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immoral-stranger · 11 hours ago

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐬 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 // 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑. 💋 “I can get a little drunk, I get into all the don’ts but on good days I am charming as fuck.” – Tove Lo, Moments.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem! reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: None except alcohol and drunkenness.

A/N: Sike, you're getting the first letter tonight. It's cute as fuck. Dedicated to all my girlies (gn) who get Tove Lo drunk when aiming for Pitbull drunk.

Charles wasn’t sure why he had agreed to go out tonight. Monaco’s nightlife, as dazzling as it was, had become an overplayed record to him. Especially during the summer with all the tourists. He remembered being freshly turned 18 and discovering it (legally) for the first time. It had been magical. Now it was a done deal, a well-rehearsed story, knowing how it would go from beginning to end. Maybe that was why he actually preferred spending time on his yachts or on some small remote resort on some small remote island during his summer break from the racing calendar.

Alas, here he was, tipsy from an overly sweet cocktail in a VIP booth at Jimmy’z. His friends were having fun, as were his friends’ friends and whoever else could get close enough to leech on, knowing that Charles was definitely the one paying the tab. It seemed to be the primary talent of those people, sticking close enough to the rich and the famous to get something for free out of it.

Charles found it braindead.

He sighed, swaying half-heartedly to the DJ’s relentless house music. Was he even a fan of house music? He didn’t think so. Between the thumping bass, the flashing strobe lights, and the endless game of shouting over the noise just to make small talk, Charles felt tired.

Maybe he was getting old. But he hadn’t even hit thirty yet. Could you have a quarter-life crisis at 27?

It got to the point where he started counting down the minutes until it would be socially acceptable to excuse himself for a “bathroom break.” The moment came, and Charles seized it, weaving his way through the dance floor. He lingered in the queue for the toilets longer than necessary, opting for a stall over a urinal so he could sit in peace. He didn’t even need to pee. He just wanted to be alone. His head was spinning slightly from the alcohol. Not drunk, not even close, but his famously rigorous fitness regimen had turned him into something of a lightweight. Not that he’d admit it.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, he navigated the narrow corridor leading back to the main area of the club. That was when he felt it—a tug on his arm, insistent and clumsy. Before he could fully process what was happening, he was yanked backward and down onto a bench. Or a sofa. One of those little black pleather-clad, trashy club furnishings.

For a fleeting moment, he considered all the reasons he hated being famous. Whatever was about to happen—selfies, autograph requests, or an inebriated declaration of undying love for Ferrari—he was sure it would test the limits of his patience.

“Hi!” a voice chirped. “Are you busy? No?”

He blinked. Sitting beside him was a girl—young and lively, a light shining in your eyes as you spoke excitedly. Or maybe just drunkenly. You had that half-glazed look of someone balancing precariously between charming and completely hammered. You spoke English. A tourist most likely. Dressed up nicely. Not like you had another choice. It was Monaco.

As Charles was too shocked to answer, you continued talking in a heartbeat.

“Great! Not busy.” You clasped your hands together as though you’d just agreed to the most wonderful thing in the world. “You…” you announced grandly, pointing at him, “are going to help… me.”

“I am?” Charles asked, caught between amusement and disbelief.

“Yes!” you exclaimed, as though this were obvious. You leaned heavily on Charles’ shoulder for support, your words tumbling out in a rush. “Okay, so. Here’s the situation: I lost my bag. Then I lost Emma while looking for my bag. And now—” you gestured dramatically, nearly toppling over even when sitting up—“I am stuck here. No bag, no Emma, and way, waaay too much tequila in my system.”

Charles stifled a laugh. “And you think I can help?”

“Of course!” You nodded vigorously. “If you find my bag and Emma, then this—” you gestured vaguely at yourself,—“this will no longer be a problem.”

“If I find your bag?” he found himself repeating.

“Mhm, then you can come here to me again,” you slurred your speech a little, nodding again like your head was constantly stuck doing it. “With Emma and the bag and no problems.”

“You can’t do it yourself?”

“Exactly!” You pointed at him, impressed, narrowly avoiding touching his dimpled cheek with your long nail. “See, you get it. You’re a lifesaver.”

You seemed to have no idea who he was, and you were definitely drunker than you had first led on. He saw it in the way your body slumped and in your bloodshot eyes. Your hair was messy, your makeup smudged, and your dress a little wrinkled. And you were undeniably funny, totally capturing and taking over the conversation without letting Charles speak.

He helped you to lean against the sofa, getting himself out from being your human crutch. Still, he couldn’t find a way out of being your lifesaver.

“All right,” Charles sighed. “What does your bag look like?”

“It’s black, sparkly, and small. Like… impossibly small. A wallet with delusions. But I bought it in Paris—”

“Okay, I got it.” Charles suppressed a smile. “And Emma?”

“Tall. Blonde. Looks like she’s judging everyone but will absolutely cry over a military homecoming.”

“Right. Tall, blonde, and emotionally complex. Got it,” he repeated. “Are you sure I can leave you on your own?”

Charles stood from the sofa, glancing at you as you leaned your head back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m fiiiiine. I just need the room to stop spinning.”

For a moment, he hesitated. Enthralled by your giggle and the way you looked sort of fairy-esque with glittery eyeshadow in patches around your eyes. There was something magnetic about you, even in your dishevelled state. He couldn’t lie and say that it wasn’t also slightly concerning—a young woman alone in a drunken state. You were a happy kind of drunk right now, but he had a feeling that might change quickly.

With a final look at you, he set off into the chaos of the club. Back underneath the strobe lights and the pulsating music. Back between the warm and drunk bodies of others. Somewhere, a girl in a sparkly dress was yelling about her ex to anyone who’d listen, and he thought for a fleeting moment how easily you might have been her—except you weren’t yelling. You’d asked for his help.

He heard his friends yell after him from their place in the VIP area, probably wondering why he’d been gone for so long. But Charles was on a mission—to find a minuscule bag and a blonde woman in a crowd of not that many bags and way too many blonde women.

The bag was easier to spot than he expected. Its sparkles caught the light as it lay abandoned, right by his feet on the dance floor. That seemed too good to be true. He picked it up, the thing so small it felt absurd in his hands. What could you even fit in here? A debit card? A single lipstick?

Charles didn’t mean to pry, but he opened it to make sure it actually was yours, and much to his surprise, he found a debit card, some spare euros, some sort of makeup product, a tampon, and a driver’s license. Fuck, you were the kind of person who looked gorgeous in official portraits. And he knew your name now. Maybe he should’ve asked for that before he decided to agree on being your knight in shining armour.

Emma, however, was more elusive. Verging on needle in a haystack territory. He scanned the floor and the booths, getting nowhere. Looking for a girl as equally lost as you were turned out to be harder than he thought. Everyone fit so well into the orchestrated act of nightclub hierarchy that no one looked out of place.

Admitting defeat, Charles turned to walk back to the corridor outside the toilets, hoping to find you exactly where he left you. Before he could even round the corner, he heard your voice cut through the noise.

“I know, Emma. I know that I do this all the time and that it scares you to death.”

Your tone was half-pleading, half-explanatory, like you were trying to win a debate and console her at the same time. The sound of it made him stop in his tracks, curiosity anchoring him to the spot.

As he edged closer, you came into view, seated exactly where he’d left you. Beside you stood Emma, arms folded tightly across her chest in a way that broadcast equal parts frustration and affection. She was, as Charles had guessed, tall, blonde, and distinctly more polished than you at the moment. Similarly dressed but with an air of sharp control.

Emma was the kind of person you’d send in to fix a mess—not become part of one. Clearly switched into full mom mode, she had already given you a glass of what Charles prayed was water and had tied your hair into a haphazard ponytail, probably anticipating the worst-case scenario of tequila-induced disaster.

Charles lingered just out of sight, gripping your little sparkly bag as if it were a trophy. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your voice was unmistakable and loud enough to rival the DJ.

“I get a little drunk and I get into all the don’ts, but on good days? I am charming as fuck, and you love me for it.”

Your voice, slurred but insistent, filled the hallway. You reached out toward her, your hands wobbling in the air until she sighed and took them. Emma sighed, her annoyance cracking just enough for Charles to catch the tired laugh she let slip. It was the kind of laugh that said, Yes, I love you, but you’re impossible, and I have considered leaving you in a bush once or twice.

Charles smiled to himself, your declaration replaying in his mind. Charming as fuck, indeed. He wasn’t sure if the grin tugging at his lips was due to the absurdity of the situation or the undeniable truth of your words.

He wasn’t invisible, after all, so when you were done with your exclamation to Emma, your gaze easily landed on Charles, standing somewhat pathetically, waiting just a few metres away. The moment your eyes met his, you lit up like you’d just remembered something incredibly important.

“And look!” you exclaimed, pointing toward him. Drunk you had a thing for pointing. “I had this… hot guy here to help me. He’s found my bag! You, sir, are a lifesaver.”

You’d just managed to call him both “hot” and “sir” in the same breath, and Charles wasn’t sure if it was because you didn’t know his name or if you were trying to drive him completely insane.

Emma’s head whipped toward Charles, her face shifting from surprise to a kind of restrained horror as recognition dawned. Her posture stiffened again, her folded arms tightening. While you hadn’t known who Charles was, Emma definitely did.

“Y-you roped Charles fucking Leclerc into looking for your bag?!”

“A what now?” you mumbled, looking between the two of them with confusion written across your face.

Charles stepped closer, handing you the bag like a peace offering. “I am… a Charles Leclerc.”

“It’s a thing?”

“No, it’s my name.”

You squinted at him, as though trying to decide if this explanation satisfied you. Then, with a dramatic sigh, you let your head fall back against the wall. “You should have led with that,” you pointed out. “I need to sit down. Oh wait—” You gestured weakly at your own position. “Already doing that.”

“Charles Leclerc,” Emma said, gesturing toward him with an incredulous sweep of her hand. “Formula 1 driver? Like… literally one of the best in the world?”

“Ohhh, right. We’re in Monaco,” you mumbled to yourself.

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something about you being impossible. Then she straightened, looking at Charles briefly before her gaze shifted to the dance floor. “I’m going to find the others and tell them it’s time to go. Don’t let her wander off again, please.”

Before Charles could respond, she disappeared into the crowd, her blonde head bobbing toward the pulsating lights. He watched her go, unsure if he’d just been handed a babysitting gig or a challenge. When he turned back, you were studying him, your head tilted slightly.

Charles hesitated, then he sat down beside you again, leaning back against the worn pleather as he looked right back at you. Up close, the club lights caught in your hair, making it shimmer like an accidental halo. He wondered if it was the alcohol in his veins or just the moment, but you looked… luminous.

“So, what now? Bag found, friend located. Mission accomplished,” he asked, almost proudly, as he relaxed further into his seat.

You drunkenly fumbled through the belongings inside your bag, in disbelief over everything being there. “You really did solve all of my problems… Thank you,” you said softly, a hint of genuine gratitude creeping into your voice.

He smiled, his amusement softening into something warmer. “You’re welcome.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze slower now, more deliberate. “It makes sense that you’re famous,” you said finally, as if you’d unravelled some profound mystery. “You’ve got a really pretty face.”

Charles chuckled completely unguarded. “I think that’s the tequila talking.”

“Nope,” you said, grinning with certainty. “That’s all me.”

He couldn’t help but be drawn in by your confidence, your complete lack of pretense. On top of the almost sticky pleather sofa, he could see your hand move tentatively, dancing over the fabric, aimless yet perfectly intentional. He wasn’t thinking when he grabbed it, intertwining his fingers with your own, but it felt right—and something innocent that felt this right couldn’t be wrong.

“I think you were right,” he said, not scared to look you in the eye. “About you being charming as fuck.”

“Good,” you replied, raising your glass of water in a mock toast. “Because I think I’m keeping you here for a while.”

“Still too drunk to walk?” he teased.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” you declared, each syllable landing like a punchline.

He laughed loudly, letting the chaos fade into the background, his hand grounded in yours, feeling more intimate than any drunken kiss had ever done.

Charles wasn’t dreading being in the club on a Saturday night for once, not counting the minutes until he could leave without being called boring. Instead, he found himself thinking about where you might go next—and wondering if he could come along. Even if that was a hotel room after-party or a rented apartment in Nice. You were more interesting than anything else Monaco could offer right now, and filer à l’anglaise would leave the leeches to pay for their own enjoyment.

Thank you for reading, hope this is a good introduction to what the rest of the love letters will be like! Please comment, like, reblog, bombard me with messages, I feed off that stuff 💌

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send

(if i haven't tagged you it's because your age wasn't visible for me to verify on your blog, i keep that as a precaution even if i'm not always posting smut)

#love letters 💌#my writing 🪐#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fluff

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sp00kymulderr · 3 days ago

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Thank you for tagging me @kedsandtubesocks @schnarfer @almostfoxglove @guiltyasdave @chronically-ghosted & @arcanefox207 to post my favourites of my own work this year ❤️

FOR MY FAVOURITES FROM OTHER WRITERS/ARTISTS THIS YEAR CLICK HERE

I will be honest I wasn’t going to do this, but I suppose we can be nice to ourselves as a treat 😅 I think it’s a lovely idea and absolutely everyone should be allowed to feel proud of their creativity and expression. It’s not always easy, we really are our own worst critics aren’t we? But celebrating ourselves is important.

It’s been a very up and down year for me as a person and a creator. I want to write all the time, but most of the time my brain doesn’t allow that. I’ve thought about deleting. I’ve thought about giving up writing. But I haven’t, and I’m still here, and I thank my gorgeous friends and the absolutely incredible people in this fandom for that for being so loving and encouraging 💕

Anyway let me stop blathering on, here’s some of the things I’ve enjoyed making this year!

🩵The Dieter Bravo Brainrot club is without a doubt the best thing I’ve been involved in this year. Me and @chronically-ghosted launched our dedicated Dieter discord server in January and now I don’t know where I’d be without it. It was just a silly little idea me and Taylor both had separately at seemingly the same time, and now it’s a whole thing. I’ve run writing challenges, we’ve had numerous watch parties, silly games, and now a gift exchange! And it’s never felt like anything but joy. We are feral, we are fun, we are encouraging and we lift each other up. And did I mention feral? I love having a dedicated space to talk about That Man, I love the ideas that pop up in there, the art and thoughts that are shared. I love running that place and I love everyone who is part of that community - thank you all for making my year 🩷

🩵Lover boy - Joel Miller x transmasc reader - Lover boy is my pride and joy, and truly the thing I’ve written I think i personally connect with the most. I was scared of posting the first fic tbh, but I’m so glad I did. It’s a chance for me to explore things that mean a lot to me. And I just love how in love they are. It’s only a few short pieces for now, but I have so much more planned for these two.

🩵After - Dave York x Carol York x Reader - This little story came to me after rereading one of my favourite poems. I loved the ache of it, the sweetness of the melancholy and the warmth of the post-threesome glow. I really love this short piece, I find myself coming back to it a lot.

🩵lost, found - Dieter Bravo x reader - Dieter and angst just makes sense, and this was born of my own angst which I guess is why it’s stuck with me since writing it. I think Dieter is an easy character to project certain feelings on to, and I have a lot of headcanons about his early life and his queerness especially. Also this story features my favourite polycule and one day I’m gonna write all about them.

🩵inhale, exhale - Joel Miller x reader - I’ve written a lot of Joel this year, more than any other character. Can’t help it, he’s fantastic to write. This is a little angsty, a little smutty, with a slice of the horrors of the qz too. I remember it just flowing from me while I wrote it and I’m really happy with the finished piece.

🩵Closer to light - Javi P x reader - Idk I just think this is insanely hot if I do say so myself.

Tagging some others to share their own 2024 favourites and celebrate their work! @covetyou @seventeenpins @perotovar @qveerthe0ry @sin-djarin

@luxurychristmaspudding @for-a-longlongtime @strang3lov3 @missredherring @ozarkthedog (And if you’ve already done this, tag me in yours ❤️ I wanna see!)

#sp00ky faves #things i wrote

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s6rine · 19 hours ago

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a sweet disaster

(megumi bday special!) | main masterlist

pairing : megumi fushiguro x gn!reader synopsis : it's megumi's birthday! what's the best way to celebrate it despite megumi obviously not wanting a party? to entrust nobara and yuji with his cake! tags : fluff i think i have no idea on how to tag stuff, drabble, pre-established relationship AHHHHHHHHHH, writing these tags earlier on but like uhm uhm uhm NOT PROOFREAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OFFICER PUT THE GUN DOWN!!!!!! (update: babi lei proofread it what would i do w/o my wonderful beautiful gorgeous queen 💔), i cant write kageyama for SHIZ even tho theyre the same holy cannoli, lower case work intended perchance, yes yuji got beat, its a little lazy gn its 4 am zzzzzzzz word count : 0.4k a/n : happy birthday tpo MY baby 😭💔 i was gonna write for tobio but even tho theyre like the exact same i just cannot but trust one day i'll make up for it...........perchance❓

a/n pt.2 : my vision was something very similar happened last year… like im imagining last year they tried to smash his face into the cake but someone moved it at the cake at the wrong time at his face hit the table instead ykwim

DECEMBER 14, 1:32 PM megumi doesn’t like birthdays.

not because he hates fun or celebrations, but because, in his mind, having a whole day dedicated to yourself feels unnecessary when there are millions of people born on the same day. what’s so special about it? it’s just another date on the calendar. he doesn’t get the hype, and frankly, he doesn’t care to.

and he’s not shy about saying so—even to you.

"you what?" you exclaim, coming to an abrupt halt. "who doesn’t like birthdays? it’s literally the day you were born! it’s supposed to be special!"

megumi lets out a long, tired sigh, rolling his eyes in your direction.

"it’s not special. at least not to me," he mutters. "and celebrating getting one year closer to dying? seems dumb. plus, they never go right. for me at least." his hands bury themselves in his pockets as he keeps walking, not sparing you a glance.

you quickly catch up, narrowing your eyes at him. "that’s the most depressing thing i’ve ever heard! birthdays are about celebrating life, not… getting morbid. you’re alive, you made it another year, and you deserve cake! lots of cake!"

he shrugs, barely reacting. "cake’s too sweet."

you scowl, a spark of playful annoyance lighting in your chest. you shove his shoulder lightly, earning a grunt as he stumbles a step.

"you’re so lame!"

"good to know." he mutters with a sigh.

DECEMBER 22, 4:19 PM "you’re officially banned from picking restaurants." megumi’s voice is flat as he unlocks his dorm room, both of you slipping off your shoes. "that tapioca was awful. undercooked."

you’ve been oddly quiet since leaving, lips pressed tight like you’re holding back laughter. megumi notices immediately, his eyes narrowing as he stops in the entryway.

"what’s so funny?" he deadpans, his gaze flicking to your face and then over his shoulder. it doesn’t take him long to put the pieces together.

he sighs, already defeated. "seriously?" he asks, just as nobara shoves yuji too hard in the kitchen.

it all happens in slow motion—the cake colliding with megumi’s face, the frosting sticking for a moment before it slides down in one messy lump. the room falls silent except for yuji’s grunt as nobara decks him on the back of the head.

megumi stands frozen, wiping frosting from his cheek with a scowl.

“…we should've listened to gojo-sensei when he said cupcakes were… the better option…” nobara mutters, inching backward cautiously.

maybe he was right—birthday parties never seem to work out for megumi. seems like a repeat of last year.

p.s. : a second birthday date made up for it.

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g-a-r-f-i-l-e-d · 1 year ago

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I was thinking since I'm still new to radical feminism, as well as just centering women more actively in my life. That I don't know a whole lot of historical women or women who were significant or even are beyond pop culture. Women who were/are breaking barriers or who have made significant change or discoveries in their fields.

In one of my art history classes, the teacher who kept gloating about being feminist rarely if ever mentioned female artists throughout history, and I remember being really frustrated when she mentioned two female artists who against all odds were allowed into the best school in the world at the time of the neoclassical era, and all she did was show us the paintings these women did AS TEENAGERS! Not even the height of their career, nothing about how women at the time weren't allowed in for excuse that they'd faint if they saw a naked male model since female nude models weren't allowed at the academy due to female models being lesser and the lack of prestige that came with hiring them (many were also prostitutes as well) or how my brother in his history of mathematics class got glossed over the female mathematician Hypatia, who recovered and held onto the last remaining knowledge of the Library of Alexandria, and reformed and improved upon astronomy during her time, and the only thing they discussed of her was how she was ripped apart by a mob of men claiming she was a witch, even then she gave her son that knowledge to bring back to the people. My brother was also frustrated that her life was glossed over to instead quickly say "man men suck, glad to know feminism fixed everything" and just move on.

One of my favourite things that being involved in radical feminism online for me has been getting to actually know these women beyond footnotes in a history overflowing with male accomplishment and biography. That there's a focus on women, and what we can do and have done. And, after seeing a lot of that, I really realised that I haven't done much to actively learn about history or the significant women within it, and being exposed to it made me excited to do so.

So in a mark to improve my knowledge and a step to more actively centering and supporting women which I'm still new to any activism, I'm going to be dedicating every Wednesday to posting about one woman or a group of women in the past or present (but mostly past historical figures, even recent past) who have been historically significant, made change in their community or world at large, and made waves for women to propel forward. I'm calling it Women's Wednesday, and am excited to start learning! If anyone who sees this post has an amazing woman in history, from any country, any history, anywhere they'd like to tell me about I'd love to look them up and dedicate my time to learn about them!

#women's wednesday #radfem #radblr #baby radfem #women #history #women's history #i do struggle with periodic posting #but im going to try my best and make this a goal to help get better with daily or weekly scheduled things as well #if i learn about a woman from another radfem post ill add that in #im thinking i will anyways #i think its important to credit at least where i initially heard it from #i know a lot fo radfems here do already post about historical women on here to raise awareness #i just wanted to have a fun little day dedicated to it #i apppreciate what the community has done for me

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hayatheauthor · 2 months ago

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20 Flirty Remarks to Build Romantic Tension Without Being Overbearing

Feeling stuck trying to give your characters a good flirty one-liner that doesn't sound cringe/overdone? Here are 20 ideas/dialogue prompts for you (that I may or may not have stolen from my own books):

“I must warn you: you have a dangerous effect on my heart rate.” / "You have no idea what you're doing to my heart right now."

"If I said I wasn’t thinking about you, I’d be lying. And I’m a terrible liar."

"You know, I could get lost in those eyes, but I'd probably trip over my words trying to find my way back." (could also double as description/inner monologue).

“I can’t tell if you’re really charming or if I’m just easily charmed.”

“You have a knack for making me forget what I was going to say. It’s kind of impressive/infuriating.”

“I think you owe me a drink. When I saw you, I dropped mine.”

“I’ve been trying to find the perfect excuse to hang out, but I keep forgetting everything when I’m around you.”

“I bet you get away with a lot of trouble with that smile.”

“You must be a magician because every time you walk in, everyone else disappears.” (The right character could pull it off I swear)

"I’ve been trying to think of something clever to say, but all my brain can come up with is how much I want to (kiss) you."

"I saw that little glance—you’re not as sneaky as you think."

"How do you manage to make even the most mundane things sound exciting?"

"You do this cute thing with your hands when you’re nervous, you know?"

“One more word, and I might just have to kiss you.”

"Finally, there's that pretty smile of yours. I've been waiting for it all day."

"You keep staring—should I be flattered?" / "Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you have a crush on me."

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep a straight face?"

"I’m pretty sure you could charm the socks off anyone, but I’d like to keep mine on for now."

"If laughter is the best medicine, then I’m pretty sure you’re my favorite doctor."

"Is it bad that I kind of like the way you’re trying to mess with me?"

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! Instagram Tiktok

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bettsfic · 8 months ago

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one of the best decisions i've ever made was to stop arguing.

i'd always been an arguer. i was defensive about everything and mindlessly contrary. it wasn't all my fault; i was (and still am) talked down to and patronized a lot, and when you live your life that way, you become kind of a raw nerve and dedicate a lot of energy to trying to prove yourself. someone even told me once, "it's just fun messing with you. you get so upset."

at 23, i was working in an environment where about a half dozen middle aged conservative men were always telling me what to do and explaining things to me. i either argued with them when they said heinous things or stewed about it for hours or even days. and so my new year's resolution one year was simply: no arguing.

it felt a little like defeat at first, like i was no longer standing up for what i believed in, even though no matter how right i was or how much proof i had for my claims, no one had ever been swayed by anything i told them. part of that was because they had no respect for me and didn't take me seriously; the other part was the simple truth that arguments are almost never productive. when someone says something and you immediately reply with, "you're wrong and here's why," a wall goes up and nothing can go over it.

i couldn't just let these men talk at me though, so i started asking questions. not leading questions, not with an intention to prove a point or walk them into a corner. i genuinely wanted to understand how they came to shape the opinions they held. i realized that understanding and agreeing are two different things, and just because i seek to understand doesn't mean i condone.

a truly fascinating thing happened: these men walked into corners all by themselves. it turns out nobody had ever actually tasked them with speaking their opinions aloud to a neutral audience. no one had ever been sincerely curious about them and their views. sure, their loved ones probably asked, "how are you doing?" all the time as a show of affection, but that's much different than, "what do you think?"

knowing what i know now, i think that's true of everyone. how many people ask you for your opinion and listen to what you have to say without speaking their opinion back to you? without judging you? how many people actively and intentionally try to understand you?

it's been over ten years since my resolution and i think i can count the arguments i've gotten into on one hand. one finger, even. it's amazing what happens when someone tries to rile you up, pick a fight with you, and your only response is, "can you elaborate on that?"

you can work someone into a very open and vulnerable state when you ask questions. they eventually run out of their usual talking points and move into the personal. when i do this, it's not like therapy; i'm not trying to help anyone. and it's not like teaching; i'm not trying to educate anyone. i just want to understand how people reach the conclusions they've come to. even after all these years of asking questions and not arguing, it still amazes me how few people in this world feel understood, and how easy it is to get them to open up when you say, "i want to know what you think."

#writing advice

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yameoto · 12 days ago

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giving fuckgirl!cait (+basketball) the best head of her life (she still doesn’t know what the hell to do about it)

sub!caitlyn, blowjobs, caitlyn cums in approx 2 seconds and is then humiliated, smut n fluff, ohhh she’s definitely in love with you

fuckgirl!cait who is just a little needy. the first time you ask her she’s all wide-eyed and her mouth is dry and suddenly she’s nervous for the first time in her life. which makes zero sense because (“not to sound like a dickhead—“ “prefacing that everytime doesn’t make you any less of a dickhead, cait.”) she’s been bobbing her cock down willing girls’ throats since she hit puberty. to destress or for fun or if she felt like it. whatever. the point is; she’s well-versed in this.

so, why her palms are suddenly sweating and her cheeks are glowing she has no idea. croaks. “uhm. are you sure? because you really don’t have to—“ like she hasn’t been harassing you for the past couple months and even if she’s had countless fantasies of this moment; imagining you, and your plush, soft lips wrapped around her cock as she splatters her load against the shower wall or a tissue or her dedicated cumsock (ok, sometimes she is just a jock. sue her. she’s a busy woman! and she, admittedly, no longer has a maid waiting on her beck and call.)

you laugh, all deep and throaty and it makes caitlyn want to sink between your couch cushions and die.

“what’s with the deer in the headlights look?” you’ll never grow tired of teasing her, even if you no longer think of her as the arrogant basketball prick who pads around you like a lost puppy and instead; now, something closer to an.. acquaintance with benefits.

(caitlyn has no clue how she made it this far with you. it’s like you just randomly decided to give her a shot one day, on a whim, and she desperately doesn’t want to blow it. even if acquaintance-with-benefits is a title that disgruntles her, at the very least. hurts, at the very most. like, very very most, okay?)

“i just..” caitlyn lets out a quiet whine when your fingers curl against the hem of her basketball shorts and—ah, shit. and now she’s hard. “now look what you’ve done.” she hisses, though she’s not quite sure what she expected when you texted her for netflix and chill like it’s still the 2010s.

“there’s that pretty thing.” you completely ignore her in favour of continuing your blasted teasing, fingers snaking underneath her waistband and pulling, guiding the shorts down the sharp v-line at her crotch and eyes travelling down the fine, inky lines of her happy trail to the spring of her cock, over the edge; half-glazed and all pretty and pink.

“you really want to..?” she doesn’t know why she keeps backtracking, like she hasn’t been talking and talking about how fucking good she’d be. and now that it’s really happening she’s getting cold feet, of all things.

“it’s just a blow, cait.” you roll your eyes.

right. just a blow. like she’s done, a million times before. god. god. she doesn’t know where the fuck this performance anxiety has suddenly arose from (pun unintended). she’s (gracefully and intentionally) bruised countless girls’ throats, for fuck’s sake. twisted her hand in the hair and yanked them sharply with each forceful snap of her hips, and told them to swallow without so much as a blink.

except you—you—

“mmgh—“ caitlyn throws her had back, as she lets out an exceedingly unflattering grunt, with the gusto in which you take her into her mouth. your tongue swirls, along her tip, and—hah—her mind melts to butter. her eyes are all cloudy, head spinning. “wait—mmf—i didnt—“

caitlyn’s hips buck, heedlessly, into your mouth. fuck. she usually has more rhythm than this. more—control. but then your tongue is sliding underneath and your hand running over to curl around her base and she’s rutting upwards aimlessly, like some stupid teenage boy who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. only that—shit—she’s never felt this good in her life and this is not just a blow—this is the most beautiful, nirvana-inducing, mind-shattering experience she could’ve ever—ungh.

oh.

oh, nononono. nono— no. she didn’t just—

your mouth hangs open, still, as you stare up at her with wide, surprised eyes; throat bobbing as if you were preparing to maybe do that really hot vacuum-type motion again except there’s kind of no fucking point because her dick is twitching uselessly as it slips out of your mouth and she watches in horror, as cum drizzles down your chin.

you swallow. caitlyn dreads that glimmer in your eyes, already.

“i usually—i last longer than that!” caitlyn’s cheeks are beet-red and she’s blinking up at you with those big, sad blue eyes and you’re laughing. crawling on top of her stomach as her dick presses flush and sticky against your lower torso and you’re laughing at her plight. ok, that’s it. it’s over. her reputation that she’s fought and fucked so hard for is dead and gone. she’s got to pack her bags, move countries, and start over.

she buries her face into the crook of your neck. surprisingly, you don’t push her away. “you can’t tell anyone.” she orders, petulant. she’s fucking humiliated.

“why would i tell anyone?” you snort. she whines.

“i don’t want you to think—“ caitlyn digs her short-cut nails into palms, looking frustrated; brows knit and cheeks still flushed, stray strands of hair a mess against her forehead. “i didn’t come over just for a blow.”

“i know, cait.”

caitlyn doesn’t know how much you know, frankly, because she doesn’t know how much she knows—considering she’s just had the most earth-quaking orgasm of her life in all but two seconds like some lame loser virgin and not the cool, suave playgirl that caitlyn kiramman is so known to be; but you’re sinking back into her arms and letting her keep leaking leftover dribbles into your couch as she clings and maybe, she doesn’t care. just wants to stay like this for a little while, and blink the spots out of her vision.

“i’m normally really very good.” she insists, words spilling out in an accented rush against your skin, half-slurred. “seriously.”

“caitlyn.”

“seriously!”

#yam talks #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman smut #fuckgirl!caitlyn #caitlyn kiramman drabble #trans!caitlyn #caitlyn x reader

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inkskinned · 1 year ago

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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

#writeblr #warm up #this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru #but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist #ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work #part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just #like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r #ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week #this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism #imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY #''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''

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5sospenguinqueen · 1 month ago

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Matchmaking Brothers | Arthur Leclerc x Gasly! Reader

Summary: Having known each other since they were kids, Yn and Arthur only spent time together when their families rallied together for the sake of their older brothers. Recently, fans have noticed that they’re spending more time together than ever before.

Warnings: None? Maybe swearing

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me . asked for gasly reader and brothers best friend arthur. sorry but this is only a short one

Faceclaim: Madison Beer

F1 Masterlist

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yn_gasly posted a new story

arthur_leclerc replied don’t be like that → you know you love having me → yn_gasly you ate all my crisps, begged me to order pizza and then cried because i “let you eat all that crap” → arthur_leclerc but did you i make you laugh? → yn_gasly at your expense, yes → arthur_leclerc you’re meaner than when we were 12 → yn_gasly and you haven’t changed

charles_leclerc replied don’t be like that, little gasly → you know you miss us when we’re travelling → yn_gasly what’s there to miss? → the bickering over racing? the sweaty socks left everywhere? competing over who can eat their pasta faster? → charles_leclerc don’t deflect. i know you miss arthur → yn_gasly now i really don’t miss you

francisca.cgomes replied send me that pic of pierre please

alexandrasaintmleux replied i’ll buy you a big glass of wine tomorrow

pierregasley replied i hate you → i wish i’d smothered you with a pillow when we were kids → yn_gasly i wish you’d get out of my apartment

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yn_gasly just posted

liked by jackdoohan, estebanocon and others

yn_gasly come to alpine, he said. it’ll be fun, he said. now i’m alone whilst he gets ready for quali and kiks has abandoned me also

1,980 comments

arthur_leclerc come to ferrari, it’s more fun

→ pierregasly don’t you dare

→ alexandrasaintmleux we have leo

→ yn_gasly on my way!

→ user1 was it leo or arthur who convinced you?

francisca.cgomes i didn’t abandon you! i had to pee!

→ yn_gasly i was left alone!

user2 i don’t know how any one could leave her alone when she looks that good

pierregasly i’m sorry that i have a job?

→ yn_gasly you should be. i have to suffer every race weekend because of you

→ user3 we all saw how tense she was during q3

→ user4 but also the way you jumped when you realised he was into q3

jackdoohan i promise i won’t let you be alone next year

→ yn_gasly and this is why you’re my favourite alpine driver

→ estebanocon i haven’t left yet, you know :(

→ yn_gasly you’re my second favourite, estie

→ pierregasly pierre erasure

→ user5 oo doohan’s got moves. arthur better look out

user6 can the test/reserve drivers of f1 fight? ‘cause yn is so fine

arthur_leclerc just posted

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, olliebearman and others

arthur_leclerc a stressful weekend that ended so well. what a special moment, couldn't be more proud

1,699 comments

yn_gasly a huge congrats to charlie 🤍 so proud of you! i know you’ve dreamed of this day since we were kids. can’t wait to celebrate with you later

→ charles_leclerc merci, little gasly ❤️

user7 can’t believe arthur managed to sneak in yn on a post dedicated to charles

→ user8 family friends my ass

→ user9 tbf she looked so good today

→ user10 face card never declines liked by arthur_leclerc

alexandrasaintmleux who’s that cutie in the last slide

→ yn_gasly date me please

→ charles_leclerc whoa, when i said i wanted you to join the family, i didn’t mean by stealing my girlfriend

user11 anyone else suspicious about his weekend "ending well" and then a pic of yn?

→ yn_gasly his brother finally won monaco, babe. please go outside and touch grass. i just looked hot today

→ user12 imagine getting called out by the queen herself

pierregasly why are you posting my sister’s cleavage, little leclerc?

→ yn_gasly why are you such an embarrassment

→ arthur_leclerc i feel sorry for any man that dates you if he’s what they have to put up with

→ jackdoohan i’d be happy to volunteer?

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pierregasly just posted

liked by francisca.cgomes, alpinef1team and others

pierregasly the gasly’s and the leclerc’s

3,310 comments

charles_leclerc my favourite french family

→ yn_gasly i thought you were your favourite french family

→ charles_leclerc i know where you live 🔪

arthur_leclerc why does everyone else get a nice photo and i get the one where yn is trying to tackle me into the harbour?

→ pierregasly i thought it was cute!

→ user1 and we agree. now tell us they’re dating

alexandrasaintmleux 💕

user2 you can tell yn and arthur are the little siblings ‘cause neither of them got a face shot

→ yn_ln apparently we’re not as attractive as the others

→ arthur_leclerc i disagree

francisca.cgomes okay but me and alex look hot

user3 love how kika and alex are counted as the gasly’s and the leclerc’s

→ yn_gasly of course they are. they’re family

→ user4 and which one do you count as part of? 😏

user5 yn and arthur look a little closer than friends ngl

→ user6 no because the way that they’ve been closer than the two confirmed couples

→ user7 they’re literally clinging to each other

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arthur_leclerc just posted

liked by scuderiaferrari, alpinef1team and others

arthur_leclerc grazie monza for some unforgettable memories

2,009 comments

user8 if this isn’t confirmation that they’re together, i don’t know what is

user9 she’s been converted? damn, he must be good in bed

user10 omg yn featuring in another grand prix post!

user11 dick so good she forgot she was french

→ user12 ya’ll are unhinged but i can’t deny that this screams that they’re a couple

→ pierregasly i can’t believe i just had to read that

charles_leclerc loving every outfit in this. nice to see all the family support

→ pierregasly back off. she’s still my sister

→ charles_leclerc for now

→ user13 ???

yn_ln everyone calm down. we’re literally in the land of ferrari. it would be criminal not to support them

→ user14 but you’re french, not italian?

→ scuderiaferrari you can’t fight the forza ferrari sempre

pierregasly traîtresse!

→ yn_ln well, i’m always abandoned in alpine. they treat me good in ferrari

→ alpinef1team we’re sorry. please come back to us. we’ll do better

→ francisca.cgomes please come back. i miss you yn

→ yn_ln oh yeah you all want me now

→ arthur_leclerc i’ve always wanted you

yn_gasly just posted

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and others

yn_gasly okay, guys. i did wear red for him

2,910 comments

charles_leclerc and i thought it was for me :(

user1 arthur kind of confirmed this already with his post and saying he always wanted you

→ user2 shush, we’re getting a glimpse into their relationship. don’t ruin it

arthur_leclerc and you look amazing in it ❤️

→ yn_ln almost as good as you do

→ charles_leclerc but no one looks as good as i do

→ alexandrasaintmleux just let them flirt, mon amour

user3 the height difference between them is killing me

pierregasly you better tell him to keep his hands where i can see them

→ yn_ln you were the biggest advocate for us getting together

→ charles_leclerc no, that was me

→ pierregasly yeah until i realised he would be putting his hands on my baby sister!

jackdoohan i guess i lost

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requests are open!

i am currently away but coming soon; mark webber smau, lewis baby angst part 2 and a franco smau

tag list

@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119 @raizelchrysanderoctavius @lilorose25

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starry-bi-sky · 4 months ago

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don't you want to be a cult leader? - danyal al ghul au

this is mostly a joke post but i thought it was funny and had to share so--

his first mistake was, obviously, inheriting his father's inability to see an injustice and stand still. -- actually, danyal's first mistake was his lair being so big. a mountainous island with a large temple in the center resembling his old home in Nanda Parbat? With sprawling foliage and rivers and streams and waterfalls galore? What was he going to do with all that space? Let it go to waste? He had plants there! Native trees of the ghost zone growing from the soil! He couldn't let it all be left unchecked!

So naturally after helping a fellow teenage assassin ghost -- who he later learns is named Akihiko, -- from Walker of all people, he sent them over to hang low at his lair until it was safe enough for them to wander around the Zone. Walker couldn't get through Danyal's astrofield if his life depended on it, and trust him -- he's tried. Danny was clearing out debris from his stupid transport vans for weeks.

Honestly it wasn't so bad, he and Aki really quickly became fast friends and Danny loves having a sparring partner close to his level again -- he hasn't had this much fun fighting since he left the League. Aki was very dedicated and levelheaded, the both of them clicked really well because of it.

Nonono, the real trouble began after Danyal met some long-passed League members and allowed them to come join his island as well. Apparently they had made a few enemies of the zone, and maybe Danyal still felt some loyalty to the League. He couldn't just let them be left to rot. Their zealotry could be overlooked so long as they kept it contained and helped him take care of his island.

And it.. snowballs from there? He meets a teen squire aptly calling himself Ambroise -- whether that was his living name or not is yet to be seen -- who died during feudal france, who is just about as dramatic and passionate as every french stereotype makes them out to be. He calls Danyal "my moon and great muse" -- which is both flattering and little uncomfortable, but Danyal's grown up in the League as the Grandson of the Demon Head, he is used to mild worship. he passes it off as nothing more, nothing less. -- and while his energy is overwhelming on the worst of days, he helps Danny draw out of his shell more in ways that Sam and Tucker still struggle with.

Him and Aki butt heads a lot, but the two seem to hold the other in at least some positive regard, so Danny doesn't worry too much about them fighting while he's gone. It only becomes a mild issue when Aki also begins calling Danny "my moon". It's a little sweet, so Danyal brushes it off.

Then he takes in a troupe of ghosts some time after he defeats Pariah Dark and they begin calling him "great one" just as the yetis do in the far frozen. This is where he meets the twins -- a pair of sibling ghosts who call themselves Trixie and Missy (short for Trick and Mislead) -- who aren't quite as passionate as Ambroise but more energetic than Aki. Eventually they also start calling Danyal "my moon" and attach themselves to his hip, even within the living. They like to hide in his shadow and cause trouble for the rest of the students. He makes sure they don't hurt anyone.

He's pretty sure Aki is jealous, same with Ambroise, but he can't be too certain other than the fact that they become much more lingering (re: clingy) whenever he visits the island.. Something he's trying to do much more often these days due to the increasing amount of people living there now. Since when did he become so popular?

Then there's Pēnelópeia from the Greater Athens, who ran away from home and joined his Island after he ran into her while she was being chased by Skulker -- and he's pretty sure the reason was because of her chimeric appearance. Her strange eyes and mismatched wings and lion's tail and talons. She assimilates into his friend group very easily, she gets along well with Ambroise and Trixie and Danny usually finds the three of them climbing the trees to pluck the most fruit from the top. They can fly and he knows it, but they prefer to climb.

Then finally there's silent poet Akkara who comes from ancient mesopotamia, who gets along most with Aki -- which is no surprise there considering their similar personality dispositions. he watches Aki and Danyal fight each other and leaves comments on this or that that he notices. He writes Danyal poems on clay tablets and leaves them by his room.

They're one big mismatched group of outcasts, and Danny's got the other ghosts on his island to tend to, because they're living on his island and he wants to be hospitable even if he struggles with that. But he spends the most of his time with them.

Sam and Tucker are making fun of him. Tucker jokingly tells him 'careful Danny, at this rate you're gonna start a cult'. Danny really wishes he had taken that joke more seriously.

He just. keeps. collecting people. Wayward souls lost in the zone, looking for shelter or refuge from something or other -- whether that be another hostile ghost, or a past afterlife, or just a purpose. Danyal finds them, he takes them in, offers them a place on his island until they are ready to leave. Many seldom do. He's not complaining -- he has the space, and it feels like it's only ever growing.

His close friends, his "inner circle" as he's heard the others call them, keep insistently calling him "my moon". He starts calling them his stars, because then it only feels fair. They're his stars, this is his constellation. It becomes a thing; little star halos begin forming behind their heads, picking them out from the rest. He loves them so much, it's hard to place. Sam and Tucker are also his stars, but they reside in the living realm, they're his tie to Life. Meanwhile, his friends here know what it's like to be dead, and sometimes its nice to relate.

Those living on his island keep calling him "Great One" and he's beginning to notice zealotry in their care for his island. He really, deeply appreciates it. His close friends gain nicknames -- as his stars, it's only natural for him to pick them out from the cluster in the skies. Akihiko, his Sirius and bright star. Trix and Missy, Castor and Pollux, the twins and troublemakers. Ambroise, his zealous Antares and close friend. Penelopeia, chimeric and loyal Vega. And Akkara, his Arcturus and strength.

It's ridiculous how long it takes for him to notice; he is, of course, a deadly trained assassin. He is meant to be observant -- and normally he is! But somehow this becomes a blind spot. One that becomes too big to be dealt with by the time he realizes it.

He should've noticed when Aki, his Sirius, stood beside him one day while Danyal looked over his island and saw the sprawling spirits carrying on about their afterlife and bowing to him as they saw him, and said: "I looked down into the depths when I met you; I couldn't measure it." They aren't one for flowing prose, it took him so off guard he was silent for over a minute before he finally spoke.

Danyal should've recognized devotion for what it is, and yet he didn't. He should've recognized it when Antares began spouting praises about him, crowing about his radiance and resplendence to the heavens. He just brushed it off as Ambroise being Ambroise. He should've recognized it when Trix and Missy nearly broke Dash's leg after he knocked Danyal's books out of his hands, he excused it as them being protective. Of them coming from times where such violence may have been customary -- after all, that's what he used to be like. What he was still like, sometimes, when his emotions nearly got the better of him.

He should've noticed it when the people living on his island followed his word like gospel, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. When his friends gifted him a shawl with the moon phases delicately embroidered into it, with silver, shimmering thread and moving stars lovingly stitched into it. Their constellations seen clear as day in the dark fabric. When he found small shrines dedicated to him -- but they lacked any image of him beyond stones carved to look like moons, so he ignored it. When the religious imagery began popping up.

He really, really should've noticed it when a bunch of cultists accidentally summoned Antares, and Antares had turned to him when he arrived and called them heretics. But he was so centered on the fact that they had kidnapped one of his stars, that he hadn't paid much attention to what Ambroise had said.

Sages say that faith is blind, they should also say faith in you is even blinder.

It really only hits him one afternoon while he's sitting in Sam's room studying with Tucker, Missy and Trixie lounging at his feet, Aki sat on his right, Penelopeia braiding his hair, Ambroise draped against him, and Akkara lurking over him. Its one of the rare few times they're all in one room together.

It hits him like a bolt of lightning. He looks up from his textbook. "Oh Ancients," he says in no amounting shock. Everyone looks up to him.

"I've become my grandfather."

#dpxdc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc crossover #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #danyal al ghul au #dpxdc au #dp x dc au #dpxdc prompt #ive been playing cult of the lamb recently and you can tell #anyways i thought this was funny to think about. its specifically danyal al ghul bc that makes it even funnier #tfw you accidentally become a cult leader. rip to you danny you have a cult following #not at ALL an accurate depiction of a cult but i still think its funny. innaccurate cult depictions. ur in too deep to change it now danno #sam and tucker: hey dude... this is a cult | danny still learning how to People: what. no. these are all my friends and refugees.#his inner circle are all Insane about him they just show it in different ways. Sirius is as equally zealous as the rest they just don't #show it as much. which has mistakenly convinced danyal that they are the more logical one. no danny. they would kill for you #danny: i am being hospitable | sam: you created a cult | danny: i am being hosPITABLE #i dont like ghost king aus but i love danny being in positions of power it just has to feel earned. 'accidental kingdom acquisition' is my #favorite trope it just has to be done correctly. 🫵 build that bitch up with your bare hands and not realize until its too late you fool #'becoming a world power by accident and im in too deep to back out now'#danyal. a raised assassin (has no threshold for normal behavior): *sees utter devotion towards him* yeah this is fine and normal.#danyal: yk i dont see this ending horribly. *goes and collects more followers* yeah this is totally cool. welcome to the constellation #danyal: *saves a few people and houses them in his lair* (everyone liked that [to a worrying degree actually])#his inner circle: my moon! | danny: my stars :]#danny: ive become my grandfather. | danny: ... | danny: idk how to feel about that honestly.#those poor cultists that kidnapped antares were subjected to a 3hr tangent about 'the radiance of the Moon and his resplendent generosity'#before danyal found him and got him home. who were the cultists summoning? who knows! but they got Objectively the Worst out of the #constellation to summon by accident. actually they're all bad there's no picking who. they're all various amounts of Unhinged Danny just #Never Realizes It because he is also Unhinged and thinks some of this shit is normal.#like yeah thats totally normal behavior he has no questions whatsoever. this seems like Typical People Stuff.

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saeist · 7 months ago

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a/n: alternate universe where touya didn't go insane and goes to UA :] dedicated to the loml @saerins cus we're on our touya brainrot + went a little insane with this instead...

"jesus doll, excited now are we?" touya muses, a smirk on his lips as he lets you push him inside your small and cramped bathroom.

rolling your eyes, you motioned him to sit down on the toilet lid while you prepare the shower. making sure the water is just the right temperature or else you might burn touya's head off when you rinse the hairdye off his hair

"is this the part where you remove your shirt and i suck on a titty?" touya says more of a statement rather than a cheeky question. you stop yourself from hitting the boy that has his signature lopsided smirk with the shower head you were currently holding

with an exasperated sigh and a pinch to your nose bridge, you answer him

"just shut up for once, touya. besides, won't your dad kill you if he found out you're dying your hair black? or did you forget that he almost kicked you out of the house when he saw your piercings for the first time?" you raised an eyebrow at your boyfriend who decided at the last minute to dye his hair as a sign of "rebellion against his "uptight, stick far up his ass dad" his words, not yours

"he can manage" touya huffs, scoffing at the memory of his dad yelling at him for acting and starting to look like a good for nothing delinquent or in endeavour's words, a villain. "it's not like it's my duty to keep our image of a "perfect family". if only the rest of the world knew what its like to have endeavor as your deadbeat dad!"

touya and endeavour never really got a long per say.. at least that's what touya tells you whenever he had a shit day training with endeavor. days where he would train with his dad were usually days where he'd opt to spend the night at your dorm. away from all the chaos inside the todoroki estate that he unfortunately refers to as his home

but to touya, at the end of the day, you are his home. his peace, his serenity, his anchor in this world where hell could break loose at any given moment

"don't give me that look, doll" touya sighs, shoulders dropping when he noticed you were staring at him.

"i just don't want to see you hurt all over again. you almost gave me a heart attack that one time when you showed up here unannounced" you pout, letting touya slowly wrap his arms around your waist.

touya’s arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. “i can handle the old man. it’s his problem if he can’t accept me for who i am,” he mutters, resting his forehead against your stomach

"i mean, he already stopped giving a shit when he realized i can't withstand my flames, so who am i to give a shit back after everything he did to me?" touya continues, his grip tightening

you run your fingers through his hair gently, feeling the warmth of his presence. “shhh, we already talked about this" you shush him, "all i'm saying is that i just want you to be safe, touya. i can’t stand seeing you hurt,” you whisper, your voice tinged with worry.

he looks up at you, his usual smirk replaced with a rare, sincere expression. “i know, doll. i know." touya presses light kisses on your stomach, "but I have to be true to myself, even if it means pissing off endeavor” he chuckles, the pads of his thumb rubbing circles on your exposed skin

you both stay in that position in silence for a bit. just finding comfort with each other's presence. just the way touya likes it. nice and quiet. a contrast to his daily hellish life back at his own home

that is until touya starts to feel his scalp burn a little

"okay fun time's over, doll. my scalp's startin' to kill me here" touya shudders, slowly unwrapping his arms around you as he reaches for the shower head in your hand.

you stifle in your laughter watching him make a fuss inside your cramped bathroom.

that is until, you remembered that your bathroom tiles were pearly white and if he's rinsing off black hairdye then–

"TOUYA MY TILES!" you let out a screech

"too late, doll" touya pokes his tongue out at you, hair dye getting all over your walls and cold tiles.

you were gonna pay one hefty fine if you don't clean this shit up as soon as possible.

now, touya sits on your bed. drying his freshly dyed jet black hair with a towel and you're not even gonna lie to yourself. he looked a little too good for your liking. touya has always been a looker himself but with this new hairdo.. oh lord

"why are you looking at me like you want to eat me?" touya chuckles, hanging the now stained towel around his neck as he leans back on your bed with his elbows propped. he was giving you bedroom eyes, quite literally and figuratively.

what a tease!

"nothing. just making sure that i'm still talking to touya and not his emo alter ego dabi" you mused, plopping down on your bed next to him.

touya laughs at your comment. eyes turning into crescent moons

“thanks for everything, y/n,” touya says softly, voice full of genuine love and appreciation.

your heart swells at the sight of touya like this. you would move mountains if you could just to see touya– your touya happy.

"i love you, touya" you lean in for a kiss. to which touya happily returns the favor.

"i love you more than life, doll." touya smiles lazily against the kiss, cranking his neck to the side for more access as he deepens the kiss.

moments like these with you is when touya feels like he's on top of the world and he hopes it will forever stay like this cause to touya, he can face anything the world throws at him when he knows you'll be there right by his side

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gothcsz · 3 months ago

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Summary: Caught in a charged and unexpected moment with Javier Peña, you struggle between resisting his relentless seduction and giving in to the tension that has been building since the last shoot.

Tags: smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, no use of Y/N, reader is shorter than javier but other than that no physical descriptions, some dirty talk, semi-public sex (we're in an elevator this time around), reader really doesn't like javi, steve being steve, other shit i’m probably forgetting.

A/N: this was supposed to be a short lil thing but then my ass had to drag it out just a little because their dynamic is very fun to write 😭 he's like whyyy don't you like me and she's like how much time do you have? lmfao. this is dedicated to @auteurdelabre 🖤 #1 pornstar javi stan, i almost submitted this for your trope off but decided to save that honor for my other story! anyways, i hope you guys enjoy javier begging to eat you out 🥂 let me know what you think 🖤 mandatory mutual tags: @almostempty / @miss-oranje-disco-dancer

You sit in the cramped waiting room outside of Robbie’s office, the stale air clinging to your skin as you shift uncomfortably in the worn-out chair. The place is too quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the city outdoors.

You glance at the clock on the wall, anxiety creeping up your spine. You have a shift at the bar in an hour, and time is slipping through your fingers. The laundry, the groceries, the endless list of errands— it all piled up today, and now you’re cutting it too close.

But you need this check. It’s the only reason you’re here, tapping your foot in impatience. If you don’t get it today, the money won’t hit your account in time to cover rent, and you really don’t want another lecture from your landlord. It’s bad enough you’re already behind— no need to give him more ammunition to chew you out.

You sigh and lean back, eyes closing as you try to drown out the frustration swirling in your head. That’s when you hear the unmistakable ding of the elevator down the hall and turn your head to see who’s joining.

Your stomach drops and you sit up straight. No. Not now. The air feels heavier, thick with that familiar irritation, as the slow, deliberate sound of boots against the tile grows louder.

Javier Peña.

Just the thought of him sends a hot wave through your being, a mix of irritation and something else you refuse to acknowledge. You don’t want to think about that last shoot, the one where things shifted. Where shit got weird. You behind the camera, filming as always, while he was balls deep in another woman, claiming you were on his mind.

“Bet you’d look just as pretty like this, nena.”

“Did you like what you saw? Like watching the way I fucked her but was thinking of you the whole time?”

It was like he’d stripped you bare with just a few words, leaving you more exposed than them in the midst of their carnal fucking. And the worst part? You’d been affected by it. Skin on fire, pussy wet. It also didn’t help that Steve had heard it too. The mic catching the flirting, the hitch of your breath getting stuck in your throat, clear as day.

He’d asked you about it later at Lucky’s, as promised, all smug and drinking that God-awful beer. But you’d brushed him off, hoping he’d drop it. Thankfully, he had— for the most part— but you could still feel his restlessness, wanting to stir the pot.

Now, Javier is here, of course, because the universe just loves to mess with you. You roll your eyes and cross your arms, leaning back against the chair in defiance. You refuse to look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he gets under your skin.

His footsteps stop just a few feet away, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. You can feel him looking at you, feel the weight of his brown eyes like a physical thing as they rake over your body.

You keep your gaze glued to the wall, focusing on the ugly, generic painting hanging there like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You gonna act like you don’t see me?” His voice is deep, smooth, and frustratingly cocky, just like always.

You grit your teeth, biting back a response. You won’t give him an inch. Not again. This motherfucker will take a mile.

“Okay, so that’s what we’re doing.” Before you can react, he plops down beside you. You stiffen immediately, moving your crossed knees to the side, angling yourself away from him, as if the few inches of space will protect you from the onslaught of whatever the hell he’s about to say next.

He spreads his thighs wide, his posture screaming obnoxious confidence. You just barely catch a glimpse of his bulge pressing up against his left thigh and how the fuck does it look so big even when he’s soft? “You know,” he says, voice dripping with that lazy, arrogant drawl, “you’re the only woman that treats me like this, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

You snort, the sound sharp and humorless. You still don’t bother looking at him.

Javier frowns, flitting his tongue across the top row of his teeth. “Is it because I came off too strong the first time we met? ‘Cause if that’s the case; then I’m sorry. Can’t help myself from flirting with pretty little things like you.”

You roll your eyes so hard, it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of their sockets. He doesn’t sound sincere at all.

Thing is, you didn’t mind the flirting. Even if he, like he’s so romantically put it, does flirt with pretty little things all the time; it did make you feel like just that. Pretty. It’s what came after that soured your Javier Peña experience.

He huffs, like a petulant child, frustrated by your silence. You don’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance. Instead, you shift in your seat, your mind racing, wondering what the hell is taking Robbie so damn long. He never works, barely lifts a finger unless there’s money or something else in it for him, and now, suddenly, he’s busy? Yeah, right. He’s probably in his office jerking it to one of his films, getting off on his own work. Typical.

You’re done waiting. With a sharp movement, you stand, startling Javier, though you still don’t give him the time of day. He’s used to women catering to his every whim, hanging on his every word. You aren’t going to be one of them. Not even if he did manage to get you all hot and bothered.

You stalk over to the door and knock harder than necessary. “I’m busy,” his voice grumbles through the wooden surface, and you resist the urge to scream.

“And I need my check. Just slide it under the door or something,” you snap, the urgency in your voice making it clear that you’re not in the mood to get fucked around with.

There’s a pause, followed by the sound of shuffling papers before the door cracks open just enough for Robbie to stick his hand out, an envelope clutched between his fingers. He practically shoves it into your hand before slamming the door shut again.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the envelope with your name scrawled across the front. Surrounded by imbeciles. Just one shift to get through tonight, and then maybe, just maybe, you can get some peace. Enjoy the first weekend off you’ve had in months.

Now that you have what you came for, you spin on your heel and stride down the hallway, ignoring the handsome pornstar still lounging in the chair behind you. From your peripheral, you can see him sitting there, skinny jean clad legs spread, looking all annoyingly sexy without even trying. It would be so much easier if he were ugly— or literally anyone else. But no, it’s Javier fucking Peña, with his ridiculous good looks and that cocky smirk that could probably charm the panties off half the city if he wanted to (it probably has, to be honest).

You mentally map out the next hour: hit the bank, dash home to change, then off to work. You could walk to the bank, maybe catch a taxi home if you’re lucky. But with traffic in this city, luck isn’t really on your side. You start considering your options— do you skip changing and just head to work as you are? Would your other boss even care if you showed up a little underdressed? You’re so lost in your thoughts, focused on cutting corners to save time, that you don’t hear the quiet footsteps behind you.

It’s not until the elevator dings and you step inside that you realize you’re not alone. Javier’s slipped in just before the doors close, sliding smoothly into the cramped space beside you. The sudden proximity makes your heart do this stupid little jump, and you curse yourself for it. You’re trapped now— stuck way too close to him in the tiny metal box.

The air feels charged, his presence impossible to ignore yet again. The smell of his aftershave hits you first— spicy, with a hint of something woodsy, layered under the scent of his leather jacket and the faint, lingering whiff of cigarette smoke. He tries to drown it out with minty gum, but it’s still there, clinging to him like an old habit. And damn it, your knees go a little weak, despite your best efforts to stay cool.

The height difference between you is glaringly obvious now. You’re eye level with the habitually open portion of his cream colored shirt, the buttons undone just enough to give a peek at his brown chest. It’s frustrating how effortlessly he pulls off the whole rugged look— like he doesn’t even try, but somehow manages to look better than most men who spend hours on it.

You swallow hard, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you can smell him, that you can feel the heat radiating off his body in the tight space. He’s just too close, and the damn elevator isn’t moving fast enough. You’ve got a million things to worry about right now—rent, work, your life— and the last thing you need is to be distracted by him.

But, like always, he’s right there, invading your space, making it impossible to think of anything else.

“What the fuck do you want?” You snap, breaking your vow of silence. You frown up at him, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface as you cross your arms defensively over your chest— a bad move, you realize too late, as the motion only pushes your braless tits together beneath the thin fabric of your tank top.

Predictably, his eyes drop immediately. You curse yourself for not wearing something more substantial. It’s not like I was planning to run into him today, you think to yourself.

“To understand why you hate me so much,” Javier says, his voice low, carrying that annoyingly casual tone, as if this whole conversation is nothing more than a mild inconvenience to him.

Your brows knit together, and a dry laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it. “Well, for starters,” you bite out, “you can’t even look me in the eyes when you ask.”

His gaze snaps up so fast it’s almost comical, his dark eyes locking with yours, defiance flaring there. But there’s something else too— something that makes the air between you even more tense. You hold his stare, daring him to say something, to make this worse for himself. His expression tightens, but you continue before he has a chance to speak. “And I don’t hate you. I just don’t like you. You annoy the shit out of me.”

He flinches, just barely, but you catch it. The smallest chink in his armor. You reach around him, your hand brushing against his side as you press the button for the main floor. The contact sends a ripple of awareness through you that you try to ignore. You don’t have time for this— for him.

Javier scowls, his mouth pulling into a frown that mirrors yours, and before you can react, he half-turns and punches a button for a different floor, effectively canceling your request. The elevator jolts, shifting direction.

You groan audibly, exasperation washing over you. “And here you are, proving my point,” you mutter under your breath. Every second you waste in this shitty elevator with him is another second closer to being late for work. Another second closer to not getting everything done that you needed to today. He’s not just in your way—he’s deliberately in your way, and the worst part is, he knows it.

“You don’t like me,” he counters, turning back to face you fully, his tone edging into frustration, “but you never even gave me a chance.” His jaw is set now, his eyes searching yours as if he’s waiting for you to crack, to admit that there’s more to it than just annoyance. Like he wants you to say it’s something else, something deeper.

If you had the luxury of time, you’d lay it all out for him, explain in excruciating detail just why you’ve avoided giving him that chance. How his arrogance grates on you. How his charm, though admittedly effective, feels hollow. How the way he flirts isn’t even the problem—it’s the way he looks at you, like he knows something about you that you don’t want to admit.

But you don’t have that kind of time.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to steady your nerves. “As fun as it’d be to stand here and explain this shit to you like a child,” you say, your voice tight, “I have important things to do, and you’re keeping me from them.” You jab the elevator button again, hoping the damn thing will just go where you need it to without another unnecessary detour, but you already know it’s a losing battle.

Javier shifts closer, just slightly, his presence looming. You can smell that damn aftershave again, all spice and leather and smoke, and it only pisses you off more because your body reacts to it before your brain can stop it. You feel your resolve slipping, just a little. His eyes are on you, unwavering, intense in a way that makes you want to both slap him and pull him closer at the same time.

“I’m not trying to keep you from anything,” he replies, softer now, the edge in his voice gone. His tone is almost... apologetic? No. It can’t be. Javier Peña doesn’t apologize. At least not in any way that feels real.

You don’t even bother responding, just stare at the numbers above the door, willing them to move faster. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.

“Just—fuck, give me something. Anything,” he growls, frustrated as all hell. His eyes are wild, and you can see the cracks in his usual suave demeanor, like he’s barely holding it together. “Ever since that last shoot, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head, and I don’t know why. You think you’re exasperated? How the fuck do you think I’m feeling over here?”

You raise a brow, leaning into your disdain as you pout at him mockingly. “Oh, boohoo. Cry me a river. A girl doesn’t like me back, wahh.” You mimic the sound of a crying baby, bringing your fists up to rub against your cheeks in the most exaggerated way possible. Then you drop the act, face deadpanning.

His eyes narrow, and you think you’ve finally hit a nerve. Good. Let him stew in it. But instead of backing down, he does something you don’t expect— he turns, reaches out, and slams his palm against the emergency stop button. The elevator lurches to a sudden halt, the hum of motion disappearing as the car freezes between floors.

Your eyes widen, a sharp spike of adrenaline shooting through you as the reality of the situation sets in. “What the hell, Javier?” You’re about to cuss him out, to let him know exactly what kind of shit he’s just gotten himself into, but before the words can leave your mouth, he takes two long, purposeful steps toward you.

Instinctively, you move back, the sudden intensity in his eyes sending warning signals through your brain. But there’s nowhere to go. You can’t escape the tight confines of the elevator, your back is pressed up against the cold metal railing. You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as his broad body looms over yours, trapping you in a way that leaves you feeling both furious and breathless.

He’s too close. His chest brushes against yours, and you can feel his gaze as it drags over your face, down your neck, and lower still, lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Any insult you were ready to hurl at him gets stuck in your throat. You hate how your pulse quickens, how your breath catches. You can feel every inch of him— solid muscle, tense with whatever storm is brewing behind those dark eyes.

For a brief, dizzying moment, you forget to be mad. You forget that you’re supposed to dislike him, that he’s the last person you should let get under your skin like this but somehow is the only one who’s able to. All you can focus on is the way his breath fans across your cheek, the way the small space between you crackles with tension, like a wire pulled too tight.

“You think this is some kind of joke?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, making your pussy tingle in ways you wish it didn’t. “You think it’s easy for me to just... shrug it off? Because it’s not. Not when I keep thinking about you, and I don’t even fucking understand why.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that catches you off guard, making you pause to wonder if this really isn’t a game to him.

But you can’t let him see that. You can’t let him know how much he’s getting to you (even though he’s more than aware). So instead, you tilt your chin up defiantly, forcing your voice to stay steady. “And stopping the elevator? Trapping me in here with you? That’s your brilliant solution?”

“No,” he breathes, voice dropping to a near whisper as his face inches closer to yours. “But it’s the only way I could get you to stop running from me.”

You hate how your stomach flips at his words. Hate how much you’re fighting against the instinct to lean into him instead of shoving him away. Every part of your body is screaming at you to tell him to fuck off and leave you the hell alone.

“Do you know what I think it is?” The words come out in a low, dangerous drawl, the kind that seems to wrap around your throat and squeeze. He leans in, crowding your space, eyes boring into you with an intensity that has your pulse skyrocketing. “I think you’re too fucking stubborn to let yourself have any fun. The idea of me fucking you is enticing, isn’t it?” His lips curl into a smirk, the kind that drips with arrogance and dark promises. “Could see it written all over your face that night at the hotel. That look in your eye while I was fucking Lexxie.”

His accusations slam into you, pulling up the exact moment you’ve been trying to bury. It should have been a professional gig, routine even, nothing personal… except that wasn’t the case. Not with the way he looked at you the entire time, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to react.

And, fuck, you had reacted. You felt the heat rise in your face, the way your body betrayed you as you stood behind the camera, mouth salivating, thighs pressing together.

“Javier…” You push at his chest, your hand meeting the hard wall of muscle beneath his shirt. The intent is to shove him back, to create some space between you. But the second your palm makes contact, it’s like the air shifts, and instead of moving him, it’s like you’ve anchored yourself to him.

Goddamn him. Goddamn you for your spineless ass, for not being able to follow through on resisting the temptation that he is.

He smirks wider, clearly reading the war going on behind your eyes. “You were shaking,” he continues, his voice a dark whisper that coils around your insides. “Damn near moaning while you watched me go down on her. Rubbing those thighs together while this pretty ass was in my face as she was sucking my cock.”

His large hand snakes around you, catching you off guard, fingers gripping a handful of your ass and pulling you closer. Your body collides with his, and that’s when you feel it— his erection, hard and insistent, pressing into your stomach. The heat between you flares up to unbearable levels, and you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips. His touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, every nerve ending in your body on high alert, buzzing with want.

“You’re delusional,” it’s breathless but you’re still determined to keep some semblance of control. You squirm in his grip, your body betraying your words, the friction making your mind tilt. “You just can’t stand the fact that, for once, a woman isn’t throwing herself at you. That I’m not kissing the ground you walk on or falling to my knees, ready to suck you off.”

His hold tightens briefly, pulling you even closer, and for a second, you wonder if you’ll be able to break free at all. It’s damn near impossible to ignore the ache building between your thighs at this point. But somehow, you manage to slip out of his grip, your body twisting away from his until you’ve backed yourself into the far corner of the elevator.

You can’t breathe. Not properly, anyway. You’ve never felt so on edge, so exposed in such a small space. Every fiber of your being screams at you to keep your distance, to reassert control of the situation, but there’s a part of you— dangerous and impulsive— that wants to step right back into his arms.

Javier doesn’t move, but his eyes stay glued to you, watching your every movement like a predator stalking its prey. The elevator is still locked in place, a silent reminder that you’re trapped here with him until one of you decides to relent. His jaw clenches, and you think he’s going to say something cutting, something to tear you down. But instead, he surprises you.

“You’re right.” His voice is rough, but it carries a weight that’s different from the cocky arrogance he usually hides behind. “I can’t stand it.”

His words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. There’s no smirk this time, no sarcastic bite. Just honesty, and it’s a fucking curveball.

You weren’t prepared for him to actually admit it. For once, he’s not trying to fuck with you, not trying to win.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You swallow hard, the weight of his confession making your heart leap out of your chest.

You don’t know what to say, so instead, you just stand there, staring at him, your body buzzing with a cocktail of adrenaline, lust, and confusion. Because as much as you want to dislike him, as much as you need to dislike him for your own sanity, you can’t deny the way your pussy responds to him. The way your mind keeps pulling you back to that night, to the way he made you feel without even touching you.

“Get over it,” you snap, cutting him off before he can sink any deeper into this conversation. You don’t need to entertain this further. It can’t happen, and it will never happen. The second you fall into bed with him, it’ll be game over. Javier Peña isn’t just a casual fuck— you know deep down he’d be the kind that wraps himself around your soul and doesn’t let go until he’s consumed every inch of you.

The problem is, you’re terrified that you’ll let him. It’s why you’re so dead set on not giving in.

You cross your arms over your chest again, as if trying to shield yourself from the strength in his eyes, the way he seems to reach into your very core with just a look.

You try to focus on anything else— on the fact that you still need to get to the bank, then to your apartment, and finally to your bar shift. You don’t have time for this shit, for the endless back-and-forth with him.

But then he says your name.

The sound of it on his lips makes you close your eyes, every muscle in your body tensing. Damn him. It sounds so fucking sweet, almost reverent, and you know if you make the mistake of looking at him right now— if you see those beautiful, pleading brown eyes— you’ll fold.

He says your name again, softer this time, and the way his voice wraps around each syllable has your resolve teetering on the edge of collapse. “Please, just let me show you how good I can make you feel,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his breath fanning across your cheek. “Just one taste, nena, por favor.”

And for the first time since you met Javier— he’s begging. You never imagined that he, of all people, would beg for anything. But here he is, his voice low and thick with desire, pleading with you to give him just one chance.

You blink your eyes open slowly, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that have been ignited by his words. The synapses in your brain light up like fucking fireworks, each one triggering a new thought, a new possibility. There’s a moment— a split second— where you picture it.

You imagine his hands on your body, his lips trailing fire down your skin, his mouth between your legs. The image flashes so vividly, so intensely in your mind, that it steals the breath from your lungs.

You can practically feel the way he’d elicit things you’ve been trying to suppress. Your legs go weak just thinking about it, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to ground yourself, to remember who you are, what this is.

But your cavewoman, horny brain betrays you— racing ahead, picturing every possible outcome. You can’t help but wonder how good it would feel to let him in, just once. How it would be to let him take control, to let him show you, like he’s promising, just how good he can make you feel.

You’re already late getting to the bank. You should be focusing on that, on getting out of this damn elevator and away from him, but your body won’t cooperate. Every part of you is ablaze, screaming at you to just give in.

Javier’s standing there, staring at you with those chocolate eyes, his dark brows drawn together, pouty lips parted just slightly as he waits for you to say something. Anything. He’s laid it all out in front of you, leaving you to make the next move. And fuck, as much as you hate to admit it, you want to. You want to let him pull you into his world, even though you know it’ll consume you. You want to feel his hands on your skin, his mouth everywhere, his name slipping from your lips.

But you can’t.

If you give in now, you’ll never be able to walk away from him, and you can’t afford to let yourself get tangled up in Javier Peña. He’s chaos wrapped in temptation, and once you let him in, there’s no turning back.

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you try to hold on to the last shred of control you have. “Javier,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. You feel like you’re on the edge of a cliff, teetering between desire and self-preservation. The weight of his gaze presses down on you, and for a moment, you think you might just jump.

But then, with every ounce of willpower you have left, you take a shaky breath, shaking your head and breaking the spell he’s woven around you.

“No,” you say, the word barely above a whisper, but firm enough to anchor you back to reality.

His face falls, the fire in his eyes dimming just a little. You almost regret it, almost, but then you remember who he is. What he does. And you know you made the right choice, even if every part of you is berating otherwise.

You stand there, locked in a silent standoff, both of you doing a piss poor job of pretending like you don’t want to tear each other’s clothes off right here in the elevator.

You’re hoping—no, praying— that he’ll finally let it go. That he’ll stop pushing, stop testing your resolve, and just leave you alone. You’re begging for him to go back to what he does best, to leave you to your job— both of them.

You break eye contact first, glancing down at your watch. You’re definitely not going to make it to your shift on time. Shit. You need to phone your boss and give him a heads up before this gets even worse. But right now, you can’t seem to focus, not with Javier standing there like a Roman statue, immovable and perfect, watching you with that infuriating intensity.

“Now, if you can get the elevator to take us down, I’d really appreciate it,” you say, but the words come out softer than you intended. You hate how small your voice sounds, like you’ve already lost the upper hand, and you mentally slap yourself for it.

But he doesn’t budge. He just stands there, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world, and it makes you want to scream. His gaze is piercing, boring holes into your entire existence, and it’s taking everything you have not to crumble beneath it.

“Do you really mean that?” He asks as he brings a hand up to smooth down his mustache. There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips, like he already knows the answer. “Because everything about your body language is screaming otherwise.”

When the fuck did he get so close again? He’s right there, towering over you, and suddenly the air between you feels impossibly thin.

“It’s my fuckin’ job to read a woman’s body,” he continues, his voice growing huskier with each word. “And you know what yours is telling me right now?”

Your pulse quickens, your heart slamming against your ribcage, and you can’t find the words to respond. You don’t trust yourself to speak— not when his presence is drowning you in your own body.

He leans in, lips so close to your ear that his breath almost has you fainting. “It’s telling me that you want it.”

Your stomach flips, every nerve ending in your body coming alive as his curved nose barely grazes your skin. The touch is featherlight, but it sends electricity straight to your cunt. You grip the railing behind you like a lifeline, your knuckles flushed as goosebumps ripple across your skin.

Javier’s smirk deepens, the asshole clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on you. “Stop fighting it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, his hand sliding down the length of your figure in a way that feels too natural, too right. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel…”

You should stop him. You should. But you don’t. You can’t. His hands are on you now, moving with a confidence that’s impossible to resist. One large hand finds its way to your tit, groping it gently through the thin fabric of your tank top, and you gasp, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it. Your body fails you, head falling back against the elevator wall, your chest arching into his touch.

The way his hand moves, so sure, so practiced, has your resistance crumbling, piece by piece.

“That’s it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck, peppering soft, teasing kisses along your sensitive skin. “Barely done a thing and you’re already gone.”

Your mind is spinning, your resolve completely undone as you melt under his touch. Every kiss, every graze of his lips against your neck feels like it’s unraveling the last bit of control you have. His body is pressed up against yours, and you can feel his erection through his jeans again, the hard (pun intended) evidence of just how much he wants you.

God help you, it feels too good to resist.

You sigh, a low, breathy sound that’s equal parts surrender and relief. His lips trail lower, his hand still groping your breast, and you let him. You let him because you’ve been fighting this for too long, and right now, you just want to feel something.

Javier grins against your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he pulls you even closer, his voice hoarse in your ear. “Told you,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “I knew you wanted this.”

You don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say. You’ve given in, you’ll figure out how to pick up the pieces later, but right now? Right now, you’re letting yourself fall apart.

It’s like your whole body just deflates against his, sinking into the solid warmth of him as if all the fight has finally drained out of you. You’re giving him the green light, and he knows it. The grunt that escapes his throat is guttural, and you feel the weight of his palm pressing harder against your chest, his thumb and pointer finger expertly pinching your now hardened nipple through the fabric of your tank top.

“After this,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “if you don’t want me anymore, I’ll leave you alone.” His words are punctuated by a sharp tug at your nipple that sends a surge of arousal straight between your legs. Then his hand moves, sliding up to cradle your jaw with a surprising gentleness. He tilts your head so that your eyes meet his, forcing you to look at him— forcing you to really see him. “You have my word.”

You search his eyes, not entirely sure what you’re looking for— honesty, maybe? A hint of something real beyond the heat of the moment? Whatever it is, you can’t find the words to respond, so you just nod weakly, your breath bated.

Javier smiles at that, a slow, predatory grin, and he leans in as if to kiss you. But you stop him, your hand pressing against his sternum with just enough force to halt him in his tracks.

“No kissing,” you say, your voice more resolute than you feel. “You said one taste, so get to it.” You’re setting boundaries, trying to keep some semblance of control in this situation. No kissing, no fucking— just head. That’s all this will be. He’ll get a taste of you, and you’ll finally get a taste of what all the hype is about. Then it’ll be over, and you’ll go your separate ways. That’s the deal.

His frown deepens, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features, like he’s not used to anyone telling him no in any capacity. But it’s brief, because he’s not about to take the proverbial bone you’ve thrown him for granted. He agrees in his own way, pivoting without protest, his mouth returning to your neck like he’s already forgotten the attempt to kiss you.

Now that the rules are clear, you allow yourself to let your guard down— just a little. It’s not like your sex life has been riveting lately, and truth be told, you can’t even remember the last time a partner went down on you willingly. At least you’re getting something out of this fucked-up little arrangement, and for now, that’s enough.

He kisses and licks a line down your throat, his stubble scraping deliciously against the sensitive flesh. You sigh, your breath hitching as you feel his hands roaming your body with a confidence that should piss you off but doesn’t.

His rough palms map out your curves like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. He’s groping, squeezing, learning you in a way that makes you feel like you’re his personal discovery.

The warmth of his breath, the skill in his movements— it’s intoxicating. You can’t help but respond, your hips shifting, your body bending instinctively toward him when one hand slides up under your shirt, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast.

He’s good at this, you’ll give him that. Too damn good. It’s almost like he’s a fucking pornstar.

You hate that you’re enjoying it so much, hate that you’re already melting under his touch like some lovesick fool.

“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs against your skin, feeling the nerves radiating off of you.

His touch lingers as he reaches the button on your denim shorts, undoing it with a flick of his fingers before pulling down the zipper, slow and deliberate.

“You and these damn shorts…” you hear him say, more to himself than to you. His voice is gruff, frustrated, like he’s been waging a silent battle against his own restraint. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs them down over your hips, watching as the fabric slides off your skin. You step out of them, standing there in nothing but your underwear, top and sneakers, exposed in ways you hadn’t intended to be when you walked into that office earlier today.

His brows shoot up, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks. Of course, it’s laundry day. Of course, you’re left wearing your least practical pair of underwear— this skimpy, lacy purple number you hardly ever break out. The delicate string disappears between the cheeks of your ass, and the sheer front does little to conceal the soft tuft of hair just below your navel.

And he’s drinking it all in.

“Fuckin’ hell, nena,” he breathes, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and lust. His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and hungry. “You always walkin’ around like this?” His hands grip your hips, and before you can even formulate a response, he’s sinking to his knees in front of you, taking his sweet ass time, like this is some kind of worship.

“No, I—” Your voice is breathy, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “I had to do laundry today…” It’s all you can manage, barely coherent as his lips begin pressing soft, teasing kisses to the inside of your knee.

He throws one of your legs over his shoulder, steadying you, his fingers gripping your thigh with enough pressure to leave you keening. You brace yourself against the elevator railing, your body tense with anticipation, your mind a chaotic swirl of logic and lust. You barely notice as the check you came here for flutters to the floor beside you, forgotten.

Don’t forget to deposit that, the reasonable part of your brain chimes in, but you tell that bitch to shut up because Javier Peña is currently on his knees in font of you, about to take you on the ride of your fucking life, and you’re nowhere near strapped in.

His head is tilted up, lips brushing dangerously close to where you want him most, and all rational thought is slipping through your fingers like sand.

He looks up at you then, his dark eyes glinting with something wicked, and your breath catches again. You don’t know how to feel about any of this anymore. There’s a line you swore you wouldn’t cross, but now that he’s right there, so close to giving you what you’ve craved for longer than you care to admit, it’s hard to remember why you drew that line in the first place.

Javier’s lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and a quiet moan escapes your lips before you can stop it. He smirks against your skin, his fingers tracing a slow path up your leg, sending shivers coursing through you. “Relax, bonita,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “I’ll take care of you.”

You want to tell him to hurry up, to stop teasing, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale as his hands part your thighs wider, positioning you exactly how he wants you. His grip is firm, possessive, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll survive whatever it is he’s about to do to you.

You don’t even have time to dwell on the thought before his mouth is on you, lips pressing a lingering kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The sudden pressure sends a shockwave through your body, and your eyes fall closed, surrendering to the moment. His tongue teases the fabric, nudging against your already soaked cunt, and you can feel the wetness seeping through the lace. He hums low in his throat, savoring the first taste of you.

“These are so pretty. Don’t think I’ll take ’em off.”

He hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric and pulls it aside, exposing you to him completely. The cool air hits your slick folds, a contrast to the heat of his breath as he hovers just inches away. He’s staring, taking you in, and when he curses under his breath, it’s like he’s caught off guard by how badly he wants this. Wants you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as he drags his nose up and down the length of your wet slit. The touch is maddeningly light, just enough to make you clench involuntarily, your body reacting without permission. More of your slick leaks out of your pussy, a response to the subtle stimulation, and you grip the elevator railing tighter to keep yourself from falling with how weak your knees get.

Javier flattens his tongue, delivering a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit, and it’s like your entire body ignites at once. You throw your head back, a ragged cry of his name ripping from your throat as your hips buck instinctively, searching for more of him, more of that friction that feels like pure electricity.

He’s not done, though. Not even close. One hand snakes around your thighs, strong and sure. His middle and pointer fingers spread you open, forming an upside-down V, and then he does something so filthy, so perfectly Javier— he spits directly onto your exposed pussy.

The sound alone could get you off, but the sensation is something else entirely. His saliva mixes with your slick, making everything wetter, hotter, and you feel like you’re unraveling before he’s even truly begun. A series of high-pitched moans spill from your lips as he latches his mouth onto your cunt, sucking and licking with a precision that has your entire being quaking.

Lips, tongue, teeth—he’s using everything he has, dragging you deeper into a haze of pleasure where nothing exists but the heat coiling in your belly, tightening with every flick. He’s devouring you, utterly relentless, and it’s too much but not enough, all at once. Every nerve ending is on fire, your thighs trembling as you fight to keep your balance. His grip on your leg tightens, keeping you locked in place, helpless to do anything but take what he’s giving.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, pulling back for just a moment, leaning his cheek against your inner thigh. His face is glistening, covered in your arousal, but his eyes are dark and hungry, never straying from your face. “With noises like that and a pussy this pretty— you’d be a fucking sight on camera.”

His words send another jolt through you, dirty and wrong and so fucking hot that you nearly forget how to breathe. He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving faint marks in his wake, before diving back in with that skilled tongue of his. He’s a man with something to prove, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, zeroing in on your fleshy clit with a precision that makes your head spin.

It’s obscene, the way he’s working you over, all these years spent perfecting this art, but there’s a rawness to it too, a desperation like he can’t get enough of you. You’re soaked, dripping onto his face, and he laps it up like a man starved, the sounds of his mouth slurping against your wetness filling the small space around you. Your moans are louder now, more desperate, each one pushing you closer to that edge where you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

His fingers tighten on your thigh again, and then he’s dragging them lower, inching toward your entrance as his tongue flicks mercilessly against your clit. When he slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you nearly scream. The combination of his mouth and his fingers is enough to send you spiraling, your legs trembling uncontrollably as you arch into him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he grunts when he pulls away to get a good look at your beautiful face and how you look when he’s making you feel like you’re on top of the world. It’s enough to get him to latch onto your clit, sucking on it harshly.

“God, Javier,” you gasp, your voice shaky, barely coherent. You can’t think, can’t form any rational thought, not with the way he’s pulling you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the pleasure.

“Let go,” he growls against you, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves through your core. “I’ve got you, nena. Just let go.”

And with that, the dam breaks. You’re coming hard, hips jerking wildly as waves of pleasure crash over you, your entire body shaking with the force of it. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up for a second, working you through it with that relentless mouth until you’re gasping for air, hands clenching at the railing so hard you’re surprised it hasn’t snapped.

Your vision blurs, your mind goes blank, and all you can do is hold on as Javier takes you on the ride of your life, just like you knew he would.

You don’t know how long it takes you to come back into your body after letting him take the reins for a little. You’re trembling, legs weak and body heavy against the cool metal wall of the elevator. He’s still on his knees, knuckle-deep inside you, lazily curling them as if savoring every last second.

His mouth trails soft, teasing kisses across your soaked panties, and the tenderness of the act startles you, nearly pulling you under again. But then he withdraws his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with an almost obscene groan, tasting you one last time as if to commit your flavor to memory. He carefully adjusts your underwear back into place.

Javier stands to his full height, your leg falling from his shoulder, towering over you. His hand comes to rest lightly on your waist as if to steady you. “You okay?”

You nod, though your bones feel like jelly. Your eyes stay closed as you try to gather yourself, forcing yourself back into reality, back into the woman who doesn’t fold like a house of cards for her co-worker. You bend down to retrieve your shorts and check from the floor, fingers fumbling with the zipper as you button yourself back up. He presses the button to resume the elevator, the gears shifting as you’re slowly carried back to the main floor.

And just like that, it hits you. It happened. You’ve came on Javier’s tongue and fingers. You swore it wouldn’t— swore up and down that he was nothing more than a nuisance at work, a distraction you wouldn’t let get to you. But here you are, post-orgasm, in a goddamn public elevator, of all places, with the man who was supposed to be just a headache.

“Hope you got your fix because it’s never happening again,” you mutter, trying to summon the biting edge to your words, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him.

Javier just smirks, that infuriating glint back in his eyes like he already knows better, but he doesn’t push it. Not now.

The elevator doors slide open with a sharp ding, and the scene before you is worse than any nightmare you could’ve concocted in the heat of the moment. Two firefighters, the building manager, and— of course because why the hell not— Steve Murphy are standing there with varying degrees of shock and amusement.

You can see the moment Steve takes it all in— your flushed cheeks, the slightly mussed state of your clothes, Javier standing just a bit too close to you. His blue eyes narrow, then widen, and then he breaks into a shit-eating grin so wide you could slap it right off his face.

“Well, well, well,” Steve drawls, barely containing his laughter. “What do we have here?”

Your stomach sinks. Not again.

Javier, ever the cocky bastard, simply raises an eyebrow and slides his hands into his pockets, all cool nonchalance like he hasn’t just been between your thighs minutes earlier. “Just crapped out on us randomly,” he says smoothly, and you want to strangle him for the audacity.

Steve chuckles, shaking his head as if he’s in on some big joke that only you and Javier are the punchline for. And as you step past him, cheeks burning, all you can think is that this will never, ever happen again.

But even as you repeat it to yourself, a small part of you— the part still buzzing from the memory of Javier’s mouth— wonders if you’re lying.

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luvergirl-866 · 14 days ago

Note

what about a one shot where azzi gets hurt (nothing too serious) and paige just worried about her and takes care of her tons of fluff and maybe some smut at the end? just paint bring the ultimate gentle gf

not a lot, just forever

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 3.6

content - illness/menstruation, language, implied sex, azzi having everyone wrapped around her finger

a/n - a little smth to tide yall over for sll chap 8!! this took me like all day, idk why lol. obviously i went off prompt, that’s my bad 😭 azzi doesn’t get injured but like close enough, and no smut sorry 😔. very much inspired by the fact that azzi has been sick lately and the injury scare last night, just thought we all needed a little fluff after that bc whew! anyway, i hope yall enjoy!!

Azzi is smack in the middle of a perfect dream—in which she and Paige disagree about something and Paige is completely silent while Azzi explains all the reasons she’s right—when her alarm brutally awakens her.

“Nooo,” she groans into her pillow. Her voice comes out all croaky and the word scratches painfully at her throat on the way out. Two warning signs of what she knew was coming—she’s sick.

To be sure, she tries to take a deep breath in through her nose, and fails. She must’ve been breathing through her mouth all night with how congested she is.

Suddenly overtaken by an aggressive coughing fit, Azzi fishes under the pillows for her phone, alarm still buzzing annoyingly.

Somehow, her phone must’ve found itself under Paige’s pillow because after a quick search, Azzi realizes it’s certainly not under her’s.

Sighing, Azzi shoves at Paige’s shoulder, trying to move her but the girl is dead weight when she’s asleep.

“Paige,” Azzi whispers, shaking her now. “Move your big-ass head.”

Paige groans similarly to how Azzi did a few minutes ago, then rolls onto her stomach, unhelpfully clutching her pillow closer. “Turn it offff,” she whines quite babyishly, for a girl who claims to be the ‘masc’ in the relationship.

Azzi rolls her eyes. “I’m trying, it’s under your pillow.”

“No it’s not,” Paige whines.

“Yes it is,” Azzi says, shoving Paige over. “Seriously, it’s getting annoying, you have to move so I can turn it off.”

“Ughhh,” Paige says dramatically, but then she turns onto her side, giving Azzi access to the pillow, and promptly falls back asleep.

“Why, thank you, your highness,” Azzi grumbles, finally finding her phone and turning off that god-awful alarm.

It’s in the silence of the room that she realizes a headache has started to form at the base of her head. Perfect.

She’s already been in bed for too long—if she wants to get dressed, do her hair, and have enough time to drag Paige out of bed and get her ready so they’re both on time to practice, she needs to get up now.

Doing her best to ignore the searing pain in her throat, head, and lungs, Azzi climbs over Paige—who doesn’t move, nothing more than a lump under the covers—and crawls out of bed, turning on the bedside lamp. The warm light illuminates the room and Azzi goes to the closet, trying to find comfort in the monotony of her morning routine. But as she bends down to reach inside the drawer which is dedicated to her underwear, she feels an aching soreness in her legs and pelvis—partly to do with the suicides Coach made them run yesterday, but mostly to do with the fact that Paige was insatiable last night, not stopping until Azzi tapped out after their fourth round.

At the time, it was hot and felt so, so good. Now it makes her groan when she straightens up, and she glares at the lump sleeping peacefully under the covers.

“All your fault,” Azzi grumbles to no one as she gets dressed, because if she can blame her sore legs on Paige, then why not blame her sickness on her, too? “So damn horny all the time. ‘Azzi, it’ll be fun. Azzi, I’ll be gentle. Azzi, just one more, we haven’t even used the strap yet.’” Azzi laments her girlfriend’s convincing tone from last night, that sly smile looking up at her from in between her legs, those hands that bent her over the bed after making her legs shake so much she could barely stand, and pummeled into her so feverishly Azzi was pretty sure she could feel it in her guts. “Damn,” Paige had sighed after they were finally done, “good thing we’re both girls. Because you’d prolly be pregnant with, like, triplets after that.”

Last night, in her fucked-out haze, it had made Azzi laugh. Now, the memory just makes her roll her eyes, kneeling down to check that both she and Paige’s gym bags have everything they need in them. “Not even how that works,” Azzi mutters bitterly. “Dumbass.”

Once that’s done, Azzi leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her because she may be sore and annoyed but she’s always going to make sure Paige gets her sleep.

When she gets to the bathroom, the door is closed, and Azzi knocks lightly. “‘S me.”

“Azzi?” comes Jana’s equally exhausted voice on the other side of the door.

“Yeah.”

The door opens, and the glare Jana directs toward her once they’re face to face startles her. “What—“

“Sounds like you lost your voice,” Jana remarks, quite sassily if you ask Azzi.

“Yeah, I—“

“Probably from all that screaming last night.”

Azzi freezes, then bites her lip sheepishly. “We tried to be quiet.”

“Paige was quiet,” Jana says, stepping to the side to let Azzi into the room. “You, on the other hand…”

“Uh, oops?” Azzi responds, flashing an apologetic smile.

As usual, it works, and Jana shoves her affectionately as Azzi steps into the bathroom.

“Wait till y’all are alone if you’re gonna be trying to make babies,” Jana teases. Then she studies her face and says, “You don’t look too good, Azaray.”

Azzi nods, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she wets her toothbrush, seeing herself for the first time this morning. Her cheeks are flushed, bags heavy under her eyes, lips pale. “Think I finally got sick.”

About two weeks ago, a couple of the girls got sick with some kind of flu. Of course, with the team spending all their time together, the rest of the girls followed soon after. Paige was one of the last to get sick, last week, and as soon as she did Azzi knew any hopes of staying away from this virus were out the window. Considering the fact Paige and Azzi would live inside each other’s skin if they could, if one of them gets sick, both of them do.

Paige got better over the weekend. Now it’s Tuesday and Azzi becomes even more annoyed at the thought that Paige gave her this illness.

“You’re still going to practice?” Jana asks, watching as Azzi brushes her teeth.

Azzi nods.

“Why?”

Azzi shrugs her shoulders, then says around the brush in her mouth, “Can’t mish it.”

“We all skipped when we got sick,” Jana says.

Shrugging again, Azzi spits into the sink, rinses off her toothbrush. “Season’s starting soon. And I’m already not cleared to play right away, I don’t wanna get pushed back even further.”

Jana raises an eyebrow at her. “And you think Paige is gonna let her precious princess go to practice with the flu?”

Azzi looks at herself in the mirror, and is reminded that she is, in fact, a grown woman. A grown woman who is independent and knows her own limits and can make decisions for herself.

“Paige can’t let me do anything,” Azzi replies, sure of herself.

Ten minutes later, she walks back into Paige’s bedroom to test that theory.

The room is still dark, as expected, and also as expected, Paige is still snuggled up in her purple fluffy comforter.

The sight of her girlfriend, wrapped like a burrito in bed with only her face uncovered, blonde hair splayed over her pillow, makes Azzi soften a bit. She’s honestly like a baby when she sleeps, and it gives Azzi cuteness aggression.

Finding it a little harder to be annoyed at her horny, sickness-spreading girlfriend, Azzi flicks on the light, smiling when Paige grumbles faintly.

Azzi sits on the edge of the bed, brushes her hand through Paige’s hair like she does every morning. “Hey,” she whispers.

Paige snuggles further into the comforter. Now she’s only visible from the nose up.

“Time to get up,” Azzi continues.

Paige doesn’t respond. Not a good sign.

“You only have twenty minutes to get ready, babe,” Azzi insists, brushing her fingers gently over the face she has touched and kissed too many times to count. “You really gotta get up.”

Again, there’s no response, but when Azzi leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek, Paige finally cracks her eyes open, sleepy smile gracing her features.

“Oh, good, you’re not dead,” Azzi says sarcastically.

Paige wriggles out of the blankets just enough to free her arms, wrapping them around Azzi’s neck and pulling her down for a kiss.

She only manages a peck before Azzi wrestles out of Paige’s grip, pulling away. “We can’t.”

Paige closes her eyes against the overhead light and pouts. “Why?”

“Because I’m sick,” Azzi replies, brushing her thumb over Paige’s bottom lip, “you big baby.”

Paige’s eyes miraculously fly open at this, and though she’s still squinting, she looks incredibly more alive than she did two seconds ago. “For real?”

“Yeah,” Azzi sighs. “Could only avoid it for so long, I guess.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Paige pushes up onto her elbows as if to get a better look at her. “Why’re you up right now? You gotta rest.”

Here they go. Azzi preps herself for an argument, and desperately wishes for her dream from last night to come true. “I can rest after practice.”

Paige scoffs as if she’s just told a joke. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s not a big deal, I feel fine,” Azzi tries, but then her body betrays her and she coughs so hard she nearly doubles over.

Paige is wide awake in an instant, shooting up to rub her back, not even complaining about how she doesn’t wanna get up or it’s so cold in here. “Az, you’re definitely sick.”

“Thanks,” Azzi coughs into her elbow, “I didn’t know.”

“Sassy, too,” Paige remarks. Azzi tries to glare at her but it must not pack a punch because Paige just gets this sympathetic look on her face. “Aw, baby. Just lay back down, lemme call Coach and tell him what’s goin’ on.”

“No, Paige,” Azzi croaks, grabbing her wrist to stop her from reaching for her phone. “Don’t tell him I’m sick. He won’t let me come in.”

“Yeah,” Paige says, using her free hand to grab her phone despite Azzi’s protests, “that’s kinda the point.”

“You don’t get it,” Azzi replies, trying to reach for Paige’s phone but Paige stands up, holding it over her head and out of Azzi’s reach.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, looking down at her. “Try me.”

“I wanna play,” Azzi says emphatically, the bright light of the room and the stress of talking making her head full-on pound now. “And if I miss practice I might be…”

“Pushed back further,” Paige finishes, lowering her arm when Azzi nods. Azzi doesn’t make a reach for the phone, though, and Paige kneels down in front of her, resting her arms on Azzi’s knees. “Your head hurt?”

“No,” Azzi lies.

Paige licks her lips, reaches a hand up to cup Azzi’s cheek. “I’ll grab some Ibuprofen, okay?”

Paige is up before she can respond, throwing some clothes on and leaving the room while Azzi sits helplessly on the edge of the bed. She glances at her phone—they only have fifteen minutes to get ready now.

When Paige comes back, she has two pills in one hand and the thermometer in the other, a worried frown playing on her lips.

Azzi stands up, trying her best not to let show how dizzy it makes her. “You don’t have to take my temperature, it’s okay.”

Paige only hands over the medicine, watches Azzi swallow the pills down.

“Okay, we’re good,” Azzi says, gently pushing Paige away by her chest. “No need for the thermometer. I’ll get through practice fine.” Even though she’s pretty sure she needs something a lot stronger than Ibuprofen to cure the aches and pains all over her body.

“If you have a fever, you can’t go to practice,” Paige says, stepping toward Azzi with the thermometer clutched almost menacingly in her hand. “It’s not allowed. Those are the rules.”

“Well, I don’t,” Azzi says, though she’s sure she does. And that’s exactly why she shies away when Paige lifts the thermometer to her forehead.

“Az, stop it,” Paige says when Azzi grabs her wrist, ducking away from the object. “You gotta let me.”

“Did you not hear me, earlier?” Azzi asks, and then there’s a cramp in her abdomen, sudden and painful and all-too familiar. “Oh, my god. No way.”

“Wha…? Azzi,” Paige says as Azzi rushes past her, following her on the way to the bathroom.

She tries to go in with her but Azzi shuts the door and locks it, rushing to the toilet and pulling her pants down to find exactly what she feared.

She started her period. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Az?” Paige calls through the door. “Yo, you good?”

Azzi nearly cries. This is it. She gives up. She’s going to sit here and melt forever and Coach will never let her play basketball again and Paige will leave her for some other girl who isn’t sick and gross and bloody.

“Did you die?” Paige asks. “Baby, you gotta respond so I know you didn’t die.”

“Didn’t die,” Azzi responds weakly. Though she might as well have.

“Okay…” Paige says slowly. “So, can you let me in?”

Azzi gets the strangest sensation then—in which she both wants to yell at Paige to go away and simultaneously feels as if she needs to be curled up in Paige’s arms within the next five minutes or else she might…well, die.

This is basically how she feels every time she starts her period. She’s sure it’s very fun for Paige.

Situating herself, Azzi stands up, clutching at her stomach, head pounding—it’s like the Ibuprofen doesn’t exactly know where to help. She washes her hands and then hesitates near the door, unsure whether she wants to emerge, but that need for her girlfriend wins over her annoyance at the world and she opens the door.

Paige doesn’t have time to react before Azzi is walking directly into her chest, arms limp at her sides while she resists the urge to scream into Paige’s sweater.

“Uh…” Paige says, wrapping her arms tentatively around Azzi’s shoulders, “you okay?”

“Started my period,” Azzi says, voice muffled in Paige’s shoulders

“Oh. That’s early,” Paige notes. Azzi can nearly hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Least you’re not pregnant.”

There’s another thing about Azzi on her period: her patience for Paige, which is usually plentiful, dwindles into nothing. And suddenly her stupid jokes and tendency to poke fun don’t seem endearing anymore.

The fact that every major organ in her body seems to be fighting for their life right now doesn’t help, either.

“It’s not funny,” Azzi says, pushing away from Paige’s grasp.

Paige reaches for her. “Hey, sorry, I—“

“Call Coach,” Azzi grumbles, sentence interrupted by a painful cough as if to taunt her, “don’t even care if I can’t play anymore.”

It’s the farthest thing from the truth, of course. The thought of this little flu being another thing getting in the way of her playing makes her stomach turn. But she doesn’t say that, just marches right past Paige and into the bedroom, shutting off the light before jumping into bed, where she plans on pouting for the remainder of the day.

Paige doesn’t follow her in, and Azzi can hear the soft noise of her talking out in the hallway. Probably calling in, telling them Azzi won’t be at practice. The faint sounds of her voice turn that switch once again, and she wants Paige by her side more than anything else.

A few minutes pass before Paige is coming into the room. She comes to the edge of the bed and leans over it, placing her hands on either side of Azzi’s head as she hovers over her. “Baby, I gotta go to practice. I asked Coach if I could stay here but that was a hard no.”

Azzi would be shocked if otherwise. Even so, she dreads spending the next couple hours without Paige by her side, because Paige is the only person who can ever really make her feel better.

Still, she nods, doing her best to manage a smile up at her girlfriend. “Okay. I’ll just go back to sleep, it’s okay.”

Paige nods, leans down to brush their noses together. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Paige.”

Paige presses a kiss to her lips. Azzi doesn’t have it in her to protest about germs. “You’re not mad at me?”

That gets Azzi to really smile, a little. “No. Just cranky.”

“Mm.” Paige gives her another kiss, then one on her forehead, before straightening up. “I’ll be back soon, mama. I’ll bring some stuff back for you, okay? Just lemme know what you want.”

Azzi nods. She almost watches Paige leave in slow-motion, like a sad scene from a movie. She can almost hear the background music.

Rolling over, she tries to relax, hoping for some more sleep. But her eyes stay wide open.

——————————————

Two and a half hours later, Paige comes home to find Azzi unloading the dishwasher.

As soon as Paige steps through the front door, Azzi freezes, a guilty look on her face. Paige’s mouth drops open as if affronted.

“Yo, what’re you doing?” Paige asks, kicking her shoes off.

Azzi steps away from the dishwasher. “Uh, just thought I’d do some cleaning up…”

“Bro,” Paige says. It’s perhaps the most disappointed bro Azzi has ever heard.

“I’m sorry!” she says, leaving the kitchen fully to meet Paige at the door. “I couldn’t get back to sleep and I needed a distraction.”

Paige walks past her to set the two bags of groceries she brought home on the counter. “You need to rest,” she corrects. She rounds back on Azzi, taking her by the hips and walking them toward the couch. “You won’t get better if you don’t rest.”

“I took DayQuil,” Azzi pipes up, as if it’ll earn her brownie points.

Paige gives her a look and then sits her on the couch. “Lay down.”

Dutifully, Azzi does, allowing her body to relax as much as possible even while everything hurts.

“Can’t believe you did chores,” Paige goes on as she walks back to the kitchen. “‘S not even your dorm.” She sounds almost as if she’s muttering to herself now as she goes through the grocery bags. “Walk in and my sick girlfriend’s doing the dishes. The fuck.”

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” Azzi says, lifting her head up. Paige gives her another look and she lays back down.

Usually (that is, outside of the bedroom) Azzi is the one who tells Paige what to do. But today, she’s too weak to argue.

“It’s a big deal because I told you to relax while I was gone.” Pulling out a tray, Paige arranges all of the groceries on it. She carries it over to Azzi, and it’s a little haphazard with snacks and medicine and a glass of water but it’s also perfect because Paige did it.

“Thank you,” she says when Paige sets the tray on the coffee table.

“Uh-huh,” Paige replies nonchalantly, already leaving the room on the hunt for something else. When she comes back, she has a heating pad and the blanket that Azzi has dubbed as her favorite in hand. “Which one? Heating pad, blanket? Both?”

“Both,” Azzi says without hesitation.

Paige is already plugging the heating pad into the wall.

She places it on Azzi’s lower abdomen, exactly where the cramps hit her the worst, and then throws the blanket over her.

“And here’s the remote,” she says, passing it over once Azzi is situated. She pushes her hand into Azzi’s curls, scratching gently at her scalp as she kneels by her. “What else you need, baby? I can go make you somethin’, or if I forgot anything from the store I can run back.”

Azzi shakes her head, reaching her arms out for her girlfriend, who is quick to pull her into her arms and hold her there. “My girl,” Paige murmurs in her ear, rubbing her back soothingly. “I’m sorry you’re not feelin’ well, baby.”

Azzi hums into her shoulder. “Feel a little better now.”

“Yeah?” Paige kisses her temple, then pulls away. “You wanna turn on the TV?”

Azzi nods, and Paige sits down, laying Azzi’s head in her lap, one hand stroking her pulse point while the other flicks through Netflix.

Azzi stares up at her girlfriend, wonders how she got so lucky. (She has no idea Paige thinks the same thing every time she wakes up to Azzi’s gentle voice in the morning.)

“Paige,” she says, and Paige looks down at her immediately. “I love you.”

Paige smiles down at her, leaning over for a sideways kiss. “I love you, mama.”

“You should stop kissing me.”

Paige kisses her again. “I already got sick, you cant give it to me.”

“I don’t know if we should rely on that.”

“You could have the black plague or some shit,” Paige says, pulling Azzi’s head up now to kiss her a little more deeply, “and I would still kiss you.”

Shaking her head fondly, Azzi scoots up, Paige’s legs opening to make room for her as she sits sideways between them, resting her head in the crook of Paige’s neck. She smells good, freshly showered, hair still a little damp. Paige picks a movie before hooking her arm around Azzi’s back, using her free hand to hold the heating pad in place over her tummy.

“Getting sleepy?” Paige asks after a few minutes.

Azzi nods, hums into her neck. “Little bit.”

“Go to sleep, pretty girl,” Paige says, hand soothing up and down her back, and Azzi is finally right where she belongs, safe and secure and at home in Paige’s arms.

For the first time all day, her body stops aching. And finally, with Paige’s gentle voice whispering sweetly in her ear, she gets some much-needed sleep.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi #pazzi fics #wcbb #uconn wbb #wbb #fluff #pazzi fluff #wlw fluff #established relationship #no effort was put into this #no beta we die like men

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