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silvaurum · 1 day ago

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mmmm. i think if you can't picture a way to structure families/criminal justice besides "basically what we have now" and "legal child trafficking and everyone gets murdered" that does indicate either a skill issue on your part or an unwillingness to engage with abolition concepts.

the reason some prison abolitionists are done talking about rapists and murderers is because they have explained over and over what could be done. the people who keep asking, could have looked up some of those answers. what does justice look like in less carceral justice systems? what does justice mean for something like murder, where the victim is permanently gone and things cannot be restored or transformed to an acceptable state? those are good questions! there's no single consensus, but there's certainly not a lack of answers.

and more importantly, maybe. the assumption that there is a class of people, 'murderers', who will roam around killing at will for no reason whatsoever, no interiority, just a mindless kill demon... unless they are kept in a concrete cage... is, itself... a part of the philosophy of prisons, which we intend to abolish. that's not a neutral assumption to make.

'what will we do about the murderers' is a legitimate question, but when it is used in this context, it is to say that 'unless we can lock up the mindless murder demons in reinforced concrete cages, we're all gonna die. therefore we need reinforced concrete cages forever, checkmate'.

but i don't believe in mindless murder demons! i believe that people who kill or try to kill other people have reasons for their actions, which stem from their beliefs and their wants and needs, and that we can actually address those things directly. because just locking up murderers with other murderers and cutting them off from the good things in life and subjecting them to more trauma doesn't make them less likely to murder. like. prison doesn't... work.

i feel like its really disingenuous to posit that those are the only two options. either some form of prison as it exists here and now, or else nothing. incarceration does not make up the sum total of potential consequences for harming others, and frankly it doesn't even make up the entirety of punishment-based criminal systems.

with abolishing the family... yeah actually i think if that 3 year old wants to move in with you they should be allowed to. a healthy happy 3 year old is gonna change their mind in about 5 minutes and ask to go home. child abuse is still illegal. someone with bad intentions can already say that kind of thing to a kid and get them alone under our current system. what does change is that if you see someone beating their three year old at a park, you can actually do something about it.

should a 3 year old be able to leave home if they want? yeah. what fucking 3 year old is gonna actually do it. what 3 year old is actually fr gonna abandon their secure attachments to their family, permanently, because of one happy meal, when there's absolutely no abuse or neglect going on. kids don't even want to leave their family when they ARE being severely abused, that's how child development and the psychology of relationship attachment works. if a 3 year old is that willing to leave home something is probably up.

and in this little scenario where children's rights are respected, they probably have a way to contact/ return to their family of origin and are being checked on by others in the community and have some kind of care coordination set up within the larger community structure... like a social worker who helps keep track of where their group's kids are staying and how they're doing. you, a stranger, would not have special rights that their parents do not. if they want to leave YOU they can do that too. and if your point is that freedom of movement makes them vulnerable, i'm sorry to say that their family of origin is statistically far, far more likely to be the source of abuse.

like i hope this post is made in good faith! mostly i disagree with what you define as 'reform'. and what to do about murder is a very legitimate question! but... if your position is "if we didn't have prisons, the people in prison now would be wandering murder demons who kill people for no reason at random times, and somehow no one would kill them in self defense either, so we'd all die" ... yeah that's not a discussion prompt that particularly inspires me to dig into details. i don't think we're on the same wavelength about what crime is or how it works. or how people work. or like. a lot of stuff about earth. and being alive. and i think that's a bigger barrier to use understanding one another than the ol' "what would we do about murder without prison?"

The other reason I'm generally annoyed with the "Abolish X" crowd who actually DO mean "abolish X" and not a watered-down version is that ime they very rarely have fully thought out the implications of what they're demanding and then get angry when other people ask about it.

"Family abolition means completely removing legal ties for family units and allowing all children the choice of where they live" okay. So if I see a three-year-old throwing a fit because she doesn't want to leave the park, and I go over and tell her if she comes home with me she can stay as long as she likes and then we'll get McDonald's on the way home, that three-year-old should have the ability to make that decision? The parent or guardian has no legal recourse to stop me from taking her? Cause if the answer's no, that's not abolition, that's reform baby!

"I'm done talking about what we'll do with rapists and murderers after we abolish prisons, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about!" Well yeah man! 98% of people just interpreted your words as "we're going to let murderers roam around killing people at will"! You need to explain very clearly what plans you have that will stop them that aren't incarceration or you're not going to make any headway! And if your answer involves any form of "well of course SOME people can't be allowed total freedom" - that's not abolition, that's reform baby!

I'm not even gonna touch the number of people who think we should abolish the police and replace them with what are essentially roaming squads of vigilantes dispensing "community justice", whatever the fuck that means.

Like these aren't "gotcha" questions, they're legitimate problems you're going to have to contend with. And if you wave away all these questions with "you're just making up ridiculous scenarios" and "we'll think of something to fix that once we destroy the current system", then yeah actually, I DO think you care more about sounding radical than about making any kind of change.

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bm571158 · 3 days ago

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Lessons In Love- LN4

Description: Lando decides to offer to help his inexperienced friend gain some sexual experience because he can’t face the idea of her doing that with another man. The only issue is that everyone but her knows he’s secretly been in love with her for years, and this is only going to make it even more complicated.

18+ 🔥

Part One

Lando and Alicia had been friends for as long as he could remember. He’d met her brother karting in the early days, she’d always followed the two of them around and they’d just clicked. Her brother James had stopped karting and Lando didn’t see much of him anyone, but Alicia had stayed. A constant in the chaos of F1.

She was busy with her own stuff these days and he didn’t get to see her nearly as much as he would’ve liked, but when she’d told him that she’d booked some modelling work and was going to he in Monaco for a few weeks he’d been quick to suggest that came to stay with him. A chance for them to catch up, even if he was going to be away racing for half of it.

Initially, she’d been unsure, then she’d given into his pleading and agreed it would be nice for the two of them to catch up. But from the moment she’d stepped foot in his apartment it had been almost a kind of torture for Lando. Because she might’ve been blissfully unaware, but he’d been completely and utterly in love with her since they turned fifteen. He’d just never had the balls to tell her in case it ruined everything.

She’d gone out that particular night to meet some friends. Short, tight black dress. Ridiculously high heels and looking like she’d walked straight out of one of his dreams. When she’d given him a twirl and asked him to take a photo of her before she went out he’d not been able to muster anything more than a “you look nice” because all he could think about was her going out in Monaco and having a load of other men’s eyes and hands on her.

He wasn’t about to say that out loud though, so he’d told her to have a good time and call him if she needed picking up. She’d winked, told him not to wait up and gone skipping out of the door.

He had waited up though, just in case. Just because he wanted to make sure that she got home okay. Couldn’t sleep without knowing that she had. It had been a good job that he had as well, it was nearly two in the morning when she’d called him, sounding slightly panicked and between tearful apologies asked if he could come and pick her up.

The address that she gave him caught him by surprise. It was miles away from where she had said that she was going to meet her friends. When he picked her up she was all dishevelled, stood outside an apartment building on her own and her makeup smeared from where she’d obviously been crying.

“What happened?” He asked quickly as she got in the car.

“I went home with this guy and…” she hiccuped.

“Did he…? Because I swear I’ll go up there and-“

“Lando.” She laid her hand on his arm. “He didn’t do anything wrong. It was me, I panicked and just… god I feel so stupid.”

Lando relaxed a little, but still didn’t move.

“Can you please just take me home? I don’t want him wondering why I ran out of his apartment like a lunatic and am now just sitting in the car outside.” She pleaded.

Lando looked over at her again, then started the engine and drove the two of them back home. Once they’d got back she thanked him quietly, but was quick to disappear into the spare room that she had claimed as her own as soon as they got in and before he could try and ask any more questions about what exactly had happened.

When she still hadn’t appeared by nearly lunch time the next day, Lando had decided he was going to have to stage an intervention. So he’d made her a coffee, walked down the hallway to the door to the spare room, and after a quiet knock on the door he cracked it open and peeped around it.

She was sprawled out in the bed, one leg kicking out from under the duvet. Face buried in the pillows. He closed the door behind him, then walked across the carpet and sat down on the bed beside her.

“Come on, sleeping beauty. Time to wake up.” He nudged her gently.

“Fuck off.” She groaned, burying her head further into the pillows. “My head is going to explode.”

Lando laughed quietly. “I brought coffee.”

She stilled a little bit, and the lifted her head just a fraction. “I might need more than one.”

“I can manage that.” He laughed, and when she reluctantly sat up he handed her the mug, watching as she clutched it like her life depended on it.

“Thanks for coming to get me last night, I’m sorry.” She mumbled, between sips of coffee.

“Any time.” He reassured her, pausing for a second. “Are you going to tell me what happened now?”

She took a huge gulp of coffee, which was still burning hot, trying to avoid him for a second. She could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks already. “It wasn’t him, it was me.” She mumbled.

“More words than that.” Lando prompted.

Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, the half drunk mug of coffee dropping down to her lap and she stared at it to avoid his gaze. “We uh… me and my friends we were drinking and they were all talking about sex and I uh… I don’t know why but I told them I’d never… y’know… and I was so embarrassed. They all said I should just have a few drinks, find a guy on the dance floor and go home with him. Get it over and done with… so I did and he was really nice but I just got there and I panicked.” She blurted out.

“You’ve never… like with anyone?” He asked, the words tripping out of his much before he could stop himself. “Like ever?”

“Do you have to make me feel even worse?” She asked, burying her face in his shoulder. “It’s so fucking embarrassing. I don’t you to make it even worse.”

He was quiet for a long moment, still trying to process what she had just told him. Because how many nights had he laid awake when she’d been out all night trying not to think about some other man with his hands all over her body?

“You don’t need to do that with some random guy in a club.” He said softly. “You did the right thing… that’s not… it’s not something you do with a random stranger when you’re drunk, not the first time.”

“I’m sick of all my friends taking the piss out of me for it.” She mumbled, still too embarrassed to sit up and look at him. “Why not just get it over and done with.”

Lando inhaled sharply. “No, not like that.”

“Well have you got any better suggestions?” She asked sarcastically. “Because it’s pretty fucking hard to get past a second date when I then get all awkward and don’t know what to do. I’m going to die alone at this rate.”

“You’re twenty three.” Lando chuckled. “I don’t think you’re quite in the dying alone territory just yet.”

“You know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes.

He was quiet for a long time. “I uh… if you’re sure you don’t want to wait… I could… you know… teach you.”

He held his breath as he said it. He’d almost certainly crossed a line and said something he couldn’t take back. But the idea of her doing that with some random guy in a club while she was drunk… he just couldn’t bear it.

There was a long pause, and just as he was about to start hurriedly back tracking and trying to claim that he had been joking she’d sat up and looked at him.

“I… you’d do that?” She asked curiously. “It doesn’t… like freak you out that I’ve never, you know… because you’ve….”

“If you call me a manwhore again I’m walking out.” He told her. “It was a very bad couple of months and I regret it.”

“Wasn’t going to say it.” She laughed. “But yeah you’ve… got experience.” Her lips twitched into a smirk again.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” He sighed.

“Probably not.” She agreed. “But really, it wouldn’t like… make things weird?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you going out and doing that with some random guy when you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing. If it’s what you want I can teach you… we’ll be fine.”

“Really?” She asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

He nodded. “If it’s what you want.”

She dragged her teeth along her bottom lip, looking over at him. “I want to do it.” She nodded. She looked at him expectantly.

“Not right now… I’m going to go make some breakfast. You need to eat something and sleep off your hangover. We’ll talk properly later.”

She’d showered, changing into fresh pyjamas, and wandered out into the living room, taking the plate of waffles Lando offered to her before flopping down on the sofa. Lando had joined her not long after, flicking idly through Netflix for something to watch. She finished her food, put the plate on the coffee table and shifted around on the sofa to get comfortable.

Eventually Lando had got fed up with her fidgeting, grabbed her legs and pulled them into his lap. His hands resting on her shins, fingers running back and forth over the smooth skin of her legs. His eyes were fixed on the screen ahead, but she could see the way he kept glancing over at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Lando?” She said softly.

“Yeah?” He turned to look at her.

“I think… I think I’m ready for you to teach me.” She breathed, her heart already hammering in her chest with nerves.

He looked at her for a moment, and her stomach twisted nervously, thinking he was about to say no. That he’d had the realisation that he didn’t want to be with someone who had no idea what they were doing.

“Come here.” He said softly, and she sat up nervously.

His hands fell to her hips, sending a shiver down her spine, guiding her until she was straddling his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. Her face level with his.

“You okay?” He asked softly, brushing her hair out of her face. “We don’t have to do anything… if you change your mind at any point, you just tell me and we’ll stop.”

His hand trailed from her hair, down her cheek and collar bone leaving a trail of goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips.

“I’m good.” She breathed.

“You’ll tell me?” He persisted. “You promise.”

“Promise.” She nodded.

“Good girl.” He said softly, hand making its way back up to cradle her jaw, moving his face closer to hers. Her eyes fluttered shut as his lips brushed hers, slowly and gently to begin with, like he was just testing the waters.

His other hand splayed across her back, pulling her in closer to him until her chest was pressed against his, the kiss deepening and his tongue slipping into her mouth with a quiet groan.

The kisses were soft, unhurried and like he had all the time in the world. A million miles away from the guy she’d left the club with the night before. She didn’t have that same riding sense of panic that she’d had with the other guy. She didn’t know if it was because she was sober, or because it was Lando and she knew he’d never hurt her, but she felt safe as she leaned in and kissed him back enthusiastically, fingers twisting into the curls of his hair.

His hand slid down her back, tracing the curve of her ass, giving it a squeeze that had a breathy moan escaping her mouth and catching her by surprise. The sound went straight through Lando, his cock already straining at his sweatpants and he couldn’t help but wonder if she could feel quite how hard he was already.

He reluctantly pulled away from her lips to catch his breath, tipping her head back and dragging his lips down her neck, teeth nipping at her skin and then soothing it with his lips.

“Lando, please…” she gasped out, she didn’t even really know what she was pleading with him to do. Anything. Something. Everything.

He let out a quiet hiss as her hips ground down into his. His hands grabbing her hips to keep her still. As his hands splayed across her thighs, his fingers toyed with the hem of her pyjama shorts, looking at her to try and gauge her reaction.

“Is this okay?” He asked, fingertips slipping just inside her shorts.

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Words, darling.” He reminded her.

“Touch me, please.” Her voice faltered with nerves. “I want you to touch me, Lando.” She repeated, sounding a bit more confident this time.

“Good girl.” He praised her softly. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts and panties, lifting her up enough that he could tug them both down her legs, leaving her sat in his lap completely bare, with a blush creeping up her neck. She buried her head in his neck, suddenly feeling incredibly explode.

“So pretty.” He said softly in her ear, fingers trailing teasingly up the inside of her thighs. “Don’t hide from me, you don’t need to be shy. You still okay?”

“Yeah.” She breathed. “I’m okay.”

“Relax.” He said softly. “You’re okay.” His hand crept higher up her thigh, fingers trailing softly through the slick mess between her thighs. He sucked in a breath as he realised how wet she was, trying to calm him self down as it felt like every drop of blood in his body rushed to his groin.

He dragged his fingers slowly back and forth between her folds, spreading her wetness, watching as her head tipped back and and her eyes fluttered closed. A quiet gasp escaping her as he applied a little more pressure.

He took it slowly, as much as he wanted to lose himself in her, letting her get used to it until her hips started twitching against his fingers, chasing a bit more friction. As she shifted on top of him, he let his thumb find her clit, pressing down on it with more pressure.

She folded over, hands on his shoulder and face buried in his neck, another gasp escaping her. “Oh my god… Lando….”

“Doing so good.” He praised. “So good for me.”

Her hips twitched again, her body reacting on instinct as she chased her high. He could feel her breath in short, sharp bursts against his neck. Feel the way her hips stuttered as she got closer. Could feel the way that her thighs were trembling around his.

A couple more flicks of his thumb against her clit and she was moaning our his name, muffled as she buried her face in his neck, hips jerking as she came.

He worked her through it, fingers slowing as she wriggled away from the over stimulation.

“You okay?” He asked as she tried to catch her breath.

“Fucking hell..” she panted, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “I’m good, I’m so good… we’re definitely doing that again.”

Lando laughed quietly. “Fine by me, darling.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “What about you… that doesn’t look comfortable.” She glanced down at the tent in his sweatpants. “Should I…?”

He caught her hand as it began to head toward his lap. As much as he wanted her to, he didn’t want to rush her. “That’s a lesson for another day.” He said softly, leaning in to give her another kiss. “Let’s do this slowly. No need to rush.”

Taglist: @xjval

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 #formula one #romance #fanfic #lando norris #lando x you #lando fanfic #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris smut #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1

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cherrydriver · 2 days ago

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Saja Boys’ letters to you after you've passed

Just a little something while I work on requests...🙂 (I’m sorry my lovelies)

(Inspired by "Something in the Orange" by Zach Bryan)

CW: ANGST, death, dealing with loss

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ABBY -

Dear y/n,

I need you to come back. I need you. I need you here with me, in this lifetime. I know that we’re soulmates but it wasn’t supposed to go like this. We were supposed to have forever…but you’re gone.

I’ve been coming out to our favorite spot ever since you’ve left. I just sit out here for hours, staring at the sky. Tonight it reminds me of you. The bright orange and red from the sunset. It tells me that you aren’t truly gone…that you’re still here with me, in the orange.

I’d do anything to have you back next to me. To hold you in my arms and tell you how much I love you. I can’t do that verbally anymore but I can express it through these letters I’ve been writing. I miss you more and more each and every day, baby. I love you.

Forever yours,

Abby

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ROMANCE-

Dear y/n,

I think I’ve written about a thousand letters at this point and even though it’s useless, I still feel like it helps a little. It helps lessen that constant ache in my chest that hasn’t gone away since you left. Nothing seems as bright anymore…not when your light is gone from my life.

The bouquet of roses I last gave you is still on the kitchen counter. They’re dead now but I haven’t had the courage to throw them out yet.

I don’t sleep much anymore so I’m usually up for sunrise. I miss our mornings together…especially when we’d go out to watch the sunrise. I still do that even though you’re gone because something in the orange tells me that you’re still there with me in some way.

I’d stay awake every night if it meant that I could go out and watch every sunrise and that’s exactly what I plan on doing. I miss you more than anything, my love and I love you so much.

Yours truly,

Romance

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MYSTERY-

Dear y/n,

Please come back. I know it’s pointless to say that but I still say it everyday in hopes that you’d still just show up. I look for you in every room I enter, wishing to find you in there like normal. When you aren’t…it’s like a part of me shatters even more.

It still feels like yesterday…when we met. It was too soon. You left me too soon. We were supposed to be forever.

The boys worry about me. I’ve hidden myself away even more than I had before. I’ve stopped performing, stopped showing up at rehearsals. I just can’t bring myself to do it, not when you’re gone.

So I spend all my time inside until sunset. Then I go outside and I just stare at the sky. The bright orange reminds me of you…reminds me of us. How many nights we’d spend watching the sunset and talking about random things.

I need you back, sweetheart. I miss you and love you so much, and I always will.

Your love,

Mystery

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BABY-

Dear y/n,

How could you do this to me? I know it’s not your fault but it makes me so mad, I can’t control it. I yelled at the guys the other day and haven’t gone back to see them since. I can’t handle being around them right now, not when I’m constantly reminded that you aren’t here anymore.

Worse yet, I lost control in public. I yelled at fans for getting too close to me. I haven’t been out of the apartment since that day. I’ve stayed on the couch, unable to move.

I watched the sunrise this morning and I swore it was a sign from you. It was so bright and vibrant…just like you. I took a picture of it and sent it to you…only to remember that you’d never receive it.

I don’t know what I’m going to do without you here but I will always love you. Always.

I just need you back…

Baby

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JINU-

Dear y/n,

I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse pain. I’d rather have Gwi-ma’s voice in my head constantly than have to leave with you not being here by my side.

People keep trying to check in on me but I haven’t been able to respond to any of them. I’ve locked myself in the apartment, all of your things still exactly where they were before. I don’t have the strength to even touch any of them.

I watched the sunset tonight…and I think it was you making that bright orange sky. Something about it told me that we weren’t done just yet and I’m hanging on to that.

I’ll find you again, my love. That’s a promise. I love you more than words could even describe and I miss you with every fiber of my being.

See you again,

Jinu

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evilminji · 9 hours ago

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It WOULD give you a chance to have in world nuanced takes? And different people having different opinions on the whole thing? Cause on one hand? If it's an ancient curse? Then it's probably one of, if not THE, cultural shift moments of Before and After in curse creations?

Because NO curse had EVER spiraled so wildly out of control like that before. NO BODY could contain it. Nobody.

Emergency workers. Crack teams of mages. Violent quarantine forces. All for nothing. Just food for the every churning machine. It took the curse mutating to it's now "stable" state and EXTREME measures to to stop a full on Zombie type apocalypse.

So now... you don't DO that. No One does that. Cultural trauma! Haunting old ruins can be found in some places, maybe! And curse creation? *instant ethics panel breathing down your neck* Why Do You Want To Study That, Huh? Up To Something??

Meanwhile VAMPIRES? Some of the eldest remember getting abandoned to their "Fate". Left to DIE. While OTHERS were those self same rescue workers. Good people, trying to help. And younger generations? Are CURSE victims.

They have, culturally, essentially a stable zombie virus. It can SPREAD.

YOU could get infected!! Scary!

But.... is it THEIR fault? They never asked for this. Never asked to lose EVERYTHING. Cause they did. They basically DID lose everything.

Fueled by Nature, Fueled by the Sun, it still now completely flipped to something entirely NEW. Something that is "wrong" (not really, just different. But it would FEEL wrong for a long, long time. Because their minds would insist their birth mana was Correct and THIS mana is Incorrect. Foreign. Body horror).

They'd LOSE basicly? ALL of their years worth of practice and study in their first Mana. Poof! All that hard work. Gone. Were you a master before? A respected scholar or battle mage? Tough shit. You're a baby who can't control the FLOW OF YOUR OWN BODY AGAIN. Like a CHILD.

And you can't even die. Not easily. It would HURT. A lot. And take hours and hours of pain, to escape this new hell you've found yourself in. So... lot of anger. Lot of grief. The kids are generally not all right. AND it's usually because of DELIBERATE spread..

Cause if stable? They figured out a way around the whole "I bite to feed-> oops you're bitten-> new vampire-> two people need to eat now-> WE bite to feed" thing. So there are probabaly two camps of new vampires. Those that wanted to stay with those they care about and knowingly signed on. And those that were victims of Bastard Mcgee, the "want to watch the world burn because I'm angry" criminal, who all the other vampires fuckin haaaaate and have been trying to VIOLENTLY locate to... talk.

Because every group has Those Assholes™

Also! Gives you a chance to dive into Mana a bit? Cause they, being natural Mana-sinks, need it to live/be healthy. And blood is just... kinda the richest, safest, and most digestible source available. But! Since you could say a LOT of researchers got hit in that first wave?

They've been working ever since! Trying to figure out how to infuse mana into food. Into water or wine. Hey, (name)! How've you been! How's that salt experiment going? Any progress? :D

Like... the image of sitting in the bright, cozy home. Filled with research and odd little experiments on cheeses or fruit. Deep underground where the sun can't hurt them. The air filled with soft laughter and chatter. Everyone trying to find Non-Experiment food for their guests and "does anyone still remember how to cook?" "Ooh! Ooh! I think so!"

Especially after being told by someone to be careful of Them. That THEY were dangerous. THEY might try to bite you! They have unnatural mana, kid! Preconceived notions etc.

So many ways to go with this! Especially if you nail down the actual Original Event that caused the spread to begin? If it was an accident. A spell gone HORRIFICALLY wrong. Or a Curse etc. What was it SUPPOSED to do, that it created "Vampires"? Somehow tapped into a previously UNTAPPED energy?

Because Anti-mana would always have been there. Nothing new under the sun etc etc. It just? Wasn't something LIVING beings had. It was a part of decay. Maybe the cycle of Mana itself. Like Filtering+-> Mana-> Filtering- -> Antimana-> Filtering+-> etc?

It would render Antimana? Blank! If there are multiple types in nature? A way to break down energy, wash it up as it were, and put it back in a new place? Clean again. Refreshed.

WHICH? Actually? Would leave Vampires able to eat? Some truely RANK and God awful mana? Curses too. Mmmm, spicy. Crunchy munchy. Their curse eats smaller curses for breakfast. Cause Anti-mana is the cleaning element. A blackhole that spits out light, once it's done chewing on it. After it's stripped all the Nature markers from it. WHICH? Is probably how they live so long!

Maybe!

My vampires CAN walk into the sunlight but doing so would reveal what they would look like if they aged normally

Younger vampires don’t have much to worry about but older vamps have reason to avoid sunlight as they age. They are still immortal, but their aged, sunlit selves are significantly weaker than their non-sunlit forms. Vamps over 100 years old run the risk of crumpling over, fully immobile, but still conscious

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desuwings · 3 days ago

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Welcome to the Show

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: After spending your entire life as the secret sibling to a High Lord and harboring deep resentment for his Inner Circle, you struggle to find your own place in society as a free person. When a member of that same Inner Circle discovers your identity, you know it's only a matter of time before the new life you built comes crashing down.

Word Count: 3.9k

Notes: I was just watching a Nuzlocke and this popped out

MDNI

Lively chatter filled large open room, dim orbs of light were scattered about. The music had lulled to a stop, the musicians needing a brief pause to rest. The high lady of the Night Court was by my side within seconds with a glass of water. "Oh, you didn't have to-" I started as Feyre's forcing the glass into my hands.

"You're even better than I remember," she cut in, sipping from her own glass.

"I almost didn't accept the offer. Thought someone might've been trying to impersonate you," I admitted, swirling the water around in the glass.

"Well, I'm glad I ran into you at Rita's then." Feyre gently clanked her glass against mine. "Drink up."

The high lady shuffled me around the room, introducing me to Lords and strangers I have no business being around. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't even be here. But he has a way of convincing me to do things that I know I shouldn't. A place like this is dangerous for me, but Feyre insisted on having me perform tonight - and what his high lady says, goes.

I felt his smothering gaze from across the room. He kept his distance, as he usually does when others around, but I could feel his eyes following my every move, sense the shadows reaching for every corner. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to glance in his direction. Everything went silent, chatter fading into nothing. Though his mouth didn't move, his voice rang clear in my head. You're beautiful.

"You're a pain in my ass," I muttered. Feyre whipped her head back in my direction, surprise and confusion displayed all over. "Not you, my lady," I rapidly apologized, bowing my head. Azriel's snicker echoed throughout my mind. I ignored his further attempts to reach me, closing the bridge between us. "It's these shoes. I should've broken them in before today."

Feyre laughed off my mistake and turned to introduce me to some fae whose name I couldn't be bothered to memorize. I shot a glare into Azriel's direction, but he was gone. I could still feel him nearby. His scent overwhelmed my senses and when I looked back at the female that was parading me around the gala, his tall figure loomed over us.

"My lady," Azriel started, his tone almost impercetibly mocking me, "don't you think you should allow our performer to rest her voice for a bit?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Feyre giggled, the liquor relaxing the high lady I had always perceived as untouchable. "I didn't intend to keep you to myself this whole time." She draped an arm over my shoulder, the fine beading on her sleeve scratched at my exposed shoulder.

Azreil stepped forward and gently removed the high lady's arm from around my shoulder. He made a some sort of gesture to the high lord from across the room, a signal for him to check on his wife, no doubt.

I made my exit from the crowed swiftly. His steps stayed steady behind me. "Through the doors on the left," he muttered. I couldn't help but obey, despite all the alarms ringing through my mind.

I followed his directions until we found ourselves alone in a dimly lit room, far from the party goers. Each step angered and excited me. I hated that a male had so much power over me. His arms snaked gently around my waist, his lips connected swiftly to my neck before I could even protest. I was weak to his touch. I craved it as much as I hated it. "Azriel." My warning sounded like more of a plea. Even my voice was betraying me.

He hummed, planting kisses along my neck and shoulders. I felt as though my legs might give out. I needed to escape. "Don't," he pleaded, like he could read my mind. "It would be unbearable to be without you for one moment longer."

Like mouse caught in a trap, I stayed put despite willing my body to move. His fingers tickled as they traced along my sides, prodding gently at my breast. "I don't have much time left." The words came out in a whisper. An unconvincing excuse. My breasts ached as he rubbed circles around my nipples, the fabric of my dress quickly becoming an unwelcome guest.

"Are you doubting me?" he challenged, his voice low. His fingers clamped around my nipples and tugged gently, soliciting an involuntary moan from my lips.

"Azriel," I said with as much force as I could muster. "We can't. Not now."

The male pressed a few more kisses along my jaw line before carefully releasing me. As if he knew I would crumble the moment his hands left my body. I instictively reached for him, missing his warmth immediately.

"I hate you," I professed. This time my arms were the ones trapping him there. I pressed my head against his chest, inhaling his scent and trying to memorize every note. He held me as if he feared I might disappear.

"I know." His response was flat, though his touch conveyed what his voice couldn't. Liar.

"I can't keep doing this."

Azriel stiffened as the words came out. I couldn't tell if the hurt I felt was mine alone. I reached for him with my mind. I'm tired of hiding.

"I know," he answered aloud.

The air was so heavy, suffocating even. We lingered in it. There was no point in having this conversation again.

My entire life until recently had been spent in the shadows. Keir did everything in his power to keep my identity a secret, especially once my powers began to show. I think he had hoped to use me as a bargaining chip, but things never worked out in his favor. Our former high lord was too proud to acknowledge a daughter born from a female that wasn't his mate.

For centuries, I allowed Keir's hatred to infect me. I trained in secret, existed in secret - became the weapon that Keir wanted me to be. I was behind every scheme he put into place, but it was never enough for him. Rhysand would always appear and make a fool out of Keir - something that equally delighted and angered me.

After Rhysand revealed Velaris, I knew I needed to go, to step out of the watchful eye of my relative. My hatred for my brother only grew as I discovered the little slice of paradise he kept hidden from the rest of us. I resented how he cared for this city, but neglected the rest of the court.

Velaris was the kind of place I thought only existed in dreams. As time went by, I found myself believing I could get used to living in a place like this. Meeting Azriel changed that. I knew from that moment that my time in the Night Court would be limited.

"Remember the night you first found me at Rita's?" I asked after a prolonged silence. He sighed in response. "You tried to kill me."

"But-" he started, only for me to silence him.

"If they knew, they would do the same. This bond…" I paused, mustering the courage to look in his eyes, "It's not enough to overlook all the things I've done."

"That's not true-"

"You only feel this way because the Mother is forcing you to, Azriel. Maybe it's for the best that we let it go." I forced myself to back away from him, to remove myself from the warmth of his embrace. I can't forget about how Rhysand and his inner circle were the cause of so much misery in my life, regardless of whether they were aware of what they were doing or not. And I know Azriel can't forget about all the times he caught me trying to carry out one of Keir's schemes. It's why he's kept me hidden from everyone he cares about.

Azriel's jaw clenched, and I felt the shadows breeze past me as they swarmed around the room. You know I'm right. This can never work. I backed away slowly, afraid to meet the male's eyes. A simple gaze would be enough to soften me to his influence again. "I have to go," I whispered and rushed from the room.

Back in the main room of the gala, the band was getting ready for the rest of the performance. I just needed to get through this and I would be free. I avoided the stares of the wealthiest members of Prythian. I was just some new shiny thing for them to gawk at.

The room quieted quickly as the first few keys of the piano rang through the air. In the back of the room, like a wounded animal, was Azriel's sulking figure - hiding behind his shadows. I cleared my throat and held my head high, reinforcing the barriers in my mind. His sadness felt as though it could strangle me.

"I want to thank our special hosts for having us all here tonight," I started as the pianist began building anticipation, "Our beautiful High Lady, Feyre-" I paused. The gentle strumming of the bass picked up behind me, suspense filling the air. "And her adoring mate, Rhysand..." Laughter filled the room at the seemingly innocent jab at out High Lord. I watched as my brother cracked a smile, gazing down at his mate with adoration I would never dare to dream of. Anger boiled in my veins at the sight, at what I knew could never be mine. "Without them, none of this would have been possible."

Cheers erupted as I forced the same old familiar smile. The smile that I resented. The sax echoed through the room, excitement taking over every soul but two. As the band began to play in sync, I readied myself for my final performance. The pianist shouted out, "I wanna see those bodies moving!"

And the performer in me took over, hips swaying to the rhythm. I wouldn't hold back. My voice spread over the crowd in sync with the surrounding music. His presence lingered no matter how much I tried to ignore it, shove it away. He refused to let go as much as he refused to fight for it. And that was what made this so unbearable.

I could feel my professionalism waning with each song though. The longer he tugged at threads of our bond, the more my heart and mind were being tugged in two different directions. That suffocating feeling wouldn't go away unless I truly put an end to it.

I struggled through the final song, though either no one noticed or they were too drunk to care. And as soon as the applause died down, I rushed off the stage, needing to get out of that room before it killed me. I nearly tripped over dark cobalt fabric of my dress, but managed to duck unnoticed. Unnoticed by everyone but him.

I burst through a door after door until I finally made my way through this maze of a house and to the outside. The moon was high in the sky, stars blinking as though they were trying to warn me of something. I looked back just as Azriel appeared through the door. "No." The sentence was filled with as much force and loathing as I could muster.

"It doesn't have to be like this. I can fix this," he pleaded.

"I will not give my life to someone so ashamed of me. What is there to fix?" I yelled, my frustration boiling over. "I have never, never, been allowed to exist as I am. With you, it would be no different."

The words struck him in the chest, the desperation in his eyes evident. "It could be. It will be. We just need to ease them into it. We just-"

"No!" Darkness began to swirl around us. "I'm sick of playing pretend."

With each step Azriel took towards me, I took two back. Until my back was pressed against the stone railing that overlooked the garden. As he approached, I reached out with my mind. Stop. He ignored me. I'm warning you. Stop. Ignored again. I hardened my gaze, though the tears in my eyes spoke the truth I couldn't. I tightened my grip on his mind, another waning, and he sank to his knees in pain. I don't want to hurt you, Az. Just let me leave. Break this bond, so we can both be happy.

"I won't," he sputtered, every part of his body tensing. I had expected him to put his walls back up, to kick me out. I knew he was capable of it. But instead he left himself exposed. I took a step forward, trying to strengthen my resolve.

My lip trembled, heart breaking as I strengthed my grip on his mind again. Not enough to truly damage him, but hopefully enough to scare him.

It was in that moment that a dagger zipped by my face, leaving a shallow cut on my face. Blood spilled over, dotting the dress I spent a fortune on for this stupid event. It distracted me enough to let go of Azriel. I broke from the males gaze to see Rhysand and Feyre forcing their way through the darkness I conjured around us. Nesta was already at Azriel's side, and she looked pissed.

"I should've aimed lower," she spat. Before I could blink, Cassian was behind me, holding a knife to my throat and binding my arms behind my back,

Just as swiftly, Azriel at Cassian's side, holding Truthteller up to his brother's throat. "Get your hands off her," he snarled.

Time seemed to freeze in that moment, no one sure what to do next. Everyone was on guard; weapons drawn and ready to strike the moment I drew too deep of a breath.

"I said," Azriel started, his blade pressing into Cassian's skin, "take your hands off my mate." His voice sounded deadly, intimidating. Cassian instantly backed away, and though he didn't show it, I could smell the fear eminating from him.

Azriel positioned himself between me and his family, dagger in hand, stanced like he was ready to fight.

"Why are you protecting her?" Rhysand demanded. His voice was like nails on a chalkboard. I felt Rhysand trying to enter my mind, but despite all his faults, Keir raised me better than that. Our eyes locked, and for a moment I feared he might sense the familial bond between us that I spent my entire life trying to hide. But if the high lord knew anything, he didn't let is show.

This was the closest I had ever been to my half-brother. Keir always wanted to keep me far away, for fear of our cover being blown. Azriel side stepped to break our line of sight. Silence still lingered.

"Azriel, move," Rhysand demanded once more, with more force than before.

"No."

"She was going to kill you!" Feyre barked, raising her fists.

"Then I would deserve to die at her hand," Azriel retorted.

"That's enough, Az," I croaked, tears mixing with blood.

Cassian glared at me. "Don't talk like you know him." His words were laced with hatred.

"Az," I pleaded. My voice strained over the lump in my throat. "Just let me be free."

Azriel looked at me, concern and perhaps even fear in his eyes. "I love you." The confession was barely a whisper. The first time those words left his lips. A stricken match. A knife in the back.

I shook my head. "You don't mean that."

Azriel reached for me but I swatted his hand away. The sudden movement set Rhysand and Cassian into motion, but before they could reach me, Azriel's fist connecte with Cassian's jaw, sending the male to the floor. Rhysand froze in place once more.

"I love you," Azriel repeated. I couldn't stop the sob from spilling out this time. His hands gently caressed my face, wiping the tears with his thumbs.

"You're confused," I sobbed. "You don't even like me. I have been your enemy since before you knew I existed."

"Don't talk like that," he whispered, lowering his lips to mine. My body felt like it was fire, like I would melt into his touch any moment now.

"We would have killed each other that night-" I insisted, but he silenced me by pulling me deeper into the kiss. I wobbled beneath him, and he snaked an arm around my waist to hold me up.

The spread of his Azriel's wings was a familiar sound to me. I instinctively gripped onto him as tightly as I could, and when he finally broke our kiss, we were in the air. Away from our treatening audience. They didn't follow.

I waited for Azriel to speak.

And I didn't have to wait long.

"I will make them understand," he pledged, his eyes the most sincere I had ever seen them. But I couldn't bring myself to trust it. "You will get the life you deserve if it's the last thing I do."

"You shouldn't say things you don't mean." I couldn't help the bitter laugh that followed.

"The biggest regret of my entire life if making you feel like I was ashamed of you."

I couldn't meet his eyes. Empty promises, I pushed the thought into his mind, as if to convince him it was true. His gaze sharpened.

"I will never let you feel like that again." He said it with such confidence.

Azriel reached for me, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. His fingers gripped my chin authoritatively, forcing me to look into his eyes. I love you. The words made my heart flutter, desire dripping from his voice.

I was tired. And I wanted nothing more than to believe him. My heart was yearning for him, but still, I hesistated.

He tilted my head, eyes travelling to my lips. He traced his thumb over my lips, slowly closing the gap between us. When his lips brushed teasingly against mine, my entire body seemed to react. I tangled my fingers into his soft, black hair and pressed my body against his.

Azriel's fingers trailed down along my jawline, and landed gently on my neck. With his other hand, he began to massage my breast, eliciting a soft moan out of me. I felt him grin against my lips, knew he was celebrating that as a win.

I couldn't help but squirm under his touch. With each second, I could feel my wetness starting to pool. He was always so quick to turn me on. With both hands now, he squeezed my breasts, thumbing over my erect nipples. Our kisses grew sloppier by the second, and I released another moan into his mouth.

"Let me show you what the rest our life would be like," he whispered, pulling his lips away from mine. He reached behind me and unzipped my dress at a torturingly slow pace. It fell to the floor, leaving my aching breasts exposed to the crisp air of the mountain. Azriel knelt before me, leaving kisses along my stomach before pulling me onto his lap.

The moment his lips latched onto my nipple, I knew I was done for. I was putty in his hands. He licked and nibbled and pulled, knowing exactly what I need to be pleased. Azriel's free hand drifted to the area between my thighs. Teasingly, his fingers traced around my folds.

My need was growing to an unbearble point. "Don't do this to me," I whined, grinding my hips into his palm. He chuckled and shifted his attention to my other nipple, still refusing to touch me where I most needed.

Azriel took his sweet time spreading my folds, his fingers instantly slick at the movement. I groaned in frustration as he continued to tease me. I took a tight hold of his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look at me. "Touch me, Az."

"I am, sweetheart," he smirked.

I gave his hair another tug. A silent demand. This time, he obeyed. He grinned as his fingers danced around my clit. "Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice teasing.

I hummed, pressing my forehead to his. "More," I whispered.

Azriel, eager to please, picked up his pace, creating the perfect amount of friction against my clit. But it wasn't enough. Never had I so strongly craved the feeling of Azriel inside me. My fingers clumsily fumbled with the buttons on his pants, trying to be rid of the fabric denying me what I wanted most in the moment.

We worked together to free his erection, and I wasted no time positioning myself above it. Once I felt his tip poking at my entrance, I carefully lowered myself onto his cock. The sensation felt brand new to me everytime. An overwhelming feeling of pleasure kept building within me. Each thrust of our hips sent jolts throughout my entire body.

Our lips collided messily and his hand found its way to my neck again. Azriel knew the exact right amount of pressure to apply to send me over the edge. My legs began to shake, losing the strength to keep moving on my own, but Azriel more than made for it with each thrust upwards.

Drool pooled out of my mouth, his grip still tight on my neck. I dug my fingers into his shoulders as I felt my orgasm hit, my eyes rolling back as I trembled around his cock.

"Oh sweetheart, you finished so quickly," he hummed, slowly releasing my neck as I came down from the orgasm. He gently flipped us over, pressing my back into the cool grass. He wasted no time - thrusting hips as deep as possible. His pace was brutal, yet euphoric. Azriel's grip on my waist was so tight, keeping me in place as he fucked me.

There wasn't enough time for my body to recover from the first orgasm. I couldn't control myself as screams of pleasure escaped from my lips. Azriel's rough hands gripped my jaw, forcing my mouth to remain open. He spat into my mouth then shoved a few fingers in, ordering me to suck as he pounded into me.

I felt his cock begin to twitch inside me, and I knew he was close. I rocked my hips in sync with his. His cock reached all the right spots, bringing me back to the brink once again. "You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart?" he moaned.

I whimpered in response and he pulled his fingers out of my mouth, placing them around my clit instead. He rubbed and thrusted until I lost complete control of my body, convulsing as pleasure took over my senses.

Azriel's cum spilled into me and he roared with pleasure. His trusts continued a moment longer, riding out our highs together. He crashed his lips onto mine once again and I felt I could devour him in that moment.

"I love you," he panted out as he pulled away from my lips. "I love you and nothing will change that."

"I love you too," I breathed out, not a hint of hesistation to be seen. Though I was afraid, I was choosing to trust him. To take him at his word.

"Come home with me." I shook my head at Azriel's request.

"Tonight, I want it to just be you and me," I answered. His eyes let me know he understood.

We lay in the grass a while longer, feeling safe in each other's arms for the first time, knowing tomorrow is when the real battle will begin.

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #fics #acotar fics #acotar oneshot #azriel shadowsinger #azriel one shot #azriel acotar #a court of thorns and roses #enemies to lovers

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i1ovedeanwinchester · 3 days ago

Text

late again

Summary: You and Clark have a standing dinner date. Well, neither of you has really labeled it “date.” Tonight he’s late… hours late. What is it with Clark and tardiness? Always showing up looking like he fell out of a tornado with a barely-there excuse and dimpled smile. It’s almost like he has a secret double life you’re just waiting for him to spill the beans about.

WC: 2.2K

Author’s note: I’ve literally never written a fan-fic before but YOLO. I’m obsessed with Superman and love this awkward nerdy man 😋. Comments and criticism greatly appreciated!!!! :)))))

Content: superman x reader (in my mind David corenswet, but you can really think any iteration!), not explicit, only fluff!!! Clark and reader are goofy awkward idiots!! Angst? Maybe? Pining, two idiots in love unknowingly. Jealousy (sorry Lois). Clark gets bullied by Steve lol. LOVE CONFESSION!!! Possibly gender neutral I don’t rly remember tbh.

LMK if anything is missed!

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You felt your stomach rumble and your eyes burn as you look at the time: 9:15 pm. You pack up your bag and close out all of the tabs on your Daily Planet desktop, smiling to yourself. Friday night is always the highlight of your week. You and Clark had been meeting at your apartment every Friday for dinner for the past few months. The food was nothing special, usually some form of takeout or a hastily thrown together meal that was soon scarfed down. You often ate as a movie played in the background of one of your journalistic debates (Clark called them that, not you). Superman was a frequent topic and you loved teasing Clark by calling him his boyfriend. He was immediately defensive even after weeks of the ongoing joke.

You throw your bag over your shoulder as you walk to Clark’s desk, noticing the frantic look on his face. The way he hastily throws his bag over his shoulder, tie askew and glasses slightly crooked on his face. It’s endearing, really, how awkward he is.

“I have something I need to take care of. You go on ahead and order us something from that Chinese place on your block and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” His gaze travels to your mouth before he looks back up to your eyes and blinks hard. You feel your stomach flip. He’s gone and headed towards the staircase within seconds. On your walk home you wonder why he looked like he had stopped himself from saying - or doing- something before his hasty departure. You wish he hadn’t.

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Now back at your apartment, you begin unpacking the copious amounts of Chinese food you bought. Feeding Clark is like feeding a small army and then some. You leave the many different cartons out on the counter before going to take a quick shower, giving Clark some time to arrive late. What is it with him and tardiness?

It’s been over an hour- you even shaved your legs and washed your hair- and still no sign of Clark. You wouldn’t dare eat without him. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, turning on some crappy tv while mindlessly scrolling through your phone. You think of texting him just to make sure he’s okay but you’re not his mother. Sadly, you’re not his girlfriend either.

It would be easy to think of these Friday night dinners as dates. It would be easy to remember the times you’d rested your head on his shoulder during a movie and felt him trace shapes along your spine when he thought you were asleep. But this is Clark we’re talking about. Clark who brings your entire bullpen group coffee every morning, despite being hounded by Perry for being late almost daily. Clark who’s too kind, too giving, and too good to reject you. Clark who shows Lois the same affection as you only amplified. You could run the entire Daily planet off of the electricity you felt between them during their witty debates.

You chalk everything up to Clark being Clark. Sweet, charming, farm-boy Clark who calls his mom weekly and grew up running barefoot through corn fields.

Multiple hours pass and you begin to feel yourself drifting off to sleep in the dim, blue glow of the tv light. It’s almost 1 am and still no Clark. The excessive amount of takeout you had ordered has long since gone cold in the kitchen. Your mind drifts to Clark-where he might be, what he might be doing. You mentally kick yourself for thinking he could be standing you up for Lois. You immediately feel guilty and try to remember that Lois is your friend and this weekly ritual was never anything more than a friendly tradition. You fall asleep wrapped in a heap of blankets, wishing the warmth was from him.

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Clark’s heart sinks as he enters your apartment to find you laying on the couch alone. The smell of cold grease wafts up to his nose as he sees the cartons of food you bought still on the kitchen counter, untouched. He had been fighting some giant monster from who knows where with 11 arms and 4 rows of teeth all while you were sitting here alone. Waiting for him. The very thought of you repeatedly checking the clock before deciding to give up and call it a night sends a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. He had to have been the biggest idiot alive.

Clark was enamored with you the moment he saw you. You were putting Steve in his place, a hand on your hip and a look of fiery determination on your face. You were calling him an asshole for referring to Clark as a “corn-shucking hill-billy” (whatever that meant). He had never seen Steve go completely quiet before, ego bruised just slightly. For that, he admired you. After months of sitting across from one another, weekly dinners, inside jokes, and brushing hands while exchanging coffee, Clark felt like he was going to explode. The small work crush he had allowed himself to have on you had blossomed into something much bigger. It warmed him from the inside out to think about you. Little did he know you felt the same.

He slowly moved towards your sleeping form on the couch to pick you up. With one arm under your knees and the other supporting your upper back, he carried you to your bed. He planned on staying the night on your couch and begging on his hands and knees for your forgiveness in the morning if he had to.

But just as he laid you down, you began to stir

“Clark?” You muttered, voice scratchy from disuse and drowsiness.

He shuttered at the sound. He loves hearing you say his name.

“I’m right here. I’m so sorry I’m late. I-I tried to get here as fast as I could but-“ you cut off his rambling by blindly reaching out for him in the dark of your bedroom.

“Stay. Here with me.”

It comes out as barely a whisper; like you’re afraid saying the words too loud will shatter your friendship. Even half asleep, you know what you want and you know how much it scares you. You barely peek up at him through your lashes and know that it scares him too.

The silence between you two stretches for a moment before you see the giant shape that is Clark begin to move in the dark. He hesitantly removes his button-up, shoes, and socks before ever so gently sliding into bed next to you, clad only in a soft white undershirt and his slacks. He smells of soap and radiates body heat that instantly warms you.

He leaves a respectable amount of space between the two of you, careful not to cross any boundaries you may not be able to set in your sleepy state. His feet hang a considerable amount off the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t mind. He’s too nervous to notice anything other than his own thundering heart beat in his ears and your soft frame curled up so close to him.

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After a span of comfortable silence, you turn towards him, tucking yourself snugly in the crook of his neck. Your eyes are squeezed shut and you pretend to have innocently moved in your sleep. You think you have him fooled, feigning sleep if only to stretch the moment longer, but he hears the quickening of your heart beat as he instinctively pulls you impossibly closer.

“I know you’re awake” he mutters into the crown of your head.

“I can hear your heart racing. Am I making you nervous?” He’s teasing you, a small smirk pulling his lips upward.

You’re almost certain he can feel the embarrassing heat radiating off of you where your bodies currently touch.

You sit up fully now, confused, half-asleep brain trying to make sense of what he means. Is he being serious or is this just him picking on you? You reach over to your bedside table, switching on a lamp. You look at him again in the soft yellow glow of the lamplight. He’s taken off his glasses and his eyes, so blue and full of adoration, look so familiar. He looks different without the black frames. Still your Clark, handsome in a classic sort of way, but different. In fact, he looks exactly like someone else but you can’t quite put your finger on who.

He watches you study him, practically seeing the gears turn inside your mind. He knows you’re figuring it out. You’re up and out of bed now, pacing around your bedroom as you start to put the pieces together. He’s always late to work, disappearing and coming back windswept, getting exclusive interviews with Superman…

Superman.

No it can’t be. Your precious, nerdy, awkward, farm-boy Clark can’t be Superman. But the more you think about it the more you realize it couldn’t be anyone else

You practically jump back into bed on your knees, slapping Clark hard on the shoulder.

“Ow!” He exclaims from his position propped up on his elbow, taking up over half of your mattress with his large frame.

“Oh cmon SUPERMAN you know that didn’t hurt”

In the soft glow of the lamp-no glasses on, eyebrows drawn together in what looks to be worry- he looks so noble. He looks, well, like Superman. You really don’t know how you failed to catch it sooner.

He sits up now, reaching his hand up to cup your face. “I’m sorry for being so late tonight, I’m sorry for not telling you the whole truth, I’m sorry for lying and making excuses. You don’t know how many times I tried to tell you the truth I.. I was just scared.”

You sit there stunned, listening in silence as you let him continue.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do more than anyone. I just didn’t know how you would respond if I told you; If it would change the way you saw me. I don’t want to lose you.” He leans forward now, touching his forehead to yours. Your entire body goes still, breaths intermingling in an intimate way.

You feel things shift. You reacted playfully to this discovery, thrilled that you had only moments before been cuddling with Superman. But Clark’s anxiety is almost palpable. You can see it in the way he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Nothing would ever change the way I see you Clark. I-I never thought… I thought you were in love with Lois. That’s actually who I thought you were with tonight. I know we haven’t spoken about what we are to each other. I know these Friday dinners aren’t dates but I like you so much. I know it’s so stupid and insecure but you two work together so well and she always makes you laugh and she’s so smart and an amazing writer and-“

He cuts off your rambling by closing the barely there distance between you. The kiss is tentative and sweet, so like what you would expect from Clark. You feel heat rush to your cheeks just as you see the tips of his ears turn red.

He kisses you again-this time with more urgency- before peppering the entire rest of your face with featherlight kisses. You let out an uncharacteristic giggle at the feeling and bat him away as the trail he’s making down your neck begins to tickle.

“It’s always been you. From the moment you arrived at the daily planet. You only solidified your spot when you called Jimmy an asshole in my defense that one time.”

He smiles big and bright, dimples flashing, before continuing, “Lois has always been a close friend but I never wanted something more with her the way I do with you.”

You slide your hand in his dark curls like you’ve been wanting to for months and pull him in for another searing kiss. You pull back and lay down, pulling him on top of you, his weight a comforting feeling.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You lay there talking, giggling, kissing, and berating him with questions for hours. You lose track of time until you see the faint light of dawn creeping through your window.

“Hey Clark, you know how you’re Superman and stuff?” you mutter, words slurred with sleep.

“Mhm”

You can feel his smile bloom from where his face is pressed against your chest.

“Did you ever use your X-ray vision to see what underwear I was wearing or is that not how it works?”

The laugh that follows your question makes you feel like he doesn’t allow himself to laugh at home.

“Okay sweetheart, time for bed.” He says, wiping tears of laughter from beneath his eyes and pulling himself up to give you one last goodnight kiss on the forehead.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ END ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮★

If you made it this far, thank you so much! This is my first fic, so comments are greatly appreciated :)

I also have a Superman playlist on Spotify if anyone is interested!

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jammatown919 · 9 hours ago

Text

To Mean Something

Relentlessly bullied as a child, Zoey finds her former tormentors happy to know her at the height of her fame.

Chapter One - Now That I am Someone

Zoey had never been popular growing up. Never expected to be, either.

She was that weird, excitable, mildly foreign kid with headphones on in class, her nose constantly buried in a notebook, and strong-smelling food in her lunch. Whenever she tried to start conversations, they were about music theory or ocean ecosystems or something else only she cared about. She talked too much and too loudly, or else not at all.

No one particularly liked her. At least, not for long. Occasionally, someone found her charming or funny for a little while, but it never took much time for them to decide they'd had enough. They didn't have enough common interests, or her ramblings were getting old, or she wasn't enthusiastic enough about the things they wanted to do. Eventually, they all drifted away.

As for everyone else, they either found her entirely forgettable or remarkably easy to pick on with her trusting nature and desperate need to be liked.

Joining Huntr/x gave her a second chance. Taught her how to use her bubbly personality and particular interests to endear herself to masses that didn't already know her as the kid they shouldn't try to talk to lest she never shut up. Allowed her to create a new identity, carefully crafted by her own hands and not lunchroom gossip about how she cried in the bathroom after tests and was closer to her music teacher than any of the other kids and stayed late after school because her parents were finalizing their divorce.

As the maknae of Korea's most beloved girl group, all the things that had once made her weird and unlikeable could be cutesy, loveable qualities, provided she learned how to properly apply them. Her interview side tangents were endearing. Letting her bandmates baby her in public was adorable. Her unique blend of cultural norms was just Zoey being her silly half-American self.

But most of all, her lyrics were inspiring. Her voice was respected. Even when they thought of her as the childish one, when she was on stage, people sat down and listened. No teasing, no ridicule. Just admiration.

It made her feel powerful. Like she mattered. Like she didn't have to choose between her authentic self and a likeable mask. Like all those people from high school just hadn't been able to see her potential.

And then the strangest thing happened. About a year post-debut, after Huntr/x had gained some international popularity, she stumbled across a post from the American side of the fandom. A video of two people dancing to one of their newest songs. They had both gone to high school with her. Called her slurs in the hallway all throughout senior year. And they were dancing and singing along to her lyrics.

Did they... not know who she was? It hadn't been that long. Her face still looked the same.

She knew in that moment it was probably a bad idea, but she checked out the account anyway.

God, there were so many Huntr/x posts. So many Zoey posts. Bragging about having known her before she got big. Calling her their favorite.

Their fucking favorite, as if they hadn't shoved her around until she had bruises and spread rumors that she was sleeping with the music teacher because he was one of the only adults she trusted at the time. As if they hadn't hated her until knowing Zoey from Huntr/x could be used for clout.

She tried not to let it get to her, but over the next few years, she found more accounts like it. People who had once stolen her notebooks and publicly ridiculed her lyrics now boasting that they'd gotten to hear some of her most popular songs years early, which wasn't even true, as all of Huntr/x's discography had been written after her permanent move to South Korea. People who had found her obsession with turtles weird and annoying and destroyed her keychains just to see how it made her cry now sporting all the turtle merchandise they could get because it was finally cool to share in her interests. People who had told her to go back to her own country talking about how proud they were that she was representing good old Burbank.

For a while, it made her blood boil, but she managed to talk herself down eventually. Of course they had changed. All that unpleasantness had been years ago, when they were all still kids. Zoey was the weird one, really, for still being hung up on it.

What did she have to be upset about, after all? She had everything she could ever want. A successful music career, the adoration of millions, the satisfaction of a greater purpose through her maintenance of the Honmoon, and two amazing women who loved every inch of her to share it all with. So what if some people had been mean to her a while ago? Clearly, they liked her now. She should be grateful.

That line of reasoning worked for her all the way up until one of them showed up to a signing.

Zoey didn't even recognize her at first, with her sharper features, shorter hair, and more mature style of dress. In a sea of people, the face simply didn't stand out to her. Nor did the voice, though she would realize after the fact that it hadn't changed at all.

For a few seconds, it was just another fan coming up to Huntr/x's table for an autograph. One of hundreds she would meet today. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

"Zoey!" the young woman squealed in much the same manner as the several fans before her. "Oh, it's so good to see you again!"

Zoey blinked at her, hand frozen above the poster she'd been given to sign. This happened from time to time, but she always felt terrible about it. Fans would speak to her briefly during events and then come back later expecting her to remember, even though it would be impossible for her to recognize every face she saw at these things. It generally took a particularly notable interaction or frequent repeated encounters for her to actually start remembering people.

Still, she would hate to disappoint anyone.

"You too!" she said brightly. Her marker glided over the bottom of the poster, leaving behind her name and the little cartoon turtle that had become a part of her idol signature.

The woman must have seen something in her face. A lack of recognition or an insufficiently excited response.

"Don't tell me you don't remember me." She took on a playful pout.

Zoey stared at her, caught out and on the spot. Should she remember this person?

"Zoey..." she went on with a good-natured whine. "Come on, it's Ava!"

Zoey dropped her marker. Only years of training and experience allowed her to play off the jolt that shot through her as a burst of excitement.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, sweet and happy even as several things hit her at once. The echo of jeering voices. The phantom sensation of hands gripping her shoulders. The faint memory of alcohol burning her tongue.

Ava didn't seem to notice. She smiled, big and bright like she had that day in junior year when she'd approached Zoey in the library and kindly asked what she was writing. Like she would at lunch, for those sweet few months Zoey had thought she'd found a friend.

"I've been trying to get out here to see you for forever." Ava leaned in close over the table. "I caught your show the other day. Hearing you live was crazy!"

"Did you... come all this way just to see me?" Zoey asked in a small voice. The very idea made her skin crawl.

"Of course!" Ava beamed at her, oblivious to the way she squirmed. "I was your first fan, girl. Just wish you'd gotten famous back in the States so I wouldn't have to come so far."

First fan.

Did she not fucking remember?

"It was so sweet of you to make the trip," Zoey said instead of any of the more pointed things running through her mind. "I'm glad you liked the show."

"Oh, it was great. Would've been cool if there was a meet and greet then, but now's good too." Ava reached into her pocket to pull out her phone. "Do you think I could get a quick selfie? Everyone back home would lose their minds."

Zoey had to try very hard to resist the urge to start yanking her own hair out. She should have seen that one coming, really. It had always been about what the others thought with Ava. That was the only reason she'd ever cared about Zoey's lyrics. To bring them back to her real friends and simply roll with what was cool at the moment. They were all the rage now, but back then, the trend had skewed toward making stupid parodies that mocked every bit of emotion poured out onto the pages of those notebooks Zoey had been stupid enough to share.

It didn't matter the topic. Something light and fun, made purely for the joy of creation? An outlet for her feelings toward her crumbling home life? An attempt to make sense of suddenly having two homes and feeling like an outcast in both? All prime teasing material.

"I'm sorry..." She put on her best apologetic face. "There's still the line, and if I give one person a selfie, I have to give everyone a selfie, and well... y'know."

Rather than disappointed, Ava just looked surprised. Like she couldn't believe Zoey would tell her no.

"No exceptions for your friends?" she asked.

Please go away, Zoey thought desperately.

"I'm really sorry."

"Zoey-"

But the line was beginning to push now, and the fan that had lingered several minutes too long had drawn Bobby's attention. He motioned to another member of the staff, who started forward. Ava finally seemed to take the hint.

Expression thoroughly soured, she stepped away from the table and made way for the next fan in line, leaving Zoey with sweat on her brow and a foul taste in her mouth that reminded her of sitting on the floor of stranger's bathroom, fumbling for her phone.

She didn't have much time to linger on it. The fans behind Ava had already been waiting too long. She had to shelve however she felt about that interaction for later, plaster on her sweet smile, and keep going. After all, she would hate to disappoint anyone.

But she couldn't get it out of her head. The kind eyes that had turned sharp and cruel without warning. The encouragement, the praise that had made her think she'd found a place, only to be met with the reality that she was a joke to everyone. Bile crept slowly up her throat.

Despite her best efforts to welcome each fan with warmth and enthusiasm, part of her wasn't here anymore. She was 17 again, curled up on tiles that weren't hers while her head spun, her only friend laughed at her humiliation, and her father made his way over to add "cries to daddy and ruins parties" to the list of hits her reputation had taken over the years.

When she looked up to hand over the poster she'd just signed, she didn't see the adoring, awestruck faces of her fans. She saw the attendees of a party she hadn't even want to go to watching gleefully as she made a fool of herself, egged on by alcohol she hadn't wanted to drink and a friend who had promised to look after her.

She stood up suddenly, her chair screeching loudly against the floor. If anyone looked, she didn't notice. Didn't care. She just needed to get out of this room.

Faster than she could process, she was running. Down a side hall, toward the room that had been supplied for Huntr/x to prep and rest before the event.

Distantly, she heard Rumi's voice.

"Just a few minutes, everyone! We're just taking a short break."

Her ears rang. Her head throbbed. By the time she'd stumbled her way into the room, it was all she could do to reach a nearby plush chair and flop down, dead weight and nauseous. Moments later, the door opened again, followed by two sets of footsteps.

"Zoey?" Mira asked, her voice low and urgent.

"What's going on?" Rumi approached quickly and dropped to her knees in front of the chair, eyes frantically searching Zoey's face. "Are you okay?"

Fuck. What was she supposed to say?

Yeah, I'm good, just freaking out because I'm not over someone being a bitch to me five years ago.

Why couldn't she just get over it? It didn't matter anymore.

"Zo?" Mira prompted with a gentle hand on Zoey's shoulder. "Baby, talk to us."

With what little air she could get, Zoey swallowed and said, "I'm just... I feel really sick..."

Not a total lie.

Rumi and Mira exchanged a glance.

"Sick how?" Mira pressed. "Are you hot? Were you drinking enough?"

Rumi pressed the back of her hand to Zoey's forehead.

"It's my stomach," Zoey murmured. "I kinda thought I was about to throw up. Didn't want to do it in front of the fans, y'know?"

Rumi made a soft, sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. "You're clammy. Maybe we should end the signing early."

Zoey shook her head. "I don't want to disappoint the fans."

"I don't want you collapsing out there. You don't look right." Mira's brow furrowed slightly, and she leaned in as if trying to catch Zoey's attention. "You're not focusing on me."

Zoey realized belatedly that she'd been sort of staring past both of them at a nondescript spot on the wall, part of her mind still elsewhere. Her eyes snapped to Mira's face.

"Sorry," she said. "You guys can go back out. I'll just wait here."

"It's okay, Zoey," Rumi replied. "We can take you home."

"I don't want to move right now," Zoey insisted, a bit firmer. "I just need a few minutes. Go finish the signing."

"Bobby can sit with you," Mira decided.

"Don't bother him."

"You're not a bother." Both of Rumi's hands cupped her face. "We're your girlfriends and he's our manager. Making sure you're okay is literally our job."

Zoey looked away, her chest tight. "I just want to take a nap."

"And Bobby can sit with you while you do," Rumi said.

"It won't be much longer," Mira promised. "Just another thirty minutes. We won't extend it at all."

Rumi pressed a light kiss to Zoey's damp forehead. "Call us if you need us."

The moment they left the room, Zoey curled up and laid down as best she could, back to the door so she would be facing away from Bobby when he arrived. Not that she wouldn't appreciate him being there for her, but she just didn't want anyone talking to her right now.

When the door opened again, she pretended to already be asleep. Bobby made no attempt to wake her, instead walking quietly over to another chair in the corner. Once he sat down, his quiet presence easily faded into the background. Arms over her head, face hidden against the back of the chair, Zoey hardly noticed him. Couldn't really notice him, when everything else was so loud.

A soft, sweet voice inviting her to share what she wrote. Singing along with her at times as she tried to find beats and melodies to match her words. Inviting her out on Friday night even though she would really rather just stay in, because there were some people dying to hear that new song she'd just finished. Yes, there would be alcohol, but that was okay. She didn't have to drink.

Then when she got there, that same voice insisting she try some anyway. It wasn't very strong. She could even mix it with soda and make it sweeter if she wanted. It was just liquid courage, preparing her to impress everyone who wanted to hear her sing.

Multiple voices now, coaxing more drinks into her, until finally she began to flip through her notebook for the song she'd been invited to share.

She slurred her way through about half of it before she realized everyone was singing along. But... that couldn't be right. No one else knew the song. No one but Ava. Had she shared it early?

But the lyrics were wrong. Full of jabs and insults she had never written. It took a nasty, violent slur replacing one of her favorite lines for reality to catch up.

They had planned this. Ava had shared her song, and they had changed it, and they were mocking her.

They had changed her lyrics.

They had ruined her song.

They had invited her here just for this.

She burst into tears, and the crowd burst into laughter. Someone ripped the notebook out of her hand, demanding that she keep going, prompting her to start again with those awful, changed, wrong lyrics. Her stomach began to churn with distress and too much alcohol.

The howls of amusement only got louder when she vomited onto the notebook shoved beneath her nose, ruining it and everything she'd written in it over the past several weeks. No one helped her when she rolled off the couch, clutching her middle. She looked around desperately for her friend. For the person who had promised to stay close to her tonight.

Ava was off to the side, doubled over laughing.

Zoey crawled to the bathroom alone. She spent half an hour emptying her stomach, tears pouring down her face, until she managed to call her dad to come get her. For once, she was actually grateful that her mother was back in Korea these days. That woman would have never tolerated underage drinking, or a party for that matter. Her father, at least, would unground her sometime this decade.

Still, part of her wished she hadn't called. The party was ruined the moment an adult knocked on the door, and none of the other kids would let her forget it anytime soon. She received the scolding of a lifetime on the way home. Her phone was taken away for two weeks, given back only for minutes at a time when she had scheduled calls with her mother. She couldn't go out to the store and buy a new notebook to replace the one she'd lost at the party. She couldn't go anywhere but school for the rest of the month.

No skateboarding. No trips to the park. No turtle videos. No notebooks to write in other than the ones she needed for school, which her father made clear he would also not let her replace if she filled them up "just to spite her punishment".

It was a miserable grounding, and in the face of her parents' disappointment, she never worked up the nerve to tell them what had been done to her. That she'd felt forced to drink. That she'd been humiliated by more than just her own irresponsibility. That the kids her father said she could get her notebook back from at school if she wanted it so badly were shoving her down flights of stairs and into lockers every chance they got.

She came away from the experience beaten. No longer willing to try her luck with new friends. Quiet and alone most of the time. Thinking that maybe Korea wasn't so bad after all, because maybe not knowing anyone was a blessing. Maybe she would just stay there with her mother after graduation.

Had she not eventually felt the deep, spiritual tug of the Honmoon and followed it to Celine and her girls, she wasn't sure she would have ever made another meaningful connection.

In the present, Zoey bit down on her lip, wishing it could just cease to matter. She was sure no one but her cared about that night anymore. Possibly, no one else even remembered. She was making such a huge deal out of it, disappointing her fans and leaving her girls hanging over it, and it was all just high school bullshit she should have left in the past ages ago.

Why was she like this?

When the door finally opened again, she remained still, continuing to feign sleep.

"How is she?" Mira asked in a whisper.

"She really conked out," Bobby replied. "Hasn't moved the whole time."

A soft touch ghosted across Zoey's back. She twisted to find Rumi beside her once more, eyes gentle and loving.

"Hi, darling," she murmured. "Any better?"

"Sleepy," Zoey said thickly, partially to get out of talking and partially because the ordeal had genuinely exhausted her.

"Let's get you home, then." Mira walked over, turned her back, and crouched. "Hop on, Zo."

Too much, Zoey thought even as she climbed on automatically. You can walk. You're taking too much. You're being too much.

Mira stood easily as if Zoey didn't weigh a thing. Zoey clung to her like a needy koala, her face pressed firmly against her lover's neck. Rumi kept a hand on Zoey's spine as if she meant to add support, though Mira clearly didn't need it.

They carried her through the back halls of the building and out to the car waiting for them. Mira lowered Zoey into Rumi's arms, and Rumi gently situated her into an upright enough position to get her seatbelt on. Zoey didn't know why she let them do everything for her, handling her mostly limp body like a doll, but she did, even as her brain screamed at her that she was making unnecessary work for them.

Mira walked around the other side of the car so they could get in on either side of her. Bobby sat up front with the driver.

Zoey rested on Rumi's shoulder as they began the drive home, Mira's hand gently rubbing the back of her neck. She hated herself for taking when she didn't need to, but she felt so safe anyway that she couldn't get herself to reject their care. She was so comfortable and warm. They were so soft and loving.

She was asleep before they hit the first intersection.

------

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or buying the writer a coffee!

All chapters of this fic will be tagged with the fic title for anyone looking for other chapters.

#kpop demon hunters #polytrix #zoey kpdh #mira kpdh #rumi kpdh #my writing #to mean something #tw alchohol mention

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thestarlightforge · 20 hours ago

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A) Right?! SO many interesting storylines. My hope isn’t gone—MCU castings for Young Avengers & Champions characters have been great so far, I’ve thought—but given current plans for the MCU’s immediate future. It might be a while. RIP.

C) I appreciate that, pal. Probs a more genuine apology/acknowledgement than we’ll ever get from Feige. 💀

B) Definitely agree that Bucky should be allowed to have other friendships and close bonds. Bucky in comics had a long history as an accessory before he really got to be his own man, with or without the shield—similar to how Wanda in comics has a pattern of being screwed over by bad, misogynistic writing every decade or so. I can see how the MCU seeming to edge near that toxic pattern could frustrate a committed Bucky fan.

But I don’t think him having autonomy and other close bonds means he needs to act like a bad friend to one of his closest friends with no explanation or repercussions.

This is simplifying, but in my understanding, Falcon & the Winter Soldier had basically twofold purposes:

1) Work through Bucky’s trauma about being Winter Soldier & his feelings about Steve’s legacy.

2) Discuss Sam’s feelings about the legacy of racism associated with the shield and USAmerica, especially as it applies to “will the world accept a black man to represent them, no matter what Steve wanted.” Further discussing corruption, injustice and whether blue eyes and blonde hair are requirements for patriotism and trust from the American people—e.g. Sharon Carter and John Walker.

So my issue isn’t Bucky working with Ava (Ghost), Yelena, Antonia (Taskmaster) or Alexei. I even understand that Valentina started the team, not Bucky—he didn’t intend to pull that publicity stunt at the end of the film.

What I don’t get is why we spent an entire TV show with Bucky convincing Sam to take up the mantle as Cap, and as a leader—learning what that really means himself, too; that was great character development I thought—only for him to leave Sam entirely out of it when he discovered this major scandal/dangerous program (Bob/Valentina) and got roped into forming a New Avengers team. And with John of all people, the guy who spent that whole series undermining Sam at every turn.

Sam called him when things got bad in Brave New World. That was great. So why did this world-endangering threat & massive corruption scheme not warrant a phone call? And why, when Valentina literally came out and said “Sentry needs to be white and blonde for that ‘classic hero leader’ look,” did Bucky have nothing to say—after all he had learned in F&TWS?

I hope they talk about it.

(Side note: Nice to find people online who actually want to talk instead of yelling :))

People acting like the New Avengers are evil incarnate whilst pretending the og team were paragons of virtue is hilarious to me.

Like you don't get to be all outraged about Alexei being a "child trafficker" whilst ignoring how Wanda slaughtered an entire temple full of teenage magic acolytes & tried to kill another teenager all in an attempt to kidnap the childen of her variant.

You don't get to condemn Walker for "killing an innocent man" to avenge the murder of his best friend, but also be fine with how Tony tried to brutally murder Bucky despite (and shot him in the back) knowing he was mind- controlled.

You don't have a right to complain about Yelena "continuing to kill after she was freed" and yet make excuses for Clint having gone on the rampage as Ronin and killed hundreds of people during The Snap.

Edit for Ironheart ending: You also don't get to complain about the Thunderbolts "making a deal with the devil" or "working for the bad guy" when Riri Willians made a deal with a literal demon to resurrect the AI version of her friend.

The people condemning the Thunderbolts don't have the moral high ground here. They're just revealing themselves to be hypocrites.

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mulloey · 18 hours ago

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hey bby can u please do some kind of smut with hyuck being a hard, mean dom? with a lot of overstim, spanking and choking pleeeeeaseeee🙏🏻

((and congrats on ur 2k followers!!

breaking, then broken.

warnings: mean dom haechan, angry haechan, could be read as dubcon because reader does briefly try to stop the scene but she is absolutely on board, angry punishments, spanking, choking, overstim, unprotected rough sex, mild breath play (do NOT attempt this irl), pain play, sadist haechan, heavy degradation, mentioned anal. mention of the other members. haechan is described as having trained you to orgasm harder when he’s mean. you’re described as not being fully aware of that fact. read at your own risk.

words: 2.7k

—

“Strip.”

It’s a familiar command by now, as natural from his mouth as any other and just as easy to follow. And you would follow it; you’d do it perfectly and immediately and without complaint, if you could.

But you’re in the dorm.

But the others are home.

But the door’s still open.

Any of the others could walk by and see you, pulling off your clothes while your boyfriend stares daggers into your skin. “Haecha—”

Right as you start to speak he kicks back, slamming the door shut behind him—sealing you in. The sound—sudden, deafening, warning—makes you jump and he huffs out a humourless laugh. “There,” he says. “It’s closed. Now strip.”

Your clothes come off as slowly as you think you can get away with; he watches wordlessly, eyes narrowed like every inch of skin as you reveal it is offending him to the core. When you’re down to your underwear and your discarded clothes are placed down on the bed, he raises an eyebrow as though you’re pushing your luck.

“Panties too,” he says. “Come on, whore. Don’t act like you have class now. Not with me.”

You huff, a little petulant, and he raises an eyebrow. “You huffing at me?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m sorry.”

He says nothing, better than lunging at you you suppose; just watches silently as you pull your panties down and put them on top of the pile just as directed. He nods tightly, jaw clenched.

“Good,” he says finally. “There’s that obedience you forgot about today.”

He’s not wrong, honestly—you were, as you’re painfully aware, a complete brat today. A bitch, even. And you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t know you did it on purpose.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” he scoffs. “But you will be.”

God you’re wet. You try to keep your face straight, as emotionless as his as he takes a step towards you. Closing in.

“I thought I was training you well,” he says. “Thought I was raising a pretty little whore who does as she’s told, but no. Apparently I was raising a nasty, disobedient little slut. Apparently I’m not nearly as good at this as I thought I was.”

“Haechan,” you pout. “I didn’t mean to make you think that—”

“Shut up,” he sneers. Another step; slow, small, like he’s stalking prey. You step back instinctively, a feeble attempt to keep the distance, until you find yourself backed up against the bed, wooden frame pressed against your bare legs and Haechan inches away. Caged in. Trapped. Beyond helpless. He scoffs. “You’ve pissed me off. I don’t wanna talk to you, bitch. Lie down and spread your legs.”

You frown. “Haechan, we should really—”

You don’t even get to finish the sentence. Don’t even get to fully decide what the ending of the sentence was going to be—don’t get to make another sound before it happens.

Haechan snaps. Suddenly, violently, like a string pulled in two different directions finally coming apart. Like porcelain breaking under the pressure.

His demeanour shifts, eyes narrowing, and suddenly it’s not your boyfriend in front of you—loving, careful and yes, strict and cruel when he feels the need for it—but something else. Someone else.

This is your owner. Your master. Any small semblance of power or control you held over the situation is gone.

“You wanna act like a child?” He breathes. “Fine. I’ll deal with you like one. Like a bratty, bitchy little girl who needs to learn her lesson. Come here.”

Haechan is rarely the sort of person to make requests—commands are more his habit, especially with you, who looks oh-so pretty obeying them. But when he’s like this—angry, provoked, vengeful—even that would be a mercy. To even be given the opportunity to disobey is a mercy with him; and clearly not one you’re getting now.

He doesn’t wait for you to obey. Instead he grabs your wrist, his grip firm and unyielding as he tugs you back towards the bed. You know exactly what’s about to happen even before he gets you in position; before he takes his seat on the edge and throws you over his lap, ass in the air and face pressed into the comforter.

This isn’t the first time this has happened; far from it—from the start of your relationship Haechan had made it clear he has no qualms about setting you straight; about correcting and disciplining you when he thinks you need it. He enjoys it, in fact.

It is, however, the first time this has happened when he’s been this angry. The usual cool control he holds over you in times like this—the disappointment, the scolding, the gentle hands guiding you into position and holding you in place—it’s all gone now, buried beneath all the rage he’d been trying so hard to keep inside until you were alone.

He doesn’t ask if you’re comfortable, if you’re ready, if you know why you’re being punished. Just uses one hand to keep your head pressed firmly into the bed, while the other—

“Fucking. Little. Bitch.” The words are snapped, sneered, spat out between sharp, heavy smacks against your bare skin. He doesn’t ease you into it, doesn’t start slow; just lets the hits come down like rainfall, over and over, piled on top of each other until you’re hot to the touch.

It happens so quickly, in fact, that you don’t even have time to protest; don’t register the pain until it’s built up so much, all across your ass and down the backs of your thighs, that you couldn’t kick or squirm if you tried—can’t do anything but lie there and take it.

“I shouldn’t have to do this to you,” he says; the assault doesn’t stop even as he speaks. “But if you’re going to disobey me in front of my friends—my members—then I’ll be damned if you don’t see some consequences for it. Can’t act like an adult, you can get spanked like a little girl. Take it, cunt.”

It can’t have been more than a couple of minutes, really, but the sheer force and volume of his hits have made your body tense and stiffen and ache like you’ve been here for hours—never mind the burning, blazing skin where he’s actually hurting you. You were squealing, at some point, then screaming; now all you’re doing is sobbing, breaths sharp and painful as he carries on. Your safeword dances on your tongue—it would be so easy after all; just one word and this would all be over—but you don’t use it. You were never really going to.

You deserve this, you know it—in some small way, you might have even wanted it.

And even if you weren’t craving punishment, in particular, to be used as a vessel for Haechan’s anger, to drape yourself (or be draped, like today) over his lap, ripe for the taking, and accept his discipline like the good little girl he’s made of you, is a thrill you could never find anywhere else.

Kind, sweet Haechan, your Haechan, holding you down and spanking you raw while all you can do is scream.

Nothing else could make you simultaneously feel so helpless and so, so precious. So cherished.

Because Haechan is doing this to you. And once he’s done, when your ass is as red and swollen and glowing as he wants it and his anger is fully spent—Haechan will put you back together again.

He always does.

By the time he finishes, yanking you off his lap by the hair and depositing you on your knees on the floor, you’re so pained and so far gone that you don’t even register that the blows have stopped. Not until he pulls you back up, scalp stinging, to force your face into his crotch, does your mind fully catch up.

“That what you wanted?” He asks. “My big dick in your little bitch face? Enjoy it, whore. You won’t for long.”

You breathe it in; deep, gasping breaths until he pulls you off and back up onto the bed. He stands up and manoeuvres you onto all fours, ass swollen and sensitive in the air. He rubs it almost soothingly for a moment before spreading your legs and slapping you square over your wet, swollen pussy.

You scream into the comforter. He plunges two fingers in while you’re still distracted by the pain.

“Wet dog,” he sneers. “You like when I hurt you, don’t you? You like getting disciplined. Maybe next time I’ll let the others help. Shit, you’d probably come before you get your first spank.”

You probably would; you whine into the comforter, wriggling a little as he pumps his fingers in and out; he scoffs, rounding the bed a little and clamping his other hand down to hold you by the back of your neck. “There we go,” he coos. “Nice and still for me, hm? Baby’s so sweet when she’s just been punished.”

“Fuck,” you groan. “Channie—”

“What was that?” He hums. “Can’t hear you, baby. Just lemme use you. You’re gonna come for me a few times, I think. Til I’m satisfied you’re remembering who owns you. Go on.”

You’re about to protest—tell him you can’t, not yet, not when your entire lower half is aching and screaming and numb all once—when he does something he’s never done.

Not while he’s punishing you, anyway.

His hand leaves your neck and he bends down and attaches his mouth to your clit, licking over the swollen nub with his tongue. And he sucks at it, hard. You scream, almost falling to the side but he keeps you upright, still pumping two fingers in and out of you as he gets to work with his mouth.

The first orgasm comes fast—hard, strong, pulled from your body with embarrassingly little force. It hurts, your body straining and tensing under aching skin, but Haechan talks you through it as he always does, coaxing you through every beat and every moment of it until it’s over, and the second is fast approaching. “Good,” he purrs. “There we go, little whore. Give me another.”

“Hurts,” you moan. “Can’t.”

“It should hurt,” he grunts; the words are muffled against your pussy and vibrate deliciously against the sensitive skin. “It’s the only way you learn. Ah, y— you taste so good, mm…”

”Haechan, please.”

He pulls away, suddenly, but you’re not naive enough to think it’s with the intention of any sort of mercy. Haechan never stops until he’s finished, and he’s not finished. He hasn’t even gotten his own fill, yet.

Which is why you’re not surprised by the sound of his zip and the feeling of his heavy, throbbing dick pushing into your hole. He doesn’t prep you, doesn’t need to when you’re this wet; just forces himself in with an iron grip on your waist that you’re certain will bruise as deeply as your wounded ass.

“Fucking tight,” he groans. The thrusts start hard and fast as they always do; no tenderness or attempt to ease you into it. Just rough, sharp, deep strokes that hit the spot with a dizzying precision. “You were built for this, weren’t you, little girl? Say it.”

“I was built for this,” you repeat; you’re surely loud enough for the entire dorm to hear, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. Right now all that matters, all that even exists to you is Haechan.

His hand crashes down on the back of your thigh, atop a deep red patch and makes you cry out in pain. “Built for what?” He sneers. “Say it, you whore.”

“Built for you,” you sob. “Built for— for your dick.”

“That’s right. Built to take dick, aren’t you? You close, honey?”

You are—you pretty much perpetually are when he’s fucking you like this. You nod, babbling something or other against the comforter and he laughs; presses a thumb to your clit and pushes down hard. It pulls the next orgasm out of you as though he’d merely had to push a button to pull you undone.

“Fuck,” you shriek. You shake and squirm through it, pleasure mounting even as you release it. The moment you do he pulls out, flipping you onto your back only to shove himself back in again.

His hand closes around your neck, face moving to inches from yours. He grabs your legs, pushing them back towards your head as he starts up again. “There,” he smiles. “Want you to look at me while I take you apart. Need you to know who’s doing it to you.”

“Haechan,” you cry. You feel the tears pouring again but you don’t care. “Haechan,” you repeat.

“That’s right,” he groans. He gives a hard, deep thrust and holds it there, watching your face contort in pleasure before letting you go. His grip on your neck tightens, just enough to make you dizzy. “Haechan, baby. Only I get to do this. Only I know how to do this, huh? I know how to handle sluts like you.”

“Yeah,” you shudder. “Fuck, Haechan, I need—”

“I’ll decide,” he snarls. He makes his point with another hard, long stroke that makes you cry out again. “I’ll decide what you need and what you get. Understand?”

“Okay—fuck—yeah, I understand.”

“Good. Come again for me.”

“I ca—”

“Don’t you fucking dare say you can’t,” he growls. “I will fuck you up, whore. I said you’re gonna come, so you’re gonna come. Don’t test me now.”

“Please,” you sob. “Help— I need help. Can’t— alone—”

He rolls his eyes like this is all beneath him. One hand moves from your neck to slap you across the face then returns with even more pressure. The sight of him above you—dark, stern, determined—makes your blood run cold and your stomach burn hot.

“I have to do everything for you,” he laughs. “You really can’t do anything, shit. I knew you’d go dumb for me but not that much, Jesus. You can’t even do the one thing you’re supposed to be able to do.”

The words escape you now—only loud, distressed gargles come from your mouth that hangs ajar like all the life and energy’s been sucked out of you. Haechan snorts, amused, and hits you with a sharp, quick thrust. “You’re embarrassing,” he spits. “Lucky for you I’m feeling generous.”

One hand leaves your neck again and he spits down onto it, eyes still locked on yours. When it’s coated and dripping in saliva he presses it against your clit; suddenly, wordlessly, the pressure inescapable. “I’m gonna count down from ten,” he says. “If you haven’t come by the time I hit zero, I’m fucking your ass.”

In reality, you’d both like that. But you also both know that there’s not a single scenario on earth, save for zombie apocalypse or alien invasion, that could result in Haechan reaching zero and you still not having come.

You’re on the edge of it. You always are with him; when he touches and takes you apart like this. He just needs to force it out of you.

Little do you know, he made you like this on purpose. Trained you to come easier and harder and better when his hands are rough and punishing; when his words are foul and demeaning. Trained you to crave his cruelty just as you crave your pleasure—it’s impossible not to, when he’s made them so inextricably linked.

“Ten.”

His little painslut. He rubs slow, agonising circles on your clit in time with his thrust. The hand on your neck tightens in just the right; the way you’d practiced together so many times until he was sure he could do it properly. The way that has you light, floaty, drifting away but still firmly tethered.

“Nine.”

His hand pulls back then comes down again, right on your clit. The sound is sharp and loud and wet; your cry of pain is even louder and so much prettier. He can’t keep the grin off his face at the way you come undone beneath him and love it just as much as he does.

“Eight.”

He speeds up his thrusts, angling them just the way you like, just the way that hurts, burning from the stretch. His fingers move faster on your clit and he feels your legs shaking where they’re wrapped around him, their grip tightening on his waist. He can feel it—it’s coming.

“Seven.”

His hand comes down on six, just where it landed last time.

You come on five. Suddenly and violently and clinging to him with all your might. You scream his name so loud and strangled he doubts you’ll be able to talk tomorrow.

He doesn’t really care.

He was planning on keeping your mouth full anyway.

#nct smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #haechan smut #donghyuk smut #haechan x reader #haechan hard hours #haechan hard thoughts #nct hard thoughts #nct hard hours #kpop smut #mulloey writes

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magicalqueennightmare · 1 day ago

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Two Birds

Bucky Barnes x Reader

When the team sees that you and Bucky both need a push and a mission gives the chance, they decide to kill two birds with one stone.

“So, are we gonna talk about that or should I just keep acting like I’m blind here?” John asked, passing you the bowl of popcorn across the couch. You raised an eyebrow “What?” You knew what he was talking about, he’d been teasing you for weeks about whatever it was developing between you and Bucky but from what you could tell it was one sided. You weren’t about to make a move and risk fucking up a friendship and make Bucky feel uncomfortable.

John groaned “You’re unbelievable you know that?” you shrugged, popping a handful of popcorn in your mouth, mainly to have the excuse to not have to answer. You didn’t want to talk about the fact that you had a raging crush on the stoic super soldier that always seemed to be right at your side when you needed him. “So, how are things with Liv?” you asked and he smirked “Good deflection sweetheart. Point for that”

You grinned “So?” he shrugged “Well enough. We’re trying…I’m trying, she sees that I’m trying” you smiled “That’s good John. The love is there, if you two think a second chance is possible I say go for it. There’s plenty of places nearby where you could buy a house for her and Alex. Have it set up safe and sound like Clint had for Laura. We’d help keep them safe. No one would touch a hair on either of their heads” he nodded “I know honey. Believe me, I know”

After that the movie started and both of you turned your eyes to the screen. You and John had developed a weird sort of friendship built on feeling like the black sheep one too many times. Of course Bucky, Ava and Yelena took to you better than John and you knew why. You weren’t ignorant to John’s past but he was changing and trying so you attempted to be a bridge of sorts between him and the rest of the team.

Maybe that was how you started spending so much time with Bucky? Any time he and John would butt heads you’d intervene. At first you told yourself it was to keep the peace, maybe even to show John he had a friend but more and more it was simply to be close to Bucky.

Everyone had crushes on Steve. Mr Captain America, Mr Perfect and while Steve had been a good guy he didn’t hold a candle to Bucky. For one person to have gone through so much pain, so much suffering and still be standing? The strength that took. Not to mention he hadn’t let it turn it into the monster it very well could have and he would have been justified into turning into. No, Bucky was still very much a hero. Maybe the only one out of this ragtag group that actually earned the title without just having it forced upon him and trying not to fuck up underneath it.

Also, he was just gorgeous. Icy blue eyes, a smile that could stop you dead in your tracks the few times you did get graced with it and just his presence had a habit of making you feel safe. The problem was? It seemed very much like he was wanting to just keep things on a friends only level. You refused to push it so that left you here. In a weird limbo, pining after one of your friends/teammates while the others like John and Yelena teased you for it every time Bucky turned his back.

John cut his eyes at you as you watched the movie, trying to figure out a way he could try to get you and Bucky to admit you both had feelings for each other. He’d rope Yelena and Ava in. They may like to give him hell but getting you and Bucky together finally? The three of them could get on the same page for that.

You walked into the debriefing room and raised an eyebrow when you realized the only chair that had been strategically left open was the one next to Bucky. When you sat down John looked over at you with a slight smile “Morning” “Morning?”

Bucky was being quiet even for him. You weren’t sure why until Yelena slid you a file. You opened it and felt your stomach drop. It was a sting operation to catch an arms dealer. You and Bucky were going in as a couple. Your eyes widened and she smiled “Shuri has Ava’s necklace for upgrades. She can’t wear the dress. I’m not good with undercover work and Walker just wouldn’t fill out the dress currently I’m afraid”

You nodded slowly and bumped your shoulder playfully against Bucky’s “You good with this?” he nodded, finally raising his eyes “Yeah, of course. Just an op right?”

Bucky sat back in the booth, his arm across the seat behind you and you were tucked into his side. To anyone else in the club it looked like you were just enjoying a night out. You were trying to let Yelena clone the arm’s dealer's phone that was in the booth directly behind yours.

“Shit” she muttered across the comms and you cut your eyes up at Bucky as he leaned down so it appeared he was talking to you when he asked “What is it?” “She needs to get a little closer” “How much closer?” you asked and Yelena let out a breath “Like if you were sitting in Bucky’s lap and leaned across a little closer?”

Your eyes met Bucky's and you could’ve sworn he swallowed hard before he nodded and shifted on the bench “Come on sweetheart. Ain’t like we’d be the only ones in here in that position” it was true, half the couples in this place looked like they were mating. You raised an eyebrow “You sure?”

He nodded “We need to get this done” you took a deep breath, making sure the device that was disguised as a watch was secured on your wrist before moving to slip your leg across Bucky’s lap so you could comfortably straddle his waist and try to keep most of your weight on your knees. “Sit” he muttered when he realized what you were doing.

You started to stutter out an excuse but when his hands gripped your hips and pulled you down flush against him a light gasp left you that you knew echoed across the comms because Yelena asked “Everything ok?” Bucky held your eyes and smiled just slightly “Is now”

Yelena needed at least thirty seconds to clone the phone. “You have really pretty eyes” you blurted out and felt your face warm. Bucky just grinned “So do you darlin” you let yourself lean further into him, the solid lines of his body underneath you stirring a heat in your core that you tried to ignore. That task became impossible however when he shifted, rutting his hips up just slightly. You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth when you felt the fact that he was semi hard under his jeans and neither of you had really done nothing to each other.

That thought alone had a rush of warmth spread between your thighs. He leaned forward, to the side of your head that the comm wasn’t hidden in your ear to let his lips tease at the bend of your neck. A light sound left you and he tsk tsked then mouthed “Be quiet. The comms”

You nodded so he started to press open mouthed kisses along your neck, biting lightly every now and then. You rolled your hips down and he sucked in a breath between his teeth at the action. He lifted his head to look at you, the fire in those blue eyes spreading throughout your body. He leaned forward, letting one hand come up to gently grip your chin and just before his lips could touch yours Yelena’s voice broke across the comms “Cloning successful. You two get the hell out of there”

You wanted to cry from frustration and fear that whatever just happened was now broken. You climbed off his lap and slid free from the booth. He was right behind you, you felt his vibranium arm slip around your waist as the two of you worked your way through the crowd. He leaned down to whisper in your ear “Guess this means you feel about me like I feel about you?”

You cut your eyes up at him once the cool night air surrounded the two of you and he smirked “Want to continue our conversation back at the tower?” you nodded “Very much so” just as Yelena pulled up in the blacked out suv for the two of you to climb into.

She shot you a look when you climbed in. You felt your face warm but rolled your eyes. When Bucky climbed in and his hand came to rest on your thigh Yelena laughed “Guess we killed two birds with one stone this time huh?”

You and Bucky looked at each other then back at her “You put us together on purpose?” she nodded as she pulled away from the curb. “Was Walker’s idea actually” Bucky chuckled low “Damn. I actually owe Walker a favor now” and turned to grip your chin again but this time there was no interruption when his lips met yours.

A light whimper fell from you, your hands moved to grip his shoulders, trying to get him closer and he tugged you over into his lap. “NO NO NO. NOT IN FRONT OF ME!” Yelena barked and you burst out laughing, looking over your shoulder where she was looking horrified in the rearview mirror “Sorry Lena” she gave a full body shiver “Happy for you both really but that was disgusting. Save it for the privacy of your rooms” “Oh we will” Bucky teased, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before moving you back to sit next to him on the seat. His hand remained protectively on your thigh. Now that he had you? He wasn’t about to let go any time soon.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader

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pballer5 · 3 days ago

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timeout: chapter 10

masterlist

summary: Paige and Azzi slowly let basketball back into their lives, adding a new dynamic to their relationship.

a/n: idk if I like this chapter, it was kinda had to write tbh :P idk lmk!

wc: 4.8k

Chapter 10: Scars

10 Years Ago

Paige

The apartment felt too small, like the walls were folding in on themselves, inch by inch, every time the clock ticked. Each breath Paige took echoed in her ribs like a reminder: you’re still here, but not quite. She sat hunched on the edge of the sagging couch, shoulders drawn tight.

Outside, the Minnesota sky was a low-hanging sheet of steel, colorless and unmoving. The air that seeped through the drafty windows carried a kind of winter that didn't just freeze your skin, but reached deeper, down to the marrow, to the softest parts of you that once held warmth. No amount of flannel or blankets or heat could shake the chill Paige felt inside.

In the kitchen, her dad’s voice murmured low and tense, the way it always did when he thought she couldn’t hear. Her stepmom responded with a sharp whisper, and though Paige couldn’t make out the words, she could feel the weight of them. Conversations about her, not with her. About what came next. About how none of them really knew.

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly. She just felt… hollow.

Paige pressed the heels of her palms into her temples, trying to quiet the noise, external and internal. The injury had splintered more than her knee. It had fractured something deeper, something invisible. Her sense of direction. Her sense of self. The silence she carried now wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that echoed.

She could still hear the doctor’s voice like it had been etched into her skull. "You’ll need surgery. Full recovery’s uncertain. This season… maybe longer." The words had landed not like a sentence but like an erasure, sweeping away the entire shape of her future with the finality of a slammed door.

Her dad had sat next to her then, jaw clenched, eyes too dry. He’d told her to “stay positive,” over and over, like it was a switch she could flip. But she’d seen the fear in his eyes, tucked behind the steady tone, the kind he used when he was barely holding it together.

She’d nodded. Said she would.

But that was a lie.

The walls of her bedroom were still covered in UConn posters, her younger self’s shrine to the dream. She hadn’t taken them down. She couldn’t. It would feel like pulling the plug. Like admitting it was really over.

That night, she sat on the edge of her bed, light from her phone screen casting shadows over the letter she’d unfolded so many times the paper had gone soft. The official offer. The scholarship. The dream, pressed between university letterhead and embossed signatures.

She traced the edges with her thumb. That version of Paige, smiling, certain, already halfway down the tunnel toward a packed arena, felt like someone else. A ghost in her own skin.

Who was she now, without basketball?

Her mind kept replaying that moment, the drive to the basket, the step, the twist, the way her knee dislocated before it even hit the ground. That grotesque sound. The sick slide of bone from its socket. The pain, but worse than that, the knowing.

She'd known. Immediately. That everything had changed.

Rehab had been a slow crucifixion. Endless reps. Ice baths. Tight smiles from trainers. The overwhelming shame of having to start over from a body that had once done everything without hesitation. There were days she couldn’t even look at her leg. Couldn’t stomach the jagged scars that now marked the place where her dream had broken.

Coaches called less. People stopped asking. The noise dulled. The silence thickened.

And now, college? Without basketball?

She didn’t want to walk through campus halls as a shadow of who she used to be. Didn’t want to smile politely when people asked “Aren’t you…?” as if she wasn’t already carrying that question herself every day. Aren’t you supposed to be someone?

Paige let her head fall into her hands.

Tears slid down her cheeks, slow, uninvited. They weren’t dramatic. They just were, like everything else now: quiet, inevitable.

She didn’t know how to be a person without a schedule, a season, a goal.

Didn’t know how to believe in a future when the one she’d spent her whole life chasing had disappeared in one ugly, irreversible moment.

The apartment smelled like burnt toast and old coffee grounds, the radiator clanking like it was trying to keep up with a winter it had no business fighting. Paige sat motionless on the edge of the bed, her legs tucked up under her, one knee braced in compression fabric she hadn’t taken off since the last physical therapy appointment. The joint ached constantly now, a dull, throbbing pulse that made everything else feel louder.

Her phone buzzed once. Then again. Teammates. A coach. Probably someone asking for an update she couldn’t give.

She let it fall facedown on the comforter.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want to say the words out loud: dislocation. Cartilage damage. Chronic instability. The phrases the surgeon had rattled off last week still rang in her ears, sterile and final.

"You’re not just rehabbing an ACL anymore, Paige. You dislocated your kneecap. It’s time to start thinking long-term. Quality of life. Stability. It might not be safe for you to keep pushing the way you’ve been pushing."

She’d nodded, numb. Her dad had squeezed her hand too tightly while she stared at the floor.

The dream had already been fraying at the edges. The re-injuries, the complications from the ACL tear, the pain that never really went away. But this? This was the final rip. The tear straight through the fabric.

She reached for the letter again, the one from UConn with her name printed at the top like it belonged there. It was soft around the edges now, the crease worn from being folded and unfolded too many times. A part of her still wanted to believe she could go. Just show up, sit in the stands, pretend it hadn’t all come undone. Pretend that walking across campus wouldn’t feel like dragging a shadow behind her, a ghost of the player she used to be.

She pressed the letter to her chest, eyes squeezed shut.

It should’ve been everything.

Instead, it felt like a reminder.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. Just the slow blur behind her eyes and the leaden weight of her own breath, heavy in the quiet.

When she woke, it was still dark. Not the gentle kind that softened the edges of morning, the kind that pressed in, like the world had paused without telling her.

The apartment was still.

Her dad’s voice, the footsteps, all gone, tucked into whatever hour of the night it was. The radiator had gone silent, and her knee, braced stiff and aching, pulsed with that familiar, dragging throb.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to remind herself she was still in this room. Still in this body.

Still eighteen.

That was the part that kept catching her off guard. She was only eighteen.

Everyone said it like it meant time was on her side. That everything she’d lost could still be reclaimed, rewritten. But it didn’t feel that way.

It felt like the future she’d been working toward, the one everyone knew was waiting for her, had slipped right through her hands while she was busy icing her knee.

And now?

Now she didn’t know what was left.

She stared at the ceiling until the silence turned oppressive, until the dark started to close in like it had weight. Her chest rose and fell in shallow rhythms, her body still, her mind anything but.

And then the thought came. Again. A whisper she kept swatting away, only for it to return more stubborn each time:

You could leave.

Not to another school. Not to some new doctor with a new plan. Just… out. Away.

Away from the fluorescent rehab rooms, the clipboards, the quiet reassurances that sounded more like condolences. Away from the conversations where everyone kept smiling too much, like if they just grinned hard enough, they could pretend this wasn’t happening.

Away from the looks, the ones that said we used to believe in you.

The worst part was that she couldn’t even be angry anymore. Not really. What was there to fight? Her body had drawn the line. She could push through pain. She had, for months. But this wasn’t pain anymore. This was reality, finally settling in.

She was eighteen. Eighteen, and already trying to mourn a future she’d trained her whole life for. Eighteen, and already washed up, even if no one said the words.

They didn’t have to.

She felt it in how no one asked about game film anymore. No more mentions of minutes or rotations. Coaches stopped calling. Her teammates still texted sometimes, but even those came with that soft tone: thinking of you, hope today was a little better.

Better than what?

She shifted under the covers, the ache in her knee pulsing low and mean. The brace itched against her skin. Her muscles twitched with memory, fast breaks, backdoors, bounce passes, things she used to do without thinking. Now they lived in her like ghosts. Movement she could remember but no longer reach.

She blinked hard, jaw tight. The ceiling above her didn’t blink back.

She wasn’t brave enough to say it yet, not out loud, not to anyone who loved her, not even to herself most days, but the comeback dream was gone. The one where she defied the odds, made everyone believe again.

And if she stayed here, she’d keep chasing it. Keep pretending.

She didn’t want to pretend anymore.

Present

Azzi

The thaw came slowly.

Not just the snow outside, though the drifts had started pulling back from the trees, revealing patches of stubborn pine needles and old gravel. But between them, too, something had shifted. Less sharp edges. Less flinching. A slow return to the ordinary.

They weren’t what they were before the fight. Not exactly. But they were something.

Mornings came early. Azzi would wake to the sound of Paige splitting wood out back or shoveling the path clear. She started helping again, not just out of guilt, but because it steadied her. Chopping kindling. Washing dishes. Driving into town for supplies with Paige in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio like nothing had broken. Like maybe some things had simply bent.

There was a gentleness to the way they moved around each other now. A deliberate kind of care. Azzi noticed it in the way Paige didn’t press when Azzi got quiet, just slid her a bowl of soup or nudged her foot beneath the table. And Paige felt it in the way Azzi sometimes leaned just a little closer than she needed to, like reaching for warmth she wasn’t sure she could ask for outright.

They filled their days again.

Small things. Resealing the back windows. Cleaning out the crawlspace. Picking through Ruth’s old cassette tapes, laughing at the labels: “ROADTRIP,” “XMAS,” “DONT PLAY SAD.”

And slowly, basketball crept back in.

Not as a question. Not as a pressure. Just… there.

One evening, Paige sat on the edge of the couch, twisting a thread on her sleeve. Azzi was nearby, flipping through a worn notebook with no particular focus.

Paige set her mug down with a sharp tap, eyes narrowing just enough to make Azzi shift on the couch.

“Can I be honest about something?” Paige said, cutting straight to it. “Basketball related.”

Azzi looked at her, curious but cautious.

Paige smirked. “You have this thing, when you drive to the basket, you always hesitate just a hair too long before the final move. Like you’re waiting for the perfect moment that never really comes. It’s so subtle, nobody else probably even notices it. But I do.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I’ve watched you enough to know it’s a little ‘tell’ your brain’s telling you to be perfect, but sometimes, you just gotta go.”

Azzi nudged her with an elbow. “You’re such a nerd.”

Paige laughed. “Guilty. But it’s true. That hesitation? It’s like you’re waiting for permission from yourself to be reckless.”

Azzi shook her head, smiling now, the tension easing between them. “Maybe I just like keeping you on your toes.”

Paige grinned, eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of mischief and something softer underneath. “Well, it keeps me watching. But also drives me crazy. Like, just commit already, stop overthinking and blow past whoever’s guarding you.”

Azzi laughed, a sound that was half amusement, half exasperation. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one getting tackled every time you try.”

“True,” Paige admitted, “but sometimes you make it look like you’re trying not to break anything, your own ankles included.”

Azzi nudged her again. “Maybe I just like the suspense.”

Paige shook her head, but there was no bite behind it anymore. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, well, you love impossible.”

“I do.”

They shared a look, playful and warm, tethered in the quiet space between teasing and truth.

The next morning, Paige found Azzi out back, shooting at the crooked hoop nailed above the old barn door.

The ball thudded against the wood, too flat from the cold, and Paige winced at the sound. Still, Azzi kept shooting her hoodie sleeves shoved up past her elbows, her breath misting in the air. She missed more than usual, but didn’t seem frustrated by it. If anything, she looked… present. A little looser in her body. Less like she was punishing herself and more like she was remembering what her limbs were for.

Paige watched from the porch for a while before tugging on her boots and joining her.

“You want a rebounder or are you just out here freezing on principle?”

Azzi caught the next miss off the rim. “Didn’t realize I needed an audience.”

“You don’t,” Paige said, snagging the ball on the bounce. “But you’ve got one anyway.”

She tossed it back without ceremony, and Azzi caught it one-handed, brow raised. Paige just shrugged.

They didn’t talk much after that. Just passed back and forth, a lazy rhythm settling between them. Azzi shot. Paige rebounded. Occasionally, they switched. There was no drill. No structure. Just motion. Just being.

It became a kind of ritual. Not daily, but often enough that Paige started keeping the good ball in the mudroom, away from snow. She found herself watching Azzi’s form again, how her elbow tucked just a little tighter on good days, how her follow-through softened when she was tired. She didn’t always say what she noticed. But sometimes she did.

“You’re leaning left again.”

Azzi would groan, or flick the ball at her, or roll her eyes, but she didn’t stop listening. Not really.

And in return, Paige let Azzi in too. Told her about the ache that never really left her left knee. About the way she still dreamed sometimes about high school gyms and missed layups. About the weird, half-warm, half-resentful love she still carried for the game, how it had raised her and betrayed her in the same breath.

Azzi listened in that quiet, absorbing way of hers, half-turned, eyebrows slightly pulled, the ball cradled under one arm. She didn’t always respond right away. Sometimes she didn’t respond at all. But when she did, it landed.

“You ever think about going back?”

Paige glanced over, brow furrowing slightly. “To what?”

Azzi nudged the ball with the toe of her boot. “Basketball. Coaching. Something.”

Paige gave a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You trying to recruit me or something?”

Azzi shrugged, too casual. “Just asking.”

There was a pause, long enough that the wind rustled the pine needles above them like a whisper.

Paige huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I think about it sometimes,” she said finally.

Azzi glanced at her, quiet now.

“I loved it so much,” Paige went on. “God, I loved it. So I don’t know if I could be near it without wanting to prove something again. And I promised myself I didn’t need to prove anything anymore.”

Azzi’s voice was soft. “Even to yourself?”

That got a twitch of a smile from Paige. Sad, crooked. “Especially to myself.”

They fell into silence again, punctuated only by the squeak of boots on packed snow and the soft thud of ball on rim. Paige watched Azzi’s stance realign itself mid-shot, automatic, effortless and felt that familiar ache bloom in her chest. Not the kind from her knee. Something older. Something deeper.

“I used to think if I wasn’t playing,” Paige said suddenly, “I wouldn’t matter anymore. That nobody would care what I had to say unless I had a stat line attached to it.”

Azzi’s next shot went wide. She didn’t chase it. Just turned to face her, brow furrowed.

“I still catch myself thinking that way,” Paige said quietly. “Like, if I’m not in the gym, or in the game, then I’m just… background noise. A story people tell about what could’ve been. Someone they remember in past tense.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. She stepped in, brushing the back of her hand against Paige’s sleeve, light, but steady. “You’re not past tense.”

Paige let out a breath, one that fogged in the cold. She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the quiet outline of the hoop, the backboard barely visible in the dark.

“I don’t know if I believe that yet,” she said. “Not really. But I’m trying to. Some days, it feels like I almost do.”

There was something raw in her voice, an honesty. The kind of quiet truth that sat in your ribs long after it was said.

Azzi nodded, her gaze steady. “Me too.”

Paige tilted her head, then bumped her shoulder into Azzi’s with a familiar ease. “Well. At least we suck at believing it together.”

Azzi cracked a smile. “Speak for yourself. I’m amazing at denial.”

“Oh, right. A real pro.” Paige’s smile was soft, crooked at the edges. “Hall of Fame delusions.”

They stood there in the quiet again, the cold long forgotten. The net stirred slightly in the wind. The hoop loomed above them, but it didn’t press down. Not right now.

Azzi pulled the ball close and said, “Okay. First to five. Loser makes hot chocolate.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Loser makes it? Not gets it?”

“Listen, I am not risking your powdered milk monstrosity again. My taste buds still haven’t recovered.”

Paige gasped in mock outrage. “That’s gourmet, thank you very much.”

Azzi was already dribbling back to the line, laughing. “Get ready to lose, Barista Bueckers.”

Paige

Azzi’s fingers were tracing something on the rim of her mug, slow and absent. The kind of movement Paige had started to recognize, not nervous, exactly. Just careful. Like she was working up to something.

Paige looked back down at the book in her lap, though she hadn’t read a single word in minutes.

“Can I ask you something?” Azzi said.

Her voice was low, almost hesitant.

Paige didn’t answer right away, just looked up, let her hands fall still in her lap. Nodded.

Azzi didn’t meet her eyes. “When did you… stop playing? Basketball, I mean.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“I know you said it was early,” Azzi added, voice gentler, “but I never really asked what happened.”

Paige felt something in her chest catch, not pain, exactly. Not anymore. Just the ghost of it.

She shut the book and set it aside, folding her hands slowly in her lap. Her thumbs rubbed lightly together, the way they always did when her brain tried to make sense of memory.

“It started with my ACL,” she said, after a moment. “Junior year. Stupid plant-and-pivot. I remember the sound more than the pain.”

Azzi was watching now, quiet, open. Not pitying, just present.

“Surgery went fine, they said. Rehab went long. I worked like hell to come back, harder than I ever had. I mean, full throttle. Rehab until midnight, icing on the drive home, every mental trick I had.”

She exhaled, short and quiet. “And I did come back. Kind of.”

Her gaze drifted to the window, though she wasn’t looking at anything out there.

“But it wasn’t clean. My knee never felt right. Little things, tightness, stiffness, pain I couldn’t explain. They said it was scar tissue. That it just needed time. I kept pretending that was true.”

She felt her jaw tighten.

“And then senior year, middle of some no-stakes drill in practice, I stepped wrong and my kneecap popped out. Just like that.”

Her mouth twitched, like she wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite find the sound.

“That was the end. I think I knew it even before the trainers got to me. My body had tapped out, even if I hadn’t.”

Azzi’s expression didn’t shift much, but Paige could see it, the ache behind her eyes. The way her grip tightened slightly on the mug.

“They kept looking at me like maybe I’d go for another round,” Paige said softly. “Another comeback. But I think… I knew. That was the nail in the coffin.”

The silence stretched, soft but heavy. Familiar.

“I couldn’t even watch games,” she murmured. “I’d try, but it felt like watching some ghost version of myself. Like I hadn’t buried her properly, and she was still out there, running the floor.”

She looked down at her hands. “People kept calling it bad luck. A rough chapter. Like I’d turn the page and it’d all be fine again.”

Her voice thinned. “But I could feel it. It wasn’t temporary. The thing I was trying to claw back to, it didn’t exist anymore.”

There was a pause. Azzi’s voice, when it came, was soft enough to break her.

“That must’ve felt like—”

“A death,” Paige said. “Yeah.”

The wind rattled faintly against the windowpanes. Somewhere out in the trees, something shifted, a branch creaking, or a bird launching into sky.

“I think I held on longer than I should’ve,” Paige said. “Not because I believed I’d get back, but because… I didn’t know who I was without it. I was eighteen. Everything I imagined about my life, every version of it, was built around basketball. And when that fell apart, I didn’t have a backup plan. I just had blank space.”

She swallowed. “I never made a big decision to quit. I just stopped showing up to the places that hurt. And eventually, the silence didn’t scream so loud.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, but Paige felt her listening. Not with just her ears, with everything. With her stillness.

Paige let out a breath. “What made it harder was how fast people stopped asking. My parents were supportive, yeah, but after the third or fourth surgery, they had other things to manage. My dad lost his job. My siblings needed attention. And I’d always been the strong one. The one who could handle it.”

Her smile didn’t quite land. “So they assumed I’d keep handling it.”

Azzi’s jaw tensed ever so slightly, and Paige saw something flash across her face, recognition, maybe. That kind of loneliness you only feel when everyone around you thinks you’re fine.

“And then they stopped talking about basketball around me,” Paige said. “Like it would break me to hear the word. Like I wasn’t allowed to miss it out loud.”

“So I left,” Paige said, a little shrug in her voice. “Came here. To the middle of nowhere. Not to reinvent myself or anything that poetic. I just needed to stop waking up every day feeling like a ghost.”

Azzi blinked, and for a second, Paige thought she might cry. But her voice was steady. “That must’ve taken so much courage.”

Paige gave a low, almost laugh. “Or desperation. Maybe both.”

Azzi didn’t look away. “But you did it. You carved out space for yourself.”

For a moment, Paige didn’t speak.

Then, almost to herself: “Some days it still feels like I’m trying.”

The fire had burned low, the logs now more ember than flame, casting a soft, pulsing glow across the living room. Paige’s mug sat cooling on the table. Azzi hadn’t moved much, her hand lightly resting atop Paige’s, thumb absently tracing along the ridge of a knuckle.

Azzi’s voice broke the hush, quiet and careful. “Can I see them?”

Paige looked up, brow furrowed. “See what?”

“Your scars,” Azzi said, not flinching from the question.

Paige blinked, surprised, not by the request, but by how gently it was asked. Her gaze flickered away, toward the window where the glass reflected just enough of her own silhouette to feel like a version of herself was still watching.

“You’ve already seen them,” she said eventually, voice light, like that might make it easier.

Azzi shook her head. “I’ve seen them. But I haven’t really looked.”

That made Paige pause. Her jaw shifted like she might laugh or deflect, but the moment didn’t make space for either. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed up the hem of her sweats just enough to expose the pale lines trailing across the skin of her knee. The pink had long since faded to silver, but the shape of it still carried memory.

Azzi didn’t reach out. She just looked. Long enough for Paige to feel a flush crawl up her chest, unsure if it was from exposure or the tenderness in Azzi’s eyes.

Paige shifted slightly, the fabric bunched at the bend of her knee, catching on old scar tissue that didn’t bend the same way it used to. The fire hissed behind them, one last crackle from a collapsing log. Otherwise, it was silent.

Azzi leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, chin lowered just enough to let her hair fall, curls bouncing around her face as she looked. Not with pity. Not with fear. Just… presence. The kind Paige didn’t realize she’d been craving until it was there.

“I used to trace them sometimes,” Paige said, her voice almost a murmur. “Right after the first surgery. Like if I could memorize the shape of it, I’d get something back. Control, maybe.”

Azzi’s eyes didn’t leave the line of skin. “Did it work?”

“No,” Paige said simply. Then, after a beat: “But it gave me something to do. When I couldn’t run. Couldn’t play. When my body wasn’t mine.”

She tugged the fabric a little higher. Another scar, higher up. Shorter, messier. The one from the scope, the complication. The second time they told her it’d be fine.

Azzi swallowed. “This one?”

Paige nodded. “Scar tissue built up around the graft. They tried to fix it. It just… didn’t fix.”

Her breath hitched in a way she didn’t expect. Not crying. Not breaking. Just remembering.

“And the kneecap?” Azzi asked softly, like she didn’t want to hurt the air around them.

Paige’s fingers tapped once against her thigh before she peeled the fabric higher, just a few more inches. There, on the outside, a faint ripple of skin where the bone had pushed out of place, shifted sideways like the last betrayal. It didn’t look like much now. But she remembered the sound.

Azzi finally reached out, not to touch, but just to be near. Her hand hovered, respectful, then settled lightly on the edge of Paige’s shin. Her thumb moved in slow, grounding circles, as if to say I see it. All of it.

“You still feel it?” she asked.

“Every time it gets cold,” Paige said, managing the ghost of a smile. “Which, here? Pretty much always.”

That earned a soft laugh from Azzi. Her eyes were still on Paige’s leg, but her voice was somewhere deeper. “It’s beautiful, you know.”

Paige looked over sharply, almost startled.

Azzi shrugged, her thumb still moving. “Not the pain. Not the break. But that you lived through it. That you’re still here.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She didn’t have to. Her hand turned, just slightly, so their fingers could interlace.

Azzi didn’t look away. Her gaze followed the curve of Paige’s scar like it was a story she wanted to memorize. Then, almost without thinking, she shifted, tugging her own sweats down just enough to reveal the faint, jagged mark along her knee. The one she never showed. Not in interviews. Not even in the locker room.

“This one’s mine,” she said, almost shyly. “ACL. First time.”

She paused, then nodded at a second, parallel line. “Second time was worse.”

Paige’s eyes traced the scar, slow and reverent. Her fingers brushed over Azzi’s shin, featherlight, not for comfort but communion. Like she understood what it had cost.

“You came back,” Paige said quietly.

Azzi’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. But I was never the same.”

Paige’s touch didn’t leave. “None of us are.”

They stayed like that for a moment, legs bare, winter wind humming faintly outside, the fire settling into quiet. The air between them had shifted again, less like a question and more like an answer they hadn’t known they were asking for.

Azzi’s hand curled tighter around Paige’s.

And neither of them let go.

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fic #pazzi fic: timeout

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lilliths-story-studio · 23 hours ago

Text

“Why were you in those woods?”

It’s the first thing Cassy asks when she sees me, her words rushed and squeaking the slightest at the end. She’d been leaning against the back of her car, smoke floating upward towards the sky the same way Grocery Greg had promised - I need to find out his actual name.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her about him- let her freak out more. She always did get loose lipped when stressed, maybe I can get a straight answer.

But the question won’t fly, the words sticking in my soft palette.

‘Lets’s keep this between us…’

I’m going to find a way to drown him in the sad little trickle between the pebbles of that stream.

“Decided to walk while I waited.” I say instead.

“Alone? With your hair-“

“Yes, for gods sake. Stop with the hair.”

“So your just gonna walk around open-“

“If you wanna play interrogation, where’d you get off to?”

“I got cigarettes.”

“I see that.” My nose wrinkles. “And it took the whole time I was running laundry?”

“I went to the bathroom, if you have to know.” She says.

A fair point, I hadn’t checked the ladies room. So every possibility exists that my trek through the woods was entirely unnecessary.

Would be my luck.

“You flew off half-cocked again, didn’t you?” She huffs. “I hope it was an interesting walk. I switched your clothes since you were still gone, and I don’t want to be out here all night.”

Her foot taps twice.

“Thanks.” I offer stiffly, still not certain what -if anything- to say.

“You’re welcome. Don’t go into those woods alone anymore.”

“I’m not going to promise you that.”

Her lips drain to white, pressing together. Her cigarette is shoved between them.

“Play with death on your own time.” She says through gritted teeth, whispy little fingers licking free. “You think those things don’t come this far?”

It’s funny, because an hour ago that would have been the worst thing I could have imagined. Trapped and unable to remember what had happened.

“Let em.” I walk past her and into the laundry. It feels like walking into a wall of fire. The dryer is rumbling away, punctuated by the rhythmic slap of my jeans being tossed about.

She follows me, door swinging shut behind her.

“Can you take your poison outside?” I don’t know if I’m talking about her or the smoke.

“No.” She takes another long drag. “I asked you to stay out of the woods, I ask you to let me keep your hair braided - everything I ask you is a no. So - no.”

I’m about to tell her she can finish her stupid hunt herself. At this point, Vegas is seeming like a perfectly reasonable option. I’ve got this odd tingle sense, right? Maybe I can use that.

But it doesn’t trigger around Cassy at all, so maybe it’s not honed enough to go full blown witch hunting. Still - I’m sure I could shmooze my way into finding at least one needle in that haystack of crazy.

“You had less than zero problem running of to leave me solo in that cave, so what’s the sudden concern now?” I should have stayed outside, at least that patch of sweltering wasn’t on its way to becoming the worst hotbox ever.

“I didn’t run off, you refused to follow.”

“With good reason.”

“We wouldn’t even have that lead if I had stayed back and left like you wanted.”

“Which you got by running off. My point stands.”

“Does it? Have you forgotten someone while you were getting all wrapped up in trying to stick it to me?”

Drew.

My teeth clench and my patience snaps. Fuck her, fuck Greg, and fuck this whole place.

Except I can’t say it. Not because I don’t want to, not because I still have an iota of patience in me. But because the words physically won’t leave, sticking in my soft palate once more. Nor will my feet direct me towards the door or beyond.

“That’s what I thought.” She chuffs, mistaking my silence for compliance. “I’m not just being a jerk, Tasha. It’s dangerous.”

It is, I’ve seen that for myself.

“I can’t pull you out of the nightmare every time you insist on running headlong into it.”

This time she sounds more resigned than upset, and this time she does take her cigarette and leave. I sink to the ground, back pressed to the washer while its twin rumbles on about its job next to me.

Fuck, but if it’s not one thing it’s six more.

And she’s not even wrong about the woods- I very much met something far more dangerous than those little tree walkers. There has to be a way to get out of this compulsion.

I don’t figure out what it is by the time my clothes are dried, nor by the time we’ve piled back into the car. This time the music is blaring loud enough to rattle something in the vehicle, and I learn that the passenger window crank is for show.

Cassy’s staring straight ahead in perfect silence, doing a marvelous job of pretending I’m some manner of statue. My failed cranking earns a glance, but not so much as a sound. I’m certain if she wasn’t preoccupied with the pedals, I’d have one more pair of taps to try my patience.

Night has descended by the time we roll our way back up the road, past the sign that I swear seems further off its single hinge than it had been two nights ago. Then again, it’s been a day and I’m likely painting everything in a sinister, spooky light as a result.

I’m forced to wait for her, as she’s got the key to the door. She, however, has no interest in going anywhere near it, instead walking around the back. My heart stutters - the can.

“Are we going in? I thought outside was dangerous?” I follow her, because what choice do I have.

Don’t act cagey, it’s a dead giveaway.

She just looks at me.

“Hello?”

“You’re not listening, what’s the point of talking?”

Shit. I’d kinda forgotten about this part.

“If you mean I’m not going to blindly do what you say because you say it, that’s not news, sugar.”

She snorts.

“No, it’s not. The difference is you’re going to get us both killed - and Eve as a result.”

“Excuse me, half cocked and underprepared?”

“Who went diving in the woods alone?”

“One. Flashlight. And no patience.”

“For the love of god, we’ve beaten that horse to death. Let it go. I should have left you with that thing.”

“And I should have left you in that hole.”

The silence that settles isn’t the uncomfortable pause, but a charged void of sound that dares either of us make the next move.

“Seems the handle was telling the truth.”

“Oh my fucking god.” I press the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see stars. “This whole thing would have been easier if I did want you dead. So how about you stop relying on your mood ring to decide what the fuck I’m about.“

“Then how do you feel-“

“Bitch, I don’t know!” It echoes through the valley. “I don’t fucking know, okay? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stay!”

That snaps my jaw shut - where the hell did that even come from?

“Fuck.” She rips a hand through her hair.

“What does that have to do with the-“

“You don’t listen, you never fucking listen.” She blows out a breath. “You just keep going. I was fucking worried about you in those woods. I’m worried about you every fucking time, but oh fucking well I guess.”

“It’s sorta late to worry about my safety all of a sudden, Cass.”

“It’s not sudden.“

“But it is pointless in our current situation.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t go alone cuz I don’t want to die. So if I ask you not to go alone - maybe it’s because I don’t want you to die.”

My lips press together.

“We’ve split up twice-“

“And look what keeps happening? You really think you’re gonna keep getting off this easy? You have no idea how lucky you are - that little stroll during your laundry run could have gone so, so fucking bad.”

The laughter bubbles, hysteria threatening to break free. But something between my chest and my throat keeps the sound at bay.

Easy?

Hah.

“And what does all of that have to do with me staying?” I rake my hand through my hair, fingers catching on a network of curls that interlock and tug at the scalp. “I’m leaving when this is done. I’ve already told you that.”

I focus on the thrum through the abused skin, rather than the way her voice has been catching at odd intervals. I’m honestly just glad I can’t see if she’s tearing up.

I don’t imagine that last line helped.

“Why? Am I that bad?”

Yep, she’s crying.

Fuck me.

“You’re not.” This much is familiar, we’ve travelled this much of the road before.

Except I hadn’t up and left the last time.

“Then why?”

“We just don’t work. You can’t leave and I can’t be trapped here.” I shake my head. “This isn’t my home.”

“You don’t have a home.” She sniffs.

My chest caves inward, not that I’ll show it.

“I’d argue that all you have is a prison.” I shake my head.

“It wasn’t one while you were here.”

“Maybe not for you.”

More silence.

“I warned you I was no good at domestic, sugar.” And this time, it really does carve at something in my chest to say it. “Stray, remember?”

She scoffs.

She’s called me as much jokingly several times in our four year dumpster fire.

“You managed okay….” Her voice shakes.

“Did I? Sweetheart, I don’t remember those last three years.” It’s softer than I want it to be. “Not really. I remember bits, and moments in time. But most of it…” I shake my head. “I think we both know I did not, in fact, manage okay.”

“So…it’s just this.”

Yeah.

This part is familiar too.

“Yeah. Just this”

Why am I choking up on this shit? I didn’t miss anything here- it’s the same miserable argument. But I know the shake in her shoulder, feel the splinter in my soul. All I seem to do is make her cry.

I want to tug her into a hug. Comb through her hair - it’s always so much softer than mine.

I’d just make things worse, though.

So I shove my hands into my pockets before I do something stupid.

“You’ve always been terrible at this shit.” She sniffles. “How do you just stand there?”

“Is there anything I could honestly say to make it better?”

She draws a sniff.

“Can I have the day?” It’s such a small sound I almost miss it.

My stomach lodges between my heart and throat.

“Do you really think that’s going to help?”

“No.” She shuffles past me and bends, and my heart skips when she comes up with my discarded empty. “But I don’t think this did either. Did it?”

I back up, adrenaline already streaming steady towards a defense. But she holds up a hand and shakes her head.

“I’m not judging you, Tasha. I don’t know that we aren’t going to die down there tomorrow, okay? Can we just…put away the long term. Just for a bit?”

It’s not a good idea.

It’s very much not a good idea.

The near full moon overhead casting her in a platinum glow isn’t helping, though. Neither is the bone deep understanding that she’s absolutely on the money.

“Let’s go in, get something to eat. And we can see how the energy evens out - go from there?”

She laughs, or at least parrots the sound as she starts back towards the front of the cabin.

“Do you have to wing everything?”

I fall into step with her.

“In my experience, few plans go to…well, plan. Got learn to roll with what you’re given, ya know.”

She pauses in front of the door, looking at me rather than fishing for the key.

“Did you just Hakuna Matata me?”

“At least I didn’t try to toss you off a cliff.”

“Oh my god. It’s barely a tumble, you would have been fine.” She turns back and lets us in, while I check back on the ledge in question.

The trees above it are empty.

“Coming?”

When I turn back, Cassy’s half-way to the kitchen and glancing back. She raises the empty she’s about to toss.

“We’ve got most of the case left. I’ll make dinner.”

“Food and booze - you always did cheat to get your way.”

She flashes a grin and I ignore the twist in my chest as I step through the door and shut it behind me.

One night.

How badly can it go?

Prompt #1204

"What do you want?"

"I want you to stay."

#writing prompt #work in progress #creative writing #a story in prompts

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lucy-literates · 2 days ago

Note

Hey.. I’m back.. 🤕

So Malachi and reader have been dating for a while, reader is a well known singer making tops hits and getting on billboards for years, but ever since she turned 18+ she’s started making lightly explicit music, and I assume you know Billie Eilish, and how she be kinda freaky on her stage. Reader starts doing that but they only do it when Malachi can’t make it to her shows, and it’s not like it’s a secret reader tells him about it, but he feels left out. So to make him feel better she makes a new song about him FOR him, to play at her next show, and she does her freaky stuff..

I KNOW this is a lot and if you don’t wanna write this that is perfectly fine!!

A/N: Welcome back! I love this, soooo much!! I had so much fun writing it, I hope you enjoy ittttt :)

All For You

Malachi had seen the clips.

He wasn’t stalking you, exactly — but Twitter didn’t make it easy to avoid when your name was trending every other week. And the moment he saw “Y/N wild on stage again 🥵🔥” under a blurry clip of you straddling a mic stand like it had personally offended you? His stomach twisted.

You were incredible. Confident, famous, powerful. You deserved the world.

But God, he hated not being there.

He wasn’t possessive — not really. You told him everything. You warned him before your image pivoted, even let him hear the demos first. He’d said he was cool with it. And he was, mostly.

He just wasn’t cool with the fact that the rest of the world got that version of you… The version that arched your back on stage. The one that dropped low and licked your lips between lyrics. The one who moaned lightly into the mic on the second chorus.

All of it — except when he was there.

Because when Malachi was backstage, you didn’t do any of it.

Not the eye contact with fans. Not the hips. Not the growl in your voice when you said “baby.”

He never said anything. He couldn’t. You were being respectful, right? It still didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

Until your next show.

He didn’t even know he was going to make it until that morning. You’d sent a casual, “wish you could be here tonight 🖤” and he’d booked the next flight.

You had no clue.

He watched from the wings of the stage, hood up, arms crossed — just another stagehand as far as anyone knew. The lights dropped. The crowd screamed.

And then you came out in leather and mesh, soft red lighting behind you.

And your voice purred:

“You like the clean girl on camera, but she’s dirty when she’s home…” “Singin’ sweet for the world, but I’m only real on the phone…” “You think I tease the crowd, baby—nah. I tease you when you're gone.”

Malachi’s eyes widened.

“Don’t want them touchin’, just want you fussin’…” “Backstage, hands on my hips, tell me how I should’ve done it.”

The audience was going insane. But you weren’t looking at them. You were staring dead at the wings. At him.

“This one’s for you, baby,” you said into the mic, voice velvet-sweet and low. “Sorry I’ve been making them sweat when I should’ve been making you blush.”

And then you danced. No, performed — just like you did when he wasn’t there.

You were unapologetic and sensual, body rolling through the bridge, throwing in a wink, tossing your hair, biting your lip during the last chorus.

The screens behind you flashed with lyrics in bold red:

“NOT FOR THEM.” “ALL FOR HIM.” “ALL. FOR. YOU.”

After the show, Malachi didn’t even wait for your team. He found your dressing room and walked in without knocking.

You spun around, still in stage clothes, glowing with sweat and adrenaline. Your eyes widened when you saw him. “Baby—! You came?!”

He kissed you so hard he backed you into the vanity table, hands on your hips, breathing like he’d just run through fire.

“I knew it,” he whispered against your lips. “I knew you were saving it for me.”

You grinned, breathless. “Did you like your song?”

His voice was low, wrecked. “I need to hear it again. Preferably while you're not wearing that.”

You laughed. “How ‘bout live in private?”

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#malachi barton x reader #malachi barton x you #malachi barton #zombies victor #zombies 4 dawn of the vampires #under wraps #villians of valley view #colby madden #stuck in the middle (with you)

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andy-15-07 · 3 days ago

Note

Joel and reader request if you don’t mind. They have been friends with benefits for months. Really, they act more as a couple than friends with benefits but won’t admit it. Joel is scared that if he says anything he’ll scare her off and this is the first time in a long time he’s felt comfortable and secure in something he feels could last. The reader is more hardened than Joel and fears her past (being an orphan her whole life- even pre outbreak and having to survive on her own since a young age. And she lost her whole team post outbreak one by one in accidents, sickness, being bit or attacked before arriving at Jackson alone). she’s ashamed of what she’s done to survive just like Joel is. One day Joel breaks things off thinking it’s for the best. He can’t give her what she wants he’s insecure and feels not enough for her. She assumes it’s her fault- not being his type (or what she assumes is his type- someone younger with more energy (Joel and reader around the same age) or a more outgoing woman who can manage relationships with other people at Jackson. A woman without ‘baggage’ like she has. She has Ellie as a friend and is friendly with Maria but they aren’t best friends. Reader always felt like a lone wolf and thinks she drove him away. She gets hurt one day or attacked on patrols and is critically injured but survives and gets better. Joel feels guilty then they both confess feelings for each other

All That’s Left

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1339| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Joel Miller Masterlist

The first time Joel tells you he can’t do this anymore, you think it’s a joke.

You’re half-dressed in his bedroom in Jackson, your jeans half-on, hair still damp from the shower. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed like a man waiting for execution , shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, hands wringing together like he’s trying to squeeze the blood back into them.

“Joel?” You tug your zipper up. “You okay?”

His eyes flick up, all that soft brown gone dull and guarded. “Ain’t right, us doin’ this.”

It’s the way he says us that makes your chest tighten. Like you’re both dirty for it. Like you’re something that needs to be cleaned up and hidden away.

You cross your arms over your chest. “What’s not right about it?”

He sighs like it pains him to breathe. “It just… ain’t what you deserve.”

You let out a low laugh , humorless, sharp at the edges. “What the hell does that mean?”

He stands, starts tugging on his shirt. Won’t even look at you. “Means it’s done. You should find somebody else. Somebody better.”

You’d argue if you thought it would change anything. But he’s got that look , the one that says he’s already decided, that he’s halfway out the door in his head. So you just nod, like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t feel like you’re standing naked under floodlights.

“Sure,” you say. “Yeah. Whatever you want, Miller.”

You replay it later that night, alone in your small house on the edge of town. You keep picturing it over and over: the line of his shoulders, the raw edge of his voice, the shame in his eyes.

You tell yourself it’s your fault. Makes sense, doesn’t it? You’ve always been too much. Too guarded, too quiet, too rough around the edges. Who’d want to stick around for that? Not Joel Miller , not a man who deserves warmth and softness and a good woman who can host dinners and wave at neighbors and trust the world to be kind.

Not you , an orphan since before the world ended, who learned how to gut rabbits and lie through her teeth before she knew how to ride a bike. Who lost a whole crew to the cold and the infected and the simple bad luck of breathing too loud at the wrong time. Who crawled into Jackson like a feral dog and only stayed because Ellie didn’t flinch when she saw the blood under your nails.

Of course it’s you. Who else could it be?

You don’t see Joel much after that. When you do, it’s awkward , stiff nods, too-bright smiles, both of you acting like you were never in his bed with your fingers in his hair, his mouth on your throat, his voice hoarse in your ear telling you how good you are, how much he,

You stop thinking about that part. Or you try to.

Ellie notices you’re off. She’s not pushy about it, but sometimes she elbows you when you’re sitting at the bar in the mess hall, says, “You and the old man good?” And you lie. Of course you lie.

It happens on patrol. Of course it does. Everything bad happens out there , outside the walls where your ghosts wait for you, teeth bared, ready to remind you that the only thing you’re good at is not dying when everyone else does.

You and Tommy are tracking signs of a break-in near the old ski lodge when it happens , an ambush, or maybe just bad luck. Three infected come out of nowhere, fast and quiet, like the snow itself. One gets Tommy in the shoulder. You shoot the second. The third gets you good , claws at your ribs, teeth scraping your coat. You kill it with your knife, but by then you’re bleeding too fast, too hot.

They bring you back half-frozen and half-conscious. You think you hear Tommy shouting for Joel , get him, she’s asking for him, something like that , but you’re pretty sure you didn’t ask for anyone.

When you wake up, you’re in a bed that isn’t yours. You know it by the smell , wood smoke, old leather, that soap Joel uses that makes you think of pine trees and cold rivers.

You open your eyes and he’s there. Asleep in the chair by the bed. Or pretending to be , you can tell by the way his fingers tap his knee. Restless.

Your voice scrapes out of you like gravel. “Joel.”

He flinches like you shot him. Sits up. Stares at you like you’re some ghost come to collect.

“You’re awake,” he says, and his voice cracks in the middle. “Jesus. You’re awake.”

You want to tell him to calm down, but your throat won’t work. He pours you water instead, holds the glass to your lips like you’re a child. His hands shake.

You swallow, wincing at the burn in your ribs. “I’m fine.”

His eyes flash. “You ain’t fine. You almost died out there.”

You shrug. It hurts, but you do it anyway. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He sets the glass down so carefully you almost laugh. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, like he can scrape the words out of his skin. “Act like you dyin’ wouldn’t, wouldn’t matter.”

You stare at him. Then you push yourself up on one elbow, even though it feels like you’re tearing apart inside. “What are you talking about, Joel?”

He’s looking anywhere but at you. “I shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have let you go. Not like that.”

You laugh, bitter as old whiskey. “You didn’t let me do anything. You ended it.”

He looks at you then , really looks, eyes tired and shining in the low lamplight. “Because I’m a coward. Because I thought I was doin’ you a favor.”

“A favor.” You taste the word, spit it out. “By what , throwing me away?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight you want to pry them apart. “I ain’t good for you. I ain’t, I’m old. I’m tired. You deserve better than some broke-down man with too much blood on his hands and nothin’ left to offer.”

You laugh. You can’t help it , it breaks out of you sharp and wet and shaking. “You think I don’t know about blood? About having nothing left?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” Your breath hitches. “I’m not your dream girl, Joel. I know that. I’m not sweet. I’m not easy. I don’t, I don’t fit here. I never have.”

“Bullshit.” He snaps it so fast your heart jumps. “Don’t you say that. You think I give a damn if you’re sweet? You think I want easy? I want you.”

You freeze. The silence is so heavy it presses into your bones. “Say that again.”

He stands, moves closer, kneels by the bed so your eyes are level. His hands hover at your blanket, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. “I want you. All of it. The good, the bad, the shit that keeps you up at night. I want it. I want you.”

Your chest aches so hard it’s almost funny. “Then why,”

“‘Cause I’m scared.” His voice cracks. “Because if you leave , if you die , I don’t know how to keep goin’.” He lifts his eyes to yours, desperate and raw. “You don’t know what you mean to me, baby. You don’t, You got no idea.”

You reach for him , your fingers threading through his hair, the way you used to. He leans into your palm like a starving dog. “Then stay,” you whisper. “Stop running. Just stay.”

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breath warm and ragged. “I’m here. I’m here, darlin’. I swear.”

Your ribs hurt. Your stitches pull. But you think , maybe , this is the first time in your life you don’t feel alone

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spookysanta · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter 12: Just a Guy With His Girl

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

here we are babies! the home stretch. :( but there's SO much more in store for y'all and i can't wait. don't forget to vote for the next fic in my checklist poll. once that's done we've got some other series in the works. i know i've been writing a lot for michael BUT i do have some stuff coming for other muses, too. i just need to clean my inbox out first lmao

The apartment had gone still, but neither of you moved.

Not yet.

The TV glowed soft in the corner, playing some rerun neither of you were watching. You were sprawled half on top of him, one thigh draped over his waist, his palm warm against the small of your back. Your cheek rested on his shoulder. His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your ear.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that made you want to stay suspended in this exact moment, not thinking about tomorrow. Not thinking about what any of this meant beyond right now.

Eventually, you stirred. “Bed?” you whispered.

Michael’s eyes opened slowly, the barest smile tugging at his mouth. He reached for your hand as you stood and followed you down the hall, his fingers still laced with yours.

In your room, the covers were warm from the day. The sheets smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon – maybe from the candle you lit earlier. You climbed into bed. He followed.

You fit together like second nature. His chest to your back. His hand settling at your waist. His legs brushing yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then, in the dark: “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “You just did.”

He smiled against your shoulder, pinching your thigh with a chuckle. “Smartass. For real though…”

“Shoot.”

His voice was low, careful. “Who all knows about me?”

That made you pause.

You felt his fingers trace soft circles just above your hip, like he didn’t want to make it a thing, but needed to ask anyway.

“I know the girls do,” he added gently. “Tati, Nas, Lex, Kris. I could feel how much they care about you. How they’ve got your back.”

You smiled into your pillow. “They do.”

“So… outside of them?”

You exhaled. “My parents don’t know. Neither does my brother, Jay.”

Michael was quiet.

“I’m not hiding you,” you said softly. “I just… haven’t shared yet. This has been ours. Just ours. And I wanted to keep it close before anybody else had an opinion.”

He nodded behind you. You felt it. But he still didn’t say anything for a beat.

“I get that,” he said eventually. “Truly. I just… I was curious. Felt like I should know where I stand.”

“You do,” you whispered. “You stand with me. And that’s not small.”

He didn’t push again. Just slid his hand to your stomach and pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you like a blanket. “I think I’m still adjusting to this,” he murmured. “You. All of this.”

You rolled to face him, your nose brushing his. “What part?”

He hesitated. “The normal. The soft. The real. It’s rare for me.”

You watched his face, studied the way the shadows played over his jaw.

“I started acting when I was, what, twelve?” he continued. “Maybe thirteen. I’ve been working ever since. I had support, my parents were amazing. But I didn’t really get to live the way other kids did. I don’t remember many summers, or family reunions, or running through the neighborhood with cousins. It was always auditions. Jobs. Prepping for the next thing.”

Your heart tugged. “That’s a lot for a kid.”

He nodded. “I don’t regret it. But sometimes, I wonder what it would’ve been like… y’know, to just be a kid. To be free.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then, you mumbled, “We didn’t have much sometimes, but we were happy.”

He glanced at you, eyes pleading to know more.

Your parents divorced when you were three. And though you barely remember them together, your memories of each of them outweighed the strain in the family’s dynamic.

You started with your mom: how she had a laugh that could stop traffic and a voice that could talk you off a ledge. How she never sent texts, only voice notes, and still used too many emojis.

Then, you told him about your dad – the construction man that could build anything, fix anything, charm anyone. How he’d send you photos of drywall and paint jobs like they were works of art. How he once built Jay a treehouse in a single weekend after watching one YouTube tutorial.

Michael chuckled, eyes crinkling.

Finally, you told him about Jay, your baby brother who now towered over you like a small linebacker. How he acted cool but still melted if your mom kissed his forehead in public. How he was a goofball and a protector all at once.

Then you smiled and said, “You already know about Tati.”

Michael chuckled. “Yeah. Tati’s unforgettable.”

“And Angelo…” Your voice softened. “He’s been like my big brother since I was eight. He takes his job seriously. When I was in high school, he used to sit on the porch whenever boys came to pick me up. With his arms crossed. Wearing a Bad Boys II expression.”

Michael laughed.

“He and Tati basically adopted me. Or maybe I adopted them. Either way, it’s forever.”

The conversation shifted then, from family to childhood memories. Summer road trips in your grandparents’ backseat. Family reunions with matching t-shirts. Fish frys, cornbread, and sun tea in mason jars. Running barefoot through your neighborhood chasing the ice cream truck. Tati at your side, Angelo yelling at you from the porch.

“That sounds… beautiful,” Michael said softly.

You shrugged. “It was. In pieces.”

He tilted his head. “Pieces?”

You hesitated, then shook your head lightly. “I’ve… been through some shit. Stuff I’m not ready to talk about yet. But Angelo and Tati were there. When it all fell apart, they didn’t let me drown. They held me up. Gave me a place to land when I had nothing else.”

He reached for your hand, held it gently in his.

You didn’t cry – just let out an exhale.

“And sometimes I forget how much it shaped me,” you murmured. “Why I keep things close to my chest. Why I don’t let just anyone in.”

Michael didn’t fill the space with platitudes, and didn’t offer empty comfort. He just stayed. Present. Anchored.

And after a long stretch of silence, he whispered, “Thank you for letting me in.”

You met his eyes in the dark. “Thank you for not rushing me.”

He leaned in then, kissing your forehead, your temple, the space between your brows. Not possessive, not teasing. Just present.

Eventually, your bodies softened into the bed. Your legs tangled again, his breath steady in your ear, sleep pulling you both down slowly.

And even though no one said it out loud, something inside both of you already knew.

This wasn’t pretend. This wasn’t small. And this definitely wasn’t temporary.

It was building in every shared glance, every exhale, every truth whispered in the dark.

—

The morning was warm before the sun even touched the blinds.

You’d kicked the covers off in your sleep. Your legs were bare, one draped across his hip, the hem of his t-shirt tangled halfway up your thighs.

Michael hadn’t moved much, just shifted closer during the night, fingers curling beneath the band of your underwear, head tucked between your shoulder and the pillow like he’d melted into your space on instinct.

You blinked up at the ceiling, heart full. Body still humming.

He stirred behind you. “Morning.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

“I was dreaming.”

“Good dream?”

His voice dipped, hoarse and sweet. “You were in it. Always a good dream.”

—

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon toast and burnt edges by 10 a.m.

Michael had tried – really, truly tried – to help with breakfast. But after a bagel nearly caught fire in your “fancy” toaster, he surrendered to washing fruit and watching you in his sweatpants.

You fed him a bite of your French toast with a proud little hum.

He kissed the pads of your fingertips. “Think I’m addicted to this now,” he said between chews.

You raised a brow. “My cooking?”

“No. You. In your element.”

You blushed. “You’ve only been here four days.”

“And you know I’d stay forty.”

After a slow breakfast with kisses and mumbles in between, you took him out; not anywhere big, just showed him around the neighborhood.

The park, your favorite bookstore with the lazy cat on the checkout counter, the Jamaican spot with the best oxtail in the city.

He wore sunglasses and a fitted cap, keeping things lowkey, but you could feel the tension humming under his skin anytime someone looked too long.

You slid your hand into his as you walked down the block. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just still getting used to being normal. Like… your world doesn’t revolve around me here.”

You smiled gently. “It never needed to.”

Later, back home, you sat together on the couch, your feet in his lap, his arm draped across the back cushion, while you scrolled through your phone and bit your lip.

“What’s up?” he asked, noticing your concentration, brushing his fingers over your ankle.

You hesitated, shaking your head to clear the thoughts swirling around in there. “There’s a dinner tomorrow with some friends from college. It’s a small group thing.”

He tilted his head. “You wanna go?”

“I want us to go.”

Michael’s jaw ticked just slightly.

You sat up. “They’re old friends,” you said. “People who’ve seen me through a lot. I want them to meet the person I’m… y’know. Choosing.”

He softened. “You sure they’ll be cool?”

“They will be.”

“You sure sure?”

You grinned. “I already texted the group chat about it. Made them swear not to act wild. Literally made them send thumbs-up emojis under oath.”

He rubbed your thigh, letting out a breath that resided deep in his chest. “I just don’t want to make your life more complicated.”

“You make it better,” you said. “And if they can’t see that, they’re not really my people.”

He leaned over, kissing you once. Then again, slower. “Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s go to dinner.”

—

“Okay,” you muttered, standing in front of your closet. “Cute, but not too cute. Sexy, but also respectable. Not trying too hard, but also definitely trying…”

Michael glanced up from his spot on the bed, smirking as he watched you hold the third dress in front of the mirror. “You look good in all of ‘em,” he offered, arms behind his head.

You turned slowly. “This is important.”

“I know.”

“They’ve never met anyone I was serious about.”

“I know.” He didn’t even try to deny the grin that was playing on his lips.

You narrowed your eyes. “And stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not helping.”

He shrugged. “You look sexy. That’s all I got.”

You rolled your eyes. Then picked the first dress anyway.

In your friends’ group chat, the messages were already rolling in.

You met Michael by the door after slipping into your heels.

He looked up slowly, his eyes dragging from your ankles to your mouth like he was starving. “Baby…”

“What?”

“That color on your skin? That little slit right here?” He reached for the hem. “You tryna ruin me in front of your friends.”

You smoothed your hand over his chest, giving him a playful pat on his sternum. “Just a little preview. You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

The restaurant was chill: warm lighting, wine shelves lining the walls, soft music playing under the clink of glasses and low laughter.

Your friends were already seated. And trying so hard to be normal. No one screamed, no one dropped their menus. No one reached for their phones under the table – at least, that you noticed. But the energy was absolutely electric.

Michael helped pull your chair out. Greeted everyone with that slow smile, head tilted, eyes kind, and shook hands with every partner at the table like he’d done this a hundred times.

You swore Karla mouthed “oh my God” into her water glass.

—

He told a few stories. Laughed at all the jokes. Shared bites of your food like no one was watching. And when one of the partners complimented your laugh and Michael leaned in to say, “Yeah, I know, it’s my favorite sound,” the entire table collectively malfunctioned.

They tried to recover. To keep it cute. But Arielle elbowed you under the table and mouthed, Girl. You won.

You didn’t even try to fight it. You know you did.

The Uber ride back to your apartment was quiet in a comfortable silence that felt like safety. Your hand rested on his thigh, his thumb brushing yours.

It was the kind of silence where the night is still lingering, glowing, folding into something permanent.

He walked you up without a word, let you unlock the door, watched you step inside, and closed it behind him like he already lived there.

You both kicked off your shoes at the same time, setting both pairs in the shoe cabinet by the door. You laughed when you saw he’d also unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and he grinned like he’d just undressed for you on purpose.

“You did good,” you said.

He flopped onto the couch. “So did you.”

“You were very charming.”

He laughed, “Baby, I’m always charming.”

You smiled with a playful eye roll, walking toward him with a container of leftover dessert from the fridge and a spoon. “Key lime pie?”

He nodded, arms open. You sank into them, not hesitating to open the container and dig in. You fed him a bite. He fed you one back.

Then licked a little off the corner of your mouth, slow and teasing, until your group chat buzzed on the coffee table.

You laughed, nose scrunching as you handed the phone to Michael. He read the screen and shook his head. “They were sweet.”

You curled up next to him, face buried in his shoulder. “What can I say? They love me.”

“I do too.”

It slipped out, almost quiet enough that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been paying attention. But there was no wavering in it. It was full of certainty.

Your head lifted quick, eyes searching his face for any indication of a prank. Maybe he was kidding? Maybe he didn’t mean that.

But he was already looking back at you with the same eyes he’d had all week: a warm gaze that was in awe of you.

His mouth just parted, searching for something else to say, like he knew he’d blurted it out but couldn’t hold it in a second longer. “I know it’s soon,” he said, voice steady. “But I really do.”

You didn’t speak at first, completely at a loss for words. You didn’t rush the moment. Instead, you sat in it, just letting the words bloom around you like they belonged in your space.

You reached up and touched his face, caressing the rough hairs on his chin with soft fingers. “I do too.”

He kissed you then like an oath. Like a man who says shit and means it. And this time, when he whispered it again, this time pressed into your neck, soft and real, it didn’t feel sudden at all.

It felt right on time.

—

The next morning felt different. Not louder. Not heavier. Just… more settled.

Like something had locked into place while you slept. And not just because he was still there, snoring lightly with one hand across your stomach like a promise.

You slipped out of bed, moving slow, trying to find a moment in the quiet to steady yourself from the night before. You made coffee (of course, making another cup for him), opened a window, and watched the light crawl across the room.

He walked out into the kitchen in sweatpants and a sleepy grin, kissed your cheek without needing to ask. “I said it out loud,” he murmured, arms sliding around your waist.

You nodded against his chest. “I heard you.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.”

After that, the apartment started to shift in quiet ways. His charger stayed in the wall. His wave brush joined your edge brush on the bathroom counter. You made more space in the fridge without thinking – his almond milk next to your oat, his hot sauce now a shared domain.

You noticed it and smiled. He saw you notice. He didn’t say anything, just reached for your hand.

Later, you curled up on the couch – a coconut and santal candle lit, your legs stretched across his lap, plates empty on the coffee table. The conversation turned quiet with a weight that sat in your chest.

“What happens after this week?” you asked softly after a while.

Michael didn’t flinch. “I go back,” he said, thumb still stroking your shin. “You work. I work.”

You nodded.

“But I fly back out,” he added. “Not months later. Weeks. Days if I can swing it.”

You blinked in surprise.

He looked over at you with a raised brow. “You think I’d say that I love you and disappear?”

You smiled, shaking your head. But still, your chest ached. “I just want it to keep feeling like this.”

“It will.”

“Even when it gets hard?”

He leaned over and cradled your face in both hands. “I don’t want the easy version of us. I want the real one.”

You exhaled, relaxing into his touch, leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because honestly? It was.

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#michael b jordan #michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #x black woman #michael b. jordan #mbj x reader #mbj imagine #mbj x black reader #x reader fanfic #x black reader #x black girl #x y/n #spookysanta #the girls' trip fic #add to masterlist

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