#then... maybe i'll try to write or something | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lazy-ahh · 3 days ago

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Hello darling 😘. Hope you don't the request but I wanted to ask if u could write on a male reader who has a powerful shape-shifting ability. Like he can shapeshift into people , objects and animals(normal and mythical) while mimicking their sounds and powers . He really likes to prank mark by turning into monsters/objects to scare him . Male reader also specializes in undercover missions so he's not always around alot but when he is , his out causing touble for the Cecil and the guardians by shape-shifting into them and doing pranks out in public . So they gotta always call mark cause his the only one who can rail him in .

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT (I'LL CALL IT LOVE)

pairing mark grayson x (shape-shifter) male reader

mark grayson has a problem: you. specifically, the way you laugh at your own pranks, the way your hands always find their way to him, the way you call him 'pretty boy' like it doesn't ruin him every single time. (he wishes it meant something. he wishes you'd mean it.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you’re bored. like, mind-numbingly bored. the kind of boredom that makes shapeshifting into inanimate objects—just to see how long you can stay perfectly still before someone notices—sound like a decent way to kill time. and when you’re bored, two things always happen: 1) you start shifting into increasingly ridiculous things just to entertain yourself (seriously, you’ve been a toaster, a literal dumpster, and a disturbingly accurate replica of cecil’s coffee mug—with the chip and everything), and 2) mark grayson ends up with a new gray hair because of you. today, option 1 lost its charm after the fifth consecutive transformation (seriously, how many times can you turn into a lamp before even you get tired of it?), so that leaves you with option 2: terrorizing your favorite superhero.

most of the time, you don’t even pretend to consider option 1—you just skip straight to hunting mark down like some kind of overexcited, shapeshifting bloodhound. poor guy. you do pity him, really. but pity has never stopped you before, and it sure as hell isn’t gonna start now. you try to keep it light—when he tells you to stop, you stop. when he’s not laughing (or at least fighting a smile), you back off. because at the end of the day, that’s the whole point. ever since you were kids, you’ve been pulling this crap just to hear him laugh, to see that stupid, fond look he gets when he’s trying so hard to be annoyed but can’t quite manage it.

and okay, fine, maybe it’s also your go-to excuse when you miss him. which is… a lot. more than you’d ever admit out loud. you’ll just shrug, smirk, and say "eh, was bored," like you haven’t been watching him from across the room for the past ten minutes, cataloging every reaction, every half-suppressed chuckle, every exasperated "dude, seriously?" that sounds way too affectionate to actually be annoyed.

you’ll admit it—you try way too hard. but can you blame yourself? mark’s mark. your best friend, the guy who somehow puts up with your nonsense, the idiot who still jumps every time you sneak up on him as some eldritch horror (even though he knows it’s you). and yeah, maybe you have feelings for him. ugh. screw that—of course you have feelings for him. it’s not like you spend your undercover missions thinking about what ridiculous stunt will make him lose it next. it’s not like the thought of his laugh is the only thing keeping you going when the mission goes to hell.

…okay, maybe it is.

whatever. point is, you’re bored, and mark’s about to have a really bad day.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark’s sprawled across his bed like a starfish that’s given up on life, one hand lazily scratching out physics equations while the other flips pages of seance dog with way more enthusiasm than his homework deserves. he’s technically studying—or at least, that’s what he’ll tell his mom later when she asks why his grades are "consistently mediocre"—but really, he’s just pretending to care about velocity formulas while mentally cheering on a comic book dog that barks at ghosts. priorities, right?

his phone buzzes against the mattress, and he grabs it without looking, already grinning because maybe it’s you. maybe you’re finally back from that undercover mission, texting him some ridiculous story about how you impersonated a villain’s pet hellhound just to steal classified files (again), or how you tricked an entire squad of guards by shifting into a vending machine and then spitting out snacks at them when they tried to buy something. the thought makes his chest do this dumb little squeeze thing, equal parts excitement and "god, i missed this idiot."

instead, he gets:

"mark."

oh. cecil.

mark blinks, still half-distracted by a panel of seance dog howling at a particularly dramatic specter. "uh. hey. what’s up?" he asks, like he isn’t already mentally calculating how fast he can hang up if this is another "emergency briefing" that could’ve been an email.

cecil’s voice is as dry as ever. "i need you to retrieve something from [y/n]’s house. mission-critical intel he recovered."

mark's gaze automatically flicks to your window—because of course your rooms face each other, of course your houses have been side-by-side since you were both in diapers, and of course this whole setup feels like something straight out of one of those dumb rom-coms you pretend not to watch together (even though you totally do). he's already moving before he realizes it, one leg swinging off the bed while his free hand fumbles for his hoodie. the key to your place hangs from his nightstand, right next to yours that he keeps "for emergencies" (read: when he wants to steal your snacks).

but he pauses, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he wrestles with the hoodie sleeve. "uh, wait—why can't, y'know... he just bring it?" his voice goes a little higher at the end, the way it always does when he's trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.

"he's already on another assignment."

mark's fingers tighten around his phone just a little too much—not enough to crack it (probably), but enough that his knuckles go white. "oh. uh. that's just—i mean, he just got back? like, two weeks? i-i mean from like, a two-week mission? and you're already—" he cuts himself off, realizing he sounds way too invested, and backpedals hard. "not that it's any of my business! or—i mean, it kind of is? since i'm the one you're making go over there? but also maybe he should, like... rest? or something?"

there's a long pause where mark can feel cecil judging him through the phone. when the sigh finally comes, it's the kind of world-weary exhale that makes mark feel like he's twelve again and getting scolded for tracking mud through the guardians HQ. "just get the drive from his desk. it's urgent."

"yeah, yeah," mark mutters under his breath, already thumping down the stairs two at a time like an overexcited golden retriever. the wooden steps creak in protest under his socked feet (because of course he forgot shoes again), and he barely remembers to grab your spare key from its usual hiding spot under the ceramic frog by the back door. the grass is cool and slightly damp between his toes as he cuts across the lawn, the late afternoon air carrying that familiar mix of freshly-cut grass and whatever weird chemical smell the grayson's neighbor insists on spraying on their roses.

he doesn't bother knocking—after fifteen years of friendship, walking into your house feels as natural as breathing. the front door groans its usual complaint when he pushes it open, that same squeaky hinge you've both promised to fix a hundred times but never actually gotten around to. "okay, so where's this—" he starts, already stepping into the dim hallway when he realizes the phone's gone quiet.

mark freezes mid-step, one sock half-off from where he's been dragging his feet. "...cecil?" he tries again, holding the phone away from his face to check if he accidentally hung up. the screen mocks him with its blank indifference.

nothing.

just the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the distant sound of a car passing by outside.

weird.

he gives a half-hearted shrug, creeping further into your room like he's walking through a minefield. the place looks like a tornado hit it—as usual. one of your hoodies is dangling precariously off the bed frame, socks litter the floor like sad little landmines, and there's a half-eaten bag of chips on the nightstand that's probably been there since before your last mission (seriously dude, that's just nasty). but what really catches his eye is the faint glow from your desk—your phone, screen lit up with an active call. to mark.

mark's stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that has nothing to do with the stale chip smell wafting through the room.

then—

creak.

that unmistakable sound of old wood protesting under weight. from directly behind him.

every muscle in mark's body locks up tighter than the time he accidentally super-glued his fingers together during arts and crafts day in third grade. okay. okayokayokay. he's invincible. he's literally a viltrumite. he's punched through alien warships and survived getting thrown through buildings and once fought a guy made entirely of bees (that last one was way grosser than scary, but still). this is fine. he's fine.

(he is not fine.)

mark sucks in a shaky breath that does absolutely nothing to calm his racing heart before spinning around so fast he almost trips over his own feet, fist coming up in what he hopes looks like a cool superhero pose and not like he's about to start crying.

empty room.

just shadows stretching long across the floor and his own dumb reflection in your slightly crooked mirror. just shadows. just the faint hum of the AC that always sounds vaguely like someone whispering his name when he's trying to sleep. just his own heartbeat pounding in his ears like some overenthusiastic drummer at a battle of the bands.

he exhales, shaky. "okay. okay. you're being paranoid. it's fine. it's totally—"

something grabs his ankle.

"HOLY SHIT—MOM! MOOOOM! [Y/N]! SOMEONE! OHGODOHGOD—"

mark's scream cracks embarrassingly high as skeletal fingers—way too long, way too pointy, what the actual fuck—clamp around his ankle like icy manacles. he's yanked backward so hard his chin smacks the floor (that's gonna bruise tomorrow), his flailing limbs doing absolutely nothing to stop his slide toward the nightmare void under your bed. the shadows twist and bubble like boiling tar, forming a face—no, not a face, a horrible parody of one—all jagged teeth and glowing eyes that seem to look right into his soul.

"nononono—[Y/N] HELP! I'LL NEVER MISS OUT ON FLYING TIME AGAIN I SWEAR! MOM! ANYBODY!" he babbles, voice jumping an octave with each word as he claws at the carpet like a cat being shoved into a carrier. his fingers leave little streaks in the fibers (sorry about your carpet) as whatever-the-hell-this-is drags him closer. tears are absolutely streaming down his face now, because screw dignity, he's about to be monster chow. "OH COME ON I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO FINISH SEANCE DOG! THIS IS SO UNFAIR! [Y/N] YOU ASSHOLE WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I—"

then—

laughter.

not just any laughter—that bright, obnoxious, infuriatingly familiar sound that's been the soundtrack to mark's life since you were both in diapers. the kind of laughter that starts in your chest and comes bursting out like you just can't contain it, loud and unapologetic and so fucking pleased with yourself.

the shadows dissolve like smoke in sunlight, and there you are—half-sprawled under the bed with your hair sticking up in every direction, eyes crinkled with amusement, grinning like you just pulled off the world's greatest heist. "oh my god," you wheeze, wiping at your eyes, "your face—i wish you could see yourself right now—"

mark just collapses onto his back, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, elbows digging into the carpet as he glares up at you with the most betrayed expression imaginable. it's a perfect mix of "i'm going to strangle you with my bare hands" and "why do you have to look so pretty when you're being the actual worst?"

your laughter stutters to a stop when you see the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. "…oh." your voice goes soft, all the mischief draining away in an instant. "oh, shit, mark—" you're moving before you even finish the sentence, crawling across the carpet to cradle his face in your hands. your thumbs brush away the tears with a gentleness that makes his breath hitch, your forehead pressing against his like you're trying to physically transfer an apology through skin contact. "hey, hey, i'm so sorry, okay? i didn't think you'd actually—i mean, you're invincible, i didn't think—"

"you're the actual worst," mark croaks, his voice still shaky from adrenaline, but he's already tilting his head into your palms like a cat begging for scratches. because despite everything—despite you being a complete menace to society—your hands are always so warm, your stupid smirk always so unfairly charming even when you've just traumatized him for life. "i hope you know i'm never forgiving you for this. like, ever. we're done."

you grin, already knowing he doesn't mean a word of it, and yank him forward into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of him. "awww, but you love me~" you sing-song directly into his ear, your voice dripping with playful smugness as you feel him immediately melt against you despite his protests. one hand slides up to ruffle his already-messy hair while the other rubs comforting circles between his shoulder blades—the exact spot you know makes him go all soft and pliant.

mark groans, but it's half-hearted at best, his face now buried in the crook of your neck where he can secretly inhale that familiar scent of your stupidly expensive cologne mixed with whatever shampoo you stole from him last week. "i hate you," he mumbles directly against your skin, the words vibrating through you as his arms finally wind around your waist to pull you even closer. "you're a monster. a demon. i'm telling cecil to send you to space jail. i'm sure he has one somewhere up there."

you laugh, pressing a teasing kiss to his temple—just quick enough that he can't protest, but slow enough to make his heart stutter. he wishes you'd do it more often. wishes that it meant more. wishes that you'd do more when he finally musters up the courage to ask to be yours forever.

"sure, sure," you murmur, lips still brushing his skin as you speak. "but first..." you suddenly shift, flipping both of you over until mark's sprawled on his back with you grinning down at him, his wide-eyed blush absolutely precious. "...gotta make it up to you, right?" your voice drops to that low, dangerous tone that always makes his brain short-circuit, your fingers now gently tracing the tear tracks on his cheeks. "maybe... ice cream? cuddles? that new comic you've been eyeing?"

mark's pout is almost convincing. "...with extra sprinkles?" he mutters, already knowing he's lost this battle the moment your lips touched his skin.

"whatever you want, pretty boy," you whisper, watching with delight as his entire face turns scarlet at the nickname—the same one that’s been reducing him to a flustered mess since you were fifteen. and god, fifteen-year-old mark had been a disaster—tripping over his own feet every time you got too close, face burning whenever you slung an arm around his shoulders, heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it.

some things never change.

he swallows hard, throat suddenly tight as his skin burns where you touch him—your knee pressed against his thigh, your fingers absently playing with the hair at his nape, your breath warm and sweet when you laugh just inches from his mouth. it's unfair, the way you do this—all easy affection and teasing touches, like this closeness between you doesn't mean anything more than best friends messing around. like your hands don't linger just a second too long, like your hugs don't hold him tighter than necessary, like your voice doesn't drop to that soft, private tone reserved only for him.

(and maybe it doesn't mean more to you. that's the terrifying thought that keeps him awake at night. because you've always been like this—bold with everyone else but suddenly so careful with him, dancing right up to the line but never crossing it. too scared to put a name to the way your chest tightens when he smiles, to the years of stolen glances and almost-confessions that died on your tongue. too terrified to admit that sixth-grade you fell first, but eighteen-year-old you is still falling, harder every day.)

the worst part? he'd wait forever if you asked him to. he's already memorized the exact shade of your lips when you bite them to hide a smile, the way your eyes crinkle when you're trying not to laugh at him, the soft sigh you make when you think no one's listening. he knows you—all of you—and still wants you with an ache that never quite goes away.

because mark? mark is ruined. he’s spent years memorizing the exact shade of your smile, the way your voice dips when you’re sleepy, the stupid little snort you make when something catches you off guard. he knows you better than he knows himself, loves you more than he’ll ever admit out loud.

and yet here you are, curled around him like you belong there (you do), whispering sweet nothings like they don’t mean anything (they do, to him), calling him pretty boy like it doesn’t carve him open every single time (it does).

he should pull away. he won’t.

(he never pulls away. not even a little. in fact, his grip around you might have tightened just slightly.)

2.8k words of mark grayson and reader being a lovesick disaster (again)! sorry if this isn't exactly what you imagined and requested, anon—i went through four different versions before settling on this one because the others just didn't feel right. really hope you still like how it turned out though 🥹

#lazy-ahh #invincible #mark grayson #male reader #invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #crybaby(?) mark grayson #mark just being all teary-eyed AHHHHHH #something's wrong with me #mark crying #WHYYYYYYYYYYYY DOES HE LOOK SO CUTE WHEN HE'S CRYING??#something's definitely wrong with me #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

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redrosydiaz · 17 hours ago

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respectfully, but this post is MY opinion. not yours. if you don't agree, cool! great! good for you! soooo awesome of you! but keep that shit off my post? this post wasn't an invitation for you to come up here and start shitting all over my opinion of this, frankly terrible, episode! 😀

but, you know, since you DID decide to, pretty damn rudely, comment on my opinion post, i'll take the time to, pretty damn rudely, respond to you!

first of all, tell me YOU didn't watch the episode without telling me you didn't watch the episode. there was nothing masterclass about that episode 🤷

second, you don't know what i was expecting? well. did you even read THIS POST? because uhhh THAT'S exactly what i was expecting lmao. for them to HONOR bobby. to give him the sendoff that he - and peter - deserved! not relegate his funeral to the last god damn five minutes of the episode and waste half of it on a wild goose chase that, ultimately, didnt even add anything to the overall story OR even properly fit the message they were trying to send with it. like. in WHAT WORLD is that GOOD? also, i expected them to actually show us the 118 grieving. to show us the 118 coming together and supporting each other through this massive massive loss because the core of this show IS that they are a family. but, maybe you missed that, since, y'know, you clearly aren't watching the same show.

third of all, a black panter level performance?? HAHAHAHA. oh i KNOW you're joking right. angela bassett had some FANTASTIC moments in this episode do not get me wrong, but she was NOT given the space and material here to give a fucking black panther level performance. if they would have done something like what i've suggested in this post, if they didn't waste half of the episode on athena chasing a case that was so missplaced for what this episode was meant to be... yeah we COULDVE gotten a black panther level performance. but suffice it to say, this episodes writing does not even come CLOSE to black panther's level of writing and the fact that you are insinuating that it does is, frankly, laughable. like damn. if you think this writing was as good as black panther then i guess you hate black panther lmfao.

fourth of all, "on beyonce's internet" please be so serious right now. 🙄

fifth of all, "y'all just be saying anything on this app" - well damn. y'all just be coming onto random people's posts and writing up rude as fuck arguments that nobody asked for.

sixth of all. you are literally forty years old. act your fucking age and stop trying to pick unmitigated fights with people on the internet who don't share your opinion. make your own damn post if it bothers you that much.

this episode should have absolutely been dedicated to the personal stories of each of these characters. they all just lost a man who was not just a coworker, but a friend. a close friend. we absolutely should've gotten to see how badly everyone is coping with this, how deeply it is affecting not just chimney, but ALL of the 118. athena. harry and may!!! we should've gotten to see tears, we should've gotten to see anger, we should've gotten to see survivor's guilt. we should've gotten to see hugs. we should've gotten to see eddie have a REAL fucking reaction to this. we should've gotten to see the 118 coming together to support each other in this, because they are NOT alone and they ARE a family. we should've seen them leaning on each other. crying together and spilling their guts about the should have could haves and offering each other comfort, whether that be through words or touch or just existing in the same space together. silently, but not alone. we should've gotten to see them standing up at bobby's funeral, talking about the man they loved and looked up to so much. we should've actually gotten to SEE the procession play out - not just a montage of it. like you say you wanna shake up this show and make it feel fucking real then make it feel fucking real. let us, the audience, actually FEEL something during these scenes.

this could have been SUCH a visceral, deeply moving episode. but it fucking WASN'T and i'm so fucking mad about that.

#fuck all the way off honestly #911 spoilers

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ekybrini · 2 days ago

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you're the right one | Will Smith

Request: Hi! I have a request if you are up to writing it. Can I please request a Will Smith fic where he and reader are out on a date, and people keep coming up to ask for pictures and autographs, and she happily takes pictures if asked, but for the most part the fans ignore her or make snide remarks. And she starts feeling bad because she feels that she can’t keep up with his world and doesn’t belong with him. And so Will invites her over and he makes her dinner and gets her flowers, does everything. And he basically praises her and thanks her for staying with him and supporting him through his rookie year.

— ⟡ summary | After a rough night out leaves y/n feeling out of place, Will comforts her with flowers, dinner, and gentle reminders that she means everything to him.

— ⟡ warnings | None (that I know of)

— ⟡ word count | 2.3k

— ⟡ gabs note | hiiii !!!! I finally finished this after like almost a month of it being in my drafts lol. Who knew the last two months of school were actually going to be a living hell. THANKFULLY I graduate in exactly a month so I'll be able to start being more active on here which means more post!! if anyone would like to request something don't hesitate !! I won't get to them right away but I will end up writing it sometimes when I have time.

You tell yourself it didn't bother you at first.

The stares. The whispers. Or how your name gets left out of every “Can I get a picture with you, will?” request.

That is just part of dating him.

You try to focus on the warmth in his eyes. The way his knee brushes against yours under the table. The way he said “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” when he picked you up tonight after the two long roadies.

And he meant that.

The first fan comes by after your appetizers hit the table. Young guy, maybe in high school, nervous, polite, asking to sign a sharks jersey. Will grins, he takes a picture and signs the jersey. He is sweet about it, he always is. You simile and even offer to take the picture. You’ve gotten used to this by now. You’ve known what it meant to be with him since the beginning of your relationship.

You just didn’t expect the stream of fans to keep coming.

Another one stops mid conversation. Then another. And another. You take a couple more pictures. Will never says no. He apologies each time with a sheepish smile and squeezes your hand each time, but you can feel the distance building up with every polite interruption.

Your food arrives. You push it around your plate, your appetite fading like the candle in front of you guys.

And of course it happens again.

You're mid laugh at something Will said, something genuinely funny, something that made you forget about how you two can’t seem to have a private moment when a group of girls passes by your table. They slow down pretending to glance at their menu, but their eyes are on Will.

“He’s even cuter in person,” one whispers.

Another snorts softly. “No kidding. And he’s with her?”

“He could definitely do better if he tried.” The girl replied back.

Will stiffens next to you like he heard it too.

But you don’t wait to see if he’ll say something. You excuse yourself with a bright smile and make your way to the bathroom before your voice cracks.

You stare at yourself in the mirror feeling your chest get tight, fingers gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache.

You knew it could be like this. You’ve seen the comments online, the subtle glances, the disbelief in people’s faces when they realize you're together. You always thought you could handle it. You thought if you loved him enough, if he loved you enough it wouldn’t matter.

But tonight, it feels like you’re trying to breathe underwater.

You fix your makeup, though it doesn’t fix anything. You smooth down your dress, though it still doesn’t feel like it fits right. You stare at yourself until the flush in your cheeks fades enough to pass as normal, then go back out there and pretend you weren’t just unraveling in a public restroom.

Will’s sitting up straighter when you return. There’s a shared dessert waiting at your seat, your favorite, a small cookie pie with vanilla ice cream on top.

His smile is small, searching. “Thought we could end the night on a sweet note.”

You sit down feeling your heart twisting.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He watches you for a moment longer than usual. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

It’s not a lie. You’ve had a long day, but it's not the reason for you shutting down.

He doesn’t push. He never does when you shut down like this. Instead, he forks a bite of cookie and offers it to you across the table.

You take it.

You make it through dessert. You make it through the ride home. He tells you he’ll text you when he makes it home. kisses your temple like he always does, lingering just long enough for you to feel guilty for pulling away.

You go inside and lean against the door, blinking against the burn behind your eyes.

Will hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s the hardest part.

He’s just being himself, kind, open, unaware of every careless comment, every ignored glance, every fan who acts like you’re invisible. He doesn’t know how small you felt tonight. How you keep wondering if people see you and think he settled.

You crawl into bed fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling, your mind looping that one cruel comment over and over again.

And he’s with her?

You close your eyes and try not to cry.

The next morning you wake to the soft buzz of your phone on the nightstand. It will. It’s still dark out, the sky a dull gray that matches the fog in your chest.

“Good morning, pretty girl. Hope you slept okay.”

Your chest tightens. You stare at the message for a while then type back slowly.

“Morning. Slept alright. Hope practice isn’t too rough today.”

You press send before you can second guess yourself. It’s casual. Normal. Exactly the kind of message he’s used to from you. But it feels like a lie, even if the words are technically true.

You’re not ignoring him. You just can’t bring yourself to say what’s really on your mind.

The way the girl at the restaurant looked you up and down like you were some sort of joke. The way you felt more like a shadow than someone’s date. The way Will didn’t seem to notice.

You know it’s not fair to hold that against him. He wasn’t the one who made you feel small, but he also didn’t notice that you were shrinking.

Later, you respond to another one of his texts, something simple about what you’re watching on TV, what you’re having for lunch. You even throw in a little joke. You’re trying. You really are.

And Will is sweet like always.

“Can’t believe you’re watching that without me. Rude.” Will send the message after telling him you’re watching glee.

“You were the one who fell asleep halfway through the last episode. I’m taking initiative.”

He replies with a string of laughing emojis and a gif that makes you smile, just a little.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. At least that's what you’re telling yourself.

Because every time your phone lights up with his name you feel that familiar twist in your stomach. Like there’s something caught in your throat, something heavy sitting on your chest. Like you’re pretending everything is normal when inside you’re spinning.

You want to tell him. But you don’t want him to think it’s stupid about you being upset over a comment. You know it shouldn’t have hurt you the way it did.

So you keep replying. Keep smiling through texts. Keep laughing at the right moments. Because silence would make him worry and you don’t want him to worry.

“Come over tonight?”

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You hesitate not because you don’t want to see him, but because you’re scared he’ll see right through you.

Still, you reply.

“Sure. What time?”

His response is nearly instant.

“Whenever you want. I’ll cook. Something fancy and probably half burnt, but made with love”

That makes your lips twitch, just a little.

By the time you knock on his door, your stomach is in knots. You try to smooth out your expression when he answers, wearing a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp, the smell of garlic and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

Will leans in and presses a kiss to your temple before pulling you inside. “Hey, you,” he says. “I missed you.”

You nod, setting your bag down. You don’t trust your voice to work yet.

“I went all out,” he says as he leads you to the kitchen. “Like, full Pinterest boyfriend levels. There are candles. I obviously couldn't get wine but if you wanted the full experience i got grape juice if not i got sodas. And I even tried to fold the napkins into those little triangle things. Don’t look too closely.”

Sure enough there’s a small dinner spread waiting on the table. It’s simple pasta, salad, garlic bread slightly burnt around the edges but it’s warm, thoughtful, and made by him.

And sitting right in the middle of the table is a small bouquet of flowers. Tulips with a mix of wildflowers, your favorite.

You blink. “Will”

He shrugs, suddenly shy. “I know you’ve had a weird couple of days. Thought maybe this would help.”

You open your mouth to respond, but your throat tightens too fast.

He misreads the silence, smile dimming a little. “I didn’t mean to overdo it. I just I guess I wanted you to know I don’t take you for granted. Not ever.”

Your breath stutters. The lump in your throat threatens to spill over.

You reach for a flower stem with trembling fingers. “They’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He nods, watching you carefully. “So are you.”

Will pulls out your chair and sits beside you instead of across, his thigh pressed lightly to yours.

“I don’t know what’s been bothering you,” he says, voice softer now. “But whatever it is, you don’t have to hide it from me.”

You want to tell him everything. The whispers. The way you felt like you didn’t belong. The way his world sometimes feels too loud, too polished, too far from yours.

But for now, you lean your head on his shoulder and he lets you stay quiet.

After a while of silence you pick at your pasta more than you eat it, but the warmth of the food and the soft music Will put on in the background helps ease the ache that’s been sitting in your chest. Will doesn’t push. He just chats about his last practice, about how one of the guys slipped during warmups, how the locker room smelled like actual death because Macklin left a protein shake in his bag over the weekend. You smile weakly at the stories, letting them wrap around you like a blanket.

But eventually, the words stop. He glances over at you, eyes searching and says gently, “You’ve been quiet lately. I mean, more than usual.”

You stare down at your plate. Your fork scrapes against ceramic, and your voice is barely audible when you say, “Yeah. Im sorry”

Will doesn't rush you. He just waits.

Eventually, you set your fork down and take a breath, fingers curling into your lap.

"It was at the restaurant," you say, voice barely more than a whisper.

Will looks up, confusion flickering across his face. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

"Our date," you add, still not looking at him. “When those fans kept coming over.”

His expression softens, and you can tell he thinks you’re about to say you were overwhelmed by the attention, maybe annoyed. But that’s not it.

“Some of their remarks are incredibly hurtful sometimes. I overheard someone ask if I was your assistance when I was walking to the bathroom. And then there were ones whose whispers were just too loud.”

You pause, swallowing hard.

“They said you could do better and I know,” you add quickly, “I know people say stupid things all the time. I know it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you still felt like shit,” he finishes for you, voice low.

You nod. “I smiled through it. I laughed. Took the photos. And then I went home and felt like maybe they were right.”

“I wish you had told me,” he murmurs. “I wish I’d noticed.”

“I didn’t want to ruin the night. You looked happy.”

“I was happy. Because I was with you.”

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Listen to me. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I thought about what they were saying. I don’t care what some strangers at a restaurant think. You think I could survive this year, this pressure, this schedule, this whole new world without you?”

“You’re the best part of all of it,” he says. “You’re the one who keeps me grounded. Who reminds me who I am. That night, I was proud to have you next to me. I just hate that anyone made you feel like you weren’t enough. Because you are. You’re more than enough.”

Your throat tightens as you finally look at him.

“And I made you your favorite dessert,” he adds, almost sheepish. “It’s in the kitchen. I was gonna wait, but”

You laugh wetly, tears spilling as you cover your face with your hands. “You’re such a sap.”

“I know.” He grins, brushing your hands away gently. “But only for you.”

And when he kisses your lips, soft and unhurried, you let yourself believe it that maybe you do belong here with him after all.

Later that night, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, the soft hum of a movie playing in the background. You’re not really watching it, not with Will sitting beside you, one arm around your shoulders, his fingers brushing over your arm in slow, calming strokes.

Will shifts slightly, glancing down at you. “You okay?”

You nod, leaning your head against his chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I will be.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. And if anyone ever makes you feel like that again, I’ll personally throw their soup across the restaurant.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching in your throat. “Please don’t start a food fight because of me.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

The warmth in his voice melts something in your chest, and for the first time in a few days, the ache feels like it’s fading.

You trace gentle shapes on the inside of his hoodie sleeve. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just pulls you closer, holds you tighter. And as your eyes begin to drift shut the rhythm of his heartbeat steady in your ear all you can feel is safe and loved.

The world may never stop whispering, but tonight wrapped in Will’s arms you makes you feel as if you don't have anything to worry about.

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mixolya · 2 days ago

Note

heyy! don’t know if you write for yukimiya, if you don’t it’s completely fine, but could i maybe ask for yukimiya, alongside sae, and otoya (including anyone else you want if you feel up to it!) when reader is on their period? Idk if this is an uncomfortable topic and i geniunely apologize if it is. you can ignore this! thanks so much anyway, i wish the best for you ^^

ᓚᘏᗢ — blue lock: when it hurts, they stay !

synopsis: period pains were never fun, but being taken care of by boys who loved you made it just a little easier to breathe.

yukimiya kenyu, sae itoshi, otoya eita x reader (separate) ⭑ fluff / comfort + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: hi!! thank you sm for your request and it isn't an uncomfortable topic for me dw <3 i hopeee this is good enough hahaha i never wrote for yukimiya & otoya BUTTT i tried

— yukimiya kenyu

it started with a text.

y/n 🩷: i want to rip my uterus out 😃

thirty minutes later, a knock echoed at your door, and there stood yukimiya, hair still slightly mussed from morning training, wearing his favorite beige coat and holding a tote bag full of survival supplies like he was on a mission.

"emergency delivery," he said softly, offering you a gentle smile that was tinged with concern.

you opened the door wider, wincing as another cramp rolled through your stomach. "i didn't mean for you to actually come..."

"i know," he murmured, stepping inside anyway. "but you sounded like you needed someone."

he moved with quiet care, setting down everything he brought. ginger tea. painkillers. a soft pair of fuzzy socks, pink with little white hearts. your favorite chocolate. a heating pad. even a tiny stuffed bear wearing a sweater.

"is that banana bread?" you asked, blinking.

he looked sheepish. "i tried to bake. had a bit of help. but i stirred the batter."

your stomach twisted. not from the cramps but from the way your heart felt suddenly too full. you shuffled forward, leaned your head against his chest and let yourself breathe in the calm he always brought with him. he smelled like soft cologne and warmth.

"thank you," you whispered.

"always," he said, arms wrapping around you like he'd been waiting all day to do that. "now sit down. eat something. yell at me if you want."

you did all three.

and he stayed, tucked you under his arms on the couch, listened as you complained about your uterus, your cravings, the universe. he didn't try to fix anything, just held you like it was enough.

and it was.

— sae itoshi

sae didn't ask what was wrong, he just knew.

you came home grumpy, sluggish, arms wrapped protectively around your stomach as if that would lessen the betrayal. you dropped your bag at the door, collapsed face-first into bed and groaned.

sae quietly closed his laptop. a moment later, you felt his hand on your back, rubbing slow, even circles through the blanket.

you peeked up, barely. "i'm dying."

"no," he said, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. "you're bleeding. big difference."

you scowled. he almost smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"do you want food?"

"..yes. and you. and the heating pad. and maybe death."

"i'll do three out of four."

he returned fifteen minutes later with warm food, a heating pad and your comfort show already playing. you blinked at him in disbelief.

"i thought you hated this show."

"i do," he said, sliding into bed beside you. "but i love you."

you curled into his side, clutching at the hoodie he was wearing (which was technically yours) and blinked hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

later, as the world faded around you and sleep crept in, you heard him whisper against your hair, "if i could take the pain for you, i would."

he didn't expect a response, but your fingers squeezed his just a little tighter.

— otoya eita

otoya knew something was off the moment your text came in.

y/n 💫: my body is actively trying to kill me y/n 💫: if i go missing, avenge me

he did not reply. wow, rude!!

instead, twenty-five minutes later, your doorbell rang, and when you opened it, he stood there with a smug grin, a bag of takeout in one hand and a heat patch in the other.

"your knight in shining hoodie has arrived," he said, cocking a brow. "or should i say, knight in emotional support and grilled cheese?"

you blinked, still in your pajamas, clutching a pillow to your chest. "you didn't have to-"

"i wanted to," he cut in, stepping inside like he'd done it a thousand times. "also, you get super cute when you're in pain."

you glared at him.

he winked.

but behind the teasing, his eyes were careful, watching you, checking how you walked slightly slower, hunched over. he set everything down, then gently tugged you toward the couch.

"lay down. i'll warm the heating pad and feed you like royalty."

"are you always this dramatic?"

"when it's you?" he grinned. "yeah."

he made good on his word, adjusting the heating pad to your lower back, tucking the blanket around your legs with surprising tenderness and handing you a grilled cheese like ht was some divine offering.

"see?" he said, sitting beside you and resting his arm across the back of the couch. "being babied by me isn't so bad."

"you're so annoying," you mumbled, taking a bite.

"and yet, you texted me instead of dying alone."

you rolled your eyes. but when a particularly sharp cramp made you shift and whimper, otoya's teasing faded.

"hey," he said, voice softer now. "you okay?"

you nodded.

he didn't say anything for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your temple.

“if i could punch your uterus, i would.”

that made you laugh. and it made something ache in your chest too.

because beneath the jokes and flirty smiles, otoya eita always showed up when it mattered.

and when your head dropped onto his shoulder not long after, he didn’t move. just let you stay there, humming a soft tune under his breath while his fingers threaded through your hair.

#mixolya!#itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae imagines #itoshi sae fluff #bllk imagines #sae itoshi imagines #bllk x reader #sae itoshi fluff #yukimiya kenyu x reader #yukimiya kenyu imagines #yukimiya kenyu fluff #otoya eita x reader #otoya eita imagines #otoya eita fluff

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 13 hours ago

Text

Almost Always - Chapter 16

A/N: Finally finished this chapter, low key was just feeling some type of way, so this is a pretty steamy chapter... but there is still plot I promise! We're getting close to the end of the series, probably going to make the next 2 chapters a little longer to close it out at 18, but we'll see, sometimes I'll get random ideas while writing. Also shoutout to the anon who came up with the idea for the end of this chapter :)

WC: 5.7K+

Warnings: Minors DNI, Smut (like most of this chapter is just that so sorry if you aren't into that -- I haven't written it much, but sometimes it just be fun to so yeah), Cussing

Chapter 16: Always Been Yours

The food containers were still open, their contents half-finished, crumpled napkins and wooden chopsticks strewn across Paige’s coffee table like soft remnants of a night that hadn’t rushed. A half-burned candle flickered beside an empty water glass, its wax pooling slow and lazy in the dish. The playlist hummed low in the background—smooth, crackling R&B threading beneath the city noise outside, like the room had found its own pulse.

The TV was off. Phones untouched. No distractions left—just the two of them, curled into the couch like gravity had drawn them back together on instinct. Their legs were tangled in that effortless, familiar way. The scent of sesame, jasmine rice, and melted candle wax clung to the air like memory. Everything around them felt lived-in again. Like the pause had ended and they were finally letting themselves press play.

Azzi leaned back against the armrest, her legs stretched across the couch and tangled with Paige’s. A half-laugh slipped from her lips—soft, easy, like the echo of something funny Paige had said a minute ago. But it didn’t reach her eyes. Not fully. There was a flicker there, something too alert, like her mind hadn’t let go of the last thread of silence between them.

“So…” Paige started, voice low, thumb rubbing over Azzi’s knee like she was grounding them both. “The press conference.”

Azzi’s jaw tensed. “You watched the whole thing?”

Paige nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I saw it when it started making the rounds. You were a little fired up, but nothing wrong with that.

Azzi let out a short laugh. “Tell that to the media.”

“I’m not talking about them,” Paige said quietly. “I’m talking about me.”

That gave Azzi pause. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I wasn’t trying to cause anything… it just happened. I was tired and frustrated, and the question hit harder than I thought. And then it was everywhere.”

“They always ask about me,” Paige said, quieter this time. “Even when it’s not about me.”

Azzi let out a short laugh, no humor in it. “Story of my life, right?”

Paige’s voice dropped. “I wish it wasn’t. I really do.”

Azzi studied her for a moment. “It gets tiring, you know? Always feeling like I’m the afterthought. Like I have to push just to be noticed. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that… but maybe I needed to let it out.”

Paige nodded again, slower this time. “I know. And for what it’s worth, I think the people who matter understood…”

Azzi chewed on her lip. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be upset. Like I threw shade at you or something.”

“You didn’t,” Paige said firmly. “You were telling your truth. I can respect that, even if it stings a little.”

Azzi tilted her head. “It stung?”

Paige exhaled. “Not because of what you said. Because it reminded me how much I’ve taken for granted. I’m always saying I’ve got your back, but I haven’t always stepped out of the spotlight when I should have.”

“That’s not your fault,” Azzi said, her voice softening. “People gravitate to you naturally. You’ve always had that kind of light. And I love that about you.”

“I don’t want my light to dim yours,” Paige said.

Azzi shook her head, voice steady now. “It doesn’t. But I think I needed to say it out loud to believe that. And maybe to remind you too.”

They let the silence stretch, not awkward, just full—like the air between them needed time to recalibrate. Outside, a siren wailed faintly in the distance, and somewhere below, a dog barked once, sharp and distant. Paige’s thumb was still tracing lazy circles against Azzi’s knee.

Azzi leaned her head back, eyes on the ceiling. “You know… I used to think being next to you meant I had to shrink a little. Make space.”

Paige turned, her brows drawing together.

“But tonight?” Azzi said, glancing at her with the faintest smile. “Doesn’t feel like that.”

Paige’s hand stilled. A slow smile tugged at her mouth, something quiet and grateful blooming in her chest.

“I’m really proud of you,” she said.

Azzi bumped her knee against Paige’s. “Even after I completely crashed out?”

Paige snorted. “Especially after that.”

Azzi laughed, the sound finally real. Paige grinned, the tension between them softening into something easier, lighter.

And then Paige leaned back, resting her arm behind Azzi’s shoulders, a teasing glint in her eye.

“Well,” she said, “guess it’s official. I’m in my WAG era now.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, amused. “Your what?”

Paige grinned. “WAG era. You know—wives and girlfriends. Courtside fits. Sappy Instagram captions. Giving unsolicited but elite game notes between film sessions.”

Azzi laughed, shaking her head as she leaned into Paige’s side. “You really giving me notes now?”

“Oh, I’ve got a whole doc saved,” Paige said, grinning. “Stuff your coaches don’t even see.”

Azzi tilted her head. “You been watching my film like that?”

Paige nodded, her voice dropping just slightly. “Every game. Can’t help it. I see things. Like when your shot’s just a little off because your balance is too front-loaded. Or how you hesitate when your defender goes under the screen—but you shouldn’t. You’ve got the range.”

Azzi stilled, the smile lingering, but her eyes softening. “You really do that?”

“I know your game,” Paige said. “I’ve always known it. Probably better than I know my own.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away, but her hand found Paige’s where it rested on her leg. She laced their fingers together, slow and intentional.

“You know how hot that is, right?”

Paige’s laugh was low, surprised. “Giving scouting tips?”

Azzi leaned in, their foreheads nearly brushing. “Yeah. That. You believing in me like that.”

Paige’s thumb brushed over the back of her hand. “Always have.”

Azzi’s eyes dropped, just for a second—to the faded TEAM AZZI jersey hanging loose on Paige’s frame, like it belonged there all along. Her breath hitched.

“I can’t believe you still have that,” she said, her voice soft, touched.

Paige glanced down, then back up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Couldn’t get rid of this.”

Azzi shook her head, smile growing. “You’re unreal.”

Paige leaned in, her voice warm and low. “Only when it comes to you.”

The space between them pulsed with something heavier now—tender, sure, but charged, like a current they’d both stopped trying to resist. Time felt slower, quieter, like the world beyond Paige’s living room had slipped into another frequency.

Paige’s free hand drifted to Azzi’s waist, her touch feather-light, deliberate. Not rushed. Like she was learning the shape of her all over again, memorizing muscle and breath and warmth. Her fingertips traced just beneath the hem of Azzi’s sweatshirt, brushing against skin—soft, electric, familiar.

Azzi inhaled, slow and shallow, her eyes never leaving Paige’s. Her heart thudded in her chest, not from surprise but from the gravity of it—how every inch closer felt like something she’d been aching toward for months.

Paige leaned in, their knees still touching, her forehead nearly resting against Azzi’s. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Everything was in her touch, in the way her thumb circled slow and steady over Azzi’s side, grounding and inviting all at once.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full of heat and history and want.

Azzi tilted her head, her voice barely a whisper. “So what’s the next play?”

Paige leaned in until her lips nearly brushed Azzi’s. “Pretty sure it starts with this.”

Azzi’s hand lifted, fingers finding the curve of Paige’s jaw, anchoring there like she needed something solid. Her thumb brushed over Paige’s cheekbone.

Paige turned her head just enough to press a kiss against Azzi’s palm, a breath of contact that made Azzi’s stomach twist in that aching, familiar way. Like falling, but steadier. Like breathing, but deeper.

Azzi leaned in first, closing the last sliver of space between them, her lips brushing against Paige’s—tentative, testing. A question asked in touch rather than words.

Paige answered without hesitation, tilting her head and pressing in with a slow, deliberate kiss that sent a shiver sliding down Azzi’s spine. It was nothing like urgency. It was a slow burn, the kind of kiss that deepened with every heartbeat, with every tiny shift closer.

Paige’s hand splayed wider at Azzi’s waist, tugging her gently across the couch until Azzi was half-straddling her, knees bracketing Paige’s hips. Their bodies slotted together like they were made for it. Because they were.

Azzi pulled back just enough to look at her, their foreheads brushing, breaths mingling in the slivered space between them.

“I missed you,” she whispered, voice raw around the edges.

Paige’s hands were already moving, slow and deliberate, gliding up her back beneath the loose hem of her shirt. Her touch sparked across Azzi’s skin like memory made real. “I’m right here, baby,” she whispered back.

Azzi kissed her again—deeper this time. It was messier now, more certain, like neither of them wanted to waste another second pretending they didn’t need this. Her hands slipped beneath Paige’s jersey, dragging up the fabric until her fingers brushed bare skin.

Paige let out a soft, breathy laugh against her mouth. “Wait,” she murmured, smiling. “Aren’t we supposed to be working through our emotional baggage or something?”

Azzi pulled back just far enough to smirk. “You wanna pause and unpack feelings while I’m on top of you?”

Paige tilted her head, grinning. “I mean... no… but we gotta talk about all the feelings and shit at some point.”

Azzi laughed, low and warm. “Okay, well... here’s one feeling I can definitely name.”

She shifted her hips, slow and deliberate, until her body pressed flush against Paige’s. Paige inhaled sharply, her grin faltering into something needier.

“Thought so,” Azzi said, voice soft and smug.

Paige’s hands flexed at her waist, pulling her closer. “You’re a menace,” she murmured.

“And you love it.”

“Yeah,” Paige whispered, just before Azzi kissed her again—longer this time, deeper, tongue brushing against hers in a way that made her head fall back against the cushions.

Their laughter dissolved into something heavier, the space between them folding in until there was nothing left to hold back. The conversation could wait.

Azzi leaned back to take her in—bare skin, steady eyes, that open, unguarded smile that was only ever for her.

Paige let her look, let her linger, her hands gliding slow and steady up Azzi’s thighs, under her sweatshirt now, mapping familiar territory.

Azzi shivered at the contact, not from cold but from how easily Paige made her feel known. Undone.

“You’re so beautiful,” Paige said, voice hoarse with it.

Azzi bent down and kissed her again, harder this time, pouring all the months of missed moments and the weight of uncertainty into the press of her mouth. Paige’s hands found their way under her shirt, pushing it higher until Azzi had to pull back just long enough to yank it off over her head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch.

They kissed like they had time to make up for. Like they had something to prove and something to promise all at once.

Paige’s hands explored without hurry, fingers trailing down Azzi’s back, over the curve of her hips, savoring. Azzi’s breath hitched as Paige's mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, to the pulse point just beneath her ear, each kiss a quiet vow.

Azzi pulled her even closer, no space left between them, her hands threading through Paige’s hair as Paige mapped a slow, aching path down her neck.

She was dizzy from it—in the best way. Like Paige was everywhere at once: hands, mouth, breath, heartbeat.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, like a prayer, a plea, a homecoming.

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her, her thumb brushing Azzi’s lower lip.

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” she murmured, voice thick with awe.

Azzi smiled, soft and sure, pressing her forehead to Paige’s. “I’ve always been yours.”

Paige kissed her again, and then they were moving together—shedding the last of the space, the last of the clothes—until it was only skin and breath and the quiet symphony of two hearts finally, finally beating in rhythm.

Azzi was the first to lean back, just far enough to let her eyes trail over Paige—bare, warm, flushed from neck to hip in candlelight. She traced her fingers lightly down the center of her chest, watching the goosebumps rise in their wake.

“God, you’re unreal,” Azzi murmured.

Paige’s hands slid along the backs of her thighs, pulling her closer again, until Azzi was straddling her completely, pressed flush and trembling in all the right ways. “So are you,” Paige whispered, voice husky. “You always have been.”

Azzi leaned in to kiss her again—deeper this time, more searching. Her hips rolled, instinctive and aching, and Paige’s breath caught, fingers digging gently into her skin.

Paige’s mouth broke from hers only to move lower, dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along Azzi’s throat, her collarbone, her chest—each one softer than the last, like she was marking every inch with devotion, not desperation.

Azzi’s head tipped back, a shaky breath catching in her chest, her whole body attuned to every point where Paige touched her. Paige’s hands moved deliberately, one sliding up to cup the swell of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple in slow, teasing circles that made Azzi’s stomach tighten. The other hand gripped her hip, firm but coaxing, guiding her into a slow, grinding rhythm against her lap. Azzi gasped, a low, helpless sound rising from the back of her throat, her hands threading into Paige’s hair, tugging just enough to ground herself as her body arched into Paige’s touch. Heat pooled low in her belly, each roll of her hips sending sparks skittering up her spine, each brush of Paige’s thumb setting her nerves alight like a fuse burning closer and closer to detonation.

“You feel so good,” Paige breathed, her voice barely more than air.

Azzi nodded, too far gone for words. She could only feel—Paige’s mouth closing around her nipple, warm and wet and consuming, her tongue flicking in slow strokes before her teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive peak. The jolt of pleasure ripped through Azzi’s body, making her hips stutter against Paige’s lap.

Paige groaned low in her throat at the reaction, the sound vibrating through Azzi’s chest and making her whimper. Her hand never stopped moving, gripping Azzi’s waist, guiding her grinding rhythm harder, slower, deeper… anchoring her even as she came undone. Every suck, every graze of teeth, every slow, punishing roll of her hips dragged Azzi closer to the edge, her thighs trembling.

When Paige laid her back on the couch cushions, Azzi went willingly, pulling her down with her. They moved together like muscle memory, like instinct honed over the years spent together. Her thighs fell open instinctively, wide and wanting, her body practically pulling her under. She wrapped her legs around Paige’s hips, the motion fluid—her heels digging in like she couldn’t stand to be apart for even a second.

“Fuck,” Azzi breathed, head falling back, fingers twisting into the couch cushion, chest rising and falling like she’d just sprinted the length of the court.

Paige groaned against her neck, the sound low and wrecked. Her hands slid up Azzi’s legs, slow and firm, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the heat between her thighs. Every movement was intentional. Focused. Like Paige knew exactly what Azzi needed and was going to make her feel every second of it.

Paige shifted lower between Azzi’s legs, the couch dipping with her movement. Nothing between them now—no fabric, no friction lost in layers—just bare skin and the kind of tension that tasted like electricity in the air. Azzi was open beneath her, thighs already slick and parted around Paige’s shoulders like her body had been waiting for this.

Paige dragged her palms up Azzi’s thighs again, slower this time, fingers curling just slightly to grip and ground her, to hold her there. She pressed a kiss to the crease where thigh met hip, then another—so close it made Azzi gasp, hips twitching up, needing more.

“Paige,” she breathed, not even a plea—just her name, wrecked and wanting.

Paige didn’t make her wait anymore.

She leaned in and dragged her tongue through Azzi’s folds in one slow, unbroken stroke—flat, deliberate, claiming. A low moan vibrated from Paige’s throat at the taste, like it knocked the air from her lungs. Azzi cried out, sharp and unguarded, her hips jerking up into the contact. Her fingers flew to Paige’s hair, fisting tight, not to guide her—just to hold on. To feel.

But Paige didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. She ate like she was starving, slow and thorough, her tongue exploring every inch of Azzi’s slick heat. She circled her clit with maddening patience, then flattened her tongue and licked harder, deeper, drawing out each sound that fell from Azzi’s mouth with ruthless precision. Her mouth moved like she knew every response before Azzi gave it—like she'd memorized the way her body spiraled toward climax and was in no rush to get her there.

Azzi was soaked, her thighs trembling on either side of Paige’s head, her whole body tensed and straining. Every flick of Paige’s tongue, every shift in pressure made her moan louder, higher, until she was panting, broken open beneath her.

Paige groaned and sealed her mouth around Azzi’s clit, sucking her in deep, her lips and tongue working in sync—wet, focused, relentless. Her grip on Azzi’s thighs tightened, fingers digging in as she held her still, letting Azzi grind against her face with helpless, desperate rhythm.

Azzi was losing it.

Her head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, one hand still tangled in Paige’s hair while the other reached back, scrabbling for something to anchor her. “F-fuck, Paige—don't stop—please—”

Paige didn’t. Instead, she groaned against her, voice husky and reverent. “God, you taste so fucking good…”

Saying it out loud only seemed to spur her on more, flicking her tongue faster now, humming softly against her until Azzi’s entire body shook, legs quivering around her ears, every muscle tight and ready to snap. Paige kept her there, right on the edge, until Azzi gasped her name again, raw and shaking, and then—

Paige slid one hand from Azzi’s trembling thigh to between her legs, her fingers slick immediately from how wet she was. She teased her entrance with two fingers, slow and deliberate, feeling Azzi’s body flutter and clench at the anticipation. Then, with a steady, devastating pressure, she pushed inside.

Azzi broke.

A raw, helpless sob escaped her throat as her walls tightened around Paige’s fingers, her whole body bowing up off the couch. Paige didn’t give her time to recover—she found a rhythm immediately, firm and sure, thrusting deep and curling her fingers just right, dragging against that spot that made Azzi see stars.

“Oh my god—Paige—" Azzi gasped, voice cracking as her hips rolled in frantic, uneven circles, chasing the pressure, the pleasure.

Paige’s mouth stayed locked to her clit, tongue circling in slow spirals that matched the rhythm of her fingers—press, curl, retreat—over and over until Azzi was spiraling, caught between the overwhelming drag of her mouth and the relentless thrust of her hand.

Azzi was gone.

Her back arched violently, thighs shaking around Paige’s head, heels digging into the couch cushions as if she could anchor herself against the onslaught. One hand yanked Paige’s hair, hard enough to make her groan into her, the other grabbing at the edge of the sofa, knuckles white with the effort of holding on.

The heat inside her coiled tighter, impossibly tight, until it felt like every nerve ending in her body was on fire, every breath a broken moan.

“Paige—fuck—I’m gonna—” she cried, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige moaned against her, the sound sending vibrations straight through Azzi’s core, and that was it.

Azzi shattered.

Her orgasm slammed into her, fast and brutal, ripping a ragged scream from her chest. Her body convulsed, thighs squeezing tight around Paige’s head, spine arching like a drawn bow before collapsing back into the cushions. She came hard, clenching around Paige’s fingers, her whole body trembling, helpless against the waves tearing through her.

Paige didn’t stop. She rode it out with her, fingers still thrusting slow and deep, tongue still dragging lazy, grounding circles against her clit, coaxing every last aftershock until Azzi was sobbing into the crook of her arm, too wrecked to speak, too full to breathe.

Only when Azzi’s legs finally went limp around her did Paige ease her mouth away, withdrawing her fingers with a slow, careful slide that left Azzi whimpering at the sudden loss.

When Paige finally pulled back, her mouth was wet, her lips swollen and parted, her eyes glazed with heat and something deeper, something that felt dangerously close to reverence. She swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, slow and sure, then tilted her head with a crooked smile. “Did I do okay?” she asked, voice low and teasing—like she didn’t need the answer, but wanted to hear it anyway.

Azzi let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-moan, her fingers still tangled in the sheets. “You know damn well you did,” she said, her voice wrecked and full of wonder. “Stop fishing for compliments and come back here.”

Slowly, Paige crawled back up her body, dragging open-mouthed kisses along Azzi’s stomach, her ribs, the underside of her breasts. She kissed every inch like she couldn’t stand the thought of leaving any part of her untouched, like she was stitching her back together one kiss at a time.

Azzi threaded her fingers through Paige’s hair the second she was close enough, tugging her up the rest of the way, pulling her into a kiss that was messy and all-consuming. She could taste herself on Paige’s tongue—salty, slick, electric—but it only made her moan into her mouth, deepening it, needing her closer, needing all of her.

Paige kissed her back just as hungrily, her hands cradling Azzi’s face, like she was something too precious to hold roughly. Azzi could feel the tremble still running through Paige’s body—the leftover tension, the want—and it only made her heart beat harder against her ribs.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing in the smallest, sweetest touch.

“God, I love you,” Azzi whispered, her voice thick with everything she couldn’t say out loud.

Paige’s smile was soft and wrecked and impossibly full of love. She tucked a hand into her curls and kissed the side of her head. “I love you. So much.”

They stayed like that, tangled and breathless, until Azzi’s hands began to wander again, slow and sure and full of promise.

And Paige let her.

She lay back, one arm still loosely around Azzi’s shoulders, the other sliding across her lower back. Her chest rose and fell beneath Azzi’s touch, soft breaths that caught slightly as Azzi kissed her collarbone, then lower, retracing the path Paige had taken not long before, but with her own rhythm. Her own intent.

Azzi shifted until she was hovering over her, eyes locked with Paige’s, lips brushing just beneath her jaw. “I want to take my time,” she whispered, voice low and steady. “I want to memorize you.”

“You already have,” Paige murmured back, dazed and aching. “But I won’t stop you.” Then, grinning, she added, “Just don’t take too long, you know patience isn’t my strong suit.”

Azzi smiled—barely there, soft and wrecked—and then kissed her. Slow. Deep. Like she was trying to carve herself into Paige’s memory cell by cell.

She kissed down her neck, her chest, her stomach, dragging her hands along the curve of Paige’s sides, pausing only to drink in the way Paige moved under her touch—how her fingers flexed against the fabric of the couch, how her breath hitched when Azzi’s tongue flicked against her skin.

Azzi didn’t rush. She worshipped.

When she reached Paige’s thighs, she kissed the inside of one, then the other, and smiled against the skin when Paige whispered something half-sounded, half-broken.

She looked up, eyes meeting Paige’s. “You good?”

Paige gave a shaky laugh, her hand threading through Azzi’s curls. “If I wasn’t, that’d be on me.”

Azzi kissed the inside of her thigh again, slower this time, higher. “Just checking.”

And then she moved.

Azzi’s tongue met Paige’s center in one long, slow stroke—broad, heavy, deliberate—dragging through her folds with a pressure that made Paige’s hips jerk violently off the couch. A ragged gasp tore from Paige’s mouth, and her hand flew to Azzi’s hair, not just holding, but gripping hard, yanking her closer with a rough, desperate pull like she couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between them.

Azzi groaned into her, the sound vibrating right through Paige’s body, making her legs tremble around Azzi’s shoulders. Without hesitation, Azzi dipped her tongue lower, teasing at Paige’s entrance, swirling and pressing in, shallow and slow, until Paige let out a broken sob, her whole body shaking beneath her. She pulled back just enough to flatten her tongue and lick up through her folds again, relentless, savoring every slick, needy reaction she coaxed out of her.

She knew Paige too well—every sharp inhale, every arch of her back, the way her thighs would start to tremble before she completely lost control. And Azzi was merciless now. She built it slow and brutal: teasing flicks, then firmer, deeper strokes. Her hand slid under Paige’s thigh, gripping hard, tilting her hips higher, giving herself even better access.

She never looked away. Not once.

Azzi locked eyes with her, tongue lashing over her clit now, sucking her into her mouth with a deep, greedy pull that made Paige’s head fall back hard against the cushions.

“Azzi—fuck—” Paige gasped, the sound wrecked, guttural, her hips bucking helplessly against Azzi’s mouth.

Azzi moaned low and obscene against her, holding her hips down as Paige thrashed beneath her. Her other hand slid up Paige’s stomach, rough and claiming, splaying across her ribs, pinning her there, forcing her to feel every second of it.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Azzi growled against her, her voice thick and wrecked.

Paige couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Her body was locking up, hips stuttering wildly, moans turning into breathless, broken whimpers. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, her muscles seizing under the brutal, unrelenting pressure building higher and higher inside her.

And then she broke.

Paige came with a sob that ripped straight from her chest, her body snapping taut like a wire, one hand still yanking Azzi’s hair with shaking, brutal force as the other clung uselessly to the cushions. Pleasure crashed over her, drowning her, her whole body writhing through every wave Azzi pulled from her with her mouth, her tongue, her hands still holding her steady, grounding her while she shattered.

Azzi didn’t stop—just stayed with her, easing her down, kissing her through the aftershocks until Paige finally collapsed back into the couch, gasping, wrecked, her body trembling with every shallow, unsteady breath.

Azzi kissed her thigh one last time, then climbed back up slowly, gently, brushing sweaty strands away from Paige’s temple as she curled against her.

They stayed like that, tangled and warm, breathing each other in.

Paige opened her eyes, dazed and still catching her breath. “That was—”

Azzi kissed her. “Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

Paige blinked, then let out a slow, contented laugh. “You trying to kill me?”

Azzi grinned, brushing her nose against hers. “Little bit.”

They lay in silence after that—bare, glowing, the candlelight flickering low and soft. The world outside felt far away. All that existed was this—skin, breath, heartbeats synced again after too long apart.

Eventually, they stirred, limbs slow and heavy, like moving through water. Still dazed from the gravity of being back in each other’s orbit, they crawled beneath the sheets, laughter soft and breath hitching when their skin brushed again. Paige pulled Azzi in close, foreheads touching, fingers laced at their chests.

Nothing else was said. Just the quiet settling of something whole.

Sleep took them like that—warm, wrapped in each other, the ache finally quiet.

********

Morning came slow.

Light filtered in through the half-open blinds, painting soft golden stripes across the bedroom. The air felt still, warm, thick with the lingering haze of last night—skin, sweat, something sweeter in the spaces between.

Azzi woke first.

Paige was still curled beside her, facing the window, one arm draped loosely across the sheets, her face half-buried in the pillow. Her hair was a mess—soft and wild from sleep, still tangled from Azzi’s hands the night before. There were marks, too—small, pink, fading already, but hers. Evidence of everything they’d said with touch before words caught up.

She looked peaceful. Like sleep was holding her gently.

Azzi blinked slowly, the morning light soft against her face, her body still heavy with afterglow. Her thighs ached. So did her jaw. Her skin felt warm in all the places Paige had kissed, had held, had taken her apart. But it wasn’t discomfort—it was something she wanted to hold onto. A lived-in ache. The kind that made the night before feel more real, more permanent. Like a page turned down in a book, she didn’t want to lose her place in.

Careful not to wake her, Azzi slipped out of bed. Paige stirred a little, mumbling something that never formed into words before settling again. Azzi smiled to herself, tugging on the white T-shirt draped over the chair—Paige’s shirt, soft from too many washes—and padded quietly through the apartment.

The plan wasn’t much. Just something small.

She’d grab coffee from the shop around the corner—Paige’s usual, maybe one of those buttery croissants she always claimed were “too much” and then somehow still finished. Something thoughtful. Something normal.

Her steps were quiet against the wood floors, the rhythm of her movement careful, like she didn’t want to disturb the tenderness still hanging in the air. The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft wash of morning light spilling in from the kitchen window, catching on dust motes and the edge of a candle left half-melted. It smelled like citrus and clean laundry—Paige’s scent woven into the air now, too. It was domestic. Lived-in. The kind of warmth that wrapped around you without asking. And something about that—about how right it felt—made Azzi’s chest pull tight in ways she couldn’t name.

She crossed to the dresser, tugging open the top drawer in search of clean underwear.

And then she saw it.

Tucked beneath a folded pair of socks, subtle but undeniably there—

Azzi froze.

Her hand hovered above it, fingers trembling slightly, caught in the hesitation between instinct and wonder. The air around her felt different—charged, like the pause before a question is asked that could change everything. The quiet of the apartment wasn’t hollow, but full—weighted with the echo of last night, of closeness still lingering in the sheets and on her skin. Everything else—the dresser, the soft hum of morning, the golden light bleeding in through the window—faded just enough to make space for this one suspended moment. One she hadn’t expected, but couldn’t look away from.

There it was.

A box small enough to hide, yet heavy with possibility. And all at once, Azzi wasn’t sure if she was afraid… or if she was just stunned by the shape of a future she hadn’t let herself imagine until now.

She didn’t need to open it. Her fingers didn’t even graze the lid. She already knew what it was.

She knew from the shape. She knew from the weight in her chest. She knew from the way every single part of her started buzzing, like her body was trying to have six reactions at once.

Her heart picked up speed. She glanced over her shoulder toward the bed, half-expecting Paige to be standing there, watching her. But she was still asleep. Still quiet.

It’s probably not even what I think, she told herself. It could be earrings. It could be something from her mom. Could be anything.

But she knew better.

She reached out and picked it up, slowly, carefully, like it might burn her. It was light. The light blue velvet soft against her palm. Her thumb brushed the edge of the lid, not opening it, but thinking about opening it—fighting herself with every second that passed.

She didn’t want to overthink it.

Didn’t want to pick it apart or rush toward some answer she wasn’t meant to have yet.

So she set the box back exactly where she found it, tucking it beneath the socks with gentle, almost reverent fingers. Then she closed the drawer—softly, firmly—like sealing a secret she wasn’t ready to open.

Not yet.

Because maybe it was what she thought it was. And maybe that wasn’t terrifying. Maybe it was just… a lot. A future pressed into velvet. A truth still waiting for its right moment.

She stood there for a beat, steadying herself. Then smoothed the hem of Paige’s shirt down over her thighs and turned toward the bathroom, moving on instinct. She brushed her hair back into a loose bun, splashed cold water on her face, and dabbed the corners of her eyes where sleep still lingered. No makeup, no real effort—just enough to feel like herself again.

She found clean underwear, tugged on leggings, slipped into Paige’s slides by the door. Everything was a little too big, a little too lived-in, and somehow perfect.

When she finally stepped outside, the cool morning air met her with a kind of clarity she hadn’t expected—crisp, grounding, alive. It helped.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #almost always book club

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nicohii · 3 days ago

Text

(Actor! Caleb x Writer! Non-MC reader part 2. And I'll probably make this a series, this is unedited I am so sorry)

part one here

Your phone vibrates two weeks later with a familiar contact photo popping on the screen. You don't have the strength in you to let the call die so you pick up.

"Hey" , Caleb starts.

"Hey" you softly answered back

"I was just wondering if.... I mean... I was just... I just wanted to say sorry. I didn't mean that. Not that way. You're writing is perfect. It's very mean of me. I'm sorry. "

You can imagine him fidgeting on the other line. You chew on your bottom lip before muttering an, "It's okay. It's fine. You know, I can never hate you, C."

He exhales through the mic. "Let's catch up? Soon? We can play that new game you talked about that just got released, yeah? Like old times? "

"Sure. Like old times "

You turn the call off and stare into the ceiling of your kitchen. Puffing out the breath you've holding. It's something you've been mulling over and over for the past couple of months, the idea of the world beyond Caleb. He's your muse, but sometimes, love doesn't really reach the one's you want it to doesn't it? And maybe that's the universe telling you the unspoken.

The years have come by with you artistry focused on whom the heart beats for, but really what happens after that? He's made it clear (kinda) and maybe it's time.

So you gather whatever's left of dignity you have and make a vow to yourself. Love isn't just some boy (turned man) you have pined for your entire life, maybe there's a differenr form of it out there for you to find. So you forgive yourseld for the pain you blame yourself for.

The world is big, you forgive and you try, you will try, and you will get by.

-------------------------------------

Actor! Caleb sees you for a brief while during Comic con, and you're currently discussing with backstage staff. You wave at him before going back into a deep conversation, he stares at you for a while before coming down back to Earth when a figure zooms past him to run into your arms.

Actress! MC pratically latches into you, arms around your neck as you spin her around. Two friends reunited.

He hates the tinge of jealousy, of whom, he isn't sure. Like, it's okay to see his ex hug you and you return it with no hesitation and she gets to talk to you with no awkwardness whatsoever. But like, come on, how come she gets to hug you like that but you can't even look at him in the eyes? How is that fair? He can feel his pout come in, he wants to sulk, to tell her to back off and ---

"Hey guys, you're up." A staff tells him and his co-stars, MC finally let's go of you and you exchange schedules before she joins them on stage.

-----------------

Actor! Caleb, who sways the whole room with his charm and humor. Honestly, he is every PR reps dream client; knows how to answer the crowd to warm them up but not spill any major spoilers, he's updated with fan theories and what not and knows how to work around them. They announce a renewed season but don't spill any date yet.

Alongside him though, equally entertaining the crowd with their exchange of inside jokes and quips, is his co-star, Actor! Sylus.

A particular fan asks him a question, something about his future projects to which Actor! Sylus replies with, "I think I want to try directing some time in the future."

---------------

Actor! Sylus who pats him on the shoulder as they go down the stairs and into the backstage booth. He sits down with Actor! Caleb and Actress! MC in the dressing room to cool down.

"So directing! Do you have any genre in mind?" Caleb asks as he opens his bottled water as Sylus wipes his face with make up remover.

"No, not yet, I do however, have my interest on one writer's portfolio. I like the vulnerability and emotional rawness, you know?" The man replies which makes his other two companions stare at him.

"What? I have range too you know, this action-packed roles get too dull."

It's MC who shrugs, "I mean, that's true. Do you have a name for this writer of yours? "

Actor! Caleb who feels an ugly feeling in his chest when Sylus says your name. The deep crease in his brow makes MC snort. He asks her with his eyes and she just gives him a shrug. He asks Sylus why, only to be replied with, why not?

"You should watch their screenplays, it's like... an ode, a series of love letters to someone, nothing more screams art than that right?"

Actress! MC who watches everything in amusement before elbowing him, "Well, you better lock in, Colonel."

What does that even mean?

-----------------

Actor! Caleb who spends a whole month watching your screenplays, from your earliest works, episodes, indies, shorts, feature films, everything that has your goddamn name on it.

Actor! Caleb who freezes in his couch when it finally makes sense. Who feels like he's drowning when the credits finally roll in. He finds it hard to breathe and suddenly the room feels too big and empty, like his skin begs for a familiar pair of arms to hold him.

It's there, the messages hidden perfectly well only for him to find, the little details that you have picked from real life, from moments -- moments you have shared with him. Inside jokes that only he knows the punchline to.

How can you tell him you can't capture love well when... when all he feels is the overwhelming warmth of your yearning? Have you always loved him this much? Have you always looked at him with these eyes? Almost like he was something so precious even he can't see it himself? How can you stand by with all the hurt and ---

He almost feels dizzy from standing up too fast, taking his phone from his kitchen table. He dials your number, the call doesn't go through. He dials again.

It's around the third missed call that you send him a text.

"In a meeting. Ttyl."

"Who? "

It's the longest three minutes of his life.

"Producer. Director. Anyway, I'll prolly gonna do a raincheck on that game night. Need to write a new project. Sorry."

"Is Sylus directing? "

There's three dots. Before it stops. It comes alive again.

"Yeah. How'd you know? "

tagging everyone who asked (and commented ) on the first part (ily guys sm)

@mcdepressed290 @lillycore @wegottastayfocus @raendarkfaerie @fishwasher8 @persephonejeon @his-ocean-emissary @maskedbunni

#angst #caleb x non mc #au #lads sylus #lads caleb #sylus x non mc reader #actor! caleb #actor! sylus #Spotify

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smutinlove · 2 days ago

Text

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"—Jason Todd

Fem!Journalist reader x Jason Todd

When you had received the email from Bruce Wayne, you had almost passed out. It contained an invitation to the annual Wayne Charity Gala. It was official, you had been invited by the king of socialites, Bruce Wayne. You had been invited as both a guest and an active journalist who'd publish an article about the gala in the next coming days.

You stood on the steps of the venue, fumbling for the press ID in your tote. You had managed to find it and clipped it onto your blazers pocket.

You slowly made your way to the door and entered. There were only a few people, mostly making last-minute fixes and arrangements. You were thirty minutes early.

You put your camera equipment on one of the tables and started doubling-checking everything. Besides writing an article, you were also asked to document the event via photos and videos.

You felt a gentle tap on your shoulder. You turned around—camera in hand—it was Jason Todd. You had written an article on him about his scandals and such.

"It's you." he stated. Your eyes widened in surprise. "Indeed it is," you replied and bowed playfully. "Does Mr. Wayne need something?" You asked, wondering why he was here.

Jason put his hand on your arm. "No, but maybe a dance with me later, love?" he proposed with a small smirk. "I'll think about it." you replied cheekily. A dance with the son of Bruce Wayne did sound interesting.

He took your hand and placed a gentle kiss between your knuckles. "I'll see you later, love," said Jason as he backed away and left.

The event had started. Over a few dozen socialites had been invited. Bruce, the man himself, was surprisingly present. You had managed to take many pictures and videos.

You even wrote down a few details for the gossip section of the newspaper you worked for.

You did another circle around the gala, taking a few more pictures as Bruce and Selina Kyle danced in front of the crowd gathered in a circle. More people joined them.

You got closer, taking a few pictures of the elegant couple. You jerked back when you felt a hand on your waist. You turned around, ready to hit whoever it was.

"Relax, darling," it was a voice you knew a little too well.

"Todd," you muttered. "I was promised a dance," Jason uttered.

You sighed and put your camera in your tote bag. He took your hand and smoothly led you to the dance floor.

You put your hands on his shoulder; he put his on your waist. Everyone, including you two, swayed to the classical music that was being played. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked abruptly, causing you to step on his foot.

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be. I've never felt this way." Jason took your hand and placed it on his heart. You could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. "I saw you and I can't stop seeing you. You're in every corner of my vision. I can't breathe without you, darling."

You stood on your toes and gave him a peck on his cheek.

Both of you made your way off the dance floor and into a secluded corner. "I think I'm crazy in love."

His hands fell down to your hips; yours at his neck. His muscles were hard not to stare at. You looked away, trying to be respectful. The two of your gazed into each others eyes. "I think I'm crazy in love too," you finally answered.

"You wanna get out of here? Somewhere a little quieter?"

You nodded.

(orig fanfic prompt post)

I, like the fanfic writer I am, decided to make myself do a fanfic challenge. I'm basically going to write a fanfic per prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting

I'm doing this because I want to write more fics and because I want to test my skills 🤩

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dreamdragonkadia · 2 days ago

Note

Hey!! I hope you’re doing GREAT! I was just wondering if you were going to do a part 2 to your Xaden x Tauri!reader fic? Have a great day!

I hope you are doing well!! I'll happily write a part two! x.riorson x tauri!reader Part one

Was it right, what you were doing?

Gods, no. It was cowardly. Shameful. You could admit that much, at least in the quiet dark of your own mind.

Avoiding everyone for a full week? Not answering a single knock on your door? Not even saying goodbye to Xaden before he left?

Pathetic.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” you’d said. Like a liar. Like a coward. You hadn’t meant it. You would’ve said anything to run, to just breathe.

Then you’d climbed straight onto your dragon’s back, whispered a single word—“Fly”—and she hadn’t stopped until the mountains blurred below you like water.

The Swordtail hadn’t said a word at first. Just kept flying. Far. Fast. Away. And you’d let her, curling into yourself as the sky turned from near night to morning.

She didn’t take you back until she felt the Blue Daggertail had left campus airspace the next day. Only then had she banked, circled low, and landed with a bone-shaking thud on the edge of the quadrant cliffs.

“You are being a coward,” she’d said flatly, her voice crackling in your mind like embers on wind.

You shoved the bond aside. Hard.

And she let you. For now.

You didn’t expect to get cornered so soon after. And certainly not by him.

Not Imogen, not any of the other third years.

No, it was Bodhi.

Which felt almost worse.

He caught you just outside the mess hall, grabbed your arm without preamble and yanked you into a shadow-drenched corridor, the one near the war college that always smelled faintly of damp stone and full of suggestive memories.

“Crown princess?” he hissed, his eyes dark and wild with disbelief. “And you weren’t just going to mention that to anyone?”

You ripped your arm from his grip. “How did you—?”

“How do you think?” he snapped. “Xaden. He’s barely said five words before he had to leave and two of them were your name.”

Your heart twisted. A fresh wound over a bruise.

“Look, I didn’t—I never meant for any of this to happen.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just…”

“No,” he agreed, crossing his arms. “But you sure didn’t stop it, either.”

You swallowed hard, guilt clawing up your throat. “Do you think I wanted to be found out like that? In front of him?”

He looked at you then—not with anger, but with something that felt almost like pity. “He loved you. Still does, I’m sure. But you’ve got to know what this looks like to him. To all of us.”

“I never used him,” you said, firmer now, stepping closer. “I never once used who I was to gain anything. I kept it buried so deep I forgot what it even meant. I bled beside all of you. Fought beside all of you. Earned my place like anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Bodhi said, voice low. “You did. But now we all have to ask ourselves—was she an ally, or was she a royal pretending to be one?”

That landed like a punch to the ribs.

You didn’t have an answer.

He stepped back, eyes narrowing. “Fix this. Or at least talk to him before he starts thinking it was all a game.”

You stared at the wall long after he left.

Because it wasn’t a game. Not to you.

It never had been.

So really, what other choice did you have?

Your dragon knew before you did. Before your hands even reached for the flight jacket still slung over the back of your chair, before you shoved the nearest things into a pack with little care for what you grabbed. Before your feet started moving—fast, frantic—toward the flight field like the wind itself might carry you there faster if you just begged hard enough.

It was Violet you spotted first.

Tairn’s black form casted a long shadow over the clearing. The outpost rotation. Fourteen days. You’d nearly forgotten. Or maybe you’d tried to.

Fourteen days apart. It had already been that long?

Gods, it felt longer. Like the air had been thinner since the moment he left.

You moved before you could think.

“I’m coming with you.” The words left your mouth as your hand closed around Violet’s forearm.

She blinked at you, startled, brows knitting. “You—what? Are you even allowed to—?”

But the Red Swordtail landed with a heavy thud beside Tairn before she could finish the sentence, the wind from her wings blasting across the clearing like punctuation.

“I’m the Crown Princess of Navarre,” you said, too tired to flinch from the truth now. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact. Mostly. One you’d spent your whole life trying to outrun, and now, for the first time, you were owning it. Because maybe the only way to fix the damage was to stop hiding what you were.

Violet looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to hug you or deck you.

She hesitated, then glanced over at the dragons. Tairn eyed the other like he’d expected this exact kind of trouble, and your dragon simply lowered herself to the ground in a clear, get on with it motion.

Violet turned back to you. “This… isn’t just about the outpost, is it?”

“No.” You met her gaze. “It’s about Xaden.”

“Thought so.” She sighed. “You ready for that conversation?”

You swallowed hard. “Not even a little.”

“Well,” she said, already moving toward her dragon again, “then it’s going to be a hell of a flight.”

And a hell of a flight it was.

Your thighs were screaming by the time Samara came into view, the cliffside outpost jutting from the mountains like a jagged secret. You could already see the dragons circling lazily above, familiar shapes in unfamiliar sky, and—

Gods.

You definitely weren’t expecting to land and be met with the unmistakable bark of Violet’s older sister.

“Princess?!” Mira Sorrengail hissed the moment your boots hit the stone.

You winced.

Violet landed seconds behind you, clearly bracing for impact.

“Mira,” you greeted, barely managing to keep your voice level.

“What in the actual hell are you doing here? Does Command know you’re—”

“It’s a long story,” Violet interrupted, stepping neatly between you both like a shield. “That I will explain. Later.”

You could’ve kissed her. Honestly. If you weren’t already in love with a certain moody, infuriating, shadow-wielding ex-wingleader, you would have kissed her. Right then and there.

But you didn’t have time.

Not when you felt it.

The pull.

That familiar gravity sinking into your chest like a second heartbeat.

Your eyes lifted, and there he was.

Xaden Riorson. Standing in the stone archway of the fortress like some damn storm god had carved him from shadow and control. Arms crossed, jaw tight, unreadable.

And his eyes?

Locked on you.

Seeing you.

Not just looking—seeing.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up, walking fast, maybe too fast, trying to play it off like you weren’t practically sprinting. Like your legs weren’t trembling with every step, like your heart wasn’t thundering loud enough to echo.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t let him say a word.

You reached him and grabbed his arm, the familiar heat of his skin through his leathers nearly undoing you right there. “We need to talk. Now.”

His brow lifted, and you heard the softest huff of breath—almost a snort, like he couldn’t help himself—but before you could yank him toward some direction that only felt right, he moved.

Fast.

His fingers slid down your wrist, trailing fire in their wake before his hand settled low on your back. Firm. Right. Possessive in a way that shouldn’t still make your breath hitch, but gods, it did.

“Wrong way,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly calm. Then he tugged you with him, pulling you against his side like it was how it was meant to be. Like your body belonged right there, pressed to his.

You stiffened, instinctively resisting the pull for half a second—because how dare he still touch you like that after everything? After Alic? After the truth?

But you didn’t move away.

Couldn’t.

Because, saints, you’d missed this. Missed him. Missed being seen and known, even when it hurt.

He guided you through the inner halls of the outpost without another word. No fanfare. No audience. Just the two of you, your steps too in sync for how fractured things were.

And when he pushed open the door, you didn’t even wait for it to close.

It wasn’t a decision. It was second nature.

You reached for him like you were starving. Like the absence of him had left something cracked open inside your chest and only this—only him—could make it stop hurting.

Your lips found his before the door even clicked shut.

There was no pretense. No buildup. Just fire.

Your hands cradled his face, fingers sinking into the dark curls at the base of his skull, holding him like you were scared the world might end if you let go. And maybe it would.

His hands were on your hips, not rough, just there. Holding. Desperate. Like he was terrified you’d vanish again. Like if he let go, it would all unravel.

You felt the shudder in his chest before you heard it, the way he breathed you in like he didn’t believe you were real. Like part of him thought this was a dream, and any second now, he’d wake up cold and alone.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his mouth, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

And still, he didn’t speak.

He just kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, with all the careful reverence of someone trying to memorize every shape and sound of something he thought he’d lost.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath ragged, shadows curling faintly at the edges of your vision like they couldn’t stand to be far either.

His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse. “You left.”

You closed your eyes. Gods, that hurt more than it should have. “I know.”

“You ran.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and then—so softly you almost didn’t catch it:

“I thought I ruined it.”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t. I just— I didn’t know how to be everything at once. The rider. The liar. The princess. The girl in love with the one person I should’ve stayed away from.”

His breath caught. You felt it more than heard it.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Like the floor had just shifted beneath him.

“You love me?” he asked, quiet, stunned.

You let the silence hang for just a heartbeat longer, let him feel the truth of it. Then you said it.

Not soft.

Not shy.

But clear.

And honest.

“No,” you said. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes widened, barely perceptible, but it was there. That break in his walls. That flicker of something real and raw.

“Every part,” you continued, voice gaining strength now. “The asshole side, the protective side—even when it makes me want to gut you on the spot. The soft side you pretend doesn’t exist, the one that leaves chocolate on my bed and carries me to the med ward like I don’t weigh a damn thing.”

You stepped closer, if possible, pressed your palm against his chest, right over the heart you weren’t supposed to have. Right over the part of him that you’d fallen for, piece by infuriating piece.

“I love the side of you that growls at anyone who gets too close,” you whispered, your hand curling into his shirt, “and the side that looks at me like I might be the only thing holding you together. I love the way your shadows curl when you’re worried. I love that you care, even when you pretend you don’t.”

He still hadn’t said anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, like you’d knocked the air out of him.

You gave him a crooked, watery smile. “So actually, yes, Xaden. I love you. And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt. But gods help me, I do.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, his mouth crashed into yours again, and this time it wasn’t careful.

It was want and need.

No hesitation. No restraint. Just heat—raw and unfiltered, like a storm finally breaking after holding itself back for far too long.

His hands found your waist again, but this time they didn’t just hold. They claimed. Fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms dragging along bare skin, bracing and igniting all at once.

You gasped into his mouth as he walked you backward, slow and sure, never breaking the kiss. One step. Another. Until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you had no choice but to fall back.

He followed you down, towering over you, shadows curling behind him like wings made of want. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, and he was breathing like he’d just come off a battlefield.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?” you whispered, even though you’d heard him perfectly.

His hands were on either side of you now, caging you in, his mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your throat—never quite kissing, just close enough to set your skin on fire.

“Say it again,” he said, rougher this time. “I need to hear it.”

You looked up at him—really looked—and felt your chest ache with how much you wanted him to believe it. To feel it. To know he wasn’t alone in this.

So you reached up, slid your hand to the nape of his neck, and pulled him down until your lips barely touched his.

“I love you, Xaden Riorson.” you breathed.

He groaned like the words undid him.

And then he was kissing you again—deep and hungry, like he was trying to memorize every part of this moment. Like he didn’t want to just feel you, but devour you. Like he’d spent weeks trying to forget the taste of your mouth and was punishing himself for ever letting it go.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hands slid under your thighs, shifting you back further onto the bed with ease, his body pressed flush to yours in a way that left no space for doubt—or anything else.

He kissed you like a man losing his grip on restraint, like someone who’d been holding back for too long and had finally decided to let go. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the underside of your throat, where he lingered—breathing you in, brushing his nose against your pulse like he could feel the truth of what you said there.

His hands found the hem of your shirt again, tugging this time—not demanding, but asking. A silent question pressed into your skin.

You lifted your arms without hesitation.

Because this—he—wasn’t something you feared.

His eyes flicked up to yours once the fabric cleared your head, like he needed one last confirmation. And what he saw must’ve been enough, because he exhaled a curse against your collarbone and ran his hands up your sides like he was relearning you by touch alone.

Every brush of his fingertips sent heat racing along your skin, and when his mouth returned to yours, it was slower, deeper—possessive in a way that made your spine arch and your breath hitch.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips, voice frayed and low, like confession and apology wrapped in one.

And you, already left dizzy by his touch, whispered back, “Then don’t let go.”

He didn’t.

#✨️by yours truly✨️#fourth wing x reader #fourth wing #the empyrean #the empyrean series #fw #fw x reader #xaden riorson fanfic #xaden x reader #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson

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holographings · 2 hours ago

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it's been a little over a year since the release of my first ever published work, break what fate built :- ) a little illustration of my main guy mojmir to commemorate it.

word vomit under the cut lol

enjoying but also stressing over the experience of Creating Something bigger lol. i got a lot of complicated emotions around this book, most of them persisting because i am yet to sit down and finish writing the second part. mostly mostly because i fear i'll have to change everything about it so that i still like what i've made. i try to be proud of what i've created so far, and it's difficult sometimes when all i can focus on is the cracks and weaknesses. maybe that'll just kind of always be like that, because regardless of how good something i make is, it's something //i// made therefore it always seems a little wrong. but that's a different can of worms for another day. i busted my ass in order to finish this comic in its entirety on time and depending on the day it all feels completely worth it yet not at all. it's like a child but not. i don't know. i am so looking forward to working on the last part. but also not. there are too many possibilities and few scenes that are so crystal clear in my mind, i just have to find a good way to put them on paper. but for now, thank u to anyone that's read or even looked at this child of mine. enjoy him :-)

#illustration #original art #comic art #artists on tumblr #balkan blogging #that tag is so nostalgic at this point too lol #my art

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nightplvmes · 13 hours ago

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⋆｡° | idol (pt 1)

⋆｡° | pairing : boyguard sylus x idol reader | sfw, fluff, MDNI! ⋆｡° | word count : 1,700 ⋆｡° | author’s note : so i've been thinking a lot about writing this au. it was actually a quick thing, so it's not the best. i plan on continuing this as a mini-series, but i'm still undecided. i'll probably write another one shot with more detail about their first kiss and how they met and everything mentioned in this one shot. likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

It wasn't something that happened to you often but it used to happen because everyone gets tired sometime, right? You had found that the cool night air always cheered you up and that night seemed to be no different. But it was because you were no longer just a teenager who lived with her parents and could go out on the terrace in peace to look at the moon, without worrying that someone was going to photograph you.

"There you are" the relieved voice of your bodyguard reached your ears and you didn't have to turn around to know he was approaching. You sighed and waited a few seconds thinking he was going to sit next to you but he didn't do it.

A grimace formed on your face but you tried not to think too much about that, or the fact that he had kept his promise to be strictly professional. Sylus was a sort of replacement to your usual bodyguard, you didn't remember exactly why he had taken a break as no one had given you too many details. Sylus showed up the next day and no one gave you too many details about him. You tried for the first few days to get to know him more but he remained strictly professional…. Until the tension grew and what you called "the accident" happened.

It happened on a weekend break. You were in a daze, you had been taken to a hotel far away from the place where your next concert was going to be and had not been left with anyone except Sylus. You didn't quite remember why you had started a fight but he hadn't allowed it, he had to take you by the shoulders and remind you that you were just stressed and seconds later you found yourself realizing that…. he was right. You were stressed. You ended up having dinner on the couch with him, you showed him your favorite show and spent the whole night talking. That's when you found out that he collected vinyls and sometimes practiced boxing. You tried not to make a comment about that but maybe it was because of the wine that your tongue got loose.

Did they kiss? Of course they didn't. Not that night at least.

The kiss happened the next day at breakfast. You had asked him how he had ended up there, being a bodyguard for a celebrity that many media tried to paint as spoiled girl. That's when you found out that he liked your music, had listened to it and apparently wasn't so ignorant when it came to your lyrics. It was the first time someone mentioned something about the lyrics that you yourself had worked hard to write and not the generic lyrics that were composed for you by professionals looking for good numbers.

The kiss happened when you were showing him how you were preparing your favorite sandwich because it certainly wasn't just any sandwich for you. Of course it wasn't! You asked him to help you choose one of the three condiments on the counter and that's when it happened. Maybe it was the way he had leaned over you or the way his face was too close to yours.

The kiss had been… different. Usually the boys you had kissed in the past were rushed, as if they wanted to just put you on a list. Sylus was different, he had taken his time, one of his hands had gone up to leave soft caresses on your cheek. His lips tasted yours and his tongue explored every inch of you as if he was trying to keep it in his memory. The kiss did not end until your chest ached from lack of air.

The problem happened on Monday. There was a different smile on your face when you arrived at stadium that morning and the friendly teasing from your friends didn't take long. However it wasn't the same when you saw Sylus, he didn't smile, he didn't even follow the teasing when you tried to talk to him.

It was when you were in your dressing room that he apologized to you. He said that it shouldn't have happened, that it was a mistake because he worked for you. The words didn't come out of your mouth, you didn't know what to say because he was partly right but at the same time you were stunned because he was the first person to tell you in a kind way that it would be best to stay close to you. Well, maybe not in those words, but he had still been kind saying that his had been nothing more than a kiss.

"Are you okay?" the voice of Sylus brought you back to reality. For a second your mind had wandered thinking about that morning, the morning you two had kissed and the day after when you realized nothing else would happen.

"Yes. Never mind, I just wanted some fresh air." You shrugged and turned to continue watching the empty street from the terrace. The air hit your face and tousled your hair. It was much colder than when you had come up for some air but you refused to admit it because you hadn't been wearing anything else to bundle up anyway.

Maybe Sylus hadn't been working with you too long, but he had managed to read every expression from you and the little tremor in your shoulders hadn't gone unnoticed. He struggled with all his might, he tried to contain himself because he knew that nothing good was going to come out of dating a client or you dating your bodyguard. However, he couldn't and seconds later he found himself sliding in next to you and draping his sweater over your shoulders.

"I'm fine, I don't need your sweater" you said with your brow slightly furrowed.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, especially since you hadn't even taken it off. You were both silent for several seconds and you simply returned your gaze to the empty street. Waiting for something else to happen.

"Kissing you was the best thing I've done in months," Sylus' voice cut the silence between the two of you. Something in your chest leapt with joy but you refused to move an inch. "I didn't want to cause you trouble."

You turned to look at him with a clear face of confusion, until it didn't take you long to remember…. In the industry you were in, having a partner or having any rumors of a relationship could destroy your career or just take it downhill in a shocking way. "I have no regrets" you said without thinking but it was true. You didn't regret it at all. "But I don't like your way of just being professional. I don't want you to be professional with me." You frowned but Sylus only raised an eyebrow.

"If I wasn't a professional I'd be all over your lips all day." You raised your eyebrows somewhat in surprise. Not because it was something bold or something you would have disliked, but it was certainly the last thing you imagined about him because if someone had told you a week ago that you would have your new bodyguard telling you that, you certainly wouldn't have believed anything. Maybe you would have even scoffed at the situation.

"Could you give me an example?" you asked with that tone that made Sylus clench his jaw. Because he knew it was a hint and he was about to cross so many lines that he shouldn't, he would be fired if the agency where he worked found out.

You didn't stop him when he pressed his lips to yours. Kissing Sylus was… it was something you wanted to do every day. It was like the relief you feel in your lungs after you've been drowning. Maybe because of the way he always seemed to take his time to savor every part of you or the delicate caresses he left on your cheek.

Again it was the lack of air that made them separate. He pressed his forehead against yours in silence, just the sound of the night and your slightly heavy breaths. You didn't know at what point you had stopped seeing Sylus as only your bodyguard because you two had joked, he had told you about the things he did in his free time and you were almost certain that you had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the last flight there.

"Don't be professional with me" you murmured against his lips. You didn't want him to walk away from you, you didn't want him to be only your bodyguard again tomorrow and anyway, Sylus didn't want to do that because he had crossed a line with you. There was something in his chest that compelled him to protect you and not just as a client, so he only nodded as his lips pressed against your forehead.

It was a flash in the distance that made you frown. You shifted your gaze into the distance, your eyes scanning the small path that had crossed the street for anything the slightest bit suspicious or even an unusual noise. The silence of the night and the blowing of the air for a second felt unbearable.

"Are you okay?" the voice of Sylus pulled you out of the little bubble. You turned your gaze towards him and had to blink a couple of times before you snapped back to reality. His fingers caressed your cheek as he waited for your response, brushing away small strands of hair that were bothering your face from the air.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I just thought I saw something." A small smile formed on your face and you nodded. He thought about it for a couple of seconds but seemed convinced.

His arm went around your shoulders, pulling you back to him. You didn't hesitate for a second to snuggle up to his side, letting out a sigh. Your eyes scanned the path one last time in search of something unusual but there was nothing in sight, you could barely see anything due to the darkness of the night.

You gave up a few seconds later, hiding your face in the crook of Sylus' neck, trying to breathe in his scent. Thinking that that little white light had surely been your imagination.

#sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x reader fluff #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lnd #lads #lads x reader #lads fluff #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fluff #bodyguard sylus #idol au

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frogsinflannel · 2 days ago

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Would you do kiss 13, discreetly, for bucktommy? Please 😘

Hello, thank you so much for the ask! I haven't been able to write much lately, so this fought with me but I managed. Canon-compliant, post-8x16. I'm not sure I'll be able to deal with the grief of that in a meaningful way, but I managed not to minimize it here even if it's not in full focus. 💚💚💚

It’s… good to see his parents, Buck thinks. It’s fine. They haven’t been back to LA since Maddie’s wedding, and they’d missed the birth because Margaret had the flu. She’s long since recovered, and feeling wonderful now she assures them. They’re planning to come out as soon as they can. They can’t wait to see the baby (he’s beautiful, Maddie, you and Howard must be so proud!) and Maddie (you’ve got that new mother glow, sweetheart) and Jee (what a good big sister you’ll be!) and Buck (you look exhausted, Evan, are you getting enough sleep), one big happy family all together again. It’s going to be a long visit, too, hopefully. And in the meantime, isn’t the video call nice?

Sure. Buck tries to smile. It’s good to see his parents. It’s nice. It’s fine.

All the attention is on the baby, bouncing on Chimney’s knee. He’s been fussy lately, fighting sleep, and it shows on both Chim and Maddie’s faces. Buck’s been keeping Jee more lately when he’s available, trying to help out where he can. None of them have really reached an equilibrium yet but at least the new baby was something to celebrate. It helped. It was a reminder that life goes on, that there would always be things worth living for.

Because that’s what they’ve had to do, isn’t it. Just keep on living.

Buck takes in a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out long and slow.

“Hey.” Tommy leans closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. There wasn’t room on the couch for all of them, and instead of playing on the floor with Jee–though Jee had assured him that if he could pilot a helicopter, he could probably manage a barbie–he’d stood behind them. Offering the strong, silent support that Buck has been leaning on for months. Tommy’s voice is soft and everyone else’s eyes are still on the baby. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Buck says, under his breath. It’s a reflex even though he knows Tommy won’t believe him because he is, fairly obviously, lying. But he reaches up and squeezes Tommy’s hand anyway. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Hmm.” Yeah, Tommy clearly knows it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he leans closer. He presses a kiss to Buck’s neck, right underneath his ear. If anyone glanced their way, it would probably look like Tommy had leaned in to whisper something. But Tommy doesn’t say anything else, just lets his mouth linger on Buck’s skin, soft and tender. Buck has to squeeze his eyes shut, just for a moment, fighting back a rush of feeling from the comfort of Tommy’s kiss. He’s glad, for once, that his parents aren’t looking at him. It’s tempting to turn his head, to find the warm, wet shape of Tommy’s lips. To kiss him deeply, without reservation. To feel something good. But he doesn’t. He keeps the moment discreet instead, lets himself take the offered support. Lets it bolster him. “If you need to leave say the word,” Tommy tells him. “I’ll make an excuse.”

“I’m–I’ll be okay.” He squeezes Tommy’s hand again and then lets his own fall in his lap. It’s just one conversation. He can get through it. He should be grateful this is a dad he still has. He nods, turns his eyes back to the laptop screen. Maddie and Chim have a beautiful new son. Jee is healthy and happy. His parents are here; his parents are trying. The hole in his chest will one day fill up, or maybe his heart will keep growing around it.

One day, he thinks. Yeah. I’ll be okay.

send me ships and kiss prompts

#my fic #ask meme #just realized i never gave baby boy han a name #well. it can be whatever you want. isn't that nice #this was actually going to be a more indepth meditation on buck wanting kids and having only phillip as a grampa instead of bobby #but i couldn't bring myself to write that. just couldn't deal with it yet

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steviewashere · 3 days ago

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If I said that I don't like my Mer Steve fic anymore and that I'm tired of writing it and that I'm considering scrapping it and just leaving it unfinished, would you guys be mad?

Because, uh, it sucks. Just gonna put it out there. That fic sucks ass. I don't know where it's going. I lost the plot after chapter two, if I'm being honest. And uh...it's just been sitting. Just been sittin' in my drafts folder. And I read it back from time to time and I'm just like, huh. Yeah. That's a plot choice I made, sure.

So............

Yeah...I think I'm done writing it. I think I've been done writing it for a long time now. Just. People loved it so much and all I could think was Oh, people love it so now you have to write it because this is what people want. But uh. I don't want it. I don't love it.

Also like. I hate the choice I made for Steve's choppy speech in it. I read it back and it almost feels like I'm being both unintentionally racist and unintentionally ableist. And I know for certain that wasn't my intention but. It just doesn't sit right, the way I made Steve use his words. Like the other choices I made for Steve, his appearance and his curiosity and his angst, that's...fine, I guess. But his speech pattern makes me feel like I'm being an asshole about something. Does that make sense? Am I being both unintentionally racist and unintentionally ableist by calling Steve's speech pattern unintentionally racist and ableist. Am I overthinking this? Is this my OCD trying to rear its ugly head? The world will never know.

But. Yeah. This is the decision I'm making. Maybe I'll return to the fic. But I think I wanna write a different mer fic in the future. Just...not this one. Definitely not this one.

This has been a long time coming. I should've made this decision months earlier. Because I've hated this fic for months. Oh well. Better late than never.

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #mer steve harrington #fisherman eddie munson #mer eddie munson

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stylinsoncity · 15 hours ago

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hi! i know it's been a little while. just popping on to say i'm here and i'm okay! ty for bearing with me.. i appreciate all your patience and the kind messages i've received over the last few months.

i think the combination of seasonal depression in the first few months of the year and the state of the U.S. under t*ump has fully nuked my brain. i've been in survival mode the last several months. i'm napping a lot. doomscrolling. trying to do mindless fun things like gaming or watching films, shows, etc. reading when my adhd will let me. spending as much time with friends and family as possible. i haven't been doing much writing in any capacity.

for the first time, i feel less than optimistic about the reality of finishing my wips. i've always been committed to finishing things i started and i've always trusted that the words and the motivation and energy will come to me even if it takes a while. and for the first time, i worry they won't. but that doesn't mean i'm giving up.

i'm pivoting to just writing what i can, even if it's not my best... maybe i'll try writing less smut since that tends to take the longest for me to write for some reason. i'm sorry in advance for smut scenes fading to black before things really get going lol... i'm going back through all my drafts and seeing where i can condense things. i'm anxious about what that will look like but i also know it will be a relief to just get chapters out there and complete things, even if they aren't perfect.

i've marked 'till the end of time' complete for now bc i just don't see myself posting more of that this year. i think it's also safe to say the a/b/o wip probably isn't happening anymore D': but i'm going to focus as much strength and energy as possible on finishing pennington park, thrill and the last chapter of notes on oxford this year.

i know it's difficult and i'm so sorry but pls continue to have patience w me! i'm still here and i'm doing my best and i really really hope to publish something soon.

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ysrjune · 17 hours ago

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i need a SCOTT/ SAM TWINS X READER ASAP

maybe smth like sam was seen with alyssa and scott was seen with shelby WHILE THEY SLEPT WITH READER (or dating reader) so y/n makes them PAYYYY UPPPPPPPPPP purrrr

or any other twin story cuz i realllyyy need them so badly rn

* GIRL YOU GOTTA SHOW ME ᐟ # 🪻

sorry I put this off so long I wasn't sure how to write it but here it is scrumptious 💋

edit: so I um wrote the first paragraph on Saturday but after the cut, it gets STRAIGHT to the point because im too lazy to think of anything else to say + I feel like a lot of the stuff I write is the same exact thing + I feel bad not getting to this for a week.. IM SORRY

uh this is more about scott cause what I wrote.. WOAH. never written about that before. trying something new. anyway I feel like scott WOULDNT like this but sam would, so he's not the one really being punished yk? PLEASE COMMENT AND LMK WHAT U THINK OF THIS!

"Neither of us is even dating you." Scott scoffs. "I dunno about you," He looks at his brother. "But I'm not gonna let some chick I slept with once, tell me who I can and can't see." The blond rolls his eyes. He was wrong. He was definitely gonna let you boss him around, but you needed to show him that you actually could. Scott is so fucking stubborn all the time it's so annoying. He was even worse than his brother, and that says more than enough. Sam is such a little bitch too.

Scott whines as you slap his cock over and over again. "That hurts!" His voice was high pitched and his eyebrows were knitted together. "Should have thought about the consequences of acting like a brat." She rolls her eyes and slaps it once more—harder than the other times. "I'm sorry I'm sorry," He whimpers. "I'll be good. Just stop slappin' it around like it's some sort of toy." He pants and makes eye contact with Sam.

Sam was holding back a smile. Seeing his brother being put in his place for once was awesome. He wasn't looking at his dick though, that would be really gay and sooo weird. "Should have kept your big louth shut, huh Scotty?" The pasty teen shakes his head. "What. A. Shame."

"Don't think you're not getting it either." She gazes over to Sam.

"What?!" Sam scoffs. "I didn't do anything!"

"You lied to Alyssa. You said you've never done anything with a girl. I'll let you know now.. Alyssa and I are friends."

Sam's heart drops. No way. No way you two are friends. You just.. let him go hook up with your friend? After doing the nastiest things with YOU?

"Thats kind of skankish." He mumbles and tongues his piercing. "What the hell am I getting in trouble for? I didn't know you were friends, you didn't tell me."

"You lied to her about being a virgin. I don't appreciate you lying to my friend."

Sam groaned. He pretended like getting his cock slapped was the worst thing that could ever happen to him because it doesn't feel good! But you both knew he was putting on an act. He's a little freak. He's probably dreamed of getting his dick smacked repeatedly.

While this whole conversation between you and the other twin was going on, you didn't stop torturing the blond. Unlike his brother, he hated this. It hurt so damn bad. Didn't feel good in the slightest way. "please stop. i-i'll stop giving you attitude."

"Liar." She rolls her eyes and smacks his cheek, causing him to whine at the sharp sting. "You're only saying that because you want it to stop. I want you to apologize to me, and you better make it good."

He whined and mouthed off about how this is so stupid and that he'd never apologize to you. He didn't owe you an apology. Does he know he could easily put an end to this? Duh.. but he's letting it happen. Why? He doesn't know. Its definitely not because he likes it. His cheeks were red and his eyes were pouring tears.

So what was the deal? Scott Monroe loves to get put in his place.

"I won't talk b-hhuuh.." He squeezes his eyes shut. "back.. I'll-mmh!!" Scott continues to whine as you hit him. "I won't be a brat anymore, fuck! Just stop. Please stop. You're hurting me." He manages to say without any other cries.

Now, it was Sam's turn.

Scott rested his cheek on your thigh, laying on his side on your bed. His left hand was caressing your knee. Your left hand was caressing his cheek meanwhile your right was slapping Sam's cock.

He hisses, laying back on his elbows, watching how you repeatedly beat him. "Fuck.. that feels great." Freak. He got way too into it.. he tried to take your wrist and fuck into your hand. Well, actually, he did do that.. you let him work himself up. Before he came, you removed your hand and he was pissed.

And unexpectedly, he was able to cum with one more hit to his cock.

"We should do this again sometime." Sam smirks. "Don't you think it's a good idea Scott? Wasn't that so much fun?"

Scott gazes at his brother. "Mm-mm." He hums like a child and hides his face back into your thigh. Honestly, you liked when he got like this. He was gonna be so sweet and touchy the rest of the night.

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consistencynevermether · 20 hours ago

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Hihi, I hope you have been well!! I love your writing and characterization of Vere sooo much.

I was wondering if you could write Vere’s reaction to a sick reader and having to take care of them maybe? Thank you so much and have a wonderful day! ❤️

Thank you for your kind words!!!! This fic went through sooo many iterations, would you beleive it if i told you at one point hot springs were involved??? anyways, sorry for the wait and i hope you enjoy!!!

content: Vere x sick GN reader, cannon typical swearing and violence, SFW, 1.6k words

Kuras had warned you not to go out into the rain. But you were so close to chasing down a lead on your curse, you couldn't stop for even a second. Of course, when you got a fever so high you were seeing double, you were forced to stop your hunt. Kuras was correct, you should have quit. But you had trudged through rain-soaked roads before and never gotten so much as a sniffle. Which is part of why this cold annihilating you was so embarrassing.

Your throat was dry. You felt like your face was on fire. Your limbs were so weak you felt if you tried to stand, you would collapse. Your vision swam with dizziness.

Nothing could make this worse. You thought to yourself.

At that exact moment, you heard the lock on your door being picked with an ease so smooth it practically begged the intruder to open it. Even with your state, you could recognize the basic features of the man that slinked into your room, his claws gently clicking on the metal of the doorknob.

Vere was here. And the universe had a sick sense of humor.

“No,” you managed to croak out.

Vere cackled at your visceral response to his presence. And the fact that the biggest defense you could muster was a simple “no”.

‘I'm here to help,” he purred, opening the window in your room to air out the smell of sickness and get you some fresh air.

“I don't believe you,” you grumbled halfheartedly. Despite being sick, you still felt the need to waste energy bantering with Vere. He truly brought out the worst in you, yet you couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude at his presence.

After all, he didn't have to spend his limited free time looking after you, yet here he was. Of course, him just showing up didn't mean he'd actually be helpful. You were 99% sure he'd throw a lukewarm towel on your head and call it a day. You'd bet your last copper on it.

And as you would soon find out, you would lose that copper.

To your shock, Vere helped you out of bed and moved you into the bathroom, where a bath had been prepared. It was shallow water (Vere was probably trying to minimize the risk of you drowning), and the temperature was lukewarm, which felt cleansing considering the high fever you were running. Vere made sure you weren't going to pass out anytime soon, then left you in the bathroom with a fresh set of clothes and a towel.

You were in there for a while, running the cool water over your feverish skin and trying to wipe away the thin layer of sweat on your brow. After over an hour, you finally worked up the energy to crawl out of the tub and dry yourself off, then slowly but surely you put on the new clothes.

You could feel your eyelids burning from exhaustion, and your face still burning. But at least you felt refreshed. To your surprise, vere had changed the sheets on your bed and opened the windows, letting the fresh air in.

The room looked significantly better than how you had left it, which was unfortunate, because Vere looked very pleased with himself.

“Now that you look less like a corpse,” Vere began, “let's get you something to eat. I'll cook.”

At that line, your blood ran cold. Flashbacks to the last time Vere had cooked came rushing in. the pots boiling over. How he would put random spices and sweeteners in a dish without reading what they were. Him trying to sneak some strange looking piece of meat into a stew. How he delighted in the horrors he created in any kitchen.

This was his plan all along. Wait till you were sick then finish you off with his god forsaken awful cooking.

“You're trying to kill me.” you accused.

“Oh relax, I can actually cook when I try.” he shrugged.

“No. No you cannot. Nobody who can ruin scrambled eggs can cook.” you countered.

Vere gave you a smirk so devious that even with a fever it sent shivers down your spine.

“If you're wrong, what will you give me?” he questioned.

“...”

You were sure he couldn't actually cook, but his confidence was making you question yourself.

“Something within reason?” you offered.

“Your reason or my reason?” Vere questioned

“My reason”

“Bore.”

He held out a clawed hand for you to shake, and you reluctantly reached out to shake it. Despite his confidence, you truly believed Vere could not cook. And even if he could, his pension towards mischief would screw him over. You didnt think he could resist fucking with you by adding chocolate to a piece of beef or something stupid.

You wrapped yourself up in a clean blanket, and shuffled off behind Vere to the kitchen that the Wet Wick had reserved for long term renters. It was a very small setup separate from the main kitchen, and more importantly, there was a couch in the corner next to a table you could lay down on.

You were there for a total of 2 hours. On the bright side, the bath and fresh air had made you feel a bit better. Your throat had started to hurt less every time you swallowed, and Vere was even kind enough to get you some peppermint tea, which really helped.

On the downside, you absolutely lost the bet. You stared in shock as Vere started kneading dough to make noodles, heat up some chicken stock he had brought, cut up three chicken breasts, some carrots, garlic, and celery, and cooked them in a mix of spices on the stovetop before shredding the chicken and adding the mix to the broth. He was making chicken noodle soup. With handmade noodles.

Were you being fucked with? Every single time you had cooked with Vere, it ended in a minimum of one stovetop fire. Why was he suddenly competent? Could he do this the entire time?

Vere saw your incredulous expression and laughed.

“I told you so~” he teased while setting down a bowl of soup in front of you.

You reached for the spoon and took a bite. It was good. The chicken was well seasoned and the vegetables still had a solid crunch to them, while the broth soothed your throat even more.

“Gods dammit.” you laughed.

Vere snickered along with you.

“Looks like someone lost the bet. About my reward though-”

“Can this wait till I feel better?” you asked.

“Nope!”

You sighed. “Let's have it then.”

“I want to taste the soup.” Vere stated.

You raised an eyebrow.

“That's it?”

“That's it.” He confirmed.

“Of course you can.” you replied. “You made it. And for the record, thank you for making this for me.”

You took another spoonful of soup to your mouth, savoring the warmth it brought.

And then Vere kissed you.

Your eyes went wide, you were so shocked you hadn't even noticed how he had slipped his tongue into your mouth and stolen. a. carrot. From inside your mouth.

He pulled back, licking his lips as he reclined on the chair on the opposite side of the table you were seated across.

“Wow, I am an incredible cook,” Vere preened. “And your lucky Mhin had some chicken stock I could steal from them.”

What… what had just happened? Had you started hallucinating? Was it the fever?

No, you could still feel the sensation of his tongue in your mouth.

You opened your mouth to speak, forgetting you needed to swallow the rest of the soup, and proceeded to spit it out as you tried to speak.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, soup all over your nice clean blanket.

Vere was already laughing hysterically, halfway to falling out of his chair.

“What the FUCK was that??” you questioned, your tone one of shock, not anger

A prank like this wasn't exactly out of character for Vere, but you were still reeling.

“You SAID I could have some!” he laughed.

“I didnt- I didnt say- well I didn't-” You attempted to sputter out a coherent sentence, but the feeling of Veres mouth on yours had made your brain entirely reset. His loud cackling didn't help either.

“You could catch my cold!” you finally exclaimed, finding your words again.

“Didn’t you get sick because you were out in the rain in November? I don't think stupidity is contagious.” Vere stated.

…

You threw a spoonful of soup at Veres' head.

Of course he dodged easily enough, a bark of laughter starting up again at your attempt at revenge.

You spent the next 20 minutes trying to swat Vere with your soup stained blanket, and him effortlessly dodging.

Eventually you both calmed down, both laughing slightly as Vere turned away to reheat your soup on the stove which had gotten cold as the two of you “fought”.

What you didn't see while Veres' back was turned to you as he heated up the soup was how he lightly brushed his lips with his fingers, as if trying to remember a certain feeling.

You were glad not to see this though, because if he was turned away from you, he couldn't see the redness in your cheeks as you stared at his back.

You could pass it off as the fever. But as you finished your food and began to head back up to bed, waving at Vere as he headed out, you knew what would be replaying in your mind the second your head hit the pillow.

#cnmhasks #vere x mc #vere x reader #vere #vere touchstarved #vere my beloved #touchstarved vere #touchstarved x reader #touchstarved fic #touchstarved fanfic #touchstarved fanfiction

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