#but i feel like that’s not the answer. like. it’s not the exhaustion
Text
Our wedding
Y/N and Lando probably went a little too overboard when planning their wedding. She finally looses it when his friend suggests a product placement bucket hat.
A dream wedding.
Distant palazzo, with acres of private lands to roam around at night.
Lavish dress, designed to fit perfectly and re-done three times.
Coordinators, who made sure everyone who needed to be invited actually was. And also took care about almost anything one can imagine.
A perfect wedding, that's what they both wanted. Go big or go home. Combining romance, with generously giving everyone they loved, or deemed important, the time of their life. To say that this event was supposed to be extra would be an understatement.
Lando said yes to all of Y/N's wished regarding flower arrangements, menu items and rooming lists. She said yes to all of this ideas about the music, sound systems set up in each part of the venue (because heaven would turn upside down if there had been one quiet spot with no music, according to Lando) and drinks choices. They could not agree on the photographer - so Lando just booked his, and hers option as well.
Saving money was not on the table. He knew that the amount of good PR and brand deals the Quadrant team managed to get together was going to pay out in the long run. Everyone loves a wedding.
That's where the first issues started - the amount of people invited grew into higher hundreds. She voiced her point few times, but Lando quickly shut those off with a promise to book a private charter for all friends and family who were coming from her homeland. She caved in and agreed to just few more CEO's she'd never met, as long as they did not share their table.
It was the final two months before the wedding and things could not be more hectic. They had to plan the wedding around Lando's race schedule, so summer break between races it was. Y/N had to juggle her job with all of this planning, so she attended less races than she usually would. Most of the calls she shared with Lando were wedding related and it seemed like his best friend Max took it upon himself to speak on behalf of Lando - so sometimes it felt like she was marrying Max rather than her fiancé. After a total break down she had few days ago, which resulted in her crying on the phone to Lando at 4 am his local time, they agreed she absolutely had to come over to the next race so that they could find some down time.
//
Having to endure a tiring overnight flight, she finally stepped into the hotel where Lando was staying at. Exhausted, jet-lagged and generally in a bad mood were the main ingredients in the perfect cocktail of "you should just avoid me" Y/N.
She finally opened the door to his room and let out a groan. Traveling to see him used to be her favorite thing. A bombastic cherry on top was that she immediately recognized Max's voice coming from the living room. Was this guy staying in the same room as them now?
"Y/N, is that you?" she heard, desperately hoping he hadn't heard her enter in. She felt like a bitch for wishing that, but he was the last person she wanted to see at that point. Her hopes of jumping in the bed and cuddling Lando the first thing coming here dissolved like cotton candy, leaving tooth aches behind.
"Yes, Max, it's me," she said, not even bothering adjusting her tone to something more socially appropriate.
"Great, just on time. Can you come in here? We have some decisions that are becoming pressing matters," he said dryly and added his own frustrated comment quietly "...since someone does not feel like answering emails."
She heard that, bit her lip and swallowed all her comments, otherwise she would explode.
"What's up?" she asked, entering the living space. There were dozens of baseball caps and buckets hats laid down on the coffee table with Max and some random young guy towering over them.
"We need you to pick out one of these which you'll be wearing after the reception. I have a great brand deal on the table which I need to close today. So, go ahead - pick one."
She could not believe the words coming out of Max's mouth. Was he for real?
"May I ask when did I agree to wearing a baseball cap with my dress right after my wedding?"
Max glanced at her and then rolled his eyes. "Can you just pick one? Lando is on board with this, he'll be wearing this green one," he pointed to objectively very nice stylish item of clothing - but still, it was a bucket hat. Rage levels shot up in Y/N blood steam.
"Max, I'm suppose to be wearing my wedding dress until the evening, that's also in some deal you guys made," she proclaimed, hoping this would finally make him get some sense. "The dress is very classical, I don't think this would fit the vibe."
"Oh, come, we agreed to sticking to the Quadrant Athletes color palette and all of these check that. We want to break the classical vibe up with this."
"I'm sorry, who exactly is we in this scenario? And who the fuck are you?!" she pointed at the guy standing next to Max.
"I'm...I'm the product placement controller," he said in a shy voice.
Her eyes just went wide at that point.
"Y/N, no need to freak out again, you need to create a viral moment to make the brand grow," Max said, as if he was talking about a new merch launch.
And that was the final straw. "I'm getting sick of you guys making my wedding into a Quadrant PR stunt. You need to realize this is my wedding, not yours! The whole event is already dripping with brand deals and promotions, is there nothing out of line to you? Will my mom also have to wear one of these hats? Will force the officiant to wear sneakers? Where will you stop?"
Max stared at her, his own cup finally also full. But unlike her, he spoke calmly - again, giving strong business vibes.
"Oh, I'm sorry - I'm sorry I am pulling heaven and Earth to make sure your wedding does not ruin your future husband! I apologize that I seem to be more stressed about this wedding than you are. Sorry for caring and trying to uphold some standard."
"Max, this is all too much! I feel like I'm suffocating," she tried to reason with him once more.
He just had enough at that point. So many little moments of mutual disagreement finally grew on him.
"Yeah, well maybe you're just not suited for this world."
Before she could even take a breath to respond, a familiar voice cut them both off.
"Guys, that's enough I'd say," Lando said as he slowly stepped out the same corridor Y/N had entered moments ago. Both Max and Y/N turned around, knowing they'd have spoken way differently had they known he was there as well.
Max gulped, knowing he stepped over a line and immediately started to apologize. "Mate, I'm sorry, we just sort of lost it. I'm sorry."
Lando glanced at him, his face suddenly hard to read for both his friend and his fiancée. He quickly flashed Y/N a look, seeing the obvious distress finally on his own, in a way the camera on a phone just does not capture. It pained him to see them two fighting, but it pained him more to see her on the verge of crying.
She couldn't find words to apologize to Max. In fact she could barely even see him, as Lando took all of her attention.
"Can you guys leave us for now? I think we need to talk alone," Lando said in a tone so serious that Max hardly remembered last time he'd heard it.
"Yeah, mate. Of course," he said shyly, gesturing to his companion to quickly exit with him.
Once the door finally clicked, Y/N felt like she could get out of her frozen state.
"My god. Lando, I knew it would be a challenge these few months, but I did not expect to grow so far away from you," she said, as the words flew out of her mouth without her being able to control it.
He was more careful with his words, but brave nevertheless. "It's true. I don't think we've even been so distant."
Him acknowledging it just made it real and hurt more.
"Right. At least we have that in common."
There was an awkward silence, something these two hadn't experienced in months.
"Why is Max involved so much?" she asked, hoping that she would not hear anything that would make her biggest fear come true - Lando's lack of desire to marry her.
He took a moment to get his point in the right order. "He's my best friend. This is our wedding. I can't stop focusing on racing, but I want it to be perfect. I'd say not giving him any credit sometimes."
Of course, he was defending him. She wondered if he defended her in front of Max sometimes.
All card on the table. She gulped before uttering the next sentence. "I'm scared that I don't want to go to my own wedding anymore. I feel like an unwanted guest."
They shared a look full of hidden pain. It was impossible to tell, but Lando was scared as never before. "What are you saying...Do you want to call it of??"
She looked back at him, praying that he would understand. "God no, that's the last thing I want to do," she sighed and put her head in her hands. How did it got to a place where he could even assume that? "Marrying you, the love of my life, is my dream. In fact, I'd just like to jump to the moment where I can finally say yes to you."
The air still felt really heavy. "Then let's do just that."
"What do you mean?"
Lando took few steps closer to her, missing her close proximity for the past few weeks. He desperately needed to fix them.
"Let's book a wedding for next week in Monaco, just you me and any other people required by the law."
The idea of that seemed silly at first. But the more she thought about it, the more she craved that idea.
"So, you want to call the actual wedding off?"
Lando chuckled at the image of them cancelling that at last minute and all the hustle that would bring. "No, silly, not unless you really want to. But who says we can't have a fake ceremony there, celebrate with everyone, while already being married at that point? We don't need to tell anyone, keep the magic for them. We can have two weddings."
It was her time to laugh now. "So because we find organizing one wedding hard, we're going to be doing two now?"
"We are anything but conventional. And if this is news for you then, well...That would mean I'm marrying the queen of delulu. Twice."
The weight of the past weeks was lifted.
"Does this mean I can say "No." at the big wedding?" she teased him, closing the distance between them and holding his hand.
"Not if I'll say "No." first," he winked and quickly gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"I'm not wearing a bucket hat. Just stating that now."
"Oh come, at least one of our weddings," he said as he ruffled her hair. "Wow, I think you need a post airport shower, my love."
"Do not try and change the topic - no bucket hats!" she mumbles as she tried to fix her hair.
"Fine, I'll just get you drunk. You'll wear a bucket hat at one of our weddings one way or another."
It felt so good to just banter with him, like they always did before they got caught up in all the stress. A shot of guilt went through her system, as she flashed back at the whole process so far.
"I should probably apologize to Max," she uttered, avoiding his eye contact once again.
He finally hugged her. "Yeah probably. But...let him rot in his feelings for a moment. I hate when someone makes you upset. Apart from me, of course."
"What makes me upset right now is the alarming amount clothes you're wearing."
"That's my girl!"
//
They got legally married the following weekend, Lando bribing anyone he could in order for them to skip few spots that were unavailable. The first wedding was secret and full of inappropriate, but honest kisses.
The second one was fake, but they slayed it together, as newly married couple. Without the stress of actually getting married, they really enjoyed their wedding. The little secret stayed with them - and Max of course, because he just had to get involved with everything.
#lando norris#lando norris x reader#lando norris x you#lando norris fanfic#ln4 imagine#formula 1#formula one x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#fluff#lando norris fluff#formula 1 fluff#formula 1 fanfic#ln4 x reader#ln4 x y/n#lando norris x y/n#formula 1 one shot#f1 one shot
284 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thank you, for everything (it takes a village) - Lewis Hamilton ft. Ayrton Senna
Little something for the 30th Anniversary of Senna's legacy
pairing: Senna! Reader X Lewis Hamilton
warnings: mentions of death, mourning, 30th anniversary of Senna's legacy
wordcount: +4k
song: In your arms - Birdy
a/n: People in Brasil don't say is the anniversary of his death but rather of his legacy, and it's such a beautiful way to see it. I hope Ayrton knows, wherever he is, how loved he still is.
a/n.2: Ayrton was known as Beco/Becão by his family and friends
As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi! (Also, my written portuguese is a bit rusty, so if there's anything weird, please let me know)
______________________________________________________________
When hope went away I still held on, to the love that you gave, it’s all I’ve got of you now. I will never know you, don’t get to understand, no answers to questions. It’s too late for that. But I was in your arms, once
A pre-dawn Miami humidity clung to y/n like a second skin, even inside the automatically cooled hotel room. The city slept, but the salty air carried a raw energy that mirrored the turmoil brewing within her. Today, the 1st of May, was a day she always needed to face alone.
She laid there, staring at the ceiling, the weight growing with each passing moment. Today, the air itself seemed thick with an unspoken grief, a shared memory of loss that resonated across the globe. 30 years. Three decades since the world had watched in horror as lives changed forever, hers included.
The sheets felt too restrictive, the silence too loud. Pulling them back, she tiptoed past the rumpled form of Lewis, still fast asleep. He'd offered to come with her, to run by the beach together, but she needed this. Needed the solitude, the rhythmic pounding of her feet against the pavement to chase away the ghosts of a past she barely remembered.
Miami slept, bathed in the faint glow of pre-dawn light, but Y/N felt wide awake, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Stepping out onto the balcony, the salty air stung her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she gazed out at the vast expanse of the ocean, the darkness slowly giving way to a canvas of vibrant oranges and pinks.
A single tear traced a path down her cheek, a silent tribute to a love stolen too soon. Every year on this day, it was as if the world held its breath, waiting for her grief to surface. This anniversary wasn't a celebration; it was a stark reminder of the void that had forever shaped her life.
The need to move, to outrun the memories that threatened to consume her, became an insistent ache. With each step, a memory flickered to life, but one always stood out the most, the one few people knew of.
She was four, piloting her tiny kart around a makeshift track at Interlagos. The familiar scent of burnt rubber and exhaust fumes flooded her senses, transporting her back to a time before tragedy struck. Y/n grinned, her hair whipping in the wind, as she pushed her little kart to its limits.
A wild turn, a sickening jolt, and the world tilted sideways. Then, strong arms scooped her up. "Tudo bem aí, filha?" (Everything okay there, darling?) Her father's voice, warm and reassuring. He checked her over, a playful glint in his dark brown eyes. "Você tava indo bem, se assustou?" (You were doing great, did you scare yourself?)
Y/n shook her head, a defiant tear clinging to her cheek. “Eu acho que tá bom por hoje já.” (I think that’s enough for today) Ayrton ruffled her hair, a conforting glint in his eyes. “Não pai, eu quero baixar o tempo da volta”(No dad, I wanna lap faster) little y/n stood her ground, already half way back into her kart. "Vamos voltar lá e mostrar como se faz então, Senninha” (Let’s go back there and show who’s boss then, Senninha).
The memory faded, replaced by the rhythmic sound of the waves. Anya stopped, chest heaving. Frustration gnawed at her. She would never know that feeling of hearing him cheer her on in that deep, familiar voice again. All she had were these fleeting snippets, these echoes of a life stolen too soon.
Each stride was a battle cry against the past, a desperate attempt to find some semblance of peace. She ran until the sun climbed higher, painting the sky in vibrant hues, until her lungs burned and her legs screamed for mercy. Finally, Y/n slowed to a walk, chest heaving, sweat stinging her eyes.
Collapsing onto a weathered bench, she leaned forward, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. As the initial wave of exhaustion subsided, a new clarity washed over her. The memories would always be there, a bittersweet reminder of a love lost.
But today, she would celebrate his life, his passion, his legacy that lived on, not just in her name, but in the hearts of countless who still chanted his name at races.
Returning to the hotel, Y/n showered, the steam slowly clearing the remnants of the run and the emotional turmoil. Opening the bathroom door, she found Lewis propped up on the bed, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, a concerned look in his warm brown eyes.
"Morning," he said, his voice slightly raspy. "Early run?"
She offered a tired smile. "Needed to clear my head." She sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling a towel around her damp hair. "Big day ahead"
Lewis put down his phone, his gaze intent on her. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice softer now. "You alright?"
Taking another deep breath, she met his gaze. "Yeah, I'll be okay. Just… emotional, even more so this year"
Lewis reached out and took her hand, his touch a warm anchor in the storm of her emotions. "No judgment," he said quietly. "Today isn't easy for you, I know."
Y/n leaned into his touch, finding comfort in his understanding. "Interviews all day and the dinner at night" she sighed. "They want me to relive it all – the memories, the grief. It gets exhausting sometimes."
Lewis nodded. "Then maybe you should have your people reschedule them. There's no need to—"
She cut him off with a gentle shake of her head. "No, Lew. I can't hide from it. Today may be hard, but it's important. It's a chance to celebrate his life, to keep his memory alive." she squeezed his hand, a newfound determination strengthening her resolve. "I just…" she hesitated, her voice thick with emotion, "I wish I could remember more."
Lewis's gaze softened further. "You may not have years of childhood memories, but you carry his spirit in you. His passion, his strength, that's part of who you are."
Y/n looked out the window, at the city slowly waking up to a new day. His words held truth. She may not have clear memories of her father, but his legacy, his love, was woven into the fabric of her being.
Taking another deep breath, she met Lewis's gaze, a small smile danced in her eyes "I hope so.”
Today would be impossibly hard. As people celebrated a hero, she would mourn a loss, but they would all be facing the future nonetheless. He may have been gone, but the love he gave her remained, with her and in her.
"I remember you my way, It’s not perfect or fair, I paint you with colours, That weren’t ever there. Feels harder these days after so long, ‘Cause my memory fades"
The sterile hotel conference room felt strangely warm, the air thick with a mix of anticipation and unspoken grief. Y/n sat opposite Galvão Bueno, the legendary Brazilian motorsport commentator, his kind eyes reflecting a lifetime of witnessing triumphs and tragedies on the track. This wasn't just another interview. Galvão knew Ayrton. Knew him not just as a driver, but as a friend, a competitor, a kindred spirit who left a void in Brazilian hearts, and most acutely, in Y/n's.
The interview began, a dance between formality and shared history. Galvão's questions flowed, laced with a quiet respect that Y/n appreciated. "O Ayrton" he began, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips "sempre teve uma maneira diferente de cativar o público” (always had a way of captivating a room"
Y/n nodded, a flicker of curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Ele tinha” (He did) she admitted "Mas para ser bem honesta, eu lembro de sempre ficar puxando ele para sair dos lugares porque ele parava para conversar com todo mundo” (But to be honest, I remember always dragging him out of place since he would stop and talk to everyone)
A warm chuckle escaped Galvão's lips at her confession. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Você sabia que antes de toda corrida, ele fazia um ritualzinho? Ele parava na frente do carro, fechava os olhos, e... bom, ninguém sabe direito o que ele fazia. Mas ele tocava o carro em três lugares específicos – o nariz, a roda direita dianteira, e aqui” (Did you know that before every race, he'd have this little ritual? He'd stand by his car, close his eyes, and…well, no one knew exactly what he did, but he'd touch the car in three specific places – the nose cone, the front right wheel, and then, right here) Galvão tapped his chest over his heart.
Y/n smiled, surprised that someone still remembered that sequence. But, although this was the Ayrton Senna she knew from the countless documentaries and newsreels, how he recounted that from memory was a glimpse of a private Ayrton, a man seeking solace and strength before the roar of the engines began, not something she would notice while watching a video.
"E tem mais, Senninha” (There's more, Senninha) he said, using the affectionate nickname many Brazilians called her. "Você sabe que ele era muito supersticioso. Ele nunca usava um capacete novo pela primeira vez em um final de semana de corrida. Sempre insistia em um mais velho, mesmo que estivesse ruim para usar.” (He was fiercely superstitious, you see. He wouldn't wear a new helmet for the first time on a race weekend. Always insisted on the old one, even if it was a little worse for wear.)
Y/n couldn't help but let out a small laugh, a welcome sound that broke the tension in the room. "Parece exatamente algo que ele faria” (That sounds exactly like something he’d do) she said, a newfound appreciation blooming in her chest.
Galvão continued, weaving a tapestry of anecdotes. He spoke of Ayrton's meticulous work ethic, his relentless pursuit of perfection, and then, with a twinkle in his eye, of his playful side. "Ele sempre arrastava os reporters brasileiros para o kart em Interlagos, lá onde você aprendeu a pilotar” (He'd always drag Brazilian reporters to go-kart at Interlagos, right there where you learned how to race" he reminisced, a fond smile creasing his face. "E deixa eu te contar, seu pai sempre ganhava da gente, por muito!" (And let me tell you, your father would always bet us, by far)
Y/n listened, captivated. These were stories of a man, not just a legend. A man who found joy in competition, even outside the high-pressure world of Formula One. As the interview progressed, a kaleidoscope of Ayrton unfolded before her, a man filled with complexities and contradictions, yet undeniably her father.
Stepping out of the stifling conference room, Y/n felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Galvão's interview had stirred a potent cocktail of emotions within her – a heady mix of pride, nostalgia, and a gnawing sense of loss. Back in her hotel room, she found her ant Viviane unpacking a basket of goodies as she waited for her youngest niece. The scent of warm pão de queijo filled the air, a familiar comfort amidst the whirlwind of emotions.
"Você chegou, florzinha" (You’re here, little flower) the elder woman said, her voice as warm as the sun, pulling Y/n into a tight embrace. "Como foi?” (How did it go)
Y/n sank into the hug, the scent of lavender and her ant’s comforting embrace temporarily pushing aside the weight of the interview. "Foi bom” (It was good) she mumbled, pulling away slightly. “Galvão knew Dad well, that's for sure” y/n’s changed to English, hoping it’d be okay to use the language she didn’t have to think so hard to answer back in.
Both women sat by the outdoor sitting area of the room, the crash of the waves a comforting distraction as y/n ate the last bits of the cheese bread that were being served all day during the interviews on the anniversary and promotions for the new Netflix show.
"I believe everything's going well for the dinner latter tonight” the younger offered, more out of obligation than conviction. Viviane’s gaze sharpened, the lines around her eyes crinkling with a quiet understanding. She held Y/n’s gaze until she asked "But something troubles you, doesn't it?"
Y/n hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her shirt. It was a familiar pattern her family knew all too well, the switch to English, the fiddling, the lack of glint in the eyes she had inherited from Ayrton.
Taking a deep breath, y/n confessed, "It's just…all these interviews, all these stories about Dad. I feel like everyone knew a part of him I never did."
A shadow flickered across Viviane’s face, a brief echo of the grief they both still carried. She reached out, gently squeezing Y/n's hand. "My love" she began, her voice soft yet firm “Beco was a complex man. Even those closest to him couldn't fully grasp him. He was a whirlwind, a force of nature on the track, but off it…" she paused, a wistful smile gracing her lips. "He was a private man, and yes, perhaps a little distant at times. He lived for his racing, dedicating every fiber to it."
Y/n nodded, a familiar ache tightening her chest. "It's not that I blame him," she said quietly. "He was the best."
Viviane’s smile softened. "He was, my darling. But being the best came at a cost. It left little room for the mundane, the everyday things that build memories."
A flicker of a childhood memory sparked in Y/n's mind – the faint scent of her father's cologne, the warmth of his hand enveloping hers as they walked through a park. They weren't grand gestures, but they were hers, proof of a love that existed beyond trophies and championships.
The elder saw the shift in Y/n's eyes, the glimmer of a forgotten memory. "Não se compare com o Galvão ou com qualquer outro, meu amor” (Don't compare yourself to Galvão or the others, my love) she said gently. "Você é a filha dele. Você conheceu o Beco, o homem com o mesmo olhar que o seu” (You are his daughter. You knew Beco, the man with the same eyes as yours)
Y/n's gaze drifted out to the bustling Miami cityscape, a blur compared to the vivid image forming in her mind's eye – a playful smile on her father's face as he taught her how to say pão de queijo. It was a fleeting memory, but a precious one nonetheless.
The stories, though fragmented, were pieces of a larger puzzle, a picture of her father that was starting to take shape, not just as a legendary driver, but as a man capable of love, laughter, and quiet moments of joy.
As they finished their lunch, Viviane placed a comforting hand on Y/n's cheek. "Go now, my darling," she said, her voice soft yet strong. "Celebrate your father, honor his memory. But don't forget to celebrate the love you shared, the love that lives on within you."
Y/n nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, this time tears of gratitude for the woman who had been a constant source of love and support throughout her life. Leaning in, they embraced tightly. "Obrigada, tia. Por tudo" (Thank you, antie. For everything) she whispered, the words thick with emotion.
As she left the hotel room later, for another round of interviews before the official dinner, Y/n went to the window, gazing out at the ocean once again, taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Obrigada, pai. Por tudo.” (Thank you, dad. For everything). It was a simple phrase, but for her, it held the weight of a lifetime of love and an unspoken promise to keep his legacy alive.
"And these aren’t tears because you’re gone, But for all the years that we lost, All those times I missed that love, Had it just for a moment"
As the night dawned in Miami, the heat dissipated but the humidity continued to clung to the city like a second skin. Y/n bustled around the room, a flurry of nervousness. The dinner to celebrate Ayrton Senna’s legacy started in a couple of hours and although the event had been meticulously planned for weeks, and by at least 30 people, the weight of the world felt concentrated on Y/n shoulder’s, the formal host to the dinner.
Lewis emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped around his lower waist, beads of water clinging to his dark braids. He stopped short at the sight of Y/n, a smile spreading across his face as he took sight of her sat perched on the edge of the bed, a faded white t-shirt of his hanging loosely on her slender frame, a white towel turbaned around her wet hair.
"Planning on hitting the town like that?" he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. "Although" he added, his voice dropping a touch lower, "I do love the look."
Y/n laughed, a sound that banished the last vestiges of worry from Lewis's heart. "Not quite," she said, her smile widening. "I’m trying to figure out what to post"
He noticed her phone held open on the bed, displaying two video options. As he walked closer, his bare chest brushing against hers for a fleeting moment – a small reminder of the intimacy they shared – Y/n looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with a light he hadn't yet seen earlier in the day.
"Help me choose" she said, her voice filled with a newfound energy.
He picked her up and sat her on his laps, occupying her place by the edge of the bed, the scent of his shower gel a subtle but pleasant counterpoint to the sweet aroma of the lotion she had applied. He leaned over to see the two videos.
The first one, showed a baby Y/n, barely a year old, toddling through a sun-dappled garden, her chubby arms flailing as she chased a flurry of brightly colored butterflies. In the background, Ayrton with a gentle smile on his face, playfully swatting the butterflies away from his daughter with a swatting motion.
The second video, showed a slightly older Y/n, around two years-old, in a swimming pool. Ayrton, submerged in the water next to her, was demonstrating how to blow bubbles. Y/n, a mischievous glint in her eyes, mimicked his actions, creating a flurry of glistening bubbles that danced around her face.
"The bubble one. Something about that mischievous gleam in your eyes always has me hooked” Lewis said, amusement dancing in his voice
Y/n laughed, a sound so genuine and unburdened that it made Lewis's heart skip a beat. "I was always a rowdy thing" she admitted, a playful glint in her own eyes.
"A charming one, at that," Lewis confirmed, reaching out to kiss her shoulder. Picking the video, Lewis handed the phone back to her. "Let the world see that side to you" Y/n grinned, tapping on the screen to schedule the post.
She got up and disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed, and a few minutes later Lewis walked into Y/n intently listening to her phone on speaker, as she fiddled with a stray curl as she spoke.
"Adriane" she soothed; her voice laced with a warmth that cut through the phone's static. "Você está indo como minha convidada, lembra?” (You're coming as my guest, remember?)
A nervous laugh tinkled on the other end. “Eles sabem disso?” (Do they know that?). Andriane, Ayrton's last girlfriend and a prominent Brazilian television personality.
Y/n bit her lip, a pang of sympathy shooting through her. "Eu sei.” (I do know) she sighed. "Eu sei que eles nunca realmente te aceitaram, mas você era diferente. Você foi a única que ele me apresentou” (I know they never really accepted you, but you were different. You were the only one he introduced me."
A brief silence followed, then Adriane spoke, her voice softer now. "Ele queria uma família, Y/n. Uma família para você. Ele sempre falava isso, seu futuro, com ele” (He wanted a family, Y/n. A family for you. He talked about it all the time, your future, with him)
Y/n's heart clenched. Memories flickered – fleeting glimpses of her father smiling at her from across a dinner table, his eyes holding a tenderness she hadn't quite understood at the time. Perhaps, she thought, there had been more to those moments than she'd realized.
"Obrigada Adriane, por tudo. Por ter sido parte da vida dele, e por ser parte da minha, do seu jeito.” (Thank you Adriane, for everything. For being a part of his life, and for being a part of mine, in your own way) she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Adriane sniffled softly and then laughed “Você é tão charmosa quanto ele, Senninha” (You are as much of a charmer as he was, Senninha) a sound that banished the last traces of tension. "Vai dar tudo certo.” (Everything will be alright)
With a final exchange of goodbyes, Y/n hung up. Glancing over at Lewis, who was attempting to understand the few Portuguese words he could understand. She took a deep breath. "My family’s not gonna make this any easier" she sighed, her voice hesitant.
Lewis turned and reached for her, pulling her by the waist with a questioning look etched on his face. Y/n, feeling a flicker of anxiety, explained the conversation, but mostly of the unwavering loyalty she felt towards the woman who held such a significant piece of her father's story.
As she finished, Lewis placed a gentle hand on her cheek. "You miss him, don't you?" he asked softly, his eyes filled with understanding as you gave him a sad smile and nod
"It doesn't matter how long it's been" Lewis continued, his voice firm yet gentle. "Grief doesn't have a deadline."
Y/n remained silent, the weight of his words settling in. He knew the anniversary was a constant reminder, a punch to the gut every year. He could only imagine the whirlwind of emotions it brought – the bittersweet memories mixed with the crushing weight of what could have been.
"It feels unfair, sometimes…" she started, her voice catching signaling she wouldn’t complete her thoughts. Lewis tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer. "It is unfair," he agreed, his voice a low rumble against her ear
Y/n leaned into his touch, seeking solace in his words and the steady beat of his heart. The dam finally broke, and a light sob went thought her body. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent. Lewis held her close, whispering reassurances against her hair, letting her feel without judgment.
"Every year," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "it's like a punch to the gut. A reminder of all the birthdays, holidays, just…everyday moments I missed with him." Her voice cracked. "Everyone has stories, memories. They remember his laugh, his jokes, his warmth. All I have are these…flashes of moments, barely enough to string together a semblance of who he was."
Lewis didn't try to fix it, to offer empty platitudes. He simply held her gaze as she spoke, a silent promise etched in his eyes. He wouldn't try to replace the memories she never had, but he would be a part of her future, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold.
“It's okay to mourn the future that was stolen from you” he whispered, his voice gentle, as Y/n leaned into his touch, a flicker of something akin to peace flickering in her eyes. "Do you think he would have liked me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The question hung heavy in the air. It was a question she'd probably grappled with for years, a silent fear gnawing at the edges of her grief. Lewis knew he couldn't give her a definitive answer, but he could offer her the solace of a possibility.
"There's no doubt he would have loved you fiercely." he said, his voice firm with conviction. “And he would have been so proud of the woman you've become."
Silence settled between them once more, but this time it was a comfortable silence, filled with a newfound understanding. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For being here, for listening, for understanding."
Y/n turned, her eyes meeting his in the mirror, a fresh wave of tear forming in her eyelids. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"These aren't sad tears" she explained, wiping away at her eyes "They're just…wish you were here' kind of tears… For this" Y/n gestured at the phone on the counter. "For the celebration, for being surrounded by people who loved him. I just wish he could be here too."
Her voice softened, an acceptance in her eyes. The pain and loss would always be there, a part of her story. But there was also space for joy, for celebrating his life, and for building a future for herself.
As he pulled her into a warm embrace, Lewis whispered into her ear, "He is here, Y/n. In you, in your strength, in the mischief you still carry in your eyes. Every step you take forward is partly because of his love for you."
They stood there for a moment longer, a silent conversation passing between them. Y/n pulled away, wiping the last vestiges of moisture from her cheeks.
"Alright then" she said, a playful glint back in her eyes. "Let's go celebrate Dad. And show Miami a little Brazilian hospitality."
Lewis grinned. "Lead the way" his arms wrapping her and turning her around so he could kiss her.
The 30th anniversary of his death, although grim and a meticulously planned affair, held a significance that went beyond events, interview and RSVPs. It was a celebration of a life well-lived, a father cherished, and a daughter determined to carry his legacy forward, one mischievous bubble at a time.
______________________________________________________________
TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28
@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld
@fearfam69691 @cmleitora
#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton x you#lewis hamilton imagine#senna!reader#ayrton senna#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#lewis hamilton#formula 1
191 notes
·
View notes
Note
Regular life AU!
Salaryman!Nanami x Sleepyhead!Reader
Reader loves to take naps and Nanami loves to over work so Reader always forces Nami to take naps with her when she’s tired because she knows he’s tired too.
She invades his office covered in her blanket and stands in front of Nanami until he picks her up and they go sleep ;-;
Sometimes he tries to plead with her to wait longer but she doesn’t budge at all 🤣
𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 .ᐟ
────── 𝕴 . featuring. nanami kento x fem! reader
────── 𝕴 . warnings. non-sorcerer au! nanami being the man he is, i miss him :(
note. i'm in a lecture right now, and i'm bored out of my mind — but hii nonnie, i absolutely love this idea, i love sleeping and this request is just so cute :( i hope you like this!
"hi, sweetheart." nanami whispers, his hand busy gripping on the pen as he craned his neck from side to side, from paper to paper, "why aren't you napping?"
you furrowed your brows, "i was napping, until i turned over to hug my boyfriend and he's gone."
nanami's eyes promptly averted to yours, the corner of his lips tugging up into a small, exhausted smile, "you know i'm a little busy, right? i really have to get this done the day after tomorrow — i promise i'll be back in bed to nap with you."
his voice was soft, almost inaudible. the exhaustion forming under his eyes was apparent.
"not even just for a few hours?" you questioned, standing in front of his desk — bundled inside a white colored blanket, "you need to rest too, kento. look at you."
"i know, darling. i just need to get this done real quick, okay?" he laid his pen down, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"just for a few hours, please?" you tell him, knowing he wouldn't be able to lay himself to rest unless you forced him to.
nanami is a hard worker. i think that should be fairly obvious — he over works a lot, even after office hours. which was a pet peeve to you that he's discarding his own health away for work. and no matter how hard you tried, he just won't stop.
"i know, love. in a minute. okay?"
his question received no answer. that made his eyes rise up to meet yours and they weren't happy. nanami chuckles, he leaned back onto his chair, "you. me. nap. now."
slowly, he stands up and stretches his arms upwards, "i'm sorry for being so absent lately, come here," the man opens his arms for you to fall into.
and so you did, jumping into his arms.
he pats your hair, tightening the blanket around you — before prompting to carry you up, sauntering back to the bedroom, "feel better?"
nodding, you placed your face in between his neck and shoulder, "much better, and you stink."
his body vibrated as he stifled back a laugh, kissing the top of your head, "i haven't had the time to shower after coming back from work, i'm sorry," nanami explains.
shaking your head, you huffed, "i know, it's okay. i still love you though."
nanami whispers back, "i love you too."
he entered the bedroom, laying you down on the bed — gently pulling the covers off you, tucking you in like how a mother would to her child. can't say that you didn't enjoy the pampering.
"i'm going to take a quick shower, i'll be back," nanami leans down, kissing the tip of your nose, making you subconsciously scrunch it.
"don't take too long," you rolled your eyes.
"i won't, darling."
as he got up to leave, you grabbed the hem of his shirt, "i want something before you go shower."
nanami raised a brow, waiting for your statement. but you didn't, all he saw was you puckering your lips out slightly — nanami smiled, pulling you in by your neck, planting his lips onto yours.
"i love you, ken."
he kissed you again, "i love you too."
© churipu 2024 , do not copy or repost anywhere
#jujutsu kaisen#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk#jjk fluff#jujutsu kaisen fluff#fluff#nanami kento#nanami kento x reader#nanami x reader#nanami fluff#nanami kento fluff#nanami oneshot#nanami kento oneshot
191 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘, 𝖺 '𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼. (𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾)
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : Suffering several losses and ongoing, world-renowned tennis champion, Art Donaldson, is beginning to lose hope. After unexpectedly crossing paths with a familiar-looking journalist, Art realizes there could be more at stake than just his career. Will he leave the world he knew behind, or give the game one more shot?
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 : art donaldson x (f) sports journalist!reader.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : (𝟷𝟾+), second chance romance, angst, fluff, slow-burn.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 444.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝/𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : none.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚊 / 𝚗 : Hi, and welcome to my first fanfiction in 10 years! I've written this prologue for now as I write future chapters during my free time. I hope you guys enjoy this story, and I hope Challengers continues to receive the bountiful amounts of love it has been since its release.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ . . .
“I don’t want to do this. I can’t.”
“Should’ve decided that before you became a world championship player.”
The shuddering breath that leaves his nostrils narrowly frees the anxiety coursing through his veins like a racetrack, the dizzying walk down a familiar feeling corridor more nauseating than the last. Art practiced, hard, and to see that it was all for nothing felt like a slap to the face, a rude awakening for a man who had been yearning for the younger version of himself; fresh-faced and ready to take on Stanford— then, the world. What a fucking joke.
He winces instantly as the conference room doors yawn open, dazzling flashes from the multitude of various press outlets waving their cameras in his face, the flurry begging for him to answer trampled questions over the next. He can’t imagine how exhausted he must look, drenched in sweat.
The anticipatory looks of reporters and bloggers, ready to barrage him with inquiries of his ongoing defeats, his future plans to ensure a win: He hated it. He wanted nothing more but to retreat to his hotel room in peace and quiet to reflect on what he could have done better, what he did so wrong. With every step toward the press table, his footing grew heavier than the last, that awful sensation in the pit of his stomach settling, worsening once he sat down.
A mic is placed on him by an assistant, and a reporter emerges amid the sea of people that grow calm. His blue, tired eyes meet theirs.
“Mr. Donaldson.”
“Hi.”
The reporter clears their throat. “I... can only assume this wasn't the result you'd be hoping for— none of us had. I mean, months and months of agonizingly hard training regimens and diets to stick to... I can't fathom how disappointed you must be feeling right now,”
A long pause.
“…Why don’t we just start with something simple: What exactly happened out there, today?”
Amongst the quiet whispers and shutter clicks that flash from cameras that stun him, Art Donaldson, the acclaimed savior of tennis is utterly silent; frozen.
“... Art?”
“...”
He doesn’t utter a word, he doesn't have any to explain why he continued to be a disappointment to not only himself, but to everyone around him. His trainers, his media team, his fans... himself. The deafening loud ringing in his ears finally falls silent when his wings are clipped and he falls back down to earth. Despite it all, the waves of anguish, the disappointment, the embarrassment he feels for those around him... he smiles, glassy-eyed and defeated for the tabloids to see in all his pitiful glory.
“What happened?”
#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson#art donaldson imagine#challengers fanfic#challengers fanfiction#actually super anxious to drop this but the post button is here so..#time to close my eyes and hope for the best <3#I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS AAAA ive always been a bit ick about my writing but#anything for mike faist and anything for art donaldson <3#cheers :0)
181 notes
·
View notes
Text
Opposites Attract
Summary: You and Nika share a class and sit next to each other. Shes always teasing you, saying you're nerdy, while you always tease her, calling her a stereotypical jock.
wc: 1.6k
warnings: none really, mostly fluff, a bit of enemies to lovers if you squint
pairings: nika muhl x fem!reader
im trying this in a bit of a different style bc i feel like it fits the best! lmk if you guys like it or not
"What a nerd." "Nerd? At least I'm not a meathead."
When you first got paired with Nika for your class seating assignments, you were less than thrilled. Being with the class jock was not something you were looking forward to. You assumed she was all looks and brawn, no brain.
She felt the exact same way. She couldn't believe that she was stuck with some loser nerd. At least she'd have you to rely on for projects when basketball kept her too busy, and left her too exhausted to do anything but collapse in her bed.
You were working on your first project together, and you decided to meet up in the library. When Nika finally arrived, you had your laptop out and your nose in a book. She, on the other hand, was sweaty and exhausted from practice.
"Sorry I'm late. Coach had us run at the end of practice." She plopped her bag into the chair next to her and sat down.
"Mm, alright." You mumbled, keeping focus on the project.
She stared at you for a moment before sighing. "Are you gonna end up doing this whole thing all yourself?"
You tore your eyes away from your screen and stopped typing to look at her. "Not if you show up on time tomorrow."
She rolled her eyes. "Can't help it if practice runs late."
You scoffed. "You could've texted me, we could've rescheduled."
"Whatever." She muttered as she pulled her laptop out of her bag and opened it up to the document you were busy typing away at. Her eyes widened when she saw almost a whole page finished already. "You've done this much in the twenty minutes I wasn't here?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Jesus, what a nerd."
You deadpanned. "Nerd? At least I'm not a meathead."
She took a deep breath and shook her head before forcing herself to focus on the project, the two of you being civil for your rest of the time in the library.
"Nerd." "Meathead." "Dork." "Jock."
You smiled at Nika as she sat down next to you. She flashed a bright smile at you. "Hey, nerd."
Your eyes rolled playfully. "Hey, meathead."
Your class started and the professor taught her lesson. Nika thought it would be better to mess with you than pay attention, though. She scribbled something messily on a sticky note and stuck it right onto your notes page.
You sighed and read it. 'wanna hang out later?'
She glanced at you with a hopeful smile as you quickly wrote something back, passing it back over to her. 'can't. studying and homework for other classes :('
Nika drew a frowny face and passed it back to you. You smiled a little at it, and resumed taking notes. But she wasn't finished.
She pulled out another sticky note and wrote on it again, passing it back over to you. 'pleaseeeee? i know you wanna'
A long sigh escaped your lips as you wrote an answer and gave it back to her. 'i have too much to do tonight, sorry. and pay attention before you flunk out'
She smiled and whispered to you. "I'm not gonna flunk out, I've got my favorite dork to help me."
You shook your head. "I'm not a dork, first of all. Second, you're such a stereotypical jock, always asking the smart kid in class for help."
A quite laugh escaped her lips. It sounded like a melody to your ears.
Your professor didn't find it as endearing as you did, however. "Girls, focus." Her eyes landed on the two of you before she turned back around.
The two of you giggled together quietly.
Later than night, you were doing exactly what you told Nika you would be. A mountain of papers and books surrounded you on the floor. You had flashcards laid out everywhere. You were drowning in work, and you were ready for a break, but you only had to study for one more class.
Fortunately a break soon arrived when you heard knocking on your door. You stood up with a groan and walked over, the hair in your ponytail practically falling out, bags under your eyes from the countless hours of work you've done today.
You opened the door and Nika was standing there, a plastic takeout bag in her hand. "Thought you'd need a break tonight, I brought food."
You stared at her for a moment before smiling and pulling her inside. "You are a godsend, Nika Muhl." You grabbed the bag from her hand and set it on your desk.
Nika stood behind you, looking at all your studying materials sprawled on the floor. "Jesus, how long have you been doing this for?"
"Uh, a few hours. Nothing too bad."
"A few hours? Without a break?" She scoffed.
You turned around and looked at her. "How did you know I haven't taken a break?"
She grinned at you as she took in your appearance. "By just looking at you." You were disheveled and simply looked exhausted.
"Wow, rude." You feigned offense and placed your hand on your chest.
She laughed softly and took a step towards you. "But seriously, you need a break. You're gonna wear yourself out." She brushed a lose strand of hair out of your face.
"Guess all that studying together paid off, hm?" "Guess so. Maybe hanging with a nerd isn't that bad."
It was finals week and you had been working your ass off. Late night after late night of studying with Nika had you both prepared for your exam.
Per Nika's rules, you had to take a mandatory fifteen minute break every forty-five minutes. She refused to let you overwork yourself, and for once, you agreed. You could tell she was exhausted too. She was balancing academics and her playoff games, on top of hours long practices.
You had also implemented a reward system. While doing flashcards, for every three questions one of you got right, you got to ask the other person a question. That was when you found out Nika was gay.
"That's three, I get to ask you something now." You stared at her as you sat across from her on the floor of her dorm.
"Go for it." She smiled at you.
You thought for a moment. You had already asked her about Croatia, her teammates and friends, but not anything romantically. "Ooh, I got one. Do you have a boyfriend? Or are your eyes on any guy in particular?"
She stared at you for a moment before laughing. Your brows furrowed. "What? Why are you laughing?"
"It's just funny." She took a deep breath. "How you looked at me and thought I was straight."
Your lips parted. "You're..?" She nodded. "Oh." You squeaked quietly, your face heating up. "I-I didn't mean to assume, I just figured... y'know."
"I don't think I do."
You sighed. "I just assumed you only liked guys, I dunno."
"Well I don't." She smiled. "Only like guys, that is."
"Right." You smiled a little back at her, your gazes lingering on the others for a moment too long to be considered only friendly. You cleared your throat and looked down at the notecard in your hand. "Back to studying."
She didn't look away from you. She couldn't pull her eyes away from you.
It was the day that exam test scores were going to be released. You sat anxiously in the lecture hall, in your regular seat next to Nika. Your leg was bobbing up and down as the professor explained that only two students exceled with her exam, and you prayed that one of them was you.
Nika had her eyes on you, analyzing everything you were doing. She noticed the bobbing of your leg, but also the tight grip you held on your phone, and the way your bottom lip was caught between your teeth.
"Hey." She said quietly as she reached out, placing her hand on your knee to help calm you down. Your gaze darted up to meet hers, and her expression was soft. "I promise that you did amazing."
You swallowed nervously. "But what if I didn't? What if I totally bombed it and-"
She gently squeezed your leg. "You didn't bomb it. I know you didn't. Take a deep breath." You did. You inhaled deeply and closed your eyes as you let it out. "There you go."
She wrapped her arm around your shoulder and you relaxed a bit at her touch. You leaned your head against her, closing your eyes, and hoping for the best.
The professor called everyone down one by one, handed them the paper with their grade, and dismissed them from the class to look at it. Nika had already been called, and when you were, it took you a second to snap back into reality.
You went down and collected your paper, then quickly left the room. You rounded a corner and saw no one around you, unsure of where Nika disappeared to.
You took a deep breath before opening the paper and looking at your grade. You had gotten a 98, the highest grade in the class. You let out the breath you were holding and leaned your head back. "Thank god." You said quietly.
"Everything okay?" Nika's voice came from behind you.
You spun around with a smile on your face. "I got a 98!"
She smiled at you before moving forward and wrapping her arms around you, pulling you into a hug. "Holy shit! I got a 93!" You hugged her back and smiled brightly against her neck.
You pulled back to look at her, and in a wave of emotions, crashed your lips against hers. She froze for a second before reciprocating the kiss, causing you to stumble backwards a bit.
The both of you giggled and your rested your foreheads against each other's. "Guess all that studying together paid off, hm?" You grinned.
"Guess so." She pecked your lips. "Maybe hanging with a nerd isn't that bad."
i really hope you guys like this one!! i loved writing this sm that i wrote it practically within the same sitting on the same day that I got the request. thank you anon for sending this in!!
178 notes
·
View notes
Text
Return From Tour ft. Jeon Wonwoo
pairing: idol!wonwoo x gn!reader
word count: 640
A + F : not really angst, more like sadness and comforting from reader
warnings: established relationship, pet names, live together
summary: wonwoo finally returns from tour and is really in his feels. idol life is tough
a/n : I feel like 1k words is the sweet spot but idk
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ··
Today's the day you’ve been waiting for since three months ago. Today is the day Wonwoo returns from tour! Sure, you’re so proud of Seventeen's accomplishments but being away from your boyfriend for so long can be kind of tough.
You hadn’t really gotten much of the details on Wonwoo’s return, all you knew was that he’d be arriving at your shared apartment some time after 8:00 p.m.
While you were sitting on the living room couch, laptop in place and room temperature sleepy-time tea in hand, you heard the rattling of keys behind the front door which could only mean one things. Wonwoo is home.
You carefully lay the mug down on the coffee table as excitement courses through your veins. You’ve been counting down the days since his flight took off and now, he can finally be back in your arms.
The door finally opens, revealing your boyfriend dressed in black sweats and his signature rimmed glasses. The second you make eye contact, you both speed toward each other in yearning.
“Wonwoo,” You jolt in happiness, bringing your tall boyfriend into your arms for a quick kiss and strong embrace.
“Oh, baby. I missed you much.” His head was buried in the crook of your neck as you studied his uneven breathing.
“I missed you too, Won. Is everything okay?” You could tell something was off immediately. You slowly released him from the hug as he rolled in his carry on and shut the door while you kept his hand in yours.
You brought him over to sit on the couch next to you before he immediately broke down in tears.
“Oh baby, it’s okay.” You pulled him into an embrace while you laid with your back again the arm rest. Wonwoo let everything out as you patiently waited while running your fingers through his locks.
“I’m sorry… I know you were excited to see me,” his voice is low and raspy, but you can sense the guilt.
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”
You continued to comfort your teary boyfriend, despite not knowing what plagued his mind. As his breaths became more even, you decided to inquire.
“Do you want to talk about it, Won? Maybe that’ll help.”
“Yeah….. I guess.” He whispered, still being held tight against your chest. You decided not to press as he stayed silent.
“Its just… being away for so long, being away from you, it’s exhausting. I get all of the stress but none of the love. At the end of every day, all I wanted was to fall asleep with the person I love but I couldn’t even do that. It was just really hard.”
“Aw. That’s really tough. I missed you too, so much, Won. I’m glad we’re together now.”
“Yeah me too. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you needed me.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that! You’re doing what you love an I understand that. ….That is if you still love it?”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, cuddling closer to you while you await his answer.
“I do love it. I do. I just forgot that sometimes, you know? It has some miserable sides to it, having to leave you being one, and that’s when I forget how much I love it.”
“I get it, baby. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”
You continue to sit in silence, basking in each other’s presence like you haven’t been able to do in over three months.
After talking about things, Wonwoo seems to feel a lot better. You guys head to the bedroom together, getting ready for bed. Wonwoo tells you a bunch of stories from his tour while you brush your teeth and he un-packs his suitcase. You feel very relieved to see him back to his normal self and hope next tour will be easier for him.
#svt x reader#svt fluff#svt angst#svt au#seventeen#wonwoo#jeon wonwoo#wonwoo x reader#wonwoo x y/n#svt fanfic#svtoose
118 notes
·
View notes
Text
Still Love You Anyway
Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader
Summary: Joe just got a new haircut and you have mixed feelings about it.
Author's Note: This was requested by @readergf, so thank you for that! I miss writing Joe, so here's a little something something :)
Wordcount: 1K
Getting home on a Friday afternoon was such a relief for you. You were exhausted for the week, and you were ready to curl up with your nice warm blanket and just watch TV all weekend long. You just hoped Joe also felt the same because you honestly didn’t want to do anything or go anywhere else. The thought of you being in his arms as you exited the tube was the only thing that kept you going. Walking down the street, you watched as the sun set on the horizon, reflecting between the tall skyscrapers. You took a deep breath and pulled out your keys as soon as you arrived at the flat.
The flat was quiet, and you figured maybe Joe wasn’t home yet. Kicking off your shoes, you sighed in relief and flopped yourself on the sofa for a minute and closed your eyes. Then, a buzzing sound and a quiet clatter from down the hall made your eyes fly open.
“Joe?” You called out.
No answer.
Getting up from the sofa, you made your way down the hall and turned the doorknob of the bathroom door, only to find it locked.
“Joe, are you in here?” You asked.
“Oh, you’re home!” Joe exclaimed through the other side. “I didn’t think you would be home early.”
You furrowed your brows, wondering what was going on inside there.
“Yeah, I was tired, so I decided to leave a little early.” You replied. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
It was unusual.
Since when did you both lock the bathroom door? You were comfortable enough in this relationship where you both don’t lock doors anymore. The sound of buzzing started again, and your eyes widened when you realized what it was.
“Joe, what are you doing?” A hint of panic in your voice.
“Almost done, darling.” Joe answered.
After a minute, the buzzing stopped, and the doorknob was unlocked. A loud gasp immediately escaped from you as soon as Joe had swung the bathroom door open. You stood there with wide eyes, your jaw dropped on the floor, and your feet glued to the ground. You couldn’t move or say anything, while Joe gave you an amused smile.
“I’m guessing you don’t like it?” Joe’s smile suddenly fades when you haven’t said a word for the last minute or so.
“No.” You cleared your throat when you heard your voice croaking. “I—”
You clamped a hand over your mouth and slowly walked towards him.
His head was buzzed.
Buzzed!
The crime scene of his perfectly brown curls were scattered all over the bathroom floor. Not that he had his hair long for a while now but still!
The crime!
“Wh…Why?” You asked, blinking repeatedly, and hoping this was just a dream.
“It’s for Warfare, darling.” He shrugged. “It’s for a role. It’ll grow back.”
You watched as he ran his hand on his now buzzed head, and you couldn’t help but mourn over his beautiful brown curls. Not that he didn’t look good. Joe always looked good no matter what his hair was, but the curls!
Oh, how much you would miss running your fingers through them.
Slowly, you reached your hand above his head, and Joe couldn’t help but chuckle. He watched as your shaky hand slowly grazed over his new haircut, and you bit your lower lip trying your best not to make a reaction. You noticed his features were more prominent with this new look of his. His chocolate button eyes looked bigger—beautiful. His cheekbones were more sharp.
“It’s okay.” Joe laughed softly, bending down to clean all the pieces of his hair on the floor. “You can tell me the truth.”
“Not that I don’t like it.” You murmured. “It’s just that… I’m going to miss running my fingers through those curls.”
Throwing the pieces of his hair in the bin, Joe walked towards you and wrapped his arms around your waist, leaning in to give you a soft kiss on the lips.
“It’ll grow back pretty quickly.” Joe reassured you. “And you could tug on my hair as much as you want.”
You chuckled softly, running your hand over his buzzed head again.
“Hm…” You studied him for a moment.
Joe laughed softly, pressing another kiss on your lips. You let out a soft hum as you pulled him closer to your body. You deepened the kiss and let your hands immediately reach up to where his hair was only to be met by his buzzed head.
No hair to tug. No curls to run your fingers through.
This was torture for you.
“This is so unfair.” You groaned softly, pulling away from the kiss.
Joe laughed again, shaking his head as you gave him a small pout. He reeled you in his arms and walked you back to the living room, his soft hands softly caressing your arms.
“How was your day?” He asked.
You flopped yourself on the sofa and said, “Long. Rough. I was ready to just go home. I didn’t expect my boyfriend to be buzz cutting his hair the moment I did.”
Joe let out a laugh as he buried his face on your neck, breathing you in. You could feel the sharp edges of his hair on the line of your jaw tickle you softly. You couldn’t help but laugh and wrapped your arms around him.
“It tickles.” You said.
Joe smiled through your skin and softly rubbed his head against your jawline, making you laugh.
“Okay, okay. Now, you’re like a cat with sharp fur.” You teased, your hand finding his head again. “Although, I’m getting used to this.”
Joe laid his head on your lap as you smiled down at him, softly caressing the sharp edges of his newly hair.
“Be honest, does it look bad?” Joe asked.
“No,” You chuckled softly. “It’s new for me, but you are still beautiful.”
Leaning down, you planted a soft kiss on his lips, making Joe smile through the kiss.
“Still love me?” He asked, his chocolate button eyes soft and deep.
“Always.” You smiled. “No matter what your hair is, I will still love you anyway.”
Sitting up on the sofa, Joe smiled and pulled you in his arms, a soft kiss planted on your hair. You sort of found it funny that he asked you that question. Although the look was new to you, he was still your Joe.
Always.
The End.
***********
Taglist:
@palomahasenteredthechat @sunvick @eddies-acousticguitar @demonsanddemogorgons @joesquinns @mmunson86 @ghostinthebackofyourhead @corrodedcoffincumslut @figmentofquinn @tlclick73 @browneyes8288 @bylermaxmayfield @ali-r3n @ficsbypix @capricornrisingsstuff @missonlypost @ali-in-w0nderland @amberolivia666 @lalalala-melmosworld @niallersfreckles @nanas-lasagna @emma77645 @indulgence-be-thy-name @readergf @ladamari68 @1paire2vans @d4rk4ng3l86 @paleidiot @josephquinnsfreckles
#Joseph Quinn#Joe Quinn#Joseph Quinn x Reader#Joe Quinn x Reader#Joseph Quinn x You#Joe Quinn x You#Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader#Joe Quinn x Fem!Reader#Joseph Quinn Fics#Joe Quinn Fics#Joseph Quinn Fanfics#Joe Quinn Fanfics#one shot#blairrwaldorfs#still love you anyway
116 notes
·
View notes
Note
AITA for ignoring people's interests when i don't care about them unless they've shown they care about my interests first?
more of a general situation than a specific one
i have a hard time showing interest in things i don't care about. i guess it's common but i struggle more than average. faking interest and paying attention takes a lot of energy and leaves me feeling exhausted and bitter by the end of it.
the reason i'm like this is because i was the opposite to begin with. i've been a people pleaser all my life and i've gotten burnt out from it. i tried too hard to listen to everyone while i felt like nobody was listening to me, and it led to exhaustion and resentment. on top of that i have a history of emotional neglect from my family that influences my feelings on this.
i'm learning to fix my people pleasing, which means setting boundaries such as "i won't force myself to care about topics i don't actually care about". friendships thrive off that so there's an additional "unless the other person has shown interest in the things i care about first"
i generally change the topic, though sometimes i give a few dry answers. it's not always done gracefully but i try not to be too obvious. i do this until i get confirmation that they'll pay attention to what i say, then i put effort into listening to them. i understand if an established friend doesn't always have time or energy to listen, i'm the same, but if it happens often for no reason i know of i revert back to not listening to them either. if someone never shows they care we end up talking about what we have in common and have a more surface level relationship.
i have a skewed sense of what's asshole behavior because, again, i'm a major people pleaser. it feels hypocritical to not show interest but expect it back, but i have to protect myself somehow. when it comes to acquaintances i don't want to tell them about my issues so i don't have the choice to talk to them about it
84 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 ✧ 𝒓. 𝒄.
pairing: ex!rafe cameron x f!reader
warnings: angst, physical injuries, blood (it's brief), objetification of reader (not by rafe).
word count: 1,1k
the vibrating sound of your phone on the bedside table startles you a bit. even with your vision blurry, you manage to read rafe’s name shining on the screen. it’s late, the clock marks fifteen past two, and getting a call from him at this time is worrying, but fighting the fatigue, you answer his call.
“hello?”
“it’s me. you home?” his tone is urgent, which worries you even more. he’s definitely in trouble.
“why?”
“are you home or not?”
“yes, rafe. why are you calling me?”
“i’m at your door and i need your help right now.”
he hangs up abruptly and you sigh, anticipating yet another stressful interaction with rafe. it’s in situations like these that you wonder why you gave him the time of the day for almost a whole year of your life.
rafe is trouble, and you want none of it.
you quickly get up and head to the entrance of your small house. small, but yours. all the furniture, even if it is second-hand, is yours, as it was bought with your money, earned with a lot of sweat, something rafe will never understand.
as soon as you open the door, you come across a bruised and bloody rafe, which scares you. before you can say anything, he enters your house and sits on the tiny couch.
the scene is deplorable.
“rafe! what- what the hell happened to you?!”
“been in a fight, alright? i just can’t come back home looking like this.”
“in a fight with who?”
“i doesn’t matter. just help me.”
you sigh, tired and irritated. rafe is difficult to deal with. he beats the others out of tiredness and that is irritating. you go to the bathroom and grab a small bag with first aid items, and return to the living room right away, sitting next to him on the couch.
he winces when you pat the cotton ball on his bruises, but you don’t feel bad at all. this is what he deserves. you avoid looking him in the eye while you’re cleaning his face up. you know you can’t resist his baby blues.
you take his hands in yours. the contrast of size is beautiful, somehow. his huge, calloused hands with golden rings have always been attractive. his knuckles are red and quite swollen. you clean his hands up and only hear rafe’s huffs when he feels the sting of the rubbing alcohol. you might be doing that on purpose.
very quickly, you put some bandaids where you find necessary and bandage his hand up, where it’s swollen.
“all done.”
“thank you.”
oh, he knows the magic words. you know you’ll regret it, but you have to ask.
“what happened, rafe?”
he sighs and leans back, taking a deep, exhaustive breath.
“it doesn’t matter, y/n. it’s solved, it’s done.”
“you woke me up in the middle of the night, came over unannounced and made me patch you up. i deserve to know what the fuck happened and if i’m in trouble.”
“you’re not in trouble.” he clarifies, as he passes his fingers over the gauze on his hand. “one of barry’s friends said some weird shit about you.”
“who said what?” you frown.
you never really liked barry, let alone his “friends”. they’re beyond shady and you hate how rafe keeps them in his life.
“you don’t want to know.” you cock an eyebrow and rafe sighs once again, defeated. “babe, it’s inappropriate, don’t make me repeat it.”
babe. you forgot how much you loved when rafe called you sweet nicknames. yes, rafe is an overall asshole, but he isn’t all bad, you have to admit it. the thing is that he actively lets his bad side take over, and you can’t handle that.
“say it.”
“it was bryan. he, um… he said he… um…”
“say it, rafe.”
“he said he hoped to be the next in line to be inside your c-”
“okay, i get it.” you feel like crying and throwing up, but you maintain your composure. “he said that because he wanted to get to you, rafe, that’s all. i’ve never even spoken to him.”
you don’t know why you’re explaining yourself to rafe, but you feel like you have to. for some reason, you don’t want him to think you’re a slut that fucks every guy. deep down, you want rafe to realize he lost something really great, but that day may never come.
“i know, i’m not worried about that.” he says. “i just don’t want him near you.”
“rafe-”
“i know we’re not together anymore, and i swear i’m not being controlling, but bryan is bad and i don’t want him near you, ever. okay?”
“okay.”
after your response, rafe seems to relax a bit. he closes his eyes and his smug makes a comeback.
“you should’ve seen his face. what a bitch.”
you roll your eyes and chuckle.
“thank you for defending me, but really, let them talk. they just want to get to you.”
“now they know what happens when they speak of you.”
there’s a brief moment of silence between you both; it’s comfortable.
rafe seems tired, and you really don’t want him to leave, but you know it’s not going to end well if he stays over.
it’s been over four months since the definitive breakup and you’ve tried to go no contact with rafe, but it’s hard because you live in the same place, you have the same friends and rafe never wanted to stop talking to you.
“i still feel like i need to protect you,” he says, breaking the silence.
you lay next to him, your faces being so close, your noses are almost touching. this is dangerous territory, but you don’t care at this point. you touch his cheek so softly, he closes his eyes again.
he leans in, trying to get to your lips, and they touch briefly, before you lean back, effectively rejecting his kiss.
“i think you should go.”
rafe stares at you, clearly hurt. he gets up from your couch and leaves.
if you could, you would do everything necessary to make this relationship work, but that means changing rafe completely, and you don’t know if you’re in love with rafe, or are resigned to the crumbs of kindness he gives you.
no relationship should survive on small moments of love, and you’re no longer satisfied by the thrill of having a good moment with rafe.
when you broke up with him, he begged you for another chance, but you had already given him a thousand chances. you’ve played this game before and you ended up hurt and slightly traumatized.
you can’t change rafe and he doesn’t want to help himself, so there’s nothing left for you to do.
i love feedback, tell me your thoughts! <3
#my writings#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron oneshot#rafe cameron imagine#outer banks#drew starkey#drew starkey x you#drew starkey x reader#drew starkey oneshot#drew starkey imagine
139 notes
·
View notes
Note
Your answer for the biggest dick in bg3 makes me feral, I know for a fact that Zevlors dick is so long and thick, fully erect and hanging down so heavy. It will absolutely tear up your insides! I need it, like yesterday please. 🙏
⋆˙⟡♡ Note: I can’t tell you how much I loved reading this my lovely Anon. I’ve been going absolutely feral for our handsome Zevy lately!! I really hope you like this babes! Thanks for inspiring me ♡!!
⋆˙⟡♡ NSFW | Big Dick Zevy | Belly Bulge | Fat Creampie | Veiny Cock
“Z-Zevy~ m-my- my tummy!” You whimper as Zevlor’s cock destroys your guts, your poor overworked womb bloated with his seed, “I-y-you’re s’too big~! nnnnhhh~”
He only laughs lowly, you were such a gorgeous mess, his gorgeous mess. The fact it was him doing this to you made him feel so proud. Never did he think he would end up in a relationship after everything he’s been through, especially one with such a beautiful, sweet soul.
His hands are gentle on your hips despite his brutal pace, and his teeth graze against your neck in a way that makes your knees shake, “Poor thing. I should slow down, shouldn’t I?“
You moan and tremble beneath him, his teasing tone and the feeling of his hot breath on your neck making you whimper, “N-no~! Don't stop~ Zevy~”
Every snap of his hips drives his cock deeper, making your eyes roll back in your head and your legs quiver. Each time his thick veins rub over the over sensitive bundle of nerves within you, a wave of pleasure crashes over your mind, wiping out any coherent thoughts. It felt like he was stiring up your insides, making a mess of your guts and marking you as his.
“M-my insides! Y-your c-cock~ -your cu-cum~! I can feel it sloshing in me, o-ohhh~ you gotta slow down!! H’ah~!!”
You come undone for what feels like the thousandth time, every part of you aching and exhausted, and still Zevlor continues pounding away at your tender pussy, his cock so massive that it's stretching the rim of your asshole. The thought of being split in two by his cock has you cumming again, a strangled wail forced from your throat.
The way Zevlor groans when he cums yet again has your toes curling, and when you feel the flood of heat that accompanies his release you're left writhing on the ground, his cock pressed so deep inside you that it feels like it's piercing your stomach.
The outline of his cock bulging in your lower belly is the last thing you see before your vision blurs and goes black… Zevlor truly knows how to use the gift his god gave him…
106 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fearne had, in true Fearne fashion, wrapped herself like a personal pashmina around Dorian, which left Orym to curl into his chest.
They had slept this way dozens of times before. Fearne’s blackened fingers wrapped tightly around his forearm as she snored loudly into Dorian’s ear. Orym’s head rested on Dorian’s bicep, his arms folded together between them, and his bare feet were gingerly resting upon Dorian’s thighs just above the knees, as Dorian had coiled enough to let Fearne’s fuzzy leg stretch over his hip. They were exhausted, and this was familiar, and he should’ve been fast asleep.
But Orym’s mind buzzed.
Fearne had always been a strong source of heat, but now she was a furnace, and even without covers it was too warm. But Fearne was not the reason why Orym’s skin burned where it met Dorian’s.
He was a fucking grown man. He was fully capable of admitting that.
Admitting it didn’t change it.
Neither did it change his awareness that Dorian had been too still for the past hour, his breath too precise and measured to be natural as it fell upon Orym’s hair. Orym was not going to presume that the cause of this was the same thing afflicting him; there were plenty of other reasons Dorian would be lying awake tonight.
“My family will find your brother,” he murmured finally, and Dorian’s breath wavered for just an instant before he regained his composure and returned to his measured, singer’s breathing. It was so slight that no one else could’ve noticed it, but Orym noticed. “You said there’s a body— the Tempest can bring him back, or Fearne, honestly—“
“I know,” Dorian answered, and this too was so faint that no one but Orym could’ve heard. “I know,” he said again, as though this one was only to appease himself.
“Do you think… do you think any of Opal is still in there?”
“I don’t know. I could barely tell what was in there—“ he cut himself off. “I couldn’t even help my brother. I think Fy’ra Rai might’ve… she must’ve seen something. I hope so,” he added, inhaling, trying to capture an airy tone that he didn’t fully manage. “The Spider Queen doesn’t deserve her. She doesn’t deserve anything.”
Orym had nothing to say to this. He hadn’t cared what the gods did or didn’t deserve in weeks, but now he could see the vein of fury that sharpened Dorian’s edges. It didn’t frighten him the way it had frightened him months ago, when things had been simpler, when there was not a war to be fought. It simply saddened him. “I’m so sorry about Opal,” he said, after the silence had lingered. “But I’m,” he breathed out a single dark laugh at himself, his selfishness, “I’m real glad it wasn’t you.”
Dorian’s laugh matched his own. “I suppose that is a silver lining.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Orym admitted. It was easier to keep his voice from cracking at a whisper. “I’ve thought about seeing you again so many times— I wish the circumstances were better—“
“I’m here,” Dorian said, for the second time today. “The circumstances tried very hard to make even that impossible, but— I’m here.”
Orym pulled his arm gently out of Fearne’s grasp and raised his hand to Dorian’s cheek. It was too dark to see the tinge of lavender against his skin, but Orym could feel the warmth bloom beneath his fingers. He still couldn’t bring himself to attribute his friend’s insomnia to anything so self-serving as his own, but perhaps it was one factor.
He pulled his hand back. Was there a flash of disappointment in Dorian’s eyes? He couldn’t tell in the dark. But he brushed his fingers together, drawing upon the wellspring of life within the ground beneath this hastily-erected encampment. The Hellcatch looked like a barren wasteland to most, but that life was still present even here.
Perhaps not now, but after a rainy season, the valley would bloom with wildflowers. The seeds waited in the earth for their time to sprout. Life went on, even in the darkest of places.
He produced a small stalk of life from his hands, and held out the tiny bundle of forget-me-nots to Dorian.
He should’ve said that they were for Cyrus, to remember him by. He wanted to say that they were for Dorian himself, that a day hadn’t gone by that he hadn’t thought of him. He didn’t speak at all as Dorian’s hand wrapped around Orym’s, pinching the stem beneath his fingers but not letting go.
“Orym,” Dorian breathed, looking from the flowers to his face. Then a strange expression came over his face, a wrinkle of consternation as he stared into the middle distance. “Fearne, are you braiding my hair?”
Orym lifted his head an inch to peer past Dorian’s ear. He had noticed that the snoring had stopped, but he’d been too caught up in the conversation to process it. Fearne’s wide eyes stared back with perfect innocence, her hands indeed weaving Dorian’s hair into a loose braid.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” she whispered quickly. “I’m totally not here.”
When Orym dropped his head back to Dorian’s arm, he was met with a crooked smile. It was not meant to be disarming, but it disarmed him anyway.
“Just like old times, eh?” he said, but his hand was still around Orym’s.
Carefully, Orym moved to tuck the flower behind Dorian’s ear, bringing both of their hands with him, and then laced their fingers together instead. “No,” he said, and tucked his head so that his brow rested against Dorian’s chin, and pressed their entwined hands to his lips. “But I think that’s okay.”
#this was SUPPOSED to be a drabble that was borne out of fearne's one line of dialogue in particular lmfao#but here we are#anyway I just think they're neat okay#I don't know if I've written orym's pov but he's fun honestly#I feel like it's the exact middle point between caduceus and fjord lmao#but god. writing someone with a 30+ passive perception is uhhh a puzzle lmfao#critical role#cr spoilers#orym of the air ashari#dorian storm#fearne calloway#dorym#cr fic
67 notes
·
View notes
Text
Since it keeps coming up, I want to state that I do have my asks turned off currently. My inbox was getting flooded with lots of people all of a sudden, especially requests for Subtle Worship posts, and it was beginning to overwhelm me. I have a lot going on in my offline life right now, so I'm also trying to focus on that which is also why I haven't been posting much. I just (literally one week ago) moved across the US, so I've been pretty consumed by the stress of that.
To make it clear, I'm not deactivating my account or going on a hiatus or something. I'm just not going to post as much or answer any asks. I'm just stressed, overwhelmed, and burnt out. Exhausted or anxious have become my natural states of being lately, and Tumblr hasn't exactly been making that better for me. I'll be alright; I'm just tired.
I do plan to continue the Subtle Worship series, but I'm taking a break from those posts for the time being because it takes a lot of time, energy, and effort to make them. It can be quite an exhausting process over time, especially since, admittedly, it's not super rewarding, if I'm being honest. While I make those posts to spread information, I also am often taking requests and creating posts for deities I have no experience with. Although it's great to get the word out about lesser known deities and that is a good feeling, I'm not getting paid or compensated in any way for these requests. I'm giving it my all, trying my best to come up with helpful suggestions on simple worship of deities I have never interacted with, and it takes a lot out of me. Oftentimes, I am attempting to connect with the deity's energy in order to come up with ideas which is extremely tiring when repeating that process over and over again. I enjoy making these posts, but it has stopped being fun for me and has started feeling like an obligation or expectation. So I'm taking a break for now.
I love running this blog, but it's beginning to feel like more work than anything else. I keep doing things for people, going out of my way to attempt to answer questions and creating posts upon request, and yet, it never feels like enough. There's always more for me to do, more questions to answer, more posts to create. This is meant to be an experience that I enjoy, but I'm not enjoying this anymore. It feels like a job that I don't get paid for. I love helping people, don't get me wrong, but there comes a time when it starts to be too much. Some questions are also answered by things in my pinned post, and although I enjoy helping people, as I said, it does get tiring having to redirect them to posts they can find themselves if they look at the links I've provided past the "read more". I will say that I wish people utilized my pinned post more.
So thank you, everyone, for your support and concern. I just want to rest for now. I want to enjoy myself. I want to post things that I like posting and researching things I want to actively learn about. I'm happy to help, but the person who most needs my help right now is myself, so I'm gonna focus on them. Please take care, and have a good day/night. 🧡
57 notes
·
View notes
Text
almost blue (1)
pairing: cody rhodes x black reader
warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons.
authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective
music inspo: almost blue by chet baker
word count: 4800
tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae
new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning.
and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.
—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it.
but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake.
but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—
you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?"
your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".
where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"
a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm.
"seems more like a question for you to answer".
"answer it anyways".
and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".
"am i with you?"
to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place.
new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been.
and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel.
warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.
he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz.
the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.
and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds.
his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him.
cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine.
and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue.
"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there".
the call drops.
the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was.
cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun.
but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other. cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling.
"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face.
the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death.
"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction.
if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there
the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire.
dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him.
the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure.
and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive.
a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face.
you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life.
"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody".
"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight.
"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table".
"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score".
"i didn't kill your father cody".
was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last.
"obviously", cody bites out.
your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place.
"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"
his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile.
"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn".
your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve.
cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting.
"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you".
you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory.
your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches.
the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.
a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment.
"how long have you been following me?"
you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.
"a few months".
"why am i not dead?"
your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins".
he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is".
you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at.
"on what basis exactly?"
a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones.
"very close encounters".
and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly.
"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives.
your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me".
"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"
"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults".
"im flattered", cody deadpans.
you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be".
"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".
your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together.
"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"
cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body.
maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all.
you whimper. taking a hard swallow.
"vindicate me", cody rasps.
your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission.
"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear.
he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".
"it's true cody".
"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".
"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same.
his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans.
your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.
fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives.
your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse.
the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered.
"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.
and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with.
your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy.
she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?
#cody rhodes#cody rhodes fanfiction#cody rhodes fanfic#cody rhodes fic#cody rhodes imagine#cody rhodes smut#john wick au#hitman!cody rhodes#black female reader#dominik mysterio#finn balor#rhea ripley#damien priest#judgement day#judgement day trying to kill cody#they dont know hes kinda into the pain thing#cody trying to avenge dusty in every timeline#dom isnt a second rate mysterio#i just needed to get that piece of dialogue off#cody rhodes x reader#cody rhodes x black reader#jd mcdonagh
55 notes
·
View notes
Text
this is part of my drabble collection: The answer is love - Masterlist
Characters: Suguru Geto x GN reader
Prompt: "why are you talking like we'll never see each other again?"
Warnings: This one is a little sad / angsty
[a/n]: I love Suguru so much, but I always struggle writing happy stuff for him. I have a more lighthearted thing coming up very soon though, but until then... enjoy <3
He had changed. Unmistakably so. The bags under his eyes, a trait you had always thought attractive, adding to his dark and mysterious charms, had become deeper, darker, a sign of constant exhaustion, of sleep forever lost, impossible to ever catch back up on.
He rarely smiled anymore, and when he did, it never reached his tired eyes anymore. It was just a way to pacify you, to make sure you didn’t insist a fourth time when you asked if he was really really doing okay. You knew he was lying still, but it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. That he couldn’t really talk about it.
Until today; he was about to leave for a mission, and you had wanted to go out for dinner together, a little distraction from all the bleakness and losses you had encountered the past few weeks. There was nothing you could do to truly fight the helplessness, feeling yourself buckle under the weight of the negative emotions, barely keeping your own head above water, how were you supposed to help your friend as well?
But you could provide a little distraction, in the form of comforting dishes on the table for you to share. Silent comfort, except for the noises of your cutlery, and chopsticks accidentally bumping into each other as you both reach for a specific dumpling. A soft snicker. But no conversation. It was too hard, too much, and at the moment just unnecessary, cause there weren’t enough words in the world to translate your feelings into.
When the dishes were empty and you were preparing to say your goodbyes, he caught you off guard.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for me”
You blinked in surprise. Those were not the words you had expected him to say. You chuckled nervously, wondering why he suddenly said something like that. It sounded ominous, almost, like a final goodbye.
"Why are you talking like we'll never see each other again?”
He only smiled in response. The first genuine smile you had seen him do in weeks and yet, it didn’t quite feel happy. It felt almost guilty. It reached his eyes, but his eyes spelled compassion, or even…pity?
“Goodbye, y/n”
No ‘I’ll see you later, or after this mission’, no ‘wish me luck’. Just…goodbye.
You could only stand there silently as he turned around, reaching up a hand to give you a final wave, his back turned to you. While your chest tightened, you realized that your gut feeling was probably right, and this would have been the last time.
#geto x reader#suguru x reader#geto suguru x reader#suguru geto x reader#jjk#jjk x reader#jjk geto#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#reader insert#drabble#short#angst#2nd person pov#GN reader#romance
53 notes
·
View notes
Note
Vaggie: What do you mean you knew it?! How?!
Clara: You act a lot like Mama does when she gets growly and protective! Plus you look way too much like mama did when we were alive! I can't believe I was right though! I get to finally be a big sister!
Odette: This explains mama crying...we had all been devastated when we died and thought we'd never get to meet you...But it's nice to officially meet you hermanita.
Carmilla: Sobs and gathers her babies close.
Vaggie hasn't been hugged many times in her afterlife. The first time had probably been Charlie, when her princesa first found the lonely new "Sinner" extremely weak and fighting for her life on the streets of Pentagram City. She'd taken Vaggie home, and nursed her back to health. Her hugs are like a fluffy cloud, or a warm blanket. Welcoming and inviting in their embrace, if not a bit pressurizing and forceful when her bubbly personality starts to come on a little strong.
The second had been Carmilla, of course. Unexpected, and at first overwhelming, it had been entirely different from Charlie's hugs. There had been a sense of protectiveness there, and also a desire to comfort and console. Vaggie had never experienced Carmilla's type of maternal love before -- it was similar to Charlie's way of showing affection, but not controlling or demanding to be felt.
Clara's is somewhere in the middle -- a bit more forceful than she normally likes, but once experienced, Vaggie can't help the lump from forming in her throat. Clara almost threatens to lift her off the ground, she's holding onto Vaggie so hard. Vaggie facilitates it; she has to reach up, but puts her arms around Clara's shoulders. She's standing on tiptoe to do so, but she suddenly wants to be even closer to the girl. She doesn't even care if Clara starts to spin her a little. The demon is happy, and laughing. It starts to rub off on Vaggie, too.
And then Carmilla and Odette are added to the mix, and they're all hugging her at the same time, and wow! Vaggie decides right then there's nothing else like this feeling in the world. Vaggie had once been lost. But now, like the Heavenly song says, Vaggie feels found. Not by one, or even two, but by four entirely different souls who love her, all in their own unique way. Vaggie had never even known there were so many types of ways to be loved. Now that she's had them all, she never wants to let any of them go.
She does have to let go, eventually, however. But of the three of them, Clara is the one who holds on the longest. When she and Vaggie finally step back from each other, there's a genuine smile on both their faces. Vaggie doesn't cry again. It's a near thing, but she's honestly too exhausted to shed any more tears. She's more curious than sad at this point. So before any of them can change the subject, she looks at Clara, because she just has to know.
"How? How did you know?"
Clara laughs again, like Vaggie has just told her a joke, or is trying to pull a fast one on her. When she realizes Vaggie is completely serious, she motions up and down around the angel with her hands, like the answer should be completely obvious.
"Look at you!" Clara exclaims, continuing to motion with her hands. "The hair, the eyes, the way you fight! Even your complexion is the same! Also, you look just like Mama did when she was your age. We had pictures we could show you, if we were still alive...but you'll just have to take my word for it."
Odette steps in, as if to interject, also wanting to say her piece.
"We didn't think much of it when Lucifer asked us to give a sample to see if we were a blood match. Everyone at your Hotel did, too, by the way. Clara said that wasn't what tipped her off...it was just the way Mama acted around you after the fact. She spent an entire day with you at the hospital. You're all she's talked about for days now! Honestly, I feel pretty stupid for not realizing something more was going on here."
Clara nods, and continues on from Odette's line of reasoning. "Yeah! And I overheard Lucifer telling Mama about what Exorcists really are. After that, it was obvious!"
"You didn't tell me that!" Odette accuses her, crossing her arms, and shooting Clara a death glare, like she's just been thoroughly betrayed.
Clara gives Odette a cheeky grin and sticks her tongue out. "You didn't ask!"
Vaggie chuckles, holding her hand to her face to try and hide it from the squabbling sisters. Is this what it feels like, she wonders? To argue? To bond? To throw around silly quips at one another without getting offended, because you know it's all in good fun?
Is this what it feels like, to be sisters?
Carmilla decides to move into the sisterhood circle just then. Maybe it's her maternal instincts doing damage control, putting a stop to Clara and Odette's verbal and physical sparring match before it unfolds on the floor right in front of her. Or maybe she just wants to hug Vaggie some more. Because she does. Vaggie finds she doesn't care about the actual reason. The way Carmilla pulls her into her embrace now is far less strained and awkward, and much more natural, than before.
She falls into it like a habit; like she's been doing it forever. Carmilla's hugs are just as warm as Charlie's. She could definitely get used to this, Vaggie thinks. For the rest of her afterlife, if not longer.
"My girl," Carmilla says softly into Vaggie's ear, starting to choke up all over again, breathing softly into her hair. Seeing the overlord Carmilla Carmine cry for her, with her, will never not be novel for Vaggie.
Carmilla, her mother, is practically lifting the fallen angel off the ground, to draw her in even closer.
"Mi hija. My baby. I'm so glad that I've found you at last. Welcome home, mi hermosa."
"Gracias, Mamá," Vaggie responds, and fuck, if that doesn't sound so odd and foreign rolling off Vaggie's tongue. But it also feels so perfectly normal, and so right. Just like Carmilla, Odette, and Clara's hugs, she could easily get used to saying those things, as well.
Vaggie sends a message to Charlie later that evening, to let her know she's staying at Carmilla's overnight: "Don't wait up for me, hon. We have a lot to catch up on. I'll be back home in the morning. Love you!
Charlie responds with an ungodly barrage of heart and smiley face emojis, followed by an enthusiastic string of letters in all caps: "I LOVE YOU, TOO, SO MUCH, VAGGIE!!! I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU, SWEETIE!!!! I CAN'T WAIT TO HEAR ALL ABOUT IT!!! YOU BETTER TELL ME EVERYTHING AND NOT LEAVE ANYTHING OUT!!!"
Vaggie smiles. She won't leave anything out. She has a lot of firsts to catch up on with her family in the coming days, so she puts her phone back in her pocket, and takes that first step.
She quite literally has all the time in the world now. But being the impatient individual that she is, she'll see how much of it she can cram into that first night. Carmilla had mentioned some of Clara and Odette's embarrassing baby stories earlier, when they'd all been around the dinner table. Thank Heaven, Vaggie thinks, that she doesn't have any of those.
#hazbin hotel#carmilla carmine#vaggie#vaggie hazbin hotel#odette hazbin hotel#clara hazbin hotel#charlie morningstar#lucifer morningstar#ask#anon#fan theories#vaggie carmilla related au
51 notes
·
View notes
Note
Random question. Do you think Baldwin would like puppies or kittens better
King Baldwin - Cats or dogs?
A/N: Mmmmh hard one, took me almost half a day to think about it😭😭 Loved the idea though, I think that this question and the reasoning behind its answer tell a lot about a person.
Couldn't find the name of the painting this time but the painter is by Henriette Ronner-Knip!!
Warning: puppies, but mostly kitties. Jokes aside I took the liberty of adding some historical inaccurate facts about cats' presence in medieval castles just to make the story more fit to my taste (not like historical accuracy is really the point of a fanfic but you get my point).
I'm still really torn but I'd say that it depends on which time of his life that question is asked
If it's during his childhood and first youth, he'd say dogs with no hesitation. They're great companions and so full of life, he'd love to bring a few with him during his hunting trips. He would see his own sprout of energy mirrored in his pawed companions! I see him as owning at least two of them, maybe even more (having almost a pack of dogs was pretty much the norm in noble families)
Dogs are also perceived better by Christian society, as there were quite a few theologists who believed that cats where somehow tied to unholiness or even the devil himself
But as time goes by and his condition worsens, he can't bring himself to stand for so long, let alone play with the dogs or take them out while he rides his horse
He feels bad, though, at the sound of their whines as his servants shoo them out of his bedroom, while he lays motionlessly on his huge bed (in which he usually let them lay while he rested, much to his servants' dismay)
And it is right as he's left laying there, alone and with an aching heart at the loss of his dear friends, that he for the first time notices the gentle meow of his physician's cat. He never really acknowledged his existence, for he always seemed to make it his mission to be as invisible to the people in the room as possible
The cat looked him with mil interest: of course, he knew him, but Baldwin couldn't say the same. He had been silently studying the young king, as his master tended to his everlasting wounds, or as he distracted himself form his duties with a game of chess. All while Baldwin didn't even know that the cat was in the room in the first place
Their exchanged stare didn't last long, because soon the cat jumped swiftly on the bed, waggling his tail like an enchanted snake as he made a few steps on top of the covers
He inspects the space, undisturbed by Baldwin who can't bring himself to make even the slightest movement because of how exhausted his sickness makes him
Finally, the cat seems to find a spot to his liking, right on the spot between Baldwin's side and arm, which is splayed on the side of the bed
The cat makes a few circles before snuggling close to his clothed side, resting his head on his own tail and quietly purring himself to sleep, soon followed by the king himself
That was their first official encounter, one that changed Baldwin's answer at the question "cats or dogs"
He also came to find that apparently there were far more cats in palace
In his late years, he found in those cats a silent and delicate company, it created a space in which he could let go of everything and just bask into the presence of those little balls of fur
And they are so agile and elegant in their movements, he enjoys watching them move around his room, jumping from a surface to the other like it's nothing; he feels like he can move and live through them
And he misses them oh so badly when they leave his chamber to go hunt for food or to simply explore the palace, but as they happily walk back in his room and curl up to rest all over his bed and desk, he almost feels like they're telling him all they've seen during the day simply through their eyes
And that is how Baldwin IV was born a dog person, only to die surrounding his death bed with cats
29 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
zerodaark
ZeroDaark
reasonswim60
Без названия
partyfavoor
𝓚𝓪𝓪𝓱
skribbzy
skribblz_♡
moondogball
Moondog Revisited Ball