#[A Cause Worth Fighting For (Thread)]
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love bites (sinners)
!s: stack x female!oc
summary: Josephine’s brother, Wells, was a sharecropper with the Smoke-Stack twins. After they left him without a word, she never forgave them. When they come back seven years later causing trouble, she has no idea what to do — Especially when unexpected feelings arise. [5.5k]
a/n: thank you all for loving the last sinners story and welcome to my new followers! here’s another! also, again, im going to preface this with the fact that i am black. lastly, ! all of my ocs are ethnically ambiguous unless stated otherwise in the !s, free to read for all ! anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, n word use (by smoke and stack), abuse, alcoholism, blood, fighting, guns
in this story, our characters name is: Josephine

📍 Fields Shoe Shining and Tailor || 2:00pm
Dry air blows in as I suck on my bleeding thumb, having stuck the sewing needle right into it again. Wells has left me in the store alone, as he’s so keen on doing, but as he enters again, he’s got dumb and dumber on his trail.
“Ain’t no goddamn way,” I say in awe, watching the Smoke-Stack twins walk into our shop.
“That’s what I said, Jo.” My brother smiles. I don’t. “The devil done brought their asses all the way back from Chicago.”
“They say he works in evil ways,” I state, flat faced.
Wells is beaming, smiling cheek to cheek and staring at the twins like they gave him something. I seem to be the only one remembering how they left him seven years ago.
“Say man, there any colored folk down in Chicago?” he asks.
“There's colored folk everywhere.” Stack grins, walking up to my counter.
“Why are y’all back, Stack?”
Wells chimes in. “They throwing a party, the fancy type. Down at the old sawmill.”
“The old sawmill?” I scrunch my face up. “And who bought that for y’all?”
Smoke huffs. “We grown now, Josephine. We buy shit for ourselves.”
“I’m sorry, I meant whose money did y’all steal to pay for it.”
“Woo.” Stack smiles wickedly, looking back at Wells. “This sister of yours always did have a mouth on her. Feisty lil thing.”
“Boy, if you don’t get the fuck on.” I roll my eyes, rounding the counter and heading toward the back.
“Wait.” Wells stands in front of me. “They bringing business.”
My ears perk up and I look back to the twins — Although, ain’t no business worth the mischief they bring with them.
“What business?”
“This suit jacket right here.” Smoke traces his finger along the button holes of his jacket. “I want you to embroider it, something classy for the party. I’ll give you twenty for it.”
I scoff. “Yea, hell no.” I begin walking off.
My brother stops me again, evoking a rough sigh out of me.
“What, Wells?”
“Come on now, Jo. We family. You gotta do this for ‘em. I’d do it myself if I knew how.”
“Family?” I furrow my brows, crossing my arms and turning my body toward the three men. “If we was family they would’ve never left you on that damn plantation when they fled.”
“It’s best you don’t speak on business you don’t know, Josephine,” Smoke warns.
Every time, he think he gets me with that damn Josephine. If only he knew that I preferred that name over any of my short ones, especially from the mouths of those I hold no relation or respect to.
“You think I don’t know, Smoke?” I near him. “Who do you think was there when he cried the nights after y’all left him?”
Wells shrinks in his spot, embarrassed. Hell, I don’t know why — If anything these motherfuckers should be ashamed for leaving their “family” to do the picking while they took their blood money and ran uptown without giving a shit about the rest of us.
“Twenty-five,” Smoke suggests.
“Forty,” I throw back.
“Thirty.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty-two. It’s the best I can do.” He holds out five clean bills, cleaner money than I’ve ever seen.
I sneer at him, rolling my eyes as I grab the bills and stuff the money in my apron pocket.
“Atta girl.” He takes his jacket off, placing it neatly in my hand. “And make the thread match will you?”
I give him a do-you-think-I’m-an-idiot? look. Why the hell would I put orange thread on a navy lined jacket. It only aggravates me more.
“Are y’all done here?”
“Throw mine in too, Josie.” Stack coyly grins, taking his jacket off too.
“No, Stack.”
“Come on, Jose. I got money—“
“Hell no, Stack,” I interrupt him, walking toward the back room. “You’re lucky I’m taking your damn brother's.”
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📍 Josephine and James’ house || 10:00am
Thimble covers my fingers now as I carefully thread flowers and flames into the bottom of Smokes suit. The thick smell of his cigarettes are embedded into every inch of the fabric, making me even less inclined to take my time.
Smoke is the lesser of two evils, if I had to choose. I can’t prove it, but I like to think that he at least felt a bit of hesitation before leaving Wells behind like that. Before they did what they did, when their daddy was alive, he wouldn’t only beat on them — He’d beat on Wells. I worked in a factory with my mama, so I was never subject to working in any kind of field, but Wells’ work got harder and harder the more he grew up. The only comfort he had was that he was doing it with the twins, our only friends. Ever since that day they left without a word and we heard about their destination through the grapevine, I never forgave them. The plantation got sold but each owner was as bad as the next, hitting Wells with his fist just because he could.
So no, I won’t forgive them — Not after that tricking shit they pulled on my brother, even if Wells is too forgiving to see it. God didn’t bless me with a forgiving heart.
James comes into the living room with his work overalls on, pulling the strap up over his shoulder.
“I’m heading out, baby,” he tells me.
“Oh, okay.”
I continue rocking in my rocking chair as he presses a kiss into my forehead. His retreating footsteps are tuned out by my singing, a gentle hum that gets me through the more tedious seam work. Just as I begin to get lost in my tunes, I hear footsteps nearing the family room.
I stop.
“…James?”
No answer, only more heavy footsteps.
My heart skips a beat and I reach into the wooden table that holds our plants. I feel like a child navigating a new toy for the first time as I retrieve James’ small revolver, holding it in my free hand and pointing it at the hallway.
Heartbeats turn into internal pounding in my ears as the steps take an eternity to reach me. When they finally do, I’m prepared to fire missing shots before meeting my grizzly demise.
As my sure murderer rounds the corner, I open my eyes to see…Stack.
“Jesus.” I hold my chest, letting out a relived breath. “Now why the fuck would that man let you in here?”
“I’m not allowed to visit my old friends?” he asks with a smile, leaning in the doorway.
“We ain’t nothing near friends, Stack.”
He sucks his teeth. “That’s just how you choose to see it, Josie.” He walks closer, sitting in the couch across from my rocking chair.
“That’s how it is,” I assure him. “What do you want?”
“To check in on you, damnit. We just got back, I’m owed a few updates, hm?”
“You’re not owed shit, Stack. And right now you’re wasting my time. What do you want?”
He stares at me for a moment, tilting his head and biting his lip in the slightest. “I wanted to know if you still dance.”
“Tuh,” I scoff. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“No, for real,” his tone quiets. “Do you?”
“Maybe I do, Stack. But not for you.”
“…I want you to show me.”
I continue embroidering Smokes jacket. “And why would I do that?”
“‘Cause I ain’t leaving until you do.”
“I guess we’ll just sit here then...”
And we do. What feels like half and hour goes by, the silence being filled with Stack’s constant nagging. He asks me any question he can think of, my life, my brother, my husband, my sewing, none of which I want to disclose to him. Nevertheless, I do, hoping and praying that he forgets his condition and gets up to leave.
Of course, he never does — They always were stubborn.
“Alright,” I huff, setting my embroidery needle down. “You really not gonna leave?”
“Sure ain’t,” he leers. “I’m starting to think you want me to stay.”
Accepting defeat, I set the jacket down on the rocking chair, grabbing a record from our side table and heading toward the player.
“Let me get that for you.” Stack grabs it from my hands, gently placing it on the record player and lowering the stylus.
He returns to his seat, crossing his leg and biting his lip, a hungry look of satisfaction on his face. “Go on.”
The record crackles to life, one of my favorite jazz songs blaring through the loudspeaker. As it always does, my body moves automatically, no thought needed.
“Woo,” he pull his cigarette out of his mouth, clapping. “There you go,”
“Shut up, Stack,” I groan, turning my back to him and swaying my hips.
It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in the music, throwing my hands in the air and running them down my body, my legs, arms, and hips rocking in symphony. I’ve forgotten Stack was sitting there by the time the music comes to a close — And my eyes haven’t reopened yet when I feel his frame against my back.
His hands hold my waist, pulling me close.
“That dance ain’t nothing like it was last time,” he says, his lips far too close to my ear.
My hands firmly rest on his. “Yea, well I wasn’t grown last time.”
“I know that’s right…” his breath grazes my neck. “You gon’ do that at the Joint for me?”
For the first time…I consider it. If it was anybody else’s Joint I’d jump at the idea, longing to feel the freedom of dancing to my hearts content once again. One thing James hates more than anything was my dancing — Any work of mine, he’d rather me not do. Even so, I can’t give the twins this satisfaction.
“You wish.”
Stack stays silent for a moment, simply pushing his chest against my back. I’m about to tell him to get the hell on when I feel his tongue on my ear…then his teeth, nipping my lobe.
Why I don’t immediately pull away is beyond me. If Smoke saw me right now…If James saw me right now…If Wells saw me — Wells.
I roughly push against his chest, turning toward him.
Stack adjusts his pants. “Come on, baby.”
“You best leave,” I suggest — I don’t know if I’m panting from my dancing or the close proximity.
He steps closer. “We got time—“
“I have a husband, Stack.”
“Mane, fuck your husband,” he urges. “He ain’t gon’ be home for another few hours, ain’t it?”
“And I need to have this suit done by then,” I reiterate, convincing myself more than I’m convincing him. “Go home, Stack.”
He searches my face for any signs of hesitation, and for a moment I think he sees it. But he backs down, putting his hands up and turning toward the door.
“Alright,” he surrenders. “But I best see you at that Joint tomorrow night, Josie.”
Hell the fuck no.
I stay in the living room until I hear him swing the door closed behind him — I’ve never trusted myself so little until now. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I follow him out.
I’m not supposed to tolerate these men, let alone dance for one of them. This is what I’ve heard of the Smoke-Stack twins doing to women. Serenading them, fucking them, and leaving them to the dogs. It won’t be me.
Once I’m sure he’s gone, I finally walk to the door, reaching for the lock. But as I go to walk back down the hallway and finish the jacket, really this time, something on the coat rack catches my eye.
“Motherfucker,” I mumble under my breath.
Hanging there next to James and I’s winter coats, a grey suit jacket with a red pocket square sits pretty. In the pockets, Stack has left me five clean bills…$32.
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📍 Fields Shoe Shining and Tailor || 10:00am
Business is slower than usual on this fine Friday morning. Wells finishes up some shoes that were brought in yesterday, and Smoke’s mostly finished suit jacket lays in the back room. It was being used as my personalized pillow before. My chin nearly falls off of my fist and my eyes flutter closed as a gust of warm wind passes over me.
All of the fatigue in my body is stripped away the next moment as two gunshots ring out from outside. Wells and I immediately pop our heads up and run toward the door.
“What the—“
My face drops when I see the scene outside. None other than Elijah Moore stands across from two men with bullets in their legs as he tucks his gun back into his jacket.
“The fuck are you doing, Smoke!?” I shout, running up to him.
“They tried to rob my truck.”
“So you shot ‘em?”
“I sure the hell did.” He looks at me crazy.
“Are you fucking serious? Y’all can’t go one day without bringing trouble can you?”
All of the store owners in the square have come outside, standing in front of their businesses and watching the scene play out.
“…Come on.” Wells pulls me back. “Go inside, I’ll handle it.”
“Will you, Wells? Or you gon’ let them get away with it again?” I yell in his face, adrenaline rushing through me.
“I got it, Jo. Just please go inside,” he begs.
I spin on my heels, rushing away from the bloody scene and back into the store on a mission. I rip a paper from under the counter and bite the pen cap off, spitting it onto the floor.
You and your crazy ass brother need to stay away from the Delta — Maybe back up to Chicago where they’ll deal with your asses right. Whatever happened yesterday was a mistake, I don’t want it, I’ll never want it. And come pick up this jacket of yours.
Grammatical errors litter the page, but I fold up the letter all the same, pressing it tight and leaving it on the counter as I go to retrieve Smokes suit from the back. When I return, Wells is entering with him.
“You just gotta chill is all I’m saying. People don’t do shit like that around here no more.”
I push the suit against Smokes chest, stepping back.
“Fuck is—“ He looks down at the jacket. “It’s done?”
“I’m not finishing your jacket,” I tell him, plain and simple.
He eyes me as I return behind the counter, stone faced and completely avoiding his gaze.
“You been showing me a lot of disrespect, Josephine, and I’ve been nothing but good to you.” He lays his jacket across his arm. “So I’ll ask you one good time what your problem is with me.”
“You are my problem, Smoke. Both of you.”
Wells walks over to me. “Don’t start this again, Jo—“
“I’m not starting nothing, Wells. It’s called having a backbone. Keep the coat, Smoke. Your brother can have his back too.”
I can see him make the conscious decision to retain his calmness as he adjusts his position.
“Alright,” he nods. “If you ain’t gon’ finish it, Imma need my money back. Eighteen flat, and that’s being generous.”
“You not gonna play me in my own store, boy.” I pay him no mind, rearranging my counter. “That coat is more than half done. With all that money y’all got in Chicago you oughta not need any back.”
“See, what you not gon’ do is steal from me, Josephine. I don’t give a damn how mad you are.”
“Or what, Smoke?” I challenge. “You gonna shoot me too?”
He pauses, then pulls that same pistol on me. “Think I won’t.”
“Woah, woah.” Wells holds his hands up. “Is it worth all this, y’all? Really?”
Smoke and I stare each other down, neither of us budging as the barrel of his gun aligns with my nose.
“I ain’t leaving without my money, woman.”
“Well then you ain’t leaving.”
“I’ll get you your money, Smoke,” my brother mediates. “Just put the gun down.”
I shake my head. “Nah, he ain’t gotta put it down. It’s not like he’s gon’ shoot it—“
My words can barely get out when a bullet is fired into the wall behind me, causing a sharp ringing in my ear.
“Smoke!” Wells yells, running over to me.
I hold my hands tight over my ear, moving from behind the counter and over to Smoke.
“Are you fucking crazy!?” I shove him. “You gonna do that bullshit in my damn store?”
“Give me my money.”
Grace and Bo from across the street run in, examining the sight in front of them — Smoke tucking his gun back in his suit, my hands over my ears, Wells pushing me back.
“What the hell is going on?” Bo asks.
“He’s fucking crazy, that’s what.”
Smoke turns to Wells. “You best tell her to give me my money, nigga. Else the next one going into a body.”
“I’m gon’ get the money, goddamnit!” Wells exclaims.
I get in Smokes face, rage overriding my common sense. Without thinking about it, I spit — A ball of saliva lining his right cheek.
“Fuck you,” I growl.
Smoke short circuits, looking at me with ten different men in his eyes. But the good ones don’t get the best of him today; he wastes no time pulling the gun out again, aiming it right at my chest. Grace swoops in, pulling me away before he can do something he might regret.
“Let’s go, we are going,” she tells me.
“He won’t do nothing!” I yell as Grace drags me to the car. “You ain’t shit, Smoke! Your ass should’ve stayed gone!”
Bo and Wells run out behind Smoke as Grace backs us out. Smoke has completely lost his composure now, shouting all of the fuck-you-bitch’s that he can muster. I’m just glad he has sense enough not to shoot my ass where I sit.
It’s only when driving away that I finally calm down, realizing just how huge of a mess I made of something that may not be worth it. As Grace speeds us away, I sink lower in the passengers seat, wanting nothing more than one of those cigarettes in Stack’s jacket pocket.
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📍 Juke Joint || 10:00pm
I wrap my feather shrug tighter as the cool air of the Mississippi night breeze past me. I drove here in silence and in secret without asking myself questions. Why the hell I’m here, I don’t know.
Cornbread stands up the minute he sees me walking up.
“I don’t think you should be here, ma’am.”
“Cornbread, please get the fuck out of my face,” I smile, not in the mood to stay in this cold ass weather.
“Un-uh,” he shakes his head. “Smoke gave strict orders not to let your ass in.”
I sigh, rolling my eyes as I reveal the burgundy embroidered suit jacket from behind my back.
“Stack told me to bring it for tonight, I’m already late.”
Cornbread is conflicted, looking behind him in search of the twins.
“Man, where your brother at?”
“My brother ain’t my keeper — Now seriously, Cornbread. We wasting time and it’s cold out here.”
A sultry voice calls out from behind the doorman. “Let her in, Cornbread. She’s with me.”
He reluctantly obliges, stepping aside.
“Thank you,” I curtsy.
Behind him, I see my one and only friend around here — Pearline. She wears a big smile, hooking her arm in mine as we walk deeper into the dancing crowd.
“I hear you been stirring up trouble,” she taunts.
I scoff. “And you been eyeing Preacher Boy since I saw y’all at the train station yesterday.”
She giggles, looking back at Sammie who happens to have his eyes on her right this moment.
“Just a little fun,” she shrugs. “So, which one is yours?”
“Girl, what?”
“Smoke…or Stack?” she urges, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I’m thinking Stack.”
“Well, I’m thinking neither!” My eyes widen. “I am married!”
She coyly shrugs. “I am too…”
My mouth hangs agape, in disbelief at this side of Pearline — No one’s been able to pull this out of her before. Hell, it ain’t my place to be mad at it.
We don’t fit another word in before Preacher Boy comes to retrieve his little princess, excusing himself and softly pulling Pearline to the stage. She waves goodbye, but I can only give her a look. An I-know-what-y’all-did look.
Pearline’s song pulls that dance out of me that the jazz did yesterday. I have to stop myself from rocking my body to the blues so early into the night. As if I conjured this devil, my eye is caught by none other than Elias Moore himself — leaving the bar to talk to old Delta Slim. I make my way over.
“Stack,” I nod, placing the coat in his hands.
He grins, passing his drink to Slim who quickly makes himself scarce after downing the whole cup.
“I knew you could play nice.” He slips it on over his vest.
“When I want to,” I tilt my head, the hate that I usually feel for this face completely dissolving. “Where’s Smoke?”
“Man, fuck that." He nears me. “Where’s James?”
I roll my eyes. I’ve tried my best to forget about my husband since the second I left home.
“Oh?” Stack raises a brow, intrigued.
“We argued.” I summarize, my voice low. “He didn’t want me working no more, said it made him look like an unfit husband.”
He sucks his teeth. “Shit, you like to work. And I like that.”
I grin, praying that James never finds out where I came tonight.
“Honestly, I came here half just to spite him.”
Stack’s own smile grows wider, his golden grills showing as he wraps an arm around me, his hand sliding down to palm my ass.
“Let’s spite him even more.” He pulls my body close against his.
But this time…I allow myself to smile. Whether I like it because I know I shouldn’t be doing it, or because I’m growing soft spot for this twin, I don’t have time to figure out.
“Mm-mmm,” I decline, lightly pressing him back. “I gotta find Smoke— Pay him back.”
He backs off, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t, Jose. He still hot from this morning.”
“I gotta. I did some disrespectful ass shit today.”
“Oh, I know.” He winces, looking up.
I do the same. Standing over the balcony staring at us is his brother, a cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding him.
Stack places his hand on the small of my back, leading me upstairs. He’s hot on my trail as a knot ties itself in my stomach. Had it not been for Stack pushing me, I might’ve turned around and forgotten about the whole ordeal. But nonetheless, as Smoke slips into a room, I follow after him,
Annie stands beside Smoke as we enter, we’ve clearly interrupted something. Smoke just stares holes through my head, his jaw clenched so hard I think it might pop.
“You got my money?” His ice cold tone makes it sound much more like a demand.
I reach into my bra, straightening out a few bills before handing to him. His hand is hard and firm as he pull the dollars from me, counting them up.
Stack scrunches his face up. “Nigga, you was tripping over $18?”
“It’s the principle, mane.” Smoke nods at me. “She know that. Now let’s go make some money.”
And with that, Smoke and Annie exit the room. I’m not enough of a fool to think that Smoke forgives me or will ever forget what I did — But he’s fair enough to take only what he’s owed and go on about his life, and I can respect that.
Now alone, Stack sits in a creaky wooden chair, relaxing and spreading his feet apart. I just stare at him, feeling the slightest bit insecure under his gaze.
“You hear that music, don’t you?” his grills gleam at me. “Show me a little some’.”
A small laugh escapes my lips. But before I can say no, Pearline begins to sing a smoother song downstairs, something much more my speed.
“Go on,” Stack urges me.
I oblige, now thinking less of how mad James would be and more how pleased I can make the man in front of me. My back is turned to him and I begin running my hands up and down my sides, accentuating the curves that I’ve yet to let Stack see. The song gains momentum, speeding much more than I thought it would. Lovely singing turns into wild hooting as the stomps of the crowd thump in my ears. Still, I sway to the music, just with more intention, seduction even. I don’t even notice that Stack has gotten up until his hands are following mine, running over the most intimate parts of my body.
“You gon’ finally let me have you, Josie?” he rasps in my ear, his voice nearly blending in with the music.
“Maybe if you work for it…”
The two of us move in harmony, his hands following mine, my hips following his. It’s not until the tempo slows that I realize the position we’re in. My hands sit on the table as Stack stands behind me, his clothed waist grinding against mine as he leaves rough kisses on my neck. I don’t resist it this time, I don’t want to. In fact, I want to do the exact opposite. His hand rests across my throat, turning my head so that I can properly kiss him. It feels amazing, finally letting all of the tension out in this way. I feel possessed by the music as our hands grow nearer and nearer to crossing a line. But suddenly the stomps ain’t so far, and Stacks lips ain’t so close.
I open my eyes to a gruesome scene. It takes me a moment to be sure, but once I’m sure, I’m sure. James has burst through the door and ripped Stack off of me, landing blows the minute he entered. Only seconds have passed and blood has already begun covering his fist. Stack wastes no time, retrieving his brass knuckles and aiming for James’ face. Blood splatters across the room and the two men fight like dogs in front of me.
“Stop—“ I can barely choke the words out when I realize that this is going to end up in a death.
I don’t bother wasting time thinking before I run downstairs. The time between my leaving the room and returning with Smoke and Annie behind me must be about fifteen seconds, but it feels like three.
“The fuck!?” Smoke pushes past me.
He pulls his gun, aiming it at the incoherent mess that is Stack, James, and a lot of blood. I don’t speak, only run to the two men and try my best to save my James, pulling back on his shoulder. He swings his blood-soaked arm back, elbowing me in the face with a crack before continuing to tussle with Stack. I fall to the floor, cradling my cheek as I scoot away from the two men.
Two shots ring out, and the sound of thrashing finally ceases.
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📍Josephine and James’ house || 12:00pm
I made out that he found the note when he begged me not to leave him. Even bloody, shot, and thrown on the Mississippi road, James still gained the power to speak those words to me. He threw me his accusations that he had against Stack, saying he did something against my will. James did it to save me, according to him. I blamed myself all night long for forgetting to put that note away — Maybe it was that that allowed him to survive the night. Perhaps my praying and apologizing to God was enough to make him save James from those two bullets in his side.
It don’t matter now. I’m back home alone just like I would be if he wasn’t in the hospital, feeling the same too — Despite my stitched up cheek and the never ending thoughts of what Stack and I could’ve done last night. It’s wrong, I know it is, but no matter how hard I fight it, all I can imagine is what we would’ve done had James not barged in.
It’s stormy this evening, the clouds covering the sun make me feel like the lord might’ve darkened the sky just to make me feel worse. I flip through my old photo album, photos of young me, Wells, and our parents in that small house in South Carolina. Sometimes I miss those days — Most times, actually. Before I had a hard head and a harder ass, ready to take on anyone who wanted to whoop me at anytime. Back when I could be a soft Josephine who wouldn’t provoke men to shoot her or spend my nights with drunkards at an old mill.
A knock at the door pulls me from my miserable reminiscing. I close the album and set it aside, opening up the door for what I assume to be a patched up James…But it’s not. It’s a much more warming face.
“Stack,” I half smile, having no idea how he feels about last night…How he feels about me.
“Can I come in, Josie?” he asks.
"'Course." I nod, stepping aside and letting him walk past me. As we make our way to the couch, I’m marveled at how little lasting damage James did to him. Sure he had a few stitches beneath his t-shirt and a cut and a bruise on his face, but nothing like James — His face was swollen, still black and blue when I visited him this morning.
We sit next to each other, Stack taking his time not to hurt himself. The tension eats me alive as we just stare at each other, soft jazz music playing.
“I’m sorry…” I begin. “I wrote a note—“
“Shh.” He places a hand on my criss-crossed thigh. “It wasn’t never your fault, baby.”
I can’t find it in me to smile today, although baby makes me want to oh so bad.
“Doctors said he should be okay this morning. But he was damn near dead by the time I drove him there last night,” I tell him. Stack gives me no answer. “If he recovers…I don’t know if I ever want him back in my house.”
I never allowed myself to consider the possibility of leaving James. My mama taught me that in order for anyone to see my value, I’m gon’ need some sort of man behind me, whether that be Wells, my daddy, or another man. But daddy died and I protected Wells more than he ever could protect me, so I did what I was told — Found a husband.
I don’t know that I ever loved him. I said I did, but I didn’t know what love was when we got married. It didn’t matter anyway, he had money and he was good enough to me in the beginning, so I couldn’t ask for more. It was three good years before he showed me the real him. The him that got home from work and started drinking, and more than that, started hitting. Only holes in our walls at first, then more. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what makes me so violent. I never had it in me to stand up to him so I stood up to everyone else.
Stack brings his hand to my stitched cheek, stroking it with his thumb.
“If he ever comes near you again — Ever does this again,” his voice is the most tender I’ve ever heard it. “Smoke and I will shoot him dead this time.”
I shake my head, the tiniest hint of a smile on the corner of my lip. “No need.”
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, offended.
“Oh no, I do,” I assure him. “That’s why I’m not scared of what he’ll do no more. I think you and your brass taught him enough of a lesson.”
His eyes scan my body, his hand returning to my thigh.
“Something like this happen before?”
“Only when he’s drunk and jealous.” I don’t include the part where that is every night. “That’s why I’m at the shop so much. I sometimes think that if I’m there long enough he’ll forget he was ever gonna touch me.”
Stack's face has dropped.
“Your brother know this?” he asks, a fiery glimmer in his eyes.
“He got no clue,” I scoff. “He’s dumb that way.”
He stares at me for a moment, a hunger in his eye behind the immediate anger. He raises a hand to my cheek again.
“I can show you real love, baby. Even if it’s just for today...”
Gently, Stack pulls my face to his. We’re careful not to touch each others’ wounds as he kisses me harder, laying back and pulling me on top of him. He pushes his hips up and I grind mine back and forth, groans escaping the both of us.
I feel free when I’m with Stack, like I can be powerful in who I am — I don’t worry about the store or James when I’m on him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, a deeper more guttural rasp in his voice now. I ignore it, enjoying his kisses that he litters across my chest. I feel like I’m flying, he can do anything to me.
“Josie,” he whispers.
“Hm?” I hum, not bothering to look down as I pull my dress up.
“…Can I bite you?”
#sinners fanfiction#sinners imagine#sinners oc#sinners fic#sinners#sinners movie#sinners 2025#sinners spoilers#sinners story#smoke and stack#smoke x reader#stack x reader#stack sinners#smoke sinners#elijah moore#elias moore#ryan coogler#fanfiction#fic#imagine
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26 September: thread by WGA member David Slack









Twitter thread by David Slack @/slack2thefuture:
"As WGA leaders meet today to finalize our deal, we begin a new era for writers — and for labor in our industry. But we also begin to face the final and most insidious form of unionbusting propaganda: a years-long effort to sell the lie that our strike was not worth it.
Over the coming days, months, and years, the studios, streamers, and their surrogates will take every opportunity to undermine what we have won together. They will seize on the inevitable consessions and compromises made by our NegCom as proof that we “failed.”
They will urge us to overlook all that we won through hard work and unwavering solidarity. They will claim it wasn’t enough, that we should have gotten X instead of Y, that we lost more by striking than we gained in this new contract. And they will be wrong.
They will tell us that the strike was unnecessary, it was a waste of our time and our savings, that our agents or managers or lawyers could have gotten us everything we won through individual negotiations without anyone having to walk a picket line. Well… then why didn’t they?
As hard as it is to believe right now, these lies can work. They’ve worked before. During our 2017 strike authorization vote, it was shocking to discover how many members believed we lost the ‘07-08 strike, in which we went on strike for the internet — and won the internet.
This didn’t happen by accident. It was the result of years of whispering by studios and anti-union allies. And they don’t just do it because they’re bitter about losing. They push the lie that we used our power and lost because they hope to stop us from using our power to win.
Our strike was necessary because, in our individual negotiations, our employers consistently refused to acknowledge our right and reasonable demands. Because the profound changes we needed could only be won through the unique and overwhelming power of collective bargaining.
Our strike was necessary because our employers made it necessary by driving our income down 23% in 10 years. Because they refused to address free work in features, streaming coverage in comedy-variety, the abuses of mini-rooms and the threat of AI until we withheld our labor
Our strike was necessary. Our strike was effective. Our strike is a victory. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, it’s ‘cause they never want to see us stand up for ourselves again. Don’t believe it. We won this fight. We’re the WGA, and when we fight, we win. #WGAStrong"
#wga strike#writers strike#union solidarity#i stand with the wga#sag-aftra strike#actors strike#wga strong#current events#david slack#long post#fans4wga
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You know what, enough time has passed and I've given media reviews/reccs in the past, so I'm gonna recommend Pixar's Win or Lose as seriously worth a watch.

I came into the show with zero expectations a few months ago and was pleasantly blown away by the writing, art direction, and character dramas.
Win or Lose is an original drama mini-series created by Pixar that follows a co-ed middle school softball team and the week leading up to a big championship game. Each episode picks one character, either a kid or an adult, and focuses on their perspective/storyline during that week. So in the first episode, we notice a lot of weird mysteries or threads in the background (Why is this character crying uncontrollably? Why are these two fighting?). As the show progresses, we get to see each character's sides of the story and how they interconnect with and affect each other. It's very, very well written and well crafted.
Each episode also tackles a pretty mature and at times distressing theme about growing up and parenting, similar to Inside Out. Here's a one sentence synopsis of each episode's general conflict and theme to give you an idea. Spoilers ahead:
Laurie, who's terrible at softball, desperately wants to impress her father, the team coach, but is dragged down by anxiety, visualized by a growing blob that whispers intrusive thoughts.
A geeky, middle-aged middle school teacher tries to get over a break-up with online dating.
Rochelle, who's the eldest "forced-to-grow-up-too-fast" daughter of a struggling, social media-obsessed single mother, must raise money on her own to pay for her team fee, falling into dangerous situations with older teens.
Following the perspective of the single mother during the events of episode three, we see her side of the story and the complicated ways she works to fend off judgmental parents and support her daughter.
An imaginative but lonely little brother of a softball player becomes friends with a group of teenage outcasts, for better and for worse.
A boy and a girl on the softball team begin dating, but undergo relationship troubles when the boy's insecurities about coolness, honesty, and masculinity cause him to lash out.
Kai, a Black, trans-coded girl on the team, must balance her self-confidence and love for softball while appeasing her sports-loving father, who pressures her to always be her best.
The culmination and climaxes of each episode's arcs and conflicts collide in the big championship game, with a main focus on the team coach/father from the first episode, who's ready to burst from the stress and tension of an impending divorce, his anxious daughter, the game, and mid-life feelings of worthlessness.
Each episode also features a creative way of externalizing and visualizing emotions, concepts, or mindsets like anxiety, e-dating, and pride. Rochelle transforms into a tall business woman with shoulder pads when she goes into money-making-mode. Gravity flips and disappears when she feels like she's losing control of her life. Some episodes even feature completely different animation styles. As a result, each storyline is presented through an unreliable and exaggerated perspective that prioritizes the protagonist and skews reality, often shown through the eyes of a child.
These screenshots really don't do the animation justice, you need to see it in motion to get the appeal. The dialogue is snappy and fun too, and the characters are immediately charismatic and likable. Here's a clip from the first episode.
The two biggest controversies this show had were 1. its art style and 2. the censorship.
The art style was ridiculed and criticized online for looking "grub-hub commercial-ish," which has been said about previous Pixar movies as well (Luca and Turning Red). The characters are extremely cartoony, with sometimes weirdly exaggerated proportions. And admittedly, some of the designs are not it (the noseless barista...). But I think a lot of people and artists will agree that even if the art direction looks strange to you, it grows on you quickly. Pixar knows how to animate and they know how to work with their own models. Plus, given the limitations and labor of a 7-episode show, it makes sense that things had to be simplified. With the gorgeous lighting, textures, and colors, the show's style really reminded me of stop-motion or Nintendo games. It's just fun.
Secondly is the report that Disney made Pixar censor and re-write Kai's episode, which was originally supposed to be an explicit exploration of her trans identity as a young girl and an athlete. The animatic of the original version of the episode was leaked online. The news and decision is extremely disappointing, worsens the final show, and really reveals how careless and conservative Disney is about representation. But if you watch the actual episode, you'll notice all the ways the crew tried to circumvent Disney and maintain Kai's trans identity through coding and nods to gender dysphoria/guilt/expression/affirmation/euphoria. (Her storyline made me cry too.)
I don't want to come across like I'm defending the censorship. An episode dedicated to a POC father-daughter relationship as they navigate Kai coming out as trans while playing sports on Disney+ would have been so powerful and important for family audiences. And they try to supplant the trans storyline with a clumsy softball vs. baseball edit. But I've seen talk about how this storyline was completely erased or how this show is straight up transphobic, and that's just not true. The crew did their best with a truly shitty situation.
If you like shows like Craig of the Creek or Bluey or Steven Universe, you'll probably like this one too.
#personal#ramblings#not art#long post#i don't normally yap about a show but idk. i feel like this one got a unfair and bad rap in the animation community but i really liked it
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run rabbit run | c.h/the ghoul
➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 869 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, mildly dubious consent (kinda?), dom!coop, bareback, cum play, degradation kink, biting, pet names (bunny), man-handling, doggystyle, drabble, coop's gotta fuck you full so the ferals can't smell you ➥ summary | "the drabble thing HNNNGH think about coop calling you bunny from the start bc he clocked that you were always a down for it and you not getting it until he after you fuck for the first time" ➥ notes | do not look @ me rn 🫣 i feel like i've exposed myself too much lol masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️
He found the rabbit among endless dunes of rock and rubble; a frightened, jumpy little beast that required a firm hand to tame, and an even steadier one to control.
And while it would’ve been easier to dump ‘em at Super Duper Mart -- get his caps worth, pounds of flesh for vials of chem -- he took a shine. Now, what exactly it is about you that captured his attention so thoroughly, he can’t be sure (though he could hazard a few guesses).
What he does know is this: if it wasn’t for him, you’d have been killed a million times over by raiders, fiends, and ferals alike. Always finding your way into trouble as soon as his back is turned.
Like now.
So if he’s a little rough with you, it’s only because he had to haul ass half-way across the flooded district when he heard you scream.
Nevermind the hard lurch of his heart, the sensation of his stomach droppin’ to his feet. You were supposed to be safe, holed up in the building he cleared yesterday.
Surprise, surprise; you decided to go poking where you shouldn’t, and now he’s gotta rescue your dumb ass. Skidded around a bombed out building only to find you fighting off a small pack of ferals, their rotted hands scratching at your arms and their teeth gnashing at your face.
Goddamn it.
Same shit, different day.
“What did I fuckin’ say?” he snarls, chapped lips pressed tight against your ear as sharp hip bones rut into the softness of your ass. “You’re dumber than shit sometimes.”
“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t - hhahh, slow down - didn’t mean to cause trouble.” Your hands scramble for purchase, nail beds aching from how hard you’re digging at the dirt.
Shoved onto the ground, pants sagging around your thighs as a stray rock digs into your cheek, scraping up the tender skin. “Won’t do it again, I promise.”
The Ghoul snorts, delivers a stinging nip to the tip of your ear. Your reedy whine soothes some of the agitation but he’s still bristling, aggression threaded through with tendrils of panic he refuses to acknowledge.
“I highly doubt that.”
You hiccup, knees spreading wide as your back dips - trying to get away, to get closer.
The fat head of his cock keeps hitting your cervix with every stroke, little fissions of pain kissed pleasure racketing up your spine as he stretches you past your limits and fucks you open.
Your gummy walls swollen and raw from the constant friction of his shaft, the rad burns scraping your insides up. Clit aching and so wet you’re dripping, a damp patch of earth beneath you.
“No, promise I’ll be good!” You pant, the scent of sunbaked soil and stagnant water heavy in your nose. “Please, please, please.”
Everything aches, limbs sore from your tussle and pride bruised as sweat dapples your brow, sticks the fine baby hairs to the back of your neck.
A hand clamps down on your hip so hard bones grind, yanking you back into every punishing thrust. Heavy balls smack against your clit on the in-stroke, stoking the embers of your desire. Your toes curl in your boots.
“I’ll believe it when I see it, bunny.” The Ghoul grabs your elbow with his free hand, tugging you up into his chest so his chin hooks over your shoulder, breath puffing along the side of your cheek. “You just don’ know when ta learn. So I’m gonna have’ta teach you. An’ I’ll do it as many times as it takes, you hear?”
You sniffle, nuzzling the back of your head against his face. “I mean it,” you say. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know there’d be any ferals around. Was just trying to find some more food.”
Groaning, his hips kick forward in a softer grind, still so deep you feel him in your stomach - pussy filled to the brim with cock - but not as harsh as before. As close as you’ll get to an apology until he’s done.
“This is your fault - you got ‘em all riled. Now, we gotta make you smell like me so take your punishment like a good bunny 'fore I decide ta eat you instead.”
And you do, letting him rut into you until he’s satisfied, aching and so swollen by the end of it that he has to bully his way in with every thrust, your pussy clamping down and milking him for all he’s worth.
When he finally does pump you full, you’re dumb and dripping. Limp limbed and sagging into the ground - only held up by the cage of his arms. Thighs shaking and clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat as he wrings every last bit of pleasure out of you.
“Sometimes,” he says, sitting back on his heels to watch as his cum oozes out of you in a sticky rush, dripping down your folds, “I think dumb bunnies like you are only good fer one thing.”
You whine when his thumb whispers over your clit, caressing your folds as he gathers up his spend. Gently fucks it back into you with shallow thrusts of his fingers.
“But that’s all right, I like ‘em a lil dumb.”
#cooper howard x reader#cooper howard x you#the ghoul x you#the ghoul x reader#the ghoul smut#cooper howard smut#fallout smut#cooper howard#the ghoul
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While You Were Sleeping [Blue Lock]

an: it’s been a hot minute since I did a multi character drabble, but here we are in 2025 and I love too many Blue Lock characters just to write about one at a time 🤭
premise: a good night’s sleep is not always a given, so how do they react when their sleep is interrupted?
featuring: Barou Shouei, Itoshi Sae, Nagi Seishiro, Oliver Aiku & Tokimitsu Aoshi
warnings: female reader, pet names (baby, darling, honey, sweetie, woman (it’s affectionate I swear)), lots of fluff, hurt/comfort, a lil angst, not full NSFW but suggestive in places, mentions of nightmares, fear of infidelity, confused feelings, Sae being emotionally constipated, lots of cuteness (I hope 🥹)
Shouei grunted.
His brow scrunched as the sleep he had been luxuriating in began to recede. No matter how desperately he grasped at it, the threads slipped through his fingers until—thump!
An intense pain against his shin woke him.
The room was pitch black with no noise from passing traffic but there was a whimpering coming from the right of his body. Blinking, he twisted onto his side and the irritation that had been building in his chest dissipated almost immediately.
Your face greeted him.
A face he loved, cherished and adored above all others, but it was twisted into a grimace. He watched as your lips wobbled though your eyes were screwed tightly shut. Even with the limited light source he could make out the sheen of sweat covering your skin, and he reached out a hand to cup your cheek only to be kicked once more.
“Fuck! Christ… I’m meant to be the striker in this relationship,” he muttered vehemently from beneath his breath, palm furiously rubbing at the spot you had brutally attacked.
When you curled tighter into a ball, damn near trembling, he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Shouei reached out for you once more. “Baby… wake up.”
Your body relaxed into his touch, cheek nuzzling his rough palm like it was a comfort to be sought out. The corner of his lips quirked at the adorable display, but he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew what was causing you such distress.
“C’mon, come back to me,” he coaxed and finally adding a please when you seemed intent on refusing to rouse for him.
“Shou’—wassamatter?”
Goddammit, that shouldn’t make his heart flutter.
The sleep laced confused tone of your voice tugged at his heartstrings until the man known as the villain of the pitch was practically twittering like a love sick songbird.
“—thought you might tell me. You’ve been kicking the shit outta me for the past ten minutes. What’s going on?” he asked, softening his tone when your face flushed.
You burrowed into the pillow, fingers pulling the covers up to your chin and he had to fight to pull them back again. “Don’t go getting shy on me, woman.”
Huffing and puffing, you bit your lip but relented.
“It’s silly,” you whispered, only to be met with one sleek black eyebrow raised in coercion. He wasn’t going to let this go. “… was dreaming that some girls were hitting on you after a match,” you admitted grumpily, pouting out your bottom lip.
Barou snorted. It was just like you to be having a bad dream where your reaction was to fight back. That was his girl. His precious treasure.
Without warning he wrapped you up with his thickly muscled arms, drawing you into the centre of his chest where his heart thundered like a drum.
“No girl would dare. Not when you’ve got that kinda kick on you,” he teased with a gruff chuckle.
All you could do was cling to him; fingers digging into the meat of his back and shoulders like he was an anchor you needed to keep you sane. Your eyes shut slowly, soothed by the rumbling laughter in his throat. You trusted him implicitly so why did tears prick your eyes?
“Y’know I’d never entertain that shit, yeah? Got the only girl worth a damn right here in my arms, in my bed, in my… heart.”
You hiccuped, smiling into his skin and drinking in the cedarwood scent of his soap. Your fingers combed through the luscious length of his hair, humming contentedly as your heart lightened.
“It’s a big game tomorrow; the King needs his sleep. Cuddle me and keep me from assaulting those dumb girls in my dreams again.”
Shouei was more than happy to oblige.
Sae was not accustomed to being unable to accomplish something once he set his mind to it.
He was driven, self-motivated—perhaps not always for the right reasons—but he worked diligently to improve himself in all aspects that he considered important.
So why then did he find himself wide awake and silently seething?
From his seated position in the bed, he glanced down at your sleeping form. Your face relaxed, eyes fluttering as dreams no doubt coloured behind your lids, and your lips… so soft and perfectly kissable. He would blame you, but he couldn’t.
You might be the reason he was unable to find rest, but it was his lack of ability to form suitable words that irked him endlessly.
Three little words and they were lodged in his throat like an anvil in some stupid Saturday morning cartoon. You knew. He knew that you knew. Except it wasn’t the same as actually saying it, was it?
A tic worked in his jaw and as if sensing his ire, you grumbled and stretched. Cute little hands sought him out, eyes still closed but brow now knitted together when you felt for him and discerned that he was not lying down as he should be.
“Sae?”
“Hm.”
You blinked, rubbing at your eyes and shuffling closer until your head was lying in his lap. “It’s late, you should sleep.”
He agreed—wholeheartedly.
Sae looked upon you and felt the words rush through his brain at an alarming rate. Words that he couldn’t possibly voice, not yet, maybe not ever if he feared the worst.
Vulnerable was not an emotion he was used to, yet it beat against his brain. Licking across his suddenly parched lips, he mustered the ghost of a smile. It only resulted in your worried little mewl.
“It’s okay, I’m just thinking. Go back to sleep,” he said matter-of-factly.
His eyes cooled when you refused, choosing to continue the conversation he didn’t wish to engage with right now. “About what?”
A rogue thought of him grabbing you by the shoulders until your face was nose to nose with him struck across his temples like lightning. His every thought was centered on you, how could you not know?
At training.
In the shower.
When you were cuddled into his side and happily yapping about your day.
When you were chanting his name like a personal prayer, face twisted into bliss.
When he should be sleeping.
“It… it doesn’t matter. It can wait ‘til the morning.” Sae gave you no room to argue, scooting down the bed and drawing you beneath his arm. “Sleep.”
You yawned. Pretty eyes blinking up at him with that adorable little smile that only wrapped him further around your pinky finger.
“‘m gonna hold you to that, Sae.”
He made a noise in his throat and closed his eyes, mentally kicking himself for not having the strength to be completely honest with you.
Maybe tomorrow… he thought. Gods, he hoped.
Seishiro liked his sleep. Everyone knew that, and they also knew that once he was asleep it was almost impossible to wake him until he was good and ready.
That was why it was so odd that he found himself staring at the alarm clock on his bedside cabinet as it flashed a neon 3am message at him. For a moment, he simply blinked at the glow, wondering if he did it enough times that it would eventually make sense or he’d fall over again, but it was no use.
Did he need to pee? Was he thirsty? Too hot? Too cold? Need an extra pillow?
The answer to each was no, and that only made his brow furrow deeper in confusion. He moved to turn over, expecting to find your sleeping form by his side so he could drag you backwards into the embrace of his body, but he stopped short.
His fingers met only cold sheets where you should be and his heart lurched. It was three in the morning, why weren’t you in bed? And if you weren’t in bed where the hell were you?
Only now did he realise that your absence had been the catalyst to his waking. Like a comfort blanket, Nagi had long known that he slept best when he was touching some part of you and it wasn’t like you seemed to mind either. An arm over your waist. A leg between yours. His palm anchored at your chest.
Sleepily, hands rubbing at his fatigued eyes, he made his way from the bedroom to search for you. It didn’t take him long when the soft glow from beneath the living room door beckoned him forward, and he found you huddled in a blanket on the couch.
“Whatchu doing up?” he asked blearily, ignoring the little jump you gave at his sudden appearance.
“Oh—‘shiro. What are you doing up?”
Nagi frowned, rounding the couch and settling by your side until his head rested on your shoulder. “I asked you first.”
Your fingers raked through the pure snow of his hair, humming at how to word it so he wouldn’t worry but ultimately deciding on honesty.
“Nightmare,” you admitted with a subtle shrug.
“And you didn’t wake me?”
Silly man… he was like a rock once he was out. Plus, why would you want to worry him with a silly nightmare that now you were awake you could reason out it was total nonsense?
“You sleep deep, pookie… and it was silly nonsense.”
Seishiro puffed loudly through his nose, clearly unamused. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, hand raised to turn your head to fix you with those pretty, drowsy eyes. “It’s not silly or nonsense if it bothered you enough that you had to get up. Next time you have permission to dump a glass of water on me.”
Your laughter came out like a bark, and even he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
“I’m serious, sweetie. It’s my job to make sure you’re happy and I refuse to be caught slacking cause I’m fast asleep,” he scolded, but mostly to himself.
His arms wound around your body, lifting you so you were cradled on his lap with your head on his shoulder this time. “Wanna talk about it or do you want me to tell you exactly how I would defeat all those nightmare monsters?”
“Oh ho, this I’ve got to hear. Go on gamer boy, tell me how you’d slay my nightmares.”
And he did, until you were both laughing and yawning, and tired enough to fall asleep entwined on the couch.
For as many nights as you had spent in Oliver’s bed, it still didn’t quite feel like you belonged. Despite your best efforts, something always kept you on guard and tonight was no different, except it was… and you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Sure, things weren’t serious between you two, but the past few encounters had led you to believe that he was being even more cagey than normal.
Your gaze wandered to the dozing profile beside you, eyes lingering on the scruff along his jaw and the pretty hair that fell in that perfectly ruffled way against the pillow.
Why were you here?
The question refused to leave you alone.
When had Aiku ever invited you over and you hadn’t ended up fucking like animals? It wasn’t like you had reached out to him, oh no, you knew better than to have your hand bitten in situationships like these. He set the terms, and you were happy to follow until you got bored… or at least that had been the case with other lovers in the past.
It felt odd to be lying here in nothing but one of his match shirts and for there not to be an ache between your thighs. You weren’t exactly complaining. The movie had been one you had been meaning to watch for months, and the conversation had been easy and full of laughter, but what did it mean?
You weren’t going to lie here awake all night.
“Uhh… Aiku?” You tapped his shoulder as gently as possible, not that he even moved an inch. For a moment you simply listened to his breathing which was even and deep. Damn heavy sleeper.
Clearing your throat, you half yelled. “We need to talk.” Four words that would strike fear into the hearts of men worldwide, and it seemed that Oliver was no exception.
His alluring heterochromatic eyes blinked wide, and you smothered your laughter behind a palm. “Did you…?” He started, but you hushed him just as quickly.
You snuggled down the bed so that you were face to face, his warm breath caressing your throat and you hated how badly you wanted to kiss away that suspicious look on his stupidly handsome face.
It was impossible to resist the temptation to touch him completely, so you let your hand wander until it traced the width of his bottom lip and tickled the patch of scruff just below. You canted your head as much as the pillow would allow and blew out a breath—it was now or never.
“Why am I here?”
Aiku scrunched up his face as if you had asked the most stupid question possible. It warmed your skin, your free hand twisting into the sheets to stop yourself from visibly squirming.
He chuffed after a long moment. “The fuck you think? I like your company… that so bad?”
Oh. Well…
“Look, Aiku—this has strictly been a physical thing until tonight. You can forgive me for being a little miffed,” you huffed petulantly, mainly to cover your embarrassment.
The smug smile that stretched across his plush lips was one you were either gonna smack sideways or kiss stupid. Right now it was a 50/50 split on which way it would go.
He stretched, sleepily, lazy and all sleek strength. Goddamn him.
“Is that the problem? You didn’t get off so now you can’t sleep. Y’know I can fix that real quick, darlin’” he purred, a strong thigh forcing its way between your legs until you yipped and fixed him with a stern scowl.
“Don’t—ah—don’t deflect, Oliver!”
Throwing his hands up in surrender, Aiku flopped backwards and just as quickly he anchored those strong hands at your waist and hauled on top of him. He chuckled when you gasped and smacked at the wall of his chest.
“Hey! Alright alright…” he conceded, schooling his features into sincerity.
In the blink of two mismatched eyes your stomach dropped into your toes. His fingers traced the curve of your shoulder, collarbone, jaw. There was something different behind the teasing and you didn’t want to admit it.
“Can we… not always fuck? I like having you around, and I might sleep better when you’re here.” The last part was a near whispered admission, and it had you folding forward to drape yourself across his chest, if only to hide your face.
Your head fit perfectly beneath his chin whilst his fingers worked soothing patterns along your spine, wrinkling the shirt on your body.
“Yeah. I think we can do that.”
Panic was what woke him. The familiar thrill of terror that shot through his heart and filled his veins with adrenaline.
Sweat dripped from his hairline whilst he looked around wildly for the source of the panic. Frowning, Tokimitsu scanned the dark bedroom one more time and found nothing out of place, so why did it feel like his heart was going to beat out of his chest?
A wail akin to the noise of a wounded animal sounded next to him and his skin prickled with goosebumps. This was what he had shaken him awake with an almighty start; he knew it.
Where his girlfriend should be, his eyes landed on a twisted lump of sheets and tangled hair. It sounded like the quivering mass was crying and without hesitation, he leapt into action.
On his knees, the mattress dipped as he worked to free you from the sheets that were coiled around your arms and legs like snakes. He couldn’t quite fathom how you had ended up like this and why the cold of having no blanket at all hadn’t woken him earlier, but it hardly mattered.
Finally, your hot, flustered face appeared with your eyes squeezed shut and tears streaking your cheeks.
“Honey, wake up. It’s okay, I’m here, I’m here. Hey… hey,” he babbled, grasping at your shoulders whilst still trying to be as gentle as possible.
“Ao-shi!” You gulped through tears, blinking away the remnants of sleep that tried valiantly to claw you back under its control.
He could die from heartbreak at how you clung to him, at how you launched yourself upright and into his arms. Your head tucked down to your chest beneath his chin, body trembling and wet with cold sweat. The t-shirt you had borrowed earlier that night bagged on your body, but it was slick and sticking to your skin in places.
Tokimitsu was the one who was used to feeling scared, nervous, anxious… but right now the tables were flipped and how he wished he could take those emotions from you and carry the burden. At least he was used to it.
“It’s alright, just breathe for me,” he coaxed gently, rubbing your back in circular patterns. Aoshi kissed the crown of your head over and over, giving you a chance to control your breathing and regulate yourself whilst he grounded himself with the familiar scent of you.
After a moment or two, your fingers loosened from where they were dug into his biceps. He knew there would be little crescent moon indentations, but he didn’t care, he’d wear them as badges of honour.
You sniffled, bleary eyed and embarrassed. “… ‘m sorry, Aoshi. Bad dream. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Aoshi cupped your face in both hands and brought your face up gently to the same level as his own, thumbs wiping over the watery tracks on your soft, perfect cheeks. His smile was gentle, reassuring, everything he saw in you when you were the one comforting him.
“Don’t be silly and never apologise for feeling scared or worried. Isn’t that what you tell me?”
You nodded once, still a little shaken from images that no longer formed full pictures but were now only snippets of the fear that had gripped you.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, grateful that he let you lean forward and rest your forehead against his shoulder. The citrusy scent of his favourite bodywash tickled your nose and coaxed a smile upon your lips.
“I love you.”
Tokimitsu flushed scarlet. It wasn’t the first time you had proclaimed your love and he returned it eagerly and sincerely, but it still took him by surprise to hear it and to know he had been so lucky.
He laughed, nervous and adorable. “Isn’t that usually my line?”
“Maybe… but not tonight.”
#delirious writes#barou shouei#itoshi sae#nagi seishiro#oliver aiku#tokimitsu aoshi#barou x reader#sae x reader#nagi x reader#oliver aiku x reader#tokimitsu x reader#blue lock fluff#blue lock x reader#bllk x reader#bllk fluff
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Jason Todd & Critiques of Child Vigilantes
I've always found it interesting that as early as Bruce's opening monologue in Batman #428 - before he even finds Jason's body - DC had already started victim blaming Jason for his death.
Admittedly, I'm cherry-picking a bit here. There rest of the monologue does involve Bruce blaming himself as well, for all the choices he made in raising Jason that led up to this. In The New Titans #55, Dick makes a similar claim - this is Bruce's fault, for letting Jason be Robin before he was ready.
Except then Tim Drake picks up the mantle.
And the victim blaming settles in as the narrative DC's pushing. Jason was reckless, he was angry, he was impulsive. He jumped into this situation without thinking, and that's what got him killed.
And it's obvious why, right? Because Jason Todd dying, Robin dying, is about as effective an argument against child vigilantes as you can get. Because if it isn't Jason's own intrinsic failure, then the blame turns to Bruce. It's Bruce's fault for putting a kid in a costume, for putting Jason in a position where the Joker had cause to kill him.
(Sheila only sold Jason out because he was Robin. Joker only set the bomb because he wanted to avoid Batman's retaliation.)
Because if we really start critically thinking about the implications of child vigilantes in this world, it starts unraveling at the seams. And the first obvious loose thread is Bruce letting Tim pick up the Robin mantle, after the last one died.
Anyway, this post isn't about how blame is shifted onto Jaybin post-death to avoid criticizing child vigilantes. This is about the Red Hood and how he does the same damn thing.
Jason, after his resurrection, has a habit of harassing various heroes and monologuing a whole lot in the ensuing fight. Relevant to the conversation here are the arcs with Tim Drake and Mia Dearden.
It's worth noting that Jason is projecting in both cases, specifically taking his own relationship with Bruce and assuming that the same is true of Tim & Bruce and Mia & Ollie. This is obviously not the case, but it is relevant because it gives us insight into how Jason views Bruce, and where he feels the blame lies.
Life and Death - Teen Titans (2003) #29
TT #29 is the comic featuring Jason Todd's infamous attack on Titan's Tower, in which he fights Tim Drake for 8 pages. While we're here: no Jason wasn't trying to kill Tim, it was a fair fight not a one-sided torture fest, no throats were slit, and while that Robin costume may have been homemade I refuse to believe it was cheap. Jason is not wearing a cheap Halloween costume that thing is fully functional as a vigilante costume I will fucking FIGHT YOU -
Jason repeatedly brings up Bruce during this fight (emphasis mine):
"[Bruce] let you find him. And I bet he said the same thing to you that he said to me, didn't he? That you had the talent to make a difference in Gotham. That he needed someone he could trust in his war on crime. That you're one of a kind. The light to his darkness. Robin, the Boy Wonder. Now... let me show you what the Joker did to me." "Still. You do realize, the whole idea of training a teenager to fight against something he'll never eradicate is a mistake. It didn't surprise anyone when I died. When I failed."
This is Jason criticizing Bruce. This is Jason calling out Bruce for his failings as a parents, for the fundamental wrongness that is a child vigilante. Jason specifically frames it in the context of his own life. This is how he views Bruce's influence on him - his death is something that could have been predicted.
Except: This is DC. Child vigilantes are a genre convention, are a foundational part of how the world is built, and cannot be criticized.
So let's take a look at everything else Jason says:
"You can't be that good." "Now… let me show you what the Joker did to me. And let's find out how tough you really are." "I failed--but I'm still beating you. Do you think you're that good now?! Do you really, Tim?"
It's not about Bruce at all. Bruce is not the one in the wrong, here. It's about Tim. Does Tim have what it takes? Is Tim good enough to deserve this mantle? Jason looks at Tim and says: I was not good enough. What makes you think you are?
"I had to convince Batman to let me try this. All because he'll never stop blaming himself for what happened to you," Tim says. Tim implies that Bruce is wrong to blame himself. Jason's death? That was all on Jason. If Tim gets hurt, if Tim dies? Then it's all on Tim.
Jason also spends some time talking about how no one remembered him. However, this part of the conversation is initiated while they're in the Titan's Memorial Hall, which did not have a statue for Jason. I'm interpreting it as a comment fueled by the environment, and thus not part of the core arguments Jason's trying to make.
Seeing Red - Green Arrow (2001) #69-72
GA #72 is the comic featuring Jason kidnapping Mia Dearden, fighting her in her school's gym before blowing it up. While we're here: Jason was not trying to kill Mia, Jason was not bringing up Mia's trauma to throw call her disgusting or throw it in her face, and Mia was not horrifically traumatized by that encounter.
Let's look at what Jason has to say about Ollie and Bruce, first:
"Is that why you find it so hard to kill? Do you think life is so precious? Or do you have to emulate your new flawed 'Daddy'?" "My surrogate dad comes from the same damned pampered upbringing as your self-righteous mentor." "And I know that sometimes very bad things have to be done to do a great right. I don't think either one of our 'fathers' will ever understand that."
Yes, I'm reaching a bit here. However, there's the same pattern here of calling out Bruce for a specific way he failed Jason - by believing and pushing a specific moral code that he expected Jason to follow.
Even today, Jason killing is far more controversial than it is when other heroes do it, both in or out of universe. This is due to his relationship to Bruce. That expectation that he should align with Bruce's moral code, because he grew up alongside it. This is something specific to child vigilantes - other superhero team-ups where they're around the same age would not expect them to share the same code beat for beat.
It's not... a particularly strong argument, but if we run with it. Once again, Jason shifts the onus of responsibility from Ollie (Bruce) to Mia (himself).
It's a lot harder to find specific quotations where Jason says this, because a lot of it is implied, but throughout the fight Jason is trying to goad Mia into going for the killing shot.
"You're going to keep shooting your lawn darts at me but avoiding every killing wound. You know how easy this is when you limit your options. You're working the same thirty-three. Thirty-three angles, points--thirty-three shots. None of which will be a fatal blow. When that quiver is empty, you know I'm going to come for you!"
(He does not come for her. He gives her a pair of swords and makes her fight him again.) Jason compares himself to her ("You're a lot like me.") and then, after the previous quotation about how Ollie and Bruce will never get that sometimes you have to do the bad thing [kill], he says, "But you do."
Once again, it's not about Ollie. It's not about Bruce. It's about Mia, and what Mia chooses to do. It's Jason saying: Are you going to mindlessly follow what your mentor says? Or will you do what you know is right?
It's the same twist, again. It's not about what morals said mentor/father figures are selling, it's about the child's duty not to listen.
Conclusion
I've referenced a couple of times that DC can't have criticism against child vigilantes. I'm sure others have explained this better than I can, but the general reasoning is because child vigilantes are objectively bad. If you apply any real scrutiny, any level of realism, and you realize that having them is harmful. Harmful to the kids, and it is absolutely the fault of every single one of their mentors for letting this happen.
The kid sidekick is a genre convention. It's part of the landscape of superhero comics. This is the part of the story where you suspend your disbelief, you pretend that letting children fight crime is fine actually, and you enjoy the story that comes out of here. If we acknowledge in universe that letting kids fight crime is bad, you break that universe.
And that's exactly what Jason Todd does.
That's what he did as Robin, and DC responded with the victim-blaming narrative as damage control. It shifted the responsibility for his death from Bruce to Jason.
This trend continues into Jason as Red Hood. His very existence is an argument against child vigilantes. And so he brings it up, and in projecting on other characters he again underscores just how culpable Bruce is for his death. But we can't have that, so even as Jason brings up these points, he undermines them by shifting the focus to what the child is doing. After all, he's confronting Tim and Mia, not Bruce and Ollie.
(And in his actual confrontation with Bruce: "I forgive you for not saving me." Many have pointed out that this is not the same as it wasn't your fault.)
If you're a child vigilante or a kid sidekick, and you get hurt, if you die, that's not your mentor/parent's fault. It's on you. It's always been your own fault.
That's how it has to be.
#jason todd#jason todd meta#revek rambles#i have no idea how to tag this. hm.#teen titans 29#green arrow seeing red
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I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU
— trying to prove his worth to you, boxer!hamzah only causes more damage. inspired by this ask
continuation of cheer me on and make me a better man
you’re half-asleep on the couch when he walks in.
it’s almost two in the morning. all the lights are off except for the dim glow of the lamp beside you, and you’ve been sitting there for hours, just staring at the door like your frustration might make it swing open.
and now, finally, it does.
hamzah stumbles in with his hoodie half-zipped and his knuckles red and raw, but not bleeding like usual.
there’s no new wounds decorating his face, just the same leftover scars from a week or two ago, before you guys made the agreement that hamzah would take a break from boxing to focus on healing your relationship. the first progressive thing that’s happened in months.
he freezes when he spots you, immediately clocking the irritation etched into your features. you don’t say anything right away.
“i didn’t think you’d still be up,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck like his excuse will undo everything.
you stand slowly, blanket falling off your lap. “where were you?” you press him for an answer that you already know.
he hesitates.
“hamzah.” you warn.
“i-” he sighs, looking away. “i just.. i had to.”
your chest tightens. “we agreed.”
“i know.”
“you promised.”
he winces at your tone. “it wasn’t some big thing, i swear. just a local match. barely anyone there.”
you laugh, cold and breathless. “yeah? was it worth it?”
“i won.” his voice is soft but steady, like he’s hoping that matters more than breaking your trust. “y’see? i can still win.”
you shake your head, eyes burning. “i never asked you to prove that to me.”
he steps forward. “but i need to. i don’t know who i’m supposed to be for you anymore.”
“you’re supposed to be you, hamzah. my boyfriend,” you snap. “not someone i have to bandage up every week.”
you’re only angry because he violated the agreement that was supposed to make your relationship better.
wouldn’t he, of all people, pounce at any opportunity to fix your issues?
“i’m sorry. i can make it up to you.”
his tone is laced with desperation. he sounds like a child desperate for approval - like your love is a trophy he has to earn with bruises, blood, and begging.
your voice is quieter now. “i don’t need you to do this for me. losing or winning - it doesn’t matter.”
hamzah swallows hard, his shoulders tensing up. there’s a flush creeping up his neck that’s not from the fight. it’s shame. you can see it in his eyes - the kind that comes from disappointing someone you love.
he doesn’t speak, not right away. he just steps closer, slow and careful, until he’s standing right in front of you. his hands tremble slightly when they reach for your waist.
“i can make it up to you,” he repeats softly.
you look up at him, brows drawn.
“i’ll be good. just let me show you, please.”
he sinks to his knees in front of you.
his fingers find the hem of your sleep shorts and he kisses your thigh like an apology.
“let me make you feel something,” he whispers, already tugging your shorts down. “something good.”
his mouth is warm against your skin. desperate. you feel it in every kiss he presses to your thigh, in the way his breath stutters, how his grip tightens around your hips like he’s afraid you’ll push him away.
but you don’t.
he looks like he needs this - needs you - and you haven’t decided yet if that’s a good thing or a bad one.
hamzah nudges his nose against your inner thigh, the bridge of it brushing your skin as he looks up at you. his eyes are glassy, wild with need and something much heavier - remorse, maybe.
“jus’ wanna make you feel good,” he says again, softer this time, almost slurred. “let me. please.”
you thread your fingers through the bleached roots of his hair and tug just a little. “okay,” you whisper. “yeah. you can.”
he doesn’t waste another second. he can’t afford to, not when you’re already slipping through his fingers.
you don’t remember stepping out of your shorts, or when you sat back down on the couch again - but he’s between your legs now, and his mouth is on you like he’s starving.
his mind is set on the idea that if he can make you fall apart, it’ll fix everything. if you moan his name, maybe it means you haven’t stopped loving him.
and fuck - he’s always been good with his mouth, but not like this. it’s uncoordinated and messy and too much all at once, tongue curling in deep, groaning like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him down to earth.
you grip his hair. “hamzah - slow down.” you breathe out, slightly whiny.
he doesn’t. if anything, he works harder - like your voice is another thing he has to earn. his arms hook under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the couch, tilting your hips so he can bury his face deeper. he moans into your cunt, trying to apologize with every bit of his mouth.
“you don’t have to-” you start to speak, but you moan involuntarily, hips jolting when his tongue hits the perfect spot. “fuck - hamzah!”
he hums, and the vibration rattles through you. he loves hearing you say his name like that. loves it more than the sound of a crowd cheering for him in the ring.
you don’t mean to look down, but when you do - his eyes are shut tight, like this is holy, like worship. his fingers are shaking where they grip your thighs, arms straining, muscles twitching.
he’s unravelling. and it’s not just from the apologetic action; it’s from the fear that this might be the last time you’ll let him do this.
your stomach tightens as you cum - you’re shuddering, overwhelmed, fingers tangled in his hair as he drinks it all in like it’s proof that he can still reach you.
but even when you’re completely spent, when your thighs are trembling and you’re pushing at his shoulder - he doesn’t stop.
you whine at the overstimulation, your body thrumming with excessive pleasure. “h-hamzah!” you choke out. “too much!”
he pulls himself away with a small sigh, like he’s admitting defeat.
he rests his forehead on your inner thigh, panting against your skin, still holding onto you for dear life.
“i don’t know what else to do,” he breathes out. “i’m trying. i’m trying.”
you slide your hand down to his jaw, thumb brushing over almost-healed area where he had split his cheek open a few fights ago.
“hamzah,” you whisper. “this isn’t going to fix everything.”
he looks up at you, broken and blinking, his face flushed and his lips shining with your arousal. “then what is? tell me.”
you stare down at him, both of your hearts simultaneously cracking open at the seams.
”you need to stop doing this to yourself. you’re making it worse.”
he bows his head. his breath stutters. and then he’s crying.
right there, on his knees, with his face pressed to your thigh. muffled sobs, quiet and pitiful, the kind that sound like they’ve been building for a while. he’s not loud about it. he just clings to you and lets it happen.
you just sit there, your fingers lazily stroking through his sweat-dampened hair at the base of his neck.
eventually he calms down, but you know he’s still waiting for something - waiting for you to say something that will make this all okay. still waiting to be told he’s enough.
but you’re tired of lying. you don’t want to patch it up with soft words that don’t mean anything anymore. you don’t want to tell him this fixed it, that everything’s fine, when it isn’t.
“this isn’t right,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the shell of his ear. “this isn’t how love works.”
“i don’t know how else to love you,” he whispers.
you close your eyes. “it shouldn’t be about me. you don’t even know how to love yourself, hamzah.”
he doesn’t respond.
he finally doesn’t try to spin his pain into something noble.
you shift slightly, and he lifts his head just enough to look up at you. his eyes are red-rimmed and tired.
“do you even know why you went back?” you ask.
he swallows hard, and for a second, he looks like he’s about to lie.
“makes me feel purposeful for you.” he mutters, brutally honest.
you nod once, slowly. “you think that’s the only way to have purpose?”
“i know it is.”
you lean your head back against the couch and sigh. you hate the fact that his mind is wired this way.
when you speak again, your voice is quieter. gentler.
“i think you need to figure out who you are without me.”
he flinches - like the idea physically hurts - but he doesn’t argue. he just drops his gaze again, head resting back against your thigh.
“i don’ wanna lose you,” he says, barely audible.
“i know,” you whisper.
the silence that follows tells you that you’re both already long gone.
a/n: this was sitting in my drafts for so damn long i had to force myself to post it. i fear there’s no coming back from this
xoxo giulia
taglist: @gulicore @slushedup @arroganceisherfavoritecolor @layzerzlovesu46 @babysitter19 @marixoa @starjely @viennawaiits @h-yalexaaaa @freakzah444 @anginluv @gabwilliams @sturniyolo @screamertannie @brlwla @yourstrulykiya @thefantastickid @hamzaholic @isathefantastic @divinesturn @forestlv4r @mayapuma20 @ottakugirl @hamzahsbestone @pulcen @rustnroll @venus-planetof-love @hamzahsn1gf @rock678 @wandas-lovey @guiltyfemcel @axetheboyboss @harrys0nlyange1 @ttlynotme @yassqueen1303 @animalcrossingshameless @bigmamaelli @pictureperfectblue @slushingmynoob @cupidsbrainrot
#giulianna ⁀➴#hamzahthefantastic#hamzah imagines#hamzah x reader#hamzah fic#hamzah angst#hamzah smut
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Blowjob and nipple play. Just body worshipping Woozi in a mall changing room



Changing room || Lee Jihoon x Reader
Word count:730
Notes: enjoy the fics of tonight hehe seventeen comeback day!
You and Woozi are in a busy clothing store, browsing through racks of clothes. As you walk past the changing rooms, a naughty idea forms in your mind.
You look around to make sure no one is watching, then suggest casually, "Hey Woozi, I just need to try on these pants. Mind coming with me?" Woozi raises an eyebrow, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "In there? With all these people around?"
You give him a mischievous smile. "Come on, it'll be fun. I promise to be quick." Woozi hesitates for a moment before finally agreeing, his curiosity getting the better of him. He follows you into the cramped changing room, locking the door behind him.
"Okay, now what?" he asks, leaning against the wall as you close the curtain. The small space makes the air feel heavy with tension. You press against him, your hands already working on undoing his belt. "I just really want to taste you," you whisper, your breath hot against his ear.
Woozi's eyes widen in surprise as he realizes your intentions. "Babe, we can't do this here," he protests weakly, though his body betrays him. You can feel him hardening beneath your touch as you drop to your knees. "Shh, just be quiet," you whisper, pulling his pants down just enough to free his growing erection.
Woozi bites his lip, trying to suppress a moan as you take him into your mouth. His fingers thread through your hair, torn between stopping you and giving in to the pleasure. Woozi's head falls back against the wall as you begin to work him with your mouth. His grip on your hair tightens, but he doesn't try to pull you away.
"Fuck... you're driving me crazy," he whispers, his voice strained with pleasure. "But this is so risky..." His hips buck slightly, his body responding despite his reservations. The sounds of the store continue outside, adding to the thrill of potentially being caught.
As you continue to pleasure him, your hand slides up under his shirt to feel his toned chest. Your fingers trace over his abs, causing him to shiver. Woozi's breathing becomes more ragged as he fights to stay quiet. "You're so good at this," he murmurs, looking down at you with darkened eyes. "But we have to hurry before someone comes in."
His free hand moves to cover his mouth, muffling the sounds that threaten to escape as you work him towards his release. Woozi's eyes flutter shut as you tease his nipple with your tongue. He bites down on his hand to stifle a moan, his body trembling with the effort to stay quiet.
"Baby, I'm close," he manages to whisper, his hips thrusting involuntarily. "Keep going just like that..." His other hand grips your shoulder tightly, pulling you closer as he nears his peak. The changing room walls seem to close in around you both as the tension builds.
With a final, muffled groan, Woozi releases into your mouth. His body shudders as he empties himself, his hand gripping your shoulder so tightly that it'll probably leave a mark. He slumps against the wall, breathing heavily as he comes down from his high. "God, that was intense," he pants, looking at you with a mix of amazement and lingering desire.
"You're incredible," he whispers, pulling you up for a deep kiss despite the lingering taste of himself on your tongue. "But we need to get out of here before anyone gets suspicious."
"I needed that," you say with a satisfied smile, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "But you should probably fix yourself up before we leave." Woozi quickly tucks himself back into his pants, his cheeks still flushed from the intense experience. "You're going to be the death of me," he mutters, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"I can't believe we just did that," he adds, helping you adjust your clothes. "But damn, it was worth it." As you giggle and drag him out of the changing room, Woozi follows with a mix of amusement and lingering desire. He can't help but notice the way you seem more confident now, a hint of naughtiness in your smile.
"You're lucky I love you," he whispers, pulling you close as you both walk towards the cash register. "Because I swear, you're going to pay for that later."
#kpop fanfic#kpop smut#seventeen fanfic#seventeen smut#seventeen#svt smut#thirteenheavens#svt reactions#woozi scenarios#woozi imagines#woozi smut#lee woozi#seventeen woozi#woozi seventeen#woozi x reader#svt woozi#woozi#woozi x you#jihoon svt#jihoon imagines#jihoon smut#seventeen jihoon#jihoon x reader#lee jihoon#woozi svt smut#woozi svt#svt woozi fic#svt jihoon
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Editing Your Novel Part 2: The Plot Pass
Okay, it's finally time to edit. You've got all your materials sorted, it's time to dive right in. You want to start with the big edits first, aka the plot pass.
Now listen. You're going to want to linger and fix those little bits of grammar or dialogue, and I know it's so hard not to, but letting yourself get off-track might mean wasting hours on a scene you realize later you have to delete. Fix a few spelling errors, leave a note, and stay plot-focused.
Making Sense (Of the Plot)
In the plot pass, you're asking yourself some basic questions:
Do events follow a clear order? - When you're getting everything down on the page for the first time, scenes might get jumbled up or events might not have clear causes. Maybe you have a car crashing into the cafe pages before, but in a writing haze, you wrote your main characters having a casual conversation moments later. If the bad guy beats your heroes to treasure, is it clear how they got there? (Not everyone can be Yzma.)
Do circumstances feel contrived? If there are any problems that can be solved by your characters sitting down and talking to each other, it may be better to lean into their motivation for not speaking to each other, rather than coming up with bad romcom scenarios. If the plot can be resolved by the mcguffin the grandma had the whole time, it might be better to make finding that mcguffin part of the plot instead.
It doesn't have to be perfect, and you don't have to reinvent the wheel. If someone gets bitten by a werewolf, it's perfectly fine to have them turn into one at the worst possible moment. When it comes to contrived, you're looking for problems that seem easy to solve and look for more interesting ways to complicate them.
Are your character motivations consistent to the characters throughout the story? - They can change throughout the story, but character motivations do need to be linked to the actions they take. An out-of-nowhere betrayal is way more satisfying if you lay the groundwork for it ahead of time.
Take a moment to list out the motivations of the characters in a scene you're not quite sure of can help you figure how to fix it. Having an outline helps with this a lot!
Are you following an "if... then" format? - My brain doesn't work like this when I'm writing, because as a writer you know how A got to Z, and it seems (in your head) obvious how it happened. This is where my scene card outline come in handy, because I can look at my overview of what should happen and why, and then compare it to what actually happens in the scene. I've discovered so many threads I forgot to connect that way, like why a character had a certain device (I forgot to have him pick it up two scenes earlier), or adding a few simmering dialogue bits that make the big fight pay off much better.
Can you fix the "Because the Plot Demands It" scenes? - Look, sometimes your character needs to be in that haunted house to see that damn ghost, but your character isn't the type to set foot in such a place. It's really easy, especially in the first draft, to contrive a way in there (she took a wrong turn on her way to grandma's!), but retooling these scenes to connect them to the characters motivations and needs is the way to go. The main character doesn't want to go into that obviously cursed place, but her best friend hasn't shown up for school in three days and now she's crying for help from the second floor window. Your character's strong desire to be there for her friend is a much better way to get her into that house.
This is not always easy - it took me six fricken drafts to realize a critical part of a character's motivation was because his father blamed him for his mother's death - but it is going to be worth putting in the work to hammer down.
Do you have a solid timeline? - This might not seem as important, but it's super easy to accidentally fit two weeks worth of activities in three days. Make sure you have that on reference, even if you don't mention it in the book. Also make sure to gauge your distances if your characters are on a trip, because if you do accidentally say it takes two hours to drive from Seattle to Spokane instead of five, someone will dive down your throat for it. Not me. Just someone.
Okay, maybe me. Slow down, you maniacs.
Next post we'll dive into the structure pass. See you then!
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On Arcane & Antivillains
One thing I really enjoy about Arcane is how it handles antivillains.
For one, most of the characters (main ones) would actually fall into the category of antivillain at one point, or in the case of our two protagonists, become one. Arcane is arguably ripe with them.
An antivillain is essentially the opposite of an antihero. Simplified, antiheros do good things out of selfish or questionable motives, antivillains do things that are objectively bad or evil, but for noble reasons or for a greater cause. Another term for them is "sympathetic villain" however that term is too vague (there are villains out there who are sympathetic, but are none the less traditionally evil and therefore do not qualify as antivillains), and "antivillain" is a much better term mirror to "antihero." A common thread I've noticed among antivillain characters is some level of a Machiavellian approach to achieving their goals - the ends justify the means type of philosophy is something you'll always find characters that fit this category. At the very least, they dabble with it. In their eyes their actions are always justified because they're fighting for a good cause.
To put things into perspective, I'll use two examples. Harley Quinn shifts around, but she is frequently an antihero, take her depiction in both Suicide Squad movies. She does take down bad guys, however she's not doing so out of a sense of altruism, but to get a reduced prison sentence. Very cut-and-dry example of antiheroism.
On the flip side you have Magneto. Now from what I've seen (I've dabbled in the comics, but haven't dived in all the way) in the comics he gets very dark with the antihuman action. But in the Xmen movies, he definitely does some down right villainous stuff, but his intention remains the same - he wants mutants to live in a world free of bigotry and he's willing to do anything necessary to achieve that, including committing atrocities.
Now if this sounds very confusing to you and you swear you've heard these terms interchangeably or that you can think of several characters that are labeled as type A when they should be type B or vice versa, that's pretty normal. These aren't archetypical heroes and villains we're talking about, so it can be hard to categorize them, and honestly most characters in general will go back and forth or shift at one point or another, so all you need to know is that those definitions are the ones we're working with in this post.
Here are the characters from Arcane that I think suit this label, and others that I think will.
Disclaimer: this is not me hating on the characters. I love all of these characters for this layer to their character. This is not a "oh, look, this character is bad actually," post. If anything, consider it a celebration of their gray morality and how well its explored in the show.
Silco
Duh. Silco is objectively pretty evil. Setting up a drug empire that destroys your own people, getting in-cahoots with corrupt cops, killing kids, and aiding in destroying a young girl's mental health is multiple levels of foul. However, for him, all of this was part of an elaborate plan to liberate Zaun, which is being aggressively oppressed by Piltover. They were necessary sacrifices made to the cause, and worth it because it will bring forth better days for him and his people. Now obviously, a lot of his actions definitely have to do with his own ego, however the only time Zaun isn't prioritized is when it comes to Jinx, who is like a daughter to him, and even that realization comes to smack in the face late in his arc.
Sevika
I'd argue she's even more noble than most since she truly is rooted in the cause for Zaun. Not only is she willing to do some pretty bad things for the "greater-good", she's even willing to betray people who she views as unfit or incompetent. And what's even more telling is that she doesn't do this for power (which is arguably a part of Silco's prerogative). Sure, she's his #2, but he doesn't exactly show any favoritism. And Sevika seemingly isn't even trying to become the new leader of Zaun after Silco's death from the season 2 clips, but will support Jinx, despite the fact that she probably could dethrone her. She's no true blue hero, but she's not a megalomaniac either.
The Entire Council of Piltover (Minus Mel & Jayce)
As obnoxious as they are, none of them are mustache-twirling villains. As we see with characters like Sheriff Grayson (not a council member, but they share the same sentiment), they legitimately think they're protecting the city with their neglectful leadership and oppression of Zaunites. Yes, this includes Heimerdinger, who seemingly only started caring about Zaun once he was booted out of the council, so that places him firmly in antihero territory in my opinion.
Why did I exclude Mel and Jayce? Their plots are actually upward in terms of morality, especially Jayce who by the end is closer to being a traditional hero by prioritizing peace and progress over the status quo or war, and actively makes the first move of trying to right Piltover's wrongs. Mel's arc has also moved this direction as well, as she went from arguing that Jayce and Viktor should build Hextech weapons in case of war with the Zaunites, to fully embracing peace. You could argue that Mel wanting the weapons means she was at some point an antivillain, and I might agree, but as it stands, she's firmly in the clear.
So, why are the rest of the council still considered antivillains? Honestly, we just don't know much about their motivations to say. They ultimately did a good deed in voting for peace, but you know, one good deed doesn't wash-out the bad and vice versa. They're not even on thin ice for me, they're still fighting for the surface.
Marcus
Questioning your actions does not mean you can't be an antivillain, and Marcus is a good example of that. He's is kind of like Caitlyn if she were way less compassionate and very incompetent. Marcus does not think his actions are evil, according to show runners he only places Vi in Stillwater to protect her from Silco; he gets involved with Silco because he wants justice for the building explosion and it goes out of hand. That said, he also threw a child into a dangerous prison with no charges and with the intention of keeping her there for life, and worked with a kingpin who was actively antagonizing his own people while reaping benefits from an abusive system. So yeah, Marcus falls more into being an antivillain than full-blown villain, he's still firmly an antagonist though.
Ambessa
I know it's very popular in the fandom to call Ambessa a traditional bad-guy type of villain, but she is actually very nuanced. For one - she does not see her actions as evil, nor are her motivations behind doing them rooted in it. Ambessa, as she states in Mel's flashback, was raised in the Noxian way. Her grandfather literally made her search the dead bodies of the people they massacred when she was a youth, and she was indoctrinated to believe that this was in the best interest of her family and the Noxian people. By showing strength and ruthlessness, she's telling the rest of the world: "Stay away from House Medarda and Noxus." Hence, why Kino's death wrecks her, because she values herself over how effective she is at warding people off from messing with her family. Her main reason for getting involved with the war between Piltover and Zaun will 100% be because Mel's life was nearly lost due to Jinx's bomb, and this is coming straight off of her son's death mind you. So, while Ambessa may definitely be one of the most ruthless people on this list, she is not at Palpatine levels of evil yet, not by a long shot.
Jinx
You guys saw this coming, right? This barely needs an explanation. Jinx grew up in the Lanes, was a victim of Piltover's oppression multiple times throughout her youth, was willing to fight for their freedom as seen in episode 2, and in the end, that desire, along with her being adopted by Silco, manifested in her doing multiple acts of violence, including terrorism against Piltover, which frequently hurt people who weren't guilty of anything. (No, blowing up the building in episode 3 doesn't count as one of her evil deeds because it was an accident.) We understand completely why Jinx does what she does, even though it hurts to see her slip farther and farther into this mindset.
Vi
Way more subtle (for now) but I'd argue she's there come episodes 8 and 9. Hell, you could argue that her arc is about her sense of morality breaking down due to realizing how impossible the situation between Zaun and Piltover is, and embracing an "ends justifies the means" type mindset that Vander tried to sway her against back in episode 2. Wanting to stop a kingpin from using this new dangerous drug to destroy your city and sister? A noble cause, indeed. Not really caring that (or being passive over the fact that) children die in process because of their approximation to said bad guy? Yikes. [EDIT: Since we're on this topic: here's a link to where I explored this aspect of her character. I did this a while ago, but I thought it best to include it here too for added context). Now, I know what some of you are going to say - how is this any different from, say, Steve Rogers telling Wanda Maximoff that sometimes there's collateral damage when doing hero work? The difference is that Steve didn't argue that those people had it coming because they're associated with the bad guys/or in their way, which Vi does. That's some dangerous conviction right there, and we'll probably see that elaborated on in season 2 given that she's becoming an Enforcer which is a position that lends itself to abuse of power (and if it goes anyway like things do with her game counterpart, she will engage in police brutality and not see an issue with it, but given that Arcane's Vi is way more well, nuanced, than her game counterpart I don't think it will go on for long). While we're on the topic of Vi, according to her prison records, she had a notorious reputation while doing time to the point that I find it funny Silco didn't put 2-and-2 together that the girl with short pink hair beating the shit out of and attempting to murder all of his goons that went to Stillwater was possibly the same girl that wiped the floor with those same goons the night Vander died.
Potential Antivillains of Season 2:
These are characters that I predict will become antivillains at some point during season 2 based off of where their season 1 arc left and clues from season 2 teasers and clips. This is not me saying for sure this will happen, only a prediction. But if it does come true, I will gladly collect $5 per accurate plot point.
Viktor
Two words: glorious evolution.
We all love Viktor. We all love good-guy Viktor, and we will also more than likely love not-so-good-guy Viktor due to how complex that arc will be. If it will go anything like his game-lore (which I suspect it will) his noble intentions will never leave him, just simply evolve to include some less-than-heroic actions and justifications. He still wants to improve the undercity, and well, humanity overall, with hextech, motivated by the injustices he's been put through his own life and his illness, but he will go about it in some very unorthodox ways, and his arc in Arcane is about him confronting if he wants to "evolve" his morality for the sake of his ultimate goal, which is progress. Viktor would definitely agree with the sentiment expressed by Gloria Steinem (character depiction, not a real quote) in Mrs. America - "Revolutions are messy, people get left behind."
Caitlyn
I'm pretty sure she actually will become apart of the antivillain roster in season 2, but noting is for certain. Caitlyn is perhaps the saddest version of this there is, because we see where she starts out. She doesn't want to be like everyone else in her circle, she tries to break free and be better. She wants to do good by both Piltover and Zaun. She has hope, gentleness, and doesn't place herself above even those who occupy the lowest levels of Zaun. She puts herself, her status, and her life on the line to discover the truth, and comes out her time with Vi steadfast in wanting to help heal Zaun. She can be a little naive and ignorant, but she never does so with malicious or ill intent. She is the kindest person in Arcane.
But, given that her mother was killed in a terrorist attack set off by the new Head Zaunite in Charge, things will change. As we see, Caitlyn becomes a sheriff on the Enforcer squad, and now her goal is no longer to sow peace between Zaun and Piltover, it's to avenge her mother by assassinating Jinx. Of course, this will be due in part that Caitlyn thinks snuffing Jinx out will solve the problem, which will be ironic and hypocritical because she told Ekko that getting revenge on Silco won't solve anything in Zaun, but now that she's in the same predicament, the tables have turned and now diplomacy is off the table. She still has that hero-complex, as she lives by the lessons of Sheriff Grayson, but now it's with a twist. The idealistic Caitlyn who believed in giving peace a chance through reform is gone, and she now believes that there's little to no cost too great for her to achieve this, even if that (possibly - again season 2 hasn't come out yet, so we shall see) means hurting innocent Zaunites. And what's scary is that Caitlyn has the intelligence, dedication, talent, and efficiency to pull it off. Truthfully, I believe we won't just be getting Sheriff Caitlyn in season 2, but also Dictator Caitlyn.
#arcane#analysis#meta#antivillains#anti villain#silco#sevika#marcus arcane#ambessa medarda#jinx#jinx arcane#vi#vi arcane#viktor#viktor arcane#caitlyn kiramman#arcane meta#this was very fun#antivillains are like one of my favorite types of characters tbh#and antihero has become shorthand for just any morally gray character#which is kind of annoying i'm ngl#i don't claim to be an expert on character archetypes#i'm still new in my english lit major path#but i still noticed this and wanted to post about it bcs i love arcane's characters so much
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le sacrifice du sang
vampire!neuvillette x reader II 2.6k
warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no set pronouns, vampire au, set in 17th century esc france, blood, biting, ritual sex, self harm (neuvillette cuts his wrist for the ritual), soulmate, xenophobia, praise, creampies, monsterfucking adjacent, unedited
synopsis: for decades the village has been thriving despite the vampiric armies ravaging throughout europe. Cast aside for being an outsider, you are deemed as a sacrifice to a vampire lord to stop the attacks in the region.
Night seemed endless. Most days you would barely see the sun bright outside under the sky. All you could do was sigh, shifting on the soft sheets of the grandiose bed you rested in. A long chiffon nightgown covered your form and rested right at your ankles. You balled your fists on the ornate patterns of the comforter of the bed, golden and navy threads showing off just how much it was worth.
You turned your head to the stained glass window seeing the sun hiding behind the horizon and stars beginning to peak out in the darkening sky—the multicolor light pigmented in blues and purples reflected on the ground as its shadow grew signaling the fleeting light.
Part of you is surprised you're up so early in your new sleep schedule but another part of you questions why you’re even alive right now to look outside the stained glass window. Three weeks ago you were set to die, yet you have lived in the lap of luxury.
All because of him.
Vampires have been ravaging Europe for a few decades now, causing an all-out war in some regions of the land. Your family insisted on heading there despite it, as traders would surely flourish against the nobles desperate for supplies and your nativity allowed you to follow them.
Trying to settle and trade in Europe began in disaster as xenophobia grew rapid—war, fear, and prejudices clouding their judgment. You lost your family very early on when you arrived in Europe, losing a lot and trying to scour and try to collect wherever you could to mourn and live. France became the best option to live in since the fighting was beginning to cease in the country.
In the southeast part of the region, you settled in a village. You remained there for five years, trying to make ends meet as a seamstress. You always wondered why vampires didn’t attack and slaughter you and the rest of the village as you heard others had faced. The village had not seen an inkling of the dissipating war around it, and you later discovered why.
To appease the vampiric lords and ladies of France, human sacrifices were commenced—one to save all. You weren’t completely sure who the lord of this area even was, yet you were about to find out after the Judge of the town deemed yourself as the sacrifice.
You begged, you pleaded, you cried but no one in the town so much as pitied you. In their eyes, you were an outsider; someone even more worthy of being sacrificed than “one of their own”. Bullshit is what you wanted to say but you didn’t have the power to defy it.
That man eventually collected you after, the lord of the southern region of France—Monsieur Neuvillette. When he descended, in navy and black, you thought he was an angel and thought the village already killed you thinking he was an angel instead.
He didn’t seem human at all.
Long white hair cascaded down his back and lowly tied towards the end with streaks of gradient blue flowing through it. His lavender eyes, pupil slit, and irises glowing, drinking up every unconscious tick and stubble expression in your body and face. His face was stern, but his eyes seemed kind.
He asked you one question that night.
“What is your name, dear?”
You answered as his eyes softened, lifting his hand to your eyes to cover your gaze
“Then, (Y/n). I’m sorry circumstances have brought us here.”
Darkness was all you were faced with. In a way, you thought death had arrived, only to wake up in a beautifully decorated room in a château when you awoke.
Neuvillette was kind albeit stoic during your time in his château. Many nights, you’d have dinner with him—his eyes just on you as he quietly drank his silver chalice filled with the iron-rich stench of blood from someone who wasn’t you.
Those nights he would reveal more information about himself and you’d do the same. He told you how he was a lord and has been “in this state” for several millennia. He told you about the rise and fall of empires and even vampiric ones history had all but forgotten.
Neuvillette also discussed how most of the sacrifices ended up working as servants in the château who he called “Melusines”.
In the second week since your “sacrifice”, he also mentioned another vampire lord living in this château—Lady Furina. He talked about how eager she was to interact with her subjects, including yourself but he had told her to stay away from you for now as her bloodlust was unpredictable.
But one slip of the tongue had changed the casual conversation into something more serious.
“...She is not to bother you, yet. Not before you are turned at the least.”
Your eyebrow furrowed, lips parting hearing him say those words. Turning? Turning into what?
“What do you mean by that…” you questioned. He placed his chalice down, closing his eyes briefly to collect his thoughts before crossing his arms.
“I apologize. I have neglected to inform you about this since I wanted you to get adjusted to your new life here first,” he murmured. You clenched your jaw, trying to read his stoic expression but it was the same as it’s always been.
“I admit I played a role in why the Judge had chosen you specifically. When you first settled in the village, your scent informed me that you were my mate. My soulmate,” he replied. You couldn’t stop yourself from scoffing in shock.
“Smell me? Soulmate? What does that even mean, Neuvillette?! I thought vampires only were interested in other vampires and humans were seen as food. That’s why there’s a war in the rest of Europe after all,” you shouted. He did not flinch at your raising pitch in tone. He gave a small humorless laugh at your words.
“That’s not exactly true. A curse befalls vampires and those with vampiric natures in more than one way than ‘evolving’ from their human characteristics. The same people many see as food can be the only chance to find their mate. Whether unconsciously or not we are always searching, our body craves the touch and affection only our mates can give us, soothing one might say, the soul,” he revealed.
You look down at your plate, half-eaten cake on it before gently pushing it away. There was a pause where no one said anything, but you were sure he could hear your heartbeat thumping rapidly in your chest.
“...Are you scared? Do you need some time to process this? We can save the rest of this conversation later,” Neuvillette discussed. You swallowed, trying to ease the dryness that caught your throat suddenly but refused to look him in his eyes for now.
“H-How would this process work exactly? I’m guessing vampires and mortal humans don't mix well,” you muttered. Neuvillette sighed, grunting in agreement.
“Well. There’s a ritual in a sense to create a bond between each party’s body and soul. The ritual entails copulation and when my fangs pierce your skin in the process. It will signal to both your body and soul that your bond with me has been found and eventually your physiology will adjust into something more like me.”
“...Something that of a vampire,” you whispered, looking up at him. He silently nodded as silence befell the two of you for now. Neuvillette let out a heavy sigh, but the corners of his lips curved into a small smile to try to ease the pain you were faced with.
“I recognize this is a lot for any human to face, so please take as much time as you need. There is no rush, so process however long it will take,” he said, rising from his seat and leaving you alone with the crackling fire in the dining room.
It had been a year since that night he revealed himself as your soulmate. A year to finally process and accept your fate. You chuckled to yourself finally seeing the sun’s light completely disappear and the moon rising brightly in the sky.
Tonight you would mourn your mortality.
A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts and memories before you called out they could enter. Neuvillette walked in, wearing his own nightgown falling to his ankle, body completely covered in the white chiffon fabric. He stood by the door still, letting you have your space that was resting on the bed.
“Are you sure you are ready? We can wait later to do this. I can wait,” Neuvillette murmured. You flashed a shaky smile before sighing.
“Yes. I am Neuvillette. I promise,” you replied. Neuvillette walked over until he was in front of you, long fingers clasping gently as your chin before lifting it up. Your lips parted in shock gazing into his eyes that softened.
“I’m going to ask one more time, are you sure you’re ready,” he asked, voice low and husky. Your body trembled at the tone of his voice before you slowly nodded your head—you could hear your eardrums echoing out the beat of your quickening heart.
You slowly lifted your nightgown off and the fabric pools on the floor, leaving you bare and vulnerable to his gaze and touch. He followed, letting his nightgown fall onto the floor. His body was more muscular than you thought based on the attire you usually saw him adorning in the halls. You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks.
Neuvillette softly smiles leaning in to press his lips against your own. He soon is on top of you, the bed creaked as the weight of two bodies pressed against it. His lips were soft, easily molding on your own while ever so often a sharp pain would poke at your bottom lip.
“If I’m being honest, I never thought I would experience this. You don’t know how long I waited for this...how I longed for you,” he whispered, as his lips eventually left your own, settling in the nape of your neck. Your body trembled as Neuvillette let his fangs graze against the sensitive skin while his hand traveled down and squeezed the plush of your thighs.
He finally finds your cunt, cupping his hand at it as he continues to nipple and his along your neck. He soon applied pressure and your hips instinctively began to grind trying to get a lick of friction to brush against your needy clit. Feeling you grind on his hand made Neuvillette chuckle before he opened his eyes admiring the slick now clinging to his palm.
“So pliable under my touch, I’m glad you're enjoying yourself,” he whispered in your ear, hearing another moan rip from your mouth. He soon shifted his position; his thumb now firmly pressed against the nub of your clit pressing tight circles on it. Your form began to twist and your hips shifted as Neuvillette’s hand followed every movement, not budging his focused ministrations once.
His other thumb brushed against your pebbled nibbles, relishing in the way your body jolted from the various sensations. Your breathing became heavy, feeling your entire body flutter inching closer and closer to your high.
“Neuvillette. Neuvillette…I’m—” you groaned out before suddenly Neuvillette completely stopped. You snapped your eyes open in surprise, looking over at him perplexed as his gaze softened and lips tugged in a smile.
“Why did you stop…?” you whispered, puzzled by his actions. Neuvillette leaned in to kiss your forehead while cleaning the slick clinging to his fingers on his thighs as it smeared.
“I needed to make sure you were prepared for me. The ritual unfortunately cannot work if you lose yourself to my fingers, mon cœur. Unless you preferred to wait as I asked earlier,” Neuvillette hummed. You bite your lip, in embarrassment as Neuvillette grasped his cock.
It’s thick, and long and the only vein you could see ran along the base of it. His cock curled up and twitched every few seconds, eager for attention. He let out a grunt, pumping his cock a few times as his tip—flushed pale pink—budded with precum. He rested his length against your slit, letting it slide up and down and gathering the arousal drooling out of your cunt. He let his tip tap against your stimulated clit causing you to shiver before he nestled it against your entrance once more.
As he pushed the tip inside of you, he leaned down, capturing your lips once more before sinking his cock further inside of you. Your nails harpoon against his broad back and you widen your legs wider trying to adjust to his length. Your walls burned at the stretch, trying your best not to tense up as he descended further inside of you.
Finally bottoming out, he slowly slid out before plunging in once more, thrusting with meticulous but strong strokes. Your body moved to his pace, bed beginning to moan and creak while hitting against the wall.
He grunted louder in the kiss, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to contain himself. He leaned up as you tried catching your breath, stammering his name as his breathing became heavier while his thrusts became faster.
Neuvillette parted his mouth to let his fangs elongate before they buried themselves in the nape of your neck. You yelped, sucking a sharp breath in as the pain of his bite throbbed and shot throughout your entire body. You could hear him gulp and moan, sucking the river of blood pouring down at the wound while he continued to rut inside of you.
“Neuvillette…” you whispered out. It was strange. The pain had somehow subsided and your body felt much lighter and aware of his touch and thrusts, trembling in newly found sensitivity and pleasure. It was as if the bite was an aphrodisiac.
Were all bites like this or was it because he claimed to be your soulmate?
He lifted his head, lower face bloodied from the meal he was indulging in—your humanity. His tongue seemed longer, letting it rest against the wound before taking a long stride up to lap up the rest of the blood dripping from the punctures.
Your walls fluttered down on his cock as your writhed, Neuvillette continued to buck—desperate to sink even further inside of you. He sucked a breath in, struggling to keep up with his pace as your walls continued to cave and clamp down.
Neuvillette's hands find themselves beneath you, squeezing the globes of your ass before lifting your bottom half in an attempt to plunge deeper inside of you. His eyes narrowed watching his cock stretch and disappear in your cunt.
“That’s it…you're almost there. Let me see you come undone. Let’s begin our lives together for eternity in the darkness…” Neuvillette muttered, clenching his jaw tight. You squirmed, tears pricking your eyes as you finally reached your high—body shivering and back arching while calling out his name repeatedly. Your walls quivering from your climax were enough for Neuvillette to follow.
He snapped his eyes shut, hips flattering letting ropes of his thick cum shoot inside of it. He slowly thrust, pushing it deeper, trying to nurse his body down from his high. A trial of his essence managed to leak out, and travel to your inner thighs despite his cock still plugged inside of you.
“Just one more step…please bear with me and stay away,” Neuvillette whispered, placing your hips down on the bed once more. His nails, sharper than before, quickly shut themselves on his wrist—his blood dripping down his forearm. Your eyes and body felt so heavy, your body feeling like your heart was slowing down before you noticed him hovering his injured wrist above your mouth.
Droplets of blood trickled down your chest and chin before finally landing in your open mouth.
As you swallowed, your eyes widened feeling an unknown rush flowing throughout your body replenishing your once tired body so suddenly.
“It…it doesn’t taste like iron, but as if your blood is the purest spring water…”
#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact smut#genshin x reader#genshin smut#neuvillette x reader#neuvillette smut#neuvillette imagines#neuvillette scenarios#kinktober 2023
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Where Do We Go? | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Charles will do anything to fix his marriage with you, Carlos will do anything to prove you're worth more. The question is where do you go between the two men fighting for your affection?
Word Count: 9.7k
Warnings: angst, a lotta angst, cheating, light smut, character death.
Note: You all really wanted a Part 2 to this one, and of course, I wanted to deliver! This is a little bit more angsty, we’re trying to save a relationship, after all. Or…are we? Also, a massive thank you to @formulaforza for proof-reading this for me and pulling me up on my addiction to italics; my brain is literally jelly right now. Enjoy, everybody!
PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'
Carlos Sainz is a best friend.
Best friends, however, do not text a love confession to one another in the hours of a rising sun, especially not when their declaration is to a woman who is wrapped up in the arms of her husband.
The confession had run cold through your veins; if it hadn’t been for the sheer exhaustion taking over your body from the events of the past 48 hours, you were certain you would have been up the entire night, contemplating the words he had sent to you. He wasn’t drunk; far from it, the man had driven you down the dusky streets to your home mere hours before. Was he lonely? Did he feel sorry for you? More importantly, did he mean those precious words that had lit up your screen?
Eventually, the desire for sleep, for the warmth of your estranged husband’s chest pillowing your back overtakes your body. You hadn’t slept in a bed with him since the last day of your supposed honeymoon; even then, you had slept with an infinite gap between the two of you, cuddling instead into a pillow, rageful tears in your eyes at the realization that this was now your life.
This was entirely different. Charles pressed into you as if holding you together; his warm breath danced across the nape of your neck, a hand pressed into your stomach, cradling you between the warm blankets and soft cushions you had picked out when decorating your room. You didn’t rouse during the night, the two before had been filled with tears, constantly awakening to call for your mother as if you were a child again, the harsh realization that she wasn’t around anymore.
When you did wake, the bed was empty.
You had subconsciously turned in the blankets when you arose, expecting to see the figure of your husband next to you. The pillow was still rumpled, his glasses disappeared from the nightstand, every single trace of him had seemed to evaporate. Clearly, one night next to you had been a big enough mistake in his eyes.
Instead, your attention turns towards your phone. Silently, you remove the device from its charger, the homescreen being flooded with sympathetic messages and photographs of you arriving at your father’s home. Luckily, no photographs of Carlos picking you up himself had been released; that would have caused a frenzy which wasn’t desired on either side.
However, his last text to you that evening before still stayed burned into your screen. In curiosity, you’d once again opened the text thread, seeing th
e words stand strong, his confession to his feelings presents for your eyes. He had laid it out so clearly, Carlos Sainz was in love with you.
But, were you in love with him? You loved your family; you loved the smell of fresh candles. You adored the sounds of the fastest cars in the world racing around a track whilst you watched with ease. Did you categorize your best friend into the love you so carefully crafted? Was the desire you felt for contact solely directed towards him?
You never had time to answer yourself that morning. Your subconscious state recognised the sound of footsteps; it was most likely Charles, on his way to his own room for some private time. Maybe he’d have his mistress with him, having snuck out of bed early that morning to possibly go and pick her up himself.
The footsteps get louder, the door to your room opens, much to your confusion. In the doorway, stands your husband. You’ve never seen him like this; a soft smile, hair pushed back by a bandana, glasses resting on the bridge of his small nose. He’s dressed in a soft, grey jumper and matching tracksuit bottoms, fluffy socks warming his feet. In one arm, he cradles a washing bag. Upon closer inspection, you see that it’s your washing from the case you had lugged in the night before, ironed and folded. In his other hand, he holds a steaming mug of tea.
He looks beautiful like this, almost ethereal. He looks domestic.
“Good morning.” He speaks gently, as if any sudden sound would hurt you. You looked…so precious, covered in blankets, your pajamas covering your modesty. “I’m sorry I had to leave early. I went to get your washing done and…pick up some tea.” He offers, holding up the bag of washing in confirmation. Charles offers you a smile as walks into the room, placing the pile of clothing on your vanity. Cradling the mug of hot tea in his hand, he walks back over to where you’re now sat up, surrounded by soft furnishings, offering you the drink which you gladly accept.
It's a mediocre cup of tea at best; the teabag hasn’t diluted properly, there’s too little milk and too much sugar. Yet, the fact he had made the drink himself caused your heart to soften, despite the past twelve months of actions. You offer him a soft ‘thank you,’ as the drink touches your lips. You’re half-expecting him to stand up and leave immediately. Instead, Charles sits himself down on the edge of the bed, making certain he doesn’t sit on your outstretched legs.
There’s a moment of bliss; you’re somewhat enjoying the drink cradled in your hands, your husband’s eyes trained on your movements. At one moment, he reaches out his hand towards your face. You flinch, not too sure on what was happening, before his palm simply tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You can’t bring your own eye gaze to meet him, simply focusing on the hot drink in your hand. You can’t help but notice the way his shoulders fall, clearly not satisfied with the lack of eye-contact.
You can’t help it; it’s as if Charles believes with one night wrapped in his arms would solve the past twelve months. You couldn’t forget, not everything that had happened. Your husband had shattered this relationship, well and truly. He could only hope he’d realised in enough time to somehow win you back. Silently, he stands up from the edge of the comforter, walking towards the vanity, beginning to remove the clothing from its basket. It’s… humorous, to see him try and figure out where each category goes. It’s also a stark reminder of how this is ‘your’ room, not ‘our’ room.
Whilst picking out a rather revealing pair of panties, folding them up and placing them into your draw, he begins to speak again. “What are you doing this afternoon?” His voice is soft, but in the silent room it carries well.
You shrug, before realizing Charles has his back to you. “I’m…nothing much.” You cut yourself off, placing the cup of tea on your bedside table, letting your hands pull up the comforter a little higher. “My father is going to the funeral parlor today.” Are you…having a conversation with your husband? “How about you?”
“I have lunch with the Ferrari team this afternoon. Nothing serious, just a talk on the next part of the season.” He explains. Charles isn’t stupid; he knows despite your father’s input that you constantly worry about his job. Not because you care about his fame, wealth or power; you care about him.
“I was,” he takes a breath. “I was wondering if you would like to come along.”
You feel goosebumps prickle across your exposed skin. Charles Leclerc never invited you to his lunches. He’d always have a reason as to why his darling Mrs. Leclerc could never attend their lunch meetings alongside him. The only time you’d ever appear by his side, fingers harshly interlinked and a cold barrier between you both was when your father insisted upon it. He wouldn’t be there today, there was no way he’d be present for any form of meeting for a while now.
“You don’t have to, of course.” His explanation runs further. “I know it might be too much for you now. I just thought…maybe we could go for a drive after. Carlos and Xavi will be there, you’ll know some of the others from the Paddock…” His voice trails off in your mind. It had started to the moment he had said the Spaniards name.
Were you… ready to see Carlos? The day after a text message you had never thought you’d see. Would he acknowledge the message, was it a drunken mistake? Most importantly, did you want him to love you?
When you come back out of your trail of thoughts, Charles is still talking, carefully hanging one of your summer dresses onto a velvet coat hanger. He takes a moment to brush the fabric under his fingertips, feeling the soft cotton under his touch. He’s so gentle. The touch is almost identical to the way he had held you mere hours ago.
“I’ll come.” You cut him off, watching as his head snaps in your direction, eyes bright underneath his glasses. “Yeah. It will be…nice.” You finish your sentence, trying not to ramble or to float off topic. Charles’ eyes are still bright, elated you had decided to come alongside him. All he had to do now was fix every other mistake spanning over twelve months.
Carlos Sainz is a red-wine gentleman.
You’d immediately spotted him the moment you had entered the waterside restaurant; his back was to the entrance, but you’d recognise the powdered blue shirt and dark wisps of hair in any circumstance. You could have just walked over, stood next to him and ordered a drink, but your fingers stayed tightly interlocked with your husbands, a force of habit in public at the current rate.
However, his grasp, like the entirety of his actions over the past twenty-four hours, was different. Charles’ thumb gently stroked over your knuckle, his fingers gently resting against yours instead of the firm grip he usually held for the sake of actions. He’d taken a moment to look at you before entering the building, something he’d never done in the past, simply having dragged you into whatever location instead. It was as if his eyes told you a million things; that he had your back and the moment you wanted to leave, he was right behind you.
The moment you’re in the presence of company, the façade still comes alive, the act you had been creating for all this time is still a force of habit. Charles’ hand comes around your waist, greeting the many members of the Scuderia Ferrari team, thanking them for his time and attention to the matter. As always, you tactfully excuse yourself from the side of your husband, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and removing yourself from the crowd. Usually, he wouldn’t so much as flinch from the chaste action, but you don’t miss his eyes longing for you to stay this time.
Instead, your heel-clad feet press through the tiles of the place, making advancements towards the white marbled-bar. You receive a nod from the friendly-looking gentleman mixing cocktails, a silent signal to let him know when you’re ready. Maybe you stand too close to Carlos, so much so that you can smell his cologne, you can feel his body warmth radiating through that shirt. It doesn’t take long for him to notice your presence, his eyes widening upon the realization that it was, in fact, you–the woman he had confessed his feelings to less than twelve hours ago.
“I didn’t realize you’d be here, Mariposa,” he taunts, pulling you into his side. You’re grinning immediately, happy to be reunited with your close friend after how he had left you last night, promising he’d be there if you needed anything. “Come to make sure your husband behaves?”
“No. I came to see how his teammate is behaving.” You let him ponder for a moment, but he realizes, the blush growing from his neck to his cheeks. “I’m a married woman, Carlos.” You remind him but make no attempt to move further away. The idea is completely eradicated when his hand comes out to rest on the small of your back. His eyes are still fixed on you. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not fair to you. He couldn’t care less about his teammate’s position, the way he’s treated you all this time leaves a sour taste on his tongue.
“Your marital status doesn’t change the way I feel for you.” He thinks back to that moment in the ocean. What on Earth would be happening if he had kissed you at that moment? He could never be certain, but something tells him you’d be his date to this luncheon right now. Sighing, Carlos turns to face you directly, the bottle of wine he had originally come to pick up having been left on the counter.
“I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to respond.” He tries to keep his breathing calm, your presence practically overpowering him. “But...I would love to take you out for a date sometime. A proper date. With flowers and dinner and being able to make you smile.” Your heart is softening by the moment with the Spaniard’s pleads of everything your husband had never given you. “Would you like that?”
“I would.” You don’t even have to think of your response. “I would like that, Carlos.” At that moment, your estranged husband is the last thought of your mind; instead it’s overpowered by the fantasies of a date with the man standing in front of you. This time, Carlos can’t help the grin on his lips, reaching for the bottle of red wine on the bar. His careful hands carefully unlatch the stopper, the liquid hitting two crystal glasses, one of which he passes to you.
“Well, shall we toast the idea, no?” he holds up the glass delicately, to which you raise your own, grinning at the satisfying sound of clinking crockery. When you take a sip of the rich red, you’re blissfully unaware of your husband’s eyes; the ones which are never attached to you, but in that moment, don’t want to focus on anything else. Nobody misses the way he purposely sits between yourself and his teammate, fingers interlocked into yours tightly, the occasional kiss on the temple of your head.
You were his wife, after all.
Carlos Sainz is a brilliant cook.
The intimacy between yourself and your husband had oddly grown within the past week. To start, his messages became more frequent, checking in when he couldn’t be at the house. Your pantry had stocked overnight, begging for your home cooking whenever he could be there to sample it. Most importantly, the interaction. You’d been hesitant to even let your husband touch you in the beginning. You had kept it simple, a hug before you’d headed off to bed in your room, (sleeping in the same bed as him had been that one-off.) His arms would find their way onto your waist if you were cooking, his fingers would tuck a lock of hair behind your ear when you found yourself engrossed in studies.
Your husband had been elated when you had spoken to him two days before he was due to leave for Qatar, announcing you would like to attend alongside him; it was also your father’s wishes to attend that race, wanting to signal to his fellow associates that he was okay, that you could pass on a message from your family. Charles’ eyes had glossed over with happiness, taking your hand in his own, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles.
You were ready for your entrance to the Paddock 72 hours later; after arriving in Qatar, you’d barely seen anything from the transport from his jet to the hotel. Your eyes had grown heavy the moment your feet were removed from their shoes, two large beds welcoming you with their soft blankets and heavy pillows. (He’d made sure to give you the sleeping space that you needed.) Charles’ heart had softened when he’d seen you curl into one bed. When he returned from the bathroom, you were out like a light.
It didn’t stop him from gently rubbing a makeup wipe over your features, knowing you’d regret your lack of attention to appearance in the morning. Hesitantly, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your hairline, one hand stroking over the back of your head before he returns to unpacking both yours and his suitcase.
You had been hesitant of attending the Paddock alongside Charles that morning, not because you were worried of the bombarding questions. No, this was the first time you had attended the paddock with a husband who seemed comforted by your presence. His heart felt gentle when he saw you look out of the front windscreen, eyes transfixed on the countless photographers standing by the barriers. Immediately, his hand finds yours, resting atop your thigh, the hot weather pleading for a cooler outfit.
“You don’t have to do this.” He removes his sunglasses, those ocean eyes finding your own. “You can wait here, or I can have somebody drive you back to the hotel now.” He promises, the worry flickering over his face. Your hand removes itself from his firm grasp, instead reaching forward and resting your hand on his bristled cheek.
“I’m okay.” You promise him, thumb dancing over his soft cheekbone. He offers you a soft smile, eyelashes fluttering as your face gets closer to his; you have no panic leaning over the console of the hire-car, gently pressing a warm kiss to the cheek your hand wasn’t resting upon. You can’t help but hesitate when you pull back from his face, lingering within mere millimeters of his lips for a long moment; you could just lean forward, press your lips to his and give into all those nights you had dreamed of. But this wasn’t a dream; this was your husband whom you needed to fix a relationship with first.
Charles isn’t going to lean forward and kiss you himself, not until the signals you are giving him are crystal clear. Instead, he presses his forehead close to yours, tips of your noses gently brushing against one another before he steps out of the car, and you’re quick to follow.
This time, he doesn’t walk in silence, ignoring your presence. Instead, as the two of you flash your paddock passes towards the security guards, he’s openly commenting on different happenings around Media Day, both of you falling into giggles upon seeing Toto Wolff’s broken arm; he was truly beginning to become an icon at the local emergency room. You’re happy. Subdued in a bubble alongside your husband, hands interlocked as you work your way through the paddock.
You’ve never experienced such a harsh blow to reality when you see an all-too-familiar figure lurking outside of the Williams Racing building. Her hair is shorter, her skirt is skimpier and a ghastly color. However, she still looks beautiful. She is undoubtedly the woman you’ve fought and lost your husband’s affection from, his mistress.
Charles seems to clock less than a moment after you do, both bodies freezing upon notifying her presence. You seem to have a quicker reaction time, despite being in the presence of a world-class Formula Driver. Immediately, you rip your grasp from Charles’ hand, showing him no emotion as you step away and into the Ferrari Building. You’re fortunate enough to avoid most of your fathers’ colleges, only once having to stop to give a sympathizing message of your mothers’ passing, the words being used are minute compared to the ache in your heart for her presence.
When you reach the top of the dark stairs, almost certain you can hear Charles’ voice below you. He’s searching for you now, but instead is overwhelmed by the amount of people in his presence. You’re able to sneak through the makeshift corridor, finding a large number ’55,’ pressed onto the door. You don’t even think, opening the door to a very tanned, very shirtless Carlos Sainz.
He's so… toned. The natural light from the window is reflecting beautifully onto his chest, broader than you’d last seen during your adventures at sea. His shorts hang low on his waist, making no attempt to shift his body despite your appearance. Instead, his dressing is overtaken by his concern for your face, immediately dropping the shirt fisted in his right hand, taking your gentle face in between both of his palms. You didn’t even realize the tears resting on your cheeks, the fear glossed over in your eyes that you’d ever trusted Charles.
Carlos doesn’t need to ask; he saw her on his own entry to the Paddock. Admittedly, he had to double-take; surely Charles wouldn’t have the audacity to bring his mistress to the other side of the world. He didn’t bother to glance in her direction too long, instead greeting the Ferrari team, excusing himself to go and get changed for their upcoming press appearances. In this moment, he’s held you against his bare chest, hushing you gently as one hand threads through your hair. Your mind is overwhelmed, from seeing your husband’s mistress, but from being pressed against his oh-so warm chest.
You don’t even realize, but your palms are resting on his chest, his skin so soft beneath your touch. Carlos gently hushes you, tilting your head up to face him, still cradled in his grasp. He could so easily reach forward, claim you there and then, but he realizes in that moment, under your soft touch and those doe eyes, you are the one who has claimed him. After a moment, he pulls back, motioning for you to follow him towards the couch, littered in Spanish-themed cushions and the enormous chili plushie you had bought him several months ago.
You can’t help the slight disappointment when Carlos eventually slips on his Ferrari Polo; however, you are interested when he reaches for his small fridge, pulling out a neat lunchbox, motioning for you to grasp it whilst he reaches for another. Curiosity takes the better of you, gently unclasping the lid of the Tupperware box. A beautiful aroma overtakes your senses, a carefully crafted meal nestled into the lunchbox. The Spaniard can’t help but grin at your reaction; sometimes something as simple as a homemade meal could lift your spirits.
And that’s how you spent the next forty-five minutes, sat on the sofa of Carlos Sainz’s driver room, the man sat on the floor as the two of you exchanged bites of food. There’s one particular moment where you offer him a spoonful of your lunchbox, watching as he arches his torso towards you.
It’s almost…sensual, the way his lips wrap around the top of the spoon, maintaining sole eye contact as he retracts his mouth from the utensil, letting his tongue trace around his lips for a chase of the taste. He knows what he’s doing; in his mind, all he wants is to show how adored you could be, to show he could be everything your husband never was.
It isn’t until Charles is finally free from the bombarding questions of his sponsors that he finally locates you in Carlos’ room. The man isn’t oblivious; he can see that the two of you have grown undeniably close. He can’t bring himself to say anything on the matter. He knows, in his heart of hearts, he has no right to make any assumptions; he was the one who had spent hours with a mistress, after all. Silently, he opens the door to the driver’s room, your figure perched upon the sofa, a grin plastering your soft features. You looked happy.
You looked like the most beautiful girl he had seen in his life.
You acknowledge his presence after a few moments, standing up from your place on the sofa, insisting the man tries Carlos’ cooking. It takes less than a few blinks of your eyes for him to submit, taking the spoonful off your utensil, making a comment towards his teammate that he would have to give him some lessons at some point. The man says nothing, simply nodding in a passive agreement.
There’s a sharp call for Charles after he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He shoots both you and his teammate an apologetic look before he makes his way down the corridor, gently closing the door behind him as to give you a sense of privacy; the last thing he wanted was to have you plastered all over social media pages when he knew it would purely be used for publicity purposes.
You’re still smiling when the door closes, your back to Carlos’ front. “He seems to like you-“
You were destined to never finish that sentence. Within a split moment, there are warm hands, rough hands resting on either side of your waist, twisting your body within his grasp. He takes two steps backwards, enough pacing to have your back pressed against the closed door: the coldness of the wood contrasting violently with the heat radiating off your best friend.
He couldn’t hold any emotion. Carlos Sainz wears his heart on his sleeve. That much is adamant, from the way his text messages were drafted, to the way he tilts his head, meshing his lips to your own.
They’re surprisingly soft; there’s nothing soft in the way his hands grasp at your waist, the way his body is pressing so deeply into yours. Yet, as his lips continue to entrance yours, they feel like clouds; a gentle stroke of a paintbrush. His artistry continues when his kisses get deeper, one of his hands enclosing yours, bringing it to rest around his shoulders, pushing the two of you closer together. Your other hand is interlocked by his, being stretched above your head, pinned to the door you’re resting upon.
He's waited so long for this, before lunch, before your moment in the sea. He’s wanted this since the moment you walked into the Ferrari Paddock alongside your father, you must have been etched into his heart.
Carlos isn’t thinking; his kisses are becoming rougher, one hand blindly reaching for your leg, almost bare from the shorts you had opted from your wardrobe earlier. He guides it to rest upon his hip, grunting when he can feel his hardened crotch press between your legs. His reality comes crashing down when he feels the cool band on your fingers entangling in his hair. Your wedding ring.
Ragged breaths, panting, he pulls away from your lips, pressing his forehead to your own in a sheer plea of comfort. Both your breaths are synchronized, both grasping for some form of air in the room.
“You’re everything, Mariposa.” He whispers, closing his dark eyes, enjoying his moment, taking every opportunity to imprint the feeling of your body, of your lips into his mind. He prays this won’t be the last time he holds you this way.
Carlos Sainz is a fast texter.
In the moments after you had shared the intimacy, hidden away in his driver’s room, he’s gone into a sheer panic. He’d overstepped, he’d made an advancement on you at your most vulnerable. When he had left for the press alongside your husband, he didn’t have a single chance to pull you aside, not when you had left the moment after the duo had been pulled into their press conferences. Simply, you were not waiting around to catch glimpses of the mistress, still proudly flocking around the Paddock as if it was her home.
It had taken a matter of moments to request a car home, having slipped out of the Ferrari building, talking to one of your father’s colleagues about your departure. Silently, you paced out of the building, a direct beeline towards the car park, head down from the ever-present photographers.
You hadn’t expected a text from either your husband or his teammate, considering that they were both in press conferences until further notice. However, when you had felt and grasped the device in your shorts, you had immediately noticed the soft vibrations, pulling your device out of your pocket, your eyes being illuminated by the screen of your phone. Two text messages. One from your father, one from Carlos. Your attention is drawn to the latter, curious on what your best friend has to say.
11:32: Carlos Sainz:
I’m really, truly sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I haven’t seen Charles yet to let him know you left. You don’t have to see me again if you do not wish.
11:36: You
It wasn’t you at all, I promise! I was aware that Charles’ mistress was about, I couldn’t stick about for that.
Carlos messages you back, almost immediately. You’re confused, considering he is due to be in press alongside Charles. He could be having a break; he could have completely skipped out on several media appearances.
11:38: Carlos Sainz
I wish you could have stayed longer. I meant what I said, every single word. Please let me know if you need anything.
11:41: You
I know, C. I appreciate it, even if I express it terribly. I’ll always be here for you, too. Always.
You never get to see the next message that Carlos sends to you. Instead, your phone starts ringing, an incoming call from your father. You’re certain that the chauffeur won’t mind you taking the call whatsoever, holding the device to your ear as your father’s tone fills the void, his words becoming numbing as he runs through the details of your mother’s funeral, the tears in his voice beginning to swell heavily.
Charles had left the Paddock as soon as he got notice of your departure. He hadn’t bothered to message, his sole focus being on returning to the hotel, to find out what on Earth had happened to you. He was fortunate enough to escape the wandering eyes of his ex-mistress, how on Earth she had gotten into the Paddock for that race was beyond him, especially since he had ceased contact from that day.
The car arrives swiftly outside of the hotel; immediately, Charles is rushing through the back entrance, beelining for the staircase; waiting for an elevator at this moment would be too much. Within moments, he’s fumbling for his key card, pushing the door open, his heart shattering at the vision in front of him.
You, his wife, sat on the edge of one of the king-size beds; your head is buried into your hands, heavy sobs racking through your body. He can see the goosebumps littering your skin, the solemn shakes running through you, the trauma of losing somebody you cared about so deeply, combined with a cocktail of emotions from your entrance to the Paddock had become too much.
He doesn’t care about boundaries, not at this point. Immediately, Charles has crouched in front of you, his gentle hands reaching to grasp around your wrists. There’s a flinch at the sudden contact; your skin had overheated from the sheer energy of crying; your husband’s cool touch was a stark contrast which made you shiver. Delicate touches pull your hands away from your eyes. They’re so red, so swollen. Had he ever made you react like that from his own actions. The Monegasque doesn’t want to question that right now, he can’t even bring himself to look into your broken eyes. Instead, he feels as your arms wrap around his neck, hiding your face in his neck, craving for somebody to just…hold you.
Your husband has no issue in that desire; he lets you remain like that, Charles on his knees whilst you cling to him, the tears dampening through his shirt. One hand slides across your back, kneading gentle circles into your skin. At some point, you move onto the bed, the man lying back on the soft furnishings whilst you rest your head on his chest, arms encircling you as if he could hold you together, until the storm in your mind passes.
When the tears subside, you finally find the energy to look up to your husband. He hadn’t reached for his phone, tried to find some form of entertainment whilst he held you to his chest for hours. Instead, his gaze had been fixed upon you, brushing a gentle stroke over your cheek, his fingers dancing against your skin, brushing away the tension from heavy lines and sobs. When your eyes do open, you’re greeted with a soft smile, Charles leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.
“Do you need some water?” His concern is to bring you back up to health; now the tears have stopped, he can do this. “I can order some food; would you like that?” His voice is so quiet, as if a simple loud sound could shatter through your veins. You can’t muster up more than a nod, your body becoming colder when Charles’ gently shifts away, sitting up so he can reach for the telephone. His voice is so mesmerizing, speaking down the line as he requests different foods; he doesn’t mind how much he orders, if he can coax you into even eating a little, the man will be satisfied.
The call finishes, but the man doesn’t sink back down into his previous position. Instead, whilst he remains sat up, Charles guides you to join him, your body still aching from your emotional breakdown. He murmurs under his breath as he pulls you into his lap, your body is tense until his strong arms wrap around your waist, the warmth instantly allowing you to relax, lean back into his firm chest.
“I’ve wanted to speak to you for a few days.” His voice is soft, but the phrase causes you to feel a sharp panic dance down your chest. Surely, this can’t be good. The relationship had evolved from barely speaking to intimate conversations within a span of two weeks. You try, try so hard to keep a clear mind as your husband continues to address you.
“How I’ve acted…how I treated you, all that time-“ He must stop himself, trying not to let his own emotion overpower his words. “I’m never going to be able to take it all back, and I will never be able to stop apologizing for it.” His whispers, his eyes growing misty with regret. “I will never forgive myself for how I treated you, nor do I ever expect you to forgive me. But…I want to try. I want to try and spend the rest of my days as you husband. I know…it won’t be overnight, but I’ll do anything, anything for you.”
The tears are rolling down your own cheeks now; never, in your wildest dreams, did you expect for Charles to speak those words of affirmation to you. His hand moves cautiously, to your face, wiping the tears which were pooling across your features.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, letting one of his hands remain on your cheek. The man leans forward, pressing gentle butterfly kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose…he pauses, mere inches from your lips. He wants to kiss you; he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to push you; his mind and his heart are complete opposites.
His mind goes into overdrive when you lean forward and press your lips to his own. They’re salty, slightly chapped, but undeniably something he has been craving for oh-so-long. Charles is immediately kissing you back, his grip around you tightening, keeping your body close to his own. Carefully, he shuffles the two of you back into a lying position, never once breaking the kiss, tumbling back onto the mattress.
Of course, you don’t miss his grumble of annoyance when the food eventually arrives.
Carlos Sainz is a gentle kisser.
An autumn breeze was strong on the dreaded day; the funeral had rolled around way too soon for your liking. Rows of family connections, close and distant friends lined the outside of the cemetery, eyes all transfixed on the black hearse rolling into view. Murmurs were pressed into silence, a bitter air all-too present as the ivory coffin was removed from the vehicle. Your elder brother and two cousins were to assist in carrying the piece into the church. Plans were soon suspended when the eldest of your siblings collapsed into tears, head in his hands upon the sheer realization that this was it.
Your father is desperately looking around, practically praying outside a place of worship that the eldest could pull himself together; it’s impossible. Whilst one of your arms is occupied, holding the hand of your young sister, the other gently wraps around his torso, comforting him in the ways he had done for you when you were nothing more than a young girl in messy braids and mismatched socks.
His wife stood on his right-hand side, adamant on consoling the man as you were, a caring hand running across his back. Your husband stood next to your sister, her childish eyes blinking in confusion; just like you, she had never seen her brother this inconsolable.
Charles feels a pain wash through him, he wants nothing more than to help his dear family through this moment. Maybe the act he was playing for so long was just a way of shielding himself from caring. Now he had bared his soul towards you, pleading for a second chance, the man wanted to be there for you, in every sense of the word.
He murmurs something incoherently, stepping away from your side, leaning towards your father’s ear. Whatever he mumbles is met with a sharp nod, a firm pat on the shoulder in confirmation. Your husband keeps a firm gaze on the coffin, not catching your own eyes as he walks towards the piece to join your cousins. There’s a quick whisper between the men, before the ivory is shuffled from the car, resting on their suit-clad shoulders. Silence falls over the attendants as your mother is carried into the church, immediate family following closely behind. Hesitantly, your eyes look to the crowding people, and as if by fate, you see his dark eyes, the fluffy curls brushed back to conform. He shouldn’t look that good in a dark suit.
Most noticeably, his gaze isn’t fixed on the church, on the six men carrying your mother. It’s transfixed on you.
The service is beautiful, if you can describe it like that. Flowers are placed atop of your mother’s coffin, the service of words correlating to her soul, the hymns sung were always her favorite when you had frequented church as a young girl. However, there’s a turning point. When the priest begins to speak of her dear children, tears pool in your lower lash-line. You want to take the time for yourself, to mourn, but louder sobs are emitting from next to you; the youngest child is beginning to realize her mother is truly gone.
You’re torn; pulling her towards you would only make you cry harder; you had already seen your father and brother fall apart, silently knowing you would have to be the one to wait by the door, thanking the copious guests for attending. Her tears are suddenly quietened when you see her gently shuffled into Charles’ lap; despite the estranged relationship for the past twelve months, he’d always had a soft spot for your sister, she reminded him of when Arthur was young. Whilst her tears turn softer, he runs a hand over her back, letting the young girl rest her heavy head in his sternum.
The open gap in the seating allowed for you to shuffle closer towards your husband, his free arm wrapping around your torso. You had to remain sitting up straight; his presence right now would have to be enough for your comfort. To any unassuming eye, you would probably look like a family, the crowds of attendants would have no idea of the true story behind your marriage. Even on the darkest days, the narrative was played well.
When the service draws to a close, final prayers are spoken. The first to rise are your father and brother, both clinging to one-another as they must leave the building. Silently, you pull yourself away from your husband’s grasp, smoothing the skirt of your dress. Charles remains seated, your sister practically passing out atop of him. Today had been a heavy day for a child, after all.
There are rows of people pausing to console you on your loss whilst you stand at the door of the church; friends you had known for oh-so-long, members of the Scuderia Ferrari team; you had never seen Fred Vasseur cry, but the redness of his eyes told you something completely different as he took one of your hands in his, squeezing it in apology.
The pews filter out silently, a large group of the guests making their way back to your father’s home, the wake soon to begin, a blessing and want of your late mother. Sharp footsteps are emitted through the church, the penultimate duo being your husband and sister. He was still carrying her, head resting on his shoulder, almost completely asleep. Charles smiles at finally seeing you, using his free hand to run across the back of your head.
“I’m going to take her back.” Charles explains to you. He understands you don't need the pressure of looking after her atop of everything else bound to come your way. “Let me know when you’re done here, please?” Silently, you nod, no hesitation needed as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, bidding you farewell as he paces out of the church, holding your sister tightly in comfort.
You believe that’s everybody, ready to collect your belongings and thank the priest for a heart-warming farewell. Before you can even think to turn around, there’s a light cough, emitting you to spin on your heel.
He’s there. Still clad in his designer suit, hair pushed back behind his ears. Undeniably, Carlos Sainz looks good in any situation. He holds your bag in one hand, the other reaching out to clasp around your wrist. You gasp at the warm skin pressing to your own, heat radiating through your body. The man leans down, letting his lips brush against your own, a sweet feathering brush pressing onto you. Carlos wanted to be there for you, more than ever on what would be the hardest day.
Seeing Charles take that position had made his blood boil.
His grip on you remains tight as he leads you out of the church and towards his own car, parked in the most secluded section of the lot. When his grip falters to hold your hand instead, he doesn’t aim to correct it, instead only holding tighter. He only removes his grasp to unlock his car, sliding himself into the driving seat, pushing the recliner back as far as it would go. When the space is present, he guides you to rest atop of his lap, arms tightening around your waist as he lets the door close, bodies pressed together tightly.
“Is this okay?” He murmurs, keeping your faces so close together. The built-up emotion, the desire since your last kiss had built a fire in your stomach, not so much as speaking before pressing your lips to his own. Whilst your own movements had become desperate, craving for some form of emotional release, his remained feather-light, one hand tangled into your hair, the other resting firmly on your waist.
His lips are soon ghosting over your cheek, fluttering across your jawline and landing on your neck, small whines emitting from your lips as he seeks to trace his tongue over your sweetest spot. The sensation across your body, the hot touch of his skin and an undeniable bulge now settling between your legs.
There’s a sudden realization that you needed to go home. Being with Carlos was the affection you desired, your heart knows however that right now, your family needs you. Hesitantly, you pull away from the man’s lips, feeling utterly guilty for the pleading look in his eyes as you rest your forehead against his own. He could never hate you for it, though. In his eyes, you could never draw that feeling from him. You don’t need to say anything, he knows.
“I’ll drive you back.” He murmurs, pressing one final kiss to your lips before allowing you to slide into the leather passenger seat.
The drive to your father’s home is almost silent; there’s an occasional rev of the engine, various horns from different cars along the highway. A part of you always prays that each drive with the Spaniard could last forever, you could drive into the distance and live happily ever after. The fairy-tale is soon dissolved when you pull to the driveway, hearing the engine of the car cease. Your eyes find Carlos’ side profile, still transfixed on the road ahead.
“Are you coming in?” You ask gently. He sighs, the grip on his steering wheel becoming tighter.
“I can’t see you that close to him, Mariposa.” He murmurs, finally finding the courage to look you in the eyes. “Not when I want to be that close to you.” One hand finds its way off the wheel, entwining your fingers together, peppering light kisses against your knuckles. “Please call me when you go back. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” You whisper, leaning to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. In that moment, Carlos Sainz is your savior. He’s your truth.
Carlos Sainz is a liar.
Your knuckles had turned white from the grasp on your phone, you didn’t want to believe anything you were seeing. What was supposed to be an impromptu browse of Twitter whilst waiting for your husband to finish in the en-suite, had turned into a deep dive through a certain hashtag, having seen information spread on a certain Ferrari driver.
It had started as a simple few tweets, some fans and gossip pages reckoning they had seen the driver in an exclusive club, some random blonde sitting on top of him. The photos came second, though the angle was skewed, the quality too weak to see who was there. The final nail was the video; Carlos’ hand placed on her waist, how he had done to you mere hours ago, his mouth pressing against hers, clearly nothing else on his mind.
Granted, you knew you had no right to feel the anger you did; after all, you were married, Carlos was a single man, free to do as he desired. Yet, your rage was fuelled by the romantic, now seemingly empty promises he had made you; how you were his everything, how he would treat you better than Charles ever did. He was no different than Charles Leclerc, and as your fumbled fingers reached to his contact, your rage felt inclined to tell him that.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. You’re set to hang up, leave a particularly nasty text message to the man before the line connects. Immediately, your eardrums are overtaken by the loud pulse of a nightclub, some feminine laughter almost directly on top of him.
“Are you okay?” He asks. Clearly, he’s now intoxicated, his accent is always thicker when he is. You hear another voice, telling him to hang up the phone and to come and dance with her. “Hey- are you there?”
“I’m here.” You snap; why do you feel this enraged? You must have done so when you first saw Charles with his mistress; that had become such a common occurrence that the fire in your stomach must have eventually drained. “And clearly, you’re busy with the woman climbing all over you.”
“Fuck- you left me hanging!” He retorts, drunken mind clearly pressing against any form of sober thought. “You went back to your husband. Left me with nothing. Fuck the funeral.” He snaps, clearly now becoming enraged with the entire situation, with the fact he had been caught out. The words pressed through the speaker of your phone and emitted a wave of sobs from your stomach, immediately pressing the red button on your device.
Carlos Sainz wasn’t in love with you. He just liked the distraction.
Of course, as fate would have it, the moment that your tears began again was the moment Charles had left the bathroom. He’s dressed in just a pair of boxers, chest bare and tone after his warm shower. The sound of the door opening caused you to turn to the source. His eyes widen, scampering towards you, cradling you in his arms, bare chest against your cheek. Silently, you sob into his body for the third time that day, wanting nothing more than for every form of pain to stop.
“Hey, come on.” He whispers, arms circling your body, pulling you tight against him. He thinks that seeing you cry will get easier each time, that the pain in the pit of his stomach won’t continue to eat him away. However, it never gets easier; he hates seeing you cry, every single time. “It’s been a long day, yeah? Let’s get some sleep, baby.”
The nickname sounds foreign on his tongue, though neither of you question it. If anything it causes more emotion to flicker through your body, the fact that your estranged husband was finally beginning to give you. Silently, he guides the two of you into the large bed, cradling you to his chest as he had done whilst in Qatar. Sleep and emotion overtake you, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder as a ‘thank you,’ before drifting into a state of slumber.
The sleep means you miss a vital update from the Twitter threads you had been closely following earlier.
‘Carlos Sainz leaves exclusive club ALONE, despite dating rumors arising with mystery blonde.’
Carlos Sainz is your best friend.
You returned to the following day; the entire time remaining at your father’s house had consisted of nothing but tears. You had been especially concerned for your sister, watching the way she had clinged to Charles when the duo was saying their fond farewells. After a tight hug from each family member, your husband hand interlinked your fingers together, guiding the two of you to his own car, each free hand carrying along the suitcases.
The first hour of the drive home had been quiet, the buzzing streets had morphed into greenery, the sun beginning to set across the coast. Your eyelids couldn’t find it to grow heavy, having done nothing but sob and sleep for the past twenty-four hours. Instead, your focus turned to the radio, a familiar song trickling out of the speaker, one you hadn’t heard in almost eighteen months.
“Is this…” You ask, fingers reaching towards the dial, turning the volume up slightly. Behind his sunglasses, Charles grins. You hadn’t expected him to recognise the song, let alone be aware of where he recognised it from.
“Our first dance.” Your husband laughs, both nodding your head to the music. One hand on the wheel, he reached out his other hand to grasp yours on his own, a gentle squeeze passing through each hand. “We’ll have to dance to it again, properly next time.” He promises to himself, eyes focused on the road as he continues to drive you both home.
It’s almost dark by the time you have arrived back at your driveway. The stones are dipped in the darkness, the only illumination being from the headlights of Charles’ iconic vehicle. Your eyes flicker towards the doorstep, convinced the sleep is playing tricks on your mind; why on earth was there a figure standing on the doorstep to your house? They were slim, feminine, holding a cream envelope in one hand, a designer bag resting atop the other.
The familiar feeling of who she was began to nestle in your stomach. Surely, it couldn’t have been her; even your husband would not have the audacity to invite her to the house, right after you had returned home from what was quite possibly the saddest moment of your life. It couldn’t be her, even if every sign pointed towards the truth, you’d begin to search for the tiniest detail; her hair was too short. Your stomach snaps when you realize it’s the identical haircut from the Paddock mere days ago.
“What on earth-“ You hear your husband begin to speak, turning off the engine to the car. He looks over to your figure, but you show no emotion, no reaction on the exterior. Immediately, he has stepped out of the car, violently slamming the door behind him, causing you to snap out of the trance the woman had placed you upon.
Your eyes fixed upon Charles, his mistress trying to reach out into his touch. She’d pressed the envelope into his hand, continuing to speak. The words were clear through the thin glass of the car’s windscreen, divorce, pictures, evidence.
You couldn’t stick around to watch this activity play out. Immediately, you reach out for your phone, breathing uneven as you scroll through the contact list, searching for his name. Despite the last twenty-four hours, you were not too sure who else to call. It takes less than a moment for him to answer, your words rambling and falling over one another, pleading for him to come and collect you. He speaks firmly, commanding you to stay in the car, he would be there as soon as possible.
Charles is so deep in conversation, pleading for his mistress to reconsider, that he doesn’t see you slip out of the car, stepping down the driveway into the awaiting car of Carlos Sainz. He makes no intention to show you affection when first stepping into the vehicle, his only intention to get you out of the situation as soon as possible. Whilst silence filled the space between you both, you had sent a text to your husband, confirming your disappearance.
23:01: You
I’m so sorry, I can’t be there when she is, not anymore. I’ll be back at the house tomorrow. Thank you for everything.
There’s no response. If you’re completely honest, you were not expecting anything else, not whilst he was engrossed in conversation. The street is quiet as you pull into Carlos’ driveway. Saying nothing, the man simply removes his keys from the ignition, before leaning over your frame to open your door, ever the gentleman. Of course, his eyes catch yours as he leans back, creating a deep gaze for oh-so-long. Carefully slipping out of his gaze, you leave the car, walking up the steps to his apartment, the door opening for your arrival.
It's homely. Clearly lived in. Shoes are thrown across the entrance mat, coats hanging in the rack. Although it is primarily basic, a little bare, there’s touches around the complex which warm your heart; a photograph of the man with his sisters and father, a helmet you immediately recognise as Lando Norris’ resting atop of a bookshelf. There’s fine wine glasses resting atop of his coffee table; clearly ready for their usage before your untimely call.
The details become irrelevant the moment you feel his warm arms circle around your middle; the rising of your hoodie lets his body heat radiate onto yours. Carlos doesn’t need to say anything, his face comes towards the joint between your neck and your shoulder, using his nose to brush your hair away, exposing the skin he craves to mark.
“Mariposa.” He whispers, hiding his expression in your soft skin. “I can explain her, I can explain who she is, I didn’t-“
This time, it’s you who rolls around in Carlos’ touch, your arms entwining around his neck, pulling his lips to touch yours. The Spaniard does not need convincing, his grip on your waist immediately tightening, pushing your bodies closer together, if that was even humanly possible. This time, when his lips begin to trail down your neck, there’s no hesitation left in your mind, letting the man dance across your skin, leaving small bites, trails of his tongue against you.
You realize it’s you, making a small whine as he pulls away from your body, catching his breath whilst his tanned arms reach to the bottom of his shirt, exposing his chest once more. This time, your fingers fumble to find the hem of your hoodie, pulling the clothing atop of your head, exposing the laciest bra Carlos had ever seen. There’s a grunt from the back of his mouth as he darts forward, one rough palm scooping your breast from the lingerie, his mouth immediately finding your nipple, tongue tracing across the sensitive skin whilst his stubble rubs against your exposed flesh.
He doesn’t let up, not even when your legs go weak. His mouth remains firmly attached, using his arms to instead scoop you into his grasp, your whining sheer pornography to his ears whilst he carries you into his bedroom.
He will simply ruin you for every other person, and god forbid if he lost you now.
You realize hours later, somewhere between your post-orgasm haze and the combined warmth of Carlos’ hoodie and his firm arms that best friends did not have intense, body-numbing sex in the middle of the night, specifically when one of them was married, the other one a close friend of her husband. Yet, it somehow feels normal, as if this had been the longest impending explosion. Of course, you had explained to the man the reasoning for calling him out so late, for him to simply hush you, promising you would have never been a burden to him. The further questions of what is to come next are pushed to the back of your mind.
Your sleeping state misses two key moments. The first? The slight camera shutter from a phone as Carlos places his device back on the nightstand, snuggling down into the blankets, his dream to hold you whilst he slept finally arising.
The second? Your phone finally buzzed with a response from your husband, unable to sleep without knowing you were in the large house alongside him.
02:51: Charles Leclerc
I’m in love with you.
This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover @barnestatic @omgsuperstarg @chimchimjiminie16 @caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog @junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt @crowdthena @screemqueen @lewislvr @styles-sunflower @itspaddockprincess @adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins @formulanando @lorarri @christianpulisic10 @gaypoetsblog @thisbitxhs-blog @goldsainz @ru-kru @magical-spit @hrlzy @nooshytushie @gaslysainz @marvel-at-stucky @sugarvibez
#F1#Formula 1#F1 x Reader#Carlos Sainz#Charles Leclerc#CS55#CL16#Charles Leclerc x Reader#Carlos Sainz x Reader#Charles Leclerc Imagine#Carlos Sainz Imagine#Charles Leclerc One Shot#Carlos Sainz One Shot#Reader Insert#Reader x Charles#Reader x Carlos#Formula 1 Imagine#F1 Imagine#Ferrari#Mercedes#Aston Martin#Fanfiction#Carlos Sainz x You#Charles Leclerc x You#Charlos
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I would love to see a second part of Forgotten Friends
One where the beast eventually realized that they blew stuff out of proportion and, because of that, their friend was basically forced to betray them, but they have no one to blame but themselves
And by the time they realized and are out of their prison
Reader cookie can varely remember them, they do remember they used to be friends, but all their evil deed have replaces most happy memories and Reader has a hard time being able to trust or even be near them
Patience is a strong thing, but time is more
The SoulJam of Patience has follow their tittle, now it's Their turn to use it
I like your style dear butterfly.

Forsaken, Forgotten, Un-Forgiven
previous part
Where does one even begin to express how much patience you've lost? How does one even begin to accept your friends have become nothing more but shells of their former selves? How does one learn to forgive them for forcing you to betray them? As hard as it is to believe, it starts with an apology.
After sealing your friends away all those years ago, it took you immense amounts of patience before you could face the world again. It took you so much patience to adjust and make new friends. So much patience to finally feel free about revealing who you really are. Patience to accept that they were gone and they weren't coming back. It took a long time, but you endured it. And it was worth it.
But it wasn't.
You found yourself face to face with five shards of tinted glass, all representing a shard from what was broken long ago. You barely remembered any of them, but that doesn't mean you forgot them and their evil deeds completely
The blue shard, who had once been your source of knowledge and guidance, now full of cracks that mimicked the web of deceit it was entangled in. You remember how the threads of that web were used to puppet and control the lives of the innocent, forcing them to fight for his own twisted little show.
The white shard, who had one been the holder of the virtue known as volition, now flavorless and apathetic soul devoid of any meaning. You remember how easily she turned everything to flour with just a simple motion of her hand. And you knew she did it because she saw little to no value in living a life with the inevitable end known as death
The red shard, who was once the herald of change in itself, now a destructive and merciless monster who sees no point in creation when it's bout to wither away eventually. You remember how he had destroyed countless homes and lives, all because he was bored.
The pink shard, who was once the most loving and joyful person you had ever met, now a lazy sloth who didn't even bother doing anything anymore. You remember vividly how she wiped away so many cookies just because they woke her up from her nap.
Then there was the Purple shard, once a noble knight of solitude, now a dark knight of silence. You remember all to well how had mercilessly crumbled several cookies in a single strike. How he's never uttered a word since he became corrupted.
These shards of glass are none other than your fallen friends, freed from but under different circumstances. They weren't causing havoc, they weren't attacking- heck, they weren't even angry at you after you lead them into a trap. What baffled you more was how the ancients were present but stood to the side. It took some time before the realization hit you.
"They want to talk."
You heard a voice say. It sounded like you, but much more mature. You felt your heart drop. They wish to talk? Couldn't they have thought about that years- no, CENTURIES ago?! But you're not about to argue with the light of patience when you clearly have better things to focus on.
The first thing you noticed about your fallen friends is their demeanor. They're not angry... they actually look guilty and nervous. Next was their souljams... which they didn't have for some reason. The ancients probably have it, which is good. They can't cause much damage. Shadow milk cookie stepped forward and you were ready for anything....
"Y/N cookie..."
Anything at all.
"We're sorry..."
Except that. Your eyes widened and you froze solid, the words unable to register in your head. They were apologizing?... But- no that can't be right... this is a trick... It's a trick and you won't fall for it again... You look at the ancients. They aren't intervening or protesting against this false apology.
...
They can't seriously believe this, right? They're not falling for this, RIGHT?! You step back a bit and shake your head slightly. This was a trick. Why do they want to redeem themselves NOW? Had they not realized the gravity of what they did before sooner? This had to be some kind of lie. And you weren't gonna fall for it. You made that very clear to them before walking.
It was only later on where pure vanilla cookie explained that they were attempting a redemption arc to fix the bond between you. The ancients really did believe them... Why did they believe them?! They had been nothing but pure evil as far as you can remember. Their evil deeds outweighed whatever happy memories you had with them... almost as though you didn't have happy memories.
The beasts tried again and again to at least get you to cast a glance at them but it was fruitless. You walked away from the library when Shadow milk cookie tried talking to you. You completely ignored Eternal sugar cookie trying to enter your room and talk to you. You turned your back on Burning spice cookie when he attempted reaching out for you. You refused to acknowledge Mystic flour cookies attempt of interaction with you. And the silence between You and Silent salt cookie had grown into a deadly kind of quiet, as if none of you had even been together.
They just didn't get it, did they? They betrayed your trust once, what if they do it again? You had to be BEYOND patient with yourself in order to recover and yet they've returned? No, they shouldn't have. They had no idea how many sleepless nights you endured to finally accept they're absence. How much you had to learn to adjust and be patient with yourself to be able to move on. And all that hard work, all that patience, it was gonna crumble because of them.
No, you can't let that happen. You can't just forgive them just like that. Not after everything they've done, to innocent cookies, everything they've done to you. If they really wanted your forgiveness, they'd have to be as patient with you as you were with them when they weren't corrupted. They have to earn your forgiveness, and that was going to take a long time.
You were patient with them, now they must be patient with you. How long they'd have to be patient was unknown, and how long they'd actually remain patient was just as mysterious.
#crk#cookie run kingdom#crk x reader#cr kingdom#Beast cookies#Ancient cookies#Pure Vanilla cookie#Dark Cacao cookie#Golden cheese cookie#Hollyberry cookie#White lily cookie#Silent salt cookie#Eternal sugar cookie#Burning spice cookie#Mystic flour cookie#Shadow milk cookie
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Endiness made a beautiful long post with all his quotes on that topic that I think is very informative and worth looking at, so here’s a link to that. And with that already discussed, I thought I’d make a thread of all his changes that we are aware of, because when you look into them, you find that none of his “book accurate” changes are actually book accurate.
His decision to make Geralt grunt and cut his lines.
HC: "All the grunts, I either added or I didn't say anything and just grunted instead. It was often up to the other actors to go, 'I think he's not gonna say anything now.'"
JB: "Henry likes to cut his lines, 'cause he's lazy. No, he literally just likes to cut them. He likes to do more up here [frames his face with his hands] and just with face and hmms and grunts. There's a lot of hmms, and so I often have to take a lot of his lines and turn it into a lot of my stuff so that the plot happens."
So, as everyone who has read the books knows that Geralt is and always has been a yapper. Gerakt often talks or thinks in monologues, and definitely not in short grunts.
Of course when the audience started making fun of Geralt for not being able to speak in full sentences Henry promptly went back on admitting the blame and instead said that the big bad writers were the ones who didn't give him lines, and now it was his life’s mission to fight for a book accurate Geralt who speaks.
Roach’s death scene
After S2 came out, Lauren received a lot of backlash for Roach’s death scene, with multiple sources citing that she wanted the moment to be more “comedic” before the brave Henry Cavill stepped in and refused to participate in such horrible anti source material activities.
LH: "Henry was so unhappy with the line. Finally I said, 'You know what, you come up with something. I trust you, you know this material so well, you know the book so well, you don't even have to pitch it to me.' And he came back the next day with a beautiful speech that's at the end of 'Sword of Destiny' when Geralt is facing death.”
This is the line he ended up using:
“Enjoy your last walk across the meadow and through the mist. Be not afraid of her for she is your friend."
This was Lauren’s response AND the original line.
LH: “Here's what was scripted, in homage of the fact that a previous Roach had existed, and another one will exist soon. It's hardly a joke. Henry wanted a longer, more emotional moment, which I was more than happy to give him. Don't create drama where none exists.”

So in S2 Geralt ends up quoting a part of his monologue from ‘Sword of Destiny’ when he’s at his lowest after thinking that Yennefer had died at the battle of Sodden Hill, and he has nothing left to live for. Which to me doesn't work that well with Roach at all. That line was a response to Geralt thinking he's lost the love of his life, not his horse. In my opinion, the original line Lauren penned out is more heartfelt and actually more emotional and more book accurate as well.
The absolute removal of any Triss and Geralt “romance”
This one we don’t have that much information on in comparison to others. But there were multiple reports that at the beginning of S2 Triss and Geralt were supposed to have some kind of a romantic scene with each other which then was cut during production, and it was largely speculated that it was due to Henry Cavill.
“Several months ago we reported on a sex scene happening between Geralt and Triss, sometime in the first half of Season 2. That didn’t happen, as we all saw, but here’s what we know about the original plan for that: Geralt and Triss are in a room together, they seem friendly at first. They are playing some kind of weird game. Whoever wins a round, gets to ask a question. We’re not privy to the exact flow of the conversation, but it eventually leads to both of them ending up in bed. We can only guess why this was cut, but perhaps it was thanks to Henry Cavill.”
Now, irrelevantly on your feelings on book Triss and Geralt you have to admit that that short-lived “romance” is indeed a part of the books and therefor book accurate. So the removal of it would go against Mr I’m fighting to make this show as much book accurate as possible.
The removal of the Yen and Geralt sex scene in S2
"We just wanted to be very careful that it was true and real, and it didn't turn into something that we, as actors, didn't believe it should be," Cavill stated. When Yennefer and Geralt unite, they embrace, but it doesn't go further than that. He continued: "We wanted it to be emotional rather than sexual. It was really, really important, and we had to lean away from what was originally on the page." Initially, Geralt and Yennefer were written to have a more passionate night. Henry Cavill and Anya Chalotra went to "The Witcher" producers and explained why they thought a steamy evening was not the way to go. "These are people who believe one thing about the fate of another and then find out something else is true," Cavill said about Geralt believing Yennefer was dead. "That's not how they behave," the actor added. "How they behave is they just want to be with the person and emotionally recognize their existence again in that shared space.”
This one is a bit tricky because I am willing to get behind an actor who doesn't want to do a sex scene out of comfort reasons or whatnot, but Henry saying that "That's not how [Yennefer and Geralt] behave”, is quite absurd in my opinion. Because that is very much how Geralt and Yennefer behave, especially in the short stories and ToC. They are inherently a very sexual couple who come crashing in and out of each other’s lives while having very passionate sex. But I can understand wanting this scene to be more “emotional” (as if sex isn't emotional), so this one I am willing to give him a bit more leeway on. (But then again looking at the blinds saying that he refused any sex scenes because oh his “ideals” and was allegedly really nasty to Anya about it, well..)
Geralt being the perfect father figure to Ciri with no flaws and no struggles (which inevitably snowballed into the Yen Betrayal Arc)
This one I don’t see talked that much at all, and to me this one is his most detrimental one.
@LHissrich: “In interviews, Henry explains how he felt strongly that Geralt NOT be bumbling, nor a struggling father figure. In fact, a lot of S2 is about how Geralt does come from a loving (albeit unconventional) family. Henry was passionate about this shift, and we discussed it a lot, and ultimately thought it was wonderful for his character development. But it also had the domino effect of changing what Ciri needed from Yen when she entered the picture. Thus, introducing the idea of balance.”
So I don’t know about you, but I love when characters have flaws and naturally progress be it for good or bad, some would say that that's what story telling is about, well that someone wouldn't be Henry Cavil. Geralt being a struggling father figure at first, someone who makes mistakes and learns from them and tries is very much a prominent theme in Blood of Elves and is actually very real, people make mistakes! Especially in huge shifts such as “becoming a father overnight’ but we didn't get that because Henry refused to play it that way. What we got is Geralt who already basically knows exactly how to parent, he always knows what to say, what pep talk to give and also doesn't hold any resentment and any negative feelings towards Vesemir at all. It's all one dimensional happy family here! Which goes against not only the books but what he preached about fighting tooth and nail to make the “forgotten” male characters three-dimensional as well because the horrible feminist Lauren only thinks about female characters.
Lauren then goes on saying that “it also had the domino effect of changing what Ciri needed from Yen when she entered the picture. Thus, introducing the idea of balance” So, it is fair to speculate that Henry’s refusal to showcase Geralt having any flaws at all and act book accurate snowballed into The Controversial Yennefer Betrayal Arc.
These are the ones that I can remember off the top off my head, so there might be more, there’s probably more that we aren’t even aware of. I think putting them all together showcase a very interesting picture. One of Henry Cavill never actually understanding who Geralt fundamentally is as a character, and of him not being a team player at all. I just hope that more and more people are aware of the insane PR his team did for him when it came to this show, and that more people are able to see through it.
#anti henry cavill#the witcher#long post#i do believe that i have an interesting vintage point because ive been in this fandom since the show premiered so some people might not be#even aware of these things when ive lived them and have an archive of them in my head lmaoo#i don't like the formatting of asks when you reblog them so im making this a separate text post
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cry baby | chapter three
Summary: Not your average day out, well, maybe for The Avengers it is.
Warning: Minimum Violence. John Walker.
Word Count: 1374
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A/N: JACKET. Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B
Tags: buckys0whore | @thezombieprostitute | @lanabuckybarnes | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @softieekayy | @noonespecial90 | @hello-therree
The aroma of coffee filled the small space of your kitchen, and the events at the restaurant and the fallout weighed heavily on your mind. As you stood by the counter, lost in thought, you heard a soft knock at your door.
Opening it, you found Bucky standing there, looking slightly disheveled. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice gentle. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay after last night.”
You stepped aside, letting him enter. With a grateful smile, you nodded. “I just made some coffee, would you like some?”
His eyes scanned the room as if he was ensuring everything was in place as he walked in. “I’d love some, please, Sweetheart,” he smiled, turning back at you. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, the whites of them were threaded with red veins as his lids struggled to stay open. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
You poured two mugs, handing one to Bucky. “I know you told him about John,” you said softly, leading him to the couch.
“I’m not sorry about that,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Steve should have done more damage,” he mumbled under his breath.
You sighed, sitting next to him and bringing your knees up to your chest. “I just wish it hadn’t come to that. Steve shouldn’t be in fights because of me,”
Bucky turned his gaze to you, softening at the thought of your worry. “That wasn’t your fault, Steve did what any brother would, and John… well, he’s not worth your time or concern.”
His presence helped steady your emotions, comforting you. He had a way of keeping you grounded, making you feel safe. “Thank you, Bucky,” you said, meeting his gaze. “For everything.”
He gave you a small, reassuring smile. “Always.”
As you found a comfortable silence lacing itself between you, the familiar massage tone of both phones pinged together. Reaching for them in sync, you read the message. ‘They’ve taken Steve in, again.’ Your heart sank.
“Walker,” Bucky mumbled as he stared at his phone, sighing. You closed your eyes, a wave of guilt washing over you. “It’s not your fault,” Bucky reassured you, cupping your face, the cold metal soothing your flushed skin. “Let’s go get him.”
Nodding in agreement, you raised from your seat and settled your mug down on the coffee table. Grabbing your keys, you began to race toward the door. Bucky cleared his throat moments before you reached for the handle, grabbing your attention.
He held out his jacket toward you, gesturing toward your attire. The adrenaline coursing through you caused you to forget you had yet to change out of your nightwear. Mumbling a thank you toward him, you slipped into his jacket, letting the leather material surround your body.
~
The ride to the police station was a blur, your mind replayed the events of the previous night. Every what-if raced through your thoughts.
When you entered the police station, Sam, Natasha, and Wanda were already waiting inside for Steve. “Have you seen him yet?” you asked, as Bucky went over to the front desk.
Sam shook his head, concern shown on his face. “Not yet. They’re questioning him now. They haven’t given us anything, yet.”
Natasha rose from her seat in the waiting area, her expression a mix of frustration and determination. “He’ll be okay, we’ve been here before.”
Bucky returned from the front desk, his face masking a barely restrained anger. “Walker’s really pushing himself this time.”
A confused look washed over your features, “This time?” you asked, gazing up at Bucky, searching for answers in his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?”
Wanda put a reassuring hand on your back, “Walker wants what Steve has,” she spoke, and a heavy tension began to weigh in the air. “You know, the authority, the bar’s respect…” she continued as she gestured around the station.
“He’s just trying to provoke us,” Sam suspected, as his gaze met yours, you felt smaller than usual around your friends as you realized your part in this. “He knew getting to you would do that.”
Your gaze tried to avoid all of theirs, feeling humiliated. Wrapping Bucky’s jacket tighter around your body, you found an empty seat and sank into it.
The minutes felt like hours as you waited. Suddenly, the door to one of the interview rooms opened, and it wasn’t who you were hoping for. John emerged, looking smug and satisfied. His gaze met yours for a brief moment, a smirk across his face.
Before you could react, Bucky was across the room. He grabbed John by the collar and slammed him against the wall with force, the entire station went silent. “Is there a problem, guard dog?” John spat as he tried to maintain his composure.
Bucky’s grip tightened, his voice a growl. “Listen, Walker. If you ever,” another slam, “go near her again, you’ll have more than just Steve to worry about.”
“Barnes!” Officer Fury, who dealt with your group on numerous occasions, called out as he approached. “Not here,” the man tried to squeeze himself between the two men.
Reluctantly, Bucky let go and took a step back. Fury placed a firm hand on John’s shoulder, guiding him out of the station. “Don’t make things worse for yourself.”
Straightening his collar, he shot one last venomous look at you before turning and walking out of the station.
Fury sighed as he turned to Bucky, shaking his head. “Keep it together, Barnes. You know the drill, don’t let him get the best of you.” Bucky nodded as he looked over at you.
Within seconds, another interview room door opened, this time, Steve walked out. You immediately rose from your seat and rushed over to him. He pulled you into a tight hug. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle with a lace of tiredness.
You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. “Forget me, what about you?”
Pulling back slightly, Steve looked at you with a soft smile. “I’m good. Fury’s got our backs, letting me off with a warning.”
You glanced over at Fury, sending him a grateful smile as he gave you a reassuring nod. “Just keep it in the bar,” he advised.
“Speaking of,” Sam smirked as he gestured toward the station door. “Shall we?”
A sense of relief washed over you and your friends. Following their lead out of the station, you suddenly remember you were still in your nightwear. The warmth from Bucky’s jacket caused you to feel fully dressed and covered the entire time.
Bucky walked beside you, sensing your sudden discomfort he placed a hand on the small of your back. “I’ll take you home first,” he gave you a small smile as you glanced up at him.
~
As you reached your apartment, Bucky followed you up the stairs, his hand never left the small of your back as he rested gently against it. The familiar scent of your home instantly put you at ease as you stepped inside.
“I’ll be quick!” you promised, as you turned to glance at him. He closed the door behind you and leaned against it as he watched you make your way to your bedroom.
“Take your time, Sweetheart,” he said, a playful tone laced his voice as he smiled back at you. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Disappearing into your bedroom, the adrenaline that had carried you through the events at the police station began to wear off. You quickly change out of your nightwear and into one of your dresses, and check your appearance. The comforting weight of Bucky’s jacket still lingered on your shoulders as you replaced it with one of your cardigans.
Bucky had moved into your living room by the time you emerged from your bedroom, his expression softening when he saw you. “Gorgeous,” he said, a rush of heat spread across your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you mumbled, as you avoided his gaze, and caught the sight of his jacket draped over your arm. “Oh, and thank you!” You gestured toward the jacket as you handed it back to him.
Bucky’s face fell slightly as he took the jacket, disappointment crossed his features. “It looked good on you,” he said as he reluctantly slipped it on.
---
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hello! I am so sorry but I have a lightlark question! I was rereading your lightlark review and saw you had mentioned that Oro said something about grim protecting them all from something they couldn't imagine etc and I was wondering. what on earth is that. cause dreks and whatnot only pop up in book 2? is the threat he's protecting them all from just Himself, cause he's keeping himself from causing a mass extinction event on a whim? thank you and I am sorry
okay so this is one of the... silliest? dumbest? plot threads in lightlark, because it is one of the most blatant 'this wasn't planned in advance' things.
The concept Grim is protecting everyone in Lightlark from a dire threat is brought up in book 1:

It's worth noting this reveal, which is never expanded upon or returned to until book 3, also breaks the entire premise of the Cenntennial... again. If killing Grim would be the end of lightlark, why isn't he specially exempt from being killed at the '''games'''? this comes up halfway through the book!
You are correct to assume the 'greater danger' is the dreks. those guys pop up book 2 after not being referenced in book 1 as a concept, this secret plague of demons Grim has had to bravely fight off for 100s of years. I assumed so too. However. No.
You see, in book 3, we learn Grim has been also fighting off deadly storms, never before mentioned, for 100s of years........ these are also not the 'greater danger'.
No, towards the end of book 3, we learn Isla's ancestor has been secretly alive and buried below Nightshade for 1000s of years, and she is the 'greater danger' in question.

(this is also the section where we learn grim and oro were further conspiring behind isla's back during the cenntenial, making it so the '''deadly games''' (where no one has ever died) involved 2/6 people people explicitly not allowed to die)

oh, and also: both her love interests further conspiring to... assume she's such an idiot she'd free a sleeping evil just because they're distantly related. I love how lightlark is about a 20 year old girl and the two 500 year old men who know what is right at all times, and control her knowledge and body because they know what is best :)
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