#i had to do it to get some out of me I hope you understand

[shaiyasstuff]

my little demon | rafayel

synopsis : You accidentally summon a demon. He's annoying, endearing, and suddenly leaving. You hate it, hate him. Except, maybe you don't. And maybe that's the worst part. content : demon!rafayel, fluff, poor references to hell, comedy

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Y/N.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rafayel, do you not understand what time out means?” you snapped, slamming your pen down like it had personally wronged you. You turned to him, already bracing for the face.

And there it was.

Big eyes. Slight pout. That tragic, kicked-puppy expression that made him look like a freshly scolded Disney sidekick.

“You look like a goldfish,” you deadpanned.

“Hey!” he gasped, hand flying to his chest like you’d just impaled him. “A cute goldfish though?” He double finger-gunned at you, winking.

You blinked. Twice. “You’re so lucky you’re already from hell.”

Rafayel just beamed like you’d complimented him.

“‘Yel,” you groaned, rubbing your temples, “I have three thousand words due by tomorrow, and my prof already hates me because I made a joke about Plato being a drama queen. If I don’t finish this, he’s going to flay me.”

“I still don’t get why you humans do this to yourselves,” Rafayel muttered, kicking his legs from where he was perched upside-down on your desk chair like an overgrown toddler. “You pay to be stressed out. Should’ve just sold your soul like a normal person.”

You gave him a look.

“Oh wait.” He grinned, sharp teeth peeking out. “Too late.”

You considered throwing your textbook at him. Not that it would do anything. He’d just catch it mid-air with a smug smirk and then use it as a coaster for his bubble tea.

Because, yes, your demon—your demon, what the actual hell—had a crippling addiction to boba. Specifically the strawberry milk tea kind. With rainbow pearls. That he insisted on ordering with your credit card.

How did it come to this?

Well. You were trying to write your thesis.

A comparative analysis of ancient summoning rituals and modern occult trends.

Cool, edgy, mildly creepy.

Your professor was thrilled.

You, on the other hand, were downing energy drinks and googling ‘curses that don’t backfire’ at 3AM.

Then you found The Website.

Black background. Red font.

Very ‘do-not-enter-this-site-if-you-value-your-soul’ vibes.

So like anyone with a brain, you clicked it.

You followed the instructions—chalk circle, candles, some vaguely Latin-sounding chants—and when nothing happened, you shrugged and went to bed, convinced you’d wasted twenty bucks on witchy candles and your last shred of dignity.

Then you woke up to glowing eyes staring down at you from your ceiling like some paranormal ceiling cat.

You screamed. Loudly.

Your RA came running, ready to fight a serial killer, only to find you clutching a pillow and pointing at an empty spot on your ceiling like a madwoman.

He backed out of your room slowly, muttering something about, “freshman psychosis” and, “never rooming with a lit major.”

And now?

Now you had Rafayel.

A demon with a temper shorter than your GPA, a weird fixation with glitter, and a total disregard for personal space, deadlines, or the human concept of privacy.

He refused to leave.

Something about your summoning being ‘binding’ and your ‘aura’ being ‘weirdly cozy.’ Whatever the hell that meant.

You sighed and turned back to your laptop, muttering, “Why couldn’t I have summoned, like, a chill ghost? Or a vampire with a tragic past?”

From behind you, Rafayel hummed, “You say tragic past, but I am the reason a small village disappeared off the map in 1437.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Good for you.”

“And yet, here I am. Reduced to being your emotional support demon.”

“Reduced? No one asked you to rearrange my spice rack alphabetically and by Scoville level.”

“Blasphemy tastes better with cayenne.”

You didn’t look up. You didn’t respond.

You simply typed.

And hoped to hell—or heaven, or the void between—that this paper would write itself before you lost your last brain cell.

You felt the faint, ominous creak of your desk chair’s twin moving behind you—the low growl of overworked wheels scratching across old floorboards.

Which meant that Rafayel was on the move.

And sure enough, a second later, he was right beside you, chin practically glued to your shoulder as he peered at your screen like a nosy toddler who had just discovered the concept of YouTube.

“Oh my god,” he whispered in genuine horror. “What is that supposed to be?”

You blinked. “It’s a nineteenth-century etching of a demon.”

“That,” he pointed dramatically, “looks like if a goblin and a melted candle had an unfortunate child.”

“…Well, it is hell,” you muttered under your breath, barely suppressing the eye twitch as he recoiled at the grotesque, horned figure on your laptop like it personally offended his bloodline.

“It’s just—ugh! You humans get it so wrong.” Rafayel flopped back into his chair with a dramatic huff, lacing his fingers behind his head like this was a casual TED Talk and not your descent into academic burnout.

“Lucifer’s not some scary, flaming rage monster. He’s actually pretty chill. Bit moody. Likes jazz. Wears a lot of silk.”

You blinked slowly, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “Wonderful. Shall I cite you as a primary source, then?”

“I mean, I did know him.”

“Of course you did.”

He grinned, cocky and unbothered, like he hadn’t been singlehandedly driving you to the edge of sanity all month.

You slammed your palms onto your desk with the force of a caffeinated raccoon reaching enlightenment.

“Rafayel.”

“Yes?” he said sweetly, as if he hadn’t just derailed your concentration for the fifth time in under ten minutes.

“I am a senior,” you began, voice dangerously calm, “in the final semester of a four-year degree that I am barely surviving. I have not slept in two days. I have eaten nothing but cereal dust and vending machine pretzels. My thesis is currently being held together by three weak metaphors, one questionable source, and the power of denial.”

You took a breath, gaze narrowing.

“So unless you want me to start writing my next section on how modern demons are somehow worse than capitalism—Shut. The fuck. Up.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he gave you a slow clap.

“I love it when you get feisty,” he said, grinning.

You turned back to your screen.

He was lucky he was immortal.

—•

You threw your hands in the air like a malfunctioning robot powering down for the last time and muttered a tired, deadpan, “Yay.”

The kind of yay that carried the weight of sleep deprivation, caffeine addiction, and a vague desire to start life over as a forest hermit.

When you turned, Rafayel was mid-hover above your bed—legs crossed in an upside-down floating genie pose like some unholy yoga instructor. His head hung just low enough to make direct, smug eye contact with you.

“I’m done.” you declared, the kind of joy only reserved for finishing a thesis or surviving a group project with your sanity intact.

“Finally,” he drawled, tossing his ninety-ninth boba cup into the bottomless trashcan of the void like a three-point shot. The lid landed with a soft clink that echoed like judgment.

You stared at him. “Is that my hoodie you’re wearing?”

He shrugged—midair, still upside down. “It smells like you. Very… stressed and academically overachieving.”

You flopped face-first onto your bed with a groan. “Why are you like this?”

“I’m your emotional support demon,” he chirped. “I’m doing my job.”

“Do your job quieter.”

“That’s not in the contract.”

“There was no contract—”

“You summoned me with ancient Latin and expired lavender candles. I’d call that consent.”

You groaned into your pillow. He was unbearable. Infuriating. Downright catastrophic.

But also… a little fun.

Stupid adorable demon.

“How do I even get rid of you anyway?” you mumbled into the depths of your pillow, the words muffled but laced with the kind of dramatic despair that came after surviving both a thesis and Rafayel.

Silence.

Unusual silence.

Suspicious, even.

You lifted your head just enough to peek over your arm. “…Rafayel?”

No answer.

You sat up fully now, squinting toward your desk—where the demon in question was oddly still, back turned, his usual commentary absent.

That was never a good sign.

You got up, padding quietly across the room like one of those horror movie girls who absolutely should not go toward the ominous figure, but does anyway because narrative choices.

There he was, standing in front of your laptop, staring at the still-open tab with the medieval etching of hell. The fire, the grotesque figures, the tormented souls—all frozen in digital interpretation.

You stopped a few feet behind him. “…You okay?”

His posture didn’t shift. He didn’t crack a joke or throw a boba cup into the void.

Just stared.

And when he finally did speak, it was quieter than you expected.

“They always get it wrong,” he said. “They make it all fire and fury. Screaming. Violence.”

You frowned, uncertain.

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker in his expression. Not anger. Not smugness.

Something else.

“They forget it’s mostly just… quiet down there.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to.

So you just stood there, behind the demon you summoned on accident, watching as he looked at a world that feared him—and didn’t understand him at all.

He finally turned to look at you, and there was that flicker of a smile again—gentler this time, almost… nostalgic?

“Hell isn’t that bad, you know?” he said, like he was trying to convince you, or maybe just himself. “I had friends down there.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. “You? Have friends? Shocking.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Rude. But fair.”

Still, the sarcasm didn’t fully return. His shoulders relaxed a little, and his gaze dropped for a moment like he was remembering something that didn’t belong in this room, in this world.

“Yeah,” he said. “We may not have souls, but we’re not cold-blooded beings who only love torture.”

A pause.

His lips twitched. “Okay. Maybe some of us are. Gormax really enjoyed the whole spine-peeling thing.”

You blinked. “That’s not a real name.”

“Swear on the Void.”

“…You people need hobbies.”

He grinned again, but this time you noticed the faint sadness beneath it. Not enough to take over, but just enough to linger.

You glanced at your laptop, still glowing with the static, flaming misery of a human’s idea of damnation, and then back at him.

“You miss it?”

Rafayel shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s home. In a weird, messed-up, infernal kind of way.”

You nodded slowly.

And maybe—just maybe—you started to understand.

“I mean, I understand. I miss home too. But,” you sighed, dropping back into your chair with a quiet thud. Rafayel hovered beside you again, floating like some dramatic ghost lamp as he waited—surprisingly quiet, for once.

“My parents passed away two years ago,” you said, voice soft, almost careful, like the words had grown sharp with time. “So I’ve been avoiding going home. It just… doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

You didn’t look at him as you spoke. Just clicked through the open tabs, saving your thesis with methodical clicks. Save as draft. Save to cloud. Back up to your USB, just in case the universe decided to smite your hard drive out of spite.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Like a blanket pulled over your shoulders that you didn’t ask for but kind of needed.

Rafayel didn’t say anything right away.

He didn’t make a joke.

Didn’t deflect.

He just hovered beside you, gaze steady, presence uncharacteristically… grounded.

And for once, you didn’t feel like talking was wasted.

You shrugged off the creeping melancholy with a light chuckle, brushing it off like lint from an old sweater. No need to get all soft and sentimental—this was supposed to be your break from the feels, not a therapy session featuring one floating demon roommate.

Turning to Rafayel, you expected another sarcastic quip, or maybe a comment about your overuse of the word “therefore” in your thesis. But instead, he was just… staring at you.

Not in his usual annoying way.

Not the 'I’m about to tease you for eating dry cereal out of a mug again' way.

Just quietly watching you.

“Tell me more,” he said.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He leaned in a little, expression unreadable. “Tell me more about yourself.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t want to—but because no one ever asked that. Not like that. Not seriously.

Not with that kind of openness in their voice, like he actually wanted to know.

The demon you accidentally summoned from a sketchy website at 3AM, who drinks boba like it’s holy nectar and thinks your hoodie smells like existential dread, was asking you—you—to talk about yourself.

You were stunned.

Then you did the only thing that made sense.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “But only if you go first.”

He tilted his head, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something more honest. “Deal.”

You lay sprawled on your bed, one leg dangling off the side, your pillow tucked under your chin like a sad little emotional support loaf.

Across from you, Rafayel spun slow, lazy circles in the air like some haunted carousel ride. At one point he did a full backflip and declared it, “aesthetically necessary.”

And somehow, between the jokes and the occasional sarcastic remark, the conversation had slipped into something real.

You told him about your past. Your parents. The quiet house you grew up in. How you always wanted a sibling—not just to share toys with, but to not feel alone when the lights turned off and grief crept in.

You told him about the accident, how it felt like the world just stopped, and you were the only one still moving.

And he listened. Actually listened.

In return, he talked about the Void—though you were beginning to think “hell” was more of a branding issue than a literal place.

He described it like a strange bureaucracy: souls sorted, some punished, others recycled, a few left in the waiting room forever because someone misplaced their paperwork.

“Torture chambers are real, yeah,” he said casually, floating upside down with his hair hanging like a purplish waterfall. “But they’re for the actual evil ones. Not the spicy-sin level ones. Just murdery, unforgivable bastards.”

He paused, then smirked. “It’s always funny when a priest walks in. So shocked. Like, sir, you were literally laundering money and judging people for existing.”

You gave a snort-laugh, despite yourself.

Then you sat up, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, but—what is your role in all this? Why are you so free to be here, doing aerial tricks in my room and spending thousands on my credit card like it’s demon Black Friday?”

Rafayel floated to a stop, blinking.

Then he stretched out like a cat mid-yawn. “Technically, I’m a scout.”

“A scout?”

“Yeah. Recruits, human surveillance, some possession clearance checks, the occasional ‘make a deal for your soul’ gig—basic intern stuff.”

You gawked. “You’re telling me you’re a hell intern?”

He smirked. “Unpaid, of course. And overqualified.”

You dropped your head into your hands. “Of course you are.”

He floated a little closer, a glint in his eye. “But I was top of my class in emotional disruption and distraction techniques, thank you very much.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

He smirked, all teeth and knowing glint. “You’ll miss me.”

You blinked.

Then immediately scowled. “Fuck no.”

But the twinge in your chest—the subtle little ache—said otherwise.

Betrayal. By your own heart.

Rude.

Rafayel, of course, noticed. He always did. The bastard was like an emotion-sniffing dog, except instead of alerting people, he just smirked more.

“When I get promoted,” he said, reclining into his imaginary armchair like some otherworldly sitcom character, “I’ll finally be able to go back.”

Back to the Void. To hell.

To wherever demons like him belonged when they weren’t terrorizing emotionally constipated college students and draining their boba budgets.

You went quiet, lips pressed together.

Then, softly—almost like you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer—you asked,

“What if I want to see you again?”

He turned his head, cocking a brow. “I thought you wanted me to begone?”

“Well, yeah,” you mumbled, rubbing at your neck like you could hide your embarrassment behind muscle tension. “That was before I thought you were… fun.”

Rafayel blinked. Then blinked again, stunned just long enough for you to feel like maybe—maybe—you’d glitched the demon matrix.

“Fun?” he echoed, the grin creeping back slowly. “You think I’m fun?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

You groaned and rolled back onto your bed, covering your face with your hands.

From above, you heard the soft flick of a boba straw unwrapping. And then—

“You’re fun too, you know,” he said.

You peeked between your fingers.

He was still floating. Still smug. But maybe—just maybe—a little softer.

[myownwholewildworld]

gif by @\watchbroken

“you ain’t falling asleep again” — an oldman!joel miller drabble

main masterlist pairing: oldman!jackson!joel miller x f!reader summary: joel takes viagra and can't keep it down. he decides you can help. and the glasses stay on. a/n: please everyone say, THANK YOU SYD @syd-djarin !! i wouldn’t have written this if it wasn’t for you! tysm for allowing me to be shamelessly feral and for cheering me on, you know i love ya <3 anyways, hope you guys like this drabble, i am ovulating. heed the warnings and enjoyyyy xx tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. pwp. filthy smut. the old man’s glasses stay on. breeding kink. consensual somno. use of viagra. brief reference to a limp dick situation cause it’s hot. period sex and descriptions of period blood. joel goes down to town on you (f!oral), so vampire!joel if you wish cause he loves it. fingering. unprotected piv. creampie. age gap, no age gap, your choice. no description of reader other than afab. unedited, soz, i'm horny and i wanted this out asap. w/c: ~1.8k

Joel resented you. Really did.

You were sprawled across his bedsheets, legs splayed without a worry in the world. And here he was, on the rocking chair facing the bed in his Jackson home, watching you enjoy your beauty sleep, while his cock beat hard on his calloused hand.

He’d definitely overdone it with the viagra. At the tender age of sixty-one, Joel sometimes needed a bit of help to get him going. The first time he’d remained limp on your hand, despite your best efforts, had really stuck with him. Truth be told, that hadn’t stopped you from sucking him off, giggling and drooling all over his dick. But still, it embarrassed him. So, when Joel had the chance to trade for some pills, he did.

And now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. He’d been railing you all night till the first lights glittered in his room—your beautiful body bouncing on his cock while the light reflected off the sweaty drops kissing your skin. But unlike him, you were spent and in much need of some rest.

Joel, on the other hand, had not been able to go back to sleep. As soon as he heard your soft, cute snores, his veiny cock had hardened again. Unconsciously his eyes darted to the sweet nook between your thighs. He really had the best view from here, eagerly watching his spent dripping down your slick slit.

The chair rocked under him, his big hand palming the growing erection, his eyes roving over every delicious curve of your body. And then something caught his eye—the cum leaking from your pussy was no longer white, but a shade of pink.

Joel sat on the verge of the rocking chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose to have a better look. No, his old man’s sight wasn’t betraying him—you really were bleeding.

His cock had a mind of its own, reacting to the call of nature in the most primal way. Joel tugged at his shaft, squeezing himself tight while a pearl of precum adorned his flushed cockhead. Your period couldn’t have come at a better time. Joel thoroughly enjoyed himself when that time of the month arrived—a reminder of how breedable you were.

Joel stood up, throbbing cock on hand and his cracking knees betraying his moves. He couldn’t just stay put any longer—surely, you’d understand that he was compelled to do this. That he just couldn’t stop himself, not when you were freely bleeding on his white bedsheets.

You stirred a bit when the wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, but your eyes stayed shut. Joel tiptoed to the foot of the bed and carefully sat on the mattress. Up close, he inspected your cunt with diligence. Your pussy was still gushing out his pinkish cum, but he needed to see red.

Bunching the bedsheets on his fist, Joel swiped your seam clean, his thumb stroking your entrance through the fabric to ensure no remnants were left behind. Once he was satisfied, he laid on his tummy and moved your legs, so the back of your knees rested on his shoulders. Now he could really see your slick cunt up close.

Joel spread your pussy lips, coaxing them apart to stretch your crying hole. A few seconds later, he was gifted with a glob of blood. He thumbed your clit softly, coaching your cunt to leak some more period blood for him, and you quietly squirmed. Another red bubble dripped down your fold, smearing your sweet puffy lips, staining his sheets. His eyes locked in on your beating bud, and he just knew what he had to do.

Hypnotised by the sensuality of it all, Joel leaned in and kissed your begging clit. The fingers that were stretching your lips open for him travelled down your glistening seam until they reached your bloodied opening. Without even doubting himself, Joel shoved his middle and ring ringers in your wet warmth, the squelching of your blood almost making him feel dizzy with lust.

Joel suckled on your clit, your thighs trembling against his ears, and then his mouth dropped. He removed his fingers from your tight hole and coated the skin of your inner thigh with your own blood while his tongue dived in.

Your pussy tasted divine. Metallic, fertile, slightly bitter. His favourite flavour, that was for sure. When Joel lapped your whole seam, from your seeping entrance, through your clit, to your mound, he felt your hand fisting his salt-and-pepper curls.

“Joel… What are you…” you trailed off sleepily, moaning as your back arched off the mattress.

Joel looked up at you, smirking like the devil he was.

“Just let me have this,” he almost implored, pecking the bloody fingerprints he’d left behind on your inner thigh.

“Are you… are you still hard?” you managed to croak out, eyes fluttering shut when Joel latched on your clit again.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, mouth full of you.

Joel alternated between fingering you and prodding your hole with the tip of his tongue, drunk with your iron-like tang, thumb pressing tight circles on your clit. And he truly didn’t stop until your legs were shaking uncontrollably around him and you were mewling your pleasure, your wails echoing in his bedroom.

With a bit more of encouragement, you finally came in his mouth. Joel didn’t hesitate to drink everything your cunt oozed out—the period blood mixing with your cream was his personal nectar. His favourite breakfast. He shamelessly licked your folds and hole clean, revelling in how your entrance quivered around the tip of his tongue when he poked at it.

Your mind was still hazy with the ghost memory of your wet dream, but Joel eating your bloody pussy out definitely had you delirious. This old man of yours knew no shame, no hard limits. And you loved him for it.

When Joel emerged from between your thighs, you gasped, and your pussy gushed. His beard was covered in your period blood, even his cheeks were smudged. And Joel just… looked so chuffed about it all, it made you smile back at him.

You glanced down at his lap when he knelt between your legs, his broad hands resting on your knees to part your thighs for him. His stiff cock greeted you, swaying and throbbing. He was about to fucking explode, so red and swollen, leaking precum everywhere—you truly feared for his wellbeing.

“Fuck, Joel…” You bit down your plump bottom lip, eyes focused on his dick. “How many pills did you take?”

“Two. I wasn’t sure if one was enough, needed to make sure I could fuck you all night long,” he admitted, tapping your clit a few times with his warm, tacky cockhead. “And then you fucking bail on me, falling asleep and leaving me hanging.”

Before you could defend yourself, Joel buried himself in you down to the fucking hilt in one smooth thrust. You braced yourself and grabbed at his forearms, back arched so much that your nipples were kissing his naked chest.

Without exchanging another word, Joel began railing you hard, his throbbing cock growing inside you, impossibly so. He filled your entire pussy, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix every time he hammered in. No thoughts formed in your brain, you could only moan and sob and scream his name so everyone in Jackson would know you were getting your guts fucked.

Joel imposed a punishing pace, anchoring his hands to the headboard while his hips slammed against yours, the clapping of skin on skin competing with your loud groans. His mushroom head dragged alongside your anterior wall every time he ploughed you, rubbing that precise spongey spot inside you that made your pussy hug him tighter.

You just managed to open your eyes and glance up at him. He was gorgeous, the most handsome man you’d ever had the pleasure to meet. And he was all yours.

With every plunge, his old man’s glasses slipped further down the bridge of his aquiline nose, until they caught on the tip of his nose. The glass was all foggy now, and you were almost sure Joel couldn’t see shit right now. The picture made you smirk, but his incessant shoves forced your mouth to shape a perfect O before you began moaning his full name again.

Joel was fucking you so hard into the mattress, the precarious balance of his glasses gave way, and the frames fell onto your chest. Without thinking, you snatched them to put them on back on his nose but then you thought better of it. Instead, you put them on and looked up at him with a sly grin—it was all blurry, but could still make out his face and feral eyes.

“Fucking beautiful,” he husked out.

You felt the pulse emitted by his girthy cock, and the threat of his orgasm called to yours. When the first ropes hit your cervix, you came with him, your pussy milking him dry of every single drop he fed you. Joel filled you up to the brim with his cum and not satisfied with it, he fucked his spent into you for a couple of minutes while your used cunt spasmed around him.

You were truly spent, laboriously breathing, your heart racing wild in your chest. Joel was heaving too, and his greying brows furrowed when his cock left your entrails.

You couldn’t help but look down—you had left pink creamy rings on his hard cock, a mixture of your juices, his cum and your period blood. And when you peeked over at your pussy, you sighed. Yes, your pussy was smeared red, your inner thighs too, and you were still bleeding onto his sheets.

You should have felt slightly embarrassed, but knowing how much Joel enjoyed you on your period, well... there was literally nothing to be shy about. As a matter of fact, you had been waiting for this time of the month to come, because you just knew that Joel would be feral about you.

Letting your head fall back for a breather, you felt Joel pet your overstimulated clit. You whimpered a little, your nerve endings flaring alive, almost painfully, and your brows bunching together in concentration.

You managed to open your eyes again, and then you realised. He was still hard. Very much so.

“You ain’t falling asleep again,” he groaned, pointing an accusatory bloody finger at you. “‘M not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

He was right. Joel didn’t let you.

[lukolathoughts]

Miss Nicola - supporting LGBTQI rights

Dearest gentle reader,

I have been itching to write a blog post now for a few weeks, but not really knowing where to begin. There have been frenzied weeks and days of activity, but then silence and the fandom meanders like a lost boat at sea. We are often rudderless without the reassuring presence of our ship captains - Luke and Nicola. This also tends to get the sub fandoms spouting nonsense claiming to have seen Nicola in Birmingham or some ridiculous crap. I didn't want to bother her by asking for a photo! No photo, no proof my friend.

I'll talk about me for a moment. I had a week from hell last week. There was something so upsetting for me to deal with, I couldn't go into work as I was crying that much. Try to explain this to your manager: that nasty comments on YouTube made you late for work. Luckily, she is an understanding person and I have told her about my YT channel. Saying some things out loud to real life people make me sound barking mad. But it is the price you pay for being public on YouTube. It also makes me an easy target. I am used to online trolls and people who hate me for saying that Jake is gay and believing in Lukola, but when the stab in the back comes from a supposed friend, it really is the ten of swords. My phone blew up that much, I opened my eyes that morning genuinely thinking Lukola had launched. My hope turned to ash, when I saw what was really happening. I share this with you all because, I have had to have a reckoning with myself the last week. My online life and my real life are not the same. My real life is way more important and I actually need my job, so messing it up because I've got people I don't really know online saying mean things about me, that are not true, shouldn't matter. But it still hurts. But I also realise, they are trying to stop me sharing and trying to ruin my credibility and reputation in order to send me off into my discord crying never to return again.

Well think again. No one tells a Sagittarius woman what they can and can't do. I am made of stronger stuff. Love will always conquer hate. No one puts Baby in the corner, and I will not stand for it. I have scaled back most of my online life now. It had helped me cope with the last year and losing my friend, but sometimes you have to go back into reality. I'm never leaving the ship though. You'll have to chuck me overboard and I'll still jump back on like Rose from Titanic. "I couldn't go, Jack! You jump, I jump, right?"

Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about Nic. I love Nicola by the way and nothing I say here is a criticism of her or her choices. I see what you're doing though, miss Nicola. I said in my last blog that the shit would hit the fan when Jake has to start press for his new upcoming BBC3 drama What it feels like for a girl. I will admit I have not read the book. Regardless of who Jake is playing, it is reportedly an all queer cast, a queer director and at least one queer writer that I know of. Why would the director of an all queer cast hire a straight man in a homosexual role? If this show is as big as It's a Sin, that aired on Channel 4 a few years ago, then there will be press and a lot of it. There will be press from queer magazines also. Jake is currently in an awkward position, because some press believe he is in a romantic relationship with Nicola Coughlan, a woman who is also 14 years his senior. So, what will Nicola and Jake do?

Jake is holding onto his cash cow with both hands and Nicola needs Jake to continue to pose as her boyfriend to stop the media digging. But honey, they know. It was clear all the press at the SAG awards knew exactly what was going on and they were not afraid to say it. The 'happy ending' comment levelled at them directly by a reporter, had Nicola stunned and Luke smiling like all his Christmases' had come at once.

Nicola knows what is going on. She knows there is a deadline and she knows if she doesn't extricate herself from the narrative she is dating a gay man, she is screwed basically. What is she doing? She's getting out her, I love gays!! T-shirt, hats, scarfs, sunglasses, whatever. She is doing it. Look at me, I love queers! I love her for this and I already know she is an advocate for LGBTQI rights. She has a ton of gay friends. The fandom knows this of course, but do the general public?

At the Neutrogena event on 27th March 2025, there was a very tall drag queen doing some MCing. We know Nic loves drag queens and has been to many shows, so this is nothing new to us. I'm not being overly cynical that the drag queen might have been there for a reason, right? Neutrogena is a product that is targeted at women mostly for their skin products. What has that got to do with a drag queen? I just found it odd.

Next up we have Nicola's Pink Pony Club Post that she shared to both her Instagram stories and grid last Thursday 10th April. The song by Chappell Roan is synonymous with the gay community and one that Jake danced to at her concert last year in a pink cowboy hat. "You guys, remember when my old flat was a gay hotspot!" Nicola, posts 4 polaroid's of her looking fabulous in pink and lays them on a pink blanket. What made you feel so nostalgic, Nic? Or are you sending a message? Look at me, I have loved my gay besties for donkey's years. Prominent gay friends such as JVN and Jack Rooke commented all in agreement, that indeed, Nic's flat was the place to be. And, no I do not think Nicola is coming out herself as gay. Get real, she is supporting her friends and peers.

Then there was yesterday's selfie of Nicola wearing her black - 'I just wanted to say if you are trans and reading this, I love you and so do all my mates' T-shirt. There a few other details in that post that other bloggers such as @toriaaniin have covered beautifully, so I won't go into it here. My eyes sprung wide when I saw this post. I know she advocates for the charity Notaphase.org and I commend her for doing this, but two queer posts in a few days seems to be a lot for Nic, when lately she hasn't been posting at all.

There is also the male hairdresser Halley Brisker in her Opalex video on her Instagram, They make a big deal of letting us know he flirts with male makeup artists. Nicola is clearly good friends with Halley and it is an endearing watch. But to me this seems like a lot of overkill in the last few days for the general public to look at her Instagram and instantly know, yes Nicola does love the girls, the gays and Luke Newton. (FYI Halley Brisker is married to a woman and has children, but to the general public this conversation is implying Nic is comfortable with these conversations).

This, in my opinion, is setting the stage for the final act. I can see Nicola doing some sort of article or interview where she clears a certain narrative up. If you notice, Douglas has also been quite forceful again in implying certain things about Jake and Jake himself does not stop others from posting suggestive posts and videos of him. Nicola must remove herself from this mess in order to move forward with her own career and life. Hanging onto old connections are no longer serving her personally and professionally. Her engagement on Instagram is down by a lot, so I'm told and she is losing followers. She has done all she can career-wise for Jake now, he has to make his own way.

If this does not happen and we remain in this weird heteronormative bubble, I fear the press for What it feels like for a girl, will be a shit show. The truth will come out eventually and it will drag both Jake and Nicola down with it.

[xoxosierralane]

| ᴏғғɪᴄᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴʟʏ |

✎ from sierra: hello hi there, my first time posting a fic on tumblr let’s hope i did this good..! and i also hope you guys enjoy this little chapter and lmk if you would like another, im also open to any ideas and writing tips. also ty to @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary & @bueckersbitch for some tips when i asked they def helped, you guys are lovely also check them out 🌺

✎ synopsis: when an overworked pre-med student wakes up late for class, the last thing she expects—aside from the existential spiral mid-lecture—is to be roped into tutoring UConn’s star point guard, Paige Bueckers. Paige is charismatic, cocky, and somehow always talking. The reader is sleep-deprived, sarcastic, and trying desperately to avoid any and all distractions. But when tutoring sessions turn into unexpected walks home, avoiding Paige becomes impossible. She’s not just a classmate—she’s a slow, sneaky problem. And worse? She lives next door.

✎ warnings: language

There are few sounds in this world more horrifying than your alarm going off thirty-five minutes after your class already started.

The second my eyes fly open, I know something is wrong. It’s that eerie, sun-too-bright, birds-too-loud kind of wrong. That creeping, soul-leaving-my-body realization as I blink at my phone screen and see the time:

9:53 AM.

Class started at nine. I should be halfway through pretending to understand biochem pathways by now, not halfway to a heart attack in bed.

I launch out of my sheets like a woman possessed, nearly tripping over the half-folded pile of laundry on my floor and banging my shin on the corner of my desk. (Why do dorm room desks always have the sharpest edges known to man?)

“Okay, okay, it’s fine,” I mutter to myself, pulling on the first pair of jeans I can find and a hoodie that may or may not have toothpaste stains on it. “You’re only, like, an hour late. People have survived worse.”

My hair’s still in the braids I did last night, thank God, because if I had to fight edge control and lateness at the same time, I would’ve just dropped out on the spot. I grab my bag, shove in a half-closed notebook, and toss a granola bar in my pocket like it’s some kind of sacrificial offering.

By the time I get to the lecture hall, I’m fully out of breath and lightly sweating. Cute. Nothing says “serious STEM major” like showing up late and looking like you just ran a 5K.

I try to sneak in, pulling the door open as quietly as possible (which means it creaks like it hasn’t been used since the Civil War), and immediately feel a hundred pairs of eyes swing in my direction. My professor pauses mid-slide.

“Nice of you to join us,” he says dryly, not even bothering to hide his smile.

“Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my head down as I scurry to the only open seat in the second row, of course. Because the back row? The safety zone? Taken. God has favorites, and I’m clearly not one of them.

I sink into the seat and pretend I didn’t just make a grand entrance. The girl next to me—blonde, tall, looks suspiciously like someone who could dunk on me if given the chance—glances over with a raised brow and the tiniest smirk.

“Rough morning?” she asks, her voice warm, a little teasing. It’s got that slightly drawn-out edge to it, like she grew up saying “pop” instead of “soda.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t.”

She puts her hands up in mock defense but doesn’t stop smiling. Great. A morning person with cheekbones. Just what I needed.

I turn back to the lecture, trying to catch up on whatever enzyme he’s ranting about. Paige—yes, Paige Bueckers, UConn’s golden girl, sitting next to me like this is her seat or something—keeps glancing over at me every few minutes, like I’m the entertainment for the day.

Which, fine. I probably am. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

The lecture drones on, a blur of chemical structures and way too many acronyms. My brain’s already in fight-or-flight mode, and I’m trying to copy notes from the slide like my future depends on it—which it kinda does, because if I bomb this class, there goes med school, and if I don’t go to med school, then what? Sell overpriced vitamins on TikTok? Start a podcast about burnout?

I sink lower in my seat, hoping to disappear entirely.

“Alright,” the professor says, tapping his remote like it owes him money. “Can anyone explain the mechanism here?”

Silence. Beautiful, holy silence. For a second, I think we might all get away with it.

Then—

“Maya?”

I freeze. My neck actually creaks when I turn my head up to look at him. “Sorry?”

He smiles like this is fun for him. “The mechanism. For the rate-limiting step of glycolysis.”

Of course it’s glycolysis. Of course it’s this unit. I glance down at my notes, which may as well be scribbled in a dead language, and I swear my soul briefly exits my body.

Okay. Think. You’ve studied this. You’ve done flashcards at 2 a.m. like a responsible, sleep-deprived adult. You can do this.

“…Hexokinase?” I offer, which I immediately realize is wrong because his eyebrow twitches.

“Not quite,” he says. “Anyone else?”

I want to melt into the floor. I want the Earth to crack open beneath me and swallow me whole like a Greek tragedy. Why would you call on someone who was just 50 minutes late and visibly unwell?

I drop my gaze to my notebook, which now has a sad little doodle of a frowning mitochondrion in the margin, and let myself mentally spiral.

Maybe this is a sign. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me to give up and open a dog café somewhere in Portland. Maybe academic success is a capitalist scam designed to break me emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Maybe—

“You were close,” a voice whispers next to me, low enough that only I can hear. “It’s phosphofructokinase.” I glance over. Paige’s lips are twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.

Oh. So she’s not only annoying and smug—she’s smart, too. Fantastic.

I give her a blank look, then scribble it in the margin like I knew it all along. I don’t thank her. I’m not that gracious yet.

The professor moves on. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and slouch back into my seat.

I don’t even know how Paige knows that answer. I swear she’s never said a single academic thing in class before—usually just nods like she’s vibing through the lecture, and now suddenly she’s a glycolysis expert?

I glance at her again. She’s leaned back in her chair like she doesn’t have a single worry in the world. Her hoodie sleeves are pulled over her hands and she’s tapping a pencil against her notebook, looking out the window like she’s half-listening, half daydreaming.

God, I hate her.

Not really. Just enough to feel mildly personally attacked by her existence.

By the time the professor finally wraps up, my brain feels like someone stuck it in a microwave on defrost. Half-melted, barely functioning, and emitting a faint hum of defeat.

I’m already halfway through mentally mapping my route to the dining hall—food, nap, forget this day ever happened—when I hear the worst possible words.

“Maya, could you stay back for a second?”

I freeze with my laptop halfway into my bag. No. No. Please no. My stomach drops, already bracing for the we’re concerned about your academic performance speech. Or maybe he’s just gonna roast me for being late. Publicly. Again.

Next to me, Paige doesn’t move. Which is weird because usually she’s the first one out the door, bouncing off to whatever practice or photoshoot or press interview she’s contractually obligated to pretend she enjoys.

“You too, Paige,” the professor adds casually.

Ah. So it’s a group scolding. Cute.

I glance at her. She shrugs, and somehow even her shrug is smug. Like she already knows what this is about and I’m the one being dragged into something against my will.

Once everyone else filters out, the room goes quiet in that awkward way classrooms do when it’s just you, your mistakes, and the person paid to evaluate them.

The professor folds his arms. “I’m going to get right to it,” he says, eyes flicking between us. “Paige has been… struggling a bit to keep up.”

I blink. Paige?

She doesn’t even flinch. Just shifts her weight to one leg and tilts her head like, yeah, and?

“She came to me earlier,” he continues, “asking for extra support. And I mentioned you, Maya.”

My brain short-circuits. “Me?”

“Yes.” He gestures vaguely, like this makes perfect sense. “You’ve got one of the top quiz averages in the class. And I know you don’t have a lot of free time, but I thought you might be willing to help.”

I open my mouth to respond, and nothing comes out except a confused squeak.

Paige, meanwhile, is suddenly all charm and dimples. “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” she says sweetly, looking at me like I’m the answer to her prayers instead of the barely-holding-it-together girl who almost cried during a glycolysis question.

I stare at her. Then the professor. Then back at her. This is a setup. Has to be.

“I mean,” I say slowly, “I guess I could… help out. A little.”

The professor claps his hands once, like this was the easiest part of his day. “Great. Work out whatever schedule makes sense. Maybe start after the next lecture?”

“Sounds perfect,” Paige says, and I swear there’s a glint in her eye. Mischievous. Knowing.

I nod numbly, the weight of this decision already settling on my shoulders like a second backpack full of regrets.

As I head for the door, I mutter under my breath, “This is going to end badly.”

“Sorry?” Paige pipes up behind me.

“Nothing,” I lie, faster than a reflex. “See you later.”

She grins, following me out with way too much pep for someone allegedly struggling. “Can’t wait.”

And I suddenly remember: this is the same girl who walked in late the first week, said “yo, do we need the textbook for this?” in front of the whole class, and then somehow got a laugh out of the professor.

God help me.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in the library, clutching three textbooks and a syllabus I plan to set on fire. This day has already been long enough, now apparently, Paige “needs a little help” with some of the material. And apparently, I am just the student for the job.

I hate when people say “it’ll be good experience.” It always means work I don’t want to do for free.

The librarian waves at me as I step in—Ms. Marie, always with the peach-colored cardigans and peppermint candies. “Back again?”

“Like a bad habit,” I mumble, shooting her a smile. “Just grabbing some stuff for tutoring.”

“Ooh. Teaching now?”

“Trying not to cry in public,” I answer, and she laughs like I’ve said something adorable instead of tragic.

I spend way too long in the aisles, gathering books and stalling. Mostly thinking about how good I’m gonna sleep when I get back to my apartment. Seriously. The second my cheek hits the pillow? Instant peace. Probably coma-level sleep. I should be studied for science. Sleep is my love language. Sleep is the one thing in my life that hasn’t betrayed me.

I’m still mentally composing a love letter to my bed when I round a corner and see her—Paige, standing near the checkout desk, talking to one of the guys from the men’s team. He’s smiling like he thinks he has a chance. Good luck with that. Paige Bueckers is gay as fuck.

I snort before I can stop myself, just a short, soft laugh—but she hears it. Her head turns. Our eyes meet.

Oh.

She looks surprised. Not mad, not even curious, just… like she wasn’t expecting me.

And now I’ve made eye contact. Like a dumbass. I quickly duck back behind the shelf, gripping a biochem book like it’s a shield.

Great. Just great. Nothing says “competent tutor” like spying on your student and laughing at her across the library.

—

I give it a minute before circling around the long way and heading to the study room Hanes booked for us. Small, quiet, lots of windows. I stake out the seat closest to the door in case I need to make a dramatic escape.

Paige walks in a few minutes later, all long legs and blonde hair and that basketball-player stride—like she owns the space without trying to. She doesn’t say anything at first, just drops her bag and slides into the seat next to me.

I brace myself. Here we go.

She pulls out a notebook, then a pen. Then nothing. Just sits there.

I glance at her, waiting for her to do… something. Say something. Start. Breathe.

“Are you gonna, like… open the textbook, or…”

“I was letting you do your thing first,” she says, like I’m the one who showed up five minutes late and smelled like citrus gum and lavender hand cream. Her voice has that easy, confident rhythm to it—Minnesota smooth with a little edge, like she grew up chirping boys on the blacktop.

I give her a look. “My ‘thing’ is desperately trying not to cry while re-reading the same paragraph seven times.”

She smiles, wide and real. “Relatable.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward exactly, but quiet enough to make me weirdly self-aware of how close our chairs are. I pull out my laptop to have something to do with my hands.

“So,” I say, flipping to the study guide, “Professor Hanes said you’re struggling with the last few sections. You’ve looked at the review packet?”

Paige shrugs, leaning back in her chair a little too casually. “Kind of. I just—I don’t know. I get the gist, but some stuff doesn’t stick.”

“That’s usually how it works when you don’t study.”

She raises a brow at me like she wasn’t expecting me to have teeth. “I do study.”

I raise mine right back. “Instagram Reels don’t count.”

Her mouth twitches. It’s either amusement or offense. Could go either way with girls like her.

“You always this friendly?”

“No,” I deadpan. “Usually I’m meaner.”

That gets a laugh out of her—low and genuine, like it surprised her. She leans in slightly, chin propped on her hand.

“So why’d you agree to help me?”

“I didn’t,” I reply, flipping a page. “Hanes kind of voluntold me. Said it would be ‘good practice.’”

“Bet you were thrilled.”

“Overjoyed. I love giving up my one free evening to explain gen chem to someone who probably uses Gatorade as a chaser.”

Another smile from her. This one lasts a little longer.

“You always this funny?”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I mutter, but my mouth won’t quite stop twitching.

We get into the material slowly—me talking through concepts, her asking questions here and there. She’s actually more focused than I expected. Still fidgety, still Paige Bueckers in all her tall, confident, knows-people-are-watching energy—but she’s trying. I can give her that.

Halfway through, she lets out a sigh and scrubs a hand over her face. “Okay, but why are there so many exceptions to every rule? Like, who made these up?”

“Science,” I reply. “Also colonialism.”

She tilts her head. “You’re not wrong.”

Another beat of silence. Then she asks, “What’s your major?”

“Pre-med. Bio track.”

She whistles, low. “Damn. That’s sick.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. If you enjoy stress-induced migraines and disappointing your family.”

Paige grins. “Bet your mom’s proud of you.”

“She is,” I admit, softer now. “But I also think she thinks I sleep more than I do.”

Paige’s voice is light when she says, “You don’t strike me as a slacker.”

“I’m not,” I say, yawning. “But if I had one wish? It would be to sleep for a solid twelve hours. Maybe fourteen. Maybe forever. I love sleep. Like, I would marry it. I’d elope with sleep to another country and never text anyone back.”

Paige chuckles. “That’s dramatic.”

“That’s survival,” I correct, grabbing a pen to tap against her notes. “Now stop stalling and write that formula down before I cry.”

She leans in again, not writing yet. Just watching me. “You kinda mean.”

“You’re kind of loud.”

“Touché.”

We keep working, but the space between us softens just a little. There’s something about the way she shifts a little closer when I’m showing her something, or how she asks questions like she actually wants to know the answer. She’s still full of herself, but in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes and pay attention.

And then there’s the eye contact. God. Paige Bueckers and her Olympic-level commitment to staring directly into my soul.

Like—I’m trying to explain the electron configuration of potassium, and she’s looking at me like I might be the answer to something she’s been trying to solve for years. Icy blue eyes, lashes curled to the heavens, a little swipe of mascara like she knew she’d be making people nervous today.

And by people, I mean me. Specifically me.

It’s honestly kind of rude. Intimidating. Possibly illegal. There should be a warning label or something: DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH PAIGE BUECKERS UNLESS YOU ARE READY TO BE HYPER-ANALYZED AND POSSIBLY SEDUCED.

Because I swear—I swear—the way she looks at me? It’s not just eye contact. It’s eye-to-future-entanglement contact. Like she’s trying to hypnotize me out of my panties with just her stare and that stupid smirk she keeps trying to hide behind her hand.

Focus. I need to focus. This is chemistry. Not chemistry-chemistry. I’m not gonna be another gay kid that fails a class because I couldn’t stop thinking about some pretty basketball player with really good hair.

No offense to everyone else who’s fallen into that trap. (none taken)

“Okay,” I say, tapping my pen against my notebook and not looking at her eyes again, “that’s ionic bonding, which means we’re finally done with chapter four.”

Paige stretches her arms above her head with a small groan, the hem of her hoodie lifting just enough to flash a sliver of skin. I look away instantly, like a respectable person. Like someone not currently battling the urge to spiral into a gay panic over five seconds of midriff.

“Thank God,” she sighs dramatically, flopping back in her chair like she just ran drills for two hours. “You know, I think I actually learned something.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am surprised,” she grins, tugging at the sleeve of her hoodie. “You’re kinda scary-smart.”

I blink. “Scary?”

“In a good way,” she adds quickly. “Like, in a ‘you could probably build a robot army and take over the world but choose not to’ kind of way.”

“…Thanks?”

She smiles like she means it. Like maybe that was a compliment in her language. And for some reason, it sticks with me.

I start gathering my things, stuffing pens and half-crumpled notes into my backpack like the burnt-out academic I am. “Well, we’re scheduled again next Thursday unless your Coach pulls you for something.”

Paige doesn’t move to leave. She leans back in her chair, arms folded behind her head, watching me with that same annoyingly intense gaze.

“You always study here?” she asks casually, like she didn’t just spend two hours fighting for her life over basic chem.

“Sometimes,” I reply, zipping up my bag. “It’s quiet. And the librarian doesn’t hate me.”

“That’s a plus.”

“You?”

She shrugs. “Ehh usually with the team. Or, like, wherever has food.”

I hum, trying to keep the conversation from stretching too long. I’m not great at lingering—especially not with people like her. The kind of person who walks into a room and owns it without even trying.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, already planning my post-study nap in vivid, loving detail, but before I can escape—

“You wanna walk out together?”

I pause, blinking at her.

Not because it’s weird. But because I hadn’t expected it. Most athletes don’t even remember the names of their TAs, much less offer to walk them out of the library like it’s some sort of… soft exit interview.

I glance at the clock. It’s getting late. But also, she’s looking at me like I’m someone worth lingering around.

“Sure,” I say. Casually. Like my heart isn’t already doing cartwheels.

She grins, standing to her full height (good holy 6ft..), and my only thought as we walk side by side toward the doors is God help me, I might be in trouble.

Because Paige Bueckers is something else.

And apparently, she’s not going anywhere.

—

The night air hits us as we step out of the library, and it’s just cold enough to make me regret not grabbing a hoodie. Of course, Paige doesn’t seem bothered at all. She walks like she’s immune to weather. Or like the wind parts just for her. Probably both.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Awkwardly so. My favorite kind.

Then, Paige starts talking.

And when I say talking, I mean talking. Like she hasn’t spoken to another human being all day and I just unlocked the floodgates.

“So, like, I’ve had the same pair of slides since I was fifteen, right?” she says, hands in the front pocket of her hoodie. “They’re disgusting. Like, actually offensive. I think they’ve developed their own bacteria strain at this point. But I can’t get rid of them. They’re like emotional support shoes. You ever have something like that?”

I blink. “Uh…”

She barrels right past my lack of response. “And then Aaliyah tried to throw them out once when we were on the road and I almost tackled her in the hotel hallway. She was like, ‘Paige, they smell like shit.’ But they don’t. They smell like loyalty.”

She grins at her own joke. I say nothing.

Not because I don’t want to. But mostly because what?

I nod along, mostly to be polite. Or maybe out of shock. I’m not really sure.

She keeps going. “Also, can I ask you a question? Why do all chemistry textbooks weigh as much as small toddlers? Like, what are they putting in there? Guilt? Disappointment?”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, which unfortunately only fuels her further.

She talks about basketball. Then her best friend’s dog. Then how she’s still mad Chipotle took her favorite salsa off the menu. She has opinions on everything from cafeteria chicken to the superiority of Apple Music over Spotify (she’s wrong, but I let her have it).

And the weirdest part?

It’s not annoying.

It should be. But it’s not.

I listen. Mostly because I’m stunned by how easily she fills the space between us, how her voice softens when she gets excited and how, even when she’s rambling, she makes it feel like you’re part of the story.

It’s… unsettling.

I don’t do people like her. I don’t get people like her.

And yet here she is. Walking next to me. Talking like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

And then, as if this night couldn’t get any weirder, she slows down in front of my building.

I stop too.

Paige pauses, looking at the entrance. Then looks at me. “Wait—you live here?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, pointing to the left. “Top floor.”

She blinks. “Shut up.”

“I will not.”

She grins, pointing to the right. “That’s my building.”

I stare at her for a second. Then glance up. Then back at her.

This cannot be real life.

“You’re telling me we’ve lived next to each other this whole time and this is the first time I’m finding out?”

I sigh. “This is just great.”

“Great?” she echoes, clearly amused.

“Yeah. Fantastic. Love this for me.”

She’s still smiling like this is the best coincidence to ever happen. Like fate just personally delivered her a win.

I just shake my head, digging my keys out of my pocket. “Well. Thanks for the walk. And the verbal TED Talk.”

She bows slightly. “Anytime.”

I turn to head inside, pausing with my hand on the door.

“Hey,” she calls.

I look back.

“Same time Thursday right?”

I nod once. “Sure.”

She salutes me with two fingers, still grinning, then turns and jogs up the steps to her building.

I stand there for a moment, key still in hand, trying to process everything. The tutoring. The talking. The proximity.

This is going to be a nightmare.

I let myself into the building, already craving sleep and silence and maybe a three-day nap. But even as I make it upstairs and fall face-first onto my bed, one thought keeps bouncing around my head like it’s got a key to the place:

Paige Bueckers is going to be a problem.

[i-get-obsessed-fast]

hello! can i just say your fics are so amazingly written and make me feel really fluffy inside <33

i was wondering if you could write a spencer reid x new bau reader? reader is a new hire at the bau and always has her hair up in a cute new hairstyle everyday because she has curly hair and if she were to have it out, it would just get in the way in the field. so, when she is invited to rossis house for the first time for a dinner, she finally wears it out for the first time in front of them. spencer, seeinf her hair for the first time like this, malfunctions and goes speechless for a bit. very fluffy and self indulgent

thank you so much if you end of writing it!!!!

Yay thank you so much! I'm glad they make you feel that way!<3 and LOVE this request!

Curl Pattern | S. Reid

It had been six months since you joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and while it had been nothing short of stressful, in a strange way, you’d come to love it. Not only what you do but the members on the team.

They had welcomed you with open arms from day one, and over time, they’d grown from colleagues to genuine friends.

“Hey! Love your hair.” Emily said as you entered the roundtable room, plopping down in your usual chair.

“Thank you.” You replied, grinning. She always made it a point to compliment the various updos you’d show up to work with.

JJ leaned in, squinting playfully. “You know, your hair always looks amazing when it’s up, but why don’t you ever wear it down?”

You shrugged. “It’s a hassle, and would probably just get in the way.”

JJ nodded, understanding, just as Garcia swept into the room, her voice commanding everyone’s attention.

“We’ve got a case, angels.” She said, her tone more serious than usual.

Los Angeles. The case was ugly. You guys ended up staying for days, combing through evidence and following dead-end leads, until the end came suddenly…and at a cost.

“Damn.” Morgan muttered, the weight in his voice matching what everyone was feeling.

You all stood there silently as officer jones body was carried away in a bag. He had saved your guys team by stepping in at the last second.

It hit you then: This job isn’t just high stakes. It truly is life and death. Every time you pack up and answer a call, it could be the last.

The ride to the airport was quiet. You sat in the back, leaning your head gently against Spencer’s shoulder, something you guys always did, while you held onto Emily’s hand on the other side of you.

No one spoke, and that silence was louder than anything.

When you boarded the jet, you instinctively took the seat beside Spencer. He gave you a small smile, and you offered one back, grateful for the quiet comfort he always managed to give without even trying.

Across from you, Hotch and Rossi spoke in low voices, going over the final details of the case. You leaned back, closing your eyes, hoping for a few minutes of rest, but your mind was too restless.

Back in Virginia, you all returned to the office just long enough to grab your belongings.

As you all waited by the elevator, Rossi turned to address the group.

“Before everyone runs off, I’ve been thinking.” He said, his voice warm but firm. “We see each other in the worst circumstances. Maybe it’s time we try to be together in better ones. So, I’d like to host a dinner. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Bring your families, your partners, hell bring your pet. Let’s appreciate the lives we fight to protect.”

Everyone nodded, some smiling, others still to drained do more than murmur their agreement.

“I’ll be there.” You said softly, stepping away from the group. “I’m taking the stairs.”

“Goodnight.” JJ said. A chorus of goodbyes followed.

“Uh- I’ll walk with you.” Spencer said suddenly, falling into step beside you. You looked up, a little surprised, but smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” he said simply, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“So… What’s wrong with the elevator?” He asked, after a beat, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t feel like waiting. I’m exhausted.” You replied with a shrug. “Yeah, me too.” He said quietly, then hesitated. “You will be a Rossi’s tomorrow, right?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah. You?”

He nodded quickly. “Yes. I mean, I wouldn’t miss it. It’ll be nice to be together…outside of work.”

You smiled at that. “Are you bringing anyone?”

He shook his head. “No. Just me.”

“Same.”

When you reached the last floor, he moved ahead to open the door for you. “Here.” He said softly.

“Thank you.” You replied, brushing past him with a smile.

He didn’t stop there, he walked you to your car. “Uh, drive safe.” He said, his voice a little quieter now.

“You too, Reid.”

You slid into your car and glanced up at him one last time before pulling away. He stood there for a moment, watching you go, hands still in his pockets, eyes soft.

౨ৎ

You arrived at Rossi’s exactly at eight, nerves buzzing under your skin. It was silly, maybe, how much you’d overthought this, your first time at his home, the outfit you debated over a dozen times, and most of all your hair.

You rarely wore it down, it was easier to just keep it up and out of the way, at work and sometimes even outside. Today though, tonight was the night you decided to let it be free and you were a bit nervous.

You walked up to the front door, glancing at the cars in the driveway. Everyone else was already inside. You rang the doorbell.

Rossi opened it up almost immediately with his signature warmth, already holding a glass of wine. “There she is!” He beamed, pulling you into a quick hug before hanging off the glass. “Come in, come in!”

You smiled, stepping into his home. It was beautiful.

Elegant, cozy, timeless. Just like him.

Following the sound of laughter, you made your way into the kitchen. The moment you walked in, the room went just a touch quieter.

“Okay, wow.” Emily said, setting her wine glass down dramatically. “Your hair! It’s gorgeous.”

Your cheeks burned. “I figured I’d let it down tonight. Special occasion.”

“You need to let it down always.” Penelope gasps, walking over to gently fluff a curl. “It’s so pretty, I’m obsessed!”

JJ grinned from her place on the island. “Seriously, you look amazing.”

“You guys are sweet.” You smiled.

You move through the group, greeting everyone, but your steps slowed when your eyes landed on Spencer.

He was standing, frozen in place like someone had hit pause on him. His wine glass was in one hand, and the other was in his pocket like always.

“H-hey.” He stammered as you reached him. “Hi.” You replied with a smile, leaning in for a gentle hug. He barely moved, still staring at you.

His gaze flicked to your curls, and he blinked. “I-I love your hair. I mean, not that I didn’t like it before, but it’s-um-it’s just-” he trailed off, visibly malfunctioning.

You tried not to giggle. “Thank you, I let it free tonight.”

He nodded a little too fast. “Good decision. A great decision. Everyone loves it. I-I love it. I mean, yeah.” He looked like he wanted to curl into himself.

You looked down shyly, smiling to yourself.

The night carried on with soft music, clinking glasses, and the kind of comfort only you guys could create.

You and Spencer eventually found yourselves with the little kids watching as Spencer showed them a magic trick then watched as they slowly lost interest and start playing tag instead.

Henry shouted something and ran off with Jack close behind, leaving the two of you now alone, while the others were caught up in Rossi’s wine-tasting tangents.

It was quiet for a moment. You glanced at Spencer, who was already looking at you. Again.

His voice came out all at once, like he’d been holding it in. “Did you know that the shape of your hair follicle determines curl pattern? Curly hair follicle are more oval, which causes the strand to curl at an angle, creating the spiral-”

He stopped himself mid-ramble, his eyes going wide. “N-not that I’m analyzing your hair or anything, I wasn’t, well, I kind of was, but not in a weird way. It’s just, you know, science. And- uh- it’s… lovely. Really lovely.”

You laughed softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “Spencer, are you nerding out over my hair?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered but unable to stop smiling. “Maybe a little. It’s just… scientifically interesting. And aesthetically… breathtaking. On you.”

You bit back a grin. “That’s the nerdiest and sweetest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

He ducked his head, the tips of his ears glowing pink. “Well… I’m kind of full of those.”

You leaned your shoulder gently into his, your voice playful. “Guess I’ll have to wear my hair down more often, huh?”

Spencer nodded, almost too quickly again, still blushing. “I-I wouldn’t mind that. At all.”

And for the rest of the night, every time you caught him looking your way, his smile was just a little softer than usual, and his stare more meaningful and filled with something more…

Hope you enjoyed @athenxt !! Thank you sm for your request<3 had sm fun writing this.

I’m going to get to the rest of the requests soon!! So if you’ve sent one in recently I promise they will be out! I’ve just been in a slump, unfortunately, but thank you all! <3

~ Tag List ~

@samslovebug @alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna

[gilbertscurls]

live from tour: the simp — chris sturniolo

“Alright, next question!” Matt grinned as he leaned into the mic, scanning the crowd of eager fans seated for the VIP soundcheck. The venue echoed with soft murmurs and squeals, the faint thrum of pre-show excitement buzzing in the air.

Nick leaned back in his chair, balancing the mic lazily on his knee like a seasoned rockstar, while Chris sat between them, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hi!" A girl from the second row stood up. "This one's for all three of you—what's your favorite thing to do on your days off during tour?"

Matt nodded like it was a solid question. “I like finding weird thrift shops in random cities,” he said. “Like, if it looks like it might have been haunted in the 1970s, I’m going in.”

"Yeah," Nick agreed, “and I usually end up buying some really questionable vintage jacket that I think looks cool but makes me look like a ‘70s magician.”

Chris raised his mic, smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, personally…” he began, stretching the word out like he was savoring it, “my favorite thing to do is FaceTime Y/N.”

A few people in the crowd let out soft “awwws” while Matt’s head whipped toward him like a bird spotting a snack.

Nick squinted. “You mean to tell me we’ve been in Chicago for 24 hours, surrounded by Chicago-style pizza and majestic old buildings, and your highlight was a FaceTime call?”

Chris didn’t even blink. “She showed me her cat in a little sweater. It was life-changing.”

Matt snorted, barely holding back a laugh. “You’re down cat bad.”

The fans cracked up as Chris waved him off, though the blush spreading across his face betrayed him.

“No, no, wait,” Nick leaned forward, feigning seriousness. “You mean the same Y/N who called during dinner last night and Chris answered on speakerphone in the middle of the restaurant like we weren’t actively being stared at by half the staff?”

“She had an emergency!” Chris defended.

“What was the emergency again?” Matt asked, smirking.

“She couldn’t remember if she liked blueberries or blackberries better.”

“Oh, crucial life moment,” Nick deadpanned. “We’re lucky you saved her.”

The crowd erupted with laughter again, and Chris held his mic up like a shield. “You guys don’t understand, okay? Y/N is funny and smart and—”

“—and clearly holding you hostage,” Matt interrupted.

Nick leaned toward the crowd conspiratorially. “Blink twice if you’re okay, Chris.”

Chris rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin on his face. “You’re all just jealous you don’t have someone who sends you memes that are actually funny.”

“Oh, I see,” Matt said. “So when you were laughing uncontrollably in the back lounge yesterday and said it was ‘a podcast moment,’ that was actually a Y/N meme?”

“I plead the fifth,” Chris mumbled into his mic.

Nick leaned back, fake-exasperated. “Man’s in his Lover Era and dragging us all into the montage.”

“She’s got him in a chokehold,” Matt added, miming it dramatically.

Chris folded his arms. “You know what? I hope Y/N sees this clip. She deserves to know how bullied I am.”

Matt turned to the crowd. “Someone please record this and send it to her. Title it: ‘Chris Can’t Go Five Minutes Without Saying Y/N.’”

“Oh, that should’ve been the tour name!” Nick gasped.

“The Y/N World Domination Tour,” Matt declared, pointing at the invisible marquee. “Starring: Chris and the two bitter side characters.”

Chris shook his head, but his smile gave him away. “Whatever, keep laughing. At least I have someone who’ll make me banana bread when I get home.”

“Okay, now that’s unfair,” Matt muttered. “No one’s ever made me banana bread.”

“I’ve never even touched a banana that wasn’t a smoothie,” Nick added, scandalized.

The girl who’d asked the question was still standing, beaming, as Chris finally looked back at her and said, “So yeah. On our days off, I hang out with Y/N. It’s the best part of my day. Sorry, not sorry.”

Nick turned his mic toward her. “We regret to inform you the question was hijacked.”

“Please direct all further inquiries to Y/N, since clearly she’s the fourth Sturniolo Triplet now,” Matt added, pretending to scoot his chair over to make room.

Chris gave a little bow. “She says thank you.”

The crowd roared. Somewhere, probably already recording a reaction TikTok to this moment, Y/N was laughing her head off—knowing full well that no matter how far Chris traveled or how loud the fans screamed, she was still the main character in his mind.

And, to be fair, she did send some pretty elite memes.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick

[nerdygirlramblings]

lots happening folks. we're almost at the end, now. this one's a little longer than normal.

Despite the plan you had when your gods were here, now, watching your people respond to Fra's blessings, you know you cannot continue on the path you intended. Many of your people seem to trust the gods on blind faith, their miracles evidence enough of your people's blessing. The Elders, however, remain steadfast in their collective unease.

At night, you try to discuss it, but your gods already know. "We trust you will restore them, my queen," Jon murmurs into your hair, twining his naked legs with yours as you rest against Tav's chest. More and more often, when you see them at night - for you accept these are not truly dreams - they are all together. You also find yourself desiring to give them your body in these moments, not out of an obligatory sacrifice but because it is what you want for yourself. What you want from them.

Their trust in you to bring the others back gives you the courage to approach the Elders after the next full moon and ask for an altar for Lex. You explain his role as a messenger and how the people's prayers are better served with Lex's aid. Elder Stigr is outright suspicious of you, but the others are less so, though your place as a woman, seer or not, does not help you. They do, however, concede to your wish.

The night Lex's altar is completed, you dream of a tall man with hair like wheat and an open, inviting smile. He tells you to tell Vigi, one of the older farmers, to pay attention to how the flowers along the main path out of the village grow. You do not understand his message at first, but tell Vigi of your dream anyway. Vigi is like Elder Stigr and does not fully believe because he does not see.

A week after your dream of Lex, Vigi finds you tending the shrines and tells you he's figured out a way to get the crops to grow faster and stronger, something he could do only because of the dream you shared.

At night, your gods tell you how some villagers have set up small altars in their home. Si mentions how the village healer, Thone, has a shrine of his to which she prays twice a day: in the morning she asks Si to spare those whom she can save, and at night she thanks him for ending the suffering of those she could not help. Tav and Gaz boast of several farmers who have altars to them both, with frequent offerings and prayers for a good harvest. Even Jon comments on an Elder, he doesn't say which, who secretly prays to Jon to maintain the current peace.

One full moon goes by. Then another. A third. You request no new shrines. At night, conversation is on anything but the task your gods have set for you. Si shows you the land of the dead where souls are cared for, and those who suffered most are most tenderly watched. Jon shows you how, slowly, they are reclaiming their palace on Fjall Gothar. He delights especially in the throne room where one throne, larger and more ornate than the others, his, sits in a place of pride.

By the fourth full moon, you approach the Elders about the altars for Las and Wel, more than confident you will get what you ask. You've learned from your gods how to manipulate the hearts and minds of men grasping for power, and with this request you will put that knowledge to the test. Elder Stigr's wife, Unnr, whom he married after his first tragically passed in childbirth, along with the babe, is pregnant again, and this time it seems the child will survive until their birth. You know Stigr desires little as much as he is desperate for an heir. When you explain who Las and Wel protect, you watch the anger war with hope on Stigr's face. "Why have these twinned goddesses not been part of our prayers earlier?" Stigr snaps, voice laced with accusation.

"The tome I found, the one I used to beg help from the others only listed Jon, Tav, Gaz, and the god of death. Fra and Lex have come to me as we seem to need them. Perhaps this is the same with Las and Wel. Perhaps the gods feel Las and Wel can help us continue to thrive." Most of the Elders had nodded along as you spoke, having seen how interventions from the earlier gods seemed to come at the moment they were needed.

Elder Stigr must have felt the pull to do all he could to protect his wife and unborn child for his was the first voice to approve the new altar and, more surprisingly, even volunteered to help source the materials to build and shroud the altar. The night it is completed, you dream of several women. You recognize Thone and Unnr as well as the goddess Fra. With them are two women you know must be Las and Wel. Like Lex, Las has hair the color of grains and a strong, sturdy frame. Wel is her dark counterpoint: hair dark as night drapes down around a willowy build. The goddesses talk with Thone about how to care for Unnr, how to ensure she bears a healthy baby boy.

Members of your village have never been in your dreams before, so when morning comes, you stop in to see Thone. As you approach her house, she is bustling out, arms loaded with tinctures and remedies. "Oh!" she says, nearly bumping into. "I'm sorry. Did you need me? I must be off to see Unnr." Your confusion must show as Thone lowers her voice conspiratorially and leans to you, "I had a dream. Several women - they said they were goddesses though I had only heard of one, there is a shrine to her with the others I think - told me Unnr's baby would be stronger than the last few. That he would make it, but only with my help." She stands and finishes with, "I'm not like you and don't put much stock in my own dreams, but when I woke, I couldn't shake the feeling like I should do as the dream said."

You watched, dumbfounded, as Thone left her home for that of Elder Stigr. Your job was almost done. You were dually excited and terrified of what would happen when at last Ale and Rudi were restored. But that was a concern for another day. Instead, on your morning rounds, you made sure to leave extra offerings for your goddesses in thanks.

more

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @hidden-treasures21 @lostintransist @sirbonesly

[hazymoonlinh]

hey when your feeling up to and feeling better I have a request idea for mydei since we all love him, the trailblazer and dan heng came with the reader who's a female revolutionary leader who the astral express crew met and befriended and is sometimes accompanied by them. I was thinking that during the time they first arrived at amphoreus when the group got separated she protected some of the kremnos children and they end up taking a liking to her and follow her around like ducklings and she gets along with the other kremnos that are in okhema and mydei is witness to all of this

sorry if it's long I like to make sure my requests are detailed hehe

Was going through a lot rn, but I hope you enjoy this.

⸻

Amphoreus – Edge of Okhema

He hadn’t meant to linger.

After all, there was work to be done—strangers to monitor, remnants of the trial to secure, reports to deliver. But Mydei stood unmoving, arms crossed at the overlook, his crimson-amber eyes fixed on her like the sun had risen in the wrong part of the sky.

She walked below with children clinging to her like vines. Little Kremnos boys and girls, covered in dust, some crying, others laughing, all following her in that uneven, chaotic way only children could. They’d followed her ever since she shielded them during the sudden attack—tiny feet chasing the sound of her voice, the shape of her kindness.

She wasn’t one of theirs. Not a native. Not a Kremnos. And yet—

They called to her. Reached for her hand. Rested against her legs like she was home.

Mydei had seen her fight.

He had seen the fire in her eyes when she spoke of rebellion, of dreams greater than herself. He had watched her tear down an automaton twice her size with nothing but a blade and fury.

But this was different.

This was quiet.

This was gentleness without performance, without strategy. No war songs, no flags. Just her, kneeling to wipe tears from a child’s face. Just her, letting tiny hands tug her coat, letting dirt-streaked kids sit in her lap without hesitation.

And they loved her.

His chest ached.

He didn’t understand why.

Mydei had been worshipped before. Feared. Saluted. People bowed when he passed. But no one had ever rested near him like that. No one had ever run toward him because they felt safe.

He watched as one of the toddlers looked up at her, whispering something in Kremnos dialect. She leaned in, listening, smiling so gently it made his stomach twist.

She glanced up suddenly.

Her gaze found him.

Even from a distance, it struck him. She didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. She just smiled—like she knew he’d been there the whole time. Like she’d expected him to be watching.

He shifted, jaw tightening, unsure what to do with the warmth rising up his throat.

And then one of the children pointed up at him, squinting. Another called something and waved excitedly. The rest followed, small hands flailing in his direction, laughter ringing out.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

They liked him.

Fools.

But still… his hands, rough and calloused, dropped slightly from their rigid stance. His fingers curled against his palm.

No one had ever mistaken him for something safe.

She had.

And worse—he wanted to believe it.

…

Later.

She brought them to him like it was a casual stroll. No ceremony, no grand announcement—just a group of dusty, sun-tired children trotting beside her as if she were leading them into something sacred.

He was sitting by then, knee bent, arm resting on it, gaze distant. But the moment he saw her climbing with them in tow, his posture shifted—subtly, but enough. That quiet tension he always carried gave way to something lighter.

“Look who they asked for,” she said with a lopsided grin, gently nudging one of the younger ones forward. “Apparently, I’m the second favorite.”

The children ran to him without hesitation.

“Prince Mydeimos!”

“Did you see me today? I jumped over the rock like you showed us!”

“Will you do the lion pose again?”

“Can I braid your hair?!”

“Again?” he asked dryly, though his hand was already resting atop one of their heads. “The last time you tried that, I couldn’t get the knots out for a week.”

They laughed.

She laughed too—softer, amused. Watching as he let one of the girls drape herself across his arm, another try to mimic the stance he’d taught them, flexing tiny arms with all the seriousness in the world.

And Mydei—he smiled.

Not the slight, rare smirk he gave allies. This was unguarded. Gentle. He beamed, just a little, like he’d forgotten to hide it.

She saw it.

And he saw her seeing it.

For a moment, the teasing from the kids faded into background noise. Just him and her—eyes locked, her warmth suddenly overwhelming in a way the sun never could be.

He looked away, cleared his throat. “You’ve got dust all over your coat,” he muttered.

“I carried two of them uphill,” she said, brushing off her sleeve. “One of them drooled on me.”

“You didn’t complain.”

“I’m used to carrying things heavier than they look,” she replied casually, but the way she looked at him when she said it made the air catch in his throat.

The kids kept pulling at his hands, asking for a sparring pose or to sit on his shoulders, and he obliged them easily. It wasn’t that he liked kids—he loved them. Their honesty. Their rawness. Their way of seeing through things.

But what shook him now wasn’t them.

It was her watching him like he was something rare.

Like he wasn’t just a warrior. Or a revolutionary. Or a titan-blooded force meant to shatter.

Like he could be good.

“You’re not just good with them,” she murmured as she sat beside him, brushing a hand over one of the children’s heads. “You make them feel brave.”

His mouth twitched. “They’re already brave. Just need someone to remind them.”

“You remind me too,” she said, quietly. Not a performance. Just truth.

And that—that—nearly unmade him more than any blade ever could.

The children eventually leaned against him, half-asleep, soothed by his presence like it was something instinctual.

She sat close, shoulder brushing his.

“…Stay,” he said suddenly, low, voice thick with something he wasn’t ready to name.

She didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to.

She leaned just a little more into his side.

And Mydei… Mydei closed his eyes.

The lion finally rested.

[shuenkio]

愛 I want your Salty ! - 이희승

Paring: Heeseung X M!reader

Synopsis ; It was a teasing joke but who knows your boyfriend would actually let you taste his "Salty" Water?

Genre: Smut Cw: Smau. Non proof read

This is a work of fanfiction, do not throw unnecessary tantrums on this nsfw/sfw blog. ©Shuenkio

A/n: ik there'd be some part that different from the starter, since my brain is not braining— anyway.

In a day of normal life of Mn who always wanted someone who can understand him and can handle him at his worst not only his emotion but his behavior too since he know himself that, he can't control his running lip and thought sometime despite being a random rambler person, and it was just a dream and hoping to find a perfect boyfriend right? right but not until someone like his tinder profile, and text him that they want to meet him, a normal single date between two guys wouldn't hurt a try, so Mn give it a short, lower his expectation and standard so he can take anything they could offer.

Lord have mercy, it not what Mn have expected, the person who asked him out on a date named, Heeseung is just far more than he could imagine after exchange each other life story. Mn was about to explode after learning that Heeseung was just as much as him, just a different body at least, he was casual, blunt, quite, bold and understandable kind of person which make it so perfect if he would be Mn's boyfriend.

Which soon turn to be true, it not Mn who asked the taller if he had a partner, it the other way around. the red hair didnt play once he also find his perfect love on a random day and he would let it slip into thin air? not a chance, after the date end that day, he immediately asked Mn out and asked him to be his, not for a time being but forever, and when Mn ensure about a second thoughts, Heeseung didn't care one bit if there any negative about Mn, He calmy response he know when he see one and that's not his Mn. And the answer cannot be No, if Hee want it he would do anything....

Present time

The day fall into dark, replace by the thousands stars filled the empty sky, the moon were amazing today, it light shine bright through every corner of the busy night city. Mn and Heeseung just got back from running errands today and making both of their ways back to their shared apartment home. Due to the hot weather from the day, when Mn spotted a ice cream truck he was thinking to grab some to cool down their body, and Heeseung just go along with it, anything for his Boyfriend.

And they continue on their way back home, as both of them have ice cream in their palm, licking, sucking, savoring the taste with it cold and yummy flavor. As Mn was eating, he is licking a scoop of ice cream which make his brain freeze for a moment. Heeseung chuckled to the sight, find t amusing and adorable when Mn acting like a toddler. Mn knot his brows together, his expression turn to a fake sulking that draw more laugh from the latter. The good time last for a while, before an idea pop up when Mn thought of something that could make his Boyfriend stun or even freaking shock.

"Stop snorting, This ice cream was too sweet that i could get diabetes ugh why don't you help me" Mn let out a sassy sigh and look away, hoping he would respond to his favor.

"By what, i don't have anything on me except a bottle of water, do want it?" Hee claimed, as he was about to pull out a water bottled from his backpack but was stopped why Mn comments.

"Oh so you thought i want that bland water? joke on you i want a salty one- from You" Smirk appear on Mn face, express the teasing in his tone with a hint of actually want it, knowing that Heeseung won't do such thing, and Mn know his taller bf know what he mean. Result Heeseung to turn his head slowly toward his lover, raise one of his eyebrows,That's even Mn cant even read his face.

Yet he not actually looking and pay much attention to Mn right now, Hee looking for a nearby restroom.

"What are you looking for? Don't take it seriously i was joking let's go back home, it getting late" Mn disappointed and awkward ate him up as nothing slip from Heeseung lip, it was pure silent. Mn was ready to go back home at instant only to get his back collar hooked by Heeseung's finger and dragging Mn to the restroom nearby.

"Don't be, i never said i would not give what you want, you said what you said right?"

"Heeseung....!"

////

Inside the empty restroom, with barely nobody came across at this hour, Heeseung and Mn were in the same stall, just the two of them.

With Heeseung sitting on the toilet, Mn were sitting down on the floor. A lopsided grin painted in the taller face as his fingers dug into the waistband of his pants, all at once before pool down everything on his ankle, with a quite a shift of the fabric, his cock was exposed- vulnerable in a way that giving Mn access to his liking, the cool air brushing over the heated skin making him twitching and throbbing.

"Go on suck it like how you wanted, i don't mind since you like it"

Mn blinked, jaw ticking slightly, like his brain had short circuited but refused to believe what his lover just did.

"Uhhh can i even?-"

"If you don't I'm going to make you yourself darling, do it as you please, suck my cock until it dripping, leaking, and load you milk by the time it fucking drown your throat, like you want it Mn, my salty cum- do i need to say more?"

Heeseung even making sure he was making the right statement for his clueless boyfriend so he could feel at ease, as he lean backward, spread his legs more for his Mn to giving him more entry. He always been the understanding one, quietly patient, nothing really shock him anymore, he would give all the things Mn desire.

Mn eyes spark with satisfations the kind that came when something he longing for finally here. As he slowly insert his boyfriend's jotting massive cock inside his warm mouth then began to bobbing his head in a steady rhyme, taking his time to make this moment longer. While Heeseung just sit still, doing nonthing.

"Just like that Mn, wrapped that hungry lip like you want to eat this cock- fuck hell yeah" The empty room are now filled with soft groan and moaning from the stall, not even care if there anyone would hear them, this is all pleasure that cannot be stop.

Heeseung’s breath caught, shoulders pressing back as his fingers curled tight in hair. He wasn’t being loud, he couldn’t be, but the sounds still slipped from him, unfiltered and low. Quiet groans rolled out of his chest, scattered and rough around the edges like he didn’t know how to hold them in anymore.

"Ah… fuck…" His voice was barely above a whisper, but every word felt heavy, soaked in heat.

The mouth on him moved with intention. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just steady, like something worth savoring. Tongue soft and warm as it swept along the underside, slow and sure, before easing back again. Heeseung shuddered, jaw clenching as his thighs twitched.

He looked down and swore again, eyes glazed, lips parted, chest rising in shallow waves.

"You’re gonna make me… shit, Don't you stop"

Heeseung’s hand dropped to the stall wall, palm flat, searching for something solid. The way he was being taken in wasn’t rough, but it was overwhelming in its care. Like every second had been memorized.

He let out a moan, voice caught in the back of his throat.

"God, your mouth…"

His body trembled as that warmth coiled tight in his stomach. The way he was being taken in, steadily, deeper with each pass, had him spiraling. Heeseung could barely breathe. His other hand tangled deeper in Mn hair, not guiding, just holding on.

"You’re gonna kill me," he whispered, a choked sound following right after.

"Don’t stop. Please. Just… don’t."

His hips jerked once, breath staggering, and the mouth around him adjusted with the same smooth pressure, never missing a beat. A soft hum followed, intentional or not, it didn’t matter. It was the last thing he needed.

“Fuck, I’m gonna…cum, cum cumming ”

With a low, shaky moan, Heeseung tensed. His breath stilled. Then he came, with a massive load, it was quiet but intense, his toes curling as a sound escaped him, raw, soft, almost reverent.

"Swallow it, don't leave any drop darling, just like you need to refresh your sweet tongue"

His head tipped back, neck bared to the too-bright lights above, chest rising in uneven waves as he tried to remember how to breathe. Fingers still tangled, body still pulsing from the aftershock.

"Was it salty like you want now?"

Mn nodded satisfied.

Who wouldn't when you get to suck Dick, especially from someone you loved.

[differenteagletragedy]

The one where Simon Riley gets a roommate and the roommate is you and eventually you fall in love etc.

There's a bar in Simon's neighborhood where he goes sometimes when things get a little too loud in his head. A few nights a week or so, when he's home, he finds himself there, sitting at a corner stool at the bar and nursing a whiskey. He doesn't like being around people, not really, but he likes this better than he likes being alone with his thoughts.

That's why he started going anyway, a long time ago. Now, he mostly goes for you.

A pretty little bartender with a past -- one you haven't told him about, but he can smell it on you. It's in the way your eyes dart to the door every time it opens, and in the way the tension builds in your body when some drunk gets a little too loud. He'd noticed how gorgeous you were the first day, but now the pull is in the mystery.

Where did you come from? What happened to you? And why do you smile at him like he's not the most dangerous man you'd ever met?

He doesn't understand it, but you're always kind to him. You always greet him warmly, pour his favorite whiskey with a heavy hand without him asking. Sometimes, when he comes in on a slow night, you'll lean over the bar to talk to him about nothing until someone pulls you away. You laugh at his jokes.

You're too pretty for him, the scarred, hulking monster of a man that he is. And you're entirely too sweet. You deserve someone better, younger, more stable, more whole. You deserve more than whatever it is that you'd gotten before, and a hell of a lot better than him.

But one night when he comes in and sees you looking quietly frantic, eyes red-rimmed and anxious as you flit about the bar, that knowledge goes out the window.

"What's wrong?" he asks quietly, studying the slight shake of your hand as you pour his drink.

"Nothing," you answer automatically.

"Bullshit."

You sigh, and after a little more prodding, you tell him: the owners of the bar are selling the building to developers, who are going to tear the place down, so soon, you'll be out of a job. But worse, you rent the small little attic apartment over the bar, so you'll be out of a home as well.

Simon can see it in your eyes, knowing the look all too well: you feel hopeless.

"I've got a room," he says.

And it's a stupid thing to say, because he has no business offering you something like that. He doesn't know you, not really, and you don't know him, and the room isn't a guest room so much as it is an empty space in his house that he's never had any reason to fill.

What can he really offer you? Not just with the room, but at all? Whatever it is, he knows it would never be enough.

But you give him the tiniest of smiles, and he sees something flicker in your eyes, and it doesn't matter how ridiculous the idea is. If you want it, it's yours. If he has it, you can take it, and he'll give it gladly.

"Really?" you ask. "I don't have a lot of money or anything."

"Don't need it."

"I haven't had a chance to look for a new job yet, but I'm gonna start tonight," you assure him. "So hopefully I can find something right away and --"

"Don't worry about it, love," he interrupts. "Not offering because I need the money. Room is yours if you want it."

He speaks gruffly, as he always does, and he hopes that you won't ask too many questions, because truthfully, he won't be able to answer them, not in any way that makes sense. He doesn't want to lie to you, but how could he say that the thought of you in his space was enough to stir something in him that he’d long thought dead?

Thankfully, you don’t ask. Instead, you lean across the bar and wrap your arms around his neck. It’s an awkward hug, but it means something, and before you pull away he’s already making a mental note of everything he’ll need for the spare room.

Your room.

“I can’t thank you enough, Simon, really,” you tell him, smiling a little easier now. “I’ll get another job soon anyway, ok? And I can clean and cook and --"

"Start by getting me another whiskey, yeah?"

Your smile turns a bit sheepish, but you nod and turn to get the bottle, and he takes a breath.

This is a bad idea. There's no way it isn't. It's going to go poorly, one way or another, he's going to be too much or not enough, and one day you'll leave and his house will feel even emptier than it already does.

But Simon is no stranger to bad ideas. And this one, at least, should prove to be a little bit of fun along the way.

[hoiststowline]

hihii!! i've found your blog recently and i adore the diction in your writing, it flows so effortlessly- do you think you could do either tfp or tfa starscream with cybertronian (or human, whatever youre comfy with :3) reader giving him some long-awaited affection? cupping his face, all that kind of gentle stuff snff.. i feel after a long time of patience and gaining trust he deserves to let himself get lovins </3

_starscream x reader

[a/n: omg hii!!! thank you so much, that is so incredibly kind of you to say!! 🫶 & I'm so sorry for the wait, I hope you enjoy!]

for wanting to extend something so sincere, it really had frustration settling in the pit of your stomach. fingers flex and wring together in your lap, gaze moving from wall to wall around the room, then finally settling back on the figure to your right.

every now and then, a ex-vent would tumble past his lips, irritated by an unknown as the silence returns. you assume he's busy, yourself ignoring the book you've now tossed to the side. evidently, having had enough, you abruptly stand, causing starscream who was laying beside you to shift his optics your way.

"What are you doing?"

his stare narrows, unimpressed by your indication that you were going to leave. you haven't moved, still facing him with somewhat of a pleading look on your face, gently rocking from your heels to the tips of your toes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" starscream gravels, pressing when you don't extend any sort of reason for your sudden action. "What do you want."

speaking softly, you reach out your arms forward with your hands out. "Can I...?"

with him laying on his berth in such a position, you're roughly face to face whilst you stand. his face is close, you can watch as somehow, it contorts even further, more into agitation when he doesn't understand your wordless proposal.

"Can you what?" starscream hasn't set his datapad down, but he also hasn't looked at it since you've moved away from his side.

he returns a grunt of annoyance when you roll your eyes, shuffling forward, still with your hands put forth. starscream retreats, not in disgust, but more so confusion, unsure as to why you were doing what you were doing.

"Use your words."

"Can't you just trust me? It feels disingenuous to try and explain it." you huff, shoulders drooping slightly.

little do you know, that starscream has very recently realized that he does trust you, perhaps coming to your defense a little more aggressively than really necessary. it had taken painful and sometimes discouraging effort on your end, for his emotional walls were so high you couldn't even see over them.

you don't need to know that you've bulldozed those walls, though. at least not quite yet, but he was genuinely perplexed as to what you were suggesting now. this hadn't happened before, and while he was accustomed to your touch, it hadn't really moved past his arm or shoulder.

"Whatever. Do as you wish." he snuffs, pretending to move back to his datapad yet still observing you from his peripherals.

you cross the remaining distance with a smile adorning your face, jumping to the tips of your toes as your palms land on his cheeks in a benign manner. starscream visibly stiffens, datapad going slack in his hold at your warm touch.

before he can even open his mouth, you lean forward, depositing a kiss atop his nose.

the kind and tender contact only lasts a handful more seconds, before you go to retreat. hardly blinking, a loud noise occurs, later you'd come to understand it was starscream chucking the datapad across to the other end of the berth.

two massive servos land atop yours, not heavy, a light presence, taciturnly begging you to stay. now having his undivided attention, starscream grumbles.

"You're the worst."

he doesn't mean it, only because the look in his optics is different that what he speaks. to his dismay, you respond with a round of muted laughter, having no intentions of going anywhere.

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 2

Danny didn't tell Tucker or Sam he was leaving. Jazz was the only one to know, the only one to see him off.

She'd asked if he was sure about not telling them, and he stood firm. He cared about them and he really wanted them to know, and he would tell them! Just, not to their faces. He'd call them when everything died down, at least a little and explain everything. They'd be mad, he knew, but if they really, truly cared about him, they'd understand.

He hoped.

Vlad, too, would know soon, but Jazz would handle that end of things.

His duffel bag was the only thing he could feasibly take with him. All he had inside were a few changes of clothes, both his binders, some toiletries, his wallet, his phone and charger, copies of all his important paperwork, and all the money Jazz had saved up for college.

He'd tried to refuse the money, going so far as to out himself as a ghost to his parents if she made him take it, but they both knew it was a lie and he ended up with almost a full Harvard tuition in US dollars.

Jazz was gonna have to start saving from scratch again. He felt horrible about it. Just another thing to add to his list.

She also slipped in a blank notebook and some pencils and made him promise to keep a journal of all of his travels. He said he'd try his best.

Leaving the country was physically easy. Mentally, it was a struggle.

The G.I.W was looking for Phantom, not Danny, so legal travel wasn't going to be too much of an issue. Travel costs also wouldn't be an issue because he could just turn invisible and fly everywhere. Food and sleep were different issues for him to worry about later.

He had to admit, as he left Amity Park behind him, that crossing an entire ocean right now was a very daunting task that he wasn't sure he had the stamina or mental capacity for. How did Dani do this all the time?

The G.I.W had set up a barrier around Amity Park to keep Ecto Entities inside. Humans could travel through just fine, but anything even slightly infected would feel a buzz as they past through. Ghosts would be knocked out entirely. Danny didn't get knocked out, but it was a near thing, even passing through as Danny instead of Phantom.

Jazz didn't follow him through.

"You're going to kick ass out there," she smiled.

"You're gonna kick ass in here," he said.

"If you ever need me, even for the smallest thing, call me, okay?"

"Okay," He didn't promise, but he would try.

"It'll get better."

"You won't let it get worse."

"You'll be able to come home eventually."

"Eventually."

He didn't hope. He wouldn't let himself.

"I love you, baby brother,"

"I love you, too, big sis."

"I'm gonna miss you."

"I'll miss you, too."

They didn't hug, the nearly invisible barrier being a physical thing keeping them apart. So superficial, but so monumental at the same time.

Danny turned around, let the freezing cold of his ghostly powers cover him, and flew off into the night.

Traveling the world had always been an unreachable goal for him, something he gave up on very early in his life when it became obvious that his parents had no plans on ever leaving their small town behind. Instead, he'd focused his sights on space. That was somewhere he could go alone without having to worry about money. Being amongst the stars and planets was his dream. The overwhelming nothingness that housed everything there was to ever know was just the adventure his heart had been unwilling to let go of.

The USA and Canada had been the only two countries mentioned to have instated the Anti-Ecto Acts, so he decided to head south. Hopefully, Mexico would be more welcoming to him.

Part 4

[justmeinadaze]

Hi darling.🥰 if you open for request, can you do blurb or short OneShot. I really want to comfort by Eddie 🥺

I always so scared to ask any questions to my abusive father, everytime I asked and he so easily pissed off, yelling at me, he never hit me, just words hurt. So I stop ask any men, it scared me. Wondering if reader scared to ask Eddie too, to think if he’s the same as the father.

Thanks so much ❤️

A/N: I gotchu, angel. ;) I hope you like it!

Warnings: Brief mentions of verbal abuse (as mentioned above in the request), the lightest of the light smut (like 2 sentences), Just Eddie being Eddie <3

You never realize how many questions one asks in a relationship until you’re too afraid to ask them. 

What’s your favorite movie? What’s your favorite color? Do you get along with your parents? How did you and your best friend meet? 

Hell, even a simple “How are you today?”, can cause that anxiety to bubble up when you grew up in an abusive household. Any question was met with hostility and you carried that with you into your adulthood. Many relationships had come and gone because either your partner couldn’t understand or just thought you genuinely didn’t care because you didn’t probe too hard into their life. 

Eddie was different. 

When you met Eddie Munson, you liked him right away especially with his outgoing charismatic personality. Oddly enough, for a while, you never had to ask any questions because any information about him he spilled willingly like word vomit as he bounced from topic to topic. 

The metalhead didn’t even notice you never asked questions until Steve absently pointed it out one day. 

“Have you told her about your dad yet? I know some girls in your past had an opinion about that.”

“Um, no I haven’t and come to think of it…I don’t think she’s actually asked about my parents.”

Teachers always said he struggled to pay attention but that wasn’t true. Eddie paid attention when he cared about something and he definitely cared about you. 

He began watching you when you spoke with your friends. Any question you had, even if it was about a boy directly in front of you, you would ask your friend instead. 

“You two are so cute together. How did you meet? He got you that necklace. I love it! Do you know where he got it from? I know Jack’s birthday is coming up, what kind of food does he like?”

It was incredibly subtle and could be glossed over by any casual observer but then he noticed you did it when he took you out on dates. If you had a male server at the restaurant, your eyes would remain downcast as you mumbled what you wanted. 

“Baby, I thought you didn’t like tomatoes? Can you remove those from her sandwich please?”

“Oh yeah! Of course, not a problem!”

He even tested you once, purchasing tickets to a concert without telling you who you were going to see. 

“Alright, sweetheart, Friday night, 9pm, best concert ever!”

“Oh my God that sounds amazing!”, you giggle as you run to give him a hug.

“Wait, wait, don’t you want to know who we’re going to see?”

“I imagine any tickets you got have awesome bands on stage. I trust you, Eddie.”

It began to bother him but not in the same way it did your exes in the past. He believed you trusted him but trust and communication were two different things. He didn’t want you to just do something because he wanted to or for you to be uncomfortable just to please him. 

As some time passed, he began to pick up on your little tells; little quarks that told him you had something to ask but were too afraid to do so.

One day while the two of you were hanging out in his room, he noticed your eyes roam the journal he had been sketching campaigns in as your eyebrows furrowed but when he turned to look at you all you did was softly smile. 

He blinked as he silently counted to five as his eyes searched your features before smiling back. 

“I’m, um, working on this campaign for D&D and I don’t know what paths I should use to kick Dustin’s ass.”, Eddie jokes as you laugh. “What do you think, honey? Do you know anything about Dungeons and Dragons?”

“I know you’re a master at it.”

“That’s for damn sure.”, he grins as he scoots closer to you. “In Dungeons and Dragons, you have to…”

Eddie spent hours explaining the game and breaking down his plans as he watched your eyes light up with wonder. 

During a double date with Steve and Nancy, they suggested going to lover’s lake for a nightly swim and a low hum only the metalhead heard had him whispering if you were sure that was something you wanted to do. 

When you confirmed and they got to their destination both his friends jumped in without hesitation as he watched you from behind. You removed your clothes sans bra and panties without even pausing but it wasn’t until you got to the edge of the water that you stopped. 

“Are you alright? Afraid of the lake?”

“No, um, no…I just I don’t know how to swim.”

“Oh, well that’s ok, baby because you’re looking at a swim champ. Way better than Harrington.”

“LIAR!”, Steve shouts, all four of you laughing when Eddie twists his arm to flip him off. 

Those beautiful chocolate eyes take in the way your gaze shifts into the void as you hug your arms around your frame. 

He silently counts. 

“Would you like me to teach you how to swim?” Your eyes light up as relief floods your face and you run into his arms. “I gotcha, Y/N.”

Now, intimacy was something he wanted to be extra careful with. Your tells were different in the bedroom but he caught on quick. The way your body and even breath responded to him changed when you were vocal. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so good.”, he mewled as your nails dug into his back. 

When all you did was nod and kiss his cheek, his lifted his head from beside yours and his pace slowed. His eyes searched again till he found the silent question within them. 

Eddie counted down in his head. 

“Do you want to be on top? Ride my dick till you cum?”

You bit your bottom lip as you giggle and he kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as he spun you both around. You kissed him with passion as your hips took over and your moans echoed through the empty trailer.

The first time he ever heard you ask him something, he felt bad because he was so in his head, he didn’t even notice at first. The manager at the music store downtown had kicked him out insisting he stole something and embarrassing him in front of you.

“Fuck you! I’m nothing like my dad!”, he shouted, stomping to open the passenger side door for you before climbing into his side and speeding down the road. “This town will never fucking see me as anyone other than Al Munson’s son.”, he growled. 

“What…what did he do?”

“What didn’t he do, ya know? Asshole was a scammer, gambler, thief…you name it, he did it. I don’t know what my mom ever saw in—”

Eddie paused as his face scrunched in thought and he gradually pulled his van to the side of the road so he could turn to face you. 

“You just asked me something.”

“I’m sorry.”, you whimper as your body begins to fold into itself but his palm on your thigh makes you freeze. 

“There’s never a reason to be sorry for that, sweetheart. Oh my God, I’m so happy.”, he coos as he cups your cheeks and kisses your lips. “You can ask me anything, Y/N.”

That night you explained everything to him and he listened with open ears. From that point forward, questions flowed a bit easier and he loved every single one of them especially the playful ones.

“Do you still like me, Eddie Munson?”, you beam up at with a wide smile as your arms hug him underneath his leather jacket. 

“Pfft, no.”, he teases as he tilts down to kiss you. “I love you.”

###############

Eddie Asks Masterlist

Donate <3

[mazamba]

So The Kids Are Robots Now...

"Miko," Ratchet groaned, "you need to scan something smaller."

"Your face needs to scan something smaller!"

Miko insisted that her reply would have been hilarious... if her hood hadn't conked her on the head again.

"Your armor is too loose!" the medic insisted, "I get that you like Bulkhead's vehicular form, but you need to accept that you're beter off scanning the Miata!"

Miko gasped in horror, "You take that back!"

Arcee rolled her eyes as she walked in, "They're still at it?"

"Yep," yepped Raf, "I think I'm getting better at this though."

He transformed down into his chosen form, an orange Vespa. This time he managed to stay on his tires, instead of falling over the way he had every other time he'd tried that.

Out of the three, Raf was the one that was happiest with his transformation. He was still the shortest in the group, shorter than Arcee even, but at a mere ten feet tall, he was still able to access most of the rooms he was used to.

For her part, Miko was barely taller than Arcee and mourned that she couldn't match Bulkhead's vehicle mode.

Not that it stopped her from trying.

"Fine, do me a favor and transform."

Miko grinned and transformed down... sort of.

The oversized armor was so loose, it kept jamming and catching on itself at every joint. It took her almost a full minute to settle into a Hummer.

"See? I told you it was fine!"

Instead of pointing out the obvious, Ratchet pressed down on her front bumper.

"OWOWOWOWOW!"

"Loose armor strains the joints," he scolded, "there's a reason I gave you a compatibility list!"

"They were all sports cars!"

Bumblebee asked what was wrong with sports cars.

"Nothing! I just like my cars with a little more muscle,"she whined as she transformed back up, taking almost as long to do so as she did to transform down, "I need- ow ow ow! My fender's stuck in my...! Something!"

Ratchet sighed and grabbed her by the back of the neck, lifting her like a cat before shaking her to loosen her jammed armor.

"...Thanks."

"IF I find you a vehicle that fits your mass and comes with off-road capabilities, would you consider scanning it?"

"Ugh, FINE! You're no fun."

After another hour of searching, they eventually found a car she liked. A dune buggy was, in her words, a mini-Bulkhead. It took her little time to modify her paint into an artistic mess of black, dark purples, and hot pink accents.

"All right, now that that's over with," grumbled Ratchet, "I need a status update from Optimus on Jackson's vehicle form."

"Yeah, where did they take Jack?" asked Raf.

"Well, we didn't have any scans compatible with Jack's frame on hand," Arcee pointed out, "so Optimus and Bulkhead loaded him into a train to find him... something."

She trailed off as the sound of rotors, very big rotors, got closer.

Peeking out Miko sulked immediately, "Man! Some people have all the luck."

A search and rescue helicopter landed on the tarmac, with Bulkhead and Optimus arriving shortly after.

"I'm not sure Jack would agree," pointed out Arcee.

Jack shifted and transformed, forcing Miko to crane her neck upwards and walk backwards to see his eyes. She thought he looked awesome with the rotors turning into a cape of sorts, but he mostly looked awkward and uncomfortable. He towered over even Optimus, who barely reached his waist.

"I'm uh, I'm gonna go lay down."

He had to crouch to enter the hangar.

"Think Fowler can find us a bigger base?" asked Bulkhead.

"For Jackson's sake, I certainly hope so."

"I still don't get why he's pouting," muttered Miko, "his hands are bigger than my whole body!"

They all gave her a look.

"Miko, I understand your excitement with the situation," Optimus sighed as he knelt to better see her optic-to-optic, "but while this will be a difficult situation to adjust to for you and Rafael, Jackson has the added troubles that come from a frame his size."

"Well, yeah, but it's badass! I mean, he could probably punt Megatron into next week now!"

"Jackson has requested to provide a support role. His chosen vehicle form reflects that. He will fight when he has to, but his focus will be in the evacuation of civilians."

"And you are also staying clear of the front lines," Bulkhead cut in before she could get any ideas, "you're unarmed and untrained. Until that's corrected, you're on evac duty IF you're on the field at all."

"WHAT!? Come on, I've been on the field before!"

"Not with our permission," he countered, "and now that you're a bigger target, you're not leaving the base without permission again."

"Aw, come on Bulk! I thought we were buds!"

"We are... but now I'm also your mentor and commanding officer, which means fun time is on a schedule now."

"Aw..."

"Now come on... we're starting with shooting lessons."

Miko perked up at that, allowing her partner to walk her to the range.

"So... that was the easy part," pointed out Arcee, "who's telling June?"

"I have informed her of the situation," Optimus reported, "she was held up by an emergency at her workplace, but she should be here shortly."

"Great, I'm going for a nice, long-."

"As his partner, I believe you should be here as well."

"...Are you scared of the teeny tiny human, Prime?"

"I am concerned that her initial assessment was correct," he admitted, "the children have been irrevocably changed by their involvement with us in ways we have failed to predict."

"...And you're scared of the teeny tiny human."

He raised an eyebrow, "Are you not?"

"Terrified."

[drdawnbreaker]

𝐒𝐡𝐡, 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 || 𝐑𝐄𝟒 𝐋.𝐊

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Fem!Vampire!Reader

Summary: Imagine a vampire au with Leon, but in this case. He is the human, and you are the vampire. And you are very, very thirsty.

Word Count: 2.57k

Warnings: Blood. Making out. Pet names. Mention of cannon level of violence and death. Dry humping, pussy cupping. Forgive me

Notes: This is my first time writing Leon, so please be kind ahh. I tried my best, ahhh.. enjoy!! Also, i thought of RE4!Leon? But mixed with a bit of death... idfk at this point, hehe.

So you both work together, and you get along well with each other compared to the others in your units. And one day, Leon had been assigned to work a recon mission along with a small team. He hates teams. But when he found out you would be there, he felt slightly at ease. What he wasn't looking forward to was working with several of the other shitty men. When he walked onto the jet, all he heard were mutters of "Why is she here?" "Do we even need her?" "I heard she's only here cause of her hacking skill set"

If only they knew.

Yes, you were incredibly intelligent and good with computers, that's why the government liked to keep you around. But something not a lot of people know about, including Leon, is that you had two choices, join and serve or rot in a cell. Of course, you picked somewhat freedom.

Onto the mission at hand. To say, it went to shit was an understatement. You, Leon, and the others were trapped in a church somewhere off the track you needed to follow. There was a swarm of ghoulish creatures. Someone must have tipped your opponents off.

It had been almost 3 hours when you started to feel it... the hunger. You had packed blood shots for this exact situation, but alas, your pack was lost when you found yourself running away from a pack of clickers. The dryness in your throat, the over-sensitivity of hearing. Even the sun that was shining through the high windows began to sting your eyes.

You needed a drink.

But none of the men here knew, nor did you want to reveal such a big part of your life to some random soldier who only wanted to get into your pants.

What about Leon?... no. You couldn't ask him. Not when he got so much on his plate as it is. Your gaze caught Leon sitting on a few old boxes, staring out the window aimlessly. He is a good man, strong, caring, and plus he was understanding. He never held anything against you. If you needed to slip out for a moment, he never asked why. He wouldn't judge you... you hoped. "Uh..Hey Leon.."

Your voice sounded so small, not to mention the cracks hidden beneath it as you held yourself from jumping him. You could hear his blood move in his veins, going straight for his heart. Fuck.. You needed a drink now before you lost control. Worry began to seep through your being at the thought of losing yourself for a moment in front of any of the men in this room. None of them would think twice about putting a bullet in your head. Heck, you think they’d probably enjoy it. Take one for the team and all that bullcrap.

“Uh..L-Leon.” Fuck, why did you sound so small. “C-could I talk to you for a second…Alone.”

Leon’s stoic face quickly snapped to one of concern, knowing you weren't the type to ask for anything. “Y-yeah sure, doll. Are you okay?”

God, if he called you doll again, you might just lose it.

“Y-yeah I’m fine. I just need a favour.” Guiding Leon to one of the back rooms where you know none of the others would venture, you felt your hands start to shake from the mixture of hunger and anxiousness… this was a mistake. You thought, pacing the room. Leon could see the way your body was fighting for something, or against something maybe? Whatever it was, it made his instincts react highly. Grabbing your upper arm, he gently tugs you so your whole body could face him before he gently cups your chin so you could look at him.

“What's the matter? Talk to me?” Leon’s first thought was you might have been bitten, but then you would have shown symptoms by now and turned within the first hour, so it wasn’t that. Maybe you're catching a cold? Or a slow-acting virus could have gotten you. Whatever it could be he was ready to help in any way he could. “What do you need, love?”

“You can’t freak out. Okay..” That was the first time in this whole situation that you spoke without stumbling over your words. Everything just got real, really quickly. “There was a reason why the government kept me around. There was an agreement on my behave…I either serve this country or die…”

“Why are you telling me this?” Leon wouldn't lie and say he wasn't curious as to how you got into where you were today, but he wouldn't have thought you were forced. Not by a long shot. You always carried yourself as if you somewhat enjoyed this job. Saving people, killing monsters. You did it with flying colours. It was your calling…isn't it?

“I lost my pack and they had my vials in it….” You gulped before looking up at Leon, staring into his soft, lost eyes. “They were my food… without them I have to drink from a main source.”

Main source? Vials? What on earth are you talking about? Leon’s grip didn't falter as he asked, “What were they?”

Closing your eyes for a moment you took in a deep breath, trying to calm your shaking nerves. Okay, do or die here. He either is completely chill or…. You didn't want to think of the latter. “Please… don’t be mad.” You opened your eyes, revealing the dark pools of crimson that you normally tuck away. Feeling your monstrous half front, causing your senses to heighten more, letting you not only hear Leon's blood pumping inside of him, but smell it too.

“Woah…” Leon muttered, but yet he didn't move. His hands kept where they were and his gaze never shifted. He watched the different shapes of red dance in your eyes and it was then he understood what was going on, what you were. He’s never run into vampires before, but he’s knowledged about them. On one half, you have the rogue vampires,━ghoulish creatures that have no humanity whatsoever━, and then you have the humanist versions. A kind of half and half. He never would have expected you to be one… but then again. “This explains so much.”

“What?”

“I mean... You always only need a couple of hours of sleep. I’ve never seen you eat food other than quick protein bars and you took down Chris one time in the training ring. He’s still trying to figure out how you got the upper hand on him but you..being.uh.. This. no wonder.” Leon spat out word vomit before he could even notice what he was doing, basically confessing that he watches you…all the time. You couldn’t help but laugh;

“He was already cheating…” Your eyes squinted as you gave Leon a toothy smile, making Leon look down at your little k9s. He feels slightly guilty now, he should have picked up on it, should have noticed you were different. He would have helped you sooner, kept an eye on you more closely just in case you ever needed it. You cleared your throat, making the soldier shake out of his deep thoughts; he noticed you were now looking down at the floor, picking at your short, broken nails. “So..y-you’ll help me.”

Leon was so caught up in the newfound knowledge he almost forgot why you even told him in the first place. “Oh..yeah, I’ll help. Whatever you need. I’m here.”

It was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders just from his softly spoken words. No further words were spoken as Leon gently retched to cup your cheek, an expression of curiosity and calmness painting his handsome features. He guided you to the floor behind a couple of crates and other shelving and boxes so if someone were to come through the door at least you both would be covered to give you enough time to clean up.

The room felt like it was silent except for the sound of your shaky breath and Leon's heavy breathing pooling out of his nose. With his legs spread his lap was inviting as you settled onto him without as much of a peep from either of you. This was intimate, way too close for two friends; heck, you didn't even know if you deserved to be called friends. You only saw each other on the job. Would he think of you only as a mere college? Someone he's just helping out with a favour? But yet the way his arms wrapped around you, holding you close to his heaving chest, said otherwise. It was like Leon was trying his best to reassure you through his movements, letting you know you were safe with him.

“Where do you want it?” His voice was deeper than normal. It caught you off guard as you couldn't help but look at him with confusion. So Leon repeated, correcting himself slightly, “Where do you want to bite me, Doll?”

His tone was calm yet laced with anticipation. You gulped, whispering in a reply, “W-where do you want it…Leon?” You don't know why exactly but it felt right to let him decide where you drank blood from. You already felt bad for asking, so this was, in a way, letting him know you wanted him to take the lead. That he was the one with all the power, not you. He didn’t answer with words, as you expected… He instead moved to the buttons of his shirt, slowly unfastening them one by one, exposing his neck in silent invitation. The room seemed to grow warmer, the air thickening with unspoken tension. His skin was so soft, silky, your fangs could easily pierce the delicate flesh…“A-are you sure…”

You needed to ask him, almost pleading with him to reassure you. It was one thing confessing a crush to someone or exposing some weird secret you might have had as a kid… but this was you, exposing the biggest part of yourself and asking for help. His hand gently came up to your head, patting you with so much care it made a lump form in your throat, “It’s okay Sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere until you’ve had what you need.”

Your fangs grazed his skin shakily as your breath pooled on his hot skin. You could feel his pulse throb, and blood pump faster. He was… excited? Why would he be showing signs of excitement in this kind of scenario… “Leon..”

You didn’t know if you were saying his name for a warning, a question or a plea but Leon’s firm grip never faltered as he dragged you closer until your chest was flushed against his. “Shh, drink baby.”

Leon let out a deep groan followed by a broken gasp as your sharp fangs sunk deep into his flesh. The pain was almost immediate but what followed next caught him off guard. “Fuck, ngh.”

Leon knew some myths that vampires had special abilities, including a venom that could help ease the pain when drinking from someone. In this case, it can create a sort of pleasurable barrier, and he was now certain this was true as a surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins straight to his cock. His hehazyl back against the wall, his eyes closing as he savoured the indescribable sensation. Your lips were like clouds against his skin while your tongue was squishy, lapping gently against the small entry wounds, soothing it even as you drew blood from him. Blood richer than any you’ve ever tasted. You’ve almost forgotten how pure blood tastes, having drank diluted packed and almost stale blood for so long. You couldn’t help but moan as you swallowed each gulp, saLeon'sng Leon’s flavour.

Before either of you could process what was happening, your body began to move, your hips grinding against his clothed core, making Leon’s hands instinctively move from your waist to now grip your hips, hard. Guiding you as you humped against him. Your rhythm is frantic and desperate as you drank him in, in more ways than one. The taste of his blood was so intoxicating, and you were slowly losing yourself in the sensation, your senses overwhelmed by his scent and the warmth of his body. Your moans grew louder even though they were muffled, movements became more urgent, your nails digging into his shoulders as you pa ressed yourse.lf closer, seeking friction, seeking release.

“F-fuck baby, if you keep d. Otherwise,’m gonna..” Leon didn't finish his sentence as a sweet moan slipped from his lips into your ear. His cock hardened beneath you, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he fought to keep control. “S-slow down.”

You wanted to listen but you couldn’t. The combination of his blood and the feeling of his body against yours was too much, too overwhelming. You needed to pull away, stop before you drank him dry. So with much force, you yanked yourself abruptly, your fangs sliding free of his skin, letting blood drip from your lips and down your neck. Your chest heaved as you panted, your eyes wild, glowing as he stared up at you through hazily eyes. “I-I’m s━.”

But before you could say anything, Leo,n stood, lifting you with him with litlazy no effort. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he pressed you against a nearby wall. “Don’t ever fucking apologise.”

His lips crashed down on yours, his tongue demanding entrance, tasting the coppery sweetness of his own blood on your tongue. Your hands flew for his hair, tangling them in the strands, tugging. Small whimpers were swallowed by Leons dominating tongue, as he moved his hands down, tracing your curves frantically before finally slipping along the waist of your belt. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Leon’s hot breath tickled your face as he pulled back, your eyes gazing down to watch him easily pop your pants open. You were already soaking wet, your cunt throbbing with need, and Leon could tell you were just as excited as him. His fingers slipped in, getting dangerously close to your clit but before you would feel the sweet release of his touch;

“Leon I nee━Kennedy, L/n. we’re rolling out.” A loud call alerted both of you, the man's voice laced with frustration. You felt slight relief Leon had pushed you up against the wall where all the storage boxes were, otherwise the young private would have seen you not only in a very compromising position but with Leon’s blood sweetly drying on your neck and chest.

“Be there in a minute, start packing up the gear.” Leon’s voice was laced with authority but his glasses over eyes never left your own, nor did he make an effort to move you off the wall. The other man muttered something before walking out leaving you both in silence once again. But prior to you trying to graze off the slightly awkward situation, Leon's hand slid all the way down past your panties until he cupped your pussy. “The minute we’re alone. I’m gonna ruin this cunt while you take another bite from me. How’s that sound Doll?”

You felt your head spin and all you managed to get out was a lazily nod before whimpering, “Yes…”

–

Not proofread, so if you saw any errors.. no, you didn't.

[umlewis]

Lewis Hamilton On Dressing Up, Showing Up, and Making No Apologies

When I learned that The Met was celebrating the Black dandy, I was a bit blown away, to be honest. Black dandyism, the men who came before us—curator Monica L. Miller’s work and how she explains this history in the exhibition “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”—it’s all so important to learn. What hit home hardest is how far back it goes, and that there are so many different ways to present as a man; you don’t have to be traditionally masculine. And Black men have always had to be more excellent than our white counterparts. I’ve seen that with my father and with me—we needed to be overachievers. That’s why this theme is just so important to me.

When I was growing up outside of London, there were no museums near me, there wasn’t much diversity, and there certainly wasn’t any exposure to fashion.

So I lived vicariously through magazines and music videos and films. The people I looked up to—it was Muhammad Ali, it was Michael Jordan, it was Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop wearing that cool leather jacket. And then a little bit later I started to learn about Cab Calloway, James Baldwin, Nelson Mandela, and André Leon Talley. I saw how their image was so important to them, and how they presented themselves through fashion.

At the same time, I was trying to understand how I wanted to present myself. As a teenager I didn’t have any money for clothes; my family and I spent it all on racing. So I would wash cars along my street for pocket money and go to the little thrift store in town and get the Tommy Hilfiger pieces that I saw in music videos. They gave me the confidence to show up and say, “This is who I am.”

Just before I got to Formula 1, I remember being looked up and down by a boss, and he definitely wasn’t impressed with what I was wearing. I was probably in FUBU and Timbs. I remember thinking, Shoot, I’ve really got to fit into this mold. And my dad expected me to fit into that mold too. Sometimes I would dress one way leaving the house, then drive down the road and change into a baggy, swagged-out look. I would go out and have the best night ever, then change back into what I left the house wearing before I came home.

When I first signed with F1 I was only allowed to wear suits and team kits, and it was horrible. I didn’t feel comfortable, and I didn’t feel like I was able to be myself.

Eventually, I had the courage to push beyond those boundaries and say, “Look, I want to turn up to the track in what I want to wear. I’m here now—you can’t get rid of me or change the way I dress.” The pushback was massive, but when the sport saw the impact of my little runway, other drivers started doing the same thing.

Of course, I always wanted to go to the Met Gala, and I got invited for the first time in 2015. It’s always been a privilege to attend, but in 2021, I no longer wanted to just be another person in the room. I was working with Law Roach, who is a dear friend, and I was like, “What if we created a table together where we invite a few up-and-coming Black designers, have them dress some guests, and we all show up together—so it’s about creating space and opportunity?” And also, I was going to buy the table myself. Of course, everyone looked great, but I felt like that night opened up a dialogue about amplifying underrepresented voices and talent.

Naturally, I hope this year’s Met Gala sparks conversation and reconfirms the connection between fashion and self-expression, and how deep it runs in Black culture. I hope it allows us to show that we have ownership of our identity and how we see ourselves and how we see one another, and how we use fashion to combat preconceived notions with humanity and dignity. If you think about where we are in the world—and particularly in the States, in terms of people pulling back on diversity—I think this Met Gala sends a really strong message that we must continue to celebrate and elevate Black history.

When I look at the images of Black men from the past—images like the ones in the exhibit—they were so stylish. My stylist, Eric McNeal, and I have been thinking about how I’m going to turn up at the Met Gala. We’re both very thoughtful and intentional when it comes to fashion, and I hope that everyone else attending is compelled to really research and think deeply about what they’re wearing. I also hope people take time to see the exhibit; the storytelling is amazing.

Timing is everything, and to have co-chaired a previous Met Gala wouldn’t have been as special. I’m really proud. (Also, I remember watching Pharrell as a kid and thinking, He’s so stylish and cool. It’s surreal for me to now be co-chairing with him.) The moment is going to be huge. A testament to our legacy. A message that it can’t be erased.