#then... maybe i'll try to write or something

[lazy-ahh]

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 🥹

[mixolya]

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 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[ekybrini]

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.

[nicohii]

(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

[dreamdragonkadia]

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.

[pip-see]

Originally this was supposed to be a nicest fic where they went to an author meet and greet that Lin Ling likes but ig it turned into this so like the beginning of how Lin Ling found the books series.

Lin Ling clutched onto things like a desperate man trying to stay a float in harsh and dark waters.

Moon had been one of those things. She had given him strength with her words and Lin Ling felt like he made it through the days just only by seeing her face through flashing pixels through a screen. Hearing her voice saying words of encouragement made him feel like he had ample energy to go on with life and live.

She had given him hope and Lin Ling clung to it with all he had.

Moon had been the main thing that supported him through the last two years of his life, the other thing beside her was not as well known and popular as the hero's. But rather a simple books series.

Lin Ling had thought it childish at one point that he clung desperately to words written on paper. He still thought that but not as much as he did before.

-

He saw the books in a small little bookshop window the place was squeezed in between a tiny Arcade and an out of date record shop. The books were worn in use, the spines creased, the pages an soft mix of white and yellow. Lin Ling had taken interest as soon as he caught the glimpse of the book.

Lin Ling walked in the shop without thinking, grabbed the book that was on display, and began to read the synopsis that was on the back.

He didn't notice the shop keeper had walked out from somewhere in between the shelves, but a small graying lady looked at him and smiled. “ I enjoyed that series when I was quite young,” she said, her voice startling Lin Ling, making him jump and almost drop the book.

“I'm sorry I didn't mean to disturbed you.” He apologized, his heart going back to a steady pace after the sudden scare. “It's just that the cover fascinated me.”

Blue and white intricate details were wrapped around the spine and cover of the book emitting a whimsical and calming vibe that Lin Ling had been drawn to immediately at the sight.

“You're fine dear. You're actually the first customer to come in here today in no bother at all really” The lady gestured to the book. “Did you read the summary? If it doesn't interest you I can help you find something more suitable for you. I know people nowadays aren't interested in Found family books.”

His grip tightened about the book but he didn't make a move to put the book back.

Lin Ling shook his head. “No, it's interesting. It's just I was never much of a reader before.”

“Ah,”She shook her head in understanding. “ I understand. Those books are very beginner friendly. A little hefty read with four books in the series but quite compelling.”

Four books in the series, she said and Lin Ling thought of his steadily draining bank account and knew he couldn't afford that. The book was interesting, the summary had drawn his attention and the quick flip through of the pages seemed that the writing style was simple and easy. But four books seemed like a lot which meant a lot more money.

The lady must've seen something flick in his eyes and she spoke up. “There on sale. Everything's on sale.” She looked sad as she said this and Lin Ling felt back about accidentally bringing it up. “We're closing at the end of this month. Not enough attention and we used to have. 130 Yuan for all of them.”

130 Yuan wasn't bad, maybe it stopped him from getting the expensive ramen he got for lunch but he could go to the cheaper one.

The ramen was good in his stomach but the books would cure boredom. And as much as his boss wanted him to work, Lin Ling wanted something for himself. Something that he could enjoy. Something to forget what he did at work and then sneers he received from his boss and co-workers.

He wanted something that was entirely his own.

He grabbed the other three books and put them on the checkout counter.

“I'll buy them.”

[frogsinflannel]

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

[steviewashere]

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.

[smutinlove]

"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 🤩

[writeslikeabitch]

i love love love how you wrote dad!matty in ‘just lying’, could you write more of him & younger reader? like maybe her misbehaving when they’re on tour cuz she’s homesick? you write their dynamic so sweet and realistic i’d love anything about them

hi yes of course! i hope i did this justice xo

if it’s not with you

matty healy x daughter!reader

summary: see request :-) though I did lowkey misread it a bit but I hope that’s okayyy

warnings/notes: umm not many? kind of not much matty and reader interaction directly but the sentiment is still there and I hope ppl enjoy! oHhh and r is like 9 here. written with moral support during crazy oomfchella with @graciegoeskrazy 😝😝

tour life was always crazy, but it seemed to be getting worse.

the new album had done amazingly, met with frankly unexpected acclaim and internet hype unknown to them. as a result, management had decided to frontload the tour, sandwiching new dates in between legs. unfortunately, the band’s success coincided with your own—you’d been admitted to the pre-professional division at a well-regarded ballet school. but now spring was coming up, and with it, the recital, a culmination of the hard work you’d been putting in all year. and matty had to break the news to you that he might not be there to celebrate with you.

“hey, love, jamie says we’ve gotta add some dates out west. it looks like I’ll be home a bit later than I thought,” matty said. “it’s seattle on the 27th—“ he began.

“but that’s my recital,” you spoke, mid-realization.

“I know, love, but I think it’ll work out. I’ll try to be there, I reallly will….I love you.”

“i love you too.” You pressed a kiss to the speakerphone, Matty doing the same.

•

later, on wednesday, as she was helping you get ready for your ballet class, gabi began to notice a change in your demeanor. first subtly, like how you didn't care what color scrunchie she used to tie off your bun, or excitedly ramble on about a new step you had learned last lesson, then more noticeably, like the way you dragged your feet to the car and sat pouting instead of singing along to your favorite playlist. it was the last rehearsal before your recital that weekend. you should have been buzzing with excitement—but you weren't.

and the way that, in a manner unprecedented, gabi received a call from your studio director a mere thirty minutes into class. she was quick to answer, assuming that it was some freak accident—the idea that a call home could have something to do with a behavioral issue never once crossed her mind. you loved it too much, were dedicated to an extent that impressed gabi: what other nine year old, she often wondered, could spend hours practicing turning drills in the mirror, or had a strict stretching routine every night before bed? naturally, then, the conversation that was to follow came as a shock. 

"hello?" she spoke, pausing the tv. 

"hi, ms bechtel? this is sarah calling from the studio. i apologize for the call, but we weren't able to get in contact with y/n's father," the woman on the other end began to explain. 

"he's out of town, yeah," gabbriette spoke, a distance in her voice. "is everything alright? is y/n okay?" the second part of her reply was more urgent, frantic. 

"oh, everything is fine. we're just not having a good day, and she's been having some trouble in class. she's pretty shaken up, i think it's best if we just call it for the day," sarah explained. "would you be able to come pick her up?"

"yes, of course, i'll be right there." gabi jumped up from her spot on the sofa, wedging the phone in between her neck and shoulder as she went to collect her things. she didn't even bother changing out of her sweat suit before running to the car and hitting the gas. concern never left her mind. she'd definitely be having a conversation with matty about this.

•

gabi swung open the door to the studio, making somewhat rushed small talk with the receptionist before being greeted by the director. "hi, i'm so sorry, i'm here to pick up y/n? what's wrong?"

she smiled, sadly, and began walking towards the locker room, gesturing for your stepmother to follow her. "i'm not really sure, actually. her teacher told me she was refusing to participate in class...it wasn't even just general misbehavior, she just kind of closed off," sarah spoke, turning back. "they're cleaning the dance for spring recital, but y/n refused to run the dance. then she just ran off. we're both worried, it's very unlike her." 

gabi nodded. "i am too." she noticed that sarah had stopped in front of the door, hesitation in her face. "is she in there?" 

"yes, but she's really shaken up. hopefully you can get through to her." she smiled, then turned around.

cautiously, gabi pulled the door open. her face fell when she saw you there, curled up atop your dance bag, crying and wailing face down into its fabric. you'd undone her carefully braided ballet bun, your hair now tangled in your face. 

she knelt down, beginning to pick up the clothes you'd strewn across the floor. she said nothing at first, just sat gently running a hand through your hair while folding the skirt you'd picked out that morning and apparently thrown off in your frustration. she helped you up. "c'mon, let's go home." you allowed her to lift you up—despite her small stature, she was actually quite strong (and it didn't hurt that you, much like your father, were shorter than average)—continuing to sniffle into her shoulder. 

the ride home was silent. gabi just assumed you had tired yourself out and, after a slight last hurrah of an outburst in which you kicked your shoes off, and let them ricochet off the baseboard with a resounding thud. let you crash nap on the sofa while she cooked. she dished you up some of the lemon pasta she’d prepared, one of your favorites, and brought the plate over to where you lay. she set it on the coffee table, the ceramic meeting glass with a clink. “can we talk about today?”

“no.” your eyes barely moved to meet hers before you buried your head back in the cushion.

“c’mon, i think we should.” her voice was sterner now. “why did you run out of class today?”

"because it sucks and I don't wanna do it anymore," you whined. 

"but why? you love dancing—"

"i just don't wanna, okay?" you interrupted, voice echoing through the empty house.

gabi watched in shock as you bolted up the stairs and slammed your bedroom door so hard the wall shook. she had no idea what had suddenly gotten into you, but it worried her. so, she decided to call in the big guns; she grabbed her phone off the counter and called matty.

he picked up nearly immediately. A rustle in the background, and then: “gabi? hi baby, what is it?”

“it’s y/n. she had a meltdown at dance but she doesn’t want to talk about it. she’s shut herself in her room,” gabbriette spoke. “i just…I think she needs you, matty.”

she could almost envision him, halfway across the country, hand to his forehead. “fuck,” he exhaled. “i know it’s been hard, i’m so sorry, love.”

“it’s not your fault—“

“no, but…okay. Can I just talk to her? I wanna see her.” matty began to protest. Gabi nodded, switching to FaceTime. she traced your previous path up to your bedroom, slowly pressing the door ajar. there you were on the floor, staring out the window at the trees below.

“daddy’s on the phone, he wants to talk to you,” gabi said, taking a seat next to you at the window, turning the phone sideways so that you both were in frame.

“hi, darling, how are you?” matty smiled, waving into the camera. “i miss you out here. no fun with these guys,” he joked, gesturing to blurry shadows of adam and ross messing about behind him in the green room.

“miss you too,” your voice cracked. you tried to hide a tear that escaped, pressing your sweater sleeve to your eyes.

“i know, baby. I’ll see you soon, i promise.” matty tried to shift gears to the topic at hand, sensitive he knew. “are you excited for your recital?”

"i'm not going." you stared at him head on.

"but you've been working so hard, all your teachers are so proud of you," gabi interjected, trying to reason. "we're proud of you," she added on. 

"it doesn't matter," you said, looking down.

"why not?"

you bit your lip, trying to suppress big waves of emotion. “y-you won’t be there,” you murmured.

oh. matty felt a hole rip open his chest. this was the downside of the success, the tours, the fans, the music, that he’d always be leaving someone disappointed. he hated when it was you. half-heartedly, he tried to reassure. “baby, i will, i promise you i’ll make it work,” he said. but he knew he couldn’t promise for certain, and it wrecked him.

“but it won’t, right.”

matty tried, best as he could through gabi’s iPhone camera, to look you straight in the eye when he said this. “i’ll pinky promise you, okay? so you have to do the show, because i’m not coming all the way back to LA for nothing,” he laughed.

reluctantly, you mirrored his pinky gesture in the frame. “promise?”

“promise.”

•

the day of the show had come. your body held heaps of nervous energy as you sat in the dressing room of the local performing arts center getting ready.

“he’s gonna be here, right?” you asked, as gabi swiped a layer of eyeshadow onto your lids.

“he’ll come, baby.” she smiled. but gabi knew it was 50/50. with the altered dates, his overnight flight would be getting in from seattle a mere hour-and-a-half before the show began. that combined with city traffic, it would be a miracle if he made it before intermission. still, she wanted to keep your mind at ease.

meanwhile, as your teacher gathered you and the rest of your classmates to line up backstage, matty was racing to meet you. he apologized to passersby as he raced through the arrivals terminal, frantically flagging his driver down and, as politely as possible, telling them to slam on the gas. it was but twenty minutes later that they pulled into the parking lot, and he promptly burst through the doors, suitcases still in tow.

out of breath, he asked an attendant directions to the theatre you were performing in and pulled up the ticket in his apple wallet to show. the usher directed him to his seat—front row, next to gabi—and he collapsed in it.

“did i miss her? please say i didn’t, oh god, i pinky swore, shi—“ he whispered frantically in gabi’s ear, practically hissing.

“relax,” she pressed a kiss to his cheek, just as the lights began to dim again, and the first note of your music played, “you’re right on time.”

[mr-crawlings-wife]

BUTTING HEADS

Prologue-8

Previous part, Masterlist, Next part

Warnings: arson, magic, canon chaos

"Pretty cool, huh? Not like some piddling weasel."

I'm surprised mildly at Ace's change of demeanor.

So he just wanted to have fun huh...

Grim was equally as shocked as me. "Myah?!"

"Pfft... Ah ha ha! I can't hold it back anymore! Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Come on, you're the ones who turned orientation into such a fiasco, right? The one summoned by the Dark Mirror who can't even use magic, and the monster no one summoned at all. It took everything I had not to burst into laughter right in the middle of the ceremony!" He was clearly having a field day. Like this was the most fun he'd had in a while. Like he was choking on his breath, trying to keep his cackles contained.

I'm not hurt or embarrassed, more so disappointed. I thought there would be at least some people who are kind to others beyond status.

Guess not.

Grim was visibly embarrassed but trying to remain civil, which is surprising for him "H-hey! You don't gotta be a jerk about it!"

"So in the end, neither of you got admitted, and now you're janitors? Ah ha ha! SO lame!" Ace clutches his stomach, pointing at the both of us. I only side eye him before focusing back onto Hades's statue. I need to get moving. To my side, the air surrounding Grim is starting to warm up.

'What did you just call me?!" It seems Grim's patience didn't last long. He stomps his paws grumpily.

"And you're so clueless you don't even know who the Great Seven are. Not one of them! Maybe before you try getting into the academy again, you ought to take a second crack at kindergarten? Ah ha ha ha ha!" Ace continues to crackle on like a broken record as I attempt to find a way to climb onto the pedestal. I pay him no mind, not daring to ask him for help either.

"Grrrrr..." I hear a faint growl from behind.

Is that Grim?

Something is burning.

"Anyway, just thought I'd tease you a bit. And man am I glad I did. It's been a blast!" Ace casually goes back to normal, as if making fun of strangers and poking fun was a norm for him. Maybe it is? Maybe he's just rude?

“Unlike you, I actually have classes to get to, so I'll let you get back to picking up trash. Bye!" Ace says from behind and I can hear his footsteps slowly moving away from me, just then-

"Myuh-uh! You ain't walkin' away from me! It's too late for that! Myaaaaah!" Grim blocks his way, I have to crane my neck to see them properly.

Ace hurriedly dodges a fire ball shot by Grim, surprise and panic written all over his face. He clearly didn't expect Grim to take it so personally.

"No one makes fun of Grim, Master of Fire! I'm gonna make that explodey-head of yours explode all over again!" Grim declares, quite comically so.

" Explodey-head?!" Ace is offended by the nickname, now that I think about it, his hair is quite puffy.

"You wanna throw down with me, shorty? You got some guts." Ace cracks his knuckles, pulling out his magic pen. "You wanna talk hair, huh? I'm gonna shave you like a toy poodle!" A magic pen is basically like every other pen, it is a merged version of a modern ball point pen and a wand. It must be hard to write with, given that the head has such a large gemstone attached but its main benefit is immediate access to a medium and unlimited ink.

" Myaaaaah!" Grim also widens his stance, opening his mouth to its full capacity and blasting a huge fire ball at Ace.

"Oh-ho! How do you like that?" Ace smirks, cocky. He used wind magic to redirect it, allowing the fireball to hit the wall, charring it. Not that anyone would notice, given how dark the wall already is.

"H-hey! No fair!" Grim is displeased. But he has obviously met his match.

All this back and forth has attracted the attention of many students, who are beginning to form a circle.

Maybe I should intervene and stop them.

"What's going on over there? A fight?!"

"Oh, sweet! Get 'em!"

"Wind magic is a thing too? Let's all take this down a notch!" That must've been a freshman too.

Some of the thin crowb sound amazed, some excited and some hesitantly protesting.

They can't see me yet. As I am behind the statue of Hades, still holding onto one of his flames and hoping I could haul myself up somehow.

"Awww... Can't hit me with your little fireballs?" Ace mocks Grim as he dodges another fireball with ease.

"Grrr... You better believe I'm about to!"

Should stop him now...

"Grim, you should stop, he's not worth it." I try to coax him out of it.

"YOU STAY OUT OF IT!“ Grim screams, spitting another fireball at me.

Or not.

I'm about to dodge but it's blow away before it can reach me. I look at Ace, but he's got his gaze on Grim.

Was it him?

I don't bother thinking further, the crowd is getting more dense. And I don't wish to get roped up in this mess.

Without much thought, I slip away, grabbing my bucket and making my way to Ramshackle.

Taglist: @kittycat246 @wutap @coffee-or-hot-cocoa @boredselkie @krysthalina @frostines-blog @anastasia-426 @ghostlysyntaxed @neufora

[thehydraethereal]

Hello, I just recently discovered your blog and oh my! Your works are so amazing! I think you are a fantastic writer,keep it up!

I was thinking maybe you could write a Rafe C. fic based on the prompt number 1.(Wiping off droplets of your blood from the floor, knowing he hates the mess.) i think that prompt has strong Rafe vibes. Maybe he hurt reader so bad and she's trying not to anger him even more so she cleans the mess or maybe he made her clean it(threatened he will hurt her even more)

It is completely okay if you can't or won't write it please do not feel pressured

‧𓍢ִ໋ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒

girlfriend.ᐟreader && dark.ᐟrafe cameron

CONTENT WARNING(S)

You widen your eyes at the crimson droplets that stain the cold, golden veined marble. The polished surface mirrors your tearful eyes and, right under the right one, a deep cut is adorning your cheekbone.

You haven't even realized you were bleeding, the flesh of your face feels numb.

"Shit!", Rafe yells, and the awfully loud sound makes your whole body jump. He shakes his hand in pain, knuckles visibly reddened, and his rings are slightly pink from the blood of your wound.

Mindlessly, you try to crawl further from Rafe, which is now cursing out loud at you. "Why do you always make me be like this? You're supposed to shut the fuck up and be by my side!", he growls, lip twitching in disgust as he looks down at you. "But no, you had to play the good samaritan."

He is angry at you that you were on Sarah's side. Your heart broke when you heard Rafe, your boyfriend, tried to literally drown her, so, of course you had to say something to him, you had to confront him. And, of course, that would get you all bloodied and bruised.

"God...", Rafe grunts, wiping at his nose with his thumb and index finger. "Great, now I look like i'm the bad fuckin' guy again, huh?".

You flinch at his words, a stray tear running down on your throbbing cheek again.

His eyes shoot up at you, his wild gaze now stern and fixed on your shaky being. His gaze freezes the blood in your veins. Rafe was always unpredictable and that makes his disorders of behavior even worse and more terrifying.

Your whole body tenses, not knowing what to expect next. But instead of approaching you, Rafe's eyes dart towards the floor and you can see his brows furrowing. Pit settles in your stomach as you realize his eyes have fallen on the blood. Your blood.

"C'mhere...", he commands and you whimper, shaking your head. "Come. Here.", Rafe repeats and you slowly crawl towards his feet.

Your eyes raise and catch your boyfriend flaring his nostrils. His hand fists in your and you cry out. "That’s your fault.", he growls, nodding his head towads the stain of crimson liquid. "So, if I step in fuckin' blood, I'll make sure there's more of it pretty fast.", he finishes, releasing your hair with a disgusted push.

"Clean that shit up.", Rafe finishes, walking outside. You wipe the blood away with your sleeve, watching the color spread on the soft, clean fabric.

MY NOTES: thank you for the encouragement, you genuinely do not know how much your words mean to me, nonnie. I love you sm! Hope you enjoy this and thank u for requesting

[zstartrixxx]

i'm writing something in three parts, the first one is almost finished and I believe that by next sunday I'll have released the first two parts. unfortunately, it takes me a longer and slower time to write my stories, but I always try to take the utmost care and affection. here is a small excerpt.

[...]

"Afraid of mommy and daddy, sweet Dulce?"

"Don't call me that—", she cut, taking a step back, Remmick remained the same looking down at her: " — leave. Please."

"You really don't want me to come in? We could go upstairs, talk a bit more, I promise not to wake mommy and daddy." His face twisted into a sinister smile, his eyes shining along with the flame burning slowly in the lantern. Dulce held the door to close it:

"Absolutely not, leave now. You're not welcome in my home!"

"You don't know the danger you're courting, sweetie...", his tongue clicked. Dulce swallowed dry, took a deep breath, trying to avoid his penetrating gaze. Again feeling her soul penetrated. Remmick laughed, nodded as if reflecting and realizing something, finally straightening and stepping back from the door:

"You've already let me inside you sweetie. That's enough for now."

"Leave. Now."

"I'll go, I'll go slowly, maybe you'll change your mind and call me to go up to your room...", he turned around, looking over his shoulder with false hope. But she didn't get to see him smiling as she immediately slammed the door shut, locking it. She stood still. Heard a chuckle.

It seemed he stood there, waiting. Waiting.

But soon she heard a whistle, footsteps walking away. His voice humming a song in a strange tongue.

[...]

[magical-girl-coral]

🛁 Adaine/Aelwyn platonically just, friendly sisters having a time

Ohoho, I like this one.

Send me emoji(s) and I'll write a drabble

Adaine grimaced in disguise, still finding new sludges in her hair no matter how many times she got over the same spot. Out of all the places their mission could have gone, what did it have to be a fucking swamp?

That place was so awful that even her precious familiar wasn't happy being there. He now sits on the tiles with his own mini bathing equipment, looking as miserable as Adaine felt.

"Adaine?" Her sister's voice called out from the door. "How are you holding up there? You're not drowning in your own bloody bathtub, are you?"

Adaine's face heated. "Oh, fuck off! You try fighting an ugly goo monster in the middle of a swamp and then come here all high and mighty!"

"No, thank you. There's a reason I never bothered with this whole adventuring thing. It's much more fun gloating from the sidelines." There was some shuffling from outside the door. "Can I come in? I have some stuff that can make this self inflicting torture session go quicker than your current pace."

Adaine was ready to tell Aelwyn where she can stuff her beauty products, but a piece of the monster she just killed slid off of her bangs and fell onto her nose had killed the words in her mouth. She had to admit defeat. "Fine, but any comments on my appearance and I'll have Sandra Lynn kick you out."

"Not fair, you know I fear that woman," Aelwyn grumbled as she fiddled with her things.

"Everyone fears Sandra Lynn," Adaine said smugly. "She has a mom voice that can make a god feel shame and I'm not afraid to use it."

Aelwyn muttered a few more things Adaine couldn't hear from the closed door before entering their shared bathroom with a box under her arm. She opened at mouth at the side of her sister covered in whatever the fuck this is but quickly closed it within a millisecond.

Adaine's tense body visibly relaxed at Aelwyn keeping her comments to herself. She only dared to talk again after picking up a stool and sitting next to Adaine. She pulled out a shampoo bottle and squirted some of it onto her hands.

She did a motion with her hands to tell her to turn around and Adaine did so willingly, letting her hair fall onto Aelwyn's hands.

Aelwyn spoke as she cleaned her up. "This is a special substance used to get thick muck out of wizards' hair for when their experiments blow up in their face. I had to get a bottle of this after my first abjuration attempt nearly took away my eyebrows."

Adaine snorted. "You're kidding."

Aelwyn smiled. "I swear to you, it happened. I wanted to make my own face mask when I was thirteen because all the cool high school girls were doing it, so I thought putting some magic in it would make me the coolest of them all. But I put in too much magic, and next thing I knew, me and Penelope were screaming our heads off because whatever we made won't come off our hair. I was just lucky I did this at her place or I would have never heard the end of this from you."

Adaine played with her thumbs. "I didn't know you guys were friends for that long."

"Neither did I," Aelwyn said. "Back then, I didn't fully know what friendship was. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't know. The realization would have crushed me." She rinsed the shampoo off of Adaine's hair with the shower nuzzle and picked up a different jar. "This is an enchanted bath scent. It will replace anything arcane with the smell of fresh roses."

Adaine raised her eyebrow. "Does this have a tragic story attached to it too?"

Aelwyn snorted, kind of like how Adaine did a second ago. "No, my life is not that pathetic, little sister. This is just something I got for seventy percent off at Bath Bombs and Beyond. But there was a fantastic break up scene at the candle scent aisle if you wish to hear about it."

Adaine made herself comfortable against the wall of the bathtub, letting her wet locks fall onto Aelwyn's pants. "Now I do."

Aelwyn grimaced at her sister's actions, waving her hand and making all the water that was dripped onto her clothes splash onto Adaine's face. She shrieked with laughter, her Boggy croaking happily right beside her.

"You're lucky I still enjoy your company regardless of your antics, little sister," Aelwyn mockingly threatened her before adding more scent into the bath. "Now, where was I? Right! At the candle isle, a half elf and some bulky man were arguing over which scent will make their apartment smell more "homely" because their third roommate complained it always smells like sex because of them. So then-"

Adaine listened absentmindedly as her sister went off, feeling herself drifting off to sleep when Aelwyn started to play with her hair.

She didn't notice Aelwyn gently helping out and drying with her towel. She didn't hear her calling out to Sandra Lynn to help her dress Adaine up. She didn't see Aelwyn trying her best to carry her sister to bed until her arms gave out and Jawbone had to take over.

She didn't need to. The warm feeling she had while tracing told her enough as it is.

[starberry-cupcake]

Thank you for providing more information. I'll try to clarify some stuff that might have been unclear in my opinion and rectify some things. I was unsure whether to answer this question in the first place, but I don't think my opinion is entirely useless as it stands.

I said "People have already written a lot about her, better than I could" and I meant it. The post you linked is fascinating. I know that what I say doesn't have the same value than other more articulated and more knowledgeable people have done or will do, which is why I stated it, but I was asked for my opinion and that's all I can give. At the end of the day, it's an opinion and people can ignore it.

I also said "I can’t draw a 1 on 1 comparison between Ehasz’s behavior and Azula’s treatment" and I meant it. My intention was to show that personal biases in someone who, even if not directly responsible for the whole writing, was head writer on the show, can be worthy of examining when you look back on it as a whole. And there I was talking about the show specifically, I brought up the comics afterwards, and I'll get to that. According to the post you linked, he did personally write some of the key episodes with Azula in them, including her introduction and character establishment and some that have more to do with Zuko's development and her as an accessory to it, which is something I pointed out in my response.

I'm not saying he's "the center of it", I attempted to make it clear when I said "I don’t know who did what but, to me, the difference in how certain things are treated, especially with girl characters, is very clear", but I may have given the wrong impression, my frustration with the situation may have made my response unclear.

I certainly am not trying to signal him alone but to hold him responsible for his own POV and how someone with a position of high responsibility on the writing, who has been accused of censoring the work of those under him in several occasions, could maybe be looked at with more attention when talking about issues that clearly reflect his way of acting, especially in a show that is constantly praised for its writing, as if it was perfect.

I think it's worth examining it, at the very least, as a factor to be considered, because I don't hear it enough. And the person who asked me, asked about him, so I answered about him.

The post you linked also proved my point in how the writer difference is noticeable on the character treatment, in a way I didn't expect.

I specifically brought up the comparison with Katie Mattila in Korra, without knowing the fact that, according to the post you linked, she was responsible for what the post you linked describes as "the episode that expanded on her character the most, up until now" and also says "that Mattila hasn’t written Azula in any episodes up ‘til now is astonishing". Maybe her nuanced vision didn't match the direction those responsible (and I'll talk about Bryke in a minute) wanted.

I brought her up in comparison because of her work in seasons 3 and 4 of Korra, where she had much more of a hand than she did in ALTA and, to me, it was enough to see the clear difference of perspective in the same themes. I didn't even know that she was the one responsible for that episode, but it proves that I was looking in the right direction with that, at the very least.

Also, I brought up that "To me, seasons 3 and 4 are the most effective and better developed" of Korra and that Bryke did only season 1. I didn't know their stance on Azula until the post that was linked in the one you provided, but it checks out with that. It's disappointing to read their stances, but that doesn't make my entire reading invalid, I don't think. It just adds more disappointment to the same soup.

I did also say the comics "fail into giving her the narrative she deserves", but I don't think they're entirely responsible for the treatment of the character, as it's shown in the post you linked with who wrote what. The comics did badly, but they worked with what was already there, which wasn't good to begin with. The fact that they made things worse doesn't mean things weren't bad in the show itself. People just kept dropping the ball until there was no more of it left.

I apologize if my response didn't read as nuanced and seemed like I was reducing the issue to just one guy, that's my bad. I wasn't trying to say that he alone was the problem, but to show how, when learning more about his real life actions, some things fall into place, and I think a reading on that (not only on his treatment of women but on how he treated people who worked in positions under his leadership), is worth looking into. Because, like I said, personal biases show in what you create or help create.

I don't think people, when the accusations happened, looked back on ATLA at all. It was used for some headlines and whatnot but, at the time, his other show was the one most outlets discussed and ATLA remains in people's minds as "perfect flawless writing". So I always found it frustrating that we wouldn't re-examine ALTA's writing more than that, at least in the general audience perception, and not only in niche fandom spaces. My frustration with that might have made my response, out of context, seem like I was just blaming him for it, and that's not the case, I apologize for that.

Anyway, thank you for the post and further info and sorry that I made it seem like the issue was circumscribed to just one person, it wasn't my intent.

Oh? Can you go more in depth about the writer for atla and the treatment of azula?

Oh, boy. I'll try.

CW under the cut: harassment, toxic workplace situations, misogyny.

Aaron Ehasz was the head writer for ATLA, which is something often overlooked. I've made comments about this before and people at the time seemed to think I was referring to either DiMartino or Konietzko, so I guess his important presence in the writing of the show isn't as well known. Even if he's responsible for a lot of it.

Back in 2019, several allegations were made about Ehasz in regards to his treatment of women, harassment and toxic working environment. These allegations came from different endeavors and contexts, such as his work in animation, his startup and his time as creative director in Riot Games. Here are some articles about this that are still around, I know there are more: x, x, x, x, His lacking response towards these things is still up on his twitter/x account.

A couple quotes from the articles with some of the experiences shared are:

"In addition to treating her like his own personal assistant, he is accused of transitioning her editorial duties to a group and shut down her ideas. Later, she recounted how he told her that he planned to hire her full time, had her lay off several team members and then released her from her position without an explanation. What's more, she said he would bring his children to work and leave them with female production staff members without asking. According to this account, he later attempted to sabotage her career, telling fellow industry members that "I'm a shrieking violent harpy who he was scared of cause when I was leaving I did acts of physicality.""

"It was just so much shutting women down, not taking women seriously, not listening to women, firing a woman and then shit talking her," 

"The general feeling was always… this is Aaron's company, Aaron's show, Aaron's stories to tell (yes, even the ones about women, POC, and lgbtq+ characters), and if you didn't agree you were constantly at risk,"

"I would consistently cry going into work/cry in the bathrooms, not understanding what was wrong with me as a worker because I consistently felt like nothing. I was told that I was ungrateful for my job to my face… We weren't silent at the company either. We wanted to fix things!! We talked about stuff constantly, we just weren't taken seriously."

"I was an Editor. My job was to work with narrative and enforce a style and make sure things stayed consistent. I took my job very seriously. Aaron had me do small tasks like arrange his meetings, personally remind him about his appointments, and try and arrange things for his convenience. At every point of my REAL JOB, which was editing, he ignored me. He even took editing away and made it a group activity that everyone did on a projector on the wall. I voiced how this is NOT how you do my job, and he didn’t care. He kept doing it. I put up with things till the point that I made a correction on something very politely. He told me dismissively “Editing should not get in the way of writing”"

There are more accounts and I remember at the time there were more news sites with information, but that's the general idea.

Now, about Azula.

I could write a lot about her. I've said a lot about her through the years, with different levels of articulation, because I was young once. People have already written a lot about her, better than I could. But, for a general context of where I'm coming from, I'm going to try to explain.

I always felt like she was a character in which the show dropped the ball. Big time.

She was a girl. She was 14 years old. She was a kid like the other kids we see on the show.

Yet, she was depicted as unhinged and unredeemable for it.

She was shown falling apart, she was relentlessly depicted as unloved (especially by her family but also others around her), her isolation was framed as being always her own fault. She violently unraveled by the end of the series, to the point of suffering severe hallucinations, and she was visibly not treated with the same amount of compassion other characters did.

Again, she was a 14 year old child.

Her own uncle, a grown man with a past of war crime, who had his own redemption and is depicted as a hero, who chose to become guardian of her brother, says that "She's crazy, and she needs to go down".

What makes Azula, age 14, beyond hope but his nephew worthy of being cared for? Why is she seen as a monster since she's a literal child? Why was he allowed to grow and change, to have another life and be seen as a hero but she is already too spoiled to be allowed to grow?

At the end of the series and start of the comics, she has been institutionalized, something the writing shows as a proof of Zuko's compassion. Still, first we see her in the comics after the end of the series, she shows up like this:

They choose to depict a 14/15 year old who was put in an institution after a severe breakdown, abandoned by her family and monitored 24/7 as a teenage Hannibal Lecter.

The comics try to give her more depth but fail into giving her the narrative she deserves, especially with what they did with Ursa and how she chose to forget her children.

They use Azula, writing-wise, as a full-on villain. Everything they add to her seems to be with the purpose of making her "earn" her demise.

They treat her mental health as a threat and something that makes her "bad", they don't give her any semblance of redemption and they always, irrevocably, make her to be left alone, something that is always framed as being what she "deserves".

Zuko's feeble attempts to get close are framed less as Azula deserving it and more as instances for Zuko to prove how kind and caring and heroic he is. Because he did deserve a redemption arc. One that is still today considered one of the best written redemption arcs in television.

This is something that I think gets incredibly glaring when you look at Legend of Korra and compare the two.

Audiences in general didn't respond as well to Korra as they did to ATLA, and the reasons for that are varied and depending on who you ask, but Korra had very different writing, especially in the last two seasons.

To me, seasons 3 and 4 are the most effective and better developed, and also happen to be the ones in which they delve into the subjects of mental health, trauma and emotional regulation with the character of Korra.

Korra had different writers for different seasons. DiMartino and Konietzko did season 1, season 2 was done by Tim Hedrick and Joshua Hamilton and they were joined, in seasons 3 and 4, by Katie Mattila, who had worked in ATLA as well. Katie wrote specific episodes that deal with sibling rivalry and with mental turmoil, like Old Wounds and The Calling. I don't know who did what but, to me, the difference in how certain things are treated, especially with girl characters, is very clear.

I can't draw a 1 on 1 comparison between Ehasz's behavior and Azula's treatment, but I can certainly say, as a writer and an editor, that personal biases are always present in what you create and, unchecked, it leads to representations that respond to said biases and limited POV.

I can't assure that Ehasz was thinking of Azula in one way or another, that's between him and his deity of choice, but I can say that a man who treats women the way he has, certainly has a kind of bias in his use of said characters and the way to portray them that might take certain things with less respect or a lack of empathy than I would want in the media I'm partial to.

ATLA is, ultimately, always circling the subject of redemption and forgiveness, of empathy and change. It is less nuanced in its take on good vs evil than Korra, because the story has a different audience and aim, but Aang is all about compassion and he is the Avatar for that series. Still, Azula seemed to be less deserving of that compassion in the eyes of the writers.

And this is not about what she did or didn't do as a character, she isn't a Real Person, she doesn't DO things.

This is about the optics that portray her in a way in which the audience is meant to feel towards her animosity, fear and rejection. It isn't about what she did, because she's a fictional character, it's about why those writing chose to portray her story in this way.

And, with the context we have now, I think we can imagine a few reasons.

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <33