#but i will do that... with thousands of words

[kenntoria]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write

nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.

the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.

but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.

every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.

the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.

and nanami… stays.

he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”

there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.

he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.

he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:

“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”

a few hours later, you reply.

“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”

nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.

—

he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.

but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.

soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.

he turns.

and you’re there.

you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.

and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.

he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.

“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.

“yes?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”

you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.

“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”

“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”

your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”

“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.

you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.

before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.

that night, a new video goes up.

“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”

nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.

—

the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.

you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”

you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”

you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.

you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”

nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.

you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.

he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.

and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”

he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.

and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”

nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”

[dunham-doodles]

A Picture Worth A Thousand Words

Remmick x fem!reader

2k words | Pure fluff

Summary: (AU - Remmick survived the juke joint.) It’s 1964 and you’re an artist who decides to draw the handsome stranger who keeps turning up at your door every night.

Tags: yearning; soft and sweet; lingering gazes; touching scars; 1960s music; puppy!Remmick; touch starved!Remmick

A/N: I wanted to borrow an idea I’ve seen used with Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3. I love love love the idea of an artist drawing the face of a vampire who hasn’t seen their reflection in God knows how long.

“Hold still,” you ordered, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“This ain’t gonna hurt, is it?” Remmick said playfully.

“It will if you keep moving,” you shot back, only half joking. “Eyes on that horizon, boy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he drawled out, rolling his eyes lightly. He tilted his chin in the direction of wherever horizon meant. Although his tone was sarcastic, a grin curled at the ends of his lips.

The night air was crisp. It was the beginning transition of spring into summer where the days warmed the skin like an embrace from a loved one but the nights remained cool like a reminder of their absence. The town had eased into sleep around you.

You thought the best thing about living out in the middle of nowhere was that there was no light pollution. Despite the dark, the sky was alight with hues of deep purple and blue like an ocean dotted with pinpricks of multicolored stars. In school, they taught you the names of each and every constellation that rotated with the seasons.

You found him right under Polaris. You had been awake after losing track of time. You were locked into your paintings so intensely, you didn’t see the sky turn. The ashtray was loaded with burnt out cigarettes, remnants of smoke curling in the warm glow of the single lamp glowing on the end table. You kept the window open to air out the smell, the soft trickles of a sad guitar playing through your stereo speakers filtering through the pane.

He stood at the end of the dirt path that served as your driveway, hands in pockets, curious, as if he were contemplating going up and installing himself into your life. You weren’t going to get a say in when or how.

You turned down the record as he got closer.

“There’s no need to do that,” he said, hands stretching out in the open air, “I came up here to ask what you was playin’ is all.” His blue eyes pleaded innocent.

“Lonnie Johnson,” you stated, an edge to your words.

He hummed low in his throat. “She sure knows how to play.”

“He,” you corrected, “Lonnie’s a dude.”

“H-He,” the stranger repeated, “He sure knows how to play.” A beat of silence strung between you awkwardly. He shuffled his feet underneath himself. “You wouldn’t mind if I sat and listened, wouldja?”

You chuckled to yourself. A strange white man asking you if you minded if he sat and listened to your records in the dead of night? Your eyes took a precautionary glance over where the trees met the boarder of your land for any sign of unsavory movement.

“You alone?” you asked finally. He nodded his head. You pursed your lips, weighing your decision in your mind. You turned on your heel, away from the window. You crossed to your record player, moved the needle to the beginning track, and turned the sound up a little louder.

You met the eyes of the stranger’s once more. His features reflected his gratitude. He leaned against the strong post of the porch landing and closed his eyes, taking in the music.

You shook your head. What a weird man.

He kept finding his way to your home every night after sundown.

“Whatcha got spinnin’ tonight?” he’d ask you without fail. You’d tell him anything from Etta James to Freddie King and he’d happily sit his ass down on your porch no matter who poured through those speakers.

Some nights he came with some 45s he thought you would like.

“The guy on guitar has to be one of my favorites from this decade,” he said, pushing the small disc into your hands. To be honest, you thought his music tastes were a little too old. Nothing he gave you was dated past the forties. But still, you admired the gesture. In return, you gave him a more modern musical education, opening his ears to the sounds of the 60s. He was floored the first time he heard Hendrix.

“Find a new favorite guitar player, did ya?” you teased.

It was nice having him to share your nights with. He didn’t make too much of a fuss; didn’t ask for anything to eat or drink, despite your offerings. He was perfectly content listening to your music and asking questions about your art. He praised the paintings, kept saying they belonged in the Louvre rather than hidden in this small town. You shooed away his compliments like water off a duck’s back but you couldn’t stop the blush creeping into your cheeks.

One evening, you decided you were gonna join him out on your porch. Armed with your drawing pad and a tin of charcoal sticks, you rocked yourself gently on your porch swing with your big toe. You had tucked yourself into an oversized crochet blanket, preserving your warmth as you waited for the sky to dim. You had the radio on instead of playing a record to save yourself from having to leave your seat. The tinny voices crackled over the sounds of the crickets singing.

“Evenin’ Remmick,” you called when you saw him crest your driveway. He told you his name some nights ago and you kept it on your tongue whenever he was near. You just liked the way his face lit up like Christmas whenever you said it.

“You waitin’ for me?” he asked, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Sure looks like it,” you replied. He crossed over to your place on the swing but leaned against the post of the porch landing instead. “You ain’t gonna sit by me?”

Remmick jolted like he touched an electric fence. “I didn’t know you were offerin’.”

You scooched over to make room for him and patted the empty space. “I don’t bite,” you winked. A smile tugged at his lips as if he were keeping down a really good joke.

The swing groaned under his weight. Your heart flip-flopped at the proximity of him. His brown hair curled at the base of his neck, grown too shaggy. His face was pocked with unkempt whiskers and a white scar cracked the left side of his cheek. You wanted to trace that scar with the tips of your fingers.

His blue eyes watched you carefully. Watched for any indication that his nearness was offensive somehow. He kept himself small, not daring to brush your skin. He moved as if you were on fire and he was trying very hard not to get burned.

“You’re gonna be my muse,” you declared.

“That’s the first time I’ve been called that,” Remmick smirked, “What do I gotta do?”

You picked up a charcoal stick and told him to face forward, keep his eyes on the dirt path ahead. The charcoal scratched the surface of the paper, debris crumbling onto your lap.

Santana crooned over the speakers on your radio lying on the kitchen counter inside. Remmick shifted under the weight of your presence.

“I think I like your music better,” he mumbled.

You breathed out a small laugh without looking up. “You’re too kind. Your taste isn’t too bad either. You just got an ol’ soul.”

Remmick pursed his lips. “You could say that.”

“Did you grow up here?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No,” he sighed sadly, “You?”

“Nope. I moved out here a few years ago.”

“How come?”

“Just wanted a change. The city was too loud.” Your eyebrows knit together in concentration. Remmick took this moment to steal a look at you.

Your eyes flicked up at him through your eyelashes. The tips of your ears turned crimson. “Eyes forward, Pretty Boy.”

“Pretty Boy?” he tossed the name around his mouth like a shiny token. You bit your lip to keep from saying much else.

You twisted the length of your charcoal stick to match the angle of his nose before copying it onto your page. His shoulders slowly began to relax. His hands brushed down his thighs, right where your knee almost touched him. He curled his fingers as if to check that they were still operational.

“Can I look yet?” he asked tenderly. His pinkie stretch precariously, bridging the gap between you two. You could feel his nail ghosting on your bare skin. Your heart leapt into your throat, the lightest of touches already turning your nerves into an inferno.

“Just gotta work on the shading,” you replied meekly. He nodded, correcting his head. His finger never dropped. He began to soothingly stroke your knee back and forth, keeping time with the new song that played. It tickled you.

It was harder to concentrate now. From the briefest of looks, you noticed his jaw clenching and unclenching, chewing on words he almost felt ready to say. And what would those words be? What could he possibly say to make your heart race any faster?

To ease it along, you pushed your knee further into his touch. Remmick inhaled sharply in response. He closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to melt.

“Okay,” you said after a while, “I think I’m done.” You pressed the pad of paper to your chest before revealing it slowly to him. He cradled the pad in his calloused hands like it was a newborn.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, “This is me?” He asked the question like he wasn’t sure what he looked like.

“It’s a rough sketch,” you admitted, “If I gave it more time, I could clean up the lines and be more precise with the shadows.”

“When did I-?” he wondered under his breath. His fingers brushed the hair curled around his ears to the hair on his chin, trailing all the way to the scar that marked him. His brow furrowed as if remembering the fresh wound marring his face and the blood and pain that came with it. He covered it fully with his hand, ashamed to have you look upon it any longer.

“How’d you get that?” you asked tentatively.

His eyes tore reluctantly from his portrait. “I, uh…” he paused, “The war.” He locked back onto the sketch, studying it as if he hadn’t seen his own face in centuries.

“Is… Is everything okay?” you whispered. You gently pressed yourself into his side.

“Yes,” he murmured. He straightened his back and finally met your gaze again. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

“Y’know, you can tell me if you hate it,” you chuckled, trying to make it light. “Don’t gotta spare my feelings.”

“No, I love this! I love—,” he started. “You did an amazin’ job.”

“You can keep it,” you said. Your hands met his and you lightly pushed the drawing pad against his chest. You leaned into his space, your touch lingering on his. Your thumb rubbed the side of his hand, returning the gentleness he showed you. Remmick’s lips parted slightly, exhaling a shallow breath.

“Thank you,” he spoke. His voice frayed like he hated that he broke the silence. You smiled softly at him. Your fingers reached and stroked the angry crevasse on his cheek.

He looked so fragile being held. His eyelids fluttered as he bathed in the warmth of your hand. He winced like it hurt but his head leaned into you instinctively. A soft trembling sound slipped past his lips.

“You are a wonderful muse,” you said. You leaned in and planted a delicate kiss on that scar. He dipped his head slipping past your ear before nuzzling in the crook of your neck. You gathered him into your arms, wrapping the blanket around his broad shoulders. Your fingers stroked the relaxed curls of his dark hair. His arms lifted with difficulty, still unsure if he was allowed this much, and rested around your waist. When you didn’t fight him, he pulled you in closer. You began to hum along to the song that wept from the radio.

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was the steady rocking of the porch swing on the light breeze and the feathery trail of kisses tied with promises of everlasting happiness.

[muwapsturniolo]

Drop the towel 🐰ྀི C. Sturniolo

"she's gonna be the fucking death of me-"

⟢ no warnings really, this is mainly fluff and involves a prank.

"What the fuck?"

Chris looks up from his phone, smiling as he sees his girlfriend. However, the smile drops as quickly as it forms, seeing her in nothing but a towel. His eyes dart towards Matt's desk, the monitors reflecting what's happening.

They were currently on live, streaming on Twitch, with too many people to count watching.

"What the fuck are you doing?" His words came out harsh, but he didn't care. She knew they were streaming; he didn't care if she was on camera. What he did care about was thousands of people seeing her so exposed. She opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off, his voice laced with protective irritation.

"Get the fuck out, what the hell are you thinking coming in here dressed in nothing but a towel?"

"I just had a question! Stop yelling at me!" She does her best not to laugh at his obvious frustration. She knew he was pissed, and she knew why, but it was all entertaing to her.

"I'm yelling because what the fuck are you doin' kid?" He stands up, grabbing her arm and trying to push her out of view of the camera, but she stays planted.

"I just have a question!" She repeats, making sure to give him the doe eyes he always falls for. He glares down at her, a grunt of frustration leaving his throat.

"What the fuck is it?"

"What do you think of this?"

It all happens in slow motion.

Matt's eyes widen as Bun lets go of the towel, his hands fumbling as he tries to turn the camera off. Nick screams in shock, covering his mouth in a split second before reaching out as if he could stop it in time.

Chris tackles her onto the bed, his body landing on top of Bun's in an attempt to cover.

"Turn off the fucking stream Matt!"

"Oh my god, oh my god!"

"Why won't it turn off?!"

Bunny cackles loudly at their obvious distress, the fact that they didn't notice, and immediately jumped into a frenzy, truly bringing her tears of joy.

Chris snapped his head downward, giving her the dirtiest and annoyed look he could muster. "What the fuck are you laughing at?! Do you think this shit is funny?! About a thousand people just saw your dumbass flash us, and probably clipped it! What the hell is wr-" He cuts himself off, seeing the familiar pattern of his favorite pajama set adorning her body.

His brain short-circuits for a second, trying to understand what just happened.

He slowly rolls off of her, lying flat on Matt's bed and running his hands over his face in exhaustion.

"Jesus fucking christ Bun..."

She sits up and giggles softly, nothing but pure joy on her face at the series of events that just took place. Matt holds his head in his hands, completely in shock and anxious. Nick throws his head back in relief, slapping a hand over his heart.

Bunny stands up, simply waving goodbye to the stream and prancing out of the room as if she didn't just give the three brothers heart attacks.

They sit in a still silence, completely and utterly shocked by her prank.

"She's gonna be the fucking death of me-" Chris pushes himself off of the bed, already making his way out of the room.

"Bun! Get your ass in the room!"

[vingtetunmars]

Uncharted Territory

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: During a study session that turns into something more, a simple kiss on the forehead unexpectedly leaves Eddie completely hot and bothered.

Tags: fluff, humor, teasing, implied praise kink, new couple, established relationship, first time, reader is sunshine incarnate, tender intimacy, virgin!Eddie Munson. No description of Reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: This fic is inspired by this post by @sheneedsrocknroll92 , I thought it was funny and probably something that would happen to Eddie. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 1.8k

masterlist

You weren’t supposed to notice him.

Not in the way that mattered.

Eddie Munson knew his place at Hawkins High. Resident freak. Satanic panic poster boy. The kid teachers gave up on and parents warned their kids about. People stared, sure—but only long enough to whisper, then look away.

But you never looked away.

You smiled.

The first time was in the cafeteria. You were sitting with your friends, those pastel, soft-voiced types with glitter pens and locker decorations. You didn’t look like someone who would know his name, let alone say it. But when he passed your table, you lifted your head and smiled straight at him. Bright. Simple. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He almost dropped his tray.

The next day, you waved in the hallway. He looked behind him just to make sure it was actually for him. You laughed. Said, “Hi, Eddie!” like you’d done it a thousand times.

He spent the rest of the week convinced someone put you up to it.

Except… you kept doing it.

You showed up near his locker. Lingered near Hellfire with a soda and a snack in hand. Laughed at his dumb jokes even when no one else did. It was like you orbiting around his life was normal, like he didn’t have to prove he was worthy of it.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because you were sunshine in a person. The kind of girl people opened up to without meaning to. The kind who said things like “you look handsome today” with complete sincerity, not even knowing the chaos it would cause in someone like him. Eddie was used to being mocked, dismissed, at best tolerated. You were different.

The scary part was how fast he got used to it.

He started looking forward to you. Every hallway run-in. Every shared lunch on the bleachers. Every time you curled your fingers around his wrist like it was no big deal. And then, the moment that flipped his world upside down—you kissed his cheek and said:

“I like you, Eddie. Just putting that out there.”

Then you smiled and walked off like you didn’t just detonate a bomb in his chest.

It took him a week to build the courage. A week of sweaty palms and bad dreams and practicing in the mirror. Then he found you after school, heart in his throat, and said something completely idiotic like, “I also like. You. Like-you. You, I like.”

You just grinned, slid your fingers into his, and said, “Cool. Because I think we look good together.”

Like it was that simple.

And, god, maybe it was.

You made it easy.

Eddie had no idea what the hell he was doing. You were his first everything. First kiss. First girlfriend. First person to call him “baby” like it belonged to him. He thought he’d mess it up. He still thinks that, sometimes. But you’ve never once made him feel like he was falling behind.

You make him feel… like he could be good at this.

You play with his hair when he’s sprawled out on your couch. You cheer for him when he wins boss fights in Hellfire, even though you barely understand what’s going on. You bring him peanut butter M&M’s and wear his Hellfire shirt, even though it’s baggy on you and smells like his cologne. And you hold his hand like it’s just what people do.

He doesn’t always know how to respond. He’s still learning. Sometimes his brain fries when you lean into his side or call him “pretty boy.” But he loves the way you look at him when you do.

Like he’s something precious.

Like he’s not some loser hiding behind loud clothes and louder words.

And two months in, Eddie Munson is still stunned every single day that he gets to have you.

That someone like you wanted someone like him.

That maybe—just maybe—he’s not entirely unlovable after all.

It’s late afternoon and the sun is doing that lazy golden thing through Eddie’s window, casting long, warm streaks across his bed. The two of you are sitting cross-legged on the mattress, notebooks and worksheets spread in a hopeless mess between you. Eddie’s handwriting is still a disaster, half the math problems are half-finished, and somehow there’s a doodle of a dragon in the corner of the page.

You should be annoyed.

But instead, you’re beaming.

“Okay,” you say, tapping your pencil against your knee. “You didn’t totally flunk that one. That’s, like, a B-minus effort. Maybe even a solid B. I’m proud of you.”

Eddie groans, flopping back dramatically on the bed. “I got five out of twelve, sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “You got two right last week. That’s progress.”

He peeks at you through his hair. “Baby steps, huh?”

“Exactly.” You crawl closer, lifting a hand to brush the bangs from his forehead. He freezes beneath your touch, a familiar stiffness he still hasn’t grown out of. It’s not discomfort—it’s reverence. Like he still doesn’t understand how you touch him so gently, like you don’t think twice about it.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

Simple. Sweet. Warm.

And that’s when it happens.

You pull back like nothing’s changed. But Eddie is suddenly dead quiet. His body tenses, his arms shoot around his torso like he’s guarding something, and before you can even blink, he’s curling up into himself like a human shield.

“Eddie?”

He lets out a strained noise. High-pitched. Embarrassed. “Yeah, no—I’m good. Just. Just need a minute. Maybe a few minutes. Don’t look at me.”

You blink. “Wait… are you—?”

“Don’t say it.”

“…Did a forehead kiss really just—?”

“Don’t say it,” he groans, pulling a pillow into his lap like it’s a weapon, dragging one of his old Metallica hoodies across himself in record time. His ears are bright red. His hair’s a mess from how fast he moved. He looks like he’s about to combust.

And you… start laughing.

Not cruel, not mean. Just startled, delighted giggles spilling out before you can stop them. Because this boy—this five-ten, metal-loving, D&D-obsessed chaos gremlin—just got hot and bothered over a forehead kiss.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You poor thing.”

He groans again, flopping backward like he’s dying. “You don’t understand. It was too sweet. Too nice. My brain short-circuited. I didn’t even know that could happen.”

You slide closer, biting your lip to suppress another laugh. “Eddie, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! You just kissed my head and now I’m having a hormonal crisis. That’s not normal. People don’t just do that.”

“Actually,” you say gently, brushing your fingers through his curls, “they do. It’s just that most people don’t feel everything all at once like you do.”

You duck your head until your forehead rests against his. “It’s okay, Eddie. I love that about you.”

He stares at you. Flustered. Overwhelmed. And still very much refusing to move his pillow.

“…Okay, but like, next time maybe warn me before doing something that affectionate.”

You didn’t stop smiling.

Even after his dramatics. Even after he tried hiding under the pillow like it was a shield from the embarrassment of having a boner caused by a forehead kiss. You just kept looking at him like he was the cutest thing in the world.

Which, unfortunately, did not help his current situation.

You leaned over him, voice light and teasing. “Y’know… this is kinda flattering.”

He peeked up. “You’re flattered?”

“Yeah,” you giggled, poking his ribs gently. “It’s nice to know I can wreck you that easily.”

Eddie let out a low, half-strangled groan. “You are so unfair.”

“I’m very fair,” you said, tilting your head. “I just didn’t expect forehead kisses to be your weakness.”

“It’s not,” he muttered. “It wasn’t. It—god, I don’t know, it felt like you were taking care of me.”

You stilled a little at that. Your voice softened. “Well… I was.”

He looked up at you.

You bit your lip thoughtfully, then reached down, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You know… I could keep doing that. Taking care of you.”

Eddie blinked. “Wh—what, like… now?”

You nodded. Your voice was calm, careful. “If you want. We don’t have to. But if you do want… I’ll be gentle. I’ll go slow. I just want you to feel good.”

Eddie swallowed hard, pupils blown, breath catching in his chest. He was pretty sure his brain had left his body a few minutes ago. You were so soft, so sweet, so stupidly beautiful, and you were looking at him like he was the precious one.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Yeah. I… want you to.”

You smiled at him like that was the best answer he could’ve given.

“Alright, baby,” you whispered, removing the pillow and climbed into his lap with slow, careful movements.

Eddie’s hands found your waist instinctively, holding you like you might vanish if he let go. You brushed your nose against his, pressing a light kiss to his lips first—then another, and another, deeper each time.

It started slow. Gentle.

Then his fingers tightened.

Then your hips rolled.

And by the time his head tipped back against the pillow, both of you breathless and warm, you were rocking slowly together, hips bumping in a soft rhythm, mouths never parting for long.

Your hands cupped his face.

His arms circled your waist.

And the world outside his bedroom melted away as you kissed him deeper—teaching him, guiding him, loving him like no one ever had.

Eddie was still staring at the ceiling when you flopped beside him with a satisfied sigh, your limbs brushing his.

There was a long pause.

Then, in a dazed voice, he mumbled, “I think I saw God.”

You burst out laughing, burying your face into his shoulder.

He turned to you, blinking slowly, curls a mess, skin flushed pink across the cheeks and down his chest. “Like. I’m serious. She looked just like you. But like—glowier.”

You nudged his side with a grin. “Are you trying to flirt with me after we had sex?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Because now I really don’t want you to leave me.”

You laughed again, kissing the tip of his nose. “Baby, I’ve been your girlfriend for two months.”

“Yeah, but now I feel like I need to propose. Or like, write a ballad. Or get your name tattooed on my—”

“Eddie.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly. Unless you think the tattoo thing is hot. I’ll do it.”

You rolled your eyes, cuddling into his chest. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

He let out a breathy chuckle and pulled the blanket over both of you, his arms curling around your shoulders. “Ridiculous and lucky.”

You smiled into his skin, fingers drawing slow shapes across his ribs. “You did great, baby.”

There was a pause.

Then, a groan. “Don’t say that again right now.”

“Why not?” you asked innocently, already giggling.

“Because last time you said that, I got bodily betrayed, and I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to recover twice in one night.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you rest… for now.”

“Threat noted,” he muttered, but he was smiling—broad and crooked and deeply in love.

And so were you.

[l4wsrule]

⟢ ・⸝⸝ why are you crying ?

ׂ╰┈➤ how different one piece men would react to you crying over something stupid ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

t͟a͟g͟s͟: ace, law, kidd, sanji .ᐟ , fluff, romance, sfw, comedy(?) in some parts.

n͟o͟t͟e͟: established relationship for everyone except kidd (depending how you perceive it, up to you.) i also wanted to include sabo but i currently ran out of ideas, so lmk if i should do more!!

　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

𓇼 ⋆.˚ : The sun hangs high in a cloudless sky, its golden warmth spilling over the polished warmth of the wooden deck. Gentle waves lapping rhythmically against the hull of the Thousand sunny.

A mild breeze stirs the sails, fluttering them lazily as the ship sailed on forward, the rigging creaks occasionally. Seagulls squawking and birds chirping from a comfortable distance in the vast horizon. But otherwise, silence reigned the vessel as everyone else was sleeping in their cabins during this peaceful morning. It was quiet, too quiet.

And then, there was you. Pacing back and forth around the kitchen, a panicked mess. You were basically a walking storm, trapped in skin. The scent of burnt food from a plate placed on the counter hitting your nose with an acrid, bitter edge.

The smell, of course, didn't go unnoticed. From a particular cook in the ship who quickly rose from his sleep and made his way towards the kitchen in quick strides. Pushing the door open in panic. His mind rushed with thoughts like : "Is it an intruder, a possible enemy attack?"

But those thoughts were soon completely erased as he was met by the sight of you standing there in the middle of the kitchen, a guilty expression on your face, like a child who just broke their mother's sacred living room vase. Taking a glance behind you, he finally identified the source of the smell, a black vapor of smoke emiting from the plate. His gaze soon shifting to yours again. His worried expression immediately softened upon seeing tears streaming down your face.

"Mon amour— What's wrong, what happened ?" He implored in a soft tone, walking towards you. His hands hovering over you as if he was scared you'd break the moment he touched you.

"Food.. it..- I cooked, and it burned, and — " You muttered out incoherently between sobs. You knew he hated wasting food more than anything else.

The cook wasted no time in pulling you in his arms, into a tight, comforting embrace. He had no idea what you were saying, but, despite whatever you thought, your tears were his biggest weakness.

" Shh.. M'lady, calm down, I'm not mad at you, please stop crying. " He cooed, deseperately trying to stop your endless stream of tears soaking through his shirt.

He didn't say anything for a while, and neither did you. Simply holding you in a comforting enfold, until you quieted down and gathered your thoughts.

You were the one ending the hush.

"I wanted to cook something for everyone before you woke up, since you always work so hard, and I burned it..." Your voice trembled slightly, as though you were confessing a sin.

Sanji simply stared down at you for a moment, then let out a small laugh, like he was holding himself back just a bit more than he was letting on. He then tightened his hold on you, always ensuring and prioritizing your safety, before swiftly lifting you off the ground slightly, with ease. J enough to twirl you around in his arms.

"My love !! You're so cute I could die !!"

"Wh- Sanji !!" Your hands hung in the air, unsure of where to face them. Eyes widening. You couldn't help but laugh along at the sudden gesture. Your face an odd mix of tears and joy.

He eventually placed you down on the ground again.

"So.. you're not mad..?"

"Y/N, darling, if you told me you burned a man to ashes, I would blame him for standing in your way."

You chuckled at the reassurance, a faint blush dusting your already red, post-crying cheeks. He always had a certain way with words that boosted your mood in no time.

The blonde reached closer and wiped the remaining tears off your complexion with his thumbs, ever so gently. Treating it like fragile glass. His hands slightly cold, contrasting against your warm, roughed up face. Before placing a soft kiss to your nose.

"It's okay to make mistakes, let's remake it together before the others wake up, hm?" He reassured you, patting your back here and there.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ And so, the entire hassle was over, you eventually cooked the meals again with Sanji's help, he instructed you, carefully watching you, making sure you don't spill, burn yourself, anything of the sort. A proud, loving warm smile plastered on his face the entire time. It was both a means of bonding and teaching you more of his secret cooking tips he wouldn't tell a soul about.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

༯ ࣪ ﹏𓊝 ⋆. The moon hangs full above the idle mast, casting a spell on the currently anchored ship of the Whitebeard Pirates, lanterns swing from ropes, their golden glow flickering across their faces. The sound of crickets trilling in the grassy field ahead was loud, never loud enough to overcome their cheerful singing and laughters erupting like cannon, as they partied, for whatever reason.

Their excuse? "There is no celebration, we simply celebrate living through another day !" With half empty barrels of rum, sake.. you name it, beside them.

And you were there in the middle of them, on god knows how many bottles of rum. Probably not much, considering your tolerance. You couldn't afford to drink that much. Though you were already a tad bit tipsy, losing count of the previous ones.

Beside you, was your significant lover, none other than Ace.

"Cheers again!"

"Cheers ! To the charming lady who stole my heart ~ " He said with a cheerful smile on his face, the one he'd always wear. The one that always caused a flutter in your heart. His voice dropping down an octave at the last sentence.

You simply enjoyed eachother's presence, a bit too much. The sound of the crowd almost vanishing, that of boots stomping as the others danced with wild abandon, some arm in arm, some spinning solo.

Just as you were about to grab yourself another bottle, he did it. again. His signature move.

Ace's freckled face suddenly fell on your lap, his previous laughter soon replaced with a faint snore. Your eyes widened as you looked down at him. Hands suspended above your head, unsure of what to do.

You blinked a few times, processing it, and before you knew it, you unwillingly burst into tears. Probably due to the alcohol, but that was a conversation for another day.

"Ace !! Are you dead ?! " You whined, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Tears helplessly falling along your tinted cheeks.

Noticing your fussy state amidst the chaos, Marco walked up to you, arms crossed, he let out an amused laughter at the two of you.

"Haha ! Y/N !! You really crying? Give him a minute or two, you should get used to it by now."

That didn't go through your head. Not the slightest bit. You continued shaking him like you're trying to reach a coin from an empty penny bank.

He soon rose from his— rather short slumber, looking at you with a dead, plain expression. Like you had just insulted his entire bloodline, accessing the situation in his half drowsy, half drunken head.

He raised an eyebrow as he saw the tears on your face. Upon noticing that, you promptly averted your gaze away from him, wiping them off using the back of your sleeve.

"..Were you crying?? " Portgas asked, a mix of worry and amusement stirring in his voice, each of the two fighting for dominance.

"Absolutely not." You affirmed, your response quick and sharp.

"Pehahaha ! You wereeee ~ " He insisted in a tune-ish tone. A laugh eventually booming out of him. A laughter that always brought warmth to your chest, no matter what. Even now, when you were pretending to be mad.

Scooting closer to you, he draped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you against his side. His free hand curling into a fist and ruffling your hair playfully. "You thought I died or somethin' ?" The brunette teased, low chuckles escaping the back of his throat despite him. Holding himself back.

"..Could you stop doing that out of the blue? Atleast warn me beforehand!! What if you actually died?? What would I do with myself, Ace!" You dramatized, perhaps way too much. It's the alcohol, again.

He didn't exactly try to ridicule you or make fun of you, knowing how emotional you'd get in your light headed form. He leaned closer and pressed a kiss to the side of your head, patting your shoulder reassuringly.

"You're such a crybaby. I won't die, not anytime soon, and especially not because of this. Alright?"

How ironic.

"..'Better not, you fool.." You mumbled under your breath.

༯ ࣪ ﹏𓊝 ⋆. When you thought he hadn't heard you, well, he had. His earlier amused smile shifting into a warm, content one. Finding your tipsy, worried self oddly endearing. But brushing off this funny interaction aside, not wanting to bring down the mood, both of you soon placed your focus back to enjoying your quality time alongside eachother before the end of the night.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

˙✧˖🔧 ⋆｡˚ A gruesome fight had just ended between the Kid Pirates and another rookie crew, who foolishly thought they were good enough and actually stood a chance to match against your captain.

Your crew, of course, left the attack victorious. Albeit, the ship, Victoria, was left in a tremendously bad shape. And you were so kind to offer fixing up a few loose wooden boards.

Spoiler: You had no shipwrighting experience whatsoever.

And so you struggled, for hours. Deseperately attempting to fix the mess.. and you just may have made it worse. Though your pride didn't allow you to admit you couldn't do it.. or maybe the fear of telling Kidd. So, you simply chose to drown in silence.

You sat down, leaning against the railing. Smoothing your hair back and sighing, a few tears falling from your face with your forehead in yours hands, elbows propped on your knees.

This was dumb. Why were you crying?

You thought: everyone is so strong and reliable, You thought you could at least help with some measly ship fixing.

Zoning out, your mind eventually turned off, but your tears never ceased raining down your face. Until he passed by.

A deep, aggressive voice pierced through your earlier silence.

"Oi — You done fixing that up or what ?!"

You immediately flinched, standing up abruptly, with a hammer still in your hand. Face slightly reddened and puffy from your quiet sobs.

Kidd wasn't born yesterday, he certainely wasn't the smartest one in the bunch, either. But when something was wrong, he could definitely sense it.

" What the hell. Y/N. Crying, on my ship ? In my sight?? " He scolded roughly. A growl emitting beneath his words.

"I'm not crying, I just couldn't figure out how t —" You gave him a half-assed excuse, gripping the hammer tighter around your hand.

Eustass looked back and forth between you, the hammer, and the still unfixed mess behind you. It wasn't hard to put two and two together.

"Tch— You're pathetic, give me that." He commanded firmly, his tone as gruff as ever as he took the hammer from your hand by force in one swift motion. Kneeling down where the touching up needed to be done, and getting to work without another word.

"Captain, you didn't have to, I can—" You protested quietly, walking behind him.

"Shut up and actually make yourself useful— Bring more screws. Now."

Not another word was spoken from you. You quickly hurried off to grab more supplies, sighing in relief on your way.

˙✧˖🔧 ⋆｡˚ Why, relief? Because you knew. You knew he wasn't actually mad. That's just how he is. A tough exteriour, hiding a much more caring and reliable facade, especially towards you and the rest of his crewmates. You could tell he felt just a tad bit bad for your pathetic, sorry self. Though he would never admit it out loud. And he didn't necessarily have to, since you could read him like a book anyway.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

⊱ 🧊 ׅ ✧ ⋮ Onboard the famous Polar Tang submarine, where everyone else was busy managing whatever important stuff going on. You, on the other hand, were.. well, definitely busy, with something else.

Curled up in a ball on the couch of Law's office, wrapped around yourself like a cocoon, face buried in your knees. You weeped, uncontrollably. Like you just witnessed the sky shattering and falling above you. Your form shaking slightly with each sob errupting out of you.

And there he was, sitting on his desk, his multiple attempts at focusing on his work were futile.

He'd already tried comforting you, but those attempts were just as pointless.

He wiped a hand roughly over his face, as if he was giving up on life itself entirely.

"Will you stop crying over that already ? " He grumbled gruffly, his gaze shifting to you again.

"No !! I feel so, terribly bad, I wish the ground opened and swallowed me whole ! "

"So dramatic." Trafalgar sneered, rolling his eyes.

"You just don't get it!" You whined.

"Oh, I do get it." He affirmed amidst standing up, making his way towards you again. He sat beside you, awkwardly.

You were unconsollable.

"..Listen, I really don't think Bepo's the type to hold a grudge over you accidentally stepping on him— Hell, he doesn't hold grudges at all. He's just Bepo." Law assured you, placing an awkward hand on your back, patting it a few times.

You eventually pulled your face out of your knees, sniffling, dabbing at your tears with the back of your hand.

"But— He looked so pained, and sad, and the way HE apologized because of MY mistake —"

"He's not sad, I was with him just a moment ago, he's playing cards with Penguin and the others like nothing happened. I bet he already forgot about it."

You paused. It was a long, dramatic pause. You wanted the earth to swallow you whole once again, but this time, for different circumstances. You just embarassed yourself, crying senseless over nothing. Though your tears finally stopped their ceaseless falling.

He blinked a few times, confused by your sudden silence, and the way you stared at him.

"..Really? He's not sad? Or mad at me?" You asked again, making sure, again, and again.

"I never lied to you." Law reassured you, times over, and over. As much as you needed.

With a now relieved smile, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close for a hug. He stiffened and stilled for a moment, a small, barely there blush brushing against his cheeks. But he didn't hesitate to hug you back.

"Idiot. You should really save your tears for more important matters next time." The surgeon mumbled against your hair as he plopped his chin ontop of your head. More of an advice than a scold, he didn't exactly like seeing you crying, and it showed, in his own special way.

⊱ 🧊 ׅ ✧ ⋮ He wasn't exactly the emotional type of guy. When it came to situations like this, or any situation, really. He was always more logical, rational, and critical. He acted on finding a solution rather than giving out comfort, but he learned to know how to balance between the two when it came to you, he deeply cared, despite not showing much through his cold and distant facade. Which only seemed to collapse around you.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

[softsunnyy]

let's take some time

Jack asks you to take a break when the relationship starts to go in the wrong direction. And you suffer, but at least you believe you're both experiencing the same thing… until you see videos of a party at a bar and start to believe it was always one-sided.

4,3k words.

angst, angst, angst, but happy ending. Reader is kinda the problem here tbh, but at the end of the day they're just two fools who don't know how to handle their feelings.

as always, poorly written.

when the words left his mouth, you exhaled, as if he'd punched you in the stomach, though it didn't really take you by surprise. Jack and you had been having problems for the past couple of weeks, with arguments that left the air tense and made you cry in your moments alone. The relationship seemed to be slipping through your fingers, and you didn't know how to get it back. How to get him back.

and you let the days go by, trying to maintain a positive attitude and not look for trouble, but everything seemed completely useless in the face of chaos, since any comment could turn against you, and your boyfriend had made that very clear. Jack was becoming more and more distant, distracted, and a pain in your chest tried to warn you of this, tried to make you feel uncomfortable or insecure, but you wanted to ignore it and believe in the love you have for him, and that's how you find yourself facing this situation.

“i think we should take a break. I don't think this is doing us any good,” he tells you, looking down, too hurt to meet your eyes, missing the way you blink rapidly, trying to push away the tears that are starting to form, while your throat aches and your hands clench into fists on your thighs, making your knuckles turn white.

you opened your mouth a couple of times, trying to start a sentence, but no sound came out, your mind clouded. The silence stretched for a couple of seconds, until he finally looked at you. His red, irritated eyes making you think for a moment that this might be hurting him too, and then you dared, you asked him the only question you could think of.

“are you sure of this?” “do you want this?” you wanted to ask him too, but you couldn't; you didn't know what to say, what to do. You didn't know if the right thing to do was to fight for his love or let him go. You're not even sure he feels the same way you do, even though you're looking into his eyes, like you've done a thousand times.

and he hesitates, he stops for a moment, and then in a very quiet, raspy voice he says, “yeah… i think it’s for the best.” And then the decision was made, because you would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and if he wanted to take some time, you would give it to him, even if it hurt you deeply.

so he removes most of his things from your apartment—like some hoodies, his underwear, his shampoo, his toothbrush, and much of his essence—while you look at him with complete sadness, feeling like he’s also taking a part of your soul.

and he talks to you, tells you he’ll bring your things from his house, that you won’t have to worry about going there, but you don’t pay much attention, because you feel your body cramping, a constant, stabbing pain in your chest, and an emptiness in your stomach that makes you want to throw up your entire lunch.

when he leaves, you can't even cry, not right away, not even when he said goodbye at the door, giving you one last kiss as if it were a final goodbye, as if there were no way back. Instead, you can only stare at the wall, sitting on your couch, your head completely lost, your body too heavy.

it's like something has been ripped from inside you, as if something is missing and your heart wants to escape from your chest to find it. But physically, you remain there, sitting on that couch you chose together, unable to blink, unable to eat.

and when the days begin to pass, it's slow, everything moves too slowly. The house feels cold, the sky is always gray, the food is less appetizing, and your routine becomes more and more tedious. Your friends try to make you laugh, convince you to go out, to try to have fun, but you get bored quickly, you just wanna go back to your room and lie on your bed in the fetal position, crying yourself to sleep while you think about how he must be feeling.

you try to think it's mutual, that maybe he feels bad too and will soon regret this, but hours, days pass and you don't get a single text from him, a single call from his brothers, a single comment from his friends. And when you see them on the street, they give you a sad smile, as if you had broken up, as if there's no other option, and you can't return the gesture, so you just look at the ground and keep walking.

you wanna avoid him, forget everything related to him, but his face is all over the city, and you see him, on the way to college, on the way to work, on commercials, news, even food boxes, as if life were playing a trick on you, forcing you to see his huge smile all the time, while he enjoys doing what he loves, probably not caring about you as much as you do about him.

and you wanna leave, you wanna visit your family, go away for a month if necessary, but you wanna disappear from the city. So you wait, you do your best to finish your classes, to wait until you can request time off from work, and then you take them with you as far away as you can, trying not to cry, not to pick up your phone, not to watch television.

and the first two days worked; you're laughing, watching the stupid things the people you love do just to see you smile; and life feels fresher, your shoulders don't hurt as much, the puffiness under your eyes is going down... until that saturday night comes, when everyone has gone to sleep and you decide to turn on your phone. Your finger slides across the screen, traveling between apps, answering messages, until you open instagram and see that one of your friends posted a close friends story. And something inside you told you not to look at it, to close everything and go to sleep, but you dared anyway. Then you saw a video. It was a party, at a bar you recognized perfectly. And there's music playing in the background, so you don't hear much, but you recognize Trevor, laughing too loudly while elbowing someone. The camera pans a little, and then you see him.

Jack.

wearing a white shirt, with the top three buttons undone, sweat pouring from his skin, and a huge grin on his face. You can tell from his eyes that he's drunk, and from the way they laugh, you know he's really having fun.

you don't know when you stopped breathing, but you realized it by the sharp pain in your chest. Your hand shook, and the image was frozen, still in the calm, happy expression of the one who's supposedly still your boyfriend. And now you wanna throw up, you want to stop watching, but your eyes see the time, and you realize the video was uploaded a couple of minutes ago.

he's partying. That's what you thought, over and over again.

and you couldn't stop yourself. You watched every video, every photo, every update from the friends you had in common, seeing the whole group partying, posting captions like "he's backk," "mission take the dog out: done," while you felt the annoyance taking over.

you spent weeks crying, not knowing how to move forward, clinging to the things he left behind in your home, like a false promise that he'd come back, that this wasn't over. You spent nights remembering that last kiss, thinking about the thousands of things you wish you'd done differently. God, you even had to leave home, taking your family and going to the furthest place your savings would allow to get him out of your head.

and he's celebrating.

your throat closes, and you try to forget him, to go to sleep as if nothing had happened, but nightmares attack you, and you spend the night tossing and turning on your mattress, with different images of Jack forgetting you, changing you, leaving forever while you rot in that rented house.

now, what you don't know is Jack's perspective, because you don't talk, because you're trying to keep the no-contact agreement, so you miss out on the hell he's been living. He's been like a zombie for weeks, and arguing with everyone, friends, brothers, even his parents. Crying every night as he thinks about the things he would have done differently; remembering the stupid things he said to you in every argument, and replaying the images of how your light faded because of him, like he's a poison destined to kill you from the inside out. 

rejecting invitations, messages, calls. Getting up only to go play hockey, then going back home and sinking deeper into his misery, while he stares at the hoodie he never returned to you, hoping you won't notice, or that you won't say anything about it. It was his favorite, because it used to be your favorite. And it still smells of you, of your perfume that he bought you so many times before it ran out. Of your perfume that he bought again almost by instinct, and that now rests on his sink. Perfume he used to spray on the pillow, so he could sleep imagining you were still there.

nights convincing himself he made the best decision, because he couldn't bear to see you so sad because of him, while he breaks a little more with each passing day, feeling like all the fun and light in his life disappeared along with you, as if you owned his soul.

and his friends worry. Can you blame them? Jack used to be a party animal; fun, always there when you wanted to have fun, the best guest at any party, and that didn't stop when you started dating, but it has stopped now that you're not together, and they can firmly say they've never seen him so... lost. So out of his mind.

and they don't know what to do. They don't tell him about the times they've seen you, the things they've heard, they just try to get him to come out, but nothing works, until one day they all arrive together, opening the door to his house, turning on every light, settling in like they´re allowed. And Trevor and Alex drag him out of his bed, pulling at his feet as he tries to kick them, his voice hoarse from crying, but feeling so weak that fighting was useless.

together, they choose clothes, a cologne (your perfume, by accident), and force him to brush his teeth before leaving, leaving him with no other choice.

unfortunately, they take him to that bar, where you two went thousands of times to see bands play, to relax, to forget everything. And now each of those memories has come flooding back, making him feel dizzy, making his stomach turn, and unconsciously trying to walk back to the exit, only to be stopped by his friends. So he ends up drinking again and again, forgetting each drink, feeling lighter and dizzier.

he laughs at stupid things, and Trevor´s the best to keep him laughing. He sees phones near him, recording, taking photos, but he feels like he's floating, completely lost, sweaty, and forgetting for a moment everything that's happened in the last few weeks, as if it never happened.

and the hours pass, he keeps drinking, keeps having fun, and gets closer and closer to everything going dark. Then that song comes on, the one that made you laugh, the one you mocked so many times, claiming that '80s artists would be embarrassed, but you still danced with excitement, as if youth were eternal, as if euphoria were the only thing running through your veins, making him feel full of energy, even if it was the last song, at 2, 3, 5 in the morning. And then he begins to discreetly distance himself from his group, taking advantage of the alcohol to make them lose sight of him until he leaves the bar, holding onto the wall with difficulty, until he gets a little farther away from the music, taking out his phone and quickly dialing the number he couldn't forget even if he were almost passed out from drunkenness.

your phone vibrated, once, twice, three times, until you poked your head out from under the covers, your nose stuffed, your eyes swollen, and your throat destroyed, picking up your phone in irritation and answering it without first looking at who was calling.

“hello?” you asked, your voice raspy and making you wince. In the background, you could hear a bit of music, voices, and you frowned, confused, about to look at who was calling you.

“that song is playing.” You recognized his voice immediately, though the words came out too relaxed, almost incomprehensible. You sat up in your bed immediately, suddenly on alert.

“Jack?” you asked, though you didn't need confirmation. Still, he hummed, affirming it.

“that song is playing, the one that says…” and he began to sing, very poorly, slurring his words, getting the lyrics wrong too often. You were perplexed, not knowing how to interrupt him. “You hate that song,” he said when he finished.

“Jack, why are you calling me?” you asked, feeling the ache in your heart. One of your hands played with your blankets, trying to maintain your composure, even though hearing his voice broke you even more.

“i needed to tell you… because you’re not here,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the universe. As if he wasn’t calling his girlfriend, with whom he took some time, at 5 in the morning.

“yeah, well, i think we both know why,” you replied, harsher than you intended. And for a moment he remembers, remembers everything, so he falls silent, trying to think of a response. Suddenly more sober than he'd been all night.

“shit, i'm sorry, i don't know what i was thinking,” he said, completely remorseful, closing his eyes as he ran a hand over his face in frustration.

“it´s fine, now, since you remembered, go on having fun now that you're a free man.” And you hung up, knowing your voice had cracked on the last words; letting him go, when it was what you feared most. You began to sob, unable to stop yourself, throwing your phone to the other end of the bed, curling into a ball as your body shook violently, as if you'd ripped off the band-aid, and with it, something in your heart.

Jack, for his part, remained silent for a few seconds, the phone still pressed to his ear, but not hearing anything. And he tried to think, even in his state. He tried to reason, to guess what you were referring to, and then he remembered the photos, the videos. He thought about how everything must have looked, how you must have felt, and he wanted to throw up, feeling guilty, dirty, even though he hadn't done anything to anyone, but knowing that his actions had caused you some kind of harm.

and that night, he tried to go to your house, to look for you, to apologize in person, but you didn't open the door, so he ended up falling asleep outside your door, until one of your neighbors woke him up in the morning; a kind woman who always looked at you two with nostalgia, but now looked at him with pity. She told him you had gone on a trip, and told him when you would be back.

so he waited, day and night, trying to look presentable, but failing every night when he looked you up on social media again, or when he opened his gallery again and found all the photos, the videos.

he found himself replaying that nearly two-minute video of you over and over again; of you putting bows in his hair while you shared one of your precious bits of gossip, not realizing he was recording you until you looked down, blushing, laughing, and accusing him of having evidence against you, as if you were committing the biggest crime.

and he would unconsciously smile, seeing your big smile, your displays of affection, your little things that make you so special, and then he would fall back into that spiral of anguish, of guilt, knowing he had ruined everything by asking for that time; letting you go, as if he were giving up on the relationship.

when he felt like this, so sad, so lost, he always turned to you, to your arms, to your love, because you´re his light, his sun, the person who brought him back down to earth and reminded him that it's okay to make mistakes, to doubt, to want to do things differently, but that he shouldn't let himself be consumed by the "what ifs"; using his doubts as motivation to make positive changes, to stop falling and start climbing, even if it was at a slow pace. You had always been there to hold him, to take his hand and show him that he wasn't alone. But this time... this time you couldn't help him, because you both let go of each other's hands. And Jack doesn't know what to do.

for your part, your vacation was ruined, with nightmares every day, but trying to put on an act in front of your family; using all your energy to look fine in front of them, and being completely destroyed when everyone went to sleep. So exhausted that afterward it was almost impossible to move, every muscle feeling tense, hurting like shit.

and you're afraid to go back, to face reality, but the date is getting closer and you know it's time, so you pack your things, sighing heavily and returning to your apartment, which you know will be cold, lifeless, with his hoodies folded on your bed, as if waiting for you, without his scent, without his warmth.

the surprise comes when you arrive and a figure is waiting for you in front of your door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking down, and wearing a cap over his hair, which is longer than the last time. He seems to sense your footsteps, so he raises his head and meets your eyes, which are wide open.

“Jack…” you whispered, in disbelief, walking slower and slower, as if he might vanish when you finish approaching. And he waited for you, not coming closer, afraid that you might run away from him after all. “What are you doing here?” he could hear how tired you were in your voice, even though your eyes still had a bit of their usual sparkle.

“i think we need to figure some things out,” he replied, seeing you frown, confused. Still, you let him in. And he moves with uncertainty as if it were his first time there.

“sit, i just wanna grab a bottle of water,” you instructed, leaving your suitcase by the entrance and starting to walk toward the kitchen. “Do you want anything?” you asked, trying to sound normal, even though your heart was pounding, about to burst out of your chest.

“no, thanks,” he replied, distracted, looking around, noticing that you hadn’t taken down the pictures of the two of you, and paying special attention to one of his favorite photos; one from when you were 15 and you went to see one of his games for the first time. He still remembers how all his friends spent weeks teasing him about how nervous he was, but it was all worth it when you kissed his cheek, congratulating him on his goal. God, his brain had stopped working at that moment.

when you returned to the living room with your water bottle in hand, you found him looking at the photos, and something inside you ached too much, so you decided to speak as you went to sit down, far enough away from him to contain your urge to jump up and hug him.

“what do you wanna talk about?” your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and, slightly blushing, he went to sit down, all too aware of the distance between your bodies.

“i made a mistake,” he said bluntly, impatiently, watching your eyebrows rise, and missing the way your heart skipped a beat, as if he had just said the magic words.

“what do you mean?” you asked, in a low, weak tone, as you opened your bottle so you could take a sip; your throat suddenly dry.

“i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go,” he cleared his throat, but still didn’t stop looking into your eyes. “But losing you has been really hard, and i hate it.”

“it didn’t seem like it,” you commented, with some venom in your voice, remembering that party where you saw him alive, in his element. “I saw you laughing, celebrating, and our friends saying they were ‘bringing you back,’ as if our relationship had completely turned you off.”

“it wasn’t like that,” he interrupted, frowning, almost offended. “They were, but because i was..." he paused for a moment, trying to find the words "i stopped talking to them, i cried every day, i missed you too much. And they came that night, all together, picked me up, and took me with them.”

“to that bar.”

“to that bar,” he affirmed. “They had no idea, and i wasn't gonna ruin their night, so i decided my best option was to drink and drink until i could let loose and enjoy myself for at least a couple of hours,” he explained, but he still saw some doubt in your eyes. “I know that when you met me, i liked to have fun, maybe too much, but i didn't go to that bar looking for trouble, or an adventure, or whatever you think happened,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft, so as not to turn this into an argument. “God, i even called you. I got away from them and called you when that song came on.”

“it's a terrible song,” you commented, still weak, and after being silent for a few seconds, processing his words, taking another sip of water. And you saw him smile a little, relaxing his shoulders.

“it is, but i needed you to hear it,” he sighed. “For a moment i forgot everything that had happened, and i thought it would be the same as always, that you would answer me, that you would laugh…” he tried to get a little closer, regretting it when he saw you tense up. “But that didn’t happen, and when i listened to you, when i understood that you were hurt and believing something that wasn’t that way… i came here.”

“you what?” you choked on the water, looking at him with a frown, but surprised. “It was around 5 in the morning, Jack, something could have happened to you.”

“i know, but i stayed here, and in the morning mrs. Winnicott told me you had gone with your family, and that you would be back today,” he explained.

“so you just came to my apartment to try to win me back,” you said, though there was no venom behind your words and he just shrugged.

“did it work?” he asked, hopeful.

you were silent for a couple of seconds, considering everything. You stopped looking at him, and instead looked at your hands. He waited patiently, feeling his heart pounding like never before, completely terrified at the thought of losing you.

“there are things we need to work on, Jack, you know that, right?” you asked, looking at him again, seeing him nod. “We can't go back to the way we were, because i don't think i can stand more days of just arguing with you. Not again,” you continued, and he listened, really listened. “I want my boyfriend back, but i need you to promise me that we're gonna try, really try.”

“we'll make it work, i promise,” he replied without hesitation, reaching out to take your hand. This time you didn't stop him.

and feeling his warmth broke you, so you threw yourself into his arms, holding him as tightly as you'd ever had before, listening to him begin to sob, his face buried in your neck, his hands clinging to you, as if you could disappear at any moment.

there are still so many things left to say, so many boundaries to set, but for now you just enjoy the feel of his body against yours, like that 16-year-old Jack, who curled up on you when he felt he was failing, or that 17-year-old Jack who threw himself at you when he knew his dream was about to come true and he could take you with him.

you missed him, you missed him so much that you don't wanna let go, you can't, and you hold onto him with the same intensity, your tears running down your cheeks, but with a smile so huge it lit up his world once again.

it wasn't perfect. And you're young, you're gonna make mistakes, you're gonna cross boundaries, you're gonna get to know each other a little better. But right now, there's only one thing you're both clear about: you don't want to separate again. Not when you've both already found your home in each other's arms.

you're the end game; you just have to learn to live with whatever that means and comes with.

but you'd do anything, just for him.

[alexseanchai]

[image 1: tweet by thisone0verhere: "TIL there is a word in ancient Greek (Kakotherēs) that means 'bad at summer' or 'unfit for summer' and it pleases me to know that this has been going on for thousands of years for I too am bad at summer"]

[image 2: part of a paragraph, transcribed below, with the word "heat" highlighted:]

For we see conception taking place in all seasons as well as being brought to a successful end. And if certain natures unfitted to endure summer hear are worse off in summer or, on the other hand, those unfitted to endure summer cold are worse off in winter, we shall not pay attention to the seasons, but rather to the specific condition of the body.

.

hey @audible-smiles do you by chance remember where you found that translation? I'm specifically after the title and translator, but if I search for that sentence without quote marks I get Ecclesiastes, and if I search with, I get fuck-all

.

I bet there's also ancient Greek wordplay about the causal relationship between hot weather and hot tempers

[wordsmeetwbb]

Watch Me (Through The Screen)

Word count: 1.6k

Content: fluff, suggestive/sexual language

Pairing: Pazzi

Notes: long awaited bikini fic! lowkey got kind of poetic during portions of this, but i'm happy with how it turned out! this was originally going to have smut, but i'm really in a slump there right now, so i took it out. send me your thoughts as always!

________

It’s nearly midnight when Paige catches her. Azzi, curled up on Paige’s hotel bed, nestled into the sheets, cradling her phone in her hands. It’s such an adorable image that Paige forgets to breathe for a moment. The air gets caught in her lungs as her eyes trace Azzi’s frame, gaze soft. Paige’s hair is dripping onto the carpet, boxers and an old UConn shirt draped over her frame, but Azzi doesn’t look up.

The music doesn’t register in Paige’s mind at first, the volume just a little too low to float across the room to where she still hasn’t fully exited the bathroom. Then the clip of the song restarts, and it clicks in her brain.

It’s that unreleased song by The Weeknd. The one that Paige has been edited to thousands of times. She’s seen plenty of them, scrolled past, saved a few to her secret folder of edits that are very much not about basketball. It had never occurred to her that Azzi might see them too. And then, not just see them, but watch them.

“Az.” Paige’s feet are carrying her across the room before she even thinks about it. Then her fingers are closing around Azzi’s wrists, making her tilt the phone so she can see the screen. Azzi flushes and tries to hide the phone, but Paige squeezes. It’s not hard enough to hurt, just enough to convey the message. Don’t move. Let me see. Azzi swallows hard.

“P-”

“Nah, hold up. What’s this?” Azzi tries to pull her hands away again. Paige doesn’t budge.

“It’s just– I was… was scrolling and… this one came up!” Azzi defends. The song is still playing as the TikTok restarts, over and over again, and Azzi feels each new loop scratch marks into her spine. She briefly considers pretending to have a heart attack. That urge only intensifies when she finally glances up and sees the smirk curled onto Paige’s face.

“Yeah, it came up, and then you let that shit play on repeat. Am I right?” Paige teases. Azzi, again, wants to die.

“No, you’re not. Fine, I watched it once. I’ll admit that. But I was about to scroll when you came over here and decided you had to hold me captive. Which, by the way, could I have my hands back, please?” Azzi’s tone is bitter, and Paige almost feels bad for teasing her, but then she listens to the lyrics of the song again and throws her remorse out the window.

“You can have your hands back after you tell the truth. You watch my edits?” Paige pries. Azzi presses her lips together into a tight line.

“No.”

“No?”

“Not on purpose.” Paige raises an eyebrow, gets in Azzi’s face a little bit. Their breath intertwines between their bodies.

“Not on purpose?”

“Stop repeating everything I say!” Azzi exclaims. Paige grins.

“Nah. You’re telling me you never go looking for edits of me? Not even last week when you kept texting me how much you missed me? Sending me those filthy fucking texts about all the things you wanted me to do to you? Did I get that right?” Azzi is blushing furiously again, but her legs press together at the reminder of those texts.

“Okay, fine. Sometimes I look up edits of you and watch them on purpose when I miss being on the court with you, or looking at you, or your hands on me. Happy?” Azzi bursts out. A satisfied smile snakes its way onto Paige’s mouth. The song restarts for the millionth time. Azzi lets out a harsh breath.

“Listen to the lyrics, baby,” Paige murmurs. “You like these edits? The ones with this song?” Azzi nods, all the fight draining out of her after the admission. “Why do you like these, Az? Tell me.”

“Want you to do it to me,” Azzi whispers. Something hungry flickers in Paige’s eyes.

“Do what to you?” Embarrassment flares in Azzi’s stomach, but she pushes it down and answers anyway.

“Fuck me from behind. Clothes on. Just shove them out of the way.” It’s barely audible, but it’s enough. Paige turns off Azzi’s phone.

“Yeah?” She says, voice low and rough.

“Yes,” Azzi breathes.

“Get up and bend over, then.”

________

It’s been weeks since Paige has seen Azzi. She feels the loss in the space between each rib, the slowness of her heartbeat being dragged through the molasses of her bloodstream, the way her fingertips are a little numb where they’re used to brushing across Azzi’s skin.

So, she’s trying not to think about her girlfriend while she scrolls through TikTok after practice one day. Then that plan crumbles into dust like drywall punched a little too hard.

It’s not a video. It’s a singular picture of Azzi, skin tanned and glowing from time spent in the sun. And Paige could spend hours looking at Azzi’s skin, because she’s in one of the tiniest bikinis she’s ever seen. Her arm is around some girl, probably a fan, but Paige ignores her as soon as she determines the distance between their bodies is completely friendly. Her eyes are immediately back on Azzi’s body, dragging along every curve and dip of muscle.

It’s a little triangle bikini, a scrappy little thing that barely covers Azzi’s tits. The tiniest sliver of flesh peeks out beneath the bottom line of the bikini top, taunting Paige, and more spills out over the top. Definitely more than anything that could ever be appropriate outside of a cruise, Paige thinks. Part of her seethes that anyone other than herself got to see Azzi like this. The other part is incredibly thankful someone did see her girlfriend like that, captured it, and posted it for the internet (and Paige) to see.

She swipes out of TikTok and immediately opens FaceTime.

The call rings three times before Azzi picks up, the camera focusing on Azzi, again in a bikini, lounging on a beach chair.

“You’re so fucking hot. Like– Az. I saw this picture, TikTok, whatever, and you– I mean– jesus, baby. That shit should be illegal,” Paige rambles. Azzi’s eyebrows scrunch together, and she pushes her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head as she squints at Paige on the screen.

“What are you even talking about?”

“That bikini, Azzi! And I had to see it on TikTok instead of from you? Come on, baby. I deserve to have those delivered straight to iMessage,” Paige complains, but her eyes have caught on the ridge of Azzi’s collarbones. The strap of her bikini top hovers over the skin, suspended by bone, and Paige has never wanted anything as much as she wants to suck marks into the divot between bone and flesh. “Fuck, Az. Just wanna see you.” Azzi softens.

“Hey, I would have sent it to you, but the picture wasn’t on my phone. Plus, you can see me right now,” Azzi soothes.

“Yeah, but this is just right now. I wanna be able to look at you all the time. Pull out the bikini picture when I’m lonely and miss you.” Azzi scoffs, but there’s a smile on her face.

“Oh, don’t try to act like you have innocent intentions here. You just want to stare at my tits,” Azzi accuses. Paige coughs.

“No! I’m very respectful. I have only respectful motives. Just wanna appreciate my gorgeous, beautiful, sexy girlfriend. I’m tryna be supportive here, and you’re getting in the way of my… support,” Paige says. Azzi stares at her.

“Really?”

“Okay, fine. I wanna stare at your tits. And your abs. And your arms and thighs and face and collarbones, because holy fuck, Az, I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated your collarbones the way I should have. You might actually kill me. But it’s okay, still send me pictures, because I’ll die happy, I swear.”

Azzi giggles. The two women just stare at each other through the phones for a moment, feeling a world apart and only a breath away at the same time.

“Fuck, I miss you,” Paige whispers, breaking the quiet. Azzi breathes steadily, each inhale and exhale supporting her whole body, as if she’ll fall over if she stops thinking about each breath.

“I miss you too, P. I’ll send you some pictures, I promise. I won’t even make fun of you for wanting pictures of me mostly naked.” Paige lets out a weak laugh.

“Wow, thanks. God forbid a girl wants to stare at her girl sometimes.”

“Through a screen?”

“However I can have you.”

They just breathe for another moment, pretending they’re sharing air. It almost makes the distance feel smaller. Then Paige hears Katie’s voice in the background, yelling for Azzi, and the space is broken.

“I gotta go get ready for dinner now,” Azzi says apologetically. Paige does her best not to let her face fall.

“Yeah, yes, of course. Send me pictures?” She asks softly. Azzi smiles and nods. “Okay. Okay, see you soon.”

“Talk to you sooner. Love you, Paige,” Azzi says.

“I love you, too,” Paige replies. Azzi ends the call, and Paige sits on her couch for a few moments in the silence, missing Azzi’s voice and her warmth and the way her body fits so perfectly into Paige’s.

Then her phone buzzes with a text from Azzi. Paige clicks it open quickly and almost drops her phone. It’s Azzi in a bikini, captured in a bathroom mirror. Paige swallows hard, loves the image, and praises God for Azzi Fudd and triangle bikinis.

[nightplvmes]

it's cold

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) • anon req Zayne uses his evol to immobilize your wrists...

⋆｡° | pairing : zayne x fem!reader ⋆｡° | temperature play, use of cold/ice and his evol, consent-focused dynamic, caring dom energy, playful teasing, needy reader, takes the lead but makes sure you're okay, oral sex, p in v ⋆｡° | word count : 4.3k (4,349) ⋆｡° | autor note: this req took me a little longer than usual because i wanted to do it right. pls remember english isn't my first language but i did my best!! :) likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

it started with an ice cube. you could still remember that vacation when you and Zayne stayed at one of the best hotels in the area. you two had dinner, watched a movie, and you didn't remember exactly how things had escalated so suddenly but at some point, you had started asking for his cold hands on you and an ice cube sliding across your skin.

maybe it was due to the timing; you weren't thinking clearly, but you could still remember the words that had come out of your mouth. practically begging.

a gasp escaped your lips when you felt the cold ice cube against your warm skin. you were sure it had already begun to melt due to the heat emanating from you because you felt the small drops sliding down your skin… or maybe it was also due to the mixture of Zayne's breath because you heard his teeth hit the surface of the ice and he began to slide it down your spine until it reached the small of your back. his lips closed around the remained of the ice, and he gently sucked on your skin, making you release all the heavily held air.

you felt Zayne move away from you. it took you a few seconds to regain your composure, and you finally turned around. you let your back hit the mattress, your chest rising and falling, and you could barely focus on anything other than the memory of the ice sliding over your skin. you didn't know when you'd developed this sort of taste… or fetish. did it have to do with Zayne? was it because of his evolution? you weren't entirely sure, and you'd never given it much thought.

Zayne positioned himself on top of you again, without putting all his weight on you. you closed your eyes, Zayne stretched out beside you, and his fingers reached for another ice cube on the table next to the bed. you hadn't fully understood why he went to the trouble of making ice cubes himself when he could create them with his evol. perhaps in an attempt to experience something different. with the help of his lips and teeth, he caught the ice cube and leaned down to run it over one of your nipples. you felt your delicate skin become firmer against the cold, making you gasp. Zayne let out a satisfied sound as you felt yourself slowly begin to lose feeling there.

"Zayne…" you moaned, pushing your hips against him. his hands gripped you tightly, running over your curves. you felt his touch begin to turn cold, and you knew he was using his evol to cool his own hands. enough to make you gasp, but not so much that it became unbearable.

your breathing was heavy as you threw your head back and bit your bottom lip in an attempt to keep from letting out another moan when Zayne focused his attention on your other nipple. you snorted as a thousand thoughts started crossing your mind. you wanted his attention, you wanted him, but in a different way. there was something else on your mind, and you couldn't say it out loud if he kept distracting you like that. it was when you felt the cold making you lose sensitivity again that you dared to speak.

"Zayne…" Your voice sounded heavy, letting out a gasp as you felt the drops of water sliding down your skin because the ice had finished melting. it took him more than a couple of seconds to come to.

he looked up, and Zayne's piercing eyes met yours. his breathing was labored, his cheeks slightly red, perhaps from the heat of his own body. he remained silent, and you knew he was waiting for you to continue talking.

"remember… remember what we talked about the other night?" your voice was a mix of shyness and embarrassment. his chest was still rising and falling, and Zayne had to do his best not to capture one of your nipples in his mouth again because he knew otherwise, he wouldn't be able to fully pay attention to you.

the memories of that conversation came flooding back. of course he remembered because it had been the same night you'd insisted that one of the foundations of a healthy relationship was talk about everything, even if you two already talked about everything. Zayne was one of the people you trusted the most in the world… you'd dare say he was actually the only one. that's why you'd told him, your cheeks flushed, trying to draw it out as long as you could because you could barely stand his piercing eyes on you while he waited for you to continue.

there was a small fantasy in your mind. maybe it was much more than a fantasy because Zayne had once taken your wrists in one of his hands—and the fact that he'd only used one of his hands had turned you on beyond belief—and had kept you partially immobilized while he took care of pleasuring you. he'd also done it once in his office while he used his tie to keep your wrists immobilized. maybe that's why you'd developed a taste for feeling immobilized beneath him. it turned you on, and you wanted to experience it again… with a little something extra.

Zayne nodded after several seconds. his breathing became agitated as he remembered when you'd told him that. he wasn't the controlling type; if you stepped on him with one of your heels, he wouldn't even complain because it was you. but he also understood the things you liked, and he didn't mind at all as long as it didn't put you at risk.

"do you want me to tie you up?" he finally asked. his voice was husky and low. you could almost tell a thousand things and ideas were starting to run through his mind… or maybe it was memories of things you'd done before.

"something like that… I was thinking you could try something else," you murmured, running your fingers down his chest. you felt how hot his skin was and watched the way his breathing became heavier at your touch. it took you more than a few seconds to admit what was on your mind and what you wanted to try that night. "I thought you could add something extra and not use strings or something."

"what would we use?" Zayne's voice now brimmed with a mix of curiosity and maybe… some concern, as a quick glimpse of what was on your mind flashed through his.

"why don't you…" a two-second pause felt like an eternity. "your evol." those words had come out of your mouth without much thought, hoping for the best. Zayne remained silent, processing what you were saying, but his face told you he needed more information, so you sighed and spoke again. "you can freeze my wrists, right?" you raised an eyebrow, thinking that maybe he hadn't fully understood your vision, or maybe he couldn't even do it, even though you knew it was almost impossible because you knew him perfectly.

"no," he shook his head without much thought, which made you feel confused. he moved away from you enough to sit on the edge of the bed, but one of his hands continued to leave light caresses along your legs. he knew his words had come out too abruptly and could see the confusion on your face, so he quickly spoke again in an attempt to repair the sad expression on your face. "it's dangerous, it can hurt you. the cold can cause burns."

you snorted because the words "cold" and "burns" sounded impossible in the same sentence, even though you knew it was entirely possible that if someone was exposed to the cold for so long, it could cause damage. "but… I'll be okay. we have a safe word and all." you slid to the edge of the bed next to him, resting your chin on his bare shoulder. Zayne's touch began to rise up your thighs; he seemed to be considering it, even though he wasn't.

"it can cause tissue damage. did you know that?" one of Zayne's hands took hold of your wrist, the tip of his fingers caressing your skin. "your veins ran through here, the skin is thin here and it could be too dangerous. no." he shook his head again, causing a sigh of frustration from you.

you'd almost forgotten what it was like to date a doctor.

Zayne noticed the slight pout on your face and felt guilty. while he didn't mind fulfilling your little fantasies, he wasn't going to put your safety at risk because of one of them. the only reason he'd tried several things was because none of them put you at risk. but he hated seeing that expression on your face… luckily for him, something came to mind.

"I have a condition." you raised your face curiously. now he'd caught your attention.

your lips were parted in disbelief. it took some of the fun out of it, but you knew there was no other way Zayne would agree to what you'd proposed.

he had disappeared into the other room for several seconds until he arrived, hiding something behind his back. there was a playful smile on your face until you saw what he'd placed in front of you: a pair of gloves. cold-proof gloves. your brow furrowed, not understanding much of what they would do… until it reached your mind and hit you with a mixture of disappointment and… something else. thousands of ideas began to run through your mind. maybe if you put the thinnest fabric over your wrists, some of the cold might seep in. just enough to feel it on your skin, but not enough to hurt you.

"you want me to wear them?" he nodded. "but it'll take away the fun." you snorted, looking at him.

"then it's no deal." Zayne shook his head. he was about to turn away, but when he heard the chuckle that fell from your lips, he quickly knew he'd won that argument.

the feeling of the gloves on your hands was… different, but it hadn't taken you long to forget about it because your mind had wandered elsewhere: Zayne's lips against your skin.

gasps escaped your lips as you tried to think of anything other than how his lips made you feel. you were sure you could come from his kisses only. Zayne placed one last kiss on your chest, your hands tried to wrap around him, but you felt his fingers close around your wrists, the fabric of the gloves stung the tips of your fingers.

"your hands are too naughty," he murmured. his grip was firm but not strong. a gasp escaped your lips as for a second you felt immobilized by him, and again that smile formed on your lips. "hold still, okay?" he murmured, leaning down to place a peck on your lips.

you nodded as you watched him slide on top of you… his chest in front of your face. your gaze traveled down to his chest, and for a second something crossed your mind. what if you ran your tongue over his skin? and… a sound of ice hitting the warmth of the room distracted you. you raised your gaze and tried to see above your head. Zayne had begun to create ice on the gloves. he seemed so focused on his task that you couldn't tell if the tingling in your stomach was because you were starting to feel like you couldn't move or because of the way he looked over you.

you could see the glints of ice on his palm, making sure it touched the fabric of the gloves but not your skin. you felt some of the cold seep through the thin fabric over your wrists. It wasn't too much, not even close to how ice cubes felt on your skin, but… it was different. you liked it. seconds later, Zayne carefully returned to his position over you, running his hands over your body. your breath hitched with anticipation, and you felt your insides quiver with excitement.

you tried to move your wrists, but it didn't work, except for the soft crunch of the ice, but it didn't break. you tried to move your hands toward Zayne, but all you got was a few cold drops on your skin from the melting ice. the knowledge that it was ice that was keeping you immobilized was enough to make you almost tremble.

"you look so beautiful like this," Zayne murmured, placing a kiss on your cheek. that had brought you back to reality, now you were completely at his mercy. he could do whatever he wanted with you, and you were okay with that. not only because you knew Zayne would never hurt you, but he made you feel safe. you would never have been willing to explore something like that with anyone else.

"we can… you can." a gasp left your lips as his lips moved down to his neck. you threw your head back, giving him better access to the skin of your neck, where Zayne began to suck gently, enough to probably leave a mark. his lips began to leave a small trail of kisses down to your chest, passing through the valley of your breasts, where he spent several seconds that felt like an eternity. "I need…" you closed your eyes when his lips captured one of your nipples. you couldn't think; the words definitely wouldn't come out of your mouth, and there was no way you'd think of anything other than Zayne's lips on your skin.

"you need to use your words," he murmured against your skin. he remained motionless for a few seconds before sucking on your sensitive skin again. "come on, use your words." this time it sounded more like an order… was it an order? you couldn't even think that clearly at that moment.

"I… I need your attention." it had barely been a whisper, but it didn't seem to bother Zayne. he wasn't planning on demanding more from you when he knew you could barely open your lips without letting out a moan.

"where?"

you huffed in frustration. he knew exactly what you meant, yet he kept asking questions in an attempt to toy with you. you were going to speak, you were going to tell him, but instead, you shifted in place. you watched as Zayne's breathing became labored as you spread your legs and felt the cold air travel over your body, and a few droplets of melting ice began to slide down your arms. you looked at him with shining eyes, you knew that at another time, Zayne would have shaken his head and asked you to say it with words.

but in those moments, he didn't have the brains to think about anything else. the way your body was slightly tense because you couldn't move, and the way your chest rose and fell because of your heavy breathing. that was enough to stop him from thinking about anything else. he wanted to feel you on his tongue. you heard something rumble in his chest, probably a moan or a sound of satisfaction. you felt the cold palms of his hands grip your thighs tightly, making you gasp, he was making his hands cold on purpose. he settled between your legs. you made an effort to look down and pay attention to the way Zayne looked between your legs. you wanted to slide your hand in and grab the strands of his hair, but you were immobilized, and that made you snort.

Zayne murmured something to himself when you felt his breath against your sensitive clit. suddenly, you stopped feeling the cold of his palms on one of your thighs, and seconds later, you felt that same cold against your sensitive nub. a moan escaped your lips, and your hips instinctively pushed away from him, but you quickly relaxed. "you're so sensitive," he murmured against the skin of your inner thigh.

"stop playing with me," you gasped, trying to push your hips against him in an attempt to get more of his touch. your tone must have been annoyed, that's what you had in mind, but it actually sounded like a small plea.

Zayne smiled to himself and finally gave you what you wanted. his hands held you tight enough to keep you open for him until you finally felt it… his tongue darted between your folds, and you heard a satisfied sound rumble against your sensitive skin.

"ah, ah-Zayne!" your hips bucked against his mouth, seeking more, but he pressed your hips against the mattress beneath you, keeping you still. one of his hands slid up your thigh, pushing it back, allowing his tongue better access.

a curse left your lips as you tried to slide one of your hands back into his hair to pull him closer, and you realized you were immobilized… again. you closed your eyes as Zayne's tongue wrapped around your sensitive nub, concentrating on the sensation of his tongue playing with you. you heard the ice cracking around your wrists, the cold seeping through the gloves was barely noticeable, but the small, cold drops sliding down your arms were still enough.

"Zaynie…" that nickname had left your lips without thinking. Zayne moaned with satisfaction as his tongue slid toward your entrance. your wetness filled his tongue, and he didn't bother to hide how much he loved the taste of it. "I won't last long—ah!" the words barely left your mouth in a murmur.

Zayne paused for a few seconds, long enough to raise his gaze and stare at you. he remained silent for a few seconds as one of his fingers slid back to your clit, making you gasp. his piercing eyes were on you, as if he were teasing you with his light touches, enough to make you gasp, but not enough pressure to make you cum on his tongue. "I want to feel you on my tongue," he murmured before sinking back between your legs without warning.

you felt your eyes roll white with pleasure. your hips bucked against his tongue, searching for more. this time, he didn't even bother trying to keep you still. Zayne let you ride his tongue wantonly, seeking your own pleasure as his thumb continued to press against your clit.

“ah, mmph! I'm cu-cumming!” the ice clinked again as your wrists were tugged on. Zayne moaned against your sensitive skin as he felt your walls clench around his tongue as you came. he held still for a few seconds, even as your hips tried to move away from his mouth. his thumb continued to move over your clit for a few seconds until he finally heard your ragged breathing calm down.

he finally pulled away from you, just enough to watch you try to control your breathing. your wrists were still as he leaned over you and ran his cold fingers over your skin.

“are you okay?” he asked, placing a kiss on your cheek. you nodded, feeling a little dizzy from your orgasm. the drops of melting ice began to run down your arms more quickly. Zayne licked his lips, still tasting you on his tongue as he gave you a few seconds to recover. his erection was beginning to feel painful; you could see the small droplets sliding down the tip. "does it hurt?" he asked, referring to the way you remained immobilized, but you shook your head. he continued checking that everything was in order when your words caught his attention.

"I want to taste you," you blurted out suddenly, taking him by surprise. he blinked, feeling like he was going to lose control when he saw you like that: with your flushed cheeks and that sparkle in your eyes.

Zayne ran his fingers along your jaw. he was silent for a few seconds, and for a second, you thought he wasn't going to refuse. but when he shook his head, something in your chest stirred with disappointment. "not yet." he leaned down to press his lips against yours. you gasped, bucking your hips against him, but Zayne held you tightly enough to keep you still.

you could taste yourself in your mouth. you wanted to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you… that's when you suddenly became aware of the ice around your wrists again. you snorted when Zayne pulled away from you. his hands traced a small path down your thighs, and he spread your legs again. your breathing became heavier; you were still sensitive, but not enough to stop him. his intense eyes fixed on you as he settled between your thighs. your chest rose and fell from the mix of arousal and the slight stirring that lingered in your body after that orgasm.

Zayne leaned over you, his lips brushing against yours, causing you to gasp. that seemed to have ignited something in him, due to the way his fingers cupped your jaw, his lips crashing against yours. his free hand took advantage of the fact that you were lost in the kiss to slightly lift one of your legs. he slipped into you with almost agonizing slowness. you didn't even bother to hide the moan that escaped your lips, causing you to break the kiss.

"shit, Zayne…" you moaned, trying not to get lost in the sensation of him inside you. how long has it been since the last time? probably a week, and that had been enough to nearly drive you crazy. because how were you supposed to maintain control when Zayne looked so damn good doing anything?

"you feel so good," he murmured, gritting his teeth. he could come just seeing you like that underneath him.

you thrust your hips against him again, making him moan. he gripped you tightly to keep you still, you couldn't do much with your immobile wrists anyway. "please move," you moaned. you were trying not to sound desperate, but it was too difficult. Zayne looked at you for a few seconds, and for a second, you feared he was going at his own pace. but he gripped your hips tightly and began thrusting into you, slow and deep at first. your back arched as you felt him hit every exact spot. "fuck, fuck," you muttered to yourself.

the ice cracked again as you tried to free your wrists. a moan escaped your lips and Zayne felt like he couldn't hold back any longer, even if he tried. he gripped you tightly and began moving faster. "shit… you should-" a pause, then another deep thrust into you. "keep making those sounds," he murmured, running his fingers along your jaw. he knew how you constantly tried to contain your moans, even though he liked hearing them.

you nodded, your lips parting, and you forced yourself to stop hiding your moans. your hips desperately ground against him, trying to find your own pleasure. the heat inside you was beginning to grow rapidly. maybe it was the combination of still feeling somewhat sensitive, or the fact that Zayne was the sexiest person you'd ever met and you could cum just by looking at him.

"god, Zayne… I'm not going to-" you moaned, feeling the heat building in your belly. your moans grew louder; the neighbors probably thought something was up.

you weren't going to last long, and he seemed to notice. Zayne's fingers dug into your skin without hurting you, speeding up his movements. the wet sound of their bodies together filled the room, mingling with your moans and the light crackling of the ice around your wrists.

suddenly, it was all too much. Zayne's hoarse moans, the cold drops of ice sliding down your arm and the way he pounded inside you. your back arched, your eyes closed and you felt yourself clench around Zayne as your orgasm hit you so hard that your body lost its feeling for a second.

"shit, you…" Zayne wasn't the type of person to curse and yet, in those moments, that word had slipped out without a thought. he thrust into you one last time, twice more until he felt himself spill inside you. you gasped, trying not to move too much because of how sensitive you were, but Zayne continued moving slowly until he finally stopped.

he kissed your cheek as he pulled out of you. his breathing was still ragged, and a layer of sweat covered his back. he took a few seconds to observe how you looked beneath him, with your red cheeks, your disheveled hair and your labored breathing.

you were too dizzy to know what he was doing. you just felt him moving over you, somehow managing to melt the ice around your wrists, finally freeing them. his fingers brushed the skin of your wrists, making sure you weren't hurt. "we have to do this again," you said, breaking the silence. your words took him by surprise, and a small smile formed at the corner of his lips.

he nodded, leaving a peck on your lips. "you need to rest," he murmured, removing your gloves. suddenly, you felt strange; you almost didn't remember you were wearing them.

there was still a slight trembling in your legs, as you struggled to process what had happened. but you definitely had to convince him to do it again in the near future.

[hansungie01]

PERV!JISUNG

Word count: 2.1k words

Contains: Basically jisung is a little perv and starts fantasizing about his best friend. This was a drabble but i don't know that 2.1k words really counts lol. Anyways enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jisung had always been a good friend to you. You had called him to show off a few outfits you had bought that day at the mall, which included some new lingerie.

You and Jisung were close, so these kinds of things weren't typically awkward. You had flipped the camera towards the mirror while you showed off some particularly revealing lingerie, rambling about how much you love the way it fit you and how it looked.

Meanwhile, Jisung could only nod his head and part his lips as he looked at you in the mirror on his computer screen. You were stunning; he'd seen you a thousand times before, but this time was different. He couldn't quite understand why. The way you flipped the camera over each time you tried on a new set, displaying your body for him and running your hands over your body, describing the way it felt and bragging about all the good deals you got while shopping.

At least he was pretty sure that's what you were saying. He could feel pressure in his lower half, and the waistband in his pants was suddenly noticebly tight. He was harder than he'd been in a long time. He was almost mad at himself for being turned on by this, because you were his best friend, and best friends don't generally get each other hard like this.

But what irritated him the most was the fact that he was genuinely enjoying himself. No, he was loving this. Watching your body on the screen, imagining how fucking beautiful you would look naked, underneath him, on top of him, anywhere. He was ashamed of how fucking hot this was - thinking about all the dirty things he could do to you, and you had no idea. You’d probably call him a perv or a freak, and he wouldn’t mind that. He was, he couldn’t deny that this was so, so wrong of him.

But the only reason he hadn't ended the phone call was because 1) he physically couldn't look away from your body and 2) what he was doing wasn't that bad, as long as you didn’t know, right?

So Jisung took one of his hands off his phone, dragging it down all the way down to his pants. He shifted his position in his bed, so that it looked like he was just adjusting and not that he was about to touch himself.

His breath hitched as his palm came into contact with the bulge in his pants, thankfully able to conceal his reaction by biting his lower lip and nodding at something you were saying.

He wasn't sure what you said, or if you had said anything at all - his eyes were glued to the curve of your body in that lingerie and the way it made your chest look. God he loved your chest.

Slowly, as if he were trying to test to see if you'd notice, he started to move his hand back and forth, reliving some of the discomfort his hard-on had caused. He couldn't help but start to imagine it being your hand - with you sitting on top of him, rubbing down on his length from the outside of his jeans, smiling at how easily turned on he was.

You’d call him a perv, and make fun of the fact that he was already spilling precum onto your hand.

His hips began to buck forward as the idea of you teasing him for being a perv was turned him on even more. Soon enough, the feeling of his hand wasn't enough anymore, and he needed more. He was watching you closely, spinning your body in the mirror, showing off every stitch of that damn lingerie that you could, unaware of how much it was affecting your best friend.

"Fuck", he jumped. He hadn't even realized he had now stuck his hand in his pants, and the contact of his hand against his dick through his boxers had snapped him back to reality for a moment.

"What was that Ji?", you asked, looking back up at your phone, eye brows raised, mouth opened slightly, concerned that he had hurt himself.

"Nothing, I almost dropped my phone from my hand. Don't worry, I'm fine”

He wasn't fine. Not at all. He'd saved himself that time, but soon enough, he could feel himself getting closer as time went on. He glanced up at the top of the screen to see the time, it had only been about five minutes. His pants had become soaked with his precum, he was starting to feel the warmth of it on his hands. He was hoping you wouldn't hear the sounds of his low grunting, the sounds he wished you were making with your pussy riding his cock instead.

He thought to himself, he couldn't finish in his pants, right? He was already embarrassed that he had gotten this far, and he knew he'd had to wash his pants immediately after anyway. He also knew it would feel so much better if he just unzipped his pants, enough for him to fully indulge in his dirty thoughts, enough to touch himself and finish on his hands. That way, he could just wash himself without making much of a mess.

And so very carefully, he reached to unzip his pants completely, feeling his throbbing length in the palm of his hands. Impulsively, he let out a deep groan, one that was quiet enough so that he could play it off as a cough.

He began to jerk himself off as his thumb rubbed along his tip every now and then, trying his hardest not to let out any indication that he had been jerking off to you, his best friend.

"Ji?", he heard your voice on the other end of the phone, and his actions froze. Well, at least most of them. He couldn't help but to keep bucking his hips into his hands, eager to finish even now.

"Yeah?", Jisung said, his voice rather shaky. He was starting to get nervous, there was no way you hadn't suspected anything by now. But he couldn’t help himself, the feeling was becoming addictive and there was no way he was stopping now.

"Do you like this one, or the last one I wore more?", you asked. Jisung sighed as his hand relaxed, relieved that you hadn't caught on to his shameful actions on the other end of the phone. He quickly answered with "the last one", not even sure which one he was referring to. The way that each piece of clothing fit your body made him think about how nicely his hands would fit in the curves of your skin instead.

His hands were rubbing up and down his length at a quick pace now, and he found it harder and harder to control himself. His hips were twitching uncontrollably, lifting off of the bed so that he could thrust into his hand even harder. He glanced down at his length, and the thought of you riding him crossed his mind. Your legs placed on both sides of his hips, your hips rolling against his while you made yourself cum on his cock. He bite his lip harshly, enough to draw blood. He didn't care. In that moment, he wished so fucking badly that he could replace his hand with the feeling of you. That he could watch you on top of him, hear you moan out his name, see you shake as your orgasm washed over you.

He'd imagine how good you'd look with the head thrown back, your hands on his chest, hips stuttering. He'd reach his hand down to rub your clit, the other gripping your hip so hard as if you'd fall if he let go. His tounge sticking out the side of his mouth, his eyes watching your chest, then your face, and down to your pussy. He wouldn't need to watch his movement, he's sure he'd be a pro at touching you just the way you liked. You were his best friend, and he knew you so well, so there's no way in hell he'd have a hard time getting to know your body as well. God, he could cum just looking at you, but the idea of you using his body to cum would drive him mad.

He wouldn't even care that his hair was messy, his sweat sticking to his skin, he wouldn't care how dirty he looked. All he'd care about is you.

Jisung tightened his grip around his length slightly with the fantasy.

And that was all it took for him to lose it.

He knew that if he continued like this, you'd find out what he was doing. Snapping back to reality once more, he cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Uh hang on , y/n. I gotta mute for a second", he said, and without waiting for your response, he had muted himself and tossed the phone across the bed he had been laying on.

Finally, he could cum without worrying about what you might say, what you might think of him if you knew he was getting off to his best friend. He shuffled down so his head was now on the pillow, just like in his fantasy.

But what he didn't expect, was for his orgasm to hit him the moment he began to think about the possibility of you finding him like this. He started to moan to himself, calling himself a perv and imagining it was you. He could imagine how you’d sound, with your cocky tone and a smug look on your face. “You’re such a perv”, you’d say as you rode his cock. “I bet you like being called that, hm?”

"Oh fuck, yes", he groaned, speaking as though you were right there. ���Fuck, baby, just like that. Make me fucking cum.”

With one last thrust toward his palm, his hips stilled as his head rocked back into his pillow, the images of your body on his phone screen and the fantasy of you riding him still etched in his head.

His release coated his hand, dripping down to his balls and falling onto the bedsheets. Usually he'd grab a towel, but he had no time. His head was dizzy; he couldn't remember the last time he experienced an orgasm that hard. It took him a few moments to regain his strength before he lifted his head, looking down at his phone across the bed.

“What the fuck”, he said. He soon realized he had nothing to clean up with, at least not here. For now, he’d have to leave it, just long enough for him to hang up the phone. He reached over to his bed side table to grab some napkins he had left for, you know, special occasions. At least he was prepared in that sense.

A black screen. The call had been ended. Had he accidentally hung up the phone when he was trying to mute?

He sent a quick message to you, apologizing for hanging up. He couldn’t call you back, not when his hand were coated in his own cum and his breath was still heavy. He almost dozed off, not noticing the time passing by.

And suddenly, the door bell rang.

“Fucking hell”, he jumped, tossing the bed sheets over and getting up to grab the hem of his pants. He shouldn’t even be answering the door in this state, but on the off chance that it was Chan or Changbin, he figured he better. He ran to the bathroom, washing off his own cum and adjusting his clothing. It wasn't perfect, but at least they wouldn't be able to guess what he was just doing.

He still couldn’t believe this was all from you, how he couldn’t control himself long enough to hold a fucking phone call with you.

Whatever, he thought. As long as you would never find out, he could keep it a secret.

He walked over to the door, and to his shock, there you were, standing in doorway with a smile on your lips.

“Fucking perv”, you smiled, stepping into the room. He stood, confused. When did you..?

“Learn how to mute your phone before you go jerk off to your best friend”

His heart stopped as you reached over to grab onto his shirt, pulling his closer into a kiss. He couldn’t respond, due to the pure shock he was in and because of the fact that your lips were pressed against his, preventing him from talking.

He’d get to live out his fantasies from just moments prior, and he’d love every second of it.

[rafesugar]

rafe getting jealous over a $ex toy

warnings: s2 rafe, nsfw, sex talk, rafe being a little mean at first, reader being horny

you were laying on the bed, rafe's sheets tangled around your body, your laptop sitting snuggly on your lap, rafe was playing a video game with topper and kelce. he was shouting at his friends about some in game strategy while you were adding things to your wishlist. rafe's eyes were narrowed to screen, his knuckles turning white around the controller. “top, you fucking peice of shit, you're gonna cost us!”

your wishlist started off with mini skirts then nightgowns then lingerie until you found yourself stumbling on a dirty website, looking at toys that made you press your thighs together when you imagined how they would feel like inside of you. but that was until a baby pink dildo caught your eye. it looked heavenly and the colour was just too pretty to pass. it matched with your favourite babydoll nightgown you clicked on it, skimming over its details. your eyes darting back and forth from the words to the image, feeling that same flutter in your tummy rafe gives you.

you wanted to get rafe's attention. you wanted to show him what you wanted. “ray.” you call out, interrupting their gaming session. “one sec, love.” rafe said through gritted teeth, he was not in a good mood. his frustration was growing as he continued to lose the game. he was so focused on winning.

you roll your eyes, deciding to read the reviews. you got too caught up in the words, you didn't even notice realise that rafe was peeking over your shoulder. “the fuck are you looking at?” he said, his voice bitter. “i wanna try it” you tilt your laptop to show rafe. "the hell you do." he says, his face filled with anger and jealousy. he's outraged you'd even think about putting something inside you "you're not putting some fucking dildo up your pussy." he closes your laptop with one hand with a slam. “what? scared it'll feel better than you?” you bite back, raising your eyebrows.

rafe was standing beside your spot on his bed, towering over you with his muscular frame. "because it's fucking disgusting and you don't need it, that's what." he says, his voice rising in anger. "you're not fucking around on a dildo. you have me” “ugh you're being impossible” you say, dramaticalllyyy rolling your eyes. “i really wanna try it, rafe.”

"you're not trying anything!" he yells, his tone making your brows furrow slightly. "you could get the damn thing stuck inside you.” he rubs his temples. "are you seriously that horny to do some shit like that?" he asks suspiciously. “what am i not enough?” he said, crouching down to your level he grabs your face roughly, his fingers digging into your cheeks "because let me tell you something, baby. the only thing you're riding until you're screaming and cumming is my fucking dick. not some dildo. you got that?" he squished your cheeks together even more, his grip firm. "tell me you understand.” you nod, looking up at him “good.” rafe let out a sigh at the sad look on your face. “i got the real thing, alright? me.”

a few nights later, rafe entered the bedroom with a grin “hey baby, i got you something” he said, holding a pink box with a ribbon. you squealed with happiness at the sex toy, pulling him onto the bed by his bicep and giving him a thousand kisses as thank yous. he couldn't help seeing you not getting what you wanted. you had him wrapped around your finger. rafe sat you on his lap, wrapping his arms around you. “but you're not allowed to play without me, got it?”

[cheftsunoda]

idk if you write wag x reader or you only do poly but i'm shooting my shot so hear me out...i'm thinking pride month. i'm thinking lily zneimer with a fem reader. i'm thinking shyness and mutual pining. please i beg.

ivy— lily zneimer

blurbs

lily zneimer x !fem reader

in which yn relives her biggest accomplishment in life— loving lily. and maybe all this recollection will bring lily back into her life.

(a/n) : to all my girls, gays and theys— i am so sorry if this breaks your heart. it broke mine writing it but i got inspired by one of my favorite gays (frank) and this is one of my all time favorite songs and writing using it as inspiration was so enjoyable to me. love you all.

poly george carmen story will be up later tonight!

pls pls listen to ivy while reading. i beg of you.

—

—

“I thought that I was dreamin’ when you said you love me” 🌿

It happened on a Friday night in November, in the makeshift fort of bedsheets and textbooks they’d built in Lily’s childhood bedroom—half a physics problem set between them and the soft hum of Bon Iver playing through a laptop speaker. The air smelled like cinnamon tea and the barely-washed hoodie Lily always wore when she was nervous about exams. You were lying on your stomach, half-asleep on a page of handwritten notes, your legs tangled with hers under the blanket. Neither of you had said anything for a while, just passing Lily’s highlighter back and forth like a secret. Lily had been quiet for longer than usual. You felt her eyes on you, her fingers toying with the edge of your sleeve.

“YN,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “Can I… can I tell you something?”

You rolled onto your side to look at her, cheeks pink from the warmth under the blanket or maybe from something deeper. “Yeah, of course.”

Lily blinked slowly. Her lashes fluttered like she was battling with herself, like the words were too big for her mouth.

“I—” She stopped. Then let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. Don’t laugh, okay?”

“I’d never laugh at you,” you whispered, and it was the truth. You wouldn’t. Not with your heart already halfway in her hands.

Lily looked down at where your fingers brushed, then finally met your eyes. “I think I love you. No—no, I do. I love you.”

Time stopped in that little room. The heater clanked. The highlighter rolled off the bed. Your heart tried to climb out of your chest. You sat up a little, letting the silence stretch just enough to make her squirm before you smiled—small, crooked, aching.

“You think?”

“I know,” Lily mumbled, immediately burying her face in the crook of your shoulder. “Oh my God. I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

You laughed into her hair, holding her close, the both of you wrapped in that moment like you were the only two people on the planet. “I love you too, Lil.”

She peeked up, her eyes wide and glassy with something unsaid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, pressing your forehead to hers. “So much it scares me.”

Her hand found yours under the blanket. Fingers laced. A tiny kiss on your collarbone—featherlight, a question more than a statement. You let your fingers trace her jaw, the curve of her smile, the hollow of her throat where her pulse raced faster than yours. It didn’t go further than that—just limbs tangled, soft laughter in the dark, and the quiet safety of knowing someone saw you completely and still stayed. That was the first night you ever heard her say it. You’d hear it a thousand more times. But never quite like that. Never when it felt that pure.

—

“The start of nothin’— I had no chance to prepare— I couldn’t see you comin’” 🌿

You met her in sophomore chemistry, fourth period, the day your school switched up everyone’s schedules for no reason anyone could understand. You’d walked in late, still clutching a granola bar and a crumpled excuse note from the office, and there she was—Lily—in your usual seat, bent over her notebook, chewing the end of her pen and looking completely out of place and exactly like she belonged.

“Uh—sorry,” you mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the chair.

She looked up. Big blue eyes. Hair tucked behind one ear. Her lips parted like she’d been caught mid-thought. “Oh. Sorry—! I didn’t know someone sat here. I can move.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said too fast. “You can—yeah. Stay.”

So you sat next to her instead. Close. Not close enough to be weird, but close enough to feel the heat of her arm when she leaned over to read the board. Your skin buzzed where it nearly brushed hers. You didn’t hear a single word the teacher said.

For the next forty minutes, you fidgeted with your pencil and snuck glances at her whenever she wasn’t looking. She took notes like it was a test, all neat and underlined and color-coded. She smelled like citrus shampoo. She bit her lip when she was thinking. You were already doomed.

Halfway through the class, the teacher assigned lab partners. You both froze when your names were called together. You looked at her; she looked at you. A small, nervous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m Lily,” she said, once your stools were tucked in at the lab bench.

“I’m YN.”

Her smile widened. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silence. You picked at the edge of the lab sheet while she tried to find the goggles that didn’t fog up. Every time your fingers touched while setting up the experiment—just a tap, just a brush—it felt like a firework in your chest. And maybe she felt it too, because she kept biting her lip and glancing at you like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You laughed when she poured too much iodine into the flask and stained her fingers, and she turned pink and smiled at you like it was the nicest sound she’d ever heard. It was small, barely anything, but by the end of class you both lingered at the lab station, not ready to leave. Everyone else had already packed up. Your backpack stayed zipped.

“You’re really smart,” you said, as she double-checked her notes. “I mean, like. The way you take notes. And stuff.”

Lily turned to you, flushed again, but grinning. “Thanks. I think you’re… cool.”

“Cool?”

“Like. You said I could keep the seat. That was… cool.”

You both laughed. And then the bell rang. And just before she turned to go, she said it in the softest voice, like she didn’t want to take up too much space in your life yet—

“Do you maybe wanna study together sometime? For the quiz next week?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I’d—yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay,” she said, and smiled again—shy and glowing. “Cool.”

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderclap, no spotlight, no instant thunderbolt. But somehow, when she left the room, your world felt different. Lighter. Quieter. Like something had gently clicked into place. You hadn’t even touched her hand. But you already knew. You were going to fall in love with her.

—

“Ooh, I could hate you now. It’s quite alright to hate me now.” 🌿

It was raining the day she told you. The kind of rain that sticks to your clothes and makes everything feel heavier than it already is. You should’ve known something was wrong. Lily had texted ‘can we talk?’ earlier in the day, and your stomach had dropped before you even read the rest. She only said that when she couldn’t hold something in anymore.

You met in the parking lot behind the engineering building, the same place you used to kiss between classes when no one was around, where you used to trade energy drinks and kiss half-laughing with the scent of motor oil and asphalt on your hands. Now she stood in front of you, arms crossed tightly over her chest, soaked hair sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes wouldn’t meet yours. She looked like she hadn’t slept. You said her name once—soft, like maybe that would be enough to undo whatever she was about to say. But it wasn’t.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Lily said, her voice cracking halfway through. “But I need to. And I—I don’t want to lie to you. Not anymore.”

You waited. Your heart was already halfway out of your body.

“I think I’m in love with someone else,” she whispered.

You blinked. For a second, you couldn’t even understand the words. You thought maybe you heard her wrong.

She kept going. “With Oscar. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You couldn’t breathe. You took a step back, and she reached out instinctively, like she could take it back just by touching you. “No—don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I didn’t plan it, YN,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. We were just talking—just talking—and I don’t know how it happened, but it did, and I tried to push it down, I did, but I can’t lie to you anymore.”

Your voice was shaking when you finally found it. “How long?”

“Three months,” she said, barely audible.

You laughed—sharp and bitter. “Jesus.”

“I never stopped loving you,” she rushed. “I swear to God, I didn’t. I still do. I think I always will.”

“Then why?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, your hands clenched at your sides. “Why are you doing this if you still love me?”

“Because it’s not the same anymore,” she said, crying now. “It’s not fair to you. I can’t keep pretending I’m not thinking about someone else, and you don’t deserve that. I would never do this if I didn’t have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “You’re choosing to.”

Lily broke down then, her knees folding slightly like she could barely hold herself up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking coward.”

And you stood there, rain soaking through your hoodie, watching the girl you built your life around crumble in front of you, and all you could think was God, I wish I could hate her.

“I could hate you,” you said, the words escaping before you even knew they were forming. “I probably should.”

She looked up at you, eyes red, mouth trembling. “You can. You should. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I won’t,” you said, even though you wanted to. “Because I know you meant it. All of it. Before him.”

“I did.”

You nodded, chewing on the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking. “Then go.”

“YN…”

“No. Just—go.”

She hesitated. Like maybe she thought you’d stop her. Like maybe you’d reach out and say it one more time—don’t choose him. But you didn’t. Because some part of you knew she already had. So she left. And you stood in the rain long after she was gone. Soaking. Shaking. Trying to hate her. Failing. Because even now—especially now—you still loved her.

—

“When we both know that deep down, The feeling still deep down is good” 🌿

You see her for the first time in years on a screen. She’s in the background of a paddock interview, tucked under an umbrella with Oscar, laughing at something you’ll never hear. She looks a little older—so do you—but her smile is the same. That smile that used to light up your whole damn world before it broke you. You pause the video. Your finger hovers over the play button. You can’t bring yourself to press it again.

You thought you’d buried her, that girl from chemistry class with ink-stained fingers and nervous eyes. But she lives under your skin still, pressed into the quietest corners of your memories—your firsts, your almosts, your if-onlys. You don’t miss her in the way that keeps you up at night anymore. Not like it used to. But sometimes, on slow days, you catch yourself smiling at nothing—at the ghost of her. At the echo of a joke only the two of you ever laughed at.

You wonder if she thinks of you when it rains. If she remembers how you used to run through thunderstorms barefoot. If she still has that old hoodie of yours she said she’d never give back. You wonder if she’s still in love with you, just a little. Because you know you are. Not in the way you once were. But in a way that still feels good.

—

She doesn’t talk about you much anymore. Not to Oscar. Not to anyone. But you still live in her. Some nights, when the hotel rooms are too cold and Oscar’s away at press dinners, Lily lies on her back and watches the ceiling and thinks of you. Of the girl she loved before she even knew what loving someone meant. She tells herself it was another life. But she still remembers the way your laugh used to shake your shoulders.

She still wears the ring you gave her on a chain around her neck. Oscar thinks it’s from her mother. She’s never corrected him. She loves Oscar. She does. But some part of her heart still beats to the rhythm of your name. It doesn’t ache like it used to. It just… lives there. Sometimes, she drafts messages to you in her Notes app. Just to say I saw your name today, or Do you still make your tea too sweet?

She never sends them. But she doesn’t delete them either. You were her first real thing. Her truest thing. The one that shaped everything that came after. And no matter how much time stretches between you, the truth remains. The feeling is still there. Quiet. Tucked deep down. But good. Always good.

—

“If I could see through walls, I could see you're faking” 🌿

It had been months since you’d last seen her. Not since the parking lot. Not since the rain-soaked goodbye. Not since you told her to go, even though you never meant it. You’d tried your best to stop looking for her. You changed your walking routes, dropped the engineering elective she was still in, stopped going to that café near the mechanical lab where you always used to study together. You buried her in quiet routines and busy days, and most of the time it worked. Until it didn’t. You saw her on a Wednesday. Late afternoon, on the steps outside the main library, where the sun hit just right and made everyone look a little more golden than they really were.

Lily was standing in a small circle of people—laughing. Or at least, she looked like she was. But you knew her. You knew the real version of that smile—the one she used when she was belly-laughing on the floor of her bedroom, hair messy, cheeks flushed. The smile that unfolded slow and shy whenever she saw you across a room. This wasn’t that. This was the smile she gave when she was tired of being asked if she was okay. The one that pulled just a little too tight at the corners, that never reached her eyes. You knew that smile. You used to press your fingers to her jaw and whisper, “You don’t have to fake it with me.”

But you weren’t hers anymore. You didn’t get to say things like that. You stood at the bottom of the stairs, textbooks clutched to your chest, frozen in place while she laughed at something someone said—then turned slightly, like she felt you watching. Your eyes met. And for one second, just one, everything fell away. The noise, the students rushing past, the heat of the concrete through your sneakers. It was just her. And you. And everything you weren’t saying. She didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. But her laughter stopped. And in her silence, you heard everything. You turned away first.

Not out of anger. Not out of spite. But because you knew that if you didn’t, you’d walk to her and say her name and touch her arm and ask, “Are you okay?”

And she would lie. Because she always did when she was trying to protect you. And you would forgive her. Because you always did. Because even now, you still loved her. You walked away without looking back. But if walls were made of glass—if time and hurt and pride weren’t in the way—you would’ve stayed long enough to say—

“I see you, Lily. Even when you think I can’t.”

—

“If you could see my thoughts, You would see our faces” 🌿

Some days, you get through it without thinking of her at all. You go to class. You laugh with your friends. You remember to water the plant on your windowsill. You start to believe, maybe, that the ache is behind you. But then there are the in-betweens. The slow elevator ride. The quiet walk home after sunset. The click of a pen during a lecture. The taste of spearmint gum. And suddenly, there she is.

If Lily could see your thoughts in those moments—if she could press her hand to your temple and look inside—you know exactly what she’d find. She’d see your faces. Not just the two of you now, older and distant and hurting—but you as you were. Two girls in matching sweatpants at 2 a.m., trying not to wake your roommates with your laughter. Two girls kissing under a stairwell after acing a physics midterm. Two girls falling asleep on each other’s shoulders in the library, highlighters still in hand. She’d see the version of her you still carry… Smiling into your hoodie. Crying into your collarbone. Whispering “I love you” for the first time, voice trembling like it might break if she said it too loud. She’s in everything. Still. Quietly, softly. Like background noise your brain doesn’t know how to mute.

You wonder if it’s the same for her. If Oscar ever catches her staring too long at a wall. If he asks what she’s thinking and she lies, says nothing. Because what would she say?

“I was thinking about a girl I once loved so deeply I forgot what it meant to be alone. I was thinking about how I left her. And how some part of me never came back from that.”

But you’ll never know. So you keep it to yourself. You carry her in your thoughts—hidden, sacred. A collection of moments no one else gets to touch. And if she ever looked closely, if she ever really saw you again, maybe she’d recognize the pieces of herself still stitched into the way you smile at your coffee, the way you tilt your head when you read, the way you love. Maybe she’d know…You’re still there. In here. Always.

—

“We didn't give a fuck back then—I ain't a kid no more.—We'll never be those kids again” 🌿

It hits you while you’re walking past the old gas station near the edge of campus—the one with the flickering sign and the vending machine that never worked but still somehow stole your quarters every time. You’re not even sure why you’re here. You’d taken the long way home, just trying to kill time, just trying to stop thinking about her. But then you see the curb. The cracked pavement. The exact spot where you and Lily sat that night—sophomore year—so loud and alive and impossibly young.

You remember it perfectly. It was just past midnight, early spring, jackets zipped up over pajamas. You’d snuck out of your dorms and walked to that gas station just to buy slushees and sour candy and pretend you were living in a movie. You’d climbed onto the curb, your knees bumping hers, faces sticky from sugar and laughter, and you’d talked about nothing. About everything. You were seventeen. Maybe eighteen. In love in a way that felt endless.

You didn’t care about the future then. Didn’t think about careers or timelines or who you’d be when it all stopped feeling easy. You didn’t even care if anyone saw you holding hands under the fluorescent lights. You just were. Together. Whole.

“We should get matching tattoos,” Lily had said through a mouthful of watermelon sour strips. “Like dumb ones. Frogs or something.”

You’d laughed so hard your Slurpee spilled on your shoes.

“Why frogs?”

“Because frogs are underrated.”

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” you’d whispered. And she’d kissed you, just like that, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now you’re standing in the same place, older, quieter, bones heavier with all the growing up you didn’t ask for. And she’s not beside you. She hasn’t been for a long time. There’s no sugar on your tongue. No stolen kisses under flickering lights. Just the ache of knowing you can never go back. You’re not those girls anymore. You pay bills. You answer emails. You smile politely when people mention her name like it doesn’t gut you. You scroll past headlines that say Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend spotted in Monaco paddock and pretend your chest doesn’t tighten.

You miss her. But more than that, you miss you. The version of yourself who laughed too loud and believed love was enough. The version who sat on that curb and didn’t give a fuck. You ain’t a kid no more. You know too much now. And no matter how vividly you remember it, no matter how fiercely you want it back—you’ll never be those kids again.

—

“Everything sucked back then—We were friends” 🌿

It was the middle of junior year, and everything sucked. Your grades were slipping. Your parents were fighting again. You’d stopped showing up to half your classes because even the act of getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest. The world felt too loud, too sharp, and you were walking through it like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. You didn’t know how to explain it to anyone. Except Lily. You hadn’t kissed her yet. You hadn’t even told her you liked her like that. You were still just friends—in the loosest, messiest, most beautiful sense of the word. But she knew. She always did.

She’d show up outside your house with iced coffee and no questions. She’d drag you into her car and blast music you hated just to make you roll your eyes. She’d sit with you in silence for hours, her pinky brushing yours on the armrest like she knew how badly you needed to be touched without being asked. One night, when the world felt particularly cruel, you finally cracked.

You were sitting in her room, lights low, curled up under the blanket she kept for you. You weren’t crying. Not visibly. But you must’ve looked broken in some way because she turned off the movie you’d barely been watching and scooted closer.

“Hey,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You’re allowed to say you’re hurting.”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on a thread unraveling on the sleeve of your hoodie.

“I mean it,” she said, voice stronger now. “Everything is horrible. School. Home. All of it. You’re not crazy for feeling like it’s too much.”

Your chest cracked open just a little at that. The smallest breath of air getting through.

And then—softly, so gently—you said, “I feel like I’m disappearing.”

Lily didn’t speak for a moment. She just reached for your hand and laced her fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re right here. With me. I see you.”

You didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear that until you were already crying—quiet, slow tears that leaked down your cheeks and soaked into her sweatshirt. She held you for hours. Said nothing else. Just kept her arms around you like her body was the only home you needed. And that night, as you drifted to sleep to the sound of her breathing, you thought— Everything sucks. But she doesn’t. She’s the one thing that doesn’t. You were just friends. But she already felt like the closest thing to love you’d ever known.

—

“In the halls of your hotel— Arm around my shoulder— so I could tell— How much I meant to you—meant it sincere back then—We had time to kill back then” 🌿

You don’t remember the name of the hotel. It was just one of those small, chain brand ones on the side of the highway—the kind with stale carpeting and vending machines that only took exact change. You were there for some high school engineering competition, wearing matching t-shirts and badge lanyards, sleep deprived and running on pure sugar and the rush of being somewhere new. It wasn’t anything special. But it’s one of the only memories that still comes to you clear and full, like it happened yesterday instead of years ago.

You and Lily had just come back from the closing ceremony—giddy and exhausted, her arm slung around your shoulder as you wandered the hallway, pretending you didn’t know how to get to your room just so you could stay close. Her hair still smelled like that citrus shampoo she always used, her hand warm against the curve of your neck. But that night, everything in you ached. You paused under the dim wall light near the elevator, her arm still resting comfortably around you, and it was then—you remember it so clearly—that she leaned her head against yours, just for a second.

And she said, voice low, almost sheepish. “You make everything feel easier, you know that?”

Your heart stumbled.

“I do?” you asked, like it was a joke, even though your throat was already closing with the weight of what that meant.

“Yeah,” Lily said, quieter now. “I just… I feel better when you’re around. Like nothing else exists but us.”

She was shy back then, even more than you. But that night, she wasn’t hiding. Not behind sarcasm, not behind jokes or nervous laughter. She meant it. Every word. And you could tell. That’s what made it different. Not the hotel or the hallway or the soft humming of an ice machine behind you. But the way she held you without needing a reason. The way she said you made her feel okay, like that was the most obvious truth in the world. You both knew it then—maybe not in full, but enough to carry the weight of what was coming. You had no plans, no pressure. Just time to kill and hearts too full to understand yet what they held.

You’d stay up until 3 a.m. that night, legs tangled on the scratchy hotel comforter, watching videos on her phone and whispering dreams into the dark. And in the morning, she’d braid your hair with shaky fingers before the awards ceremony and pretend it didn’t mean anything. But it did. You both knew it did.

Now, years later, you find yourself standing outside a different hotel. The kind she stays in now—sleek, international, impersonal. She’s probably upstairs somewhere, curled beside someone else, a life away from vending machines and fluorescent lights. But your shoulder still remembers the weight of her arm. And your heart still remembers the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that felt real. You had time back then. And now? Now you just have the memory.

—

“I broke your heart last week—You'll probably feel better by the weekend” 🌿

It had only been five days. Five days since Lily stood in front of you in the rain and told you she loved someone else. Five days since she watched the way your chest caved in on itself, your mouth set in a silence that sounded louder than anything she’d ever heard. Five days since you told her to go. And she did. She hasn’t stopped thinking about you since.

She lies next to Oscar now, in a hotel bed with too many pillows and none of your warmth. He’s asleep—peaceful, content in a way she can’t seem to reach. The room is quiet, but her head is screaming. Your name echoing through every thought like an ache she knows she brought on herself. She stares at the ceiling, her phone dimmed on the nightstand beside her. She hasn’t blocked you, but she hasn’t opened your messages either. She’s too afraid of what she’ll find. Too afraid of finding nothing at all.

“I broke your heart last week,” she whispers to no one. To herself.

She tries to soften it in her mind—You’ll probably feel better by the weekend. Like that makes it okay. Like it was just a paper cut. Like you hadn’t built a life around her hands. She tries to imagine you now, curled up in that worn hoodie you used to fight over, face buried in a pillow. Angry, probably. But you’ll be okay. You always were better at moving on than she was. Weren’t you?

She turns over, restless. Oscar shifts beside her, mutters something in his sleep. She closes her eyes and tries to pretend it’s enough—that this is the love that makes sense now. That the life she’s stepped into is one she didn’t have to destroy something beautiful to reach. But when she dreams, it’s you she sees. Not the heartbreak. Not the crying. But you—grinning in the hallway of that old hotel, braiding each others hair in early morning, whispering into her neck when she used to wake up from nightmares.

She broke your heart last week. She told herself you’d feel better by the weekend. But the truth? She doesn’t think either of you will feel better for a long, long time.

—

“All the things I didn't mean to say—I didn't mean to do —There were things you didn't need to say — Did you mean to? Mean to?” 🌿

You weren’t supposed to see her that day. But the campus bookstore is small, and the universe is cruel, and there she was—Lily—halfway down the aisle, running her fingers along a row of overpriced mechanical pencils.

You froze, book in hand. You should’ve turned around. Should’ve left. Should’ve pretended not to see her. But she looked up before you had the chance. Her eyes widened. And then dropped. And then she nodded once. Just enough to be polite. Just enough to be nothing. You couldn’t help it—you walked up to her, heart racing, some part of you still desperate for something more than silence. More than the way she left.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” she replied, voice too soft to touch. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You swallowed. “I come here all the time.”

“Oh.”

Silence. And then you said it—the thing you hadn’t meant to say, not like this, not here.

“I still don’t understand how you did it.”

Lily blinked. “Did what?”

“Left. Just like that. Like we were nothing.”

She winced, but you were already in it, already unraveling.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” you added, instantly ashamed, voice trembling. “I just… I think I needed to.”

Lily looked at you like you were holding her heart in your hands again. Like she wasn’t sure whether to beg for it back or let you crush it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said. “I didn’t mean for it to go that way.”

“But it did.” You laughed, sharp and shaking. “And then you said all those things like they didn’t mean anything. Like I’d be fine. Like you were doing me a favor.”

Lily looked away. “You didn’t need me to say I loved him.”

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you did.”

And it hangs there. Between you. The one sentence that still tears open your chest every time you think about it.

“Did you mean to?” you ask, almost pleading. “Did you mean to say it like that? Mean to leave like that? Like I was just some phase you grew out of?”

She looks at you then. Eyes glassy. Tired. Honest.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t mean to. Any of it.”

And you believe her. God, that’s the worst part. You believe her. But belief doesn’t undo damage. And regret doesn’t undo goodbye. You both stand there for a moment longer, drowning in the words you never meant to say. The ones that still haunt you. The ones you wish you could take back, or at least soften. Then she nods again. One last time. And walks away. And you stay. In the middle of a bookstore. Holding a book you’ll never read. With a heart full of echoes and the awful knowledge that some things can’t be undone. Even when you didn’t mean to.

—

”I've been dreamin' of you, dreamin' of you —I've been dreamin' of you, dreamin' of you— I've been dreamin', dreamin'” 🌿

The train station in Milan is buzzing, but your head isn’t really here. You’ve just wrapped a four-day project with an Italian motorsport tech firm—long days, longer nights, cold coffee and hotter tempers—and now you’re sitting on a worn bench beneath the departure board, your laptop half-zipped in your bag, earbuds in, not playing anything. You’re tired. Not just physically. Soul-tired.

And maybe that’s why you let your thoughts drift the way they do, the way they always seem to when you’re somewhere new, somewhere far away from home. You think of her. Of Lily.

It’s been years now. Time has been both cruel and kind. You’ve built a life that isn’t defined by her anymore. You’re successful. Focused. A little lonelier than you care to admit. You don’t cry over her name like you used to. But you still dream of her.

Still catch glimpses of her in crowds. Still find her smile on strangers. Still feel her voice in the back of your head when you’re looking out the window of a train or walking through a city where no one knows your name. You’ve been dreaming of her lately. More than usual. That soft kind of dreaming—not always painful, but always real. You wake up with her name in your mouth and the shape of her hand still ghosting your palm.

So maybe that’s why, when you hear it—

“YN?”

—your first thought isn’t That’s impossible. Of course. You look up slowly. And there she is. Lily.

Standing a few feet away in the middle of the station, suitcase by her side, hair longer than it used to be but tied in the same half-messy bun she always wore when she was tired. Her eyes are wide, stunned. Like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing either. You blink, heart catching in your throat.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask, barely a whisper.

She exhales—shaky, like she might cry. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

And for a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, frozen in the middle of the station, a thousand people rushing past but none of them mattering. Just her. Just you. You rise slowly, walking toward her like you might scare her off if you move too fast. She doesn’t step back. Her eyes are glassy now.

“I haven’t seen you in—”

“Three years,” she says, too quickly. “I know.”

Your chest twists.

You want to ask her how she’s been. Where she’s going. Who she’s become. But none of it feels right. None of it feels big enough for this. Instead, you say, “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

Lily’s lip trembles. Her hand tightens on her suitcase handle. “I know,” she says softly. “Me too.”

You don’t say I still love you. You don’t say Come back. But you both know. It’s in the way she looks at you like she never stopped. It’s in the way your body feels like it remembers her shape just standing near her. It’s in the breath you take, for the first time in months, that doesn’t feel heavy. You don’t know what happens next. Maybe this is just a moment. A final one. A soft goodbye dressed like a miracle. Or maybe it’s something more. But either way— You were dreaming. And for once, the dream came true.

—

The coffee shop is tucked away down a quiet side street near the station, small and warm and dimly lit—exactly the kind of place you would’ve brought her to back then, when you were younger and still believed the right setting could fix a broken conversation.

You sit across from her at a little table by the window. Your fingers cradle a ceramic mug that’s far too hot, but you don’t let go. It feels surreal. To be here. With her.

Lily hasn’t changed much. Her hair’s a little longer, her voice a little steadier. But the way she looks at you? That hasn’t changed at all. It still softens at the edges. Still makes your chest feel like it’s been cracked open just enough to let the past back in.

You’re both quiet at first. Sipping. Fidgeting. Letting the moment stretch.

Then she says, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You nod, throat tight. “Me neither.”

She smiles, but it’s not happy. It’s sad, in that way that only old love can be. “I kept dreaming it, though. I’d see your face in crowds. Hear your laugh in someone else’s.”

“I’ve been dreaming of you too,” you say, not bothering to lie. What would be the point now?

Lily looks down, fingers running along the rim of her cup. “I thought you hated me.”

You exhale through your nose. “Sometimes I tried to. I thought it would help.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

She doesn’t apologize. And maybe she doesn’t have to. Because it’s not just about the leaving anymore. It’s about the way you both kept carrying each other in silence.

“I loved you so much,” she says suddenly. Like it burst out of her before she could stop it. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

You look at her, and the air shifts. Your hands are still shaking. “You left.”

“I know,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve forgiven myself for it.”

You want to ask why. Why she chose him. Why she didn’t fight harder for what you had. But deep down, you know the answer won’t heal anything. And the truth is—you didn’t fight either. Not really. You let her go. You told her to. There’s a pause. A long one. She’s looking out the window now, watching the world pass by like it didn’t break you both.

And then—quietly—you ask, “Are you happy?”

She takes a long time to answer. “Sometimes.”

It sits heavy between you.

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t know what this is. If it’s closure. If it’s something new. If it’s just a moment you’ll carry for the rest of your life like a warm scar. But when you walk out of the cafe, side by side under a soft drizzle, you feel lighter than you have in years. Not fixed. Not whole. But softer. And when her hand brushes yours—accidentally, maybe not—you don’t move away. Some things don’t come back. But some things never really left.

—

[clairewritesfanfics]

Omg I love how you write Mark and his variants!

Okay I may or may not have dived into a deep hole of neglected batfam reader so is it okay if I request for reader to happen to just find an escape through a Angstrom portal that appeared randomly in her bedroom, so just peace out and was transported into the Invincible universe where she met Mark (and his variants), fall in love and told him about how horrible her family is.

Only for him to find a way to open up a portal to her world (this is mostly goes for the variants instead main mark), and caused havoc on the DC world and reader has to stop him, confront her family and leave to her new home with him

Author's Note: My last request! (technically, it's not) YAHOO. And my first Batfam fanfic.

Your Character Settings: AFAB, daughter of Bruce Wayne and an unknown woman

“Would like seconds, miss?” Alfred asked after you finished your meal. 

Tonight's dinner was a hefty serving of tomato and basil spaghetti. Before you moved in with the Waynes, your meals were usually jam and bread or a cup of instant noodles. The old you would have eaten as much as you were allowed. The old you would have gotten angry at you for not asking for another serving. But you weren't living paycheck to paycheck on a cashier's salary anymore. 

“I'm fine,” you answered the butler. You glanced around the long table. Alfred said it was improper for servants to dine with the masters of the home, so you ate alone again. You didn't know why you felt upset. Even after months of the same routine, your disappointment continued to fill half your stomach. 

“Very well. Tonight's dessert is a chocolate ganache cake served with black tea. I take it that you will be having your slice in your room?”

You smiled.

“I’ll have it upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope this time you actually answer the door. I don’t mind leaving the food outside but tea should be appreciated hot.”

“I’m sorry, you know how it is when I get in the zone.”

“How many words did you write today?”

You beamed. “Exactly two thousand just this morning. I’m hoping to get another thousand before midnight.”

“I hope you do, maybe you can finally start waking up before noon.”

You laughed, standing up from your seat.

Alfred was the only one in this entire mansion to actually hold full conversations with you. 

Dear old dad was always away on business trips. Your younger half-brother Damian never uttered a word to you, only regarded you with disdain and walked away before introductions were over. Tim was polite enough to nod in greeting–when he was lucid, which was seldom the case every time you saw him. Dick was nice, he smiled and made small talk when he was around, but you can count on one hand the number of times he was at the manor, or in Gotham in general.

You had another brother. His photos were rare, finding one was like finding an Easter egg. On the outside, he was no different from the others with his black hair and blue eyes, and from what you’ve seen of him, he could be blood-related to Dick. But Alfred said that Jason was an orphan, too. 

Little Jason, always smiling brightly in every image you found. He died years before you arrived here. You liked to pretend that he would be exactly what you wished for when Mister Wayne invited you to live with the family: a kind, present and supportive older brother.

You doubt it was healthy to project such feelings on not just a ghost but a stranger’s ghost, but pretending to have someone care beyond the bare minimum helped you adjust to your life as a Wayne kid. 

Alfred let you borrow books from Jason’s room and you made a point to treat every novel with care and refused to fold the pages or write on them. Jason really loved romance books and happily ever afters, and reading his collection inspired to take up writing. Hobbies were a luxury you couldn’t afford while juggling two part-time jobs, but now you had all the time in the world.

You stared at your monitor. Did you jinx yourself earlier?

You’ve hit a wall for today’s chapter.

The insertion point blinked mockingly at you. 

You only needed a thousand more words. That’s child’s play, but whatever you typed did not meet your standards, even for a first draft. 

You checked the time.

You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Usually, you’ll be typing like crazy the moment your butt was on the chair.

You plopped your elbows on your desk and squeezed your cheeks, an exasperated sigh leaving your mouth.

Ten minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to start something important.

Maybe a sugar boost will help.

Just as you thought of this, you overheard movement outside. 

Smiling, you rushed to open the door. 

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me–” 

Your lips twitched as you were greeted by the sight of Damian and Tim, holding a comically large mug of coffee. They were quarreling when your sudden appearance caught them off guard. 

“Hi.”

Damian’s lips pursed and he grumbled something under his breath.

“It’s rare to see you guys here,” you said plainly.

Tim laughed awkwardly. “I guess so.”

“Did you eat dinner already?”

“I–”

Damian pushed his back. “Let’s go, Drake, we’re busy.”

“Right, um, sorry–” Tim threw you an apologetic smile “–see you around.”

You smiled back as politely as you could. “See you.” There was no point in getting offended, you were the oldest one in this hallway and you were too exhausted to feel angry.

You watched Damian nudge Tim even farther away until they disappeared from view. 

Shaking your head softly, you stepped back inside your room and shut the door. You weren’t a warm person, but you didn’t have a family before. It was always just you bouncing between foster homes and sleeping in dumpsters when you had no other choice. You had no one to fall back on, and you were prepared to live the rest of your life like that, because what other choice was there? 

But then Mister Wayne arrived in the 24-hour mart while you worked the graveyard shift. Dingy apartments with creepy neighbors were replaced with a Gilded Age mansion. Hours spent on your feet catering to all sorts of customers became days of ennui (you learned that word from one of Jason’s books). Sodium-loaded canned and instant foods were now sodium-loaded fancy meals. You were grateful, and while it hurt not to have the family you’ve always dreamed of, you can deal with the wall between you as long as you never had to go back to being actually alone. 

You returned to your desk. The blinking line on the word document continued mocking you.

You reached for the latest novel you borrowed from Jason’s personal collection, A Little Princess, and flipped back to where you stopped yesterday, at Chapter Four: Lottie. 

“Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just HAPPENED that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know"—looking quite serious—"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”

You paused. You haven’t read A Little Princess before, but you’ve seen the film multiple times because one of your foster mothers adored it.

Family? Love? They were nice, but you didn’t need them. 

It was true that you were Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate kid and he took you in out of a sense of responsibility. You weren’t a child anymore, far from it, most people your age are in college while you just finished your GED. You haven’t spoken with Mister Wayne about university and frankly, you were too scared; what would he or the others think? Would they think you were getting too greedy?

Pride and dreams were reserved for people who can afford them. You may share Bruce’s blood but it was clear that he loved his sons more, regardless of their origin. 

Food, shelter–money, that’s what you needed, and the Waynes gave it to you. You had no right to complain or wish for more. You didn’t want to reach for the sun only to end up getting burned. 

You were about to continue reading when a green light illuminated your eyes. You looked away from the page and saw a green hole forming on the floor, right in front of the door. A faint shearing sound accompanied its undulating outline as it grew bigger. 

You set down the book and walked closer. You can see a different place inside the emerald ring. This wasn’t some hole, it was a portal. 

Honestly, not the weirdest thing for a Gothamite. 

Still though…

Against all common sense, you knelt down and glanced inside. You were usually smarter than this, not to toot your own horn, but your intelligence is what kept you alive in Gotham for all these years; however, something about this portal called out to you. You dipped one hand inside. 

The air was warmer than it was in your room. 

You were going to pull back when–

knock, knock 

“Miss?”

You yelped, caught off guard and lost your balance–you fell straight into the portal.

Main Mark

He was doing his usual routine, flying around, helping people and preventing city-destroying disasters when he heard your screaming and caught you just in time.

You thanked him and asked if you could please take you back to Gotham.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What’s Gotham?”

“Crap.”

You both figured out that you were on a parallel Earth and he offered to let you stay with him until you found a way back.

Debbie was a sweetheart. She was super understanding and kind and you imprinted on her instantly. You didn’t want to be a burden so you helped maintain the house and cooked for them. 

Mark fell in love with you, because of course, he did. He found himself getting more and more excited to finish his missions early just so he can come home to your smile. You liked him, too, you didn’t know if it was love, but when he found the courage to ask you out you agreed, hoping that maybe you’ll learn.

It was a relatively simple love story, world-hopping aside. You and Mark were friends first who soon became soulmates. You didn’t mind that he missed dates and you kept yourself busy helping Debbie as a real estate agent. 

You supported Mark throughout his struggles, listened to his problems and comforted him when he was in pain. In turn, he taught you how to love, and maybe more importantly, how to be loved. He surprised you with gifts–nothing big but always extraordinary–like daisies he found while flying over the countryside or a bracelet that reminded him of you. He always asked if you were hungry or thirsty before going to get his own snack, and even when you said no he’d return with your own food and drink. He looked at you that made you unable to look at him, he made you shy in the best way possible. He was everything you didn’t know you wanted. 

***

When a portal appeared again, it wasn’t green, it was gold–and the men on the other side didn’t hesitate when they jumped into Mark’s universe. 

They weren’t violent, but they were not nice. Invincible got into a fight with the tiny one in red and green. The “hero” who called himself Nightwing was friendly, but Mark could tell he was on edge like the rest of them.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Nightwing said, flashing a holographic album full of your photos. Neither you nor Mark knew anything about your family’s nightly activities so your boyfriend became more suspicious of these masked heroes. 

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Mark could tell that everyone knew that he knew who you were, but Nightwing remained calm. “We’re not going to hurt her. It’s hard to believe since we’re basically aliens, but we just want to bring her home. Her family misses her.”

That made Mark scoff. You told him about your family. You didn’t hate them, but Mark certainly did. You were… too used to loneliness. And that pissed him off. You were amazing, you deserved nothing but warmth and your so-called family ignored you. 

He wanted nothing more than to flip these guys off with a message, “Tell her family that she’s happier here and that she doesn’t need them holding her back,” but that wasn’t his decision to make. 

“I know her,” Invincible said. “I’ll tell her about you guys, but if she says she doesn’t want to come back, you leave her alone. Got that?”

“That–”

“No,” Batman said firmly. “She’s coming back. She needs her family.”

Mark’s eye twitched, but he kept his cool. “We’ll see.”

“I can’t believe it,” you muttered, gripping tightly on your copy of Pride and Prejudice like it was a stress ball.

Mark had been late for date night, no biggie, so you spent the evening reading a novel on your TBR list. When he came back from patrol, his whole body was tense, his face solemn when he pulled off his mask. He then joined you at the table and explained what happened.

“Talk to me, baby. What’re you thinking about?” He asked, placing a grounding hand over your cold fingers.

You let go of the book and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure. After a year, I was sure that I’d be here forever–and I would’ve been okay–happy with that, but now…”

“I know.” He thumbed your knuckles. “What’re you going to do? Are you..”

Were you planning to go back?

“I don’t know.” You looked into his eyes. “What should I do, Mark?”

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to open your eyes. You were miserable back in Gotham. You were better off here, with him. 

But instead, he cradled both of your hands between his and he smiled. “I can’t tell you what to do, only that I’ll support you no matter what.”

Main Mark is the only one who will step aside if you decide to return and fix your relationship with your family. It will hurt. And he will crack when it’s time to say goodbye; he’ll pull you into his arms and beg you to stay with him, but if you have made up your mind, he won’t force you otherwise. 

His variants aren’t so selfless. Omni, Head Cap, Maskless, No Goggles and Full Mask won’t even bother telling you about the portal appearing, intent on keeping you by their side. 

Flaxan, Target and Viltrumite Mark would have already whisked you away from Earth and it would take a while before the Bats found you. 

Mohawk, Prisoner, Shiesty and Sinister will tell you about the portal and the foreign superheroes that have come for you and plead with you not to leave–and this is after they’ve decided to pick a fight with Batman and crew.

a/n:

Hi anon, I’m sorry this took so long but I knew that if I opened this door to DC I'll end up fawning over Jason and get distracted (and I was right). You’re my last request (technically no but I'm still not prepared to share Shiesty's origin story), but YAYYYY 

Also, I know that anon specified that the Bats were horrible to Y/N, and I did try to write them like that initially, but it was hard for that scenario to fully form in my head. The Bat family is dysfunctional as heck, but I usually write about a normal, civilian YN and I can't see them being purposefully abusive to someone like that. Despite DC's many fumbles, the Bats are supposed to be good people at their core so the words just wouldn't flow. 

DON'T GET ME WRONG, considering my love for revenge stories, I do want to write about the Bats being neglectful and unintentionally awful to YN and then her waking up and realizing that she doesn't care anymore, and then she stops chasing after them, which in turn, makes them chase after her, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, I hope you still liked it!! (I'm going to cry about Red Hood and Huntress now.)

(ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire.

Gotham City, lifted from: https://heroism.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_City

Invincible flying, lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

PS can you guess which Batboy is my favorite? LOL

[centrally-unplanned]

I thought this was a well-framed piece on changing tastes in US literature - there absolutely has been a marked shift in what kinds of books are widely read over the past ~50 years. It also slots into some of my own themes around "what happened to all the capital-g Great People" discourse - will there be a new crop of "American Authors" a la Hemingway, Updike, etc, or is that passé, and if so why? Yingling (correctly imo) pushes back on the "death of literary fiction" as being something created wholesale by the internet and trends like declining attention spans - the death happened well before the internet took over everything (it was firmly established by the 2000's), and people do in fact read long books, just as much as they used to (most people never read hefty literature in any era).

Yingling instead posits that this shift is also not due to a change in reader taste, but instead more in "supply" - the death of easy revenue streams for literary authors, changes in how publishers operate, the chasing of awards and genre niches over general readers. To simplify, he believes that one could be an Updike of Our Era, if only one of sufficient talent truly tried and the gatekeepers pivoted to encouraging that. There is truth to the supply issues, but here I think he is overreaching - the supply is instead reflecting the changing demand.

This error is most exemplified in one of his arguments around why it hasn't changed, namely that people still read old literary fiction:

For one, people still read plenty of literary fiction, what they don’t read is contemporary literary fiction. Books like Pride and Prejudice, War and Peace, The Brothers Karamazov, etc still sell many thousands of copies every year, more than even big hits in contemporary literary fiction.5 And look at any survey of contemporary audiences' favorite books. Plenty of literary fiction there.6 So I think there’s a strong enough warrant here that the ‘taste-change’ hypothesis can’t be right either — unless the internet made people’s tastes magically shift away from contemporary literary fiction but not classics.

I don't specifically blame the internet, but I think this is revealing about the author's blindspots - people's tastes absolutely "magically shift" to classics over contemporary works! There is this thing, it is called status? Humans love it, they do so much because of it, and sometimes they even read books due to it! People are reading classic literature precisely because it is classic, it is "the canon". They are also Schelling Points to make reading social - you can easily form a book club around Wuthering Heights because everyone is "supposed" to read it; no one has to read whatever is #46 on the bestseller list today. That in fact drives a lot of media consumption more generally - people read the "hot new thing" and the classics so they can be a part of the wider conversation of society.

From this lens, from where the conversation is, I think you can see more shifts in the demand side that our author misses. He compares the best selling fiction of the 1960's, which was mainly literary fiction, to a sample from 2023:

It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover It Starts with Us by Colleen Hoover Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros Atomic Habits by James Clear2 Dog Man: Twenty Thousand Fleas Under the Sea by Dav Pilkey

Which highlights that three of the five are romance novels (the others are a kid's book, which I don't think says anything, they don't "compete" with literary fiction; and a... nonfiction self-help book? So a typo by the list makers? Let's just ignore that). Now, for one, I would note that this being heavily female is saying a lot about how demand has changed, but that is a bit too obvious to belabor. Instead, I wanna interrogate that word "romance" - I don't think it means what the author wants it to. Let's look at It Ends With Us:

The story follows florist Lily Bloom, whose abusive relationship with neurosurgeon Ryle Kincaid is compounded when her high school boyfriend Atlas Corrigan re-enters her life. It explores themes of domestic violence and emotional abuse. Based on the relationship between her mother and father, Hoover described it as "the hardest book I've ever written".

I'm not saying this is Blood Meridian or anything, but this isn't Harlequin either - it is blending romance tropes with the introspective, the memoir, and some topical politics. At the same time that "literary fiction" has declined, other genres have "grown up" - they cover a lot more diverse ground, targeting demos more specifically and expanding their narrative and thematic scope.

There have been several literary cultural movements specifically playing with this kind of broadening - the decline of lit fic coincidenced with the "memoir boom" of the 90's & 2000's, where "ordinary people" wrote creative-fiction-esque retrospectives on their lives, which you can see covers a lot of similar ground. Hell, to tie it back into gender a bit, if I wanted a serious story about politics & war back in the day, pulp fantasy wasn't gonna do that for you - but it will today! The 2000's was an entire decade of fantasy novels "growing up" (ymmv on how well ofc), and you can get your discourses on the nature of fascism Star Wars™ flavored if that is your tea.

Yingling essentially rests his hat on the idea of the "general reader" being out there still, like literary fiction has deserted them. But I think at least in part, this is a story of evolution, not devolution; in the 1970's we didn't make enough non-general literature to make specialists of the masses. But we do now, they have learned what they like, and aren't particularly interested in coming back to generalist fare. With caveats ofc, there were always be the Hot New Thing and universal appeal, etc - but being sufficiently talented is not going to make that the standard again.

[sylus-shivanika]

All that Remains of you.

Genre: Sylus as a Single Dad AU | Sylus Pov | Angst.

The morning sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, bathing the small room in a gentle light. Sylus sat on the edge of the bed, tenderly braiding his daughter’s long dark hair. Her hair looked exactly like yours. Each strand he wove brought with it a thousand memories of you sitting between his legs, laughing softly while he braided your hair on lazy Sunday mornings. You would tease him then with a smile.

“You’re getting better at this. You’ll need it when we have a daughter.”

He never thought he would be doing it alone.

As he tied the final ribbon, his daughter turned to him with bright eyes. Her smile had the same warmth that once brought him to his knees. It was your smile.

“Daddy,” she said sweetly, “let’s get the best bouquet for Mommy today.”

He froze for a second. Her words were innocent, but they shattered something deep inside him. He leaned in and kissed the crown of her head. His voice came out soft and quiet.

“Yes, my princess. The best one. Just like she deserves.”

Later that day, they walked together through the cemetery. Her small fingers clung tightly to his. She carried the bouquet herself, a cascade of blush pink roses. Your favorite.

When they reached your grave, Sylus knelt and gently placed the flowers down. His hands lingered against the stone, as if hoping it would still hold your warmth.

His voice broke as he said,

“See, kitten. Our little princess chose these for you. She is growing up so beautifully. Just like you told me to. I am trying. I am really trying to be the father she deserves.”

His little princess knelt beside him and softly caressed your name carved in stone.

“The best bouquet for the best Mumma in the world,” she whispered with all the love her six-year-old heart could hold.

Sylus smiled through the sting in his eyes. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, trying to blink away the memories that rushed in without mercy. Every time he came here, he never wanted to leave.

Then came the memory he could never escape.

He remembered that day. The hospital. The pain in your eyes. The unbearable hours.

You were in labor. It had started early, and it hit harder than either of you expected. He stayed beside you, gripping your hand as you cried out in agony. Your body trembled with every contraction. You were in so much pain, and he kept whispering over and over,

“You are going to be okay. I am right here. Just breathe. I’m not leaving.”

You were so strong, but your body was failing you. The doctors moved faster. Their voices became louder. The delivery had turned complicated. Dangerous. There was too much blood. Your heartbeat slowed. The monitors began to scream.

Still, you turned your head and whispered through clenched teeth,

“If anything happens to me, don’t punish yourself. Live for her. Give her everything.”

He hated when you said things like that. He always told you not to talk that way. He believed everything would be fine. He had to believe it.

He took you to the best hospital. Found the most trusted doctors. He tried everything.

But fate had already made its decision.

You brought your daughter into this world, and that same moment stole you from him.

For days after you were gone, he could not speak. Could not eat. Could not sleep. His body lived, but his soul stayed in that delivery room. The world lost its color. He sat for hours in silence, staring at nothing, waiting for a voice that would never come back.

Then came her cries.

Your daughter’s tiny wails at night became his reason to move. He would hold her through sleepless nights, humming lullabies through a trembling voice, refusing to let her feel alone. She was the last piece of you, and that made her sacred.

When she took her first steps, he pulled out the photo he always kept in his wallet, kissed it, and whispered,

“She is walking now, kitten. Can you see her?”

When she spoke her first word, he made sure it was "Mumma." And when she finally said it, he smiled through tears and looked at your photo.

“You win. We always joked about this. I said she would say Dada first, but deep down I wanted her to say Mumma. And she did.”

On every birthday, he brought her two gifts. One from him. One from your behalf. He wrapped them both with care, and when she opened the one labeled “From Mumma,” her eyes sparkled as if you had sent it yourself.

One afternoon, while searching for a shirt, he found your scarf tucked away at the back of the closet. His breath caught. He reached out and picked it up carefully, bringing it to his face. It still smelled like you.

He stood there for a moment, then slowly sank to the floor. He held the scarf against his chest and began to sob.

“I can feel your scent. But I cannot feel your touch. I cannot see your smile. I cannot hear your heartbeat, the one that used to beat for me. I miss everything about you. I wish you never left. I wish I could bring you back.”

He kissed the scarf, and his tears soaked into the fabric. His body shook, overwhelmed with grief, until he felt small arms wrap around him. His daughter stood there, silent. She had seen him cry like this before. She said nothing. She just held him.

In that painful moment, her hug was the only thing that made it bearable.

Still trembling, Sylus looked at the scarf. Then, with trembling hands, he wrapped it gently around his daughter’s shoulders. He kissed the top of her head.

“Only you,” he whispered, “only you can ease me after your mother’s departure.”

At bedtime, he would read her your favorite poem. He played her your saved voice messages so she could sleep to the sound of you. He wanted her to grow up knowing you, feeling you, loving you, even without meeting you.

Now, as she caressed your grave again with small, loving fingers, Sylus stood beside her with quiet reverence. He spoke in a voice just above a whisper.

“Tomorrow is her first day at her new school. I bought her a pink bag. Your favorite color. And she loves it. Just like you would have.”

He picked her up into his arms. As they walked away, Sylus turned to look back one last time. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I love you.”

And in his heart, he whispered words he would never say aloud.

"Living without you is like a prison. Every day is a sentence I cannot escape. But our daughter gives me light in this endless darkness. I bring your presence into everything I do. For her. And for myself. I wish I could have saved you. I wish fate had chosen differently. But I promise, I will keep bringing her here. I will bring you the best bouquets. Every day. Because my heart rests beside your grave, and my soul will always belong to your memory."

[shouyuus]

hi hello, i had the thought of sae with barely there freckles from playing in madrid

thank you for coming to my tedtalk

the way i spiraled for a full half hr during work thinking about this

sfw; im cooked, roasted, oven-crisped, pan-fried, and dipped in sauce for sae this man

you trace them like constellations, fingers slipping from one barely there spot to the next, your breath feathering the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. like this, you think you can map the planes of his shoulders, down the rolling hills of his shoulders, follow the tributaries of his veins all the way to his hands, his palm loose, his fingers languid. sometimes, you think it's terribly unfair, the way he looks -- so much like a careless god, cold eyes and a heartbreak mouth, beautiful and terrible all at once.

he shifts, turns, a tiny frown dug between his eyebrows as he twists to look at you from beneath the halo of your bedside lamp. there's a question in his eyes, but the answer is in the smile ghosting across his lips -- he already knows.

"what're you doing?" he asks. because sometimes, that's simply how i love you is pronounced.

"nothing," you answer, pillowing your chin on his arm and walking your fingers up the solid expanse of his stomach, the hard plateaus of his chest, the startlingly delicate ridge of his collarbones, "just... admiring my boyfriend in all his statuesque glory."

sae scoffs, lets his head fall back onto the pillows, his strawberry hair an unspooling of candyfloss across your silken sheets.

"you're so weird," he says, though his hand comes up to cup at the bend of your hip all the same, tugging you closer so you can pillow your cheek on his chest.

you hum contentedly, curling into him, melting against him like sun-warmed honey.

"if i'm weird, then what's that make you for dating me?"

sae makes a small noise, his fingers tracing abstract patterns into the slip of skin above your sleep shorts, his eyes cast up towards the ceiling. the quiet settles around you both, sweet and soft and first snow. his hand trails up your arm and settles in your hair, threading through it as he considers.

"dunno... even more weird, i guess."

he leans down, presses his nose into your hair.

you laugh, shifting to look up at him. his gaze is steady, hooded, his eyes shining with an almost cat-like lucence.

"you didn't use to have these," you say, letting your eyes flicker to the freckles on his shoulders. he blinks, before turning to lie on his side, your nose and his only inches apart.

"people change," he says, simply. and you nod, reaching out to cup his cheek, letting your thumb trace the line of his cheekbones down to the cut of his jaw.

"yeah, i know," you answer, because sometimes, this is how i love you too sounds.

you lean in to kiss him, just the gaze of lips on lips first, a phantom kiss before the real thing, before he pushes in and makes solid the thing swirling in the negative space between you.

it is a long time before you break apart again, a long time before another word is said. a long time before the light goes out and you're left to the darkness, limbs linked, your ankle slung over his, his arm still pillowed beneath your cheek. his breath is warm on your forehead, and yours sweet against his collarbones.

outside, the dark violet night deepens with the flicker of a hundred thousand unnamed stars, and everything, somehow, is just as it's supposed to be.