#but neither of them are willing to admit it

[k2padfoot]

We Don’t Talk About It

Rafe Cameron x Y/n

summary: You and Rafe are best friends turned roommates, and it’s obvious you love each other but neither of you know how to handle it.

Your relationship with Rafe was complicated. That was the easiest way to explain it—if you had to explain it at all.

Which, of course, you never did.

You’ve known each other for years, growing even closer over time. When he finally moved out of his father’s house and started renting a place of his own, he needed a roommate—and just like that, you moved in. Now, almost a year later, here you are.

You and Rafe weren’t dating.

But you weren’t just friends.

You existed in that grey space between definitions and blurred lines, where feelings were left unspoken.

There were no titles. No labels. No conversations.

Just this house you shared, the routines you fell into, the nights you spent watching TV on opposite sides of the couch—legs touching, eyes never meeting for too long.

You cooked for him. He brought you coffee when you were too tired to function. You folded his laundry. He paid your rent when you were short—hell, he paid more than half most months, always insisting it was no trouble.

And at night, when the silence pressed too loud between the walls, it almost felt like love.

Almost.

But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

Because neither of you were brave enough to say it.

Whatever it was—whatever had settled in the space between your ribs and his—it went unspoken. Always.

So you pretended.

You smiled too easily. You swallowed your hurt and turned it into sarcasm. When Rafe did something reckless or cruel or cutting, you laughed it off. You told yourself it was fine.

That you were fine.

Rafe had his own way of dealing with it. Bottling things up wasn’t really his thing. Not quietly, anyway.

He didn’t go back to coke—not yet. He swore he wouldn’t. Not after last time.

But he drank. A lot. It was his outlet. His escape. His excuse.

And when Rafe drank, he didn’t come home early. He didn’t lie low. No, he made damn sure you noticed him unraveling.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what he was doing.

He flirted with the kind of girls who fell too easily for the Cameron name, for the money, for the rough hands and sharp jaw and that cold-blue stare.

He let them hang off him, touch his arms, lean in like they belonged to him.

He bought them drinks. Laughed too loud. Sometimes he made out with them—right in front of you, if the setting allowed it.

Like he wanted to be caught.

Like he wanted you to say something.

But you never did.

You’d sit there, drink in hand, heart in your throat, pretending you didn’t feel anything at all. Even when your chest ached like it was cracking open. Even when it took everything in you not to scream.

Because if you admitted it—if you said anything—you’d be crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. You’d be admitting it mattered. That he mattered.

And if you did that, if you opened that door, and he didn’t feel the same? You weren’t sure you’d survive it.

So you swallowed it down and played your part.

Like it didn’t bother you.

Like it didn’t break you in half every time he looked right through you and let someone else have a piece of him.

And Rafe never said a word about it the next day. He never brought the girls around. Never bragged. Never even looked proud of what he did.

But sometimes—when the house was quiet and you caught him sitting alone in the kitchen, hunched over a half-empty glass of bourbon, his jaw clenched, his eyes unfocused—you knew.

You weren’t the only one hurting, you just showed it differently.

And neither of you were willing to be the first one to say it.

────୨ৎ────

It was another late night, and Rafe was nowhere to be found.

You had already showered and changed into your favorite oversized t-shirt—his, ironically—your damp hair twisted into a clip, a pile of unfolded laundry strewn across the living room. The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills buzzed on the TV, the dramatic voices and chaotic edits offering some kind of background comfort while you mindlessly sorted socks and shirts.

You were halfway through pairing the last few when your phone lit up on the kitchen counter.

Snapchat from Nikki

Nikki is typing…

Chat from Nikki

You frowned. Nikki wasn’t someone you talked to often. You worked together—civil enough to share things over the piles of paperwork or bitch about rude customers—but not close. Not close enough for a late-night message unless it was bad.

And it was.

The Snapchat opened to a dimly lit photo—Rafe in a bar, lips tangled with some random blonde, her hands placed over his chest like she owned him.

You stared. You didn’t even blink. Just stared at the screen as the photo disappeared, burning into your brain like a scar.

The next message came quickly.

“I’m so sorry. Just thought you should know.”

That was it. No follow-up. No explanation. Just those few words, and a silent understanding between girls who didn’t have to say more.

You set your phone down on the counter slowly, deliberately, like if you were too quick with it, it would all become real. You didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you inhaled shakily through your nose and turned your eyes back toward the TV.

Lisa Rinna was screaming. Someone had thrown a glass. It should’ve distracted you.

But it didn’t.

Because your hands were still gripping the fabric in your lap. And when you looked down, it was one of his shirts—soft, navy blue, the one you always stole from the dryer before he noticed.

You curled your fingers into the cotton until your knuckles turned white.

“Fuck,” you whispered, barely audible, like saying it too loud would make the pain spill out for real.

Your throat tightened. Your chest ached in that awful, crushing way that made breathing feel like a chore. The kind of ache that came from being disappointed in the same person over and over again—but still holding on to hope like an idiot.

Tears started to form, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

He didn’t get to win.

He didn’t get to break you—not again.

So you turned the volume up, drowning yourself in the screeching of rich housewives, and kept folding the damn laundry like nothing had happened.

Each fold sharper than the last.

Each movement more mechanical.

The clock ticked past 1:00am. No text. No call. No Rafe.

But you waited anyway.

Waited in silent rage, jaw clenched, fists aching, heart shattered in that familiar way only he could manage.

Because that’s what you did.

You waited for the man who never came home clean.

────୨ৎ────

It was 1:52 a.m. when you heard the front door creak open.

Not slammed. Not loud. Quiet. Intentional. Like he wanted to slip in unnoticed and pretend the night never happened.

But you were still on the couch. Still in that damn t-shirt. Still sitting in front of the folded laundry with his shirts sitting on top of the pile like some sick joke from the universe.

You didn’t look up when he stepped inside. Just kept your eyes locked on the TV, even though you couldn’t remember a single thing about the scene playing. Your heart was thudding in your ears, your fingers curled tight around the last shirt in your lap.

Rafe didn’t say a word as he walked past.

No drunken slurs. No stumbling apologies. No lame excuses or half-assed greetings.

Just the smell of whiskey trailing behind him, thick and sour. And maybe the faint trace of someone else’s perfume.

You felt it before you smelled it—sweet and cheap and not yours.

He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter with a soft clink, then opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and twisted off the cap. Calm. Normal. Like he didn’t just kiss someone else while you sat here wearing his clothes, folding his laundry, trying not to fall apart.

He leaned against the counter and finally looked at you.

“You’re up late.”

His voice was smooth. Steady. Controlled. He was trying to sound casual, bored even. But you knew him too well. You caught the slight hitch in his breath. The way his fingers tightened around the bottle just a little too long. He was waiting—for something.

And you knew what it was.

He wanted you to break.

He wanted you to say something. Call him out. Scream. Cry. Demand an explanation. Beg him to stop. To choose you. To stay.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you shrugged without looking at him. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He scoffed under his breath, almost like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah? That’s new.”

You bit your tongue. You weren’t going to do this. Not tonight.

Rafe crossed the room slowly and dropped down onto the opposite end of the couch, letting his arm drape lazily along the back of it, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the tension rolling off his skin like waves.

You didn’t move.

“Laundry night?” he asked, nodding to the piles.

“Yeah,” you said flatly. “Some of your stuff was in there.”

He smirked. “That why you’re wearing my shirt?”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you did—if you let yourself speak—it would come out like a scream. Like every ounce of pain you’d swallowed since you let yourself love him in silence.

He leaned in closer, just enough for you to feel his breath against your cheek.

“You mad at me, baby?”

You flinched—barely—but he noticed. Of course he did. He always did.

But still, you didn’t look at him.

“I’m not mad,” you said quietly.

“Then what are you?”

“Nothing.”

The lie tasted bitter.

He laughed again, but this time it was darker. Harsher. “Yeah. Sure. Nothing.”

He stood up, tossing the water bottle onto the coffee table as he started to walk toward the hallway. But just before he disappeared, he paused in the doorway and turned back toward you.

“You know, if you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

You finally looked at him then—eyes sharp, jaw tight, heart shattering into pieces so small he’d never be able to pick them up.

But you just said, “No. You’ll figure it out when she isn’t looking for you tomorrow. But I hope she was worth it.”

Rafe didn’t reply.

He just stood there, like he’d been punched in the chest.

Because she wouldn’t.

And he knew it.

None of those girls ever did.

But you had.

Every single time.

And still—he always ruined it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. And after a few seconds, he just turned and walked down the hallway, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.

The silence after his door shut was suffocating. You sat there, gripping the hem of your shirt—his shirt—until your knuckles ached. The TV droned on, but you weren’t watching anymore. You were too busy replaying that image in your head. That blonde girl’s hands on his chest. Her lips on his. The way Rafe let it happen. Like you meant nothing.

And maybe you did. That was the part that burned the most.

You lasted ten minutes before you snapped.

You stormed down the hallway, and the bedroom door flew open with a bang. You didn’t knock. Just pushed through and found him standing by the dresser, shirt halfway off, belt hanging loose from his pants.

He turned at the sound, eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually come to him.

“What?” he asked flatly.

You stood there, fists clenched at your sides. “You’re such a fucking asshole, Rafe.”

He blinked. “Took you long enough to say it.”

Your blood boiled.

“Do you get off on this?” you hissed. “Coming home smelling like whiskey and some random girls perfume just to see if I’ll break?”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Why? Did it work?”

You laughed—sharp and bitter. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And you’re pissed,” he shot back, stepping closer. “But you won’t say why. You never do. You just… fold laundry and stare at me like I kicked your dog.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t owe you an explanation for how I feel.”

“No?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Then what are we doing here, Y/n?”

You shook your head and looked away, trying to collect yourself before your voice cracked. “Nothing. We’re nothing. You made that pretty fucking clear again tonight.”

He took another step forward, crowding your space now, chest rising and falling heavier. “Then just say it.”

“What?” you snapped, already regretting raising your voice.

“Say it, Y/n. Say it and I’ll stop.”

You flinched. “Don’t do that.”

His tone softened, but there was desperation bleeding through. “Say it and it will all stop. I swear. But I have to know.”

You looked away again, chest tight with everything you’d been burying for months. You wanted to say it. You did. But not like this. Not when he was drunk and trying to bait it out of you like a confession would fix everything.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered.

“Bullshit,” he growled.

He grabbed your hand, not rough but firm, grounding. His eyes locked onto yours like he was searching for the truth he already knew but needed to hear.

“I’m not playing anymore, Y/n. Just say it.”

And that’s when you snapped.

Your chest was heaving now, the air between you both so charged it felt like it might spark.

“Okay fine!” you yelled, voice cracking with the weight of everything you’d held in. “I love you, Rafe, but—”

He cut you off instantly, like the words shattered whatever control he had left.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to sa—”

“I wasn’t done,” you said sharply, stepping back from him.

Rafe froze, lips parting like he couldn’t breathe.

Your voice dropped lower, trembling but steady. “I love you, but I won’t always love you. You keep making me feel like I don’t matter. Like I’m just… here. Like I’m a placeholder until you figure out what the fuck you actually want.”

The room was quiet, too quiet, except for the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears.

And Rafe just stood there.

Silent.

Still.

Looking at you like he wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t form the words. Or maybe he just wouldn’t. Maybe this was all he ever had to offer—silent regret and bloodshot eyes.

You swallowed hard, something sharp catching in your throat.

“I watch you destroy yourself,” you said softly, “and everyone who tries to care. And I can’t— I won’t be one of them. So yeah, I love you. But I won’t let it ruin me. Not like it ruins you.”

You didn’t wait for a reaction.

You turned around and walked straight out of his room, not looking back even though you could feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall. Your bare feet padded across the hardwood floor as the storm of emotion crashed down on you.

When you reached your bedroom door—the one you barely used because you were always in his bed, under his blankets—you turned the knob, stepped in, and slammed it shut behind you.

Click.

The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed in the quiet house.

You stood there for a second, your back against the door, heart racing and tears finally slipping free. You wiped them away roughly, furious with yourself for crying at all.

You weren’t going to fall for it again.

No more soft apologies that led nowhere. No more drunken confessions with slurred edges and empty weight. No more letting him crawl into your bed like nothing ever happened, like the girls, the games, the hurt didn’t exist.

He was going to have to show you he really meant it. And not with words. Not with sex. Not with the same recycled charm he gave everyone else.

You climbed into your cold bed, alone for once, the unfamiliar space echoing with the distance you’d finally built between you.

On the other side of the door, Rafe didn’t knock. Didn’t try the handle.

But you heard him.

His soft footsteps outside your room.

Then nothing.

Just silence.

He was finally realizing that maybe this time, he pushed too far.

That this time… you said it.

You admitted it.

The one thing he’d been waiting to hear—aching to hear—you finally said to him.

And he might’ve just fucked it all up.

*thinking of making a part 2 so if you guys would want that pls lmk!!*

[actin-weird]

(My original post on Reddit)

How do you guys think TCOAAL would’ve played out if Andrew and Ashley both had the same personalities? In a personality swap AU, I believe the story would mostly be the same but with most events and situations happening opposite to how they do in the game. However, I think if their personalities were the same, then the story would be chaotic since you’ve got two people who are the same and experiencing similar thoughts and emotions. 

If Andrew and Ashley both had the green personality, you would have two siblings who would be blaming each other and refusing to take accountability because they don’t want to admit they’re fucked up. Neither of them wants to own up to the fact that they're doing horrible shit of their own volition because it’s easier to pretend that they’re being controlled by the other and being forced to follow their lead. There’s also the fact that the Graves siblings would project their incestuous attraction onto other people in a desperate attempt to be normal, trying to rid themselves of these feelings that only worsen. Andrew and Ashley would want to be close to each other but also distant, struggling to decide how far they want their relationship to go. They’re both waiting for the other to make the first move and to see where it leads for them. 

Now if the Graves siblings both shared the pink personality, then it would be a battle of control between two individuals who are impulsive, immature, and insecure. Andrew and Ashley would both be trying to out-manipulate each other, being willing to go to extreme lengths to keep the other under their thumb. The Graves siblings see one another as toys, believing they "own" each other and want to be the one leading the other along on their "adventures." They’re practically glued to each other at the hip, refusing to let each other get close to anyone else. Neither cares about keeping appearances and basically does what they want without any regard to the consequences. Andrew and Ashley will continue living as “Andy and Leyley” forever, rejecting adulthood and maturity while skirting around their attraction to each other since they're afraid it means growing up.

Credit goes to Coffindependency on Tumblr for these edits!

[aslibekroglu]

If Deniz didn't see you, would you have let us go? If Cihan didn't seen me, would you have left? I would have. Really? What do you think, you think I enjoy living here with you? Then why did you stay?

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

something something au where recently divorced but still extremely closeted trent walks into a bar owned by beard and frequently bartended by ted

[mxtxfanatic]

Hello!

First - general well wishes on your birthday month and onward.🎉😊🌸

Second - what things do you enjoy about Mu Qing's character? And kind of expanding on that - what things do you enjoy about the Xianle trio in general?

Third - I am so tempted to read MDZS after seeing your WWX's appreciation posts last month. I didn't read all the posts in depth but just seeing them pop up was so wholesome and sweet. Like, this is a well loved character for you and others and it showed in all the fun and thoughtful posts that were shared last month. 🌸 In my head I am like, I want to get on this and read it now. 👍🏾😊

Thank you, thank you!

On Mu Qing: I like that he sticks by his convictions but also can (eventually) take an L. For better or worse (because some of them are actually terrible), Mu Qing stays consistent with his opinions and morality for the 800 years that we see him, including being A-ok with sacrificing innocent lives for the safety and comfort of his loved ones. But while this would typically make him a villain—and he does spend a good chunk of the novel as an antagonist—the thing that redeems him is his willingness to change. At the end of the day, Mu Qing doesn’t want to be a villain and, thus, changes his beliefs and behaviors to match being a decent fucking person, which is something that 95% of all mxtx villains and antagonists are simply unwilling to do.

The lava pit apology is the perfect encapsulation of this: Mu Qing spent 800 years trying to convince himself that Xie Lian is just a hypocritical version of him, then another few months of the present timeline trying to gather proof of this, and when he no longer can deny that fact that he’s been in the wrong the whole time, he fucking apologizes. He gets over himself! He admits he’s wrong! He confesses that what he wanted was not to be superior but to be a friend! And that’s what I love and why his stans piss me off so much about how they discuss his character.

On the reread: thank you! Admittedly, I had to skip some of the things I probably would’ve loved to go more in-depth about from this reread because it wasn’t on-theme and also character embargo, but I’ve saved those threads for December ☺️

[atangledfate]

A Monster? Did he even know what a real monster was like? How awful they could be? She was made to be what she was and always saw herself as just that. A Monster, a Beast, A living weapon made to crush the heroes and replace then. She wanted so much to be more then what she was yet the idea of being a monster? It just didn't appeal to her... she loathed that idea.

" I mean... What are gods but petty bitches, willing to hurt mortals... Gods are just as much monsters as the monsters themselves. Ain't much difference... i bet them gods in legend were really awful people deep down... "

she only knew what she saw in video games and not much else.

" Eh dun matter, i'm me... an i dun wanna be no one else--- i guess i'm good with that "

Her eyes glanced back at the door as they made there way outside. There was no point hanging around, those two had to work this out on there own. Kit was obviously in love, an emotion he didn't understand and he was really struggling with it. They didn't have any context for those kinds of feelings. They were built for war, and love had no place there. She was lucky that Starline left her with her emotions so she had a better handle on them. But Kit was like a newborn struggling to walk for the first time. Being overwhelmed with all these emotions and she didn't know how to help him.

" Obvious to you maybe... But he and I... we lost all our memories... everything we know is only what Starline gave us. Lots of stuff makes sense to others and makes none to us... dunno if i'd be able to grasp love either... i just dunno what to do for him... i know he's teeterin' on the edge right now... Shit i ain't equipped to deal with it neither... "

She admitted as she pushed the door closed behind them and leaned on the railing that looked out over the town below.

" Nobody will ever know what Kit an i went through... dun think anyone should ever find out neither. You know Starline created dozens of us... whole labs filled with pods... but Kit an i were the only ones to survive... well was someone else but i think Starline put her down cause she just disappeared one day..."

She was obviously very worried for Kit, so much so that she was willing to admit alot to someone she barely knew. her fingers gripped that railing and it bent under her frustration at it all. Maybe it was just good to talk to someone who wasn't in her database and she didn't wanna strangle just looking at them.

" I know he's hurtin' an i just wish i knew what to do fer him..."

==============================================

He was so very close to a full on panic attack, as his mind was running at high speed. His breathing coming so fast that it was hard to actually catch his breath. He felt like he might pass out right there! Like the world was spinning around him! for a moment he was sure he'd pass out! but then he felt her weight against him and his body went tense at the initial contact. He wasn't use to being touched and his program shouted danger into his mind! yet he knew that wasn't true... she'd never hurt him.

As odd as it was her touch seemed to calm him as he felt his body shaking from his own panic. He slid down with her to his knees, as his shaking hands slid around her. He leaned his head against hers and closed his eyes as he just let himself breath. The rain slowed to a stop, and for a moment there was this calm stillness in the room. His mind still tumbling and yet slowly he caught himself and just wanted her to hold him. Why was that? He shouldn't want this and yet... it was very calming...

Breath, Count, Breath, nothing else but the soft breathing and her warmth... it felt an eternity before he felt calm enough to speak again.

" Why... does all of this... feel better when i'm with you? Why does it all make more sense... i don't... i don't know why i feel this way.... i just... i just want things to make sense again... "

He took a deep breath and let his eyes open and focus on hers.

" tell me... what is this feeling... what emotion is this..."

"A real living tempest huh? Nice." Adam was enjoyinf talking with this wildcard of a woman. She was strong, understood the world was more than black and white, and well...look that confidence was fantastic. But he'd keep to himself. "All I can do is smack things really hard with my hammer."

It was frustrating. For all his strength...he was limited. Other pink hedgehogs he heard were talented in other areas but not him. Did he get the short end of the multiverse lottery?

"If I had the choice...." He considered what he admired and wanted in his powers. "I'd choose a classic monster of legend over some deity. Fucking hard to kill, endless stamina to keep up the fight even when others can't, fast as hell, and most importantly...immune to any sort of code of law. All those rules just....get in the way."

The longer he lived in town the more he came to hate how tight laws were becoming. They were trying to put things back to normal, how it was before the war. But everyone knew it couldn't happen....Adam felt so restrained. He couldn't do all he wanted as a normal citizen. The law prevented as much good as it did create it. There were times when Adam wanted to snatch a child away from an abusive parent, punch a corrupted political leader visiting so hard it knocked their teeth out, or take action even if it broke the rules of "getting permission".... fuck permission. People were hurt everywhere all the time! What good was all his strength if that damn wall of paperwork was in his way? He couldn't just do whatever he wanted either. He was a "hero" of the modern age. The vultures up at Castle Acorn could say one word and he'd be forced to fight his friends, the public he wanted to help would turn against him, and he'd be another footnote at the bottom of a story somewhere. No. Not him. Not on his watch.

His ears twitched as he heard the kids voices raise, oh dear. Sounded mostly like Kit, Charmette was rather quiet in her words. Guess they were arguing about something. Charmette was as stubborn as her mom, she wouldn't back down once her mind was set on something. Even if it was against her wellbeing... so reckless. But that was the norm for the Chaotix.

"Oblivious crushing kids..." He sighed and shook his head but followed Surge anyway, he was sure that he could be excused for leaving his charge. "Yeah, let's beat it. They'll figure it out."

For as worried as he was about Charmette's mental state... he knew the only one who could get the old sunny bee back lately was the fennec. So...best to leave them be.

================================================

Oh dear... Charmette couldn't stand seeing him like this... she knew touch was a lot for him but... she had to cancel out the rest of what was going on. Poor Kit... he was over thinking and overwhelmed. The bee reached out and pulled him into a firm hug, this wasn't the first time she'd had to comfort someone through an embrace. The pressure helped ground someone and she allowed her remaining wing to softly hum, the vibrations hopefully helping as well.

"Easy... Focus. Listen to me." Her voice was soft again, especially quiet since she was so close to the fennec fox's ears. She could only imagine how sensitive they were to sounds. "Put that brain of your's to work. Breathe, focus on the timing. In for four seconds, out for four seconds. Repeat. Focus on that. Can you do that for me Kit?"

It was a breathing exercise meant for calming someone down from a panic attack. She'd be here to help, to ground him. Bringing him down from what he was going through...he needed her. She wasn't leaving.

[houliburns]

the "well if i were a woman i would" scene is crazy the layerss. frank wanting to test margaret's loyalty to him bc hes insecure n is convinced shes attracted to every other man + he likes making scenes about that so she has to reassure him n he gets validation that she likes him. simultaneous with his desire to tentatively run his own attraction to flagg by her to see her reaction, maybe in the hopes she'll validate it, although i doubt he's even consciously aware it's attraction - hence "he's attractive but im a man so clearly i dont/cant think so, but you must... right?" like the mental gymnastics... meanwhile margaret who's grateful for frank's insecurity bc it makes her feel desirable, and she enjoys the little game of playing coy while frank gets desperate bc it's good for her ego - but then ive never understood why the conclusion she draws is "do you often think about being a woman?" i always thought that was an odd, almost random inclusion. and frank changes the subject immediately. maybe it's that they both refuse to acknowledge homosexuality, theyre both stuck in "men like women and women like men and thats IT, that's all thats allowed", to the point that any deviation in that implies transsexuality rather than homosexuality?? which is a strange conclusion to draw but these r two strange ppl. or frank's stuck in that sort of thinking and margaret knows that. is it implying she knows him well enough to know that when he says "if i were a woman i would" it means he's been fantasizing about being one for the last few minutes as a reconciliation of his own attraction to a man. like literally fsdjkfdhsk what the fuckkkk. most insane internalized homophobia i've ever seen

[tboyquackity]

can i be honest and say tht codependent is another term tht fanon needs put on a shelf

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: short fics (blurbs?) characters: leona, floyd, jade, vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

It's eight in the morning after another disappointing attempt at rest, and now you can't even sleep in. Damn visitors.

You throw open the front door.

"What? What could you possibly- wh- Leona?"

The housewarden smirks. He looks a little too proud of himself for this early in the morning...

"A little wolfie told me you weren't sleeping well. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. Now, are you gonna let me in, or what?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the couch in the foyer.

He pats the spot next to him.

"Listen..." you say. "I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine."

"Don't be proud. I don't pity you, I just... owe you. Now get your butt over here, yeah?"

Leona isn't so scary when he's asleep. He's more like... the world's largest pillow. Of course, you're at risk of being smothered until you crawl into a better position, but once you're on top, he's surprisingly warm and comfortable.

You can tell you're being watched before you hear anything.

And you think you might just know wh-

"Shrimpyyy!"

For two boys so tall, the tweels are awfully quiet. Especially when it comes to "surprising" you in random places. This time: the hall.

Floyd pulls you into a bone-crushing hug while Jade watches from behind, smiling subtly.

When he finally lets you down, you're dizzy. (Though, at this point, you'll take whatever physical touch you can get).

"Shrimpyyy, why didn't you tell us you were lonely? We had to squeeze it outta Spade," Floyd pouts.

"His face makes fascinating expressions when he's afraid," Jade says, merrily.

Before you can answer, Floyd's already got you under his arm (seriously? Where do they find the strength?) and is heading straight towards the hall of mirrors.

You already know there's no getting out of this one...

Floyd is, unsurprisingly, all over, from leaning his whole body weight against you to lying across your lap, to biting your shoulder (in his sleep...?) Oh, and he drools, too.

Jade sits on your other side, one hand holding yours, the other leafing through an almanac from twenty years ago.

You're almost hesitant to admit just how nice it really is.

"And nothing else has worked?" Vil says, throwing open the door to your bedroom with no regard for a "hello" or, "how are you?"

You blink. "...Hello to you, too. May I ask what you're talking about?"

He storms inside, standing over you with his hands on his hips.

"Just that I overheard Epel Felmier asking my vice housewarden if he would be willing to satisfy your need for physical affection. You've been struggling? With sleep? And you didn't think to come to me, first?"

He almost sounds... offended that you didn't.

"...Well... I wasn't making a big deal about it,"

"So, no teas, no vitamins, no pills- nothing has helped?"

You shake your head. He sighs.

"Perhaps it is purely psychological... very well. Get up. I hope you don't toss and turn much, I'm a light sleeper,"

Vil is completely still when he sleeps. No tossing, no turning, no drooling, no snoring. He also insists on sleeping on his back, you, clinging to his side, and a single arm around you. Just as elegant as when he's awake. He'd be a true sleeping beauty if not for the mumbles of nonsense that come from him every few minutes. You swear you can make out your own name, once or twice or three times...

He is warm nonetheless, and his mumbles and idle stroking of his fingers on your waist is enough to satisfy you for a night of good sleep.

[mareestoermers]

i think we are all forgetting something when we talk about how toxic patrick, tashi, and art are — or when we decide one is “worse” than the other. they all have moments of seeing right through it, seeing each other’s toxic behavior for what it is, and STILL want and need each other in this possessive, envious, visceral way.

1. in the way beginning, tashi is clearly flirting more with art than patrick, and patrick is visibly annoyed. art sees right through it and even challenges him like “okay, let’s leave”, and has this little smirk on his face because he knows patrick won’t give up on tashi.

2. tashi immediately sees the visible tension and love between art and patrick, and literally orchestrates their first kiss. she sees right through their repression, and even calls herself a “home-wrecker” but still entangles herself with them, especially patrick because he’s clearly the better tennis player at that point and that is tash’s ONLY true love. tennis. that’s what she desires most in him, and patrick knows that. he even calls her out on it in the dorm room scene. but they have this mirroring fire in each other that neither of them can give up, not until patrick breaks the balance and bails — tashi’s injury is literally a metaphor for the balance shattering between all three of them when patrick leaves her.

3. before this, patrick sees right through art trying to break them up, and even admires that quality — maybe even feels smug and flattered because art is jealous and feels left out from both tashi and patrick. patrick has known this all along, we saw it in the “tick-serve” scene, where he even swears to tashi he won’t tell anyone but he still tells art, who is desperate to feel a part of them and patrick wants that, too — even keeps that close intimacy with art that we see in the churro scene (swoon swoon swoon).

4. haven’t you noticed that arts desire to be great is only ever tied up in patrick and tashi? how he needs to beat patrick to win tashis affection, how he needs to win in tennis so that tashi can live through him, how he lives up to his potential in the ending only because tashi and patrick push him to it, in their little fucked up ways? he knows this — he even admits that he’s playing for tashi, that he knows she’s living through him. he even admits he’s playing a fucked up little game with patrick when they’re in the sauna. yet he still does it. again, he knows what’s happening, sees right through them — still does it, still loves them.

5. when tashi calls patrick to come pick her up he knows it’s not just to tell him to throw the match — and despite how she battles him about it, they still have sex in the car, because he already knows. he’s so fully aware of her and her game and he’s so willing to be caught up in it, the same as art.

just some examples of how they all have moments of clarity and agency and yet they still choose to be entangled in one another because they’re all fucked up in their own, individual ways, and they’re all living through each other for their own specific needs. arts is to be seen as worthy, as great, but only through their gaze. tashis is to have the career that was stolen from her. patricks is truly to be in love and in lust with both of them, because we even see that from the beginning that tashis love alone will never satiate him; it has to be arts love, too. that scene in the sauna when he thinks he’s lost it from art is the most sad and fucked up we ever even see patrick. on top of tashi asking him to throw the game — he’s so defensive of arts feelings.

in short this is an actual love triangle (and i would go as far as to see it as a polyship). you can’t erase one without the whole thing unraveling, and you can’t say one character was the “worst” without picking apart the motivations and pointing to the fact that their bad behavior was never a secret or left unchecked.

even at the end, patrick signals to art that he slept with tashi — art knows and they still have that intimate completion at the end, all three of them. art living up to his potential and embracing patrick fully (id argue this could even be a metaphor for embracing his bisexuality), patrick having both tashi and arts affection again, and tashi playing a phenomenal tennis match through her little white boys — in such a visceral, emotional way that she cries out like she did in the beginning and the last frame is her smiling.

in a fucked up way, they all get what they wanted out of each other.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’d like to entertain and enliven you now with the saga of my Slut Era.

I’ve always been a serial monogamist and my shortest long term relationships clocked in at three years. So perhaps that’s why when I finally broke it off with my ex I went insane on dating. Part of it was definitely just that between anxiety and loneliness I wanted to fill up my time.

This happened when I was living alone for the first time, no roommates, just me and my little cat Leeloo. I didn’t want to come home to an empty house so instead I set up dates.

Most of these were disastrous. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea and I had a lot more first dates than second because they’d seen enough, including the one where people aggressively complimented me.

But after a few months I had four people I was seeing simultaneously. I was up front with all of them that things were not exclusive, and they all agreed, so no infidelity took place here, just a lot of hijinks.

Here’s who was on the dating roster:

• An apprentice woodworker that we’ll call Jill. I honestly thought at 26 years old that her being 21 wasn’t a problem age gap and I quickly learned that there was a vast gulf of both maturity and life experience between us. Jill described herself as “heteroflexible” and had just dumped her first boyfriend to flirt it up with me.

• A married woman looking for a friends with benefits. We’ll call her Alice. I insisted on meeting her husband first to be sure I wasn’t part of a cheating mess and he gave me his blessing when I stayed over at her house. Years later when he and Alice had divorced I would go on to sell him and his new fiancée an engagement ring and we both realized at the end how we knew each other and it was wildly awkward. Alice was nice, but a hardcore vegan who insisted I brush my teeth if I so much as ate string cheese before I could kiss her. She was also unhappy in her marriage and was feeling out if I’d want to get serious.

• A bartender dubbed Snakebites, so called because of her signature piercings. She cooked me a steak so raw it was still mooing and some of the best asparagus I’d ever had. In our singular sexy encounter she bit my nipple and I never got over it. Really don't bite someone if you don't know their preference and work up in pressure. We weren’t terribly compatible but neither of us were willing to admit it yet. Truthfully I considered still dating her solely because I desperately wanted her bathroom. It had all black tile, black toilet, black sink, a rain shower in the corner and a jacuzzi tub. I may not have loved her but god I loved that bathroom.

And finally,

• My beloved, who I would go on to marry, who was dealing with a lot of personal stuff at the time. Obviously that meant I liked them the best of all the people I was seeing because we were both disasters at the time.

So that’s the cast of this little misadventure. Now, our story begins with Jill.

Jill was someone who heightened my anxiety. Each of the three times she came to my home she brought and left more stuff. A self help book, a ramen kit, the entire Teen Titans collection of DVDs. It was like she was trying to move in. She also liked to deride my taste in things, frequently calling me a pleb when I mentioned a band or show I liked.

She was working on a gorgeous little decorative table in her woodworking program. The main wood for the top had a beautiful dapple of knots like jaguar spots, and when she showed me a picture I exclaimed how pretty it was.

“Do you want it?”

“Oh- I mean it’s lovely, I wouldn’t mind having it, but you should sell it and make some money!”

But she was adamant. She’d give me the little side table. At about this time, Alice was starting to get awfully lovey for a FWB. I knew she wasn’t happy with her husband but I also knew we were not a good fit. Fun fact: Alice and her husband were step siblings with a pretty hefty age gap. They got together when he stumbled upon a kink photo shoot she’d done with vegetables. None of their family was happy about the relationship but they weren’t related by blood so it was fine.

So I was fending off more overt romantic advances from Alice, and feeling increasingly like I needed to break things off with Jill. Snakebites wasn’t ever initiating communication and I decided to pull a lot of plugs at once.

I ghosted Snakebites, told Alice that I thought we should cool it, and in a move worthy of a rom-com I asked my beloved if I could pretend we were exclusive to put off Jill. They agreed and I texted Jill to let her know that I was no longer single.

I was not prepared for Jill’s response. She. Was. Devastated. She flew off the handle. She’d just been waiting for the right time to tell me how she felt about me! How dare I do this to her!

What about the table?!

“You should keep the table, it’s gorgeous, you’ll be able to sell it, but I don’t expect a free table.”

Silence met me after that text. I worried and fretted and eventually headed home.

There on my doorstep. The table.

It was a small little end table, reeking of oil and polish, but very beautiful. I brought it inside. The little drawer didn’t even have a knob or guide rails. But it did have a handwritten bill proclaiming that it was costing me $500.

“I can’t afford a $500 table, Jill!” I texted.

“Well you kept saying how nice it was. I spent a lot of time on it.”

“I’m not saying it’s not worth $500” (it wasn’t, it was a tiny side table made by an apprentice) “but I can’t buy a $500 table.”

“Make me an offer.”

I stared at the little table. I did actually like it, but I worried about the repercussions of entering into this deal. Hesitantly I typed back, “$300.” I didn’t think it was worth that much but I didn’t want to insult her too badly.

This suited her for the night. But the next day she informed me she needed a new bed, and that she’d take her $300 in credit toward a new mattress. I spent the whole next day basically wrangling with her over what she wanted and eventually she spiked back up to demanding $500 for the damn table.

“Let me just give it back,” I begged. It was not the first, second, or even third time I’d asked to return the thing but this time she finally relented and gave me her address. Since she lived with her parents still I’d never been over.

I called up my beloved and said, “Hey, I need moral support, can you run an errand with me?”

They agreed which is how we loaded up a self help book, a ramen kit, the entire Teen Titans DVD collection, and the table from hell into my little car together. Jill had said to meet her at one o'clock. I intended to drop everything off at noon and be done with this madness.

But while my beloved and I were on the doorstep leaving everything I heard, “Jill? You’re home early,” through the door. Her mom opened it to peer at us in confusion.

“I was just bringing Jill’s stuff back!” I chirped in alarm.

With little tact and a lot of speed we left her with Jill’s collection of things and then I sped out of there like my tail was on fire. I handed my phone to my beloved as I zoomed away instructing them to block Jill’s number. I was free. The tabletross around my neck had been returned.

It was about a month after that when my beloved and I officially began dating exclusively. I had wrapped up all my messy dating threads and it was a relief to be in a relationship again. They went on a trip to Mexico shortly after we made it official.

So I knew they were out of town. But next morning I walked out to my car and beheld a lipstick kiss pressed to the drivers side window.

I was petrified. I had just dumped three girls at once and had an extremely messy back and forth with one of them. Did I have a stalker?!

Of the girls, Alice seemed like likeliest candidate, being of a stronger lipstick variety girl than Jill or Snakebites. We had ended things a bit stiffly, but still cordial. She just laughed when I asked if she knew anything about it. “Nope,” she said, “but good luck.”

I’d rather have walked over broken glass then text Jill, and I’d firmly ghosted Snakebites so I was scared to reopen communication to ask if she was stalking me. I had to drop it. But it haunted me, that lipstick kiss.

For months I was jumpy, wondering which of my spurned lovers had done it. And why. Was it a threat? A goodbye? I lay awake thinking about it, worrying about how everyone I’d dated knew where I lived, which car was mine.

Finally, nothing else happened and I moved on. The kiss would remain a mystery and I had to be content with that.

It was a year later when I finally started filling my mom in on my dating escapades that I finally got closure. She was hooting and laughing as I went over the table debacle. Then I paused and added, “And then this kiss showed up on my car.”

“Did you like it?”

“What? No! I’m pretty sure one of them was stalking me! Who else would leave a kiss on my car?”

My mom started bellowing with laughter. “I did!” She wheezed.

Apparently. My mother had been driving by my place. And decided that a cute little gesture would be to leave me a kiss. And then decided to never mention it to me even though she’s never done anything like that previously.

“It scared the crap out of me!” I yelled while she collapsed with helpless laughter. “I thought I had a stalker! How could I possibly have known that was you?!”

“How could I have known you’d just broken up with three girls at once?” She wheezed in rejoinder and like. Fair play.

So that’s how my mom convinced me I had a stalker and I got out of buying a $500 table.

[itsnesss]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | max has been leaving signs for you all along—hidden flowers, colors, and initials

warnings | fluff, romance, intimate moments, emotional intensity, subtle symbolism

word count | 1.2 k

🖇️ more mv1 🖇️ f1 masterlist

You don’t know exactly when it started.

Maybe it was after that race in Monaco, when you stayed late in the paddock helping him organize a few things and ended up talking for hours. Or maybe it was before, when you lent him your jacket under the rain in Spa, and he returned it with a smile that lingered with you longer than you were willing to admit.

The truth is, one day, without warning, you started noticing the little things.

The flower came first.

It was tiny. Just a brushstroke along the bottom edge of Max’s helmet, almost imperceptible. A lavender. No one else would’ve noticed it—except you. Because no one else in that paddock knew that was your favorite flower. Because you were the only one who wore lavender perfume. The only one who left dried sprigs on your desk, like a charm.

You recognized it instantly.

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him from the edge of the garage, pretending to study the tires or check data that wasn’t even your responsibility. It was easier to act like you didn’t know. Like your heart hadn’t started racing over a single gesture.

Because… how do you explain it?

How do you explain that a flower on a Formula 1 driver’s helmet can make you feel so much? How do you justify that, in the middle of roaring engines and the chaos of the paddock, something so small could cut so deep?

The first time, you thought it was a coincidence. Max had thousands of fans, and his helmet design changed from race to race. You couldn’t jump to conclusions over a tiny flower.

But then came the blue.

Not just any blue. Yours. That shade somewhere between sky and mist you wore on your nails, your favorite sweater, in the notes you left Max when he forgot things. A blue that began to show up in the details of his gloves, in a stripe on his suit collar, in the curve of a signature. Subtle. Intimate.

And that’s when you started to suspect.

Then you saw the initials.

Three letters painted inside the helmet, right beside the protective foam. Where no one would see them. Where only he could look before stepping into the car.

They were yours. Your initials.

Small, precise, etched with care and intent.

And that’s when you knew. You knew it wasn’t a coincidence. You knew he was speaking to you in another language—one without words, one of symbols and details the world ignored but you understood.

And something in you melted.

You spent weeks saying nothing.

You didn’t know how. How do you tell someone you found out they carry your essence beneath a layer of carbon fiber? How do you face a silent, hidden confession with trembling hands of "me too"?

Because you knew. You’d known for a while. That Max looked at you differently. That his tone changed when he talked to you. That his smile was softer around you. That when your eyes met amid the press chaos, there was something between you that couldn’t be explained or denied.

But he never said anything. And neither did you.

Until now.

That morning, you woke up with your heart racing. There was no race, just testing and simulations, but you knew Max would be there. Like always. Like you.

You grabbed your backpack, got ready with more care than usual, and left before you could talk yourself out of it. You couldn’t keep pretending you didn’t see what he put on his helmets. You couldn’t keep acting like you didn’t feel what you felt every time you saw him laugh, or quiet, or just being so genuinely him.

You had to face it.

And not just for him. For you.

The paddock was nearly empty when you arrived. The mechanics were focused, the air smelled of hot tires and coffee. You walked quickly, ignoring curious glances, until you reached the Red Bull box.

And there he was.

Sitting on a stool, helmet on his lap, cleaning it with those calm movements he used when he was nervous. His fingers ran a microfiber cloth over the design again and again, like he was trying to polish more than just paint.

“Max,” you called his name, firm but soft.

He looked up.

And for a second, everything stopped.

His expression shifted. From surprise to recognition, from recognition to nervousness, and from nervousness to something else. Something dangerously close to hope.

“Hey,” he said, lowering the helmet slowly. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

“Neither did I,” you confessed, walking toward him. “But I needed to talk to you.”

He nodded, swallowed hard. Waited.

You stopped in front of him and looked at the helmet. A new flower decorated the edge. A gentian. Your second favorite after lavender. The one you mentioned once, in Austria, while walking through the Alps.

It wasn’t a coincidence anymore.

“How many more are there?” you asked, gently touching the edge.

Max fell silent. Then he sighed.

“All of them,” he replied. “Since that time in Silverstone. When you stayed with me after the crash. Since then I started to… I don’t know. Keep you there. Carry you with me.”

Your breath caught.

“Why?”

Max looked up. His eyes were intense, but there was a tenderness that broke you inside.

“Because you make me feel stronger.

Because when I drive, when I’m going 300 kilometers an hour, you’re the only thing that calms me. And… because I want you close. Even if it’s like this. Even if you don’t notice.”

“I noticed, Max.”

He went still.

“For weeks now,” you added, with a trembling smile. “I just… didn’t know how to tell you I feel the same.”

And that’s when his eyes widened.

Like you’d activated something in him.

Like finally, the truth could come out without fear.

“Really?”

You nodded. Stepped closer. Took the helmet from his hands and set it aside. Then cupped his face with your palms, soft and slow, afraid of breaking something sacred.

“Really.”

And you kissed him.

It was slow. It was warm. It was everything he’d been waiting for, everything you’d secretly wanted for months. His hands found your waist like they’d been searching for it all along. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

No cheers. No flashes. No ovations.

Just two people, and a tiny universe of silent love.

When you pulled apart, Max rested his forehead against yours, wearing a goofy smile you’d never seen on him before.

“I knew you’d see it one day,” he whispered.

“I didn’t just see it,” you said softly. “I felt it. In every race. In every hidden message. In every detail.”

He laughed, quietly.

“I guess now I’ll have to redesign the helmet. Add something bigger.”

“Like what?”

Max raised an eyebrow, that mischievous little-boy look on his face.

“I always wanted you to find out like this. Not in a press conference. Not with some big announcement. Just you and me. Here.”

“And a helmet full of secrets,” you joked gently.

He smiled, laughter shaky.

“You know me too well.”

“I watch you with my heart. What did you expect?”

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“I want you to come with me to the pit wall.

Be there next time I go out.

I want to race knowing you’re watching. That you know.”

You held his hand tightly.

“I always knew, Max. I just needed the courage to come say it.”

[slutoru1207]

Invincible!Mark x reader x Variants!Mark

As requested by @halo-chao  <33

The atmosphere in the safe house was already tense before the arrival of the Variants. Mark had been doing his best to keep things together—keep you safe. You were too far along to be moving so much, too delicate in this stage of pregnancy, and the last thing you needed was stress. But fate was never kind to either of you.

It started with a distortion in the air, a strange pull that made Mark’s entire body go rigid beside you. Then, suddenly, they were there.

Versions of him. Too many versions of him.

Some looked the same, some had different scars, different uniforms, different eyes—but they were all Mark. And they were all looking at you.

"No way," one of them murmured, his expression unreadable as he took a slow step forward. His gaze was locked onto your stomach. "This—this actually happened?"

Another Mark let out a choked breath, his fists clenching. "You're pregnant." His voice wavered, filled with something that made your skin crawl. Longing? Grief? Possessiveness?

Mark—your Mark—immediately stepped in front of you, his body tense, ready for a fight even though he knew he couldn’t take them all. "Stay back," he warned, his voice low, dangerous. "You don’t belong here."

"Neither do you," a Variant shot back, eyes narrowing. "But look at her. Look at her. She’s happy. She’s safe. She’s alive."

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively resting on your belly. The weight of their stares made your skin prickle, and a deep, unsettled feeling crawled up your spine.

"I lost her before we even got a chance to start a family," one muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was thick with something bordering on grief. "We talked about it. We planned for it. But she never made it that far."

"Mine died carrying our child," another admitted, his face void of emotion, but his hands trembling. "I never got to know them. Never even heard them cry."

The room felt suffocating, their emotions—grief, anger, obsession—crashing into you all at once. You gritted your teeth, willing your heart to stop hammering so hard. Stress wasn’t good for the baby. Stress wasn’t good for the baby.

But then, not all of them were mourning. Some... some were smiling.

"This is perfect," a Mark said, stepping forward with slow, deliberate movements. His gaze was fixed on your stomach in a way that made bile rise in your throat. "I get my girl back and she’s carrying my child?"

"Not your child," your Mark snapped, his voice razor-sharp. "Not your girl."

"But she could be," the Variant countered smoothly, tilting his head. "I mean, she’s already where she’s meant to be, right? She’s already carrying our blood."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of Mark’s shirt, your breathing uneven. You weren’t stupid. You knew you couldn’t run. You could barely walk without feeling exhausted. If they decided to take you, there was nothing you could do to stop them.

One Mark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "C'mon, let’s not stress her out. That’s not good for the baby."

As if that was your biggest problem right now.

Mark’s hand found yours, his grip grounding, protective. "You’re not taking her anywhere."

"No?" One of the Variants lifted an eyebrow, amused. "You sure about that? Because it kinda looks like she belongs to allof us now."

Your pulse pounded in your ears, panic gripping your chest like a vice. This wasn’t just about you. It wasn’t just about Mark.

It was about your child.

And these men—all these different versions of the man you loved—weren’t going to leave without a fight.

part 2? 👀

[unholyfudgebiscuits]

Protective Stiles

Give me unhinged Stiles. All human, full confidence, protective as fuck Stiles.

I want Stiles' name to be broadcasted on Nemeton weekly as the pack guardian. Not Emissary, not Protector Druid, just full, no holds barred— willing to die, happy to kill, will gut you like a fish if you touch my beta's and or alphas—Stiles.

Isaac and Stiles are bullshitting one day when Isaac says his "I spent my childhood locked in a freezer. How would I know how to be helpful?" And Stiles rolls his eyes.

"You can't use that every time Isaac." It's unfortunate that Aiden is walking passed them at that moment and he glares at the beta.

"It's where you belonged mutt." The twin hisses and Stiles is out of his seat so fast Scott doesn't have time to grab him. Cause sure, Stiles can't beat up Aiden but the werewolf can't heal his vision back if he's missing a goddamn eyeball. And it takes both Scott and Boyd to pull Stiles away before he stabs him in the face with a newly fashioned, mountain ash pencil.

Some new supernatural cat girl has been stalking Allison for weeks. Stiles at first tries to reason with her, tells her she's under Alpha McCalls protection and though she's a hunter Allison will leave her alone as long as she behaves. But Cat Girl won't have any of it and when she threatens to scalp Allison's 'pretty little head' Stiles runs her over with the jeep.

A werewolf with knowledge of the Hale pack comes back to town one day and is relentlessly harassing Derek. He blames him for the fire and Stiles happens to be out at the preserve when he hears the asshole talking about Kate. "Admit it Hale, you're glad they died! Selling your family out for one hard rut. Or did she make you the bitch?"

Neither notice Stiles and his metal bat wrapped in barbed wire and dipped in wolfsbane until he's on the guy. Derek watches in awestruck horror as Stiles beats the crap out of him. Human Stiles covered in blood and panting as he stands over the unconscious omega. He spits on the guy before turning to Derek and the alpha is both utterly terrified and completely turned on when narrowed and angry eyes look to him with concern and gentleness.

"Please don't listen to him Der. None of it was your fault."

Alpha Ito makes it her mission to warn any new supernatural travelers that Beacon Hills is protected by two packs and one human. "You may speak freely with Alpha Hale or Alpha McCall if there is a problem but I implore you, do not insult the fox."

[pucksandpower]

Seeing Color

Lando Norris x soulmate!Reader

Summary: the average person goes their whole life without seeing so much as a drop of color, so safe to say you’re quite surprised when the sky suddenly turns blue while you’re covering Formula 1 for the first time

The sky’s a muted gray, just like every other day of your life, as you stand in the bustling paddock of Silverstone, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

This isn’t what you signed up for. Football’s your thing — sweaty players, goals, and post-match interviews in rain-soaked stadiums. But motorsport? Formula 1? It’s a different beast altogether.

“Just one race,” your supervisor had assured you. “It’ll be fine, Y/N. You’re a pro.”

Easy for them to say. The paddock is a maze of garages, team colors (which are a uniform grayscale for you, of course), and a cacophony of sounds that’s more overwhelming than a packed Premier League stadium.

You’ve been briefed on the basics — Max Verstappen’s the reigning champ, Lewis Hamilton’s the legend, and Lando Norris, the homegrown young talent, just secured P2.

P2. The words feel alien, even though you repeat them to yourself over and over, willing them to become familiar. Podium finish, second place. You’ve got this.

But the truth is, you don’t. Not really. And it’s showing as you fumble with your notes, trying to prepare for the post-race interviews. Your heart’s racing faster than any of the cars on the track.

“Hey, you alright there?”

The voice comes from behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. You turn around and see a young man — not too tall, with curly hair, and a faint smirk playing on his lips. You recognize him immediately, even in black and white.

Lando Norris.

“Yeah, just-” You scramble for professionalism, straightening your back and offering what you hope is a confident smile. “Just getting ready for the interviews.”

Lando’s eyes flicker down to the notes in your hand. “First time covering F1?”

Your smile falters. “Is it that obvious?”

He chuckles softly, and for a moment, it’s as if the world around you narrows down to just the two of you standing there in the paddock, the sounds and chaos fading into the background.

“A little,” he admits, leaning casually against the wall, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “But don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound surprising even yourself. There’s something about his easygoing manner that puts you at ease, just for a moment. “I appreciate that.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, right?” He asks, and you’re caught off guard that he knows your name.

“That’s me,” you reply, slipping into the role of interviewer as best as you can. “Congratulations on P2, by the way. How was the race for you?”

He glances at you, and for a brief second, his expression changes. It’s subtle — almost imperceptible — but it’s there. Something shifts in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Thanks,” he says, but the word comes out softer than you expect. There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation, before he continues. “The race was … it was intense. But honestly? Standing here right now … it feels like something else is happening.”

You frown slightly, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

Lando looks at you again, more intently this time, and you’re acutely aware of the way your pulse is thumping in your ears. “Look around,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if he’s sharing a secret. “Do you see anything different?”

You blink, confused. You glance around, expecting to see the same monotone world you’ve always known, the same dull shades of gray. But instead … you see it. A soft glow in the distance, a faint tinge of color in the sky.

It’s … blue.

A gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it. “What …”

Lando steps closer, his expression as bewildered as yours. “You see it too, don’t you?”

“I-I don’t understand,” you stammer, your heart racing even faster now. “This can’t be real. I’ve never seen color before.”

“Neither have I,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But … I’m seeing it now. Because of you.”

The air around you feels electric, charged with something you can’t quite name. Your eyes lock onto his, and suddenly, the world isn’t gray anymore. It’s alive with hues and shades that you’ve only ever imagined. His eyes, a stunning shade of fluid green, meet yours with the same wonder.

“This can’t be real,” you repeat, more to yourself than to him. You’re trying to make sense of the impossible, of the vivid blues and greens and reds that are slowly seeping into your vision, like the world is waking up from a long sleep.

Lando reaches out, his hand hovering near yours, not quite touching. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze that’s startling — like he’s just as unsure of what’s happening as you are. “I think …” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard before trying again. “I think it’s because we’re soulmates.”

“Soulmates?” You echo, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. You’ve heard the stories, the myths — how the world is black and white until you meet the person you’re meant to be with.

But it’s just that, isn’t it? A myth? A fairytale? With over 8 billion people on Earth, the chances of actually meeting your fated match are slim-to-none. Most of the population has grown to accept that they will never see anything other than black and white.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what they say, right? You don’t see color until you meet your soulmate. But I never thought it’d actually happen. Not like this.”

You’re silent for a moment, trying to process it all. The colors, the implications, the fact that this person — this stranger — is suddenly supposed to mean everything to you. It’s overwhelming.

“I don’t even know you,” you whisper, voicing your fears. “How can we be soulmates if we don’t even know each other?”

Lando’s smile is small, almost shy. “I guess we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

The words are simple, but they carry a weight that you’re not sure you’re ready to bear. But when he looks at you like that, with such sincerity, you find yourself nodding.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “I guess we will.”

He takes a step closer, and this time, his hand does brush against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You feel it in every nerve, every inch of your being. It’s like the world has shifted on its axis, and you’re standing at the center of something much bigger than yourself.

“Can I ask you something?” Lando’s voice is quiet, almost tentative.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice just as soft.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s such a simple thing, and yet, in this moment, it feels like the most important question in the world. You look around, taking in the colors that are now flooding your vision — the vibrant greens of the trees in the distance, the deep blues of the sky, the bright reds and yellows of the cars and team logos.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels right. “I’ve never had a favorite color before.”

Lando smiles, a real smile this time, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Pretty sure I’m legally obligated to say mine’s papaya,” he laughs, and you notice it for the first time — the vibrant hue of his team’s colors, standing out against the grayscale world you’ve known until now. “I think you’ll like it.”

You smile back at him, feeling the connection between you deepening with every passing second. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and everything in between.

“I think I might,” you say, and the words are full of a promise that you’re not sure you fully understand yet, but that feels right nonetheless.

For a moment, the world falls away, and it’s just the two of you, standing there in a kaleidoscope of color that’s bursting into life all around you. The roar of the engines, the clamor of the crowd — it all fades into the background as you look at each other, truly seeing each other for the first time.

“So … what happens now?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s hand tightens around yours, and there’s a steadiness in his gaze that grounds you. “We take it one step at a time,” he says. “We get to know each other. And we see where this goes.”

The simplicity of his words is comforting. There’s no grand declaration, no rush to figure everything out. Just a promise to take things as they come, to let whatever this is between you grow naturally, in its own time.

“I’d like that,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, that boyish charm back in full force, and you can’t help but smile in return. “Good,” he says. “Because I think we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”

There’s a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip a beat, and for the first time since this whole whirlwind began, you find yourself excited about the future — about the possibility of what’s to come.

“Yeah,” you reply, your smile widening. “I think we are.”

And as you stand there, hand-in-hand with Lando Norris, surrounded by the vibrant colors of a world that’s finally come to life, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is where you were always meant to be.

[derpy-dogs-n-cats]

Dealing With A Marechi S/O On Her Period.

Main Masterlist

KNY Masterlist

Muzan Kibutsuji, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza x Fem! Reader.

Warnings: Blood, smut, sexual themes, oral sex; female receiving, oral sex during period, face sitting, mentions about fingering, drinking blood, eating human flesh.

Summary: Headcanons on the upper three and Muzan helping a marechi s/o through her period while keeping their stomachs full.

W/C: 2.5k+

In the time you’d been together, he had yet to smell your blood, it was hard enough to be placed in the situation when he always made sure you weren’t injured whenever he was around, and as such a high-ranking demon, he lacked the privilege to spend as much time with you as wanted, so the timings hadn’t lined properly for him to be present during your period either, but when they finally did without you being aware of your unique type of blood, to say the least, neither of you were ready.

Muzan Kibutsuji

Takes full advantage of the situation.

Has to take a step back to steady himself the first time he smells you.

Is initially worried you’re injured at first.

Plays his cards right and shows initial concern despite your body doing a normal biological function.

Is more physically affectionate to get you to lower your guard even more.

Gets you to admit out loud that you’re in physical pain.

Suggests helping you ease the pain.

Had never buried his face between your legs before.

Was actually kind of sexist about it and would’ve felt inferior if he placed your legs on either side of his head, because why would the demon king do that?

Still tried to refuse but smelling your marechi blood didn’t help.

Having a monthly supply of marechi blood sounded tempting enough.

So he suggests easing your pain.

Surprises you by finally spreading your legs after laying between them.

Keeps you around him for the entirety of the week.

Takes you wherever he needs to go to keep you close.

But never near any demons.

If necessary, he has Kokushibo watch over you.

Doesn’t necessarily refuse to not have you in his presence.

But refuses to leave you alone and unguarded for other demons to try and eat you.

Knows that Kokushibo won’t even consider so much as laying a finger at you.

Still refuses to get on his knees for you.

You always have to lay down for him.

Forbids you from wearing anything under your kimono to have easier access.

Instantly smells whenever your blood’s about to stain the expensive fabric of your kimono.

Licks you clean every time he smells you starting to bleed.

Which is multiple times throughout the day.

As soon as you express being relieved from the pain, he uses it as an excuse.

Prefers you thinking he genuinely and solely wants to care for his favorite human rather than admitting that he needs to feed like any living creature.

Because he refuses to so much as get on his knees for you, he obviously even more so refuses to have you sit on his face.

Not even hover.

If you ever suggest it, he’ll give you the meanest side eye and refuse to speak to you for days.

Still will not eat you out outside of your period.

The moans entering Muzan’s ears easily sounded different than usual, similar to the first time he had you take his heavy cock in your lower area, where he was currently lapping at you for the first time with half lidded eyes in a relaxed expression while laying on his stomach for you, hands on either of your thighs which obediently remained spread open for him with ease due to how the rest of your body had fallen limp upon the first lick.

He had his doubts at first, but he had to admit, it’s awfully convenient to have a marechi lover who was so willing to hike up the expensive kimono and spread open the legs beneath it to allow him to feed rather than having to go through the trouble of going out of his way for people to eat. A louder moan fills the room as he dips his tongue inside your sensitive opening after having licked clean your labia.

A shaky hand reaches for his hair in attempt to pull him closer only to be pushed away rather gently by the man at your thighs. Normally, he would’ve slapped away the hand because despite actually bearing affection for you, how dare you try to command him in any way, however, he supposes the meal you’re offering him is enough for him to turn a blind eye to your insolence… once.

Kokushibo

Very concerned for your health when he finds out.

Initially thinks you’re injured upon smelling your blood for the first time.

Takes a second (one too long in his opinion) to regain his composure after the scent of your blood makes him feel dizzy.

The opposite of Muzan.

Has eaten you out before.

And doesn’t mind doing it.

Genuinely suggests relieving your pain for your benefit.

Takes great pride in taking care of you.

Hardly even thinks of you as a source of food with how much he prioritizes easing your pain.

But does acknowledge that you’re keeping him well fed.

Another one that keeps you with him every time you’re on your period (they all do).

Doesn’t think much about if he likes or not getting on his knees for you.

But knows your height differences would make it a bit uncomfortable.

And prefers you lay down for your own comfort.

Will also eat you out whenever he smells blood on the way.

Enjoys doing so but does it mainly for your safety as to not attract any demons.

Doesn’t just drink your blood but also plays with your clit to actively give you orgasms to counter your cramps.

Gently rubs your lower stomach to further help with your cramps.

Or grazes it very lightly with his fingertips to give you goosebumps if he’s in a teasing mood.

Slows the pace after each orgasm as to not overstimulate you before picking it up again.

Overall treats you like a porcelain doll.

Would give you a break if you asked.

Even if you’re still bleeding

So long as you’re always close to him so he can keep you safe.

Soft gentle tugs to your clit force heavy breaths out through your nose, the occasional pinch making you clench around the soft pink tongue moving along your insides with your back tensing and arching off the futon briefly before a hand gently pushes down your stomach to press you back against the fabric beneath you in attempt to get you to relax, the tongue carefully moving back and forth as to not overwhelm your sensitive insides.

His eyes peek open when he feels your legs starting to tremble on either side of his face, the hand over your lower stomach carefully rubbing over the skin doing little to soothe you, his first pair of eyes looking at you due to your different than usual movements, unable to read any expression from your head being thrown back. “Are you alri-” He’s interrupted by your body falling limp against him and the unmistakable noise of you hitting your orgasm.

He’s quick to react and have his fingers gently rub at your clit, slowly licking over your leaking opening, his reasoning settling on your different reactions being from your current sensitive state. His eyes fall back shut again without his own hands failing to continue their ministrations, set on taking care of you and making sure you’re carefully brought back down from your own high as to not overstimulate you while you let him eat his fill.

Douma

Doesn’t even occur to him that you might be injured.

Knows that he would’ve been notified if you’d been injured.

Also takes full advantage of the situation.

Absolutely delighted to find out you’re a marechi.

He’s been surrounded by plenty women before and has eaten enough to know what a period is obviously.

As well as eaten marechi women before.

But has never stumbled upon a marechi woman on her period.

Is baffled that it never occurred to him to keep a marechi woman by his side for a monthly supply.

Immediately asks to feed off of you rather than asking to help with your cramps.

Used to have you on him 97% of times, now it’s 100%.

Eats you out wherever, whenever and however.

Very vocal about it.

Constant praises on your taste.

Gets actually hungry while tasting you.

But remembers that you’re a fragile human who he genuinely enjoys having around and therefore would rather not hurt you.

So he treats you as an appetizer instead.

And proceeds to eat one of the other women around after you’ve stopped bleeding.

Keeps you on him under every circumstance.

Even if Muzan calls him over.

Promises to do as Muzan says and be on his best behavior which he actually fulfills much to Muzan’s surprise.

If you were to actually be apart from him, he would ask in all seriousness for you to save your blood for him for later in a jar.

Another one who would forbid you from wearing anything under your kimono.

Probably forbids you from doing so even when you aren’t on your period.

Doesn’t even warn you when he smells you starting to bleed and immediately goes under your kimono.

If there’s anyone nearby when you start bleeding, immediately orders them to leave.

For your sake.

If it were up to him, he’d bury his face between your legs right then and there.

Messy eater.

Will definitely take you on his beanbag.

Will treat your period (as well as your fucking sessions) like some type of bingo or a list that needs to have locations where he’s taken you crossed off.

You feel yourself sink further into the large pillow beneath you with your legs kept hiked to your chest, loud continuous moans coming from the blonde between said legs, the incessant noises coming from him having won long ago against your own. A slight shift of your body moves your untied kimono further open with it finally slipping off your breasts and exposing your nipples to the cold air, the elegant fabric bunching around your torso between the folds of the pillow.

“Ohh, you taste just heavenly my darling.” Douma smiles after lifting his head from your bloodied messy folds, letting you take in the sight of his chin drenched in your blood, fluids starting to trickle down to his neck followed by his tongue swiping across it. “Now sit pretty for me and let me eat…” He coaxes in a low tone while slowly lowering himself, continuing to delve his tongue into your opening.

While a knot started to form in the pit of your stomach, the hollow filling in the pit of Douma’s own stomach started to grow, tempting him with having more than just a taste of your blood, but he couldn’t, he’d never forgive himself. He shuts down his thoughts and instead licks you with more vigor, his mind wandering to other women who he’d much rather eat before you, maybe the one who’d been just slightly less polite than usual when attending you, maybe she’d be able to satiate his hunger for a while.

Akaza

Is terrified when he smells your blood for the first time.

Especially when he notices what type of blood it is.

Immediately assumes the worst.

Thanks whatever higher power there is when he sees you’re fine.

Gets headaches from trying to keep himself in control.

And still refuses to leave you alone.

Absolutely would never under any circumstances let Douma get remotely near you regardless of whatever situation you’re in.

Would never suggest eating you out to relieve the pain because he doesn’t want you to think he’s using you for food

But wouldn’t blatantly tell you no if you asked.

Would need a lot of convincing to say yes.

Would be really worried because what if he accidentally hurts you.

Is also worried that what if he genuinely gets hungry while trying to make you feel better.

Would be very hesitant due to his rule against eating women.

But tries to convince himself it’s alright because he’s not actually eating you.

Because he secretly is very curious and tempted to try it out.

Finally says yes when your cramps get unbearable.

Absolutely loses it upon his first taste.

Would already eat you out regularly for his own pleasure.

But would do it with dignity composure.

Now gets overly pussy drunk.

Doesn’t stop even after you’re clean.

Just continues while waiting for the next wave of blood.

Eats you out like a starved animal when you’re on your period.

Another messy eater.

Doesn’t leave your side for your safety.

And your mutual pleasure.

Would enjoy you sitting on his face.

But fails to notice how he refuses to let you leave your seat once you’ve sat.

Despite eating you out mostly for his own pleasure, doesn’t forget yours and uses his fingers to give you as many orgasms as he can as a thanks for keeping him fed.

Has no shame in licking his fingers clean in front of you.

Makes sure to still give you plenty of head regularly after your period so you don’t feel like he just sees you as food.

Would wonder in the back of his head if your blood alone can make him strong enough to surpass the other upper ranks.

Would be damned if Douma found out what he’s doing.

“Are you su-” “Yes.” Akaza’s quick to respond, trying to hold himself back from yanking you down, instead, gently guiding you lower to take a seat on his face. It’d been a few cycles since he finally started eating you out during your period and in that time, he’d grown addicted, though that would be an understatement. And though he still much enjoyed spending his days face buried between your legs even outside your cycle, during was something far preferable.

In the last few times he’d helped you through your difficult time of the month, he started feeling as though it wasn’t enough, no, rather he wanted more, and so he suggested something new, something you’d never know if he’d thought about himself, seen somewhere or heard of. Once you feel your lower area come into contact with him a sigh escapes you with his tongue starting to move along you, pressing over your clit, licking between your folds, circling your opening and licking clean every crevice.

He continues to suffocate himself in the intoxicating smell of your blood and decides it still isn’t enough, not with you hovering. A yelp leaves your mouth at the sudden yank of your legs being pulled upward folded against each other by a pair of strong hands with you falling completely sat on Akaza’s face, a muffled moan heard from under you pulling your gaze toward him, taking in the expression of his eyes rolled to the back of his head while his tongue invaded your insides, refusing to stop tasting you.