... I know that he is, but I think he means well, and when we're alone, I get to see that side of him more. When he's in front of his friends, or his family, or even his colleagues... I never quite know which side of him I'll get. But alone, I think I trust him." ( -Leo, answered during the early parts of the Parker contract)

42) How much do you miss your past life, if you do so? Which aspects of it do you miss the most?

"I don't really allow myself to miss it," Leo says now. He speaks more easily, with less attention to when and where his buyer may be lingering. "For a long time, I didn't allow myself to think about it at all. Luke has asked, a couple times, but they kind of beat my ability to talk freely about my family out of me in training." He sips a bottle of water, and for a moment, you can see him considering a life he did not get the chance to live. "I miss my family most of all, though. If I tried to contact them, I don't know what kind of trouble that would put them in. I know what the DLS threatened me with, but I don't know if it was real or not. Luke's offered, though, a few times... to try."

He sucks in a sharp breath. "I don't think I'm ready for that, though. I don't know if I'll ever be ready to cope with the risk of what that could do to them." (-Leo, answered well into Luke's contract)

47) How much have you changed since the first day in captivity?

Leo's jaw locks and he glares at the camera, but one hand wraps around his stomach and the other grips into his shoulder. He won't touch the collar, or try, in any way, to interfere with what he knows will come next, but it doesn't mean he won't try to brace himself for it.

"Leo," the handler says from the corner. His voice is a mixture of equal parts annoyance and bewilderment at the late-stage act of defiance, and he reaches for the remote. "Just answer the question."

Leo doesn't, and just before the screen goes black, you hear the start of a gutteral scream. ( -Leo, not answered a couple months into initial training)

48) Do you have any plans or hopes for the future now?

Leo is calm when the camera is turned back on, although his face is red, and his fingers shake. He swallows, and says softly, "I hope to f-fulfill whatever requests prospective buyers have of me." ( -Leo, answered an hour after the last one)

50) Share one of your happiest moment of freedom for us!

Leo smiles in earnest. "The first time Luke played the piano for me is, to this day, one of my favorite early memories. I guess it wasn't exactly a moment of 'freedom,' because I was still very much under contract, but it feels like the beginning of my 'freedom', looking back. The first time he played it, I didn't even realize he knew how. I kind of thought the piano was there for show, and mourned its neglect constantly. One night he beat me home, and when I walked in I could hear it, and I think it was one of the first times I felt excited for something, in as long as I could remember. I couldn't wait to go watch him. It was one of the turning points for us, where he started playing again, almost every night, and eventually I did, too." ( -Leo, answered several years later)

[darkstar225]

Twice's 10th member throws a tantrum ft Red Velvet's Irene as GF

A/N: Heyyy, I'm coming up with a lot of stuff for you guys so I can make up for the time I'm gone lol! Sry for taking so long to post :D I hope that my friends Thira3 and LyraHarris8 who gave me these very similar ideas on Wattpad like it! :)

The requests: Hey I want to request where y/n is dating irene from red velvet and one day y/n throws a temper tantrum and the members ask irene to help calm y/n down and put her to sleep.

Hey I want to request where y/n is dating irene from red velvet and one day y/n was hit by a ball that scm was playing (she was crying) and the members ask irene to help calm y/n down and put her to sleep.

PS: Tysm for everyone who reads what I write, I hope I can bring a smile to your faces every time I post! I'd like to thank whoever sent me this idea 'cause I loved to write it <3

__________________________________________________________

The sun was beginning to set over Seoul, casting a warm, golden glow over the city. Inside the cosy apartment shared by TWICE, the members were enjoying a rare moment of relaxation. Y/N, the youngest and 10th member of the group, sat on the couch with her girlfriend, Irene from Red Velvet, by her side. They had been dating in secret, trying to keep their relationship under wraps due to the pressures of their respective careers.

The couple was cuddled up together, sharing whispered secrets and soft laughter. It was a precious moment of intimacy that they treasured. The other members of TWICE were scattered around the living room, each engrossed in their own activities.

In one corner, Sana was engrossed in a game on her phone, while Jihyo and Nayeon chatted quietly on another couch. Meanwhile, the trio of SMC (aka Dahyun, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu) were playing with a beach ball they had found in the corner of the room.

As they batted the ball back and forth, their laughter filled the air. Y/N and Irene watched the playful scene with smiles on their faces. They were content to simply be in each other's company, enjoying the serenity of the moment.

But serenity was short-lived in the world of TWICE. As fate would have it, the beach ball took an unexpected trajectory, sailing through the air with unexpected force. The maknae had been distracted by her conversation with Irene and didn't see it coming until it was too late.

The ball collided with her head with a painful thud, and Y/N let out a cry of pain as she clutched her head, tears welling up in her eyes. Irene was instantly by her side, her concern evident as she gently cradled her girl in her arms while she spoke.

Irene - Love, are you okay?

Y/N shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Y/N - It hurts, babe. It really hurts. *pouts*

The commotion caught the attention of the other members, and they rushed over to see what had happened. Sana put her phone aside, while Jihyo and Nayeon looked concerned.

Jihyo - What happened?

Jihyo asked with her eyes scanning the room.

Dahyun, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu exchanged guilty glances, realizing that their game had taken a dangerous turn. They hurried over to join the group, looking apologetic.

Dahyun - We're so sorry, sis. We didn't mean for that to happen. *frowns*

TWICE's fireball sniffled, still in pain from the impact of the ball. Irene shot the trio a disapproving look before turning her attention back to Y/N.

Irene - We need to get you to bed... *kisses forehead*

The older girl talked softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her baby's tear-streaked face.

Y/N nodded, leaning into Irene's comforting embrace. She was still crying, the pain and shock of the incident taking a toll on her.

Sana, always the caring soul, spoke up. 

Sana - Irene unnie, can you take care of our child? We'll handle the rest here.

Irene nodded with her focus solely on Y/N. 

Irene - Thank you, Sana. We'll be in the bedroom if you need us.

With that, Irene carefully helped TWICE's sunshine to her feet and guided her towards the bedroom they shared. Y/N's sobs continued as they walked away, leaving the rest of the members feeling a mix of guilt and concern.

Once inside the bedroom, Irene led the younger girl to the bed and gently sat her down. Y/N was still crying, her hands trembling as she held onto Irene's hand for comfort.

Irene sat beside her, her touch gentle and soothing as she wiped away her sweetheart's tears with her thumb. 

Irene - Shhh, it's okay, darling. I've got you.

Y/N hiccupped as she tried to calm down, her breathing uneven. 

Y/N - I-I'm sorry, unnie. I don't know why I'm crying so much. *sulks*

Irene - It's okay to cry, lovebug. You were hurt, and it's natural to react this way. *smiles*

Y/N nodded, sniffling as she leaned into Irene's embrace. Irene wrapped her arms around the youngest, holding her close and providing the comfort she needed. They stayed like that for a while, the room filled with the soft sound of Y/N's sniffles and Irene's soothing words.

Eventually, Y/N's tears began to subside, and she let out a shaky sigh. 

Y/N - Thank you, my love. I don't know what I'd do without you.

Irene pressed a gentle kiss to her girlfriend's lips. 

Irene - You don't have to go through tough times alone, honey. I'm always here for you.

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling safe and loved in Irene's arms. 

Y/N - I love you, Irene.

Irene - I love you too, Y/N.

As Y/N's exhaustion finally caught up with her, Irene continued to hold her, her fingers gently stroking her partner's hair. It wasn't long before the maknae's breathing grew steady and deep, and she fell into a peaceful slumber.

In the living room, the other members had gathered to discuss what had happened. SMC looked remorseful, and the guilt weighed heavily on their hearts.

Chaeyoung - We should apologize to our dongsang when she wakes up.

Dahyun and Tzuyu nodded in agreement. 

Tzuyu - We didn't mean for this to happen. *frowns*

Sana placed a comforting hand on their shoulders as she talked. 

Sana - I'm sure Y/N will understand. Let's just be more careful in the future. *pats Dahyun on the head*

Jihyo and Nayeon exchanged a knowing look. They had been silently observing the situation, and they were grateful that Irene had been there to take care of their kid.

Nayeon - Irene is a wonderful partner. She's exactly what our babygirl needed at that moment.

Jihyo - Irene's presence and care helped her calm down and feel safe. They're lucky to have each other. *nodding*

As they talked, the members made a silent pact to be more mindful of their actions in the future. They knew that accidents happened, but they wanted to ensure that their dear maknae always felt loved and protected within the group.

Hours later, Y/N woke up in Irene's arms, feeling more rested and relaxed. The pain from the incident had subsided, and she was grateful for the love and care that Irene had shown her. She knew that with Irene by her side, she could overcome anything, even unexpected beach ball mishaps with her playful group of sisters.

And as the maknae left her room and looked at her sleeping unnies, she had only one thought in mind:

I'll love my dear older sisters forever.

A/N: I'm sorry for any errors. English is not my first language. Pls, let me know if there is something wrong, ty for reading <3

[gyarucoded]

reviewing loki s2 ep4 (major spoilers!)

i was bit hesitant thowards this ep cuz i started noticing how this season parallels the previous one, which went very downhill after ep3 however, i think it seem to get better this time? 🤔🤭 this is so far my fav episode and hopefull they'll keep this energy for the last 2 eps. ok let's get into it:

i don't think this was timed like this on purpose but love how we're 3 days away from halloween and this episode fits with it so well. i could be biased as a horror fan but i loved the eeriness (is that even a term?)

brad you stupidass why are you listening to ravonna when she clearly doesn't care about any of your lives on the time line 😭

ooouu the box scene 😧 not miss minutes' psycho ass smiling like she's getting creepier each ep- also as someone who watches gory movies i expected to see what was left of all the prisoners but then i remembered disney tries to keep shit as "family friendly" as possible altough i am not complaining cuz it's a lot more cinematic to just hear the blood droplets & it leaves space for our imagination!

why does it feel like b-15 is lowkey the true leader of the tva now? i can definitely vibe with that.

"which way, wizard?"

B-15 is strong af for not throwing up at *that* scene but ig she has seen more gruesome sights before.

i just know ppl gonna ship o.b, casey & victor as a poly-couple and i'm a 100% there for it lmaoo

even sylvie calling it "bromance" like miss ma'am's gay radar was going havoc, and her smile when HWR death was mentioned plss🤚 😭

i know sylvie meant well when she snapped at mobius for yk, "not reading the room" but i still felt kinda bad for mobius cuz i can deffo see him as the stress eater-type.

loki mentioning thor !!!!

the parallels between thor & jane and loki & mobius hmmm.....hmmmm...

what sylvie said about anhiliation & starting from scratch reminded me of thanos in endgame, sry baby 💀

well despite of that, still think sylvie is in the middle of her positive character arc/development

we're also witnessing loki's growth !! (notice how in 1x04 mobius told him to grow up?) he's possibly even more mature then he was in the sacred time line but that was due his sctripted fate of being a "loser" that sabotaged him from more rational choices but now he's free to think & do what he wants n i love that for him.

goodbye miss minutes i assure you that nobody's gonna miss yew. 💁‍♀️

now why did x-5 had to ruin that wholesome moment this badly ><=$^[_=

despite of sylvie & loki not fully agreeing on moral issues and stuff, i enjoyed them working together, it was finally sylvie's turn to show off her magic 😋

loki was so soft & reassuring with victor timely only for him to be spaghettified ?? i knew they'd probs kill him off but i didn't expect it to be such a weird & immidate death 😭 kinda sad cuz i don't think they'll bring that version of him back.

idk how to feel about ravonna getting pruned. not sure she'll get redeemed cuz it's too late for that now but pruning doesn't kill an invidual so it's likely that her story doesn't just end here.

love the soundtrack in this series generally but in the latest episode it's outstanding ! natalie holt truly added her whole 🐱 into this ost 🙏

the cliffhanger is absolutely killing me, i'll have to absorb all the theories until next friday like i fr cannot wait ngfddjfsvbm

[cosmicpearlz]

I’m the anon that requested the Joao one and I just wanted to let u know I wasn’t trying to rush u or anything like that. I really do love ur writing and I’m sry I really feel bad

i accept your apology! it’s just been really busy lately but the fic should be out in the next couple of days :)

[scalliongf]

not even into sports initially, nor was i ever into rpf. am familiar w bron and steph (who doesnt?) so when i saw bronsteph moment(s) during the olympics (in passsing) i feel like something aWOKE inside of me. I discovered u thru ur fic and oh my god. I also fell into the nba rabbithole on tiktok, what with all these edits bro. How do i educate myself more on ball history and etc so I dont embarrass myself??? Also, I am itching to make art… where else can i find like-minded people like u to enjoy these with??? Im sorry pls forgive me asking this

hii sorry for how late this is…!!! thank u sm for ur sweet thoughts abt my fic (link if anyone wants to read 🚶🏻‍♂️). honestly ur so real for this entire ask bc i’m rly not that diff from u — been into basketball casually for a while but only got into creating for it more recently, so i’m learning every day too :,) glad the stephbron olympic summer ensnared u though lmfao. Their Impact!! power couple fr.

in terms of learning more abt ball i rly think getting interested in specific players is the easiest gateway. just digging deep into one athlete (esp longtime ones like lebron or steph) will give u a LOT of insight about shit like positions, tactics/types of plays, nba/bball culture, championships and accolades, technical ball stuff related to that player’s strengths, how the games work, etc etc…… and from there u will probably inevitably learn abt their teammates/rivals/players that inspire them/etc. basically allow urself to fall deeper into the rabbithole. let it consume u. the education will come naturally. always happy 2 answer any questions too 🫡

i wish i knew more abt the art side of basketblogging…… i fear i am unhelpful for that part sry </3 it’s also the off season rn so things r a bit quieter in general but should pick up in the coming months!! trust that the real romance truthers that can see the love and narratives of basketball r all here on tumblr 🤝🤝🤝

[clippy]

anyway hai everyone I have rly been struggling lately with just..everything. I am hoping 2024 will be kinder to me..... Like 2023 wasn't bad but my health has been slowly getting worse and I have no idea why, so I'm hoping to start finding some answers next year

I wanted to start doing some of that this year but money was always extremely tight, but i just got a slight raise and am getting another 50¢ in January (+ I think the custodial union where I work is gonna try to fight for an additional $3+/hour for the contract in June?) so I'm hoping my finances stabilize so I can focus on doctor's appts n the like ... My insurance is pretty good but doesn't cover everything which is why I want to do it when the year rolls over so it'll all count toward my out of pocket max n all that shit

but yeah I'm tired of spending my weekend sleeping 12 hours a day, I'm tired of the brain fog and unstable moods I've been having. My sensory issues are worse than ever, I've developed migraines (tho knock on wood I haven't had one in a couple months) and I genuinely don't know if it's a long COVID thing or a weird sleep debt thing (unlikely since I slept less when I worked at the post office and it was never even close to this bad)

anyway sry for venting I'm just like. Exhausted and lost and this stuff has gotten worse in the past 6 or so months esp and has impacted my work, school work, commissions, social life, and hobbies and it's upsetting & not having a diagnosis means I dunno what to fix nor do I have any way to protect my job/grades... :-(