#TO MAKE THE EMOTIONAL DAMAGE HIT HARDER

[skitskatdacat63]

I now feel an immense urge to edit scenes from Andor episode 8 to Shostakovich Symphony 11 Mvmt 2 because HOLY SHIT. Unfortunately I think it'd be entirely too self indulgent/long-winded and only appeal to me but, god, IT WOULD FIT SO INCREDIBLY WELL AAAAHHHHHH

[luna-azzurra]

10 Lies Your Character Believes About Themselves (And They’d Die Before Admitting It)

These aren't the fun, Disney Channel lies like “I'm just a regular girl” while literally being a secret pop star. These are the ugly ones. The ones that get in your character’s blood and start rewriting their whole life without them noticing.

» “If people really knew me, they'd leave.” Not "might." Would. No question. So they smile bigger. They edit harder. They keep conversations surface-level. All while carrying this bone-deep certainty that love is conditional... and they are dangerously close to failing the test.

» “I have to earn every good thing.” Rest? Happiness? A day without guilt? They treat those things like prizes at the end of a brutal obstacle course. No one told them they could just have good things. No strings. No blood price. (So they keep bleeding anyway.)

» “I'm too much.” Too loud. Too intense. Too sensitive. Too complicated. They know it. They've been told. So now they pull themselves in, hold their breath, bite back everything real until they barely take up space at all. (And ironically, they still think they’re being "too much.")

» “I'm not enough.” Neat little trick, right? They’re both "too much" and "not enough" at the same time. Magic. They're convinced everyone else got the secret manual for how to be lovable and they somehow missed it.

» “If I'm strong enough, nothing can hurt me.” They call it resilience. Other people call it stubbornness. Reality calls it self-destruction. They've mistaken numbness for healing and independence for invulnerability. But hurt still gets in. It just hits harder when it’s been bottled up for years.

» “I’m responsible for everyone's happiness.” Caretaker. Peacemaker. Therapist friend. Emotional sponge. They’ve appointed themselves as everyone's safety net, believing that if they don’t hold everything together, everything will fall apart. (Newsflash: it's not their circus, and it never was.)

» “I don't need anyone.” Need is a dirty word. It’s weak. It’s dangerous. So they white-knuckle their way through life, collecting scars and pretending it’s freedom. But late at night? In the dark? They’d sell their soul for someone to just... stay.

» “I'm the villain in someone else's story and they might be right.” They know they've hurt people. Made bad calls. Left damage. And no matter how much good they do now, some part of them whispers, You don’t get to come back from that.

» “My best days are behind me.” Whether they peaked in high school, lost their shot at something important, or just carry a chronic ache of nostalgia, they believe it’s too late. That nothing good can be built from where they are now. (Which, ironically, makes them waste even more time.)

» “This is as good as it gets.” They settle. For bad love. Boring jobs. Half-dead dreams. They tell themselves it's "realistic." "Mature." "Practical." But underneath? It's fear. It's heartbreak. It's the quiet belief that hope is something they can’t afford anymore.

[jo-com]

──★ ｡𖦹˙🍓 ̟ Enemies Online, Lovers Offline?

Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: You and Lando Norris hate each other. At least, that’s what it looks like online—

୨ৎ Genre: A little SMAU, Enemies with benefits, Smut

୨ৎ Note: Please don’t judge my smut, haven’t written that for like months now i think? Explicit content / 18+ (spicy smut scenes), Language, Fake hate, real sexual tension, Hotel room hookups, Light dom!Lando energy

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

Username she said “i love him” but with ✨rage✨

Username this is not beef. this is foreplay

Username ❎enemies to lovers? ✅lovers who pretend they’re enemies.

Username this is not hate. this is love in lowercase and violence

Username she’s probs tweeting this while sitting on his lap

Username she hates him. which means she’s either dating him or about to

…

Username imagine fighting on main and spooning 20 mins later

Username lando’s version of love language is “fight me then feed me”😭

Username he probs said “you mad?” after this tweet

Username NO CUZ ITS GIVING THAT😭😭😭

Username someone said “bantercore relationship” and this is it

Username Is Mclaren not gonna do something about this or…

Username is this banter or a soft breakup announcement 💀

…

Username this relationship is 90% roasting, 10% emotional damage cuddles

Username high IQ on track, zero when he texts “wyd” at 1am

Username the tweet is rude but the love is real

Username Their love language is definitely verbal attack🥹

Username can they fight less and kiss more pls my heart can’t take it

Username the slow burn is actually fast and messy but i’m obsessed

…

Username the fact he claps back with effort… yeah they’re sleeping together😮‍💨

Username imagine hating someone but still thinking of clever burns for them… in public

Username Nah i JUST know he’s soft for her irl😛

Username Idc they’re my fav couple even if they say they’re not “dating”

Username THE WAY I SEE THEIR POSTS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER IS INSANE

Username my whole feed is literally just them fighting😭😭😭

…

He pinned you against the door before you could even breathe, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to lose his grip on reality. “You always run that mouth on no?,” he growled, lips brushing your jaw, “but the second I get you alone—what, suddenly you’ve got nothing to say?”

You rolled your eyes even as your body melted into his. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” His teeth grazed your throat. “Then why are you so wet for me right now?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His hand was already sliding beneath your skirt, fingers hooking into your panties and dragging them down like he owned you. You gasped when his thumb pressed against your clit—teasing, slow, confident.

“Still talking?” he muttered, voice low and dangerous.

“You’re a cocky—”

He cut you off with a bruising kiss, swallowing your insult like he was starving for it. He pulled back just long enough to murmur, “Take your clothes off.”

“Make me.”

That smirk. That goddamn, unbearable smirk.

He lifted you effortlessly and threw you onto the bed. You bounced once, laughing breathlessly before he climbed over you, ripping your top off like it was holding him back from something vital.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered, dragging his lips down your chest. “Laid out. Mouthy. Mine.”

“I’m not yours,” you bit, even as your legs parted for him automatically.

“No?” He pushed inside you in one smooth, devastating thrust—deep, slow, filling. You choked on your own breath.

“Say it again,” he said through clenched teeth, gripping your thighs and grinding into you harder. “Tell me you’re not mine while I fuck you like this.”

You didn’t say it again. You couldn’t. Not when he was rolling his hips into yours like he knew exactly where to hit, not when your nails were digging into his back, not when every moan that left your throat made him groan against your skin.

Lando leaned in, forehead against yours, breath ragged.

“You act like you hate me,” he rasped, pace brutal now. “But no one fucks you like I do, do they?”

You whimpered—high and desperate, your entire body trembling as your release built too quickly to stop.

He felt it.

“Come for me,” he said, voice rough, hips snapping harder. “Come so loud they’ll know exactly who shuts you up.”

And you did.

It hit like a wave, like fire, like heat and hate and something terrifyingly close to love. You came with a gasp, your walls clenching around him, dragging him over the edge just seconds later.

He groaned into your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

He let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he collapsed beside you, his arm immediately flinging across your waist like instinct. Like he was supposed to be there.

You were still catching your breath, cheeks flushed, heartbeat matching the lazy rise and fall of his chest against your side.

“…You’re really annoying, you know that?” you mumbled, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t answer right away—just nuzzled his face into your shoulder with a smug hum. “And yet here you are. Wrecked. Speechless. Obsessed.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

“Obsessed?” you snorted. “I literally hate you.”

“You say that,” he murmured, lips brushing your collarbone, “but you’re the one clinging to me like a koala.”

“I am not—” You glanced down. You were very much wrapped around him. Legs tangled. His hoodie half on your body. His fingers tracing patterns on your back.

“…Shut up.”

He grinned, boyish and soft, like he couldn’t help it. “You shut up.”

Silence fell for a moment. But it wasn’t tense. It was glowing. Comfortable. Then he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. It was nothing. It was everything.

“I like when you’re like this,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “Like what?”

He paused.

“Real.”

Your stomach fluttered, but you masked it with a scoff. “Ew. Don’t get sentimental on me, Norris.”

“Too late.”

He turned toward you fully now, his hand finding yours under the blanket. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just… him.

Warm. Gentle. Familiar.

You hated how safe it felt.
You also kind of loved it.

“You still suck,” you muttered, your voice softer now.

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, eyes full of something way too sincere for someone you supposedly hated.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m your problem now.”

[meowdei]

if you hold me without hurting me (you’ll be the first who ever did) — ft. sylus

synopsis: sylus is too causal with accepting pain. you don’t like seeing him hurt, so the best solution you can come up with is seeing him in pleasure

❤︎ word count: 2.4k words — it’s a miracle i kept it this short

❤︎ before you read: female hunter reader ; mature content. not suitable for minors ; not an established relationship but implied romantic connection. idk it’s complicated LOL ; injured sylus ; described blood and injuries ; evol inhibitors to make his injuries a bit more serious ; not proof read : hand jobs ; banter ; that’s pretty much it just wanted to write him cumming

❤︎ comments: i am posting this 3 mins before i need to leave for work this man has me hustling before my hustle rip

The safe house is quiet. Not including the sounds of Sylus’s low, pained grunts as you dress his wounds, it’s quiet. You’re quiet, and it’s unsettling—on a typical day, you’re more than half the noise.

(In a good way, of course. Sylus is not a liar by any means, and saying he doesn’t like the constant sound of your voice as you talk would be a ridiculously big lie. He values the truth in things.)

It means you’re brooding. Sulky, petulant brooding. He’ll just have to fix that, he thinks—and soon, too.

“I’ll have to trouble you a bit longer, sweetheart,” he murmurs, breaking the silence as he glances at his arm.

You glance up and stare at the damage: a stab wound to his abdomen, a gash on his arm, and ugly, unwelcome bruises littering across soft, slightly tanned skin.

You frown. It borders on a scowl. He watches as you carefully stitch the wound closed on his lower belly with precise fingers. (Faintly, his mind registers that you’re good at this. Too good at this. He doesn’t like the implications of that—not for his own case and especially not for yours.)

“Does it hurt?” You mumble, finally.

Sylus is not a liar by any means, so he hums, titling your chin up and forcing you to pause. “Yes,” he says truthfully. You’d never guess he was in pain just by the look on his face—but there are always signs if you look close enough.

Sticky, sweaty skin. Deep, labored breaths. Slumped posture that’s so far from his usual tall, towering stance. He looks just a bit tired, too. Like sleeping (something he rarely does enough to be considered healthy) would be his ideal course of action right now.

You frown at his admission. “I told you not to get so close,” you huff, “you never wait for me.”

He chuckles. Deep, slow. Every time Sylus laughs, you’re reminded how powerful he is. How even through the sound of his amusement alone, he sounds important. Wealthy, too, if you’re being honest—he laughs like the rich. But that’s always amused you more than it’s impressed.

“You seem rather distraught, love. Dare I say….you’re concerned?”

“You’re too smart to act this stupid,” you spit.

He grins. It’s large, wide, and all too smug for someone who’s under your hands as you mend back torn skin. Gently, he hums, “so the kitten bears her fangs. How cute.”

Your mood is getting increasingly worse. Sylus knows that—but sometimes, he’s a little selfish. Pushing you harder, cornering you against the wall with smart words and sly teasing is the only way to make you open up sometimes.

And, well, Sylus is no liar. He can’t say he hates getting under your skin entirely—it makes you look at him. And he likes your attention. But more than that, he likes knowing you care.

“You don’t think I’m capable,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes.

“And when did I say that, Miss Hunter?”

“You don’t have to say it, I just know. Otherwise, you’d listen when I tell you to wait,” comes your agitated reply.

Sylus does not wait for you. He jumps into a fight without letting you step foot onto the battlefield. Most times, it’s a minor form of irritation on your end when you’re itching to get in a good few hits. Sometimes, like now, it makes your emotions saturated in every form of distress.

Anger. Sadness. Regret. Panic. All of it simmers and simmers until you feel you’re overflowing with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

He pays the price today—one sloppy dodge of a blade, and it impales his lower abdomen with precision, lacing him with something. Something that evidently is rather good at repressing his evol—he can’t fight nearly as well let alone heal.

You can’t help but feel useless. More than anything, under appreciated. Maybe, if he’d waited just a moment so you could have covered him, then maybe your night would end with less blood on your hands and less pain on his.

“You’re also too bright to act this dim,” he says lowly, voice just a bit tight with pain. You tighten his stitches, and he doesn’t even grimace despite the clearly unpleasant sensation.

“Do tell me,” you glare, “just what am I being dim about?”

“If you think I don’t recognize your capabilities,” he drawls, studying the knife that once tore through his flesh slowly. It’ll be analyzed at the base. You’re certain he’ll figure out just what the blade was laced with and trace it back to its origins soon enough. He sets it down and meets your eyes—deep, rich crimson bleeding into your gaze. “Then maybe you’re not as good at seeing the bigger picture as I thought.”

“That you’re a smug bastard who likes to prove you’re better on your own?”

“That I care about you,” he says plainly. “I can handle it. It’s better you than me.”

“You could have died,” you hiss, “if I wasn’t there—”

“I’d have lived either way,” he says smugly. “Killing me is a rather difficult thing to do. Inflicting pain, on the other hand….well, at least it keeps things interesting.”

Your face drops. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s so right. You can injure him all you want, but he heals fast enough that he’s here to stay. Like an annoying thorn that keeps pricking you as you pick roses. Like a weed that just keeps growing back the more you tear them from the ground. He comes back. Annoying as he is, he comes back. And you don’t mind that so much—you think you might even need it that way.

But it always hurts. He bleeds red just like any other person. Grimaces here and there despite how accustomed he is to the agony. Somewhere along the line, his pain became yours.

And you can’t help but be hyper aware of how much you despise it.

“I hate when you’re hurt,” you whisper.

“I’ll live,” he soothes, cupping your cheek and swiping a stray tear with a large, callused thumb. You shiver, pouting slightly at the words. “I’ve had worse.”

“But you still feel the pain.”

“Can anyone really avoid that, sweetie?” He raises an amused brow.

Before he can open his mouth to add more, you lean closer, careful not to hurt his wound as you press against his chest and bury your head into his neck, pressing a light kiss to the skin.

His breath hitches, and you think you’ve finally gotten through that thick, stubborn front of his.

“If it hurts,” you murmur, “then I can make it feel good.”

He shivers—barely, of course. But he shivers. It’s a small win. “Oh?” He asks carefully, his good arm curling around your waist to keep you in place. “And how so?”

You press a lingering kiss to his jaw. Your lips are not strangers to Sylus. They know him as well as he knows them too, but you’ve always danced along the edge of more than friends and less than lovers. One second, you think you’ve crossed over the line with graceful steps, the next you fall ten steps back.

Right now, you think you don’t care. Line be damned and whether you’re just friends or lovers, you couldn’t be more unbothered.

“I don’t like when people touch you,” you admit, “not at all. But especially not so….rough.”

“Mmh, jealous are we? Don’t worry, you’re the only one I willingly let touch me,” he grins. You roll your eyes, watching as he shuffles back to lean against the couch and relax.

“I should be the only one who touches you,” you say with an air of petulance.

“Yes, yes,” he agrees, placating your mood, “then show me something more gentle,” he whispers.

You smile. It’s the first one of the night, lips curling against the shell of his ear as you breathe, “oh I intend to.”

Just like that, your hand trails up his thigh, carefully tracing along the inner edge of his leg before your palm roams over his crotch. There’s a bulge forming as if on command. Your ego boosts just a little—for all his strength and endurance, one brief, mere little touch from you forces his body to react against his will.

“Is this really where you should be putting in all your effort?” His breath hitches, and the tips of his ears flush a pretty, soft little pink, “my arm still has an open wound, you know.”

“You’ve had worse,” you repeat his words back to him, “but let me show you better.”

It’s quick work, unblocking his belt and unzipping him just enough to gently pull out his half-hard cock. You glance down, smiling at the small bead of pre cum that leaks from the tip, forming a kind little opportunity for you to watch him squirm as your thumb grazes his cockhead to collect it.

You smear it along his length as you slowly stroke him to full hardness, and he offers you a shaky little huffed out, “fuck,” under his breath.

“Does that hurt, too?” You hum, nose pressing into his jaw as you kiss his neck.

“No,” he sighs, melting into you, “no it feels so good. Don’t stop.”

“Do you see how nice it is when you just trust me?” You scold, “now apply this to the battlefield, too.”

He chuckles deeply at that, closing his eyes and fighting the urge to fuck his hips into your fist—his stitches are still fragile enough that he doesn’t want to risk tearing them. Instead, he has to trust that you’ll give him what he needs, all on your own.

“I’d rather get hurt and be spoiled like this,” he mumbles, “than risk anything happing to you. Seems like a better option if you ask me.”

“So stubborn,” you click your teeth.

Sylus is not a liar. You know that. If he says you’re capable, then you believe him—and if he says that he’d rather take the brunt of injuries and the pain that comes with them just to finish a fight before you can be involved, you know it’s not a lie. But you don’t always like the truth. You don’t like knowing he uses himself as a shield of sorts for you, as some wall between you and pain or maybe even death just because he can. Just because he heals. Just because he thinks he should.

You don’t always like the truth. Sometimes, you’d rather live in a lie.

So you tell yourself he thinks you’re less than him. That you’re lacking and beneath his approval and you have something to prove—so your hand tightens around his thick, reddened cock and you stroke fast. Quick and to the point.

Enough to have him groaning with an arm instinctively moving to cover his eyes as he throws his head back—only he hisses, feeling the stinging tug on his gash as he moves.

You hum, guiding his arm back down as you cup his cheek and murmur, “careful now. You’re hurt—I wonder whose fault that is.”

He rolls his eyes at the comment—but one swipe of your thumb through his slit has them rolling back in pleasure before he can glare at you. “You’re rather smug today,” he huffs, “do you like seeing me defenseless, sweetheart?”

“Not for the reasons you might think,” you say sweetly, grinning as you peck his cheek. Right where you cut him the first time you met. Right where you think you’ll always have to soothe so he knows you didn’t mean it.

Not anymore, at least.

“You’re far from the innocent kitten you seem to be,” he grins, huffing out a soft laugh as it tapers off into a light, breathy moan.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Enough to make you forget the pain?”

“Oh yes,” he grins. Suddenly, a wave of red wraps around your hand and forces your grip to tighten. “I’ve forgotten I was injured at all.”

His evol, you realize—it’s back.

You stare at the gash on his arm—crimson on crimson as the flurry of his power replaces the blood, leaving behind soft, healthy skin. Not a scar left behind. Not a trace of pain. Not even a faint line of where torn flesh mended together and became new.

He’s had worse, you remember. And he comes back from it every damn time.

Still, you think—you’re going to give him better.

“I don’t want you hurting because of me,” you breathe, leaning into his chest and pressing your weight against him without worry, now. Your hand fists his shirt as his arms wrap around you and keep you close.

Your hand glides along his girth between your bodies, working him up slowly, slowly, slowly until it all feels like it’ll come crashing down all at once. His breath hitches as he lets out a light groan of your name.

It sounds pretty on his tongue. You’re more determined to pull nicer sounds from him, too, so you kiss under his ear lobe, sucking gently on the skin and feeling him let out a soft, labored gasp.

“Will you spoil me like this every time I’m hurt?” Sylus breathes.

You scowl and hiss, “no. Absolutely not. Then you’ll just get hurt more.”

He smiles smugly at the retort, biting his lip as you squeeze your fist around him tighter. “A smart little kitten, aren’t you? Sharpening your claws.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like me enough to worry. I think that says enough.”

“Asshole,” you glare.

He’s shameless, you think. Because the insult brings him to the edge, his mouth falling open to a beautiful face of bliss, body quivering under you in soft tremors of pleasure. Sylus is beautiful. Dark, rough around the edges, and uncut stone with sharp corners. Beautiful enough to want, dangerous enough to slice your fingers if you don’t know how to touch him properly.

You admire him as he spills into your hands, his lips desperately searching yours as he leans closer and pulls you into a kiss, heavy breaths pouring into your mouth as he gives himself to you.

“Good,” he pants, “you…you make me feel so good.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to be here for,” you murmur, “so you don’t have to feel pain.”

You stroke him through his orgasm, until he’s soft and pliant and limp under your touch. Gently, you stroke his cheek with a thumb as you cup his face. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes.

“As capable as you are,” he says quietly, “I like the idea of you spending your energy in other fields of expertise. Sue me.”

“I should,” you purse your lips. “Sue you for all you’re worth.”

“It’ll be worth the troubles,” he says smugly, “you’ll get quite the sum if you manage to.”

And he’s not a liar, either—so you scoff at his smug, truth-telling grin before giving his curved lips a small peck.

Girl . Idk

[lunarcowgirl]

don't leave me here without you | one

yeah yeah fuck me, jack abbot x f!doctor!reader

you can read part two here and part three here

dr abbot finds your resume and thinks you are leaving the pitt - absolute disgusting and pathetic behaviour ensues, its all very endearing.

~~~

from the office of the author: DOn't even LOOK at me, I'm embarrassed. the pitt consumes my every waking thought so I'm going to make that everyone else's problem :)

this is my very first fic!!! it is a work of fiction!!!!! i do not know anything about being a doctor!!!!!! inaccuracies are none of my damn business!!!!!!!!!!

i can’t help but love the emotional constipation of jack and robby in this show, and i was feeling inspired by jack, so this is my attempt at unpacking a bit of it. reader is indeed reader, but i have formed a bit of a character in my head, so pls forgive me she does get a last name late in the piece. hope you enjoy!!!!! maybe more soon!!!!! <3

warnings: cussing, jack being pathetic, snooping based behaviours, mentions of loss of bodily function/traumatic injuries, mentions of war, mentions of covid, a spider may or not be guilty of a crime, miscommunication i fear, bad grammar from yours truely, bit o' angst

word count: 2.1k

Dr. Jack Abbot thought he was doing a very fine job not staring at you all shift long, thank you very much. It had gotten harder since you’d changed the way you’d done your hair, letting the blonde grow out. When the lights hit the top of your two fastidiously tied french braids it set the crown of your head on fire, like the sun itself sat behind you in some kind of imitation of a halo. angel indeed. You’d pierced your left ear again, yet another little golden hoop in the soft shell of cartilage at the very top. Every now and then, he would see you reach for it, as if to scratch an itch, but catch yourself before you could touch the still healing wound. The smallest, prettiest crease would form between your eyebrows, and your hand would curl into a tight fist of frustration. You were going to be the absolute death of him.

The last trauma had been difficult; damage to the neck not only making finding an airway close to impossible, but suggested a grim future for the patients ability to move as he once did. Walking was now in question. Fucking e-scooters, they were starting to offer up more victims than motorbikes. It had been an excruciating emotional dance to explain to the teenager’s recently widowed mother, that her 15 year old’s life would now be dramatically different, that she was going to have to take on a new burden. The quiet, contained grief in her eyes, not breaking contact with his, was just about all he could take for this shift.

It was easy then, to justify a little bit of gratuitous selfishness in front of the board; the easiest place to catch a glimpse of you. This shift you’d remained calm and switched on, as you always were, but something was clearly scratching at your mind. Standing dutifully behind Jack as he spoke to the mother, gently answering her questions, offering sincere condolences, introducing her to Kiara had all been done with perfect form. but when it was done, you had all but fled back to the nurses’ station, logging onto one of the computers at break neck speed.

This is where you now sat, chin resting on your linked fingers, eyes in a predatory narrow. Without meaning to, without really realising it was happening, Jack let himself drift slowly around the desk. On his journey closer to you he let his hands fall into nonchalant, non-suspicious motion. Adjusting the cord of the landline, running his finger over some forms to see if they needed his signature, flicking on a tablet to consider the chart on it. He didn’t really have the time to think too hard about it, but some small voice in the back of his head told him he looked like a fucking idiot. Jesus Christ, he’d committed now.

To get a decent angle of your screen he would have to step back a little from the desk, making it pretty damn obvious he was snooping. If it was only a glance, just a few seconds, he should be in the clear. Mindful not to get to close (you seemed to have eyes in the back of your head when it came to him, probably since he was your attending), he took one last scan of the room to check no one was clocking every last shuffle he was taking.

Pursing his lips with arms crossed tightly across his chest, he stepped back swiftly, eyes flicking down your screen. The majority of it was taken up by a word document, your name is bold letters across the top. Underneath was a jumble of dot points, places and years and accolades and societies—a resume?

A resume…your resume. You were leaving?

His heart went somersaulting into his stomach, bouncing off his ribs on the way down.

When had you decided this? Where were you going? When were you going to tell him?

Jack felt anger and grief and confusion and jealousy all at once in his veins like some kind of poisonous cocktail. What was he, some kind of teenager? What had he ever done to deserve an explanation from you? You, who was so wonderful and so clever and so funny and so so beautiful. You who had only ever weathered his grumpiness and sour expressions and poorly timed criticism with grace and patience. You who’d never figured out how to be a pessimist, who never let the bad days win. The thought of your absence was more painful than he could have ever expected — it scared him goddamn shitless.

“Dr Abbot?”

Dr Ellis had materialised out of nothing on the other side of the desk, one eyebrow cocked. Jack nearly tripped over his own feet to get away from you and the scalding sensation of shame burning across his face, “Ya?”

“Uh, can I get your eyes on a case in South 15? We’ve got a 10 year old, lethargic, sweaty, confused. Her parents are insistent she hasn’t ingested anything.”

Your head snapped up, finally divorced from whatever hypnotic pull the resume had on you.

“Does she have control over her extremities, fingers?”

Ellis frowned, “She was moving them a lot, almost obsessively. I figured if might just be a reaction to the confusion and being in a strange place.”

You stood in one fluid motion, hands quick to grab a pair of gloves, feet quick to dance around the station to get to Ellis’ side.

“Mind if I join? I think we need to look for a spider bite. Funnel-weavers are usually—”

And with that the pair of you were gone, walking shoulder to shoulder into the fray like soldiers in arms, conversing in low, practised tones. Ready to tackle whatever the inside of that room held; the scariness of having to diagnose quickly, the stress of terrified parents breathing down your neck. It didn’t matter how bitter-of-heart Jack had become after all the years of carnage, there was still a part of him that sang at the sight of a well-oiled team. It was selfish, he considered, to believe your leaving would effect just him. Every last doctor, nurse, support worker, radiologist, technician, transport aide, frequent flyer and desk clerk would mourn your loss. Perhaps the endearing Mel King most of all. She had taken to your cheerful demeanour and calm teaching style like someone drowning does to oxygen. In the time Langdon had been a voluntary inpatient, you had been a much needed rock in the stormy wake of that revelation. Another loss could send her off kilter again, and the ER needed her…badly.

So where exactly were you planning to run off to? Surely you wouldn’t go overseas again, not after what had brought you home the last time...

Morality was telling him to just walk away, to busy himself in some problem that likely was currently yearning for his help.

They hadn’t reached out had they? Could they convince you to go back?

He wished Bridget would just call for him, that Shen would bustle in with all his careful questions. But wishing would not make it so. And he had fought so long, all his life. The older he became, the easier it was to just surrender. To drift. The computer was about to fall asleep, locking it to the world. One swift movement of the mouse sealed his fate. He was a shameless snoop, a betrayer of privacy - your privacy.

It couldn’t be denied, the resume was impressive. Very, very impressive. How many graduating honours could one 30 something year old have? And the places you’d been, you’d practised - how many names could you possibly stack next to each other? Some of them he hadn’t even seen with his eyes, even after all the time in the camouflage pants that chaffed like you wouldn’t believe. You’d seen the very worst Covid had served up in Mexico City and Rio, you had been at the very front in Ukraine, in Afghanistan, traipsed all the way across North Africa and South America and just about every island in Indonesia. Pittsburgh, even with its fair share of tragedy, felt so foreign on the page next to all the adventure and danger. It would be easy to think that you had simply become bored, and wished once again to go somewhere that you could stem the flow of blood. Jack thought the blue beret would match the new blonde hair quite nicely.

“Dr Abbot?”

He froze. That voice. How long had he been staring at the carefully typed words, wishing they would reveal an answer?

There was no way, no way at all that he could gracefully and silently retreat from this one. He was elbow deep in the cookie jar, no better than a child, spited at not being told the grown up’s secret. He looked behind himself with humiliating slowness, feeling infinitely small and ashamed. The small crease between your brows had deepened into a valley he could not dig himself out of.

“Dr James.” He said, his voice sounding all together too loud and too far away, “If you are walking away from a computer in any circumstance other than a complete emergency, you must log off, there is confidential information of patients that must be protected from wandering eyes.”

“Wandering eyes?” You let a laugh escape, entirely hollow.

And then, with more steel then he had ever heard, “Can I speak with you privately for a minute?”

“Fine.” He said, straightening with an angry click from his back. Too old for all this high school shit. You made a point to lean past him, and log off with a few aggressively passive aggressive snaps of the keys.

He trailed behind your long, mechanical strides, deeply unsettled by the stiff set of your shoulders. Maybe you’d developed the ability to be negative in the time to took to stomp from the nurses’ station to the family room door, which you promptly shoulder charged open. Once it was safely closed behind both doctors, you whirled on him.

“What the hell were you doing looking at that?”

“Like I said, you need to log off—”

“Bullshit, Jack!” You looked wild, eyes impossibly wide, “There was no reason for your face to be 2 inches from the screen to log me out. Or have your eyes completely given out since the start of shift?”

If there was no way to dodge the bullet, he may as well try swallowing it, “What exactly do you plan on doing with that document? You gonna flee the country again? Run from all us sorry fucks here in the Pitt?”

You recoiled, like the venom in his words had actually struck your skin. Jack watched them sink in, the sizzle of their marks.

You shook your head once, looking down at your sneakers, the 10-year-too-old linoleum floors.

“I can’t believe you. I cannot believe you.” The words were pulled straight from your chest at the end of meat hooks.

Jack opened his mouth to strike again, but your gaze shot upwards and locked onto his. The attacks died on his tongue.

“All I have done since I set foot in here was try and get close to you Jack Abbot. I have offered you my full attention, my utter respect and confidence and trust, all my effort, all my energy, everything I have.” You took an incredulous step backwards, unsteadied by your own words and the weight of them now sitting between you, “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I would ride right on back into all the shit and misery all over again if that is what you asked of me.”

Something that looked frighteningly like a tear slipped down your cheek and off your chin.

“And what do you offer in return? You push and push and push me away.” The words wobbled now, exhausted from the revelation.

“What right do you have,” You gasped, “to now act betrayed about this? To declare you’ve always cared? Like its me that’s hurting you?!”

Killshot.

Jack’s mouth pressed into a hard line, a terrible burning spreading through the back of his eyes, a horrible pressure on his chest. All that time he had been pretending not to look at you, you had been staring straight through him into his very soul. Seeing every ugly inch of his insides. He wanted to run, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at your feet.

Bridget rapped sharply on the door of the window, her face grave, “Car pileup on the highway, multiple traumas, 4 minutes out.”

By the time he turned back to you, your face had been schooled back into cool neutrality, a deep breath filling your lungs. Before Jack could reach out and touch you, you were gone, like you were never even there.

~~~~~

um, so yeah I guess? more soon! x

| next

[syrecjh]

─★🪐 ̟ !!⋆⭒Battlefield Proposal

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader

The sky is broken.

Gray clouds hang heavy above the smoldering wreckage of what used to be a city center. The wind carries smoke, ash, and the faint smell of ozone from quirk discharge. A building groans as it finally gives in to the damage and collapses with a hollow, gut-punching thud. Somewhere behind you, a car alarm cries weakly into the void like a heartbeat trying to outlive a flatline.

You press your palm to your side where your suit is ripped, warm blood sticking through your gloves. It hurts to breathe. It hurts more to stop.

“Oi,” Katsuki barks, his voice rough like gravel chewed up by flame. He’s just ahead, chest heaving, the angles of his jaw lit by orange flame. There’s soot smeared on his cheek, a shallow cut above his brow, and something in his eyes that makes the marrow in your bones tremble.

“Keep movin’. We ain’t stoppin’ here.”

But he does stop.

Right there—between a fallen traffic light and a crater still sizzling with leftover energy. Sirens echo in the distance. The city's on its knees. And so is he.

You freeze.

“Katsuki?” you rasp. “What the hell are you—?”

His knee hits concrete like a thunderclap. Not from weakness. From intention.

You stare. Time slows.

“Shut up.” His voice is hoarse, heavy with dust and emotion. “Just—fuckin’ shut up a second.”

He’s kneeling, knee pressed into cracked concrete, and his hand is trembling—not from fear of dying, but from the terrifying possibility of never saying what he needs to say.

“There’s no time,” you whisper, throat closing, heart hammering in your ears.

“Exactly.” He looks up at you, raw and real and bleeding from a cut above his brow. “That’s why I’m doin’ this now.”

“No,” you whisper, already shaking your head, blood rushing in your ears. “You’re not—you’re not doing this now.”

His fingers fumble into the blackened edge of his gear—past the broken clips, the dust, the cracked metal—and pull something out. Small. Circular. Bent just slightly from the blast. A ring.

You blink like it’ll disappear if you look too hard.

“I ain’t got another fuckin’ minute to waste,” he growls, voice trembling in a way his hands never did in battle. “Been carryin’ this around like an idiot waitin’ for some perfect time.”

You can’t speak. The air’s too thick. Or maybe your chest is too full.

"And you think this is perfect?"

“No but now look where we are,” he huffs, looking at you like you’re the only steady thing left in this crumbling universe. “If one of us doesn’t make it outta this—shit, if you don’t, if I don't—I need you to know.”

“To know what?” your voice cracks like glass.

He meets your gaze. Fierce. Honest. Like war and worship all at once.

“That you’re it. You always fuckin’ were.”

Your knees give out. You’re on the ground before you realize it, crouched in front of him, tears streaking down your dirt-stained face.

“I’m not saying yes because I think we’re dying,” you whisper, clutching the ring like it’s a lifeline.

“I know.”

“I’m saying yes because I wanted to say it since last winter, and I was just scared and stupid and—”

He leans in. Foreheads collide, noses bump. The kiss is quick, fiery, unfinished.

“Then let’s make it out,” he says. “You and me. Together. Always.”

The wind howls again, shaking windows still barely hanging on. But inside this ruin, in the firelit silence between you both, something whole is born.

Hope.

He slides the ring into your ring finger. His fingers linger there, pressed to your heart. Like a vow.

And then the moment’s gone—because the city rumbles again, and reality snaps its jaws back open.

But you run differently now. You fight harder.

Because the ring is in your finger, warm from his hand. Because your blood runs next to his now—not just in battle, but in promise.

A battlefield proposal.

Born in fire. Held in grit.

And if you survive?

God help the world.

You’ll burn it down together in love.

And one day—when the dust has settled, and the skies have cleared—you'll tell the story of how love asked for forever at the edge of the end.

[kxsagi]

HII

can you do bllk boys (specifically sae, shidou and reo) w a reader who is crying over a grade and acting like it's end of the world, but when they look at the grade it's like an 86% 🙏🙏

“𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝟖𝟔% 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞”

a/n: reader in this one is me i fear

ft. itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi

itoshi sae

sae hears your loud sniffles echoing through the apartment and assumes, logically, that someone died. 

“what happened?” he asks, rushing into the living room with just the slightest hint of concern behind his usual deadpan expression. 

you’re face-down on the couch, curled up in a blanket like the world is ending. “i failed,” you choke out dramatically. 

sae raises a brow. “failed what?” 

you thrust your phone at him with trembling hands. 

he looks. then he blinks. “… this is an 86.” 

“AN EIGHTY-SIX,” you sob like you're starring in a historical tragedy. “I DESERVED AN A!! I DESERVED A NINETY-FIVE AT LEAST–” 

he just stares at you for a solid five seconds. 

“you’re crying like you got a restraining order, not a B plus.” 

sits on the floor next to the couch and flicks your forehead gently. “don’t waste your tears. save them for something serious. like when i retire.” 

but he does bring you your favorite snack and lets you sulk dramatically on his chest while he scrolls through his phone. 

“eighty-six,” he mutters again under his breath, still slightly baffled. “you’re unwell.” 

shidou ryusei

he walks in to find you on the floor, half-buried under a pile of notebooks and sobbing like the apocalypse hit. 

“WOAH. did someone dump you?” 

“NO,” you wail. “I GOT MY TEST GRADE BACK.” 

“damn. that bad, huh?” 

he picks up your phone from where it fell and glances at the screen. “babe. this is an eighty-six.” 

“I KNOW,” you cry, rocking back and forth like a medieval peasant in despair. “I’M A FAILURE. A DISGRACE. I SHOULDN’T EVEN BE ENROLLED–” 

“you know i’ve never scored over a 70 in my life, right?” 

“and that’s why you’re you and i’m failing algebra!!” 

shidou full-on cackles. “yo, you’re dramatic as hell. i like it.” 

flops down next to you on the floor and pulls you into his lap. 

“we should burn your textbook in protest. let’s cause chaos. vandalize the math department. make it personal.” 

“ryu, i just want an A…” 

“and i want abs, but here we are.” 

“but you do have abs!” 

eventually just tickles you until you’re laughing instead of crying. 

he still thinks your breakdown over an 86 is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. 

mikage reo

reo is the supportive boyfriend so the moment he hears you sniffle, he’s by your side in 0.5 seconds with a credit card and a comforting hand on your back. 

“what’s wrong, baby? what do you need? food? a nap? therapy? a yacht?” 

“i got my grade back,” you sniffle, teary-eyed. 

“okay, okay, we’ll fix it– wait.” he checks your laptop. blinks. reads it again. “… an eighty-six?” 

“IT’S SO EMBARRASSING,” you wail. 

reo looks at you like you’ve personally offended his rich-person sensibilities. 

“you’re crying over a B?” 

“A B+,” you correct through sobs. “it’s not even a full A. i’m useless.” 

“babe. be serious. you’re dating me. clearly you’re full of good choices.” 

wraps you in a giant cashmere blanket and orders your favorite dessert immediately. 

“listen, we can hire a private tutor, a therapist, and a hitman if needed, okay?” 

still buys you a ‘#1 smartie’ trophy and makes you keep it on your desk as a joke. 

kisses your forehead. “next time you cry over an 86, i’m billing you for emotional damage.” 

nagi seishiro

stares blankly at your sobbing form from the doorway. “did someone die?” 

you shake your head, sniffling violently. 

“then why are you crying?” 

you show him your grade. he stares. “… isn’t this good?” 

“it’s not perfect,” you say, wiping your nose. 

nagi, who has never tried harder than 50% on anything in his life, just tilts his head. 

“looks like a passing grade to me.” 

flops onto the couch next to you and steals your blanket. 

“wake me up when you’re done overreacting.” 

later sends you a meme that says “you vs the guy she told you not to worry about” with your grade and his 92% next to it. 

isagi yoichi

he rushes in like a worried golden retriever. “are you okay? what happened?? did someone say something to you???” 

you show him the screen. he stares. stares harder. 

“baby… this is an 86. you’re literally doing better than my ENTIRE high school career.” 

you sniff. “but i studied so hard.” 

“and it paid off??” 

you pout. “not enough.” 

isagi pats your head gently like you’re a distressed puppy. “you’re the only person i know who’d cry over a grade like this.” 

then he starts hyping you up aggressively. “you’re so smart. you’re the genius of my life. you’re basically a scholar. you’re the protagonist of my academic redemption arc.” 

kisses your temple. “let’s frame it and write ‘we’re proud of you’ on the bottom.” 

you hit him with a pillow. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[femmeftal]

Hello bestie , wanted to ask if u could do how omni mark and viltrumite mark met their wife reader . She could be a hero , alien or just a regular person. Did she like him at first , how did they feel about her when they first met . The proposal 😍, wedding and never forget the honey moon night . 😉☺️😘

݂ ͡ ☆ be my baby!

⭒ pairings : mark!variants x mantis!reader

warnings : ( reader is a alien whos a hero ) fem body reader, smut, forced marriage

# OMNI-MARK

You and Omni Mark had met through standing known for being mass murderers, no one had expected you to be a killer those sweet innocent eyes with the galaxy in them fooled everyone.

No one knew about your kind not even Cecil, you were an empathic insectoid that was capable of taking over people's emotions which was lethal.

You had tendencies as a celestial hybrid, your father was worse than you thought having tendencies as a killer, and a hunter but you didn't inherit your fathers abilities instead you had your own set of powers that would deem you powerful.

When you had saw Omni-Mark slashing peoples heads off and ripping their bones from out of their place leaving a gory scene, you were amazed something about this made your mouth drool.

You couldn't put your finger on it but something about this feeling was foreign, you weren't an expert at human feelings and continued to dismiss it obviously that wasn’t enough.

Your antennas jumped when you saw the taller muscular male approach you, he was hovering up into the air with his arms crossed into his chest.

“ who are you. “ his tone was cold and demanded to know what you were and WHO you were since in the hero industry you were not that famous.

“ oh.. I am uh i’m Y/N “ Your innocent smile and the thoughts that ran through your sick mind were unbelievable, imagining stuff not a normal human would imagine but you were not human.

“ I cannot help but to see you kill those Heros, it was such a satisfaction to see and view “ The power balance between you both were thick, being on your knees in front of him drooling like crazy like a crazy pervert peeking at someone's panties, the look on Mark’s face was priceless.

When he had first saw your face when you were on your knees, something in him told you were the one, the one to boss around, the one to command your hand in marriage and you’d say yes like the gullible alien you were he’d thought.

and so he did, demanded your hand in marriage telling you how he needed a little pet following him around with powers like yours to fill in his voids, telling you how you did not have a say in what he said so when he saw the love drunk smile on your face he stiffly rubbed the back of your head.

Helping Mark during the war to emotionally damage many enemies, healing mark while convincing the good guys to give up and commit suicide to make Mark’s job easier in this war.

Rewarding you with either a praise or a sloppy kiss on your forehead, telling you once you guys had gotten back to your worlds he’d treat you good.

So when you and Mark got back to your dimension he bounced on you, taking your sloppy cunt in the middle of the destroyed road. your loud squeaky moans made it harder for him to not shove his whole cock deep into you, but luckily for you he had composure like any other human.

Of course you and him have done it before, he always told you it was for him to release his stress so he wouldn’t hurt you during his mood swings.

But this time he told you it was special, it was a certain things that human had did when they were married. Your very first honeymoon on the streets and it was amazing, the deep thrusts hitting your spongey G spot and almost inserting into your womb. Every pained moan was always a pleasurable one, the grip on the back of your neck was Mark telling you to hush it and take it like he had always taught you to. It was so hard to take

your master, especially if his thrusts were rough and slow. only time he had jack hammered inside of your walls is when you disobeyed one of his orders and degraded him for it, never again.

Mark’s loud whimpers and groans had echoed through the dark dim street, swearing that his nails would leave a mark from digging into your fragile neck. And all of a sudden your world went blank, the feeling of both of your guys orgasm washing over each other. His balls were emptied into you, three days worth of cum was in your womb that would probably get you pregnant.

# VILTRUM!MARK

You and Viltrumite Mark met when he had taken over the planet you were living on, the loud sirens of alarms telling you that people should start to evacuate to somewhere more safer than what this was, and so you did. Well try to do, but you were pinned down by a Viltrumite, sniffling you’d beg for your mercy kicking underneath the body that was above you. “ stay still woman “ the male viltrumite said, your whimpering and crying had made Mark’s heart melt. eyes squinting from

the tears that were spilling out of your wet eyes, witnessing your planet be destroyed for the one that would carelessly take over it. You couldn’t do anything about this which enraged you so much

It was too bad you were knocked out, head hitting the rough ruined ground. Your vision went straight to black when this had happen it was so quick that you didnt notice the man raise his hand

so when your eyes started to flutter on the white bed that was decorated with pillows, and lace blanket you were confused. Where were you? How did you get here? But you soon realized how you gotten here, soon pulling yourself up despite the agonizing pain in your head from hitting the ground.

Walking to the door you could hear the creaks behind you, the man who kidnapped you and placed you in this white room was right behind you. Not knowing what to do you stupidly turned

around to face the man, he was handsome looking like he had just got out of his shower which is why fog was in the room. The man started to frown “ why are you up, you will need sleep for the ceremony tomorrow. “ you looked

confused “ what ceremony?! let me go at once.. please “ still having kindness in your heart to save yourself from not being killed, looking like you’d

breakdown again if he did try to kill you, “ why would i let my wife leave? “ his voice was sly and questioning as if he wasn’t doing a single thing wrong. When did you become a wife you thought?! HOW did you become a wife

“ i do not want to.. no i dont want to hand you my hand in marriage “ your body would back into the metal like slide door, the technology on this new planet you were settled to was strange to you.

“ You will, for my heir and to populate my planet “ his priority was straight, you hated it. No you hated it and him you couldn’t possible marry the man who had destroyed your home planet as if it was okay just to do so?! frowning harshly you started to spit out degrading words to the male

“ you bastard! you think you can just do this and get away with this you’re a psycho i would never get with a scum like you! “

only if you knew that hours later you’d regret your wording when Mark’s hands were wrapped around your wrists restraining your hands to stop the hitting, he could smell the arousal on his brand new brides sex, the pool between your legs had began to smear on the white sheets.

Dampening them your white fluffy dress was lifted up to reveal so, being forced to not even wear under garments. Mark watched with fascination from your warm pussy pulsing at nothing, if mark knew your kind went into

heat he would’ve taken that to heart so long ago, your reddened face and glowing antennas made your appearance look even sexier. Chest heaving like you were out of breath and thrashing to get away from the male, you didn’t want to admit but you needed this, no you had to have this your heat hurt so much. wanting to be filled your hips unconsciously bucked up, signaling that you did

want this and you weren’t just fighting to be a little stuck up bratty wife, and Mark watched this with amazement remembering the degrading sentence that came out your vocal cords 4 hours

ago, “ dont worry my bride, i’ll take care of this “ him whispering into your earlobe made this worse for you, he was teasing you wasn’t he?

So when Mark’s long slim fingers slithered and sunk into your pussy you calmed down, stopping the thrashing and kicking. Even opening your legs wider to help him finger you better for prepping,

soft mewls and gibberish sentences filled the room just like how his fingers filled your un experienced pussy. Using every trick in the book he knew he had used, curling his fingers to find your g spot, playing with your hardened nipples and twirling your clit with his other fingers.

You were prepared, placing your legs onto his shoulder and swiftly thrusting in. Of course Mark held onto the fat of your thighs, the feeling of your virgin cunt broke him slightly. He never knew someone could be this tight until now, and god he wanted to experience this every single day

your protest went silent on his ears, swaying his hips to make a rhythm that could make your soft moans turn into loud screams. making sure the whole empire heard you getting pounded by Mark.

[somehowukook]

(On going) Jungkook fics that totally worth the wait. PT. 1. *:･ﾟ✧

I decided to share some ongoing FFs that I’m completely obsessed with.

Minors under no circumstances can interact with my posts.

Hi guys,💕

(I usually wait for authors to finish posting so I can hyperfocus, disappear from reality, and binge-read everything in one go—but these are so good that waiting for each chapter is totally worth it).

Let’s go!

(╯°□°）╯┻━┻

　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　⠀✦⠀　

　　　　　　 *　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀ *　　

　　　　

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Teach me how to love by @kookooluvr

fwb2l, slow burn

Jeon jungkook, a fellow professor at yonsei university, is your friend, co-worker, and secret bed buddy. you have rules set in place to make sure there are no misunderstandings in your little arrangement. the #1 rule is as clear as day; no catching feelings. simple, right? wrong. let's see how un-simple it gets when a certain economics professor falls for an emotionally unavailable political science professor.

I love how we get wrapped up in the story, how the OC has walls up, and how JK breaks them down so gently. He’s so sweet, so soft, and so sure about his feelings—his patience is top-tier. And when he’s in bed… damn, a whole different side comes out. That duality hits me hard. I need one of these for myself. 😮‍💨🔥

⊰⋆⊱⊰⋆⊱⊰⋆⊱⊰⋆⊱⊰⋆⊱

Wounds we never show by @smartkookiee

E2L

You and Jungkook have always at each other's throats, bound by a mutual disdain that runs deep. You both would rather step into traffic than be alone together. But when a chance encounter at a wedding leads to an unexpected and forbidden arrangement, the lines between enemies and something more begin to blur.

This is one of my all-time faves! I love a good E2L, but the way this one unfolds… you don’t really know how it started—you just piece it together through flashbacks while they’re getting real close with some 🔥 scenes. Seriously, chef’s kiss! 😙👌

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Fuck me up! by @jungkoode

E2L , RoomatesAU

A story about ruined expectations & reckless decisions ˎˊ˗

When your search for affordable NYC housing leads you to apartment 6B, you think you've hit the jackpot. That is, until you realize your new roommate is the guy from that one wild night on January - the one who ruined you for anyone else. Now you're stuck sharing walls with the living embodiment of your worst mistake, and the sexual tension is thick enough to choke on. Between his emotional damage and your trust issues, this arrangement is a disaster waiting to happen.

But hey, at least the hate sex is phenomenal.

What can I even say about the story that introduced me to my fairy godmother of ffs? Kiki is brilliant, and I love how she interacts with us! But about the story- imagine getting stuck in an apartment with the most unbearable roommate... who also happens to be the best sex of your life. Not sure if it's E2L or Enemies with Benefits— your call, haha. Either way, it's amazing! The best part? It's total crack (but also no) but still unfolds so well, and I just know l'll be left face down on the floor for hours.🫠🫠🫠

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2U ⭑.ᐟ by @numinousher

E2L, roommates. SMAU.

The two of you become roommates after being cheated on. how will you and jungkook handle your new life together when one blasts sad music and cries their heart out until they don’t have anymore tears, and the other watches rom-coms movies and cries about the life they could’ve had?

It’s a mess, but this JK? Walking green flag. Absolute sweetheart and so protective… ugh, I’m in love! 🩷 And i love the way he gets her vocabulary haha giiiirl

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Bloodlines entwined by @spideyjimin

WerewolfAU, pregnancy

Having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child.  

Look, I'm not really into werewolf stories. I read them, enjoy them, love the possessiveness and all, but for some reason, I've never really gotten hooked. At least, not until this one. Damn, my dream is to acidentally get pregnant by this wolf king right here, haha! WOOF WOOF 👀 🐺

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Colour me in by @taegularities

Fwb, fake dating, college!au

Jungkook's door only opens for you when there's a barter: a trade of lust and haze. But today you knock for something more, as intriguing as it is frightening – and you hope it doesn't close his door forever.

Rid starts with a solid fake dating plot, and before you know it, all your emotions are scattered across Tumblr. For me, this FF is one of the all-time classics of Tumblr. It’s one of those to frame, read, and re-read. I’m telling you, so many scenes made me go back and read them again. When I found CMI, I was find on chap 5 and had no idea what was going on, but it was written so well I couldn’t stop the chapter, then I started from the begining. NOBODY IS GOING TO REGREAT READ THIS. In one scene i was so inspired, that i painted a giant canva.

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This is the pt.1.

Please lmk your thoughts!!!!

Soon I’ll be back with more. Kissus kissus! Beijooooo 💕💕

[fruitheart]

      ․ ․ ․ ✄ ― MY LOVER ― ೀ

              CHAPTER ONE ; SINISTER!MARK x READER

— CONTENT WARNING ; dark content, abusive relationships, gore/canon-typical violence + cannibalism/cannibalistic thoughts. Bloodied and bruised knuckles, with bones that were surely broken. Aching pain that didn't seem to let up, not that either of you would let it, a nasty back-and-forth of violence as you each struck the other. Each hit seemed harder than the last, with the emotional weight that carried within it only making the impact all the harsher. Placing a hand to his chest, nails that dug into the cloth of his attire, you pulled your other hand back before colliding it with the side of his head. A right hook that sent him hurdling backwards with a head that rung.

In his universe, you wouldn't have been strong enough to hit him like this, to cause this much damage. In your universe, he'd never have done anything for you to hit him to begin with. Mark would have never been one to hit you. Your Mark.

This wasn't your Mark.

In your universe, you failed to protect him, you costed him his life. In his universe, he took your own life, from what he'd have believed to be mercy. You were going to die regardless, that's what he believed. He wanted to take it himself, in an act of pity and warped love. He was saving you.

But here each of you stood, with faces the other knew well.

Mark grunted, standing up from being knocked back. Snorting and coughing up phlegm that mixed with his blood. His eyes narrowed, glaring into you as he stood straight. Your eyes frantic and snapping to every little movement he did while you held onto your side, breathing heavy and chest burning. You too, stood straight up, ready for his next move onto you.

He grinned, lop-sided with just a bit of teeth showing, just like your Mark would.

"Take that stupid look off your fucking face." You don't really think it's stupid, do you?

"You can kill it off of me if you hate it that much." He retorted, unrelenting. Taking a step back before lunging towards you. His arms reaching out and grabbing onto your collar as he lifted you up off the ground and slammed you back down.

You don't hate it, do you?

The feeling of your back hitting the ground made you groan out, air knocked out from your lungs. Hands reaching up to grip onto his as you pulled him down with you. Both of you tumbling and intertwining before you began to punch and kick at each other once more. Blood that mixed and painted each body, staining the skin of one another, it only fueled the adrenaline coursing through veins that ached and pleaded for an end to this. Chests that rose and fell in sync with one another.

You hated it, you hated everything about this. Why, why did he stand before you and why did he have to look exactly like him. To every blemish, freckle and beauty mark that he possessed. Why were you being tormented like this? Was the grief you held not enough? Every waking moment you spent mourning him, was it not enough? Was this your punishment for failing him?

Whatever this was, you didn't want it. Even if everything in you yearned for it. Yearned for him, the feeling of his skin on yours. Yearning for something familiar, for anything that seemed to be resembling what you had lost. Did he feel it too? Did his skin itch to feel against yours?

"I hate you." You spat, "I fucking hate you!" Pitch raising and voice threatening to crack and crumble. Mark's jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists as he threw you, watching you hit the ground.

Gripping onto the ground of this wasteland as he tried to catch his breath, head hung low while he watched you through his lashes in case you'd come for him once more. He watched intently. Your body shook, picking yourself up.

He coughed, body tense. "I don't- know why he kept you alive," Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, a small smirk stretched across his lips. "Maybe if he got rid of you—"

You already knew what he was going to say.

You knew full well what his next words were going to be. Because the truth was, you often wondered the same thing.

"He'd still be alive." He finished, silence heavy as the only thing that was there to fill it was the sound of the wind whipping around you both and heavy breathing. The words didn't need to leave his mouth, it was always something you thought about. But to hear it from him...

Weak, it made you weak. Tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You tried to focus all your strength in continuing to breathe.

To hear his voice say it. The same voice that helped soothe you in times where he was the only one who could comfort you. The same voice that would coo sweet words into your ears, into your hair and into your skin. It made everything in you burn. Words so cruel, from a face so dear to you, from lips that looked just like his. You looked over to him, eyes heavy. This wasn't your Mark.

This wasn't him.

So why do you keep having to fight with yourself on that. He shouldn't be familiar to you. But everything about him besides how harsh he acted screamed otherwise. Cracked lips separating, words that struggled to come out until you swallowed the very little saliva you had.

"Then-" You huffed, body wobbling back and forth. "Why don't you just-" Throwing yourself at him once more, your hands reached for his throat, tightening around it. Clashing your body into his as you both crashed to the ground, quick to straddle him and keep your hands around his neck with nails that dug into his skin. "Finish the job!" You screamed.

His hands flew towards your wrists, holding them tightly and entirely as he tried to get you to lessen your grip. Eyes wide, bloodshot and staring up at your face. A face he himself, was entirely used to. He opened his mouth, "The same-" His voice strained, "Reason why you won't." Mark clenched his jaw, the grip on your wrists tightening more and more until he knew he was close to snapping every bone in them.

Your nails dug into him harder, skin breaking and tearing until you could feel the blood seep under your fingertips. Heart pounding against your ribcage, a rhythm he was able to hear clearly, even when you were cutting his air off. Body shaking against him, you felt yourself beginning to lose focus. Heart stammering, you stopped breathing for a moment, just to let out a choked gasp. A hold that finally began to weaken which made him let out a sharp breath.

He watched your face twist and scrunch up. Your body hunched, leaning forward as your hair covered your face, a face he thought he'd never see again. Mark was cruel, at least this one was, but the sight of you made him remember feelings he thought he long left. Part of him felt repulsed by it.

Did he feel the same way? Did he yearn for something he once knew? Was he even able to do so?

Mark laid still, unmoving when your head laid against his shoulder. Your body going slack on top of him. It made him think, when was the last time he felt you against him? When was the last time he heard your voice and when was the last time he was able to see every little detail of you so up close like this. Hands finally moving off from his throat, he felt them slide down and press against his chest.

Shaking breaths that made him feel confused, naturally, he would have thrown you off. He would have used this moment to his own advantage, he would have broken every bone in your body until you were nothing more. But he didn't. Just like you didn't strangle the life out from his eyes when you had the chance.

You lifted your head, staring down at him. A moment he relished to an extent; you really were her. You were closer to her than he was to your own Mark.

So similar you could... practically replace her.

You could be her.

Lips parting once more, you spoke, "I hate you." So much irony in such a statement when he had the face of a boy you'd have done anything for.

Mark couldn't hear what you were saying anymore, the sound of your heart pounding against your chest drowned it out, a melody he found himself wanting to hear more of. Maybe it was the amount of blood he had lost, maybe it was the way he could feel the heat of your body on top of his. You smelled just like her, you felt just like her. A body so warm, with a shape that he was so familiar with. It only unveiled an animalistic emotion within him; primal and desperate, hungry.

The way your eyes bore into his, it did nothing to help the on-growing need to consume you whole. Flesh and blood, every strength and weakness you held. He wanted it all until there was nothing left. He wanted you in ruins until there was nothing more to ruin.

Neither of you moved, bodies pressed one another, still and unwilling to pull apart. Even if the feeling of disgust and shame loomed over you, for him, that didn't exist. Even if you wanted to pull away, the only thing that kept you from doing so was the face of your lover staring back at you. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the temptation. You hated it, he'd live fine with it. You were broken, lost and grieving; he was starved.

After what seemed like ages, his hands moved their way to your arms. Grip tightening before deciding to push it further, moving to reach for your face and pull you down and towards his own.

This was wrong. It wasn't right, no, you shouldn't do this.

You shouldn't.

It didn't matter. Did it ever? Lips brushing against lips, pressing against so roughly they were sure to bruise if they hadn't already from the earlier assault. You weren't sure if that was your blood you were tasting or his; he couldn't care less. Mark sat himself up, bringing you down onto him as he did so, sure to never break a kiss that shouldn't even be happening. Shaking hands reaching up to hold onto his shoulders as his pressed against the small of your back to hold you in place.

This was filthy, it was all wrong. The guilt only made itself all the more known the longer his lips moved against yours. This wasn't your Mark, but it felt like him. Your body recognized it as him, even if you didn't want it to. Huffs of air that passed through chapped lips and teeth, he wouldn't let you go if you bothered trying to pull away, but you didn't. Mouth moving to graze his teeth against sweet flesh, the urge to sink his teeth deep in until all he could hear was the blood gushing out and your pained screaming. He wanted it all, he wanted to suffocate himself in it and he wanted it to destroy you. You weren't his, but he wanted to make you exactly that, no matter if you complied or fought. Letting the canines of his teeth slowly prick the layer of skin, crimson leaking as it only served to quench his thirst and stain him all the more. The intoxicating taste of life oozing into his mouth. His hands gripped onto your sides, rough and needing. You were quick to reach up and hold onto him, the sharp pain in your shoulder making you gasp.

It hurt, all so badly. Everything about it, not just the way his teeth bit and ravished your skin, but the fact that it wasn't who you wanted to do so. Delusions fed on the desperation to find something you had long lost, it's what made him get away with doing this to you. It's what made you let him do this to you. How much of a joke your "I hate you's" were when you found yourself being consumed by him, all because you wanted to imagine just for a bit longer that the love of your life never left you.

If he was going through the same turmoil as you, he didn't show it. Attention zeroed in on holding your body tightly against his, grip fierce like he was half-expecting you to run off. The sickly noise of him lapping at crimson liquid made your stomach sink, it was perverse. Mark's eyes squeezed shut in bliss, hands roaming and digging into the meat of your body, he needed it. Everything about you, he needed it.

With a quiet grunt, he pulled from the skin of your shoulder, drawing his face away from it until he was looking back directly at you. You had never seen your Mark like this, your Mark looked at you with love. This was obsession. You should be sick, disgusted, but it only left you longing for more. Tears ready to spill from your eyes, staring into a face you always pined after. His breathing becoming heavier the more he stared back into you, how gorgeous you looked when exhausted and dried blood coating sweet flesh he wanted more of. 

Your hands reached for his face, holding it softly in your palms. It made your chest tighten, fingers tracing every detail, wiping the blood away so you could see more of him. Heaving softly, you brought your face towards his once more until your lips were just centimeters apart. Hot breaths that fanned your face, just like they always did.

There wasn't anything you wouldn't do to have him back, even just for this very moment.

[txttletale]

Could you elaborate on why La Révacholière makes you cry? I'm not trying to be rude or anything, it's just that the track and the Insulindian Phasmid sequence overall made me feel a sense of complete awe with a twinge of existential horror and sadness, but nothing that would bring me to tears

to me there is nothing horrific about the phasmid -- there is sadness to it, for sure, there is a sens of melancholy about that scene but to me it is a scene of beautiful hope and wonder. the whole game the cryptozoologists are set up as these hopelessly deluded people, chasing after an impossible dream and resigned to failure after a long long history of it*. and then... it's there. the phasmid is real. the hope is rewarded.

and everything the phasmid says is... it's sad, yes, but it's also beautiful and kind. it feels "great, mute empathy". like, after an entire game of traipsing around martinaise, this bombed out ruin full of damaged, miserable people, after talking to the broken and hopeless dros, this is genuinely heartwrenching:

like. god fucking damn. the phasmid is a miracle. the phasmid is something that isn't meant to exist, but it does. the phasmid is kind of a light at the end of the tunnel, it is the realization of the prophecy SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN. it is the emotional high point of the game for me. i genuinely cry every time i reach this scene.

*note that there is imo a pretty strong parallel between this hoping-against-hope and morrell's very sober understanding of the track record of cryptozoology with how the game depicts communism -- "we haven't stopped building love". this also makes it hit much harder for me--i think that the phasmid and the tower holding together serve similar roles, with the phasmid being more allegorical and broad while the tower is more directly a statement on communism and a better world being possible.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Damaged

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: After a bad evening with your parents, Tim Bradford reminds you that you aren't damaged, and if your family won't be there for you, he will.

Warnings: abuse (emotional, verbal, and physical), 3rd party alcohol consumption, fluff and comfort, protective!Tim, platonic leading toward romantic

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“Slacking off?” Tim asks. “A little early for civvies.”

You look up quickly, surprised by his presence outside the locker room. “I’m leaving early,” you explain weakly.

“I remember,” he replies, observing you. “Dinner with your parents.”

“Right.”

“Enjoy.”

Dropping your eyes to his boots, you nod and answer, “I will. Bye.”

Tim watches you go, wondering why dinner with your parents puts you on edge. Every time you mention them, your eyes shift, you grow nervous and jumpy, and the strong, confident cop he knows retreats into the shell of a scared woman. It’s a change he recognizes, one he understands, and he knows you lied when you said you’d enjoy yourself.

“You know what I think?” your dad asks.

You’re going to tell me no matter what, you think.

“Your job is bad enough,” he says, interrupting himself to take a drink. “But you could at least dress like a woman while you’re off the clock.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you try not to let his words affect you. Your parents have been like this for your entire life. Some might call it verbal abuse, while others consider it an absence of a filter. Regardless, your parents have never hesitated to point out your every insecurity. The worst part of seeing them, you think, is that they see your scars and rip those old wounds open again, tearing you down with every word they speak.

“Can you afford some new clothes?” your mother asks. “Maybe then you could find a man who’d give you a second thought.”

Chewing your inner lip, you nod silently. You feel like you’re twelve years old again, too big for the frame they try to shove you into. It’s been years since you gave up on trying to please them, but it doesn’t take away the pain.

“Although,” your dad continues, “who would want to start a family with a beat cop who could get shot at any moment?”

“Beat cops are a real family,” you mumble under your breath, fiddling with the napkin in your lap.

You don’t see your mom move, but the sharp slap sound of her palm hitting your face startles you enough that you finally look her in the eye. Your hand raises to your stinging cheek without thought. You know it won’t bruise, and something deep inside you tells you to stand up for yourself, to leave, and never look back.

“I’m getting another drink,” your dad states, stumbling slightly as he stands.

You’ve been in this exact spot too many times, you realize. So, you decide to play the part until they’re ready to leave. Sitting still, you listen, nod, and apologize as you hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“Look at the time,” your mom mutters after you serve dessert.

“And we have people who give a crap about where we are,” your dad adds, laughing at you. “We better head out. Next time we do this, don’t make the- the food like that and buy more drinks.”

“Will do,” you answer, standing.

“That didn’t sound like an apology,” your mother patronizes.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “I’ll do better next time.”

“That means we have to come back,” your dad grumbles.

Not if we can help it, you think.

“Sweetheart,” your mother says, wrapping her hand around your wrist. Her nails dig into the sensitive skin above your pulse point, but you level your expression. “You need to try harder.”

“Sure. I will.”

She releases your hand, but your dad takes it just as quickly, his grip tighter and stronger than hers. You pull back instinctively, and he raises his other hand. When you cower away from him, dropping your chin, he laughs and twists the skin of your arm harshly.

“Better food,” he seethes. “Better news. If we come over here again and you’re still a disappointment… Just don’t.”

“Yes, sir,” you force out.

You stand in place, staring at the dirty dishes on your table as the door slams behind them. Alone, you stumble backward until you hit the wall, your vision growing blurry with tears. Sinking to the floor, you let yourself cry, and within a minute, heavy sobs shake your entire body. You feel paralyzed, your mind viciously reminding you that you and your parents are on a crashing course that only worsens with time.

But, you remember, they are your parents. They loved you at some point, but it’s always been like this. Maybe you are the problem, a voice you don’t recognize says in your mind.

You want to forget tonight, forget the pain in your chest and along your skin, so you reach for your phone. You’re texting Tim before you think about it. You don’t know what to say, but you’re desperate. Anything would be a welcome distraction, so you ask if he’s busy.

It changes from Delivered to Read, but he doesn’t reply. So, you toss your phone aside and pull your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself as if it will make the world disappear. 

A knock on your front door pulls you out of your teary reverie that is on the constant brink of returning to the nightmare of reality. Walking to the door, you hope that it isn’t your parents. You look through the peephole before you open the door, sure your surprise is evident.

“What happened?” Tim asks, his face softening when he sees your tear-stained face and red cheek.

You shake your head as you step back, and Tim follows you inside, closing the door softly.

“Did your parents come over?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, laughing humorlessly. “They were here.”

“Hey,” Tim says. You hold the back of your chair and stare at the table again. “Hey,” he repeats firmly. “Look at me.”

You turn your chin toward him, your eyes glassy and your skin blotchy.

“You’re okay,” he promises, spreading his hands with his palms toward you. “Whatever they said, whatever they made you believe, it’s a lie. Your parents are… they’re abusive.”

“They just-”

“Crossed a line,” Tim interrupts. “I see it every time you mention them. I don’t know what they said or did, but if it brought you here, they are the problem. Not you.”

You rub your chest, failing to lessen the pressure there before Tim steps toward you. When you don’t stop him, he lays his hand on your shoulder.

“What if they’re right?” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

Tim looks between your eyes, then says, “What if my dad was right?”

Your eyes clear as you look at Tim. His question, his vulnerability, brings you back into this moment. Tim is here because he saw something in you. Despite his gruff exterior, he cares about you. And now he’s sharing something about himself to help you. To save you.

“My dad was abusive,” he says. “He shoved my head through plaster, yelled at me, belittled me, made me doubt myself and all that I could do. You? You’re stronger than you think, stronger than your parents make you feel. You are not what or who they say.”

“Then why am I like this?” you wonder.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Tim repeats, his thumb brushing kindly, comfortingly over your shoulder.

“They…” you begin. “Their voices are in my head constantly, and it’s so loud.”

“They talk with razors on their tongue just to provoke your combat, use new weapons to snap those final strings just to watch you fall back,” Tim replies. “I get it. Their voices, their lies, they follow you everywhere because they’ve ingrained them into you.”

“How do you do it?” you ask, wiping the tears from your face. “How do you do everything that you do, and do it well and confidently, after going through it?”

“You know who you are and what you can do. Place your confidence and your belief in that, not the words they yell trying to make themselves feel like they’re better than you.”

“I don’t think I can do that, Tim,” you argue, shaking your head as you sink into your chair.

“Then shut them up, drown them out, listen to me,” Tim encourages, moving with you. “Whatever it takes.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy. I’m not as strong as you Tim.”

“You’re stronger,” he insists. “And I’m here for you. You’re not alone, okay?”

You nod, willing yourself to believe him. Tim takes your hand, and when your sleeve shifts, he sees the bruise forming around your wrist. Without hesitation, he pushes the fabric up to your elbow, revealing the darkening patch and angry red scratch marks.

“They touched you?” he asks, his voice different than before as he stares at your arm.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Was it the first time?”

“I…”

Tim releases your hand as he stands. Your unwillingness to answer was better confirmation than he would have received if you had said yes. Tim moves toward the door, on his way to leaving you alone. Again.

“Tim,” you call, your voice strained as tears well in your eyes once more. 

He slows, his hand on the doorknob. “They touched you.”

“Please,” you plead.

“I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Tim, please don’t leave me,” you whisper, fresh tears running down your face, the salt stinging your raw skin.

He sighs, turning toward you. As he returns to your side, he makes a promise to himself. No one will ever hurt you like this again. He let his dad impact his life for years after he moved away from home. When his dad got sick, it felt as if a strong current was pulling him into the nightmare his dad created all over again. If your parents are so willing to take you for granted, to hurt you, then Tim Bradford will be at your side to stop them from damaging you.

You’re not alone. As long as Tim is breathing, you never will be.

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write Long-Distance Friendships

⊹ Most of the friendship lives on screens now. And no, that doesn’t make it less real. It’s TikToks at Midnight, blurry selfies captioned “alive I guess,” a random “thinking of you” that hits harder than a Shakespeare monologue. These tiny, chaotic digital crumbs? That’s modern affection, guys.

⊹ Time zones are the actual villain. Like, congrats, your best friend is awake when you’re half-dead. You get really good at leaving messages in little bottles ( I mean, texts) that’ll wash up on their shore eight hours later. It's strangely poetic, if you ignore how annoying it is.

⊹ Calls turn into special events... You plan them like dinner reservations. Reschedule them like flaky exes and when they do happen, it’s either three hours of emotional unpacking or fifteen minutes of “I love you but my soul is leaking out my ears.” Either way, it counts.

⊹ They don’t know you're right now. Not really, they weren’t there for the coworker who ruined your day or the little bakery you fell in love with. So you have to explain everything, but sometimes you don’t. And that weird little space between what they know and what they don’t? That’s amazing, for Storytelling.

⊹ You start summarizing your life like a newsletter. “Still alive. Work sucks. Ate something questionable.” Not because you don’t want to share (you do) but because it’s hard to cram the full play-by-play into a 30-second voice note between meetings. Distance edits you down, that’s just how it works.

⊹ Big stuff hits differently. The good, the bad, the absolutely unhinged... it all feels heavier when you can’t scream-laugh or ugly-cry in the same room. No amount of phone calls makes up for sitting on the floor together eating cereal out of the box and feeling like maybe the world isn’t ending.

⊹ And yet, the love finds ways. It shows up in birthday texts sent in the wrong time zone, in Venmo notes like “for coffee and emotional damage,” And in playlists with suspiciously specific vibes.

⊹ Some don’t survive the distance. That’s just the truth, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t real or important. And the ones that do? the ones that hang on through all the missed calls and delayed replies and half-finished conversations? Those are steel-reinforced, weirdly telepathic, practically immortal friendships. The kind worth writing about.

[demie90s]

Hello can you do USC x R. R plays to win she doesn’t play to have a nice time. What happens when somebody sits a hard screen on juju. Someone’s got to step in to stop her.

Play to Win

USC WBB x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: I don’t play for fun. I play to win. So when someone sets a dirty screen on Juju? I don’t think—I react.

Warnings: Protective behavior, on-court aggression, ride-or-die teammate energy, intense emotions

Word count~0.6k

I don’t care about handshakes, highlight reels, or who brought their whole damn family to the game. I care about locking in, doing damage, and walking off the court with a W.

So when someone threw a blind screen into Juju—shoulder straight into her chest, no warning, no ball, just spite—it felt like the whole gym paused.

She hit the floor hard. Her body folded in a way I didn’t like. Not slow. Not careful. And everybody just froze.

Refs? Nothing.

Bench? Quiet.

Crowd? Gasped.

And the other team? Just kept moving like Juju didn’t have ribs.

Nah. That didn’t sit right.

I started walking before I even processed it. The game was still live, but I didn’t care. I stormed straight up to the girl who hit her—jersey bunched in my fists before anyone could blink.

“You think that was basketball?” I said, teeth clenched. My voice was low, tight, and on edge. I could feel heat crawling up my spine, chest tight like I was ready to snap. “You think that was cute?”

She didn’t say anything—just smirked, shrugging like it wasn’t her problem. Juju was still on the floor, hand on her side, and all I could think was: Why didn’t anyone else move first?

And yeah—I saw Rayah sprinting over, Avery calling time out with her whole body, Aaliyah trying to get the ref’s attention, Kiki holding back Dom, who had already thrown her towel halfway across the bench. But that was after. That was after I got loud.

Because in that moment? It was me standing in front of her like the whole court belonged to us.

“Do it again,” I said. “Try it again. I dare you.”

Ref finally blew the whistle. Late. Like two plays too late. Coach was yelling now. Our whole bench up. The other team pretending like they didn’t know what the screen was.

Dom ran out in her slides, yelling, “YOU TOUCHED THE WRONG ONE!”

Kiki behind her, grabbing the back of her jersey. “Dom, please—don’t make us viral.”

Rayah and Avery got to Juju first, pulling her up slow, eyes wide like they couldn’t believe it. Aaliyah looked me dead in the face and whispered, “Breathe.”

And I tried. I really did.

But my jaw was locked, my vision was sharp, and I couldn’t stop staring at the girl who hit her like she was prey. Timeout was called. Bench cleared. I sat down still fuming, chest heaving, fists clenched.

Coach walked over, didn’t say much—just tapped my shoulder and said, “I get it. But be smart. They want you to lose your cool.”

I looked her dead in the eye and said, “I didn’t lose my cool. I protected my team.”

After the game, we won by ten. Juju finished with ice wrapped around her ribs, barely talking. I sat next to her on the bus, arms crossed, still too mad to speak.

But when reporters got hold of the clip and asked about the scuffle?

I stepped up to the mic. Didn’t smile. Didn’t hesitate.

“She got hit for no reason. The ball wasn’t in play. Nobody screened. They tried to take her out, and y’all expected me to clap?”

Flashes went off. I leaned in.

“I don’t play to have a nice time. I play to win. And winning means everybody walks out on their feet. You touch Juju like that again? Don’t ask me to apologize for the reaction. Ask why y’all let it slide in the first place.”

Dom posted the clip on Instagram that night with the caption: Don’t play with us. This ain’t club ball.

Rayah reposted it with “Ride or ride harder.” Kiki just added a fire emoji.

Juju didn’t say much. But she turned to me before we got off the bus, looked me in the eye, and said, “I got you next time.”

I nodded. “Hope not.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[seumyo]

to heal a broken heart with idia shroud.

NOTE. Part two of “To lose Malleus Draconia” !

You had always been good at pretending.

At this point, it was already second nature to you, really—masking your emotions with an easy smile, playing the enigmatic troublemaker no one could quite pin down. So when your heart was figuratively ripped out of your chest and was shredded to pieces when the person you loved found happiness in someone else, you did what you did best: acted like nothing had changed.

It was a convincing act. Almost.

Lately, however, your patience was running thinner than usual. The edges of your carefully constructed front were fraying, especially when certain things set you off—like the sight of them, standing too close to Malleus, laughing with him, stealing the attention that had once belonged to you.

God, what happened to forgetting and moving on?

And now, to make matters worse, here Ortho Shroud was, right in front of your dorm room, floating right in front of you with his usual cheer, an iPad clutched in his small hands. You didn’t need to guess who was on the other end of the call.

“Hello, Mini Shroud,” you greeted under your breath, already feeling a headache forming. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hello, [Name]-senpai!” Ortho chirped as he hovered closer. “Nii-san wanted to talk to you, so I brought him here!”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, barely resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of it. You peered down at the iPad, which displayed none other than Idia Shroud—well, the online icon of Idia Shroud, that is.

“Okay. What happened to you?”Idia asked, voice crackling slightly through the speakers as it adjusted to his voice.

You raised a brow, feigning ignorance. “What are you on about?”

“Uh, you?”

For once, you saw sight of a familiar blue flame flickering wildly, his expression twisted in sheer disbelief. Idia’s eyes darted over your face like he was analyzing an error in a game—actually turning on his camera for once, which was already concerning enough. “Dude, you look like you got hit with a debuff and just decided to keep playing. Have you seen yourself?”

“Wow. Charming as ever, Shroud.”

Idia wasn’t buying it. He leaned closer to his screen, scrutinizing you even harder. “No, seriously. Even your glitchy, cryptid self isn’t this—this—“ He waved a hand vaguely. “Moody.”

Ortho helpfully chimed in, “Nii-san ran a facial analysis on you, [Name]-senpai! According to the data, you’ve been significantly more tense and irritable in the last few days!”

“Facial analysis?” Your face fell flat.

Idia huffed. “Not the point! The point is, you’re acting like an NPC that just lost their main storyline quest. What gives?”

“Shouldn’t I be more concerned that you did a facial analysis—“

“Just answer the question.”

For a fleeting second, you felt your mask slip. Just a fraction. But you caught yourself before it could fully slip away, forcing an easy smile back onto your face.

“Please,” you scoffed. “I’m always moody. It’s part of my charm.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m a social butterfly.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Because I’m not blind,” Idia shot back. “And you look like you’re about to either punch a wall or collapse from emotional damage. So spill.”

You hesitated. You weren’t used to people noticing—or rather, you weren’t used to people calling you out on it. It was oddly disarming.

But like other things, you weren’t ready to talk about it. Not yet.

“Shroud. Idia. Dearest. Have you considered that I might just be brooding for dramatic effect?”

“That would be believable,” he deadpanned, “if you didn't look like a crashed program about to blue-screen.”

You chuckled, but it lacked its usual bite. “I’m fine, Shroud. Really.”

Idia didn’t look convinced. Ortho still seemed concerned.

But they didn’t push it.

“...Fine, whatever,” Idia muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just don’t, like, turn into some tragic villain arc or whatever. That’s my aesthetic.”

You shook your head, waving a hand dismissively. “Goodbye, Idia.”

The screen goes dark.

-

Idia was not a social guy.

He avoided drama like the plague, stayed out of people’s love lives, and generally preferred to keep his interactions limited to a screen. It was safer that way. Less exhausting. No weird feelings to navigate. No awkward pep talks to give.

But you were his friend—a menace, a problem, but still his—and you were not acting very you lately.

And that was a problem.

A problem that Idia did not want to deal with, because ugh, feelings, but also—if you kept sulking like some tragic gothic novel protagonist, Idia was going to lose his mind.

A problem that also happened to occupy his bed.

Which was why, against his better judgment, he was actually making an effort to snap you out of your funk.

A real effort.

And you, the little bastard that you are, were resisting.

“Okay, listen,” Idia started, barely suppressing his frustration as you lay sprawled across Idia’s bed like a corpse, one arm draped dramatically over your face. “I get it—love is pain, you’re dying inside, blah blah blah—but you cannot just keep flopping onto my bed and refusing to move for hours.”

You peeked at him through your fingers.

“I can, actually.”

Idia groaned. “No, you can’t.”

“I’m a demon. I literally can. For centuries, too.”

“[Name].” Idia’s eye twitched. “Get. Up.”

You let out a long, suffering sigh.

“But why?”

“Because if I have to see you like this for another day, I will start screaming, and I won’t stop.”

You arched a lazy brow. “That’s kind of tolerable.”

“Oh my god.” Idia ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Nene, you are literally one of the most annoying people I know—how did you let yourself get this pathetic over one guy?! He’s a guy, for Sevens’ sake!”

You narrowed your eyes, sighing. “Bold of you to assume this is just ‘one guy.’”

“Oh, so you admit it’s because of Malleus.”

“Shut up.”

Idia grinned, victorious. “Ohhh, I knew it.” He sat cross-legged on the bed beside you, poking his arm repeatedly. “The mighty [Name] Mroczek—grandson of Chernabog, reduced to a sad little demon because the dragon prince didn’t pick him. Tragic.”

You swatted his hand away with a glare. “Do you want me to bite you?”

“I hate you.”

“I would welcome death at this point.”

You groaned, finally rolling onto your side.

Idia deadpanned. “And yet, you keep coming back to me.”

You muttered something in Slavic that was probably an insult.

Idia took it as a win. His win.

“Okay, enough brooding,” Idia declared, grabbing your wrist and yanking—which did absolutely nothing because you were a huge and a demon, but hey, effort. “You need to do something other than mope. And before you even think of saying ‘nothing sounds fun,’ I already made a list.”

You blinked, a bit surprised because Idia was not the type to put in so much effort in things that he didn’t see worthy of his time. “You made a list?”

“Yes, because I knew you’d try to be difficult,” Idia huffed. “Now. Option one—gaming marathon. I will let you use my custom console, and you know how big of a deal that is.”

“Oh. True. But you know I don’t even know how to hold a ‘gaming console.’”

“Which brings us to option two—we terrorize someone. Legally,” Idia added quickly. “Like, harmless pranks. I already programmed some illusions to mess with people.”

“Tempting,” you hummed.

“Option three—” Idia smirked. “We talk shit about those egoistic mermaids behind their back.”

That made you sit up, your attention piqued. And for the first time in weeks, you actually looked like yourself.

Idia leaned back, pleased with himself. “There it is. Finally.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was warmth in them now. “You’re awfully persuasive.”

“And you terrorize me more often than I can count, so that makes it even LOL.”

You huffed, but you didn’t deny it. Instead, you stretched out your arms, your usual lazy confidence slipping back into place. “Fine, fine. I’ll humor you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[lych33dragoncookie]

Continuing on from my last post;

Right, so about that certain someone. After we see Burning Spice FUCKING MURDER SOMEONE, we get on to their rematch. And-

... Hm. Not normal. You're enjoying this a bit too much

During the fight, we get to see something interesting; Spice's own followers ditching him and Nutmeg Tiger, despite orders to go after Smoked Cheese. Not out of some sudden rush of conscience, no; but the realization that, no matter how hard they try, how closely they follow him, how much they embody everything he stands for, in the end, following him can only result in their own destruction. That they're better off escaping than dying for the sake of someone who couldn't care less what their fate is.

On top of that, we get to see one of my favorite tropes! A protagonist refuting the ideals of a "hero", admitting that they fight for reasons that on the surface could be seen as selfish and short-sighted, but that are born from a massive amount of care and emotion, loyalty, and a desire to protect what matters to them, rather than stopping a great evil, sticking to a rigid moral compass, or any sort of other pretentious ideals.

And we get to see, visibly, undeniably, just how far she's willing to go to protect that which she cares for. We get to see her closer to death than absolutely anyone else we've ever seen before, with visible damage, about to crumble into pieces. And, despite that, despite her state, she never stops fighting. Not for a second. No matter how close she is to death's door.

Alongside this, Smoked Cheese, at the end of an exhausting fight, has some words about his queen.

At the end of it all, her love is what makes her powerful. It's what will lead her to greatness, no matter what. Her bountiful nature is the gift she has to give to those around her, and what keeps her going. It's not logical, it's not rational, something which drives Smoked Cheese off the fucking wall, but even he has to admit that it doesn't have to be. That it's what got here where she is in the first place.

You'd think that this would be setup for something that happens later on, specially with the line "Sycophants, charlatans... even willful traitors... All of them have a place among her treasures. She embraced them all... with open arms.", instead of just being there so that Smoked Cheese can tell Nutmeg Tiger that her ruler sucks complete ass and his' doesn't, but... Well, we'll get to that later.

Anyways, back to the freak.

Again with this? I don't say this in an exasperated tone, I just think there's something severely wrong with him. He's just trying to get her to go feral like him for fun. Weirdo. Also, as I mentioned before, holy hell this is the most visceral it's ever gotten. We've never seen any other character this physically damaged, so close to actually crumbling. This entire arc continues to be unexpectedly brutal in every way it possibly could be, and honestly for what it's going for, it just works.

Also, I'm stuffing the below line into my pocket for later. You'll see why.

After this, Golden Cheese refutes every bit of Burning Spice's own mentality in much the same way I did the last post, and it gets under his skin. Really, really badly. To the point where he basically just ends the fight outright, more or less. ... Until Golden Cheese gets her obligatory powerup. It's cool as hell, and it works with the very same base that I mentioned earlier, of her care & love for everything she holds dear and her strong undying urge to protect it all until her last breath, an urge to protect her treasures, everyone who's filled her life with joy up to this point, and it's all strong enough to draw forth her soul jam and awaken her true power and all that other power of friendship stuff. Not anything too mind-blowing considering we've seen it before with Dark Cacao, but it certainly hits a bit harder because Golden Cheese is just a deeply lovable character who does not hesitate to wear her heart on her sleeve, a really warm presence who you want to see succeed simply because of how much her love and desire to give to others shape her every action.

As is to be expected; there is no third act breakdown from Burning Spice here. In fact, he's having the time of his life!

... And then. He. Just.

Gets hit once. And it's over.

...

Y. You. You j. HUH? HUH???

HUH??????????

WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. THE FUCK. ARE. YOU. DOING. THAT'S THE ENDING? THAT'S FUCKING IT? HE JUST GETS HIT ONCE AFTER GOLDEN CHEESE TRANSFORMS, GETS BURIED UNDER SOME RUBBLE, AND THEN YOU NOT ONLY HAVE GOLDEN CHEESE OUTRIGHT SAY THAT HE PROBABLY LIVED THAT BUT ALSO TEASE HIM BEING ALIVE AT THE END???

THAT'S IT? THAT'S THE FUCKING ENDING? THAT'S THE ENDING YOU GIVE TO WHAT WOULD HAVE OTHERWISE BEEN ONE OF OUR BEST STORIES YET?!?!??

WHAT. THE. FUCK. ARE. YOU. DOING. ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME POP A BLOOD VESSEL

THIS SUCKS! THIS ACTUALLY FUCKING SUCKS! THIS IS NOTHING! THIS MEANS NOTHING! YEAH YEAH YEAH GOOD CONQUERED EVIL WHATEVER IT'S NOT ONLY A GENERIC VILLAIN DEFEAT BUT A COMPLETELY UNCEREMONIOUS ONE FOR A CHARACTER WHO IS RIDICULOUSLY WELL WRITTEN AND WHO DESERVED MORE THAN JUST GETTING ONE-SHOT AFTER A SERIES OF REALLY WELL PACED CUTSCENES.

IT WAS ALL. SO. FUCKING. GOOD. ALL THE WAY THROUGH TO THE PART WHERE HE'S LAUGHING MANIACALLY AT HIS INCOMING DEMISE. IT WAS ALL SO GOOD. WE WERE SO CLOSE. AND THEN WHAT DO YOU DO? WHAT DO YOU FUCKING DO? NOT ONLY IS HE JUST OUT LIKE THAT, WITH EVERYONE WELL AWARE HE'S NOT DEAD, YOU HAVE NUTMEG TIGER COME BACK TO HIM, MEANING NEITHER OF THEM HAVE PROGRESSED IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER, SMOKED CHEESE'S CONVERSATION WITH NUTMEG TIGER WAS ALMOST ENTIRELY POINTLESS, AND THIS WHOLE THING WAS RENDERED UTTERLY MEANINGLESS FUCKIGIIGNFRJGH GHRHRARAHGHRHGHEEJGHJSDG

Okay. Okay. Tantrum aside.

There are so many better ways of doing this. Like. So, so much better. Ways that not only hold more narrative weight, but don't set up a half-assed villain return later on that won't hit anywhere near as hard. Because, seriously, giving Spice another arc as a villain is a horrendous idea. Both from a gameplay and story perspective. The framing here was perfect, everything had gone off really well from start to finish all the way up until that last tiny bit of the story, and you're not going to get this sort of opportunity again. They fumbled. Really. Really hard.

For one...

Hey. Golden Cheese. Remember when you said this?

JUST TAKE HIS FUCKING SOUL JAM

ALL THE BEASTS CAN DO IT WITHOUT ANY EXPLANATION, WHY CAN'T SHE?? WHY ISN'T SHE, SOMEONE WHO IS FULLY OK WITH STEALING FROM SOMEONE SO LONG AS THEY DESERVE IT, SOMEONE WHO EARLIER SAID BURNING SPICE ISN'T DESERVING OF HIS POSITION AS A GOD, SOMEONE WHO WOULD BE MORE THAN WILLING TO THROW IT INTO HER TREASURE PILE, COMPLETELY UNABLE TO TAKE IT, EVEN AFTER BEATING HIM?!?!??!

It would genuinely be that! Fucking! Easy! And guess what? Guess fucking what? IT OPENS UP SO MANY WRITING OPPORTUNITIES! SO, SO MANY! Nutmeg Tiger no longer has a god to worship, the power that gave Spice a hold over his army is now gone, he has to live out as a commoner, not a god, because he never deserved to be a god, not in the slightest. Have GC say something like "you are not a god, you're an impulsive, reckless fool. you do not deserve the power of a god. you're a commoner. nothing less, nothing more." and then take away his soul jam and you're good!!

HELL, IT COULD SET UP A GOOD, BELIEVABLE REDEMPTION ARC, "Sycophants, charlatans... even willful traitors... All of them have a place among her treasures. She embraced them all... with open arms.", IT'S SO EASY, IT HAS ACTUAL SETUP, YOU COULD HAVE SPICE BE A COMMON MORTAL COOKIE THAT HAS TO FEND FOR HIMSELF, EVENTUALLY BEING FORCED INTO A POSITION WHERE HE HAS TO FIND A ROOF TO PUT OVER HIS HEAD IF HE WANTS TO SURVIVE, AND HAVING GOLDEN CHEESE BE THE FIRST PERSON TO OFFER THAT, WHETHER OR NOT SPICE IS WILLING TO IMMEDIATELY ACCEPT IT. YOU'D HAVE A PROPER THIRD ACT BREAKDOWN WHEN HIS SOUL JAM IS TAKEN AWAY WITH SPICE BEING ACTIVELY REFUSED A WARRIOR'S DEATH, BEING GIVEN AN ANTI-CLIMAX, NOT A GLORIOUS DEFEAT BUT A LOSS OF POWER AND A REFUSAL TO END THE FIGHT ON HIS TERMS, COMPLETELY REFUSING TO STOOP TO HIS LEVEL AND FORCING HIM OUT OF A POSITION OF POWER WHILE YOU'RE AT IT

ALL THIS. ALL THESE WRITING OPPORTUNITIES. AND MORE THAT THE COMMUNITY HAS LIKELY ALREADY COME UP WITH. WASTED. COMPLETELY. NOTHING. ALL FOR A QUICK, GENERIC, BLAND, FLACCID, DEVOID-OF-IMPACT VILLAIN DEFEAT.

Ooooohhh my god I am so worked up about this. We were this close. we were this fucking close to peak fiction. We could have had it all. But they fumbled right at the end.

I... I think I'm just going to completely ignore this ending's existence. If they do anything else with Spice from this point onwards? It doesn't exist to me. I'm not looking. Because whatever they do, it won't wash away the bitter taste of the complete fumble they just pulled. In my heart, he got his soul jam taken away, had to find a way to survive on his own, and ended up living in the Golden Cheese Kingdom (out of a lack of any other options and ideas of a potential soul jam recovery from the inside that would eventually be all forgotten about) where he was given a chance to return to normalcy and heal and be free of the burden of immortality.

I'm gonna go tear a hole in a wall with my bare teeth now. See you all.