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nanivinsmoke · 1 month

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Rated-R

saw this art from @/yunonoai on twitter and i cannot stop thinking about it. enjoy ya freaks

roommate!Choso x F!reader

summary ~ when the movie is a little bit more than you both could handle.

warnings and tags ~ porn, mentions of drinking, fingering, oral, sexual tension, nervous choso, teasing, semi-pussyjob, facial, cream pie, degradation, rough sex, squirting, etc~

“what about this one?” you asked, holding up a dvd and showing it to the raven haired male who nodded in approval at your movie selection. popping it into the dvd player, you pressed play and got up from your position on the floor to sit next to choso on the couch.

every friday night the two of you planned to do something with each other, being that it was your only free night out of the week. with you being busy with work and school, and him being busy with work; this was the only time the two of you had for each other.

thanking him for handing you your glass of wine, you relaxed onto the couch and watched the flat screen tv in front of you as it played the movie. The movie starred your favorite actor, satoru gojo. anything he was in automatically became your favorite movie of all time and if he was shirtless, trust you’d go back to the store to get three more copies.

this time it was a romantic comedy and Gojo played the part of the funny charming crush pretty well. while your eyes were glued the to screen, choso couldn’t help but to keep glancing at you from his peripheral.

you were the most beautiful girl that stepped foot on campus, he knew it and everyone sure damn well knew it too. it was no doubt that he had such a huge crush on you. the first time you spoke to him nearly made him cream his pants right there in the study hall.

from that moment on he tried so hard to avoid you, but it’s like fate kept pushing him to you. be it work or school, he was always around you. and when you asked him to be roommates with you because rent was too high, he immediately gave you his half of the rent.

even though you two got closer, he couldn’t help but be still so shy around you. he was in love with you and you knew it too. walking around in your panties and a small shirt that made nipples stand at attention, just to tease him only made it harder for him to not want to feel your soft gummy walls.

choso didn’t care about watching the movie anymore, so he pulled out his phone and turned the volume down; scrolling on instagram to look at your page. he could look at you for hours and if he’d brush up on his art skills, his whole sketch pad would be filled with you.

you glanced over at him, blushing as you caught a glimpse of the video he watched of you. he quickly double tapped it before moving onto the next one. you turned to look at him, he was shirtless—his abs chiseled and defined. and then you took in his features. the sharpness of his jawline, the way the bags underneath his eyes brung them out and his hair that’s usually pulled into two high ponies, sat low on on his shoulders. oh how you imagine tugging on it as he sucked on your pussy like it—.

you whipped your head around towards the television, hearing loud moans and skin slapping coming from it. you had no idea that there was going to be a sex scene, a long and raunchy one at that. your eyes were glued to the screen and you only moved to place your empty glass on the table next to you.

choso had to put his phone down and when he heard the lewd noises coming from the the screen, he couldn’t look away and he couldn’t look at you either. imagining that him and you were on the screen instead, had him rock hard in his pants and he had to grab one of the couch’s pillows to hide his boner from you.

neither of you said anything, not able to look away—your minds clouded with lewd images. choso slipped one of his hands underneath the pillow and into his sweatpants, stroking his boner—the stiffness and the hardness caused him to stifle a moan. precum leaked from his thick mushroom tip the more he slowly rubbed himself to the thought of you cumming around his cock.

hearing soft moans and whimpers on the side of the couch, he turned his tired eyes towards you—blushing when he saw you clutching your boob and your thighs pressing and rubbing together. he couldn’t believe the sight, you were doing that right next to him? he couldn’t stop looking as you pinched your nipple through your t-shirt, your mouth turned in a slight frown—too aroused from watching gojo fuck the woman in the movie.

and when you finally lock eyes with him and softly moan his name, his cock nearly ripped out his pants. “please, choso~,” your voice low—a soft moan following behind. his nervousness left his body the moment he leaned up and hover over you, laying back on the couch—spreading your legs for him. he took a good look at your body, your nipples standing at attention and the wet stain on your panties made it damn near impossible for him to not cum right on the fabric.

his rough hands traced your inner thigh, sending flutters to your pussy. you grabbed his hand, making him pull your panties to the side—unable to bare the overwhelming sensation. “please touch me~” you begged and he leaned down to kiss you for the first time, his lips soft against yours. his hand rubbed up and down against your folds, covering them in your slick—causing you to whimper in between the kiss.

he back away from your addictive lips, leaning down to be eye level with your dripping cunt; his tongue meeting your clit. you gasped and clutched the side of the couch, his tongue swirling and sucking on your sensitive bud. choso had been dreaming about this moment; tasting you, slurping up your fluids to satisfy his thirst. this felt all too surreal for him, but he wasn’t going to stop. not now, not ever.

the more he tongue fucked you the more you desired to cum all over his pretty face. and when he finally pushed in his middle and ring finger, those soft moans of yours became louder; drowning out from what was still playing on the television. you manicure now tangled in his deep brown locks, pushing his head further into your slick; grinding on his face—building up your orgasm.

“you taste so good” his words vibrated against your cunt, causing your back to arch off the bed. it felt so good, you were so so close and he could feel it too. his pace quickened, dipping in and out of your walls with precision. your toes curled and the grip on his hair got tighter as you came right there on his tongue. moaning his name as you ride out your orgasm, while grinding sloppily against his face.

he still pumped his fingers inside of you and didn’t detach himself from your sensitive clit either, working on another orgasm out of you. this one more intense than the last. “oh my fuck! ch-choso~” a stream of clear fluid splashed out and onto his face, catching you both by surprise. he had made you squirt, lapping up the sweet liquid that dripped down his face. you had never squirted before, none of your exes could ever pleasure you that good.

leaning down to kiss you again, you happily accepted his tongue inside your mouth—tasting yourself. gasping when you felt something hard poke you, you pulled away and looked down to see his cock standing up through his sweatpants. ‘there’s no way…’ you knew he wasn’t going to fit inside of you either, but damn were you going to try your hardest.

a smirk etched on your face as you began to grind against his clothed cock, earning a low gasp from him. his eyes planted down on your pussy teasing his cock, your slick mixing with his precum had created a huge stain on his pants. the friction earned a moan from both of your lips, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your bodies.

“can i….please..?” he asked, his tone coming off more as a beg—his dark purple eyes connecting to yours while he pushed himself more onto your pussy. you nod and quickly slid your soaked panties off, throwing them to the far end of your living room, while he did the same with his sweatpants.

‘oh my fu—so big~’ you thought, eyes widening at the sight of his cock. it was so pretty too, couldn’t stop yourself from staring at it. his tip was so pink and had so much pre-cum pooling out of it and from his tip to base he had vein running from it and he was neatly trimmed. you could feel yourself getting even more wetter the more you stared at it, you were gonna have so much fun with him.

getting closer to you again, his angled his cock at your little entrance before he paused and looked at you. “do we need cond—shit, y/n~” he moaned breathlessly as you pushed yourself down onto his girth, answering his question before he could even get it out. “i want to feel all of you cho~,” a whimper leaving your mouth as he began to fill you up.

he thumbed your clit and held your other leg up, easing the pressure as he pushed in you. when all of him was finally inside, he didn’t move and allowed you to get used to his size. the feeling of you clenching around him made him slowly move his hips, stroking in and out of your tight little cunt.

he was so so so fat—he was stretching you out with each stroke with his tip brushing over your spot, clit throbbing as a result. oh you knew you made the right decision when you asked him to be your roommate. choso moved slow, but hit all of the right spots—not wanting to hurt you. “choso, you could be rough with me….i can take it,~” he looked at you wide eyes, hesitant to do anything further until you gave your nod of approval.

all the air was sucked from your lungs when he slammed his hips into yours, his tip making out with your cervix. this is exactly what you wanted, to be fucked like a whore. he grabbed you by the hair, making you watch as he begun to tear your pussy in half, stretching you completely. “look at how good you’re fucking taking me. cunt’s so fucking wet.”

nothing played on the tv, but all that was on your mind was cumming for you roommate and have your belly full of his cum. balls slapping your cunt hard, cream coating his dick with each stroke and his hands now at your throat, fucking you so hard into the soft burgandy couch cushions.

“you love this shit, don’t you? mhm—I knew you were a slut, teasing me with those little ass panties. fuck, gonna let me breed this cunt?” his hand was still wrapped around your throat, only allowing you to nod. he strokes became faster and harder, your little cunt would be sore the next day. he let out a loud groan, his load panting your walls in long thick ropes.

he knew you were going to cum that way you were squeezing and milking his cock as he came. “hold it. don’t cum, yet” you whined as he pulled out of you, halting your orgasm. He sat back on the couch and pulled you on top of him, entering you with ease and pushing your head down as he proceeded to pound the shit out of you.

choso jackhammered you like his life depended on it, grunting in your ear while you moaned softly into his. the sounds of your slick made it harder for him to not bust inside of you again, not before he made you cum again. “daddy, please don’t stop—pound me harder!” hearing the name you called him made his dick twitch, he held your waist and slapped your ass as he pounded you harder.

you couldn’t hold it anymore. his cock became drenched when you squirted, wetting up the couch cushions underneath you. pulling you off of him in a swift motion, he got up and began jerking himself off in front of your face—spurting out thick white loads, covering your pretty face completely.

a wave of nervousness fell over him again and he quickly began apologizing for cumming too much on your face, but when he saw your finger glide on your face and dip into your mouth; he calmed down. a smirk etched into your face as you continued to lick the load off your face.

“mhm, we need to do more movie nights. especially if it’s going to end like this~”

#choso kamo #jjk choso #choso smut #choso x reader #roommate choso #nervous choso #based off fan art #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x y/n #choso x you #choso x female reader #kamo choso #choso kamo smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen choso kamo #jjk x reader #jjk x you

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akajustmerry · 2 months

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I genuinely think rick and michonne are the greatest love story and romance ever told on television. there's just no notes. they're perfect, stunning, outstanding. it's not just the fucking journey of it, of 2 people meeting at the lowest point in humanity and in their lives and dragging each other back up season after season. it's not just the genuine time it takes for the humanity, trust and love to build between them. it's....the tenderness of it when it does. rick and michonne are just 2 people who accepted that life and being alive would just mean violence and loss, but then when they finallyyyyyy realise how much they love each other it's so tender, it's this little haven that's actually living. and like,,,,, all of that would be enough for any on screen love story but the chemistry danai gurira and andrew lincoln have is just unparalleled, lightening in a bottle. Season 7, episode 12 of twd where rick and michonne are just fucking, scavenging, wasting walkers, road tripping, rinse and repeat is literally one of the most romantic sexiest episodes of tv ever made. that's how I know richonne naysayers are just losers suffering from antiblackness and misogynoir. I cannot imagine watching this and thinking anything other than wow this is literally the greatest love story on television ❤️

#richonne #the walking dead #the Misogynoir in the twd fandom back when they were first getting together.... Traumatising #/

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vetteltea · 4 months

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Love Will Always Show | CL16 & CS55

Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back.

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously.

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll.

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters.

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around.

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic.

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing.

He simply cannot stand for that.

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement.

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features.

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks.

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles.

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about.

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp.

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that.

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket.

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health.

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly.

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital.

Love is a scream for your name.

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome.

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in.

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital.

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving.

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes.

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife.

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.”

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married.

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside.

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes.

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now.

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight.

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further.

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about.

Love is notes left on a coffee cup.

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up.

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men.

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake.

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.”

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him.

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care.

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital.

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe.

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman.

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.”

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.”

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust.

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come-

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that.

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial.

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him.

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible.

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him.

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too.

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can��t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more.

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose.

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch.

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks.

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is.

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall.

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up.

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise.

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid.

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy.

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you.

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item.

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding.

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you.

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of.

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed.

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric.

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again.

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet.

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours.

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days.

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature.

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present.

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly.

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough.

“Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife. At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence.

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress.

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another.

“And Mrs. Leclerc?”

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you.

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything.

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again.

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.”

He needed to speak to you.

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend.

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard.

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod.

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault.

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore.

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor.

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.”

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds.

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint.

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you.

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much.

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared.

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too.

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing.

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps.

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues.

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.”

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer.

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now.

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?”

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting.

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes.

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

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@adeptustemptations@roseseraj@leclercdream@pjofics@hecatesfavoritechild@poseforme@thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19@heavenlyiecreature@pink-teddy-bear@nooshytushie@strawberries-and-racing@milasexutoire@ohthemisssery@florkt@obsessedwiththeideaofyou@ru-kru@myhomeworksnotdone@ineedafictionalman@bregarc@allywthsr@summerslike11@wildcupcake@willowpains@marlenamallowan@leclercloml@katzenwahnsinn@be-your-coffee-pot

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seresinhangmanjake · 6 months

Text

The One I Want: Part 3

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, maybe. I don't think anything else. Sorry if there are typos.

Words: 1720

The One I Want Masterlist

---

Jake Seresin is a wizard. Or a mind-reader. Or some creature with wildly sensitive hearing. You’re sure of it.

In the month since you moved into the apartment, your only moments alone come when you lock yourself in your bedroom. Otherwise, Jake is near you—sitting next to you, looking at you, talking to you. If your door opens, he follows not five seconds later. If you sit down at the island with your breakfast of bland cereal, he enters the kitchen within two minutes to prepare his own meal; the same meal every morning. Eggs, Canadian bacon, and a protein shake. If you dare to switch the television on, turns out he’s been meaning to watch that show for weeks. You had no idea he was into movie special effects competitions.

It isn’t irritating, exactly—though, it wouldn’t shock you if others experiencing similar treatment would feel that way. You just can’t figure him out. He’s unfigure-outable. You’re pretty sure that’s a thing. If not, Jake Seresin just brought it into existence. And here you thought you were the mystery.

“So I was thinking,” he says.

You close your book without a second thought, having barely read and retained a line in the last fifteen minutes anyway. From the moment he came out of his room and plopped down on the couch—his leg bouncing and eyes trained ahead on nothing—you’ve been waiting for him to snap the tense band of silence between you.

His fingers clasp together, thumbs subtly twiddling when he finally looks over to you. “Maybe you could meet my friends. They’ve asked about you, and you’ve already met Nat so it’s really only the guys.”

That was perhaps one of the last things you imagined he would say. You’ve heard very little of his friends. They’re also pilots. His team. They all have weird nicknames. Half of those nicknames are animals.

There are other tidbits Jake casually mentioned as well. Coyote is his closest friend. There’s a Rooster who recently found himself a chick. A Bob and a Phoenix—who you learned is Nat—are particularly attached.

But every bit of that information you figured he was simply spilling to fill moments where you were in the same room but not speaking. Or perhaps it’s some method to draw out feelings of trust so you might participate in his little game of show and tell. In his eyes is always the hope that you’ll share something of your own, but you have yet to find the courage or need to do so.

“Oh,” you reply, trying to gather the correct words to turn him down. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really up to meeting a group of people today.”

You hate the way his face falls. Like a puppy denied a treat. But it lasts only a second as another thought brightens the green hue of his irises.

“What if we went somewhere? You and me.”

“What?”

His body shifts on the couch, more of him now facing you. He’s wearing a shirt today. He’s been wearing shirts around you since you made the request weeks ago, but they’re weak at disguising the body underneath. Thin fabric pulled tight like a second skin.

“You said no bars,” he continues. “How do you feel about diners?”

—

It’s an odd image—Jake framed in this setting. He’s all lean muscle and neatly styled hair with a clean-shaven jawline surrounded by greasy food and booths so old their plastic seats are cracking. As others watch him—particularly the hostess who cannot for her life keep from glancing his way every thirty seconds—he watches you. Says nothing; just watches until the waitress returns to set a few plates and mugs in front of you both.

“There you go, kids,” she says. She’s older, and her hair is done up in a style that hasn’t followed the turning of the decades, but you like that it suits her; that she hasn’t paid attention to the change around her, or simply doesn’t care. With her hands on her hips, she says, “Now Jake, if I knew you were bringing a girlfriend I would’ve set aside some of that pie you like.”

Your eyes bug so much they could’ve fallen right onto the table, but Jake chuckles, smiling at you before directing it to the waitress. “Don’t spook her, Mags,” he teases. Then, “This is my new roommate.”

Her lips form an ‘O’ that holds for a few seconds too long before she blinks and tilts her head to the side. “Didn’t work out with the other one, honey?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Well, that’s just fine. I wasn’t a fan.” Mags takes a breath and straightens out her little apron; a costume element you’d rather die than wear, but much like her hair, Mags seems to take pride in it. You can’t fault her for that. You wish you could find a job you enjoy. Or a job at all. She shoots you a grin; nothing like the rehearsed smiles from someone in a customer service job, but a genuine curve of the lips that creates a warm little ball in your chest. “You, on the other hand, look like such a sweetheart. So be good to my Jake here.”

You don’t have the opportunity to disappoint her because she doesn’t wait for a response. Be good to her Jake. Not an ask. A demand. An unspoken ‘or else’ hanging in the air. And though she’s got at least forty years on you, you’re pretty sure she’s spry enough to follow through on her sneaky threats.

Mags squeezes Jake’s shoulder and departs, leaving you in a confused state of mixed energies. Shock and discomfort radiate off of you like heat waves, meeting the cool calmness emanating from a beaming Jake.

“Will you tell me more about yourself now?” he asks.

Shaking off the questionable tone of the older woman, you reconnect yourself to the man in front of you. His words soak in; another unexpected curveball Jake has thrown you within one day. His friends want to meet you, and now your personal details are on his mind. What would come next? Does he want to know the last time you were thoroughly kissed? Your high school GPA? Height and weight? If so, he’s going to be terribly disappointed.

Steaming, wispy tendrils invade your vision, and you finally register the blueberry hint hitting your nostrils. Jake had whispered the order to Mags with the explanation that he already knew what you wanted. And being the mind-reading wizard you’re convinced he is, on a menu of nearly one hundred items he magically happened to pick something you enjoy.

You hold yourself back from digging in, instead meeting his eyes as you cross your arms over your chest. “You think free pancakes are a good trade for my life story?”

He slowly slides a mug closer to you. “I got you coffee as well.”

When you raise an unenthused brow, Jake sighs.

“Fine. You’re leaving me no other choice than to guess,” he says. “But if I get it right, will you be honest?”

With a snort, you pick up your fork and take your first bite of the sweet fluffy cake. It’s undeniably delicious. Fucking wizard. “Sure,” you say, and akin to a child, Jake’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree.

He ignores his own food and drink to once again watch you. Observing. Your eyes to your lips to your neck and back again. When he comes to a conclusion, he leans back in the booth. “You are a fan of the beach and before you die you intend to live in every beach town this country has to offer for at least two months each.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, since it appears that I am wrong, I’m going to say yes I am kidding because I’m very funny like that.” He stares some more, eyes narrowing. “You’re searching for a long-lost family member.”

“No.”

“You are only attracted to Navy men and thought you’d travel to a hub.”

Again, as he likes to do, he leaves you lacking words for a moment. “That better be another one of your ‘I’m very funny like that’ attempts,” you eventually manage to say. “And you know I wasn’t aware this was a Navy town.”

Jake nods and then leans forward in his seat, arms overlapping on the linoleum tabletop. You can sense the sudden shift; a new energy. The glint in his eye doesn't quite go with the steady seriousness of his voice. Like mismatched puzzle pieces. “So you’re not attracted to Navy men?” he asks.

Your head jerks back to regain the distance he lessened. “Not exclusively.”

“Damn,” he replies, full playful tone back in place. “I wanted to at least get that part right.”

There’s another bright smile from him. A wink. You look to your right to find Mags' watchful gaze; motherly and hopeful.

After another swallow of pancake, you say, “Alright, you’re done for the day.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines.

When you shake your head, he picks up his fork and begins to poke at the eggs on his plate, and you bask in the silence of his disappointment. Peace and quiet, with the exception of the diners surrounding you. No questions. No attempted agonizing small talk. You have a moment to breathe.

It’s not until you’re halfway through your food and the coffee is nearly drained that Jake lifts his head.

“I’m going to figure you out,” he says with an unwelcome note of determination.

Your eyes snap up.

The feeling behind his statement is hard to nail down. You would’ve said delving into your history was something fun for him to do. Something to pass the time with the new person in his home. But now it comes off more like a need. A little prick in his side that he can’t shake.

You so badly want to be wrong in your interpretation. You want him to give up; to surrender to your stubbornness. Ideally, sooner rather than later.

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. Nothing about him—not his breath, not his stare—stutters at your response. Instead, he returns with, “But I want to.”

---

A/N: Sorry it's a little short. Next chapter will be labeled 3.5 and will be from Jake's POV.

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @rogersbarnesxx @nani-kenobi @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @cehenyne @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @entertainmentgal8 @hookslove1592 @whoeverineedtobe @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06 @cherrycolas-things @turtle-in-a-tornado @have-a-nice-day-k @inkandarsenic @kidd3ath @coldmuffinbanditshoe

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #top gun #jake hangman seresin x y/n #tgm #tgm fic #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin x plus size!reader #jake seresin angst

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caramelberzatto · 2 months

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To Love Carmy Berzatto

Loving Carmy is... I'm not even sure if I could find the right words to encapsulate it for you, dear reader, but I will try.

Loving him brings with it an intensity rivalled only by wildfire. Strong and vibrant, untamed, unpredictable. It takes a great deal of bravery, of honesty and time.

Muttered revelations of past pain, resting your head on his shoulder as he talks; stilted sentences, furrowed brows, the way his nose scrunches when he's trying to explain things that hurt, as though he can't truly comprehend why he feels the way he does.

It's brutally strong coffee, and autumn afternoons. Blazing reds and oranges, bouquets of marigold. Leafy bunches of fresh farmer's market herbs, stored in spare mugs full of water atop the kitchen counter. It's forgetting to close a window all the way, allowing the cold to seep through the apartment, only for that to leave an excuse for an extra ten minutes tangled up beneath the blankets with him the next morning.

Loving Carmy is accidental intoxication, it's not seeing it coming at all. Until that feeling in your stomach, in your chest, a warmth that envelops you. Anticipation of seeing him again, even if you'd waved goodbye only a few minutes prior.

It's late nights waiting up for him, even though your eyelids droop as the television flickers. It's recognising his footsteps, the jingle of his keys in the door. It's taking in his tired gaze, the gentle uptilt of his lips as he sees you, still awake, even though he constantly reassures you that you should go to sleep. He's always secretly glad you don't listen to him.

It's dates to various markets, either food markets, art markets, wherever. It doesn't matter. It's just market days spent, hand in hand, sipping coffee as you walk. It's sharing wired headphones on the train, having a playlist of both his and your favourite songs. It's finding a sketch of yourself in Carmy's office at The Beef, on a sticky note, tucked between the pages of the big, messy binder.

It's noticing his clothes start to smell like your laundry detergent, or his hair to smell like your shampoo. It's the gentle incorporation of him into your life, so effortlessly, so seamlessly.

It's the build up of trust, it's the revelation of secrets. It's finding out about his brother one Winter afternoon, on a train ride through the city as the sun sinks beneath the horizon. His quiet words, a story of boyhood, a desperation for comradery, a series of self-inflicted trials to be noticed, seen, appreciated by his older brother. He just wanted to impress him.

Carmy had always just wanted to be part of something.

Loving him is the very definition of a slowburn, a staggered compiling of trust and care and tenderness. Millions of tiny moments, shared glances, quiet whispers, admissions of regret and guilt, feelings that you both struggle to put into words at times.

It's two steps forward, one step back, but there's always this.... one remaining constant that survives through even the most difficult of moments. Devotion. The two of you cannot help but care about each other, deeply. It's sticking with each other because there is so much love, so much adoration, care, all of it.

And all of it pays off. If you fight, you make up with kisses and apologies and long nights in his arms. Or he sits you down at his table and feeds you, each meal a white flag of sorts.

I feel like this is kind of messy, but I hope, dear reader, that you understand what I'm trying to say.

Loving Carmen Berzatto....... yeah.

#the bear #the bear fx #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you

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fourmoony · 2 months

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hiiiii! so i was thinking you could write something about the boys bringing drunk james home and him and reader live together and when he sees her he's so happy and lovey. he just keeps muttering "you're so pretty" and she gets him to drink water and eat something and then gets him to bed. i feel like it would be sooo cute, him being all obsessed w reader!

thanks for requesting, lovely!!

james potter x f!reader | masterlist - 727words

cw - alcohol consumption, smoking, drunk james

James is three sheets to the wind when Sirius drops him off at the front door. Like, literally drops him. Sirius is slim, sleek like a cat, and James is all broad shoulders and brick-like muscles, so you're not surprised when the smaller one huffs a relief when you swing the door open, and then promptly allows James to collapse in a giggling heap right in the door way.

Remus is half-way down the garden path, cigarette to his mouth. He waves half-heartedly, not looking the least bit sorry that he's been less than helpful in aiding James home. It's clear Sirius has carried his best friend the entire way from the Leaky - a ten minute walk from your house.

"He's all yours," Sirius tells you, heaving breaths as though he'd run all the way here with James on his back, "Enjoy."

With that, he turns on his heel and drags Remus off into the night, still smoking his cigarette. You look down at James, who's got a warm hand wrapped gently around the exposed skin of your ankle. He's still giggling quietly to himself, a joke he's yet to let you in on, lying face up over the door jam. It can't be comfortable. Heaving a sigh, you place your hands on your hips and attempt your most stern look, "You need to get up, James."

James groans, his merry giggling coming to an end. He looks petulant, like a child, "Can't."

"Jamie, I can't carry you. Like, physically, I cannot carry you." You worry your lip, James' thumb takes up stroking gently against the ball of your ankle. It's warm, feels nice. Feels like home.

"Okay," He heaves a sigh, rolls onto his stomach and uses the door handle to pull himself up.

He wobbles, almost takes a tumble, but with a hand on the wall behind your head, you steady his balance. You walk rather clumsily to the sofa, your arm around James' waist and murmuring silent prayers that he doesn't topple over because you'd truly have to leave him there for the night, and you'd feel rotten about it.

James collapses onto the sofa with enough might to send it pushing against the wooden floor, an awful scraping noise followed by his murmured, half asleep apology. You leave him with the promise of returning with water, but you think he barely registers it. The door closes with a soft click, and you make your way to the kitchen. James has managed to turn on the television by the time you return, and is clumsily pressing buttons, eyes squinting even with his glasses on.

You make a mental note to scold Sirius for returning him to you in this state.

"Here, swap." You hold the glass out for James, voice soft.

Your boyfriend smiles, giddy and elated, as though he'd forgot you were home, "Thanks, pretty girl."

Even in his inebriation, James Potter is able to bring a flush of pink to your cheeks. You click your tongue, eyes focussed on the TV as you put on James' favourite show. He settles in to the couch, half the glass of water gone, most of it dribbling down his chin. You bite back a laugh, settling in next to him. He smells like beer and cigarettes, but under it all, he still smells like sea foam and bergamot, like your Jamie.

Instantly, his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into him and you go. You'll always go where James pulls you, ever trusting, ever loving. His lips press to the side of your head, movements jerky and sloppy in his state, but he murmurs so softly into your head, you swear it's engrained in his soul to remind you, "You're so pretty, baby."

Your head shifts, gentle eyes meeting his. They're a little glassy and unfocussed, but the love-sick look is there. You press your lips to his, soft and gentle, careful not to move too quickly lest James become nauseous. He returns the kiss with equal gentleness, though his lips taste like beer.

Your nose is wrinkled as he pulls away, his right index rather harshly trying to smooth out the lines. You laugh.

"Love you." You whisper, lips against his cheek.

You feel his lashes flutter, his hand rubbing at the skin of your hip, his lips upturn, "Love you, too."

#marauders #james potter #james potter fic #james potter imagine #james potter x f!reader #james potter oneshot #james potter blurb #marauders era #marauders era fic #marauders fic #marauders imagine #sirius black #sirius black fic #remus lupin #remus lupin fic #wolfstar

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tacticaldiary · 8 months

Text

To Coax The Love From A Ghost

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Fluff (Mentions of Hurt/Comfort)

A gentle brush of knuckles sitting next to each other on the planes to and from ops, a feeling so starkly different from the grit of gravel and the bite of sand that it almost sends him crumbling, because Simon cannot remember the last time he's felt something gentle.

A/N: Something soft after the trauma of the last two fics I put you through- Enjoy!

Masterlist

Loving Simon Riley is like coaxing a grumpy cat out of it's shell.

Time, peace offerings, and showings of trust are what win him over. She'd recognised it since day one, the distrustful way he'd greeted her, the kindness he was capable of locked behind iron bars forged from the gruelling lessons his past had taught him.

It had taken time.

Gentle smiles, so at odds with the scrapes and bruises he was used to. Time ticked away, chipping off that icy exterior to shape to let loose an ease to his shoulders that becomes almost instinctual whenever he sees her. Seconds turn to minutes, which turn to hours and days but not once had she halted her attempts at showing him that there was more to love than apprehension and inevitable loss.

Light seeps through the cracks of the doors he's welded shut, introducing an inkling of what warmth he might be able to have if only he lets her in. He wants to, he's just not sure how, and with this new sprout of...of hope? Simon thinks he may just need to learn

It had taken peace offerings.

The extra pudding cup she offers him at lunch in the mess hall, because she knows he likes them even if he's never expressed it, and it's startling because never has a person been so in tune with each breath that Simon inhales, the gravity of each exhale. She offers it to him with a smile that leaves his gaze lingering for just a second too long, the brilliance of someone he did not deserve to infect with the malevolence that is etched into his very being.

He accepts the sweet gifts every time just so he can feel the goodness of her seep into him when they brush fingers, hoping that it would be enough to satiate him. It never is.

It had taken showings of trust.

Every time she lets her head rest on his shoulder when she nods off in a Humvee, Ghost's heart picks up at the astonishment that she trusts him. Trusts him enough to be this vulnerable even after knowing exactly how much blood stains his gloved hands. It's the same feeling watching the dawn of a new day elicits, the warm feeling of waking up after hours of sleeping huddled in the cold.

She had given him a residence in her own space, personal and intimate in a way that made him want to turn his back the first few times she offered. Silent hours shared in her room, indulging in the quiet, whether that be the droning of the television in the background, or the scratching of graphite on paper as they did their paperwork together.

It was such a strange thing, to be let into someone's life so seamlessly. Ghost had lived in his quarters for more than a few years, yet in mere weeks her room had become more of a home than he'd ever hoped to experience again. He had once thought of her as naïve to let such a creature tainted by the grim semblance of his own actions into her life without caution, but after a beat, he noted that everything she did was intentional.

Leaving the door open for him a crack, a silent invitation. Tossing the giant throw pillow he likes to lean against on the floor where they sat together, having that special black pen he prefers to sign documents with sat idly on her desk. Intentional. All of it meaningful, sweet, and solely for him.

It had taken her goodness to break him.

Finally he snaps, has had enough with his mind and his heart at war, going at each other all day. Part of him urged him to keep to himself, to push her away because what need was there to drag someone so wholly her into everything that was so miserably him.

Another part of him is selfish. It aches and groans and whispers at him to take, love and be loved.

The word used to frighten him until she molded it into a sculpture that he could admire without feeling the urge to avert his eyes.

When he finds her this time, she has this knowing smile on her face, a kind glint in her eyes that he has no business indulging in.

She waits for him to approach, patiently, as if one sudden move would send him skittering away like a deer. She's so sweet, smells of honey and cinnamon and his. There's no other way to describe it.

Etched into the stone tablets of fate, inscribed into part of their souls twisted together with strings that drip with blood but are still red, he thinks that she might have been his all along.

The first press of their lips is tentative. And he can't get enough. Not when his heart is full and his mind quiets down to a pleased, content hum.

The welded door creaks open, sunlight and cinnamon spilling into the room and snapping whatever doubts he had away. Simon tangles a hand into her hair and takes. He takes and takes and takes, and with the way she smiles against his lips, slides into his lap, he thinks she might have been waiting for him to take as well. She'd been willing to give, all along.

Simon can't remember a time he's felt contentedness this pure.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(24/08/2023)

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cherry-writes-yanderes · 1 year

Note

Can I request yandere ghost plz?

Soft Yandere Ghost Headcanons

(gn! reader | SFW)

a/n: don’t worry, a nsfw piece is in the works~

cw: mention of kidnapping, bondage (sfw), physical assault, drugging w/ a needle, blood, v domestic

I’m all for the “growly, rough Ghost where he throws you on the bed” type yandere stuff, but we gotta admit to ourselves that he is so soft after you’ve been with him awhile

He’s only rough with you because you’re fussy, and when the drugs kick in you see past that, he’s very domestic and gentle with you

He hates hurting you, but he will if provoked

So don’t piss him off.

Anyways-

As soon as you’re more relaxed, he’ll take you from his bed and into the living room to lay on the couch while he does… anything really

He secretly likes showing off his cleaning skills to you, how good he cooks and how comfy he can make you feel

He wants you to feel at home, especially after the first few days and how tough it was for the both of you

He’s still not all that animated and smiley with you, of course, but he’s surprisingly soft and gentle

Simon will lay you on the couch and turn on the television, letting your legs rest in his lap as he rubs your thighs

He cannot keep his hands off of you istg

And not even in a sexual way, he just needs to be touching you at all times

If he isn’t, then he’s cleaning or making you food, that’s it

One day very early on, he felt really bad all night because you had been really wiggly, trying your absolute best to get away from him despite the duct tape binding your limbs together

He got frustrated and had to knock you out by force, and the guilt settled in his chest right after

Especially with the blood on his knuckles from your nose as a reminder

The day after, he brought you out to the couch with the utmost care, cradling your head and giving you a pillow to lay on

To top it off, he squeezed in behind you, nuzzling his face into your neck

One thing about Ghost that I stand by is the fact that it will be a VERY LONG TIME until you actually see his face

He holds the sentiment that taking his mask off is a sign that he trusts you fully, and you’re just not at that point yet :(

But don’t worry, he has a solution!

He covers your eyes with his hand, slipping his mask off to press a kiss to your shoulder

He wants to kiss you, and it’s not the same to do it through his mask, so this was the next best thing

He loves to trail kisses from your forehead to your collarbone, whispering deep, loving things into your ear as a sort of comfort

“Y’so pretty, love… Mm… ya smell nice too…”

He tries his best to compliment you, although you can tell he’s not entirely sure how

He hopes that you’ll come around soon, but until then, he still hides his face like with everyone else

Ghost still loves you though, he always will <3

~i do not condone yandere behavior irl~

#yandere ghost #mw2 #yandere simon riley #ghost simon riley #yandere mw2 #yandere simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #yandere cod #call of duty modern warfare ll #call of duty mw2 #simon riley #yandere ghost x reader #yandere ghost x you #yandere ghost mw2 #yandere #yandere fanfiction

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fangirleaconmigo · 1 year

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I will never not laugh when I see someone say “Jaskier is useless.”

People have watched so many superhero movies that they think everyone has to glow or shoot lasers to have value.

I mean…sure, yes...he is useless…IF you consider the human experience of friendship, love, and art a complete and utter waste of time. lmao.

Just because Yen is magical and Geralt is a warrior doesn't mean that this is a superhero group. It is not. Forget about the Avengers and the Justice League for a second. Forget about Star Wars. This is not a team formed to save earth. This is not a band of rebels throwing off imperialists.

The Witcher is a found family. Their most pivotal decision is to love and protect one(1) child. Their most important super power is love.

Geralt, Yen, and Ciri’s biggest problems are that people want to use them as tools. People see Geralt as a tool to rid them of inconvenient problems without having to get their own hands dirty. They see Yen as a tool to amass power, and they see both of them as rungs to use to get to the ultimate tool. Ciri.

Geralt, Yen, Ciri, these people are fucking exhausted. And I don’t mean they need naps (though they do). They are all that bone deep, hollow, exhausted that comes from having to battle every moment of every day to be seen as a PERSON. The kind of exhausted that comes from not being able to trust ANYONE because there is a price on your head.

Jaskier is their person. Yes it takes time to get there with Yen. But he gets there. He is their port in the storm. He would never turn them in not for any amount or any gift or anything. He is the person that they know beyond a shadow of a doubt does not give a fuck about power and who isn’t capable of seeing them as anything but friend shaped. Person shaped. They are his folks.

He is important to them because how do you even keep going with the world against you, without at least one person who just loves you for you? Who just loves your bad jokes and your navel gazing and who sees your prickliness for what it is? Vulnerability?

Wouldn’t you fold and give up without that? Without friendship? What would the story be then?

And for Mr Jaskier, that’s not even getting to the crucial deeply important cultural role that troubadours play in a world with no television or internet or data storage. It’s not even touching on his role as a narrator, historian, and world builder. And that’s not even getting to the 'art is an integral, crucial part of this fictional universe, (just like it is in real life)' part of it.

It’s not even touching on the fact that his “gossip” often turns out to be critical intelligence and his fame and political savvy are constantly bailing them out of trouble.

We don’t need to!

If you can look at Geralt *gestures at his whole deal* and not see that this poor man needs a friend more than literally anything else in the world...then I cannot relate. And if you can look at Yen and Jaskier or Ciri and Jaskier and not see how beautiful that is, people drawn together by the undeniable need for found family and the undeniable value of loyalty in a shitty world, then I don’t know, man. We are on different ass wavelengths.

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #thinking about jaskier yet again #thinking about dandelion yet again #thinking about the witcher books yet again

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infamous-if · 6 months

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amy i just want to say while i’m SO PUMPED for the romance, i am legitimately foaming at the mouth for the botb plot of the story like i cannot stop thinking about blake (they’re SO convinced they’re right it makes me nervous) and i don’t trust G to not act selfishly (i am connecting the dots i’m connecting them) and poor mc is already hanging by a thread but they refuse to lose to these people their band is counting on them!!! all this incomprehensible ramble to say, you’re just such an amazing storyteller i’m genuinely so invested in all aspects of it and thank you for sharing your story and i think you’re just neat :)

me too!! creating the Challenges and just being able to utilize my love for reality tv has been so fun. I used to love reality television but I stopped watching it and now writing infamous has me watching it again lmfaofjfjfn I’ve been binge watching love is blind and the kardashians lmfshdhdhd guilty pleasure… if only there was a music centered one…

add that with the drama and it’s a fun time hehe and thank you!

#inbox

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diabolocracy · 1 year

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"Problematique media bad because it harms people because mentally ill people or children might read it and try to do it :("

Let's ban Superman, then, since there are many kids who have leapt from high heights trying to fly because they saw him do it in comics or on the teevee. (Fun fact, dunno if it's national, but at least one Canadian province already technically has a ban on all comics/stories of that nature for the reasoning of "someone blamed these stories for their own chosen actions". Not that anyone enforces it, buuuut...)

Let's also ban anime. Remember that (unsupervised, might I say) kid that buried his head in the sand and died because he wanted to be like Gaara from the Narutos? No? Well now you know about it.

Oh, what's that? You like Superman? You like anime...? You don't want these things banned because some people are stupid and failed to give their children the "don't try to replicate what you see/read in fiction" talk? Too bad! Blanket ban!! For the good of the people who clearly cannot be trusted to teach their kids or take care of their mentally ill family!!!

While I'm on this rant,

"Problematique media bad because people can use it to groom others :("

As many people have pointed out time and time again, people who groom kiddies IRL use candy, cute animals, and other small gifts (if they don't just grab Little Timmy and pull him into their car in a drive-by abduction).

Let's ban candy! Let's ban cute animals! Let's ban plush toys, comic books, and all other little nick-knacks because again, people cannot be trusted to supervise or otherwise look after their own children or even provide their brats the most basic safety talks!

"But when I was a kid I thought [thing] was okay because I read about it in a fanfic :("

Well, buttercup, sorry to tell you this, but your parents and teachers all failed you! :) Perhaps this blame can even extend to the government, because when I was growing up there were PSAs on the television about NOT REPLICATING THINGS YOU SEE ON TV OR READ ABOUT IN FICTIONAL STORIES.

EDUCATION IS SUPERIOR TO BANNING.

EDUCATION IS SUPERIOR TO MAKING STRANGERS OR THE GOVERNMENT BABYSIT YOU OVER MOTHERFUCKIN' STORIES.

And that doesn't even stop at all this bullshit about problematique fiction! Unfortunately, rational human beings with a brain have to co-exist with idiots too uncurious and too stupid to learn about anything that makes them personally uncomfortable (like republicans and conservatives and TERFs and neo-nazis and, yes, fanpol, you too--I'd go so far as to call you guys "useful idiots" like fellow queers who fell for the "LGB drop the T" attempt to divide and conquer the queer community bullshit perpetrated by the Christian right and no that is not a bullshit conspiracy theory)!

🙂Anyway, back to making cookies run. Bye

#proship #screaming

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rabbiitte · 8 months

Text

Sight vs. Senses: Exploring perception in Only Friends.

Because many people seem to be confused by this scene and don't know how to interpret it or simply classify it as “creepy”, I have decided to share my interpretation of how this scene uses cinematographic techniques and symbolism to influence the visual and general narrative of the series. Let's talk about Top and Mew's relationship, cinematography, visual narrative, symbolism, cinematographic techniques and the difference between vision-based perception and sense-based perception as inherent concepts in Top and Mew's relationship.

1. An introduction to cinematography, narrative and the use of visual metaphors.

Cinematography is a central element when creating movies or series, it can be used creatively to support the narrative and emotions of the story. At the same time, it contributes to create a visual narrative through the choice of camera angles, framing, camera movements and composition of images.

Visual narrative: refers to the way stories are told using primarily visual elements, such as images, composition, colors, symbolism, and camera movements, rather than relying primarily on dialogue or writing. It's about transmitting information, emotions and messages through what is seen on the screen in movies, television series, photographs or any other visual medium.

Visual narrative uses visual elements to convey emotions, themes and meanings that affect the perception of a story. Among the visual elements that are used to enrich the narrative we find visual metaphors.

Visual metaphors are visual elements in a cinematic work that represent abstract concepts, emotions, or themes. These metaphors can be subtle or prominent and are used to enrich the narrative and understanding of the story.

With this concept in mind, we can say that the date in the restaurant is a visual metaphor to address the concept of perception.

Perception is the process by which a person interprets and integrates the sensory information they receive from their environment to form an understanding of the world around them. It involves the ability to take sensory data, such as what you see, hear, smell, touch, or taste, and turn them into meaningful and understandable experiences.

In the restaurant, diners cannot see the food they're consuming until the lights are turned on at the end of the meal. This reflects a lack of literal vision, as they cannot use their sense of sight to identify food. Due to the lack of vision, diners must rely on their other senses, such as taste and smell, to experience food. This scene highlights the importance of trusting feelings and intuitions rather than relying solely on what can be seen with the eyes.

2. Narrative, cinematographic techniques and perception.

Another element that enriches visual narrative and, finally, narrative in general are cinematographic techniques. Visual narrative can use a variety of cinematic and visual techniques to guide the audience through a story, create atmosphere, reveal characters and their emotions, and convey underlying themes or messages. For example, the moment when Top asks Mew to use his senses and the camera focuses on Mew's face is a cinematic technique called “close up” and the following moment when the camera loses focus is a cinematic technique called “generalized blurring”.

Close up in cinematography and photography refers to the moment in which the camera gets very close to the subject, object or face of a character, filling most of the frame with that element. The main objective of a close up is to highlight details and facial expressions, allowing the viewer to concentrate on those elements with greater clarity and focus.

Generalized blurring in cinematography is a powerful tool in the hands of filmmakers to enrich the visual and emotional experience of a film. In this technique, the entire image is deliberately blurred or out of focus. It's used for various purposes like to set a specific mood in a scene or to represent the emotional or psychological states of the characters, among other uses.

In the restaurant scene, these techniques are used to concentrate on Mew's emotional or psychological state after Top asked him to use his senses and not his sight to perceive the food. Based on these cinematic techniques, we can infer that something important is happening in Mew's mind. In fact, judging by what happens after the scene, we can infer that something very important happened in the restaurant and that meant a change in Mew's attitude. What changed? The way Mew perceives Top.

3. Vision-based perception and sense-based perception.

In EP1, Mew told Top that he knew who was honest (about dating him) because “his sense was always right”. Basically, Mew is able to see people's intentions and, ultimately, their essence through sense-based perception.

Sense-based perception: this form of perception involves all human senses, such as sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste. It's based on the information captured through these senses to form a complete and rich understanding of the environment and people. Sense-based perception can be deeper and more accurate than other types of perception, as it involves multiple sensory modalities.

However, this isn't the type of perception that Mew has been using with Top until now. Mew is usually extra careful and suspicious around Top. His behaviour is usually guided by the mental image (of someone considered promiscuous) he formed of Top based on his immediate appearance. This type of perception is more related to what can be seen immediately and, finally, it's a type of perception related to the use of sight.

Vision-based perception focuses primarily on visual information. This is the most common form of perception in humans and refers to the ability to observe, interpret and understand the world through sight. Visual information is important, but it's often used along other senses to gain a complete understanding. In real life, things aren't what they seem at first glance and what it's seen doesn't always reflect the underlying reality.

An example of how Mew is usually guided by vision-based perception with Top can be found in EP2. When Top tells Mew about his trauma, Mew's immediate reaction is to laugh and not believe it. This is because what Top is telling Mew doesn't correspond to the mental image that Mew has formed of Top. The fact that Top can't sleep alone doesn't correspond to what Mew perceives based on his sight of Top.

Because visual-based perception is limited and must be used along other senses, this type of way of perceiving isn't enough to perceive the complete reality or, in this case, Top's essence.

Mew never stopped perceiving Top based on the apparent, based on the observable. We know this because Mew has never been around Top without his glasses (except in the water sports and shower scene) until EP5, episode in which Mew finally spends time with Top when he has broken glasses. The change in Mew's perception coincides with the episode in which his glasses break, coincidence? No, symbolism.

Mew's glasses: In this context, glasses could represent limited perception or distorted vision of reality.

In EP5, Top asks Mew three times to perceive him based on all his senses. All these times, Mew can't wear his glasses or Top suggests him to stop wearing them.

Situation #1: At the café, Top tells Mew that he wants to be clearly seen (although Mew can see him clearly while wearing his glasses) and recommends him to try a surgery. This time, Top suggests that Mew should stop wearing his glasses so he can perceive his essence/true self, while being guided by his sense-based perception.

Situation #2: At the restaurant, Top reminds Mew of what he said in the bookstore about sense-based perception and asks him to be guided by it. This is, again, a request to see Top as he really is and not based on a mental image.

That's why everything becomes blurry, it involves ignoring appearances or what's obvious in front of your eyes. Sense-based perception involves seeing Top's essence (and the affection he truly feels for Mew) and ignoring that which is easily perceptible to vision such as signs of lies. In this case, the generalized blur is a metaphor for saying that love is blind (in a cheesy way).

When Mew starts perceiving Top based on his senses, he loses control and shows how in love he really is with Top. Even all the people who were in the restaurant disappear because Mew and Top are not focusing on what can be perceived by sight, they're focusing on seeing the essence (and the love they feel for each other). This plane isn't on the same plane that the diners are, therefore they disappear.

I guess you can also say that people disappear because Mew is in love and he doesn't care about others, but I'd say it's more than that. It's a matter of perception. It has nothing to do with seeing, it has to do with looking and perceiving the essence of the person in front. It's not a passive activity, it's an active activity that requires collecting information based on all the senses.

No, I don't think it's a dream.

Situation #3: Before Top and Mew have their first time, Mew takes off his glasses and Top asks if he can see him. However, we know Mew can't see clearly without his glasses, so Top is actually asking him if he can perceive him based on his senses (if he can see his intentions and his deep love for him, that's why he keeps telling him that he loves him. He tries to supplant the sense of sight with the sense of listening).

4. The end of vision-based perception.

If we are guided by the idea that Mew's glasses are a symbolism that limits his perception to a vision-based perception, with no glasses Mew will be able to see clearly. Mew will see through Top's lies and that's why in EP5, Mew gets rid of his glasses and discovers Top's infidelity.

As you may have noticed, the restaurant scene is the climax of a topic that has been worked on, in relation to Top and Mew, since the beginning of the series. The restaurant scene marks a milestone in the relationship of both of them and the turning point in the narrative, this thanks to the way in which metaphors and cinematographic techniques shape the narrative. Clearly, this is one of my favorite scenes in the entire series and I think it has a high level of complexity and interpretation.

If you want to read more of my analyses, you can read my Mew analysis here. Stay tuned, I'll do a Ray analysis soon.

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