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sparklestormandsoda · 6 days ago

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So Close To What

TateMcRae!Reader x Huntrix

yall need to send me some requests PLSS i need different stuff to write

The Seoul air was thick with summer heat and the kind of buzz that made people vibrate in their sneakers. A sea of glowing wristbands lit up the night outside the Gocheok Sky Dome, fans humming lyrics as if they'd been born into the beat.

Inside, you stood just behind the curtain, mic tucked into your palm, your earpiece pulsing with the countdown.

Ten seconds.

Your fingers clenched the in-ear monitor cord like it was a lifeline. Your breath was steady, but your heart kicked harder than usual. Seoul wasn’t just another tour stop—it was the one. A sold-out dome show in a country where you didn’t even speak the language fluently. You were a foreign girl with a stage and a story, hoping they’d understand you anyway.

Three.

Two.

One.

The lights exploded into a wash of hot pink and chrome white. The stadium screamed, your silhouette flashing on-screen with the Video Introduction—featuring pulsing synth, snippets of "Miss Possessive," and your voice muttering, “You want me, until I want you back.”

And then you stepped out.

No hesitation. Just sweat, glitter, and hunger.

You launched straight into "Miss Possessive" with venom in your voice and a smirk that dared anyone not to keep up. From the first beat drop, it was clear: this wasn’t going to be a gentle night.

Up in the crowd, boxed away from the chaos but still close enough to feel it, Huntrix was already stunned.

“Okay, but who opens with fire and claws like that?” Zoey yelled over the bass, eyes wide.

“Her,” Mira answered, mesmerized. “She didn’t come here to cry. She came here to win.”

Rumi said nothing. Her hands gripped the railing in front of her. Her brows pulled just slightly. Intense.

You flowed into "No I'm Not in Love" and "2 Hands" without even stopping for breath. Every movement was surgical, a blend of choreography and attitude. The lyrics weren’t begging for love—they were dissecting it.

You weren’t here to wallow. You were here to own it.

By the time "Guilty Conscience" and "Purple Lace Bra" rolled in, the dome had turned into a neon jungle. Fans screamed every word back at you like they were exorcising their own ghosts.

And yet, something about your delivery stayed honest. Yes, the songs hit hard, but there was a shimmer of something beneath it all—vulnerability laced with fury. You weren’t untouchable. You were reclaiming yourself.

“She makes heartbreak feel like revenge,” Mira whispered, eyes locked on you.

Zoey wiped sweat off her brow. “She’s singing what we all think, but never say out loud.”

Even Rumi’s fingers had loosened their grip on the rail. Her lips were parted, but no words came. Only awe.

The show unfolded like a storm with no forecast. Every track had a purpose. "Like I Do" turned the dome into a collective scream. "Uh Oh" had the floor bouncing. "Dear God" had the audience both shouting and searching inward.

When "Siren Sounds" started—red lights flashing in rhythm—there was a shift. The air crackled. You danced like your life depended on it. Not desperate. Not broken. Just electric.

That’s when Rumi whispered, “She’s not crying. She’s calling. And everyone’s answering.”

The second half of the show didn’t let up. You ran straight through "Greenlight," "Nostalgia," "You Broke Me First," and "Run for the Hills" like you were racing your past and laughing as you pulled ahead.

By the time you got to "Exes," "Bloodonmyhands," and "She's All I Wanna Be," your voice was raw with confidence, but it never lost its edge. You were rage, regret, and glitter all rolled into one.

The crowd didn’t stop moving for a second. Neither did you.

It was artful chaos.

You closed with three gut-punches: "Revolving Door," a biting performance of "It’s Okay I’m Okay" (the breakdown bridge had fans screaming), and then the grand finale—"Greedy." That song. That strut. That smirk that said, I know you want me, but I want more.

And then you were gone.

Silence is always loudest after a show like that.

You bowed once, hard, and disappeared behind the curtain. The applause didn’t stop for a long time, but you were already halfway down the hall backstage, heels in hand, heart still pounding. The adrenaline was fading fast, leaving behind the kind of high that always felt just a little bit lonely.

You loved what you did. But sometimes, when the crowd’s roar dimmed, you wondered if anyone ever really saw you.

You slipped through a side exit for air. No cameras. No fans. Just night.

And that’s when you nearly ran into them.

“I told you we’d get caught,” Zoey whispered furiously.

“No one caught us yet,” Mira snapped, glancing around. “Also, this is your fault for shouting during ‘Siren Sounds.’”

“You mean the one that literally said ‘You’ll never get the siren sounds out of your head’?! She warned us.”

“You both need to relax,” Rumi said quietly, not because she wasn’t rattled—just because she was. Too rattled to shout. “Let’s just walk. We saw the show. That’s all that matters.”

That’s when you turned the corner and nearly collided.

Four of you froze.

You in your hoodie, eyes tired but wide. Them in theirs, frozen like kids caught sneaking out.

“…Hi,” you said, your voice low, still warm from the stage.

Mira’s mouth opened, then closed. Zoey panicked and whispered, “We’re not stalking you.”

You blinked. Then laughed. It wasn’t big or glamorous. Just you.

“Good to know.”

There was a moment. A beat too long. You tilted your head. “You were at the show?”

“All the way up in the box seats,” Mira answered. “You, uh… you were incredible.”

You nodded, like you’d heard that a hundred times—but this time it landed differently. Maybe it was how her voice didn’t shake. Maybe it was the way they were all looking at you, not like fans, but like people who got it.

Rumi spoke, voice low but solid. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t apologize. You just said it. All of it. Through your music.”

Your eyes lingered on her for a beat longer. Then, with a small half-smile: “Wanna walk with me?”

The street just outside Gocheok Sky Dome was quiet now—empty snack stalls half-closed, the after-show energy trailing off like a forgotten echo.

You led them a few blocks away, keeping your hoodie pulled low, your face hidden under the brim of your cap. No one stopped you. No one noticed. You were grateful for that.

The girls kept pace beside you. Not like bodyguards. Not like fans. Just… like people who understood the weight of your silence.

You ended up at a tiny café—one of those 24/7 joints built into the wall of a narrow street, lit with flickering string lights and warmed by the low hum of old pop songs. The barista barely looked up when you all slid into the corner booth.

You pulled your hoodie back and shook out your damp hair. “Thanks for coming, by the way. Not many people sneak out of venues after the show.”

Zoey smiled sheepishly. “We’re a little unhinged.”

“You’re also not from here, are you?”

Mira stiffened. “What makes you say that?”

You shrugged, lazy. “Accent. Vibe. The way you watched the show. Most people were screaming. You three were studying.”

Rumi smirked slightly. “You looked like someone worth studying.”

You laughed into your iced Americano. “Well, that’s terrifying. Who are you guys, anyway?”

The girls exchanged a glance—quick, silent, practiced.

Then Zoey said, “We’re called Huntrix. We’re kind of… a team.”

You raised a brow. “Like a girl group?”

“Not exactly,” Mira replied carefully. “But we perform sometimes. When we want to.”

You sipped. “So you’re picky.”

“More like private,” Rumi added.

You nodded. You understood that. You lived for the crowd, but you also hid from it.

“Huntrix,” you repeated, testing the sound. “Cool name. I’m—well, obviously, you know.”

“But who are you really?” Mira asked, voice soft. “Not the stage version. Just… you.”

You looked at her, surprised.

Most people didn’t ask that.

“Y/N,” you said finally. “I mean, yeah, that’s my real name too. But it feels different when it’s not printed on a poster.”

They nodded. They got it. Of course they did.

The conversation shifted. Slowly, naturally. Like slipping into warm water.

They asked about the tour. The pressure. The fame. The constant need to evolve, to stay fresh, to survive in a world that loved to love you… until it didn’t.

“I rehearse until my knees feel like glass,” you said, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes I don’t even know if I like the songs anymore. I just know how to perform them.”

Mira nodded quietly. “You looked like you felt every word, though.”

“I do,” you admitted. “That doesn’t always mean I’m okay.”

Rumi stirred her coffee. “You don’t have to be.”

That landed harder than you expected.

You looked at her—really looked. She was composed, calm, but there was something haunted in her eyes. You saw a mirror there. Not the same story, maybe, but the same weight.

“Do you ever wish you could just…” You gestured vaguely toward the window. “Disappear for a while?”

“All the time,” Zoey said instantly.

��Every week,” Mira added.

“Every day,” Rumi finished.

You smiled, and this time it was full of something warm. Something real.

They told you a little about themselves too. Not everything. Not the full truth. But enough.

They talked about pressure. About expectations. About always being the one who has to hold it together when things fall apart.

“Everyone always looks to me,” Rumi said, stirring a straw in her untouched drink. “Like I know what I’m doing. Like I never fall apart.”

You looked at her, sharp. “But you do.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours. Something unspoken passed between you. A mutual understanding.

You leaned back. “You remind me of me.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not a compliment, is it?”

You laughed, soft and tired. “Maybe not. But it means I see you.”

For a long second, none of them spoke.

Then Zoey whispered, “You know, when you sang ‘Revolving Door,’ I almost cried. Not because it was sad. But because it sounded like you meant it.”

“I did.”

“How?” Mira asked. “How do you sing things like that in front of thousands of people and not fall apart?”

You thought about it.

Then you answered: “I already fell apart. Every show is just me putting the pieces back together. Over and over again.”

They stayed with you for an hour.

No screaming fans. No flashing lights. Just the four of you, tucked in a corner booth under Seoul’s sky, laughing over bitter coffee and trading stories like souvenirs.

And when you finally stood up to leave, there was a different kind of hush between you.

Not awkward. Just… full.

Rumi looked at you. “You’ll be gone tomorrow, right?”

You nodded. “Next stop: Singapore.”

“Then,” Mira said, “let us remember you like this.”

You smiled. “Not as the girl on stage?”

“No,” Zoey said. “As the girl who made us feel like we weren’t the only ones.”

Outside, the sky was slipping into dawn. A breeze tugged at your hoodie. You pulled it tighter.

They stood in front of you one last time—three girls who weren’t quite strangers, and weren’t quite friends either. But something real existed in the in-between.

“Thanks for not treating me like a product,” you said. “Most people don’t even look past the poster.”

Rumi stepped forward. For a second, you thought she was going to hug you. But she didn’t.

She just said, “You were more than worth seeing.”

And somehow, that meant more than any encore.

You left before the sun rose.

And maybe you’d forget their names eventually. Maybe they'd forget yours.

But something lingered.

A feeling. A truth. A quiet knowing that for one night, under one sky, you were seen.

And that was enough.

It had been almost a year.

None of them said your name often anymore. Not because they’d forgotten — just because the moment had passed, and they’d all silently agreed not to romanticize it. It had been one night. A good one. Unexpected, real. But life moved.

Huntrix had grown busier since then. A few collabs. More public performances. Mira dyed her hair again. Zoey was working on vocals. Rumi was writing more — alone, mostly.

They didn’t talk about the Seoul night much. But none of them forgot it.

It was Mira who saw the update first.

She was scrolling through her release radar while waiting for ramen at a convenience store counter in Tokyo. Nothing stood out—until your name showed up. A deluxe edition of your last album, with one new track tacked on at the end.

It was labeled simply: “Track 19 – Live in Seoul”

Her fingers paused. For a second, she considered not opening it. But curiosity won.

A soft click. A few seconds of crowd noise. Then your voice—low, tired, honest.

No layers. No auto-tune gloss. Just you.

She didn’t text the others right away.

She waited until they were all in the same room, back at the hotel. Rumi had just returned from a late meeting. Zoey was on the floor with her laptop, humming through some harmonies.

Mira tossed her phone onto the bed. “Play the last track.”

Zoey raised an eyebrow but hit play.

It was quiet in the room. Not awkward, just still.

Your voice came through the speaker — older, a little raspier. Mira noticed the shift. So did Rumi. You sounded different now. Calmer. But still you.

None of them said anything for the first minute.

Then Rumi sat down slowly.

“She remembered,” Zoey said, almost surprised.

Mira didn’t reply. She just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and listened.

The song wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping strings or studio tricks. It felt more like a voice note. A journal entry you weren’t even sure you wanted people to hear.

There was no name-dropping. No inside references. But they knew what it was. They knew that café. That night. The tension. The quiet. The weird safety of being strangers who didn’t ask for anything.

Rumi’s arms were folded, but her jaw was tight.

“She didn’t have to say anything,” she murmured. “We’d know.”

Zoey nodded. “Feels like a thank you. Without saying the words.”

They didn’t replay it. Didn’t dissect it. They just let it end.

Then someone — maybe Mira — said, “We mattered to her. Even if it was just that once.”

Rumi grabbed a water bottle and stood.

“We were real,” she said. “That’s enough.”

And that was it.

No one needed anything more than that.

pls send in requests or ill just start posting cursed cross overs

ya girls broke and living off of monster energy so anything helps- Buy me a coffee <3

kpdh taglist: @spookyanxiety

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perlelune · 1 year ago

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Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | i.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Your hands quake around the bucket of mice as you stand above the terrarium. The bright-skinned creatures inside writhe around, in anticipation of their next meal. You peer inside the metal bucket at the little mice with their cute whiskers and beady eyes. Your heart twinges. They will soon meet their end, courtesy of you. But what else can be done? The snakes need to eat. Because if they were not fed, the colorful reptiles would break through the glass in search of the food they were denied. You used to have nightmares of it as a child. The lab crawling with snakes, their neon scales filling every corner.

Natural order restored as every warm-blooded creature in their vicinity turns into prey.

You suppress a shudder. While that never happened, you can’t erase the slight chill dancing through your bones whenever you approach the terrarium.

Other lab assistants have offered to take on the task, noting your discomfort. You’ve turned each of them down. Mother has given you this job ten years ago. A gift, she called it. More of a challenge quite frankly. A way to test your nerves, that she always deemed too delicate. She never expected you to go through with it. “Hippity, hoppity, little one,” she mockingly sang that day as you fidgeted before the ceiling-high glass case filled with snakes to the brim. Their scales were a deep green back then. Nothing like the pink, yellow and blue shades they don today. A plethora of mutations throughout the years has made them what they are now.

You tip the bucket against the edge of the glass case, abandoning the poor rodents to their fates. The reptiles are quick to dive upon them in a heap. The mice’s helpless squeaks reach a peak, piercing your ears until they’re silenced quickly. You watch, stomach tight while the snakes open their maws and swallow the furred animals whole. The spectacle will never sit well with you.

Still, you school your features and steady your heart. Mother’s voice echoes through your head.

Emotions are a weakness. They must be harnessed, contained.

Harnessing your emotions. A feat you could never achieve. One that makes you a failed experiment in Mother’s eyes. A waste of space. A disappointment.

You start climbing down the ladder to gather more mice from their cages. Your insides clutch at the prospect of gently picking them up only to escort them to a sorrowful fate.

The train of your thoughts is interrupted when voices erupt from the other end of the long hall.

Recognizing them, you freeze. Panic floods your veins. You haste down the ladder, the bucket clattering as you discard it on the floor.

You scurry inside the nearest office and duck beneath a table.

The voices grow in the lab. You eavesdrop, allowing you to catch snippets of the conversation. They’re discussing Mother’s latest experiments with the Avox subjects. One succumbed to a chromosome translocation with a wolf mutt. The finer details of replacing the subject and what can be learned from the results are discussed in cold, clinical fashion. No regard for what was a human life, now lost, is granted. The Avox was nothing more than a slab of meat meant for slaughter. The slow, barbaric kind.

Ice seeps through your veins. You loathe visiting that room, the one displaying Mother’s human experiments on unfortunate Avoxes. Their beseeching gazes. Their warped pleas parroted by the jabberjays above them. You almost passed out every time you were tasked with monitoring their electrolyte status or switching their intravenous tubes.

Head rising from under the desk, you allow yourself a peek.

Mother’s here, of course. You recognized her voice right away. Then, there’s…him.

You let your gaze rest on him, never having the chance to observe him like that. Steal a glance from the back of the lecture hall. Get a glimpse of him amidst his crowd of friends, always in his element of course, owning every room he’s in.

Never before did you get to just look at him.

The first thing that strikes you is how beautiful he is. Handsome in that dazzling way the pretty boys in the sappy books smuggled from the Districts your mother berates you for reading are.

She calls them stupid. For you however, they are your only escape from the dismal humdrum of the Capitol. Fictional worlds that shield you from the harshness of reality. Your saving grace.

Platinum locks combed back from his face. Eyes as blue as the sky. Sharp, angular features.

Coriolanus Snow.

Behind the safety of the glass panel, openly admiring him is easier. In fact, you find it almost hard to peel your eyes away.

No wonder half the girls in your cohort can’t stop gushing about him, how there’s an irresistible, slight air of danger hovering around him since his brief time as a peacekeeper. Even Io Jasper noticed it. And Io never notices anything that she can’t wedge between two glass slides and examine under a microscope.

Awe mingles with envy in your chest. This is who your mother chose as her unofficial successor. The worthy, cool-headed apprentice she has yearned for years. She’s been through so many people, each more eager to please and impress than the last. None ever fit. Not even you. Especially not you. Nobody except for him.

No one had ever passed your mother’s crooked tests before Coriolanus Snow came along.

Blue eyes travel upward, the Snow heir seeming to sense the scrutiny upon him.

“Is someone here?” he says, pushing forward.

Your pulse quickens at the sound of Coriolanus Snow’s deep voice, disturbingly close. You crouch to hide from view.

Mother’s exasperated breath reaches you from behind the glass panel.

“Don’t worry. It’s probably my daughter. I’m afraid she’s quite useless,” she says matter-of-factly.

Your heart sinks. Face warm with embarrassment, you shrink beneath the desk. You bring your knees to your chest. Hearing such words shouldn’t affect you. Not after all these years. Yet it does. A pointed reminder that you can never measure up. That you’re a glaring mistake, lucky to even be allowed to wander the halls of the Citadel and be given a semblance of responsibility, however small.

That you’re not enough, will never be enough.

That you should never have been brought into the world.

After getting caught, you file away your embarrassment and make yourself small. Even smaller than usual. It's not too hard. When you aren’t working at the lab, your schedule consists of attending lectures and studying for long hours at the library. It keeps you busy enough to find excuses to skip a few hours at the lab. After all, midterms are only a few weeks away. They require your entire focus. You can’t fail and add more of a shameful stain to Mother’s name.

It’s why you ramped up your studying since the Academy. You were painfully average then, tragically unremarkable, not even ranking high enough to get your own tribute to mentor in the tenth Hunger Games. The shriveling stare she cast upon you the day of the reaping after Dean Highbottom failed to speak your name is burned into your mind forever. That day, you failed Mother again. You swore to yourself to never let it happen again afterwards.

This year, you will study harder, until your eyes fall off if necessary. If you can pass every class with flying colors and perhaps even aim for the valedictorian spot, you can prove Mother that your existence isn’t a complete and utter waste. It might be a lofty goal for you, but you’ve been ranking higher with every test these last few weeks.

For days, your path does not cross Coriolanus Snow’s again. Your peace is maintained. You get to almost forget how piercing his blue eyes were that day, even from behind the glass panel.

Today, you don’t expect things to veer away from your usual routine. You sit in the back of the lecture hall as is your habit. Students pour inside at a sluggish pace while you peruse your notes from the previous class. They barely make sense, even to you. Defense economics has never been your favorite subject, possibly your most hated in fact, and paying attention during Professor Cloudsbane’s class is even more of a challenge. More than once, you dozed off, the complicated concepts struggling to fully sink into your mind.

Keeping up with this class is twice as much work than all the other ones. Even Mother’s bioengineering and military strategy courses do not give you so much grief. Concepts she’s drilled into you since childhood are easier to digest.

Which is why you’re flabbergasted when the results of last week’s test are passed around and you receive yours. In disbelief, you blink at the paper multiple times.

It’s the highest grade you’ve gotten the entire semester. Possibly the highest one in the class. You bask in the private, secret victory. You’re always so behind. You plan on enjoying that tiny moment. You hug the test to your chest, a smile creeping upon your lips.

“So what score did you get?”

Your head whips up, the sudden voice startling you out of your thoughts.

Bright cobalt orbs fill your sight.

You gape in disbelief. Coriolanus Snow.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize he and his group of friends have elected to occupy the seats in the row before yours today. You’re stunned. They’re usually sitting somewhere in the middle of the hall, not quite at the front but close enough so that Clemensia can comfortably harass the professor with a ceaseless string of questions as she’s known to do.

“So?” he asks again. His eyes dart down. “Your grade?”

Your throat knots as you gawk at him. When you don’t reply, he huffs out a laugh and swipes the piece of paper from your hand. You’re too flabbergasted by his actions to even react.

Empty hands hanging before you, you watch him purse his lips as he inspects your paper.

“Hm, top grade. Figured.” His eyes twinkle. “Expected from Dr. Gaul’s daughter, I suppose.”

“You almost had it, Coryo. But she beat you,” Clemensia teases, wiggling her eyebrows. Meanwhile, Ivy Briarose, Clemensia’s close friend, giggles at her comment.

You steal a glance at his test; he’s holding it next to yours. Surprise surges through you. There’s only half a point between your grade and his. Just half a point…but still. Coriolanus always aces Professor Cloudsbane’s tests. Him getting the top grade is often expected. But this time, the Snow heir falls behind…you.

You can hardly believe it. A sliver of pride flutters through you. The fruits of your labor are beginning to show.

“If you don’t watch out, she’ll steal the top student spot from you,” Livia chimes in. You can tell the blonde is reveling in this, that strange animosity between her and Coriolanus on full display.

Coriolanus’ jaw ticks, his tight-lipped smile unfaltering as he studies you.

“I suppose she could,” he utters softly. Despite his tranquil expression and the smile pulling his lips, a peculiar unease settles in your bones. You shift in your chair, goosebumps blooming across your flesh.

He hands you your test back without a word. You’re relieved when he turns and the class starts.

Still, even with his back turned, the weight of his sizzling scrutiny doesn’t part from your skin.

The class proceeds, the words pouring from your professor’s lips a befuddling heap in your ears as usual. You jot everything down, acutely aware you’ll need several hours if not more than that to decipher everything he said. Your mind already throbs at the prospect.

You sneak a glance at the row in front of you. It’s mostly filled with the top students, most of them mentors that last year at the Academy. Some of them aren’t even taking notes. Only Coriolanus sporadically does. He appears to have no issue keeping up with this class, unlike you who drowned in the first few minutes.

You’re relieved when the lecture reaches its end. Your mind is on the cusp of overflow. You desperately need a break.

You pick up your things and rush to the exit. In the hallway, some guy bumps into you from behind, sending the books in your arms flying across the floor. He doesn’t say anything to you and you bend to pick up your books. Tears press behind your eyes. This is nothing. It shouldn’t make you blink back tears. It’s not the first time someone’s treated you like you were invisible.

“Hey, apologize.”

Your eyes drift skyward. Stumped, you watch Coriolanus grip the boy who bumped into you by his shoulder.

“What?” the guy replies, confusion scrunching his features.

“You bumped into her. I said ‘apologize’,” Coriolanus articulates, as if he were addressing a particularly slow child. When the guy tries to leave, rolling his eyes, the blond squeezes him tighter. Tension flickers in the air. They trade looks and doubts creep on the guy’s face, his face blanching.

He clears his throat and whirls to you.

“Sorry,” he blurts out.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He turns, likely hoping to leave again, but Coriolanus tuts him, pointing at your books, still scattered across the floor.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says, arching his brow.

The guy unleashes a sigh but hunkers down to collect all of your books. He gives them to you in a neat pile as you stare at the spectacle, mouth agape.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

He nods and saunters off, avoiding Coriolanus’ eyes.

Coriolanus grabs your hand, helping you to your feet. The pads of his fingers are rougher than you expect, calluses pressing against your soft skin. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you rise.

You’re not sure what to say, your nerves flaring beneath his stare. But you suppose you should thank him. While you struggle standing up for yourself, he just did it for you. So you mumble the words under your breath and begin heading in the opposite direction.

With his long legs, Coriolanus easily keeps up with your hasty strides. Your heart skips a beat as he falls in step with you.

“I feel strange asking this but…” He leans above your shoulder to whisper, “Are you avoiding me?”

“I-I’m not,” you stammer, your pulse racing with the lie.

The blond chuckles.

“You’re walking awfully fast for someone who’s not avoiding me.”

“I’m just running late to my next class.”

“What about your mom’s lab?” he challenges. “You were hiding from me, weren’t you?”

Your lips tighten. If only he’d drop it. You don’t want to revisit that awkward moment. Everything about it makes your stomach ache.

“I…wasn’t,” you lie, your voice barely above a breath. Your face warms as a smile plays upon Coriolanus’ lips. You halt in your tracks, hugging your books against your chest as you pivot to him. You bashfully meet his gaze. “I was just a little spooked.”

He tilts his head, mirth swimming in his cobalt orbs.

“Spooked? By me? Do I scare you, angel?”

The pet name, uttered like a caress, sets your heart aflutter.

“No,” you mutter. Another lie. And it’s like he’s picked up on it, his soft, pink lips stretching even more.

“It wasn’t nice what she said,” he says abruptly.

You blink in confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dr. Gaul, about you. It wasn’t nice.”

You shrug. “I’m used to it. It’s fine.”

He approaches you. The scent of his pricey cologne engulfs your senses. It’s masculine but the faint scent of roses lingers underneath, as if stubbornly clinging to him.

His voice lowers, his gaze entrapping yours.

“It’s not fine. You work so hard to make her see you. You’re a good daughter.” You don’t realize his hand’s moved to your face until one of his fingers traces the curve of your cheek. Your heart races at the sudden touch. Coriolanus’ thumb drags down to your chin, his attention landing on your bottom lip. He smiles. “Hard work should be praised, rewarded even.”

Disarmed by his closeness and the strange words rolling off his tongue, you retreat.

You readjust the books between your arms.

“I s-should go. My next class is about to start.”

His words interrupt you.

“Hey, why don’t you have lunch with me and the others today?”

Your stomach clutches. You think about Coriolanus’ usual crowd, a bunch of kids from wealthy, influential families, popular and revered. Clemensia Dovecote. Livia Cardew. Ivy Briarose. Hilarius Heavensbee. Festus Creed. Most of them now hold the admiration of their peers for having survived the chaos the Tenth Hunger Games were.

You’d never fit in with them. In fact, you never did. Coriolanus must know that. Is he trying to punish you for eavesdropping on his conversation with your mother the other day?

“I-I never talked to any of them,” you answer, panic swelling in your gut.

His brows crumple. “If you don’t talk to anyone, you’ll never make friends.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need friends,” you retaliate.

“It’s always useful, having friends,” he rasps. “The right connections, they can get you far.”

You anxiously roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I’m not good at…making conversation.”

“We’re having a conversation now,” he says, laughing.

As you mull over what he just said, a small smile tugs your lips.

“I guess we are.”

His gaze sharpens. “That’s a pretty smile. I’d love to see it more often.”

His low, soft voice sends chills through your spine.

Coriolanus’ long lashes droop as he gauges your expression.

“I’d be disappointed if I didn't see your face, angel.”

You fidget, your eyes sinking to the floor before rising to meet his again.

“I don’t know if that’s okay… for me to show up like that.”

“I’m inviting you, so of course it’s okay.”

He speaks like it’s a given, like whatever he says goes. His confidence unsettles you.

You fall quiet, weighing your options. There’s something in Coriolanus’ silky voice that makes it hard to say no, but you’d hate being the unwanted guest at the popular kids’ table.

Still, the expectation on his face makes you not want to let him down.

“I’m not hearing a yes.”

“Y-Yes,” you stutter belatedly.

A broad smile spreads on his handsome face.

“Perfect. See you at lunch then, angel.”

As he strolls away, your feet remain glued to the floor, your mind lingering in disbelief of what just occurred.

#coriolanus snow x reader #dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #tbosas fanfiction #hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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syndrossi · 7 months ago

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I'm not selfish by prompting more than once. I'm just giving you options. Write 100 words-ish of Jon meeting Rhaella -- be that a female!Rhaegar or a summerhalled!Rhaella-his-grandma or some other verse's Rhaella, 'tis your choice.

Okay, first a little snippet of Rhaella's POV in the AU ficlet I was writing for that (separate from the NYE ask game):

Dragons. She still had trouble believing that she lived in a time of dragons. Her son had one, she knew from gossip, and Daemon Targaryen’s own dragon was well known. And then there was her son’s twin brother, the one named Jon. Which of my babies would you have been? My little Daeron? It was not entirely the same, she knew. Prince Jon was dark of hair, like the woman who had birthed him and his brother here. How different would Rhaegar be? Would she still recognize him? Will he recognize me?

And now the definitely 100 words-ish 😂 of the prompt fill...

x~x~x

Worry stirred in Jon upon spying the distant, pale-haired figure of his brother alone in the godswood through the window of the library. At this time, Rhaegar should still be in arms training, and there wasn’t a Princesguard in sight, not even at the entrance to the godswood.

He slipped out of his lesson with practiced ease, opting not to employ the secret passage where his young cousins could see, and trotted across the yard to the godswood. His brother had been in plain view, which likely meant that he had intended for Jon to see him. Is there something he wishes to discuss in private?

Jon’s own Princesguard settled at the gate to the godswood, and Jon followed the familiar path to the heart tree. His steps faltered, however, as he drew near. It was not Rhaegar waiting beside the tree, nor even one of his cousins. It was a woman dressed in flowing blue silks that were too cold for the autumn weather, her silver-blond hair worn in a partial braid that half-reminded him of one he had seen Rhaegar wear once.

She even looked something like his brother, especially in the eyes and lips, though she was a woman grown rather than a child—and there was something of his wonder in her expression as she stared upward through the red leaves, taking in the beauty as the wind stirred her hair.

He watched her in silence, wracking his mind for who she might be. She was not Princess Rhaenyra, of course, who had returned home weeks ago. And they had met Lady Laena when she had come courting their father. And although Jon had not been a scholar of the Targaryen dynasty before finding himself here, Rhaegar had since instructed him in every last member of their family, living and dead.

A Velaryon, he decided at last. One of Laena and Laenor’s cousins, perhaps, come to try her own luck.

She noticed him at last, once he had turned to leave. “You must be Prince Jon.”

Even her voice seemed familiar, and there was a longing in it that stopped him in place. He turned back and gave her a nod. “I am. Who are you, my lady?”

“I am Lady Rhaella,” she said, rising to her feet to curtsy.

Jon’s breath caught. It cannot be. He stared at her, scrutinizing her features in search of Rhaegar, and finding pieces of both his brother and himself in her. The same could be said of Daemon, or Rhaenyra, he told himself. House Targaryen’s intermarriages ensured that even cousins could look as alike as siblings.

She was the wrong age. Rhaegar’s mother would have been nearing thirty. And I was nineteen.

He took a cautious step closer, studying her expression for greed or threat, but the intensity of her longing only seemed to grow, her hands clasping in front of her, as though to hold it back.

“Are you kin?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, her voice thickening for a moment before she cleared her throat. “I am your father’s cousin, daughter of his aunt Saera.”

She was the one who had been disowned, Jon recalled. And eventually ended up in Volantis. He tensed briefly, but the pain that the motion seemed to cause her made him relent, and he forced himself to relax. What if she thinks I view her as lesser for being a bastard?

Jon approached for a kiss to the cheek, and she dipped slightly so that he could reach, her lips pressing into his own. He was not prepared for the hug that followed, and she pulled back with an apology, blinking back tears. “I beg your pardon, my prince. I—you remind me of someone.”

She is. Jon stared at her in wonder. She must be.

Rhaegar’s mother. His own grandmother. And now their cousin.

He hugged her this time, and where her arms had been light around him before, as though frightened he might disappear, they tightened.

“Would you like to meet my brother?” he offered.

He felt her kiss his hair, something that no freshly-introduced cousin would dare, bastard or not. “Yes,” she breathed, and he let her hold him a moment longer so that she could compose herself. When he drew back at last, her smile was radiant. “I would like that.”

#resonant nye2025 ask game #my word counts in order of prompt: 145 -> 168 -> 250 -> 637 -> 570 -> 720 #resonant 'verse rhaella au

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alienoresimagines-archive · 5 months ago

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Those drunk confessions are so good for clegan. What do you think of #17?

Hiii, I hope you're well <3 It's been SO long but here it is, finally, 8.9k words of Buck and Bucky yearning for each other :)

Clegan Masterlist

17 : "I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?" "You’re not doing anything." "But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?" by @creativepromptsforwriting here

Are there some aces up your sleeve? (Have you no idea that you're in deep?) | Buck x Bucky (Link to AO3)

“You’re so pretty, Buck.” John’s gaze flicks up and down his face before his face softens in a way that has Gale’s knees weak and his heart kicking up. One of John’s hands comes up to his face, slow like John’s expecting him to bolt but he stays frozen in place. His breathing is ragged, and he might be on fire but then the tip of John’s forefinger gently traces a line on his cheekbone, where Gale knows his skin is dotted with beauty marks he’s never paid much attention to before this moment. They seem like the most important thing now, and something twirls in his stomach as Gale struggles to keep his gaze on John’s face without flushing bright red. John giggles gently then, his voice breathy with what can only be wonder. “You even got stars lovin’ you.” Or A night out featuring an arrogant lieutenant and a drunk Bucky might just shift Gale and John's friendship forever.

Snippet under the cut ;)

For someone for whom anger has always been the greatest fear, Gale should not feel so warm at the evidence of John being so angry on his behalf but he can’t help it. As he rises to his feet, John looks up at him with a frown etched on his face, blue eyes sharp and worried. Not reaching out to soothe the lines on his forehead with his fingers is a battle Gale worries he’ll lose, so he squeezes John’s shoulder instead as he shimmies over him out of the booth. Before he can leave though, John reaches out to loosely hold his wrist, eyebrows pinched together as his eyes flicker all over Gale’s face, drunkenness seemingly forgotten.

“Buck, you sure about this? I’ll punch the bastard, you don’t-”

“It’s fine, Bucky. I’ve been sittin’ in this booth for so long anyway, I was starting to get restless.” John still doesn’t look convinced, halfway to a full standing position.

“Besides,” Gale grins again, feeling the wild thump of his heart and the adrenaline already flowing through his veins, “I’ve had a very good baseball teacher, and his honor being sullied just won’t do.”

John blinks, eyes wide and searching, and Gale feels too exposed, like a dog presenting its belly. But then, just as his palms start to sweat and his shoulders tense, John makes a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff.

“You fell asleep the only time I tried teaching you the rules.” John’s mouth quirks in a soft smile, and embarrassment creeps up his neck but Gale can’t bring himself to care, not when his chest feels so light he could be floating under John’s undivided attention.

“I did not.”

John raises an eyebrow teasingly and a genuine smile pulls at Gale’s lips.

“It’d been a long week.” He protests half-heartedly, though he’s well aware his slumber at that time had more to do with how John had felt so warm and safe next to him. Gale hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until he’d woken up with his head on John’s shoulder as the other desperately and valiantly tried to keep still.

You can find the rest here and my other Clegan fics here ! ❤️

#clegan #buck x bucky #mota fanfic #clegan fic #ali writes #it's been so long hiii i'm alive i still have some docs that are alive too <3 #pls feed me comments and feedback i'm starved (jk but i'll love you forever if you 🥹❤️)

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letthewhumpbegin · 21 days ago

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The Darkest Hour of the Night - a The Old Guard fanfiction

Fandom: The Old Guard Characters: Joe, Nicky Word count: 1615 Warnings: contains descriptions of nightmare and implied loss of a loved one.

Summary: When Nicky has a nightmare, Joe is there to offer comfort.

Writing masterlist | Request a fanfiction from me

His nightmares, whenever he had them, always were the same. It always was Joe dying in some horrific way, with Nicky having to watch it and unable to stop it, only to then come to the gut-wrenching conclusion that this was the time Joe was not coming back to him. That this was the time he would lose Joe forever.

Nicky startled awake, drenched in cold sweats and breathing hard. He sat up in bed, resting his face in his hands. He felt the wetness of his cheeks and only now realized he was crying. It were silent tears, but they spilled freely, and Nicky let them. The mere thought of losing Joe and having to somehow continue without him, shattered Nicky in ways he hadn’t believed possible. Yet, here he was, left picking up the pieces of himself.

Nicky glanced beside him to where Joe was sleeping soundly. He lay on his front, face turned toward Nicky, and clearly not disrupted by what was happening next to him. Nicky smiled through his tears at the peaceful sight. Joe was alive and well, and that reassured him that it had all just been a nightmare. A hugely unsettling one, but just a nightmare nonetheless.

Nicky lay back down, on his side, facing Joe and studying his peaceful, very much alive, features. This man, this beautiful man, was his. His jet black hair seemed even darker in the darkness of the night, his bare torso just peeking out above the covers, and those beautiful, brown eyes closed to mirage at a dreamworld of his own.

Fresh tears rolled down Nicky’s cheeks. These nightmares always made him appreciate even more what he had. How lucky he was to have Joe by his side and how much he loved him.

Nicky reached out and gently caressed Joe’s arm. His fingers softly traced the skin and followed the shape of his muscles, all the way from his shoulder to the very tips of his fingers. Nicky found himself endlessly repeating the movement. It soothed his worries and offered comfort to his still shaken up mind. Joe didn’t wake up from Nicky’s touch. He was still far away wandering through dreams of his own, hopefully happier ones than Nicky’s.

Nicky watched Joe sleep, he loved watching Joe sleep, unable to tear his eyes off of him. Joe’s calm breaths weren’t audible, but the movement of his chest was easy enough to see with each breath he took. Nicky moved his hand to rest on Joe’s side, feeling his breaths now, too. Joe stirred minutely at this new touch, but slept on.

A snippet from his horrible nightmare suddenly flashed through Nicky’s mind. The moment he realized that Joe wasn’t coming back to him and that he would have to spend the rest of his eternity alone. The exact moment that broke him into a million pieces and now did that all over again.

Nicky couldn’t suppress the audible sob this time, jerking his hand away from Joe and shooting upright again. The sound of his sob reverberated through the silent bedroom, and he immediately clasped a hand over his mouth to silence himself. Too late. Joe already stirred awake.

"Nicolo?" Joe’s voice was laced with sleep. He groggily opened his eyes to immediately search for Nicky. "Are you okay?" "Yes," Nicky lied. He already felt bad that his nightmare had woken Joe up, and he didn’t want to bother him with it any further.

But Joe was not fooled, of course he wasn’t. After nearly a thousand years together, he sensed, without fail, whenever Nicky wasn’t telling him everything. Joe propped himself up on one elbow and quietly studied Nicky’s features in the moonlight dimly lighting their room as it streamed in through the window. He couldn’t properly see Nicky’s face, but he could sense Nicky was hiding tears from him.

"You’re crying, and if it’s making you cry, it’s bad." Joe sat up as well and rested a hand on Nicky’s back. "Parla," he said softly. "I’m fine." Nicky trembled with the emotions he tried to keep down. "Don’t do that." Joe moved closer, wiping some of the tears off Nicky’s cheek. "You’re trembling. I know you’re upset about something. What is it?" "Nightmare…" Nicky choked slightly on the word. "Oh…" Joe realized now.

"Come here." Joe held out his arms to Nicky, who immediately leaned into him and pressed his face against Joe’s chest. Joe wrapped his strong arms protectively around Nicky, embracing him with love and safety. "Tell me about your nightmare." "It…" Nicky hesitated, and Joe felt fresh tears against the bare skin of his chest. "That bad?" Joe whispered. He rested his chin on the top of Nicky’s head. Nicky nodded slowly into Joe’s chest. "You… you didn’t come back to me…"

Joe didn’t need to hear any more than that. He knew exactly how Nicky felt, because this was precisely his worst fear, too. The fear of losing one another, the fear of having to go on alone. He understood it, felt in his own bones how Nicky must feel now, and maybe some pieces of him shattered too at the mere thought.

"It’s okay." Joe soothed, wrapping his arms a little tighter around Nicky’s trembling shoulders in an attempt to keep the shattered pieces of his man together. "I’m here, I’m not leaving you." His voice was only a whisper, but to Nicky it was the loudest, most welcome sound. "It was horrible." Nicky shuddered at the memory of the nightmare. Joe pressed a kiss into Nicky’s hair. "I’m sorry about that." Nicky scoffed through a sob. "You don’t have to apologize for my nightmare." "Maybe not." Joe shrugged. "But if it calms you down, I will do anything."

The two of them sat silently for a while. Nicky felt himself calm down with Joe’s arms safely wrapped around him. He felt the steady rise and fall of Joe’s chest underneath his cheek, and could hear his calm heartbeat underneath his ear. To Nicky it all was confirmation that he had only dreamt this. Joe, the love of his life, really was alive and well.

"Are you still awake?" Joe broke the silence after several minutes. "Hm-m." Nicky hummed back softly. He was still awake, but was feeling drowsy again. "Hold on." Joe spoke close to Nicky’s ear. Nicky felt Joe’s muscles flex beneath him as he lay back down, pulling Nicky with him. Joe lay on his back now, with Nicky lying down next to him with his head on Joe’s chest.

"Try to get some sleep." Joe ran his fingers through Nicky’s hair. "I don’t know if I can." Nicky’s voice shook. "What if the nightmares…" He couldn’t get himself to finish that sentence. "Sshh." Joe soothed. "I’ll keep them away." "Me lo prometti?" Nicky asked, barely audible. "Do you promise me?" Joe didn’t hesitate. "I promise."

Nicky closed his eyes and tried to only concentrate on the feeling of Joe’s fingers still combing lovingly through his hair. He felt himself calm down, sleep dragging at him again now that he was safely in Joe’s arms. And it wasn’t long before Nicky had drifted off to sleep again.

Joe felt the weight of Nicky’s head on his chest grow heavier, as sleep quickly pulled him under now. He knew Nicky wasn’t aware of it anymore, but still Joe couldn’t get himself to stop running his fingers through Nicky’s hair. He knew how disruptive these nightmares could be. Hell, he’d had plenty of those himself over the years, and he knew Nicky had, too. But still, he had never seen Nicky this distraught by a nightmare before, and frankly that scared Joe. He tried not to think of the images that must have been in Nicky’s mind just now and how that must have felt.

When he was sure Nicky was sleeping peacefully, Joe started to feel drowsy again, too. The comfortable feeling of Nicky’s head resting on his chest, his exhales tickling his bare skin, made Joe feel safe and secure, too. He closed his eyes and quickly fell into a peaceful sleep.

---

Nicky awoke from the first rays of sunlight creeping into their room, shining warmly on his face. He found his head still rested on Joe’s chest, the steady heartbeat still comfortingly beneath his ear.

Nicky slowly raised his head to look at Joe’s face. Joe was still asleep. He lay exactly as last night: on his back, arms still wrapped around Nicky, albeit loosely now. Nicky stifled a yawn and rested his head back on Joe’s chest. He didn’t feel like getting up yet. Lying here, comfortably with Joe, was all he wanted and needed right now.

"Buongiorno."

Joe had woken up without Nicky noticing it. "Good morning." Nicky smiled into Joe’s chest, before glancing up at him. A thin veil of concern was on Joe’s face. "Are you alright?" "Yes, I’m alright now," Nicky answered, "what happened last night was stupid and embarrassing." Before Nicky could even fully finish the sentence, Joe’s finger was on his lips to silence him. "Don’t say that, don’t ever say that," Joe said, "nothing about this was stupid. Love is never stupid." Nicky raised an eyebrow at Joe. "A nightmare is love?"

A broad smile broke over Joe’s face. A smile Nicky recognized and loved. "Of course it is," Joe answered lovingly, "you dreamt about losing me, and that sent you into a panic. To me, that’s real love." Nicky chuckled, nodding slowly. "You really are a hopeless romantic, aren’t you?" Joe shrugged his shoulders, smiling and giving Nicky the most love-filled look. "For you, I’ll always be."

#the old guard #old guard #the old guard fanfiction #the old guard fanfic #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #marwan kenzari #luca marinelli #joe x nicky #fanfiction #fanfic

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coconutjelly · 3 days ago

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Put a Ring on It: Think Pink AU

All previous snippets, plus a little extra connective tissue, now on ao3.

This is connection from Crisis to this fic, so kind of a prologue, I guess? This is a first-person Bernard POV, and I'm having way way way too much fun with him. He's just a little guy! Who is gonna upend the lives of two of the most powerful people on the planet like it's nbd. He's also ADHDAF, and horny as hell, so this one dives immediately back into smut territory after the prologue 🌶️

I feel like I should preface that, while I currently have about 14k words written what the fuck am I doing this one might take longer to roll out, as it needs a lot more connective tissue than the others that just sort of poured out of me.

Prologue

As a man of a certain age and neurotype, I start my days scrolling social media.

At least, that’s the habit when I wake up alone at home - turn off my alarm, grounding exercises to remind myself the nightmares aren’t real, stare at the ceiling in existential dread for a few minutes, then start scrolling.

When I wake up with Tim, there’s usually something much more interesting immediately available, because there are perks to dating a nocturnal vigilante - namely, that his idea of “winding down after work” often includes a 6am blowjob, very enthusiastically enacted upon my sleeping person. With my full and previously-established consent, of course.

The day after we get back from our rare spontaneous adventure to San Francisco, I wake up alone at home. Fueled by alcohol and then a hangover, my nightmares were much worse the past two nights, so I’m not exactly chipper. After the existential dread step of my morning routine, I check my notifications to see what’s interesting.

A lot of it is more of the usual - Snap streaks with people I barely know anymore, reels and stories from pages I follow, one new TikTok notification from CryptidHuntersUK - but one catches my eye.

#Queer Icon SuperboyBased on your activity, you might be interested in this trending tag

As I click on it, I think to myself, okay Tumblr, show me what you’ve got.

The latest posts with the tag are digital paintings of Kon wearing a rainbow flag as a cape, speculation on the sexuality of major capes, and a lot of shippers losing their minds in the tags of their own posts. So, a normal day on Tumblr. Over on Instagram, Kon is featured in selfies posted to a half dozen different Instagram accounts, all at night, all clearly during Pride celebrations.

I find what I’m pretty sure is the inciting incident of the whole thing: a headline from the San Francisco Herald reading, “Titans’ Superboy Defends Pride Celebrations”. The article itself is behind a paywall, but armed with search terms, I do what any self-respecting Millennial or Bat-boyfriend would, and start Internet sleuthing.

I find several shaky phone videos on TikTok and YouTube, and back on Tumblr, one neurodivergent angel has compiled them into a multi-angle cinematic.

It starts with some asshole protestors, carrying all the hateful signs they like to lug around with them, and standing directly outside the Civic Center. In the video, some people at the event are getting in their faces, and it looks like it’s about to get ugly. Then, everyone is looking up, and the camera follows to see Kon dropping slowly out of the dark sky.

He lands gracefully on one foot and pops a hip out to plant a hand casually on his hip. A camera from behind him has a phenomenal view of the way his ass and thigh move with that, and I am distracted for several seconds.

“Hey there, babes.” It’s weird to hear Superboy talk to the public, like hearing a friend use their perky customer service voice for the first time. I’ve gotten used to an authentic vulnerability from him in most of the time that we’ve spent together, but now he sounds cocky, almost bored. “What say we all disperse before things get out of hand?”

A particularly brave or stupid protestor steps forward with a sign that says some pretty hateful shit, but in colors arranged to look like the bisexual pride flag. “C’mon man, don’t pretend you’re on their side. The Supers should be defending decent Americans from these queers!”

Only a few of his comrades cheer, the rest seeming to step back and have smarter opinions about talking back to a Kryptonian, for fuck’s sake.

Kon’s entire attitude shifts at that response. All casual friendliness gone, he hovers up a few feet off the ground, arms crossed - and oh my gods, does he know what his biceps do when he strikes that pose? Distantly, I recognize this pose as the reference for some of the art I saw earlier. His eyes flare red for a few seconds, and it casts this haunting glow over his tanned face that is…

I mean, honestly, for the homophobes, it’s clearly terrifying, because they all scurry off to the cheers of the crowd shortly after, but I rewind it no less than six times because that is just sincerely hot as fuck.

In continuation of a conversation that I’ve been having on and off with Tim for about a week now, I send the link to the post with the video, along with a text.

I AM FUCKING TELLING YOU MAN 🦸🏻🏳️‍🌈

Tim replies back quickly with the same level of enthusiasm I’ve gotten at every turn on this topic.

Babe, it is literally his job. He was stationed in SF to do exactly that.

Which, okay, fair. Duty and all.

But I am not going to stop trying to convince Tim that Superboy isn’t as straight as he thinks he is. As straight as Tim thinks he is, I mean. Well, I don’t know the guy all that well, so Kon may also not be as straight as Kon thinks he is, but I’m not dating Kon, so. I mean–

Like, I would if I could.

Just to be clear.

#put a ring on it: think pink au #in which one (1) of our male leads knows where he stands #one is nervously hovering a few inches off the floor #and one is trying very hard to pretend nothing has changed #inspired by think pink by suzukiblu #wip: think pink #timberkon

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justsomerandomfanfic · 4 months ago

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Her Knight In Shining Armor - Logan Howlett X Female Reader

Series Title: Her Knight In Shining Armor

Chapter 3: Teach Me

| Last Chapter | Current Chapter | Next Chapter

James 'Logan' Howlett (Knight) X Female (Princess) Reader

Additional Characters: Your Father; the King, advisors (Mentioned), and Reader's mother (Mentioned)

WC: 1,523

Warnings: Royal AU, sunshine x grumpy, knight x princess, slow burn, assassins/attempted murder mentioned, longing, banter, teasing, tension, slight angst, and fluff

You stood in the grand hall, the large, wooden double doors shut firmly before you. Behind them, your father and his advisors spoke in hushed tones, their voices occasionally rising as they debated the kingdom’s safety. Pressing your back to the cool stone wall, you strained to listen, catching snippets of their conversation about looming threats and preparations for a possible conflict with the neighboring kingdom.

Beside you, James stood silently. He didn’t comment on your eavesdropping, though you caught the occasional shift of his gaze as if he was telling you to ignore them. But you couldn’t.

Your father’s voice carried through the thick doors. "The knights and guards will undergo additional training, and we’ll bolster the defenses. It’s imperative to ensure the safety of our people."

After what happened on your afternoon ride, you had been forced to stay behind the castle walls. It was upsetting, and your father’s words only made you feel worse. You felt like a bird trapped in a golden cage.

You huffed softly, pushing off the wall abruptly as you reached out and grabbed James’ hand without a second thought. "Come on," You said, tugging him along.

But James stopped in his tracks, and you found yourself unable to continue forward. He looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where do ya think you are goin’?"

You glanced back at him, meeting his gaze. "I need to get some fresh air," You said simply, hoping he’d understand.

He paused for a moment, the usual guarded look in his eyes, before he let you pull him along. He followed, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced down at your hand holding his. When the two of you stepped into the gardens, you released his hand, and crossed your arms.

You began pacing, the hem of your gown brushing the grass with every determined step. James stood still, his arms folded as his watchful eyes followed your every move. Finally, you stopped, turning to face him with a determined expression. "Teach me how to fight."

His brow lifted, and for a moment, he simply stared at you, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through his otherwise stoic features.

"Princess-" He began, but you cut him off.

"I’m serious. I can’t stand the thought of being helpless while everyone else prepares to protect the kingdom. I want to learn how to defend myself... And the people I care about. And after that afternoon…" James turned his head, his gaze settling on the sprawling oak tree nearby, as though ignoring your plea would make it disappear. His silence only fueled your frustration. You huffed, stepping closer to him, your determination unwavering. "You’re the Captain," You said, your voice firm. "If anyone is qualified to teach me, it’s you. Who else could I possibly trust with something this important?" He didn’t reply immediately, his eyes fixed on the bark of the tree, his jaw tightening as he mulled over your words. The breeze stirred his dark hair, "I’m not asking for much," You continued, trying to temper the fire in your tone, though your persistence shone through. "Just teach me the basics - enough to hold my own."

Finally, his hazel gaze shifted, locking onto yours. "And what makes ya think I’d agree to this, Princess?" His voice was low and gruff, carrying the weight of genuine concern. "I highly doubt the King would find that favorable." You met his gaze without flinching, a couple of moments of silence passing between you both. His eyes searched yours, weighing the seriousness in your expression. With a reluctant sigh, he finally spoke, his voice laced with resignation. "Fine," He grumbled, the word heavy with reluctance. "I’ll teach ya. But on one condition."

Excitement surged in your chest, but you masked it with a firm, determined expression. "Name it."

He took a step closer, his presence even more imposing now, towering over you as he leveled you with an unwavering, almost intimidating look. "Ya listen to everythin’ I say. No arguin’, no sneakin’ off to ‘practice’ on your own, and no takin’ risks I don’t approve of. If we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ it my way. Understood?" His tone left no room for negotiation.

Your excitement didn’t waver, though, as you nodded firmly. "Understood."

The very next morning, you stood in your riding gear - comfortable, flexible pants and a simple top - far more practical than the dresses you typically wore. It was a welcome change, though the sight of James’s eyes lingering on you as you adjusted the strap of your quiver wasn’t lost on you. He said nothing, his gaze flicking between your movements and the bow in your hands. You were a good distance from the target, as you raised the bow, your arrow aimed at the target, trying to fix your stance.

With a steady breath, you let go. The arrow flew, but instead of hitting the target, it landed with a soft thud, two feet in front of you.

You stared at it, wide-eyed, shocked at how far off you were. James, already sighing deeply, pushed off from the tree he'd been leaning against. He walked over, out of his usual armour, replaced with what you believed was his training uniform, his frustration was evident.

"Your stance is all wrong," He said, not looking at you but focusing on the arrow instead. "You're not alignin’ your shoulders properly."

Your frown deepened as you muttered, "I’m doing the best I can." The words came out sharper than you intended, a reflection of your mounting frustration.

James said nothing, stepping closer until his broad chest was nearly pressed to your back. His proximity sent a jolt of awareness through you, and you stiffened instinctively, your grip tightening on the bow. "Relax your grip," He instructed softly, his voice lower now, coaxing. His hands came up, fingers brushing lightly against yours as he adjusted the bow in your hands. The contact sent a warm shiver racing up your arm and down your spine, tingling your toes. You could feel the heat of him - solid and steady - radiating against your back.

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding in your chest as you tried to focus on the bow instead of the sensation of his touch.

"Like this?" You asked, your voice faltering, you cursed to yourself mentally.

James didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was focused on your hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers brushed against your wrist, their touch gentle as he tilted your arm slightly. "Not bad.”

His breath, warm and soft, fanned against the side of your neck as he leaned down just slightly to align your arms. It sent a shiver through you, your pulse quickening, and your mind fixated on the smallest details; the rough texture of his calloused fingers - he wasn’t wearing his usual gloves - the scent of leather, pine, and musk that clung to him, and the way his voice rumbled so close to your ear.

"You’re too stiff," He added, his hands lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, adjusting your elbow with a touch so light it left a trail of warmth in its wake; you no doubt had goosebumps. "Breathe.” You exhaled deeply, not even realizing that you were holding your breath. You drew the string back, feeling his hands leave your hand on the bow, and your elbow, though his presence still loomed large behind you. "Now, release.” You let go, the arrow sailing forward and hitting the target - not quite where you’d intended, but closer than before. "Better," He muttered, and for the first time, there was a faint note of approval in his voice.

Turning to look at him, you quickly realized just how close he still was. Your gaze lifted, his face was just inches away, close enough that you could feel his hot breath against your warm cheeks. Your own breath hitched as your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your eyes tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and the subtle curve of his lips.

"Thank you," You managed to whisper, your voice soft, your heart pounding in your chest as you snapped your eyes to his, realizing that you may have been staring at his lips for a tad too long.

Something flickered in his eyes, an emotion you couldn’t quite name, before he stepped back abruptly, retreating to his spot under the tree. The warmth that had surrounded you seemed to dissipate with him, leaving you almost unsteady.

"Continue trainin’," He said, his tone once again commanding and stoic.

You turned back to the target, your fingers tightening around the bow as you tried to shake off the lingering effects of his closeness. But no matter how much you tried to focus completely on the target, you could still feel his touch; a ghost’s caress along your skin. You missed his touch…

Were you the only one who had felt it? That warmth, that tingling that made your spine shiver and your heart race?

“Not proper.” Your mother’s voice rang through your ears and you scoffed to yourself, raising the bow, and trying again.

~~~

Taglist is Open! Let me know if you want to be tagged!

~~~

Main Masterlist | X-Men Masterlist

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alltimecharlo · 2 days ago

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Hi! Any chance theres gonna be another willmack fic from you? Any spoilers maybe? 🥹👀

hello!!! there’s alwaysss more willmack on the way with me dw 🫶🏻🫶🏻

here’s a snippet of something i started last week but have kind of lost momentum on atm: college!mack swaps places with our mack! 🩵

But it’s not that Mack is there. It’s the way he’s standing—weirdly stiff, like he’s bracing for something. His eyes scan Will’s face quickly, flicking over his features with a sharp, searching intensity that puts Will immediately on alert.

“You good?” Will starts to ask, towel still slung over his shoulders, hand running through his curls. But before he can finish, Mack says,

“You’re Will Smith.”

Will freezes, towel halfway to his head again. He stares at Mack, who is still staring at him, wide-eyed and a little pale, like he just saw a ghost. Or maybe a celebrity. It’s unsettling in a way Will can’t quite name.

He lowers the towel slowly. “Uh… yeah?”

His voice is careful, casual, but he frowns slightly, scanning Mack’s face in turn now. Mack doesn’t look hungover or concussed, but there is something off. Like he isn’t quite sitting right in his own skin.

“Where…” Will hesitates. “Where else would I be?”

Mack doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at him like he’s trying to solve an impossible equation. Like Will’s face is familiar and foreign all at once.

Will tilts his head. “Mack?”

And something in Mack’s face twitches, but he doesn’t say anything yet. Will’s chest tightens just slightly, a faint edge of unease working into his calm. He takes a step closer.

“You hit your head or something?”

Will drops the towel from his head, blinking at Mack like he’s trying to decipher whether this is a joke, a prank, or maybe some kind of weird sleepwalking thing. He takes a careful step forward, all damp skin and dripping curls and bare feet padding quiet against the hardwood floor.

“Mack?” he says slowly again, like he’s testing the name for familiarity. He lifts a hand, almost without thinking, fingers ghosting toward Mack’s temple like he’s checking for fever—or a glitch in the matrix. “Are you okay?”

Mack flinches just slightly, not in fear, but like he hadn’t even noticed Will was moving until that moment. His eyes dart to Will’s hand, then to his face, then away again, all the while his brow furrowed tight, like it does when he’s trying to make sense of a scrambled play mid-shift.

And then—

“Did we hook up or something?”

Will practically chokes on air. His hand drops like it’s been burned. “What?”

Mack holds up both palms like it’s a fair question. His voice is fast, a little defensive. “Well I’m in an apartment I don’t recognise and—well, you’re here, and you’re— you’re YOU, so I just—”

He gestures broadly, like Will’s mere presence explains all of this.

Will blinks. “I—what?”

But Mack’s not even listening. He’s in motion again, shifting gears entirely, like he’s still trying to piece together what the hell is going on by triangulating some invisible social map.

“So not you then?” he says, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Who’s your roommates? Your lineys, right?”

Will opens his mouth. Closes it. Then says, “Gabe and Leno?”

Mack claps his hands together once, like something’s clicked into place. “Okay. Cool. So did I hook up with one of them? Must’ve been a crazy night. I can’t remember shit.”

Will’s brain skips a few essential steps.

“Mack, what—Gabe? Or—Leno?”

He can’t even finish the sentence. The mental image alone is enough to send him into a spiral. Mack. With either of them. Will stifles a laugh—nervous, incredulous.

Which apparently is the wrong move.

Mack’s face scrunches again, this time a little wounded, like Will’s just insulted his honour. “What, you don’t think I can wheel your buddies?”

“No, I—fuck, I don’t—” Will rubs a hand down his face, exasperated and deeply, profoundly lost. “What is happening right now?”

———

not entirely sure where i’d be taking this next, but i had this scene in my head and wanted to get it written up lol 🩵 any ideas welcome!

#inbox #charlo talks #my fic #willmack #macklin celebrini #san jose sharks #mackwill #wacklin #will smith hockey

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