#sometimes julia writes

[graviconscientia]

It's been quiet. A calm that seems endless, longer than you've ever had at one time, one you should be so very grateful for. You aren't.

You keep track of the days. You keep track of the hours. You watch the moons shift in their phases, chart the stars as they move across the sky, monitor the shadows a blazing sun casts every day. Things move. Life moves. Planets, oceans, leaves, creatures, people, everything moves. You don't.

You have stayed in the same rooms for perigees, pacing the same hallways, locking eyes with the same photographs, the only changes in your surroundings coming as gifts from others. Tokens of affection from lovers and friends in the forms of food and flowers and fabric… Fine as they are, pieces you are grateful for, but is it enough? It isn't. You wouldn't dream of sounding unappreciative of any of them, but the hive you're holding onto is becoming a museum, full of artifacts of a lost life you're afraid to forget and a new life that you're afraid to live fully.

When you ran into the forest, you thought something would shift. You thought you could ask the the trees your questions, you thought they'd tell you the same things they always had: "you're safe here. this is home. this is where you need to be." They didn't. They offered their embraces, but they stayed silent. You ran to your dad, too, and hoped he'd have something for you. Hoped he'd have wisdom, or at least kindness: "you're safe here. this is home. this is where you need to be." But it didn't happen, not like that. Quiet rumblings, warmth that didn't quite reach your heart, words that didn't match what you thought you needed. What do you need? What are you missing?

You run to the ocean, you wait for something to happen while you stand at the waves' edges, watching the ships in the distance with narrowed eyes. It's dangerous to venture further than this, to test the waters so very literally, but you slip off your shoes, leaving them in the sand, and walk into the water, slow, measured, eyes kept upward even as you slip underneath the surface, listening to what the sea says to you. What do you do? What needs to change? All it says is: "you're safe here. this is home. this is where you need to be." But you know that's a lie. You leave, drenched, angry, frustrated you even asked, and more desperate than ever for an answer.

Nothing changes when you enter your home. The same silence you've become so used to greets you, the same emptiness fills every room and seeps into your lungs. It steals your voice. It steals your breath. It's quiet. You can't stand it.

Messages find you, and they manage to pull you out of the loop of madness you've made for yourself, even if their efforts are short-lived. Your heart softens for their writers, but your mind spends a little too much time with them. You talk of peace. You talk of calm. You talk of quiet, unearned.

"sometimes, peace is welcome. to have the time to be idle. to not have to do anything. it's good, isn't it?" "usually. i can appreciate quiet, but restlessness is usually what i get out of too much of it, yeah." "then we should do something about it."

You decide to do something about it.

You sent a letter, to Asidea, a few days ago. A short one, a frantic flash of words, written through lonely sobs for faces you miss so terribly, on a day where you felt your failures so acutely. There was no response, then. You don't deserve one, you know that. Still, you're trying again. Another letter, longer, with a pair of requests. You send it off, and sit by your transportaliser, waiting for hours. You're giving them three this time. It's terrifying to leave your coordinates unlocked for so long-- what if they come through in person? what if they make demands i can't meet? what if they pull me back before i'm ready to go?-- but you trust your children. You trust that they will not move until all of you are ready.

Before the three hours pass, there's a flash of green, and a box sits atop the transportaliser pad. It's unassuming, a brown box wrapped with a dark red ribbon. You are careful in unwrapping it, nervous that it is a trap laid by someone else, but it is exactly as you had hoped. It's from your children, only, with six letters inside. Your hands are delicate as you hold each sheet of parchment, all held far away from a face wet with tears as you read them. dear mama, they all start, and they all end the very same way. love, forever, always, from the moons and back and beyond. Five letters, written individually, and one penned by Virago with words from all of them. The last letter is heavier. The last letter answers both requests.

Inside the envelope is a stack of photographs, copies of originals kept in albums locked away, pictures of the life you left behind and the people still there. Selfies of your family that you managed to sneak in taking, candids of young people enjoying moments between duties and responsibilities-- Virago and Jagara doubled over and laughing in beautiful ballgowns, Perygl grinning by an arrow in a bullseye, Cyther Kaiser and Haakon smearing frosting on each others' faces, Izerti excitedly pointing to a book with her name printed along the bottom edge. More photos of them posing by statues, reading in nests of pillows, holding onto each other in snow, on shores, in sand, on sofas… And there you are, in some of them, pressing kisses to their cheeks, beaming proudly as you stand behind them… There are a few that you've never seen before: one has you looking out a window in your imperial regalia, another is of you giggling with your ex-husband in plainclothes, a third is one taken of the five remaining royals, all of them smiling warmly and holding each other tightly. The date is written on the back of it; it was taken six days ago. It was prepared for a day they knew mattered to you. It was prepared for their mother.

The photos were the first request, and if that was all they gave you, it would've been more than enough. But the second part was answered, and at the bottom of the envelope sits a ring, golden band with cut alexandrite atop it, exactly the same as it was 67 sweeps ago. You slide it on your finger gingerly, then press one of the gems. Slowly, you stand, and glance at your reflection in the mirror in the hallway. It still works. Your perception disruptor still works. There you are, human, with bright blue eyes surrounded by white, a shock of red hair, freckles and scars smattered across pink skin. This is not who you are, but it's what you asked for. An option. A change. A choice.

Everything that's been sent to you is returned to the box, brought to your room, and placed on your desk between a beautifully wrought dragon in a gardenia, and a tiny pillow with a crisp game-like module resting on it. Paper is pulled out of a desk drawer, and teal ink is drawn across it, letters swirled along with frenetic speed, a simple message dressed in verbosity. i love you. i miss you. please wait a little longer. i need more time. i want to see you soon. i promise, we'll be together again. somewhere, somehow. Folded carefully, sealed with wax, monogrammed on the back, you send it off, and you're quick to lock your coordinates. You fiddle with your necklace for a moment, eyes fixed upon the transportaliser, staring at the numbers you've input from memory.

You think this will be one of the last letters you need to send. You think, as well, this is one of the last times you will do this song and dance of scrambling your coordinates, of locking the doors behind you.

Something has to shift. Even in the quietest moments of life, everything moves. Now, you must too.

#ic #[[visible ooc]] #long post #sometimes julia writes #[[what's been going on with advoca? she's been going insane.]] #[[yeah this is Bad Posting Time]] #[[i don't care i will be reblogging this tomorrow at a decent hour]] #[[anyway Someone is having A Time so lmao ayyy]] #[[maybe she'll get better soon idk]] #[[this does actively reference:]] #the royal flush #twotiime2

[cleo-serotonin]

thinking about how rikki was betrayed by zane, ultimately suffering the fate of her 1950’s mermaid counterpart despite how hard she fought for things to turn out different

#need to do my write up on why this wouldn’tve happened #but sometimes i like to abide by canon. just to hurt myself #h2o just add water #rikki chadwick #zane bennett #zikki #julia

[ecoamerica]

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[totaled-drama]

Hi ! Can I request a comic from your fic? Whatever scene you want, I just think it could be cool to see your words into art ! Thank you ! :D

Thank you for the request!!! And thank you for reading my fic, I’m glad you liked it!! :)

#total drama #marsh’s td art #total drama bowie #total drama raj #total drama julia #total drama wayne #rajbow #juliayne #this was difficult because I think there’s like. literally no way to put the version of this scene that’s in my head on paper #this was fun though :) this was one of my favorite parts to write I think #also I know Raj’s quote here isn’t complete but sometimes words don’t fit the page and that’s ok I think #originally I was gonna put a different quote but I thought Raj rambling here got the point across #if I write another fic it’ll be happier I promise ajdhsjsg

[ariesbilly]

me in my mind: yeah this characters realistically a verse in the relationship. hashtag equality

me writing: bottombottombottombottombottombottombottom

#i feel like im better at writing fp being verse #i say that but i actually cant recall a fic where i wrote him topping lmfao #at least in the scenarios i send to julia sometimes he is topping so theres that! #billy hargrove however.... #SURE there are instances in my mind of him topping but like #they aint coming out of me thats not where my heart goes when im writing lmao

[just-late-roman-republic-things]

Hi! I'm the anon who ask about augustus and Agrippa's memory. So, I know this is weird question (& frankly I don't even know why I type this lol) but don't you think (if your theory about them romantically into each other is right) there would be some awkwardness in augustus, agrippa and julia's dynamic with each other after agrippa and julia's marriage? (also once again, pardon my english because I'm half asleep)

You're probably right about the awkwardness! It seems to have been Augustus' idea, too. Agrippa did his best to make it work and was faithful to Julia. Julia probably wasn't happy, though.

I suspect Agrippa was a very tolerant guy. Besides his knack for staying out of drama, I only recall one incident where he really got angry - when the people of Ilium endangered Julia's life - and he relented quickly.

Augustus often put his family in difficult situations. Like making poor Julia marry her stepbrother after Agrippa died. Or making Tiberius divorce his wife whom he dearly loved. Or using his sister's humiliating rejection by her husband Antony for propaganda. He had a political purpose for each of these, and it's clear he was trying to secure Rome's future, but...he was absolutely willing to sacrifice people, or stamp out opposition, to achieve that.

#you could easily portray both of them as good guys or bad guys in fiction #depending on the narrator's point of view and priorities #augustus was the king of putting people in terrible awkward situations #i need to do a write-up of the smashing pottery incident sometime #octavian #marcus agrippa #just roman asks #julia the elder #augustus caesar #octagrippa

[coffinsister]

I don't know if you've heard To The Moon and Back by Savage Garden. But you should check it out. It gives me hard Ashley vibes, especially about her feelings towards Andrew.

I checked it out! And this song really is so like Ashley's family issues with her absent father and her hateful mother, I also find it's very similar with her feelings towards her "friends" like Julia and Nina.

And the motiff about going off to find somewhere they both belong is really cute and very coffincest

#writing in third person is weird sometimes #we love talking about songs and how they relate to coffincest #soleil asks #the coffin of andy and leyley #ashley graves #andrew graves #julia #coffincest

[ecoamerica]

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The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

#ACLA24 #ACLA24Leaders #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental justice #environment protection #environmental health #Youtube

[chiropteracupola]

thinkin about the imaginary timeline where antonia sharpe and fanny and charlotte aubrey are friends again...

#em is posting about sharpe #aubreyad #julia's post reminded me of this and now I am haunted by it... #if we had more characterization for what any of these three are like when they're grown up I'd write a fic about it #(I actually don't know if we get more fanny and charlotte later; haven't made it past thirteen-gun salute yet) #(but I know we don't get any more antonia (sadness forever on account of)) #anyway sometimes I ponder it. sometimes I ponder antonia and the aubrey kids going on little adventures together #three girls raised by soldiers and sailors (and sophy also) and consequently they're a little odd for society #brigid also there because we are brigid maturin enthusiasts on this here blogge #(maybe even richard hornblower if we wanted to get really wacky with it...) #and. andandand. also I think they should grow up to be gay and butch also. but that is me making things up out of hand #then again if I can make up what william bush's sisters are like solely off the mention that he has four sisters then I get to do this also #sorry cornwell/pob/forester/&c it's my sandbox now and I'll put lesbians in it if I damn well please :3

[caruliaa]

the problem with carulia is that there isnt a rly good classic multi chap au fanfic for it for me to loose my mind over. and most of the multi chap fanfic that is out there for it straight up bad if i remeber right 👍🏽

#like not bad bad like mischaracterizing bad yk. i also havent read a lot in a while but yk #i remember there was this one fanfic called hook line and sinker that like in the old og carulia server was joked abt as like #thee caruia fanfic and so many people had read it and its so bad and not good #bad carulia characterization !!! it was like carmen youre Perfect at everything and julia is so flustered by your flirtatiousness and ugghh #ihate u ppl sometimes !! specifcally the people of ao3 bc omfg #how come people like saw carulia and saw the interactions that show their relationship and the actual dynamic they have #and only like. take the fact that theyre in love from it and just add a dynamic that so not their dynamic and so bad over top of it #just uggh. im sure there is a lot of rly good carulia fanfic out there tbh. but also not searching for it rn its wayy too late #i was just thinking bc im like. jealous/envious whichever one means i want what u have NOT i dont want u to have what u have #whenever luce mentions w.a.r. like pls i also want a thee multichap fanfic tht makes me feel insane for my fave ship #andi have been in fandoms/had ship were they have had tht nd iwant it soo badly w carulia. #ig i will have to write one then but also i dont have any multi chap au fanfic ideasss 😭😭😭 #and i shldnt be coming up with any at a point were im not even working on my non au mostly one shot ones lmao #flappy rambles

[f1uckinghell]

.

#i just randomly remembered a friend I used to have when I was like 15 #she hung out with my friend group but we eventually kicked her out #and sometimes I wonder if we were mean for that #but then I remember that she used to say my writing was really bad #and that my stories sucked #why? #because they had gay characters in them 💀 #so yeah #good riddance julia 😅

[graviconscientia]

Books. You had left your hive for books. Dirk had asked, so kindly, and for such a gentle reason. How could you deny him his request when it was for his Valentine? When it was for--

That, however, is speculation. What is important is to acquire a few novels (and a bag of chicken nuggets, per another dear friend's request), and be home as quickly as possible. Less time out, less chance to see a familiar face-- "Well, look at who it is! If it isn't Nettles! Where have YOU been?" Ugh. You can hear your former colleagues' voices already. They'll have you back in your office in seconds if they see you. But that's speculation, too.

You've been in the capital city a few times since leaving Asidea, and you've made sure all your favourites were still in place. Favourite florist, favourite cafe, favourite tailor… And same as ever, favourite bookstore. There's joy in the familiarity, something soothing in knowing that somethings haven't changed. It may not be this way forever, but it is this way for now.

Finding the books is easy enough. Something with a pretty woman in green on the cover, a few romances, a singular historical fiction, a book of poetry selected separately for another… It's quick work, and even quicker work is made of groceries, a few extra ingredients to add to not-quite-Valentine's-Day party treat, and a passing glance at flowers for that same event. Simple tasks, quickly done. And aren't you proud of yourself!

You begin the walk home, brisk in your pace so you are not caught by anyone, eyes focused ahead, distracting yourself with a mental to-do list once you return to your hive. But something catches your ear, and, along with it, your attention.

"What the fuck is THAT thing?!"

The comment isn't directed at you, thankfully, but your hand is quick to flinch towards the dagger on your thigh. Two young trolls are speaking to each other, excited, and when you find where their voices are coming from, you see them, and several others, looking up.

You do the same.

Your heart nearly stops, the commotion on the street fading away from you, the dagger, your tasks, everything else leaving your mind. When you look up, you see the moons, pink shining fully and green slyly smiling, the stars blinking in a inky sky, and great white wings attached to a great white beast nearly blocking the heavens from view. A dragon, you hear someone shout. A dragon back in the city.

Two, you think. Two of us, here. Both of us in the city, together.

You can barely look away from him, eyes kept skyward so you don't lose him, jogging along the pavement, then breaking out into a full run. You can feel every muscle burning, your lungs full of fire, but you have to keep going. You've been tracking him for ages, and now he's so close-- every lonely hour poring over maps and records from sweeps you barely remember, every sobbed frustration over missed opportunities and a lack of understanding, every terror that crept into your mind because of sleepless nights, every day you have spent missing the one entity in any timeline who has always understood you… they're going to be worth it. You watch the clouds, you feel the wind, you wonder where he will land. You have your guess. You'll be fine if you're wrong.

You are a blur in your hive, throwing books on the couch, shoving food into the fridge, grabbing the bag you prepared for this exact event, and exit back out the door before you realise where you are. You check upward again, frantic. He's lower now, but still in view, moving away from the shore, away from the city (idly, you curse Treekat for being right about this, but swear you'll thank him properly, too.), towards the forest. You don't know if you can run again. But if you don't?

That's not even being considered.

A guttural cry leaves your chest, a roar in a language lost to most trolls, one you know will be recognised by who needs it. Again, again, again… the sound of an animal's young, desperate to be found by its parent. Draconian, shouted through tears you didn't know were spilling from you, as loud as you can manage, as loud as your can will your lungs, your throat to be: "Dad! Dad! Dad, can you hear me?" You repeat it, breathlessly, every few footfalls, panting hard as you try to keep him directly above you. The wings turn, and so does he, towards the edge of the woods you both know so well. He outpaces you, though, and he's sinking lower, lower. You cannot keep up. You lose him to the trees.

There is fear, immediately, that that was all you'd see of him. That this begins another hunt for who knows how long. You have kept shed scales and crushed leaves and singed bark, clues and keepsakes both. And here? You will keep trying. You will keep chasing him, however deep into the forest it takes you.

You don't know how long you run for. Could be minutes. Could be hours. The moons still hang above when you think to check the time-- even then, you don't register the numbers you're looking at. You're out of breath, voice hoarse from your continued hollers, sore from tip to toe. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you should start running laps as part of your trainings, then feel immediately nauseous at the prospect of ever running again. You hold firm to an oak for support, eyes staring without focus in the direction of a bright red berry bush. But the flora hits something in your mind, and you bring yourself back to your surroundings. You're almost there. These bushes are ones you used to pick little snacks from, the tree you're holding onto has your initials, alongside your ex-moirail's, carved into the bark, and there is a heat you feel underfoot. It's not from the earth. It's radiating from something-- someone-- else.

Carefully, you press on, finally catching your breath, watching your footing and making sure to be noisy as you can manage, peering through leaves as you crawl under branches to an open patch in the woods. There sits your old hive, adorned with all its fairy lights and lanterns, silly wriggler's art on sideboards hidden under ivy, the trees surrounding it bending in gentle embrace. You've seen it recently, spending nights in it, cleaning it up to make it a place to love again.

The enormous dragon resting in front of it, curled up with smoke billowing from his nostrils, eyes bright and focused on you, is a new addition.

You can't move when you see him. You can't breathe, or think, or anything. He speaks to you, though, gently, kindly, warmly as ever, in the tongue that you made sure to never lose, to never forget. "Well, look at who it is. I've been looking for you for many moons, Advoca. Where have you been?"

In an instant, you drop your bag, and run (one more time, one more burst of energy) to him, arms flung across scales and holding tight to his neck as you sob. Claws come up to cradle you closer, gentle as they hold you tight. Just like how you've wanted for sweeps, just like you remember.

It's not where you've been, but where you are. And in this moment, held by your lusus, your dad, a dream you've held onto for eons? You feel like you are home.

#long post #sometimes julia writes #[[this is backdated two?? days.]] #[[was supposed to be on the 10th because. lmao. year of the dragon.]] #[[alas. not quite! pyralspite fashionably late and making his own entrance.]] #[[also not my greatest work but it's not about that!! it's about Getting Stuff Out sometimes.]] #[[anyway. Dad Search 2024 is over. now we move onto the NEXT arc. lmao]]

[hahahax30]

The author of the Bridgerton books really can't write men without a huge array of red flags, can she?

#julia quinn stop being toxic challenge #honestly people complain a lot about male authors writing female characters but sometimes female authors write the most toxic male #characters they then romanticise and that's honestly disgusting #does she seriously think a man practically having sex with a woman only because he wants her to feel forced to marry him is sex #sexy? or romantic? #bridgerton

[redjayson]

about to indulge in some truly horrendous posture in order to type up the several hundred words currently locked away in my notebook

#ffffff handwriting things is so good for getting words flowing sometimes #also it's easier to do at work than digging out my laptop #but then there's the horrors (typing it up after) #julia writes

[pjshermann]

Shamelessly plugging my A Little Life fanfic here for the shawties

#a little life #jude st Francis #Harold stein #Julia Altman #a little life play #een klein leven #fanfic #writeblr #writing #fix it #sort of #not really #maybe? #it gets worse sometimes #very Harold and Jude centric #bc their father son relationship is the good shit #what if fanfic #I think that’s more accurate than fix it

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Also not a fan of FE5 having the arena be a fight to the death again, but that’s also kind of a moot point considering I’m too broke to even meet the entry wager.

#I’m writing a fe4 fic that features the arena as a prominent backdrop for some character interactions #and in the part I’ve written so far I made a point of it being mentioned that these ARENT fights to the death #since it’s based on fe4 arena mechanics. but now I’m wondering whether I want to figure out how to square it with fe5 mechanics too #(add a line like ‘yeah people in Thracia are cracked in the head and sometimes wanna see a good old fashioned death match’) #(​that will not in fact help Julia feel any better about any of this) #roddy plays fe5

[caesium-55]

—seven days. [ ii ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

author's note: not beta-read. not edited. here's part 2 folks. part 3 is on the works now. did i write this fic instead of studying for my important quiz tomorrow? yes, yes i did. pls pray for my score.

masterlist.

For Christmas in 2019, Max has gotten you an apartment near his in Monaco. It is a loft apartment good for one on the 8th floor, a building away from where Daniel and Max lived. Originally, he wants to get you the unit a floor below his. You decline quickly, insisting that you are very fine with rooming with Julia and Kendall, who are both members of the Red Bull PR team whom you have gotten close with since your first year working with Red Bull. Max may have beef with the PR team for making him do a lot of embarrassing shit for the views but you're besties with most of them and actually thank them for making Max suffer through PR stuff because you cannot afford therapy and watching Max suffer through PR-related activities is a good form of free therapy. Also, Monaco apartments are fucking expensive. Red Bull might be paying you well but not well enough to afford an apartment in a country as expensive as Monaco.

“I want you close,” he tells you. If you did not know any better, you'd have butterflies fluttering in your intestines right about that moment. Sometimes, Max utter the most heart-fluttering of nonsense without meaning to. It causes your heart to stutter more times than you would like to admit.

“Well, I don't want you close.”

Max will never ever win an argument with you. He knows that. You know that. The best he can do is come to a compromise, a compromise that is usually tailored to suit whatever you want.

So you got that small loft apartment a building away, good for one person only. It's easy to clean and it's cheap, Max already said that, which makes you happy because you can set a payment plan for that. An apartment as a Christmas gift is already too much, borderline giving you a heart attack already. Rich people spending their money give you, a person of the middle class folks, heart attacks. Why can't Max be normal and give you a normal gift? A bracelet? A bag? You’ll even accept it if he gave you a slice of cheesecake. Not even your parents can buy you an apartment.

It has only been three years since the keys are passed on to your ownership and people say three years is enough time for a person to make a place home. But your apartment doesn't even feel like home, only a place you’ll sleep in if you happen to be in Monaco for the evening.

Home is that humble, two-storey house painted in red and yellow in Lynnwood Avenue, Vista Del Pueblo, Austin, a total picture of a picket fence dream. Home is Abuelo's old farmhouse in El Paso where you spent your childhood riding horses and driving ATVs across the dusty dry earth. Home is the retro milkshake place owned by the sweet old couple that has been in the neighborhood longer than your entire existence. Home is the tree-lined streets where you walked the family senior dog, Niko. Home is the Austin Fire House, your Dad’s workplace that you visited a handful of times back when you were a child to deliver cookies that your Abuela baked so your Dad could share it with his co-workers. Home is your mom’s clinic in the middle of downtown, always smelling like eugenol, disinfectant, formaldehyde, and her perfume. Home is not glitz and gold and glamor and cash cash cash. Home is not seeing wealthy people left and right. Home is not Monaco.

And it is not like you stayed long in your place either. You're always off traveling around the world with the Red Bull team and accompanying Max wherever he needs your presence. You don't even spend your breaks in that apartment because you immediately fly home to your family once a break is graciously given to you before flying off again to watch Max collect trophy after trophy.

Six days from now, you're going to be flying off to Texas. That means you have six days—less than six days actually—to pack all your crayons and go. Of course you're going to pack up the day before you leave. Doing shit last minute makes your life exciting, and it's not like you had a lot of shit to pack anyway. All your belongings can be tucked into a total of three suitcases. Three years worth of belongings in three suitcases.

you: you doin good there?

Max has been holing himself up in his penthouse since your arrival from Abu Dhabi, probably dealing with his breakup with Kelly. A shame, really. You thought the two looked good together. (Do they really? the asshole part of your brain thinks.)

And P. Thank God for that child’s existence. You hate children but P is an exception. P brings the best out of Max. Max has gotten the chance to act as the father he never had. It's heartwarming, to be honest.

him: not really no

him: can you bring me coffee

you: on it champ

Fifteen minutes later, you’re knocking on the gigantic double doors of his penthouse, a tall styro cup of espresso from that cute café two streets down and a slice of blueberry cheesecake because you’re thoughtful enough to buy him his favorite cake. You experienced a breakup before. A cake and an icecream work wonders when it came to healing broken hearts.

“You're fast,” he immediately says after opening the door. You kind of expect that he’d look worse, snotty and messy and looking like he ran from hell and back. But no, he looks……fine? His sweater and shorts look absolutely neat and comfortable and dry of snot. His hair is a little fluffy from lying on his bed but not too messy. He doesn't even look like he was crying. No red-rimmed eyes. No red nose.

You fake gasp, putting a hand on your chest for additional dramatic effect, “The fastest racer in F1 callin’ me fast. Truly honored.”

A smile plays on his lips, sidestepping and beckoning you in.

You frequently come by Max’s home, for work purposes of course, but you still cannot help but be amazed by the enormity of it every time you enter. Max’s penthouse is twenty times bigger than the apartment you currently live in. One man and a big house—it must be very lonely now that P and Kelly are no longer around. Now, you’re even more worried about what will happen the moment you go back to Texas.

Oh… You still haven't told him yet.

“Coffee,” you hand him the warm styro cup to which he accepts gratefully. He utters his thanks, taking a whiff before sipping, letting out a pleasured moan.

You make your way to his gigantic kitchen, navigating your way through his cabinets in search of a plate and a fork. You slide the cheesecake on the plate towards Max, who followed you to the kitchen and sat on the empty stool in the kitchen counter.

“Thank you,” he says, picking up the fork and taking a bite. He glances at your feet, eyes trained on your YSL. The obnoxious sound of the heels clicking against the floor as you walk probably is the one that caught his attention.

“You know, you've been wearing the same shoes since 2019.”

Points for Max for noticing. These YSL Opyum heels are the first luxury items you bought for yourself after saving for three years to buy one pair. You saw a rich international student wear it once back in university and you liked how sophisticated it looked compared to all the pairs of converse or platform boots you owned. So you made it your life’s goal to own one. In 2019, after doing tons of part time jobs in university and working with Red Bull for a whole year, you managed to buy yourself one on your birthday and you’d been wearing them to work ever since.

Your regular work uniform consists of a Red Bull polo shirt, a pencil or a slit skirt, and that specific pair of heels. Around 2021, you bought another pair to replace the old one because the old one broke. And 2022 again.

“What's wrong with ‘em?” you ask, brows furrowing as you followed his train of sight. Your heels might be a year old already but they still look fine.

Max blinks, “No, there's nothing wrong. Just…Do you think you would want to wear some other design?”

“No,” is your reply. “I like ‘em just the way they are.”

“Okay.”

Your conversation drifts into something else as Max finishes his coffee and cake. You spend the rest of the day in Max’s penthouse, lying on his plush couch while a slasher movie from the 2000s played on his wide TV. He has given you access on his Netflix account so you abused it to your heart’s content because you don't even have. a Netflix subscription. You can absolutely afford one, you just choose not to. You have opted in using your phone mid-movie because the movie is beginning to get real scary but you do not want Max to think you're a coward so you acted like you're disinterested instead.

“Oh look, Charles is also back in Monaco. Do you want to hang out together?” you nudge Max with your foot, who swats it away from him, face contorting in disgust. You show him the post on Charles private IG—yes, you were mutuals in each other's private IG because whoever is friends with Max was friends with you by extension—on your phone.

“Stop makin’ that face, my feet are nice.”

Your toenails are a glorious red now. Ferrari red actually and they suit you better than the Red Bull red. Huh, maybe you should have considered applying for Ferrari instead of Renault in 2018.

“No, it isn't.”

You roll your eyes, pulling it away from him and sitting up, “Do you want me to schedule you a dinner with Charles? You might need the bro time, you know? Dad said bro times are also important, but not as important as family time, of course. My bro broke up with his sweetheart back when I was still in uni and his best buds were the reason he was back up in tippy top shape by the end of the week.”

Max stares at you blankly, “I think I understand the words individually but not the sentence entirely. I don't know if it's the accent or you Americans just have a strange way of structuring your sentences.”

“Point is, hang out with a friend because a friend can help you move on from a pussy.”

Max hurls a throw pillow at your direction, which you luckily avoided thanks to your non-racer level but still considerably good reaction time, but unfortunately, this action causes your center of gravity to shift and before you know it, you're falling from the couch. Unconsciously, you grab Max but then Max doesn't expect that you’ll grab him so now, you’re both falling off the couch and onto the floor.

You groan.

“Fuckin’ ass, man. That was uncalled for.”

He flips you off.

Nevertheless, Max ends up following your advice though and calls Charles to hang out the next day. Lestappen fans should be thanking you on Twitter the next day for bringing those two together on an off-day in Monaco. Maybe they'll hang out and eat together in a restaurant? Maybe they'll go on a yacht picnic?

Except Max sends you a message at high noon.

him: sos

you: is your kitchen burning

him: no

him: but this is still an emergency and you need to come quick

him: he’s with his girlfriend and i don’t want to thirdwheel

you: succ it up

him: you can’t do this to me

him: i just got my heart broken in abu dhabi

you: where are you

him: home

him: i also need help in cooking

Charles is the one who answers the door when you knock. He looks genuinely surprised when he sees you and you deduce that Max hasn't told him that you're coming over.

“Babe, who’s that?” you hear Alex’s voice behind Charles and you light up immediately, quickly moving past Charles to throw your hands around the sweet young woman.

“Alex!” Alexandra laughs and hugs you back. The sound of her laughter is as pretty as she and God definitely has favorites because why did he sculpt this twenty-one year old like the daughter of the Aphrodite while you look like you were born from one of Hephaestus’ sperm that lost the gene pool contest? The world is unfair. You always get the short end of the stick, may it be career-wise or appearance-wise, and you can't even bring your personality to the table because normally, without the whole act of professionalism and sophistication you put on, you act like an extroverted American frat boy on a good day and a sassy drag queen slash war freak on a bad day so yeah, you guess that's the short end of the stick, too.

“Seriously?” you look up and saw Max holding a frying pan, staring at you unimpressed. You roll your eyes and slowly pull away from the hug, gaze returning to Alexandra.

“How’ve you been, sweetie? Been a while since I last saw you.”

You didn't get a chance to talk to her in Abu Dhabi and in Las Vegas.

“Good,” she replies, smiling sweetly and ugh, you want to pinch her cheeks so bad. But Charles is pulling you away from Alexandra before you can do so.

“No, no, she is mine, yours is right over there,” Charles says, pointing at Max, who's still standing there in the corner. “Go on. Shoo.”

You roll your eyes before walking up to Max, “‘Sup?”

Max raises a brow at you, “So Charles’ girlfriend gets a hug and I get a sup?”

“Well, she's Alexandra Saint Mleux and you’re just….” you look him up and down. “Nevermind, what you trynna cook?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I thought you said you were cooking.”

“I said I needed help with cooking.”

Your eyes narrow into slits, “You’re going to let me do the cooking, aren't you?”

“You know that pasta you made in September that you said was your mother’s recipe?”

A sigh escapes your lips as you roll the sleeves of your button-up to your elbows and power-walked your way to the kitchen, the sound of your YSL heels clicking against the floor bouncing against the walls of Max’s kitchen.

Lunch goes great. Charles and Alexandra love your cooking. Max has even asked for seconds. Good to know that he's eating well. Somewhere down the line, champagne is served even though it’s mid-afternoon and the four of you're sitting in Max’s balcony, staring at Monaco scape below. Thankfully, it is a cloudy day in Monaco. The heat of the sun isn't too harsh on the skin. Despite that, you hand Max a sun screen.

“Sorry about Kelly, by the way,” Alexandra says. Your conversation has drifted towards Max’s failed relationship now.

“That is very nice of you to say,” replies Max, smiling slightly. “But I’m okay.”

You give him a look, clearly unconvinced. Admitting vulnerability gives him hives so he's definitely lying.

“You look too okay for a guy who ended a three-year relationship,” Charles muses and his words get you immediately thinking.

Oh? So they’ve been dating that long? You never noticed.

“Even [Name] looked worse when she broke up with that Williams mechanic two years ago and they dated for like what? Barely a year?”

“Unprovoked!” you exclaim. Alex and Max laugh.

But yeah, Charles is right. When you broke up with Leo in 2021, it was not the prettiest sight. He entered Williams mid-2020 as a mechanic and he immediately caught your attention. He's kind and handsome and a very sweet guy. You have similar interests—engineering—and a similar sense of humor and you just….work so well together, you know? You were sure he was your soulmate the moment he cracked up that Physics pickup line and you know it was the same with him. You swore to God that you’d run away from all the British charming assholes but Leo made you eat your own words and gave you a run for your money.

But alas, 2021 season came and Red Bull Racing became busier than ever because Max and Hamilton got crazily competitive and Max demanded your full attention, needing you as a support system to win.

And Leo. Well, he’s busy, too. Engineers are always busy. But he felt neglected because all your attention was on Max. He felt like he was competing with Max for your attention and it shouldn't even be a competition in the first because Leo was the boyfriend and Max was not. And you cannot even deny that you prioritized Max that year. You wanted Max to win. You needed Max to win, so he can finally ask Horner to move you to the engineering team.

Losing Leo is devastating but Max won the WDC title that year and while you spent nearly a month crying over Leo after the breakup, you're hoping that at least, in 2022, you’ll finally get that damned engineering position at the cost of losing your soulmate. That the tears you shed and the broken heart you carried inside your ribs will be worth it if it was in exchange for your dream. Then, it does not happen. The job isn't given to you and you spent the early months of the 2023 season wishing that you have chosen Leo instead of Max Verstappen.

“You’re still friends with him, right?” Charles turns to you.

“Of course,” you say honestly. You're still mutuals on IG and he still hearts your IG stories at times. You still talk, too, on the freer nights where there's a lot of time to waste. “We ended on good terms.”

“How about you, Max?”

“Can we not talk about this please?”

The four of you empty that bottle of champagne and once the sun has begun retiring for the night, Alex and Charles also left. You're soon to follow, fixing your tote bag and going through the mental checklist in your head so you will not forget anything and not waste energy returning here to pick it up.

“You can stay for dinner.”

Max’s offer surprises you.

“No.”

His face drops as quickly as your answer came.

“You're goin’ to let me cook again.”

“No, I’ll cook.”

You give him an unimpressed look. Clearly, you're not convinced.

“I swear, I’ll cook.”

“What if I get poisoned?���

“You won't get poisoned.”

When you continue staring at him, he sighs.

“Just stay please?”

Of course, you stayed. He asked after all.

You keep your eyes on him as he makes dinner with clumsy hands and a bit of unsureness behind his actions.

“You're goin’ to burn it, honey,” you point out.

“What honey? I didn't put any honey in it.”

You blink. He blinks back.

“You’re gonna give me aneurysm one day.”

Shaking your head, you walk into the bathroom at the end of the enormous hallway, lock the door behind you, lean your back against the door, and slowly slides down until your ass meets the cold bathroom floor. You slap a palm against your forehead and purse your lips to stop a scream from erupting.

God fucking dammit, Max is too adorable back there and this is not doing good things for your heart.

#max verstappen x you #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #manager!reader #fluff #formula one #formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagines #f1 fanfic #mv1 #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv33 x reader

[anatay004]

ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ | ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ (+ 18)

ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ’ꜱ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ᴀɴɴᴏᴜɴᴄᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴍ, ɪɴ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜱ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ, ʜᴇ ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏ.

manipulation, obsession, jealousy, dub-con, and smut.

ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ

YOU WEREN'T AVOIDING HIM.

Or, at least, that's what you liked to tell yourself. You were simply taking a step back from him, allowing yourself to escape from his searing touch, his scarring lips, and poisoned vows. You were stepping out of the picture, allowing him a moment to relish his wife, to engulf in her presence and take her in. In hopes of diminishing yourself from the recesses of his mind — in hopes she could replace you somehow.

It was your wedding present to him.

After all, you were just his lover. You could never be something more — nor did you wish to be, not after everything that he'd put you through. After you'd won the 12th Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow had made sure to haunt you down. He’d made sure to corner you into his command with thinly-veiled threats, to eliminate any obstacles on his way and take you as his and only his. No matter the consequences.

Like an object.

Like a treasure.

He did everything in his power to have you. To tether himself to the fibers of your skin, to burrow beneath your bones, and settle in. He was like a drug to you — deathly yet addictive, and sometimes you even wondered if you were right in the head. To accept his pleasures, his lips, and his body against yours — even though you didn't have much of a choice most of the time.

You hated him.

For taking away the remnants of humanity that was once inside of you. For haunting your mind during the daytime and behind shut eyelids. For making you his in every way possible.

And yet he went through all of that trouble to marry another woman.

At first, it pestered you — to think you weren't worthy of such a title. To think you weren't worthy of being the First Lady of Panem after all the shit that he'd put you through. But then, you thought of it as an opportunity to escape him. Try to reconnect with your old self and run away from him for as long as you could.

And that's what you did.

When the wedding was announced, you packed your stuff and fugitively came back home to your district. You hadn't seen your family for months, Snow had made sure to isolate you from anyone you ever shared some type of affection with. He hated sharing you. So, he forced you to move to the Capitol with him, despite the funny looks and whispers that ricocheted off the walls.

Everyone, somehow, knew you were his.

And yet, nobody dared to speak of it loudly.

Not even your family.

Afraid it might just sentence them to death (wish you knew, would most likely be the case).

One week elapsed eventually. You heard from him through the news, he'd married Julia Pompey in a matter of days before your departure. It comforted you — to think it was finally over until the roses began to arrive one day. You’d asked your mother to throw them away, to which she didn't object to, she was well aware of the thinly-veiled message behind them.

She was aware of the powerful man that haunted you.

It started with a single rose at first, but by the end of the week, they were bouquets of roses sitting outside your door. There was no letter attached to them, he didn't need to write one — you knew the message perfectly well. He was asking for you to come back to him.

It almost made you sick.

But you tried to dismiss it.

You tried to move on with your life. You busied yourself with banal tasks at home. You helped your mother clean and cook your favorite meals. And, although there wasn't much talking between the two of you, you enjoyed her presence all the same. It was nice to have her gentleness, after the games, loneliness seemed to be the only thing that accompanied you everywhere you go — it made you weaker, easier for Snow to break.

And that's what he did.

He broke you apart just to put you back together.

Until your mother could no longer recognize you. But in fleeting moments like this, when you lingered behind her frame and watched her bake your favorite muffins like a child, she was able to see a few glimpses of the daughter that was once taken away from her.

After all, you weren't completely lost yet.

But you knew it wouldn't last.

You were coming back from the bakery one afternoon when you noticed the sudden shift in the atmosphere inside your home. The house was awfully quiet — the loudest kind of silence you'd ever heard before, and your mother was unexpectedly greeting you at the door. A fake smile curved her lips, it was almost concerning, but before you could open your mouth and ask if something was wrong, a peacemaker stumbled into your line of vision.

"Ms. (Y/LN), please follow me."

Your muscles wracked with tension when the peacemaker beckoned you towards the end of the hall and into the office located at the far end of the house. You offered your mother a faint smile on the way, assuring her that everything was going to be okay — but you knew better.

The door was shut behind you with a quiet thud when you stepped inside the room. You knew he was waiting for you inside. The smell of roses immediately settled into your nostrils and you shivered, the aroma forced its way down your throat until you could almost taste it. He was sitting across from you at the desk, leaning back on the chair as he examined your features very quietly.

When you finally looked up to meet his gaze, the sight of his tousled blonde curls caught you completely off guard. He looked exhausted, dark circles marred his skin like he hadn't slept for days. You'd never seen him like this before.

You disliked it.

"President Snow," You greeted after a moment of silence, relishing the way his jaw visibly clenched at the formality of your words. He hated when you called him anything, but Cory.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He spat through his teeth suddenly. If glares could've killed, you've been six underground by then.

You feigned an innocent look on your face. "I haven't done anything at all."

"You left home," He argued, and the mere sound of the words made your skin prickle with goosebumps. The Capital was not your home — he was not your home, but you didn't dare to blurt that out into the open air. "And you left no fucking letter, no indication of when you were coming back — nothing!"

"I assumed your wife wouldn't like having me around," You responded simply, holding back your breath when his expression darkened completely and a humorous smile itched his lips. "Congratulations on the wedding, by the way."

"Is that what this is about?" He scoffed, pushing back on his chair almost immediately. The wood scuffing against the floor made you wince. "Is that why you left? Because you were jealous?"

Anger retaliated in the pit of your stomach. You were not jealous, on the contrary, you were almost glad he'd someone else to fuck with. Because then — maybe, you could be free from him. And the nightmares could finally go away.

But you didn't say anything.

Afraid that you might just say that.

He didn't mind that, instead, he took a few deliberate steps closer to you. Instinctively, you fell back a few steps, until your back was pressing against the wall and there was nowhere to run.

"Do you want to know why I married her?" He questioned as his voice notched down a few decibels. He was standing close — too close, his face was merely inches away from touching yours. You could feel his warm breath pressing against your skin as he spoke. "Because I hate her. Because she means nothing to me."

You stilled for a moment, reeling over his words. For some reason, the logic behind his marriage didn't surprise you as much as it should've. Coriolanus Snow was a tactful man, you knew him like the palm of your hand — he didn't act before having a plan. So, you shrewdly assumed, that marrying Julia Pompey was just one of his ways of securing immunity to threats.

His enemies couldn't hurt him if they killed her — or their future children. Because he didn't love or care enough for her. Not one bit.

"Do you know what I did on my wedding night?" He added, voice sliding evenly into your thoughts. His hand carefully raised to touch your face, to stroke the skin of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "Do you know who I thought of when I dismissed her and locked myself in our room?"

You clenched your jaw as you registered his words, not wanting to listen any further.

His thumb pressed against your bottom lip. "When I took my pants off and jerked all night off until I was numbed?"

You turned your head away, but he gripped his hand around your cheeks to keep you in place. You threw him a look, but he dismissed it with little care. He wanted you to look into his eyes.

"Guess who I thought of?"

You didn’t answer.

“Guess who kept me going?” His hands dropped to tighten around your throat.

“Stop it, Coriolanus,” You hissed, pressing the palm of your hand against his chest harshly.

He didn’t falter.

“You know she could never replace you,” He continued, as if was the most obvious thing in the world. “She could walk around naked and I would much rather turn to look at the filthy floor. She means absolutely nothing to me.” He repeated, and — for some reason, you were certain he was telling the truth.

And it suddenly dawned on you that — no matter how far you ran, no matter how fast you did; you would never actually escape him. And the daunting realization peppered visible goosebumps over your skin again.

“I know.” You limited yourself to answer.

“So, why the fuck are you avoiding me?” He snapped, eyes suddenly turning obscure as he waited for an answer. “Are you punishing me?”

I wish I was, you thought to yourself.

“Of course not.”

“Then why the fuck are you running away from you?” He hissed, examining your face carefully before an amused smile itched his lips “As if you could ever escape me, sweetheart.”

You glared at him.

He didn’t deign to give you a response.

Instead, he pressed his lips against yours — obliterating any sudden rationality or lucid thought that you could’ve had in mind at that moment. You found yourself shutting your eyes when his tongue swept past your lips and delved hot inside your mouth. He was desperate and frantic — he’d missed you. You didn’t fight it, because, at the end of the day, you knew it would be pointless. You knew you would be right back in the same game — run and being chased.

And he would catch you every damn time.

Despite how much you hated it.

“Come back home.” He commanded, his voice dangerously low as he leaned back to catch his breath. His hands were sliding under your shirt, tracing arbitrary patterns over your stomach before his hands raised to make their way up to your warm chest.

“Cory — ” You protested when he buried his head in your neck and began to kiss your skin like there was no tomorrow. You could hear voices behind the door, and concerned whispers from your family as they tried to piece together what was happening behind those closed doors.

Would he kill you?

Would he kill them?

You almost wanted to laugh at that. You wish he could just kill you right there and then.

If they only knew.

“We can’t — ” You tried again, but his lips met yours with such fervor that you couldn’t even finish your sentence. Within a blink of an eye, he slid an arm behind your waist and carried you up to throw you over the desk behind him. You tried to protest again, but it only seemed to incite him even more as he racked up your skirt.

“Say you’ll come back home.” He commanded, his voice rasping as he pulled his pants down. You didn’t answer, instead, you parted your legs and took him in like you’d always done. He slid in and out with slow thrusts and you almost hated the gentleness of his moves. A moan silently slipped out your mouth when he touched every right spot — until your toes were curling, and an orgasm was washing over you.

You hated how well he knew you.

You hated that the only thing you could do was hold back the tears.

When he finished, he collapsed on top of you. Face buried inside your neck as he waited for the response he knew you would never deny him.

“I’ll come back home.”

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games #peeta mellark x reader #coriolanus x you #fanfic #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #president snow #dark fanfiction #dark! Coriolanus Snow