#it's always a joy to write something for you

[reiderwriter]

The Rebound

Plot: Rossi recommends a book binding service to get Spencer to stop complaining about his broken book. Maybe you can fix more than just the broken spine of his book. Warnings: None, fluff. I will preface this with I know the bare minimum about actual book binding though, unfortunately! ㅠㅠ A/N: I'M BACK! Did you miss me? Unfortunately I lost any belief I had in love for a while there, but I found myself thinking about this little fluff idea for a while, and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to write it. It's been almost two years since I began writing, and I decided I want to put this first as a hobby at least once a week, so you will hopefully be hearing from me more often as well. I got a lot of inspiration from the request box too, so thank you to everyone who requested <3 Enjoy~

To say that Spencer had taken this book everywhere would be an understatement. The tattered heap of papers could probably be legally recognized as a member of the BAU the amount of case hours it had seen. It probably had a degree or two of its own as well. 

Spencer always justified it in one way or another. It was in Russian and he needed to practice. It was an incredible book. His mother gave it to him as a child, and she still recognized it sometimes, so he had to take it when he visited her. It was just a really good book. 

In short, over the years it had been through a lot.

It had seen gunshots, stabbings, a drug addiction, multiple spills and drops from high areas, and yes, probably some book eating insects at some point, but it still stood the test of time. 

Until, ironically, a prison sentence meant it hadn’t been cracked open in months and it had decided to disintegrate overnight. 

Spencer had spent the best part of his first week back at the BAU grumbling about it that it was beginning to disintegrate his team mates nerves. Yes, they were all sympathetic to the struggles of the newly free man, but there was really only so much Russian literature one could take before losing it. And for the members of the BAU, that was pretty much none. 

“Kid, why don’t you just go out and buy a new copy. Same words, same meaning, same book, just without the bullet holes,” Rossi sighed, trying to effectively end the same conversation he’d been having for the last 6 days straight. 

“It’s a rare copy, it was published in the 50s. You of all people should know they don’t make books the same way anymore, Rossi.” 

“Me? Of all people? How flattering, Spencer.” 

“No-” the man sighed, jogging to catch up with the still prime older man as he walked brusquely down the hallway. “I just mean that as a fellow enjoyer of literature, that you would share my appreciation for…”

“The elderly?” 

“Antiques. Come on Rossi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Spencer sighed again. 

“I just don’t want to buy another copy.” 

Rossi stopped his march finally, letting Spencer catch up with him as he finally turned around and gave his last suggestion. 

“Then you just have to get it fixed, Spencer.” 

He shut the door to his office behind him before the open door could invite any other literary debates to his doorstop, but he did put the kid out of his misery later over text. 

“I had a collection of Joy’s articles bound by this company for Christmas last year as a gift. Local business, give them a call.”

A week later, a free enough day rolled around, and Spencer - ever willing to avoid technology at all costs - decided that going to the shop's location and hoping for an on-sight consult would work. He assumed people still talked to each other. 

You definitely still talked to people. 

When you could see them, hear them and knew they were there. But you also liked to work with a set of large headphones drowning out the world, and everyone else had gone home for the day, so to say that you screamed when you saw the 6 foot something slenderman out of the corner of your eye was an understatement. 

“FUCK!” You screamed, clutching at your heart that you thought was definitely still having an attack of its own. You weren’t sure if this was what fight or flight felt like, but you were quickly disappointed to find that your own trigger reaction was ‘fuck.’

“I’m sorry, the door was open, I assumed…” Spencer started, holding his hand up to show he wasn’t a threat, even if he’d spent the last phase of his life being just that to a lot of people. 

“Yeah..yeah… sorry, heart still racing, I’ll be with you in just a second.

You made a mental note of not listening to any more horror audiobooks while at work and pulled a smile back onto your face. 

“Welcome to The Rebound, I guess,” you said, coming around the counter to greet the man. “Are you here to pick up or deliver a package?”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably as he stood before speaking. 

“Actually neither. I was hoping for a consultation? I need a book rebound.” 

You let out a sigh so loud you almost felt bad for the man. “Okay, so thank god you’re not a serial killer.”

You tried to laugh off the joke, but the man’s eyes bugged out of his head as he scrambled for something. 

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m out of practice with this I guess,” he laughed a little, doing absolutely nothing to dissipate the awkward tension as he pulled out his FBI creds.

“Huh. FBI. Would you hold it against me if I said I feel a little bit less safe again?”

“Considering I spent that last few months in prison, not at all.” 

You laughed again and then stopped again as you saw he wasn’t laughing. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little off-putting?” you asked, completely innocently as you grabbed your coffee mug, leaning back on your work counter. 

“Many, many times,” he smiled, finally relaxing. 

“Wonderful. So what can I do for you today, Mr….?”

“Doctor.”

“Perfect. What can I do for you today Mr. Doctor?” 

He smiled shyly again, and you finally took the lull in conversation to look him over again. He was maybe a few years older than you, but he still looked young. Every item he wore seemed like it came fresh from a copy of Grandpa’s Weekly, or whatever Vogue was doing in Men’s fashion in the 50s, which almost made it annoying how well it draped on him. His hair was brown, and curled cutely around his face in a very ‘needs a haircut’ way, but you almost appreciated that more. 

He was handsome. 

“Fuck.” you thought again, realizing that the man had been talking for the last few seconds as you’d oggled him anyway. 

“Fuck?” He repeated. “I mean, I know it’s in bad condition, but I didn’t think it’d be that hard…” His eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at the book you now only just noticed was in his hands. 

“Sorry, no that’s not what I meant!” You scrambled, combing your hair back roughly in your hands, and clipping it in place before walking back closer to him.

He even smells fucking good, you grumbled to yourself as you held out your hands for your next project. 

“I’ve had it for about 25 years now, and it was definitely second hand when I got it, so…” 

“So you want me to resuscitate it. Cool. Let me take a look at it quickly.” 

You gently pried the book from the pouting man's hands and took it back to your work station as he played with his fingers, and you found yourself bumping into pieces of furniture you’d practically grown up with. 

“So, Mr. Doctor, is there any specific damage you want us to take care of?” You asked as you forced your attention onto the book. “Missing pages, rips, that kind of- Is this in Russian?”

“It’s Dostoyevsky. There’s no missing pages, but there are a lot of tears around a third up on the pages,” he blinked, pointing a single finger at the edge of the page, where there were in fact small tears. 

Ignoring that his fingers were also somehow attractive, you grabbed your glasses from the top of your shirt and pushed them onto your face and up your nose, getting closer to take a better look. 

“These are pretty even across all the pages, how did you even manage that?” you laughed, flicking the pages as you searched for any particular mildew marks or signs of wear. 

“Gunshot,” he said with such practiced nonchalance that you almost accepted it as a regular answer. Almost.

“WHAT?” You said looking up, noticing a beat too late that Mister Doctor was also leaning over the book, as if scared to let it out of his sight.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing in his sight was now you, as you’d come up so passionately you found yourselves nose to nose, a breath the only thing between you. 

You felt the heat in your cheeks, just as you saw it in his, before you hastily looked back down to the book. 

He straightened and looked away, taking a deep breath. 

“I work for the FBI, remember.” 

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were in a paperwork-diplomacy-tax-evasion department, not a pew-pew-bang-bang department.” 

“You know I think those are the official titles, but we usually just call my team the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”

“Huh. Do I get three guesses which Dostoyevsky this is?”

“Wouldn’t most of his works fit in this scenario?”

“Touche, Mr. Doctor. Touche.” 

You finished up your consultation on the book, which, gunshot aside, wasn’t in bad shape for a book over half a century old. You carefully catalogued the book's information in your system, and then turned back to him. 

“As I assume Mr. Doctor isn’t your real name, can I try again at asking what it is? No sarcasm this time, and I promise that my hands aren’t crossed behind my back currently.” 

“Spencer Reid.” 

“And the Doctor part was real, or have I been out-maneuvered?”

“If a PhD is real, then yes. Three times over.” 

You took another look at him again and then smiled widely as his breath caught in his throat.

“Doctor Reid, you look like the exact kind of person that would have three PhD’s. Congratulations, you’ve worked hard.” 

Unable to respond to the sudden kindness, Spencer returned a tight smile of his own before taking a shaky breath to steady himself. 

“Okay, so luckily we can fix the damage on this copy for you. We can try and salvage some of the cover details as well, but it will need a new spine, which usually means a complete overhaul of the cover. Do you have any specific design in mind, or would you like something similar?” 

“As close as you can get it, please.” 

“Of course. Now about the binding. Would you like it tight, or a little looser so it reads easier, like a floppy paperback?” 

“Loose is good for me. I read it pretty regularly.” 

“I mean this in the nicest way possible: I can tell,” you said, looking up from your computer again for the minute. “Between us, these are always my favorite projects, but I’m never allowed to work on them because I always want to keep the books at the end.” 

Spencer smiled at that, picturing you pouting handing over his book finally when it was done, refusing to let it go. There was something playfully childish about you that he found endearing. 

Endearing? He cleared his throat again before he found himself in further trouble. 

“Please don’t steal my book,” he requested in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly dangerously. 

“Don’t you worry about that Mr Doctor,” you said, smiling at him. “I have absolutely no impure intentions for your book whatsoever.” 

Spencer wanted to bury the disappointed feeling that popped up in the pit of his stomach at that moment. You were talking about the book, and this was a business transaction, and really he’d only just gotten out of prison, so he most likely didn’t need to feel disappointed by anything at all, whatsoever. 

“I, myself, cannot read Russian,” you smiled at him, handing him the receipt and guiding him back to the door he’d so innocently walked through about an hour earlier. 

Just as Spencer was feeling relieved - relieved? - and ready to move on from this exciting albeit distracting visit in his day, you spoke again. 

“So you’ll just have to read it to me if I get very attached.”

Clutching the receipt in his hand, and soon to realize that you’d scribbled your phone number on it in a hail mary, Spencer smiled to himself and made a mental note of thanking Rossi the next day. 

Even if the other man wouldn’t appreciate the new topic of conversation that Spencer would find himself unable to escape for a while. You.

[rooksamoris]

(trips over to the ask box) HIII AMORA I've decided to finally request a lil something because I just adore your writing and the way you perfectly write for each character ToT💕💕

now I don't remember if you wrote for something like this, but since I am Egyptian I was thinking of what it would be like for a yuu/reader to learn that Jamil and Kalim's culture is pretty much the same as theirs, and they find themselves always visiting Scarabia as a way to feel at home again :')

tea, coffee, the food (they would die for fatteh lol), even offering to help Jamil with cooking. perhaps they even tentatively attempt to speak with them in some Arabic,,, 👉👈🥺

platonic or romantic is up to you! 🩷🩷

BAYTI BAYTAK !!

💞 — in which you visit scarabia to help with the homesickness 💞 — featuring; kalim al asim and jamil viper. 💞 — gender neutral reader. 1.6k words. warnings: homesickness. MAL I WAS SO HAPPY TO SEE THIS!! first of all, you are so sweet and im honored you enjoy my work. being yemeni i too would so visit scarabia to help with homesickness. and kalim is sooo hospitable, he would be happy to have you over. hope you enjoy <33

Jamil had been the one to notice it first, during the time you and Grim were stuck in their dorm in the events leading up to his overblot. Your eyes lingered on the divans, you needed no directions on the way one should eat their cultural dishes, you muttered out replies in their native tongue before quickly correcting yourself. He knew you were from another world based on that display at orientation, and figured he and Kalim's culture must have had a mirroring culture in your world. He did try to use this homesickness against you, but you foiled his plans alongside the merfolk of Octavinelle. 

Kalim notices it too. The way you linger around his dorm, the way you reply to his hospitality in kind, and how your eyes brightened when he offered to wrap your head in a headdress similar to his to be twins, as he put it so happily. He knew you were homesick, and he was very happy to tell you bayti baytak, my house is yours, while sharing with you a generous serving of fatteh.

That was how you found yourself at their dorm again, dragging Grim along with the promise of good food. The familiar had noticed how happy you were to be at Scarabia, especially after the Song and Dance Competition, when you were cruelly robbed of Jamil’s hearty meals for something much healthier. The moment you stepped in, you were led to sit down on the divans on the floor.

Kalim was the first to greet you, holding a tray of mango juice and chopped fruit. “Ahlan wa sahlan, Prefect. I’m glad you came today,” he said, using his dance skills to keep everything balanced. Jamil was usually the one to take on this task, but Kalim had been insisting on taking on more work to become more independent. 

He lowered the tray onto a table before you and Grim, who immediately began digging in. It was endearing the way Kalim cut them, still becoming accustomed to being allowed around the knives.

“Ahlan…” you replied, timidly. You had been reacquainting your native tongue since finding out it was spoken by the Scarabia duo. Still, it made you a bit nervous about their reactions. The first time you did it in front of Kalim, he had practically beamed with joy, commenting excitedly about how your dialect was similar to that of some of his distant relatives.

Scarabia sounded like home. Speaking in your native tongue reminded you a lot of your home. The hollering of things between rooms, dancing to music across ornately decorated rugs, and the laughter of the old uncles as they sat outside of their homes, arguing about whatever political topic was at the forefront of things back home. It reminded you of the whispers between cousins at weddings, teasing the overeager aunties as they asked about your romantic status and your school before going onto the dancefloor to embarrass their children. 

After the usual pleasantries, you tilted your head curiously, “Where’s Jamil?”

“Ah, he’s preparing the ‘esha,” Kalim replied, putting his juice down.

You nodded, “Uh… can I go help him?” you asked.

His wide red eyes blinked a few times before shrugging, “Of course, if you’d like, though Jamil doesn’t take too kindly to it,” he said, before grinning and standing, tugging you up with him, “But I’m sure he needs help. Let’s go.”

Grim looked up from his food, “Make sure the food is perfect for Grim, henchhuman.” 

“You’re not gonna come?”

The dire beast shook his head and held up a juicy peach. “I need to finish my appetizers,” he laughed.

You nodded and allowed Kalim to pull you into the kitchen. Immediately, you were hit with some of the unforgettable scents. 

Scarabia smelled like home, cumin and bakhoor. It was the fresh khubz and pita bread, the warm scent of the bakeries, which would stay open until the early hours of the morning. It was the hookah, snuck around among some students, that reminded you of the samra nights when friends were gossiping, taking turns from the hookah pipe that smelled like watermelon or honey. In the morning, it was the mabkhara with its expensive bakhoor bringing the most pleasant of scents to a newly cleaned house, or the spice cabinet, which seemed to be bursting with color the moment you opened it. It smelled like the warm and buttery sabaya grandmothers forced their grandchildren to eat with the worry that they were becoming too thin. It smelled like chai, it smelled like qahwa, it smelled like Vimto and 'asir manga.

Jamil glanced at you guys from over his shoulder before he went back to scooping small amounts of a rice and meat mixture over a grape leaf, wrapping the sides before rolling it up. Dolma, a dish best made at the hands of someone's jada or jadu who survived war and revolution. 

“‘Esha’ will be ready soon. We’re just waiting on the mandi,” he said, gesturing to the tanoor oven where the meaty smell came from. 

Kalim nodded before pushing you forward a bit, “The Prefect said they wanted to help out with the cooking.”

Your eyes widened, and you glanced at Kalim over your shoulder with a look that said ‘Why would you feed me to the wolves??’ before turning back to Jamil and nodding, “I… I’m really good at wrapping dolma,” you expressed, gesturing to the grape leaves.

Jamil's usual response was to reject the help due to his fierce independence and the status quo, in which he was the one toiling away in the kitchen, but he saw the way you looked down nervously and the way Kalim was smiling. They had discussed your homesickness before, with Kalim expressing that he wanted to host sleepovers for you to spend the night at Scarabia, with Jamil replying that it would all be too troublesome. He sighed and shifted to the side a bit to make space for you at the counter.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Your eyes lit up, and you quickly took your spot, ready to impress him with your dolma wrapping skills. 

Most of the food preparation was quiet, with Kalim talking the most as he leaned against the counter and admired both you and Jamil's skills. He eventually convinced his vice housewarden to let him wrap a few, and you helped guide his hands into a better technique when the first one came out messy. He got better as he went, but he was not as quick as you, and you were barely fast enough to make them like Jamil.

You helped set up the sufra' and lay the food out for the dorm members to enjoy, before taking your place beside Grim, next to Kalim and across Jamil, talking about all sorts of things while enjoying the food, which tasted just like home. There were subtle differences, but it was the kind of difference that came from centuries of a certain family cooking dishes in a certain way. It was like tasting the kunafa or basbousa made by a friend whose grandmother's recipe just barely differed from your grandmother's recipe. Speaking of, once the cleanup was done, came the desserts and the tea.

Grim had passed out from all the food he ate, lying comfortably in your lap while you sat at the balcony with Kalim, enjoying some milky chai while the sun set. You sat on the floor with a low table holding the sleek kettle and your pretty glass cup.

Jamil came out with a tray of all sorts of food that Grim was missing out on. Basbousa, kunafa, ka’ak, and some hot ma’soub which smelled of milk, honey, and bananas. 

He set it down before sitting beside you guys. “Grim couldn’t force himself to stay up?”

You laughed and shook your head, “No, he passed out after downing a whole lamb leg.”

“Aww, that’s good! It means he liked the food.” Kalim reached over to pet Grim affectionately.

Jamil rolled his eyes lightheartedly before pouring himself his own cup of chai, and refilling yours and Kalim’s.

“Shukran,” you said, a little less hesitant than you were earlier.

He looked up at you and then off to the side, “‘Afwan. Now drink before it gets cold.”

You nodded and then looked back at the desert horizon. You could see the sun setting, the sky becoming more and more pink and then violet and dark blue, with little stars forcing their light upon the darkness, accompanying the mother moon as she made herself known. It reflected against the gilded domes of the dorm, against the oases, and in your eyes at you let your guard down the way you would sitting at home.

Before you knew it, your eyes were getting warm and glossy. You sniffled, swallowing the bite of basbousa you had in your mouth, “Shukran… hadha mithl bayti,” you mumbled, reaching up to wipe at your eyes as you expressed that this was so much like your house back in your world. In your home. 

Both of their eyes widened, and Kalim was the first to sit up, “Woah, la la tabki,” he said, gently grasping your shoulders and hugging you, while looking to Jamil for some help.

Jamil could not help how his expression softened as he patted your back while you hugged sleeping Grim, and Kalim hugged you. He handed Kalim a handkerchief to give to you, “Shh, ahlan wa sahlan bikum fi ayi waqt.”

You and Grim were welcome to Scarabia at any time.

©rooksamoris 2025. do not steal or translate my work!

support me on ko-fi!

[ratatoilett]

[the envelope is aged now. the paper inside smells faintly like him. it’s in his handwriting. it starts soft. it ends with your name.]

hey, sweetheart.

if you're holding this, i guess i'm not coming back. i hope the sun is up when you read this. i hope it’s a warm morning, the kind that smells like cinnamon and sugar from your bakery ovens, the kind you always said made life feel gentle again.

i wanted to start this letter like i always do. something dumb. something flirty. something me. but nothing feels enough. not for you.

so i’ll just say this: i miss you.

six months. half a year of silence between us. do you still talk to me sometimes? out loud? in your head? i hope so. i hope your voice never forgets how mine used to sound when i said your name like it was a prayer.

i’ve rewritten this letter so many times. on napkins. receipts. the back of mission reports. every time i tried to get it right, i realized there was no “right” way to say goodbye to the person who was my home.

how do you say goodbye to the only person you’ve ever loved without condition? you don’t. you just write, and bleed, and hope that somehow, your words reach them.

i’ve made a lot of mistakes in this life. too many. but you — you were never one of them. loving you was the one thing i got right. the only thing i’d do over and over and over, even if it always ended like this.

you were the soft place i never thought i deserved. the steady in my storm. the quiet voice in the back of my head that reminded me i didn’t have to be strong all the time. and still, i failed you in ways i’ll never stop regretting.

i should’ve stayed in bed that morning. should’ve kissed you until you laughed and told me to stop. should’ve told you — really told you — how much you saved me.

i was always running toward danger like it was the only thing that made me real. but you made me want to live. and not just survive — live. slow. soft. sweet. like sunday mornings and your hair still messy from sleep.

you were my beginning and my end. and now that i’m gone, i just need you to know: every choice, every breath, every time i looked at you like the sun had finally risen — it was real. we were real. and i hope to god you never forget that.

you gave me more love than i knew what to do with. and even though i never figured out how to hold it all properly, it never meant i didn’t treasure it. you were my favorite chapter. the one i dog-eared. the one i reread on the hard nights. the one i wanted to live inside forever.

i’m sorry i didn’t get forever with you. but you have to keep going. because your story isn’t over. and it deserves so many more pages.

please, don’t let my absence steal your joy. bake your bread. dance to that stupid playlist. fall in love again — if it feels right. and if it doesn’t, that’s okay too. just live. wildly, softly, honestly. like you always did.

and when the grief feels sharp again — because it will, sometimes — promise me this:

stand in the sun. close your eyes. and remember the way i loved you. the way i would’ve always loved you, if time had been kinder.

i’ll wait for you. not in some dark place. not in silence. but somewhere warm. somewhere with blue skies, and stupid sunglasses, and a table that always has room for two. and when you get there — when it’s time — i’ll be right there, arms open.

and i’ll say: “took you long enough.” and you’ll roll your eyes and say: “shut up, satoru.” and just like that, we’ll start again.

i’ll love you in the next life, too. and the one after that. and all the ones that never come.

with everything i had, – yours. always. satoru

p.s. i saved you the seat by the window. don’t rush. but i’ll be here.

[pballer5]

timeout

summary: In the quiet after victory, Azzi Fudd finds herself questioning everything she thought she wanted. Searching for clarity far from the spotlight, she begins to confront who she is when the game, the noise, and the expectations fall away.

a/n: Hey y'all! This is my first time posting a fic on here. I've been working on this for a while. It's a very introspective au I've been obsessed with writing, and I tend to go on and on lol. This chapter is very prologuey...

wc: 3.6k

Chapter 1: Montana

Azzi Fudd is on top of the world. She just won a WNBA Championship, capping off a season that was dominant from start to finish. Her chemistry with her teammates was electric: seamless passes, shared momentum, and more than a few moments where she shined on her own. And in the stands, her family had been there for all of it, cheering with every shot, every win, every step.

So why does she feel like this?

Her ears still ring from the roar of the crowd as she steps into the hush of her apartment. The scent of champagne clings to her skin. She shrugs off the light jacket she’d needed for the crisp October air in San Francisco.

Azzi feels… empty. A kind of hollow she hadn’t prepared for, not after achieving the one thing she’d spent her whole life chasing. The questions come fast, sharp, relentless: What’s next? What else is there?

She knows the answer. Or at least, she knows the one she’s supposed to give, the one she’s said a hundred times before: Get back to work.

But this time, the truth feels messier than that.

Azzi loves basketball. She always has, probably too much. The obsession never used to bother her. Until now.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about the joy of the game. It became about expectations. About image. About legacy.

She used to wear those words like armor. Now, they just feel heavy.

Azzi told herself it was normal, that pressure came with the territory. That’s what it meant to compete at this level. To be a pro. To be her.

But lately, the silence feels different. No games. No noise. Just the low hum of her apartment… and a creeping sense of uselessness she can’t shake.

She moves through the apartment like a stranger, unzipping the duffel she hasn’t unpacked since the victory parade. Her jersey is still crumpled at the top, half-folded and smudged with champagne and confetti. She stares at it for a long moment before shutting the bag again.

Her phone buzzes on the counter: more texts, more congratulations. A voice memo from her agent. A photo from her mom, tear-streaked and smiling, captioned “So proud of you, baby.”

She loves them all. Truly. But each notification feels like a brick on her chest.

Azzi sinks onto the couch, the silence around her suddenly deafening. She scrolls mindlessly, through news articles and postgame analysis, through slow-mo clips of her jump shot, through comment sections filled with fire emojis and GOAT tags.

It should be validating.

Instead, it feels like she’s watching someone else.

The version of her that lives in highlight reels and headlines the version everyone expects her to be doesn’t feel like someone she knows anymore.

She pulls a blanket tighter around her shoulders, even though she’s not cold. The scent of champagne still lingers on her skin: bitter and sweet all at once.

Her eyes blur with exhaustion. Her body aches in all the familiar places: hips, shoulders, knees, but this feels deeper. Not physical. Not something a night of sleep or a bag of ice could fix.

She closes her eyes.

What now?

The question loops again. Not like a voice. Not even like a thought. More like a haunting.

What now?

She doesn’t plan it.

One minute, she’s scrolling through emails, half-hoping the answer might magically appear between a calendar reminder and a sponsor offer she hasn’t responded to. The next, she clicks open a message from her cousin, subject line: Need a favor?

She almost deletes it without reading. But something about the casual tone slows her down.

Inside, it’s short. Just a few lines:

Hey, I can’t make it out to Aunt Ruth’s this year, military’s keeping me overseas longer than expected. She’s stubborn as ever, won’t ask for help, but winter’s coming fast and someone needs to make sure the pipes don’t freeze and the roof doesn’t cave in. Thought maybe you could use the change of scenery. Montana’s got plenty of space to think. No pressure. Just a thought.

No pressure. Just a thought.

Azzi stares at the message. Her first instinct is to scoff. She hasn’t seen Ruth in years and only remembers her through blurry childhood photos and a vague recollection of a woman with a booming laugh and a firm handshake. Montana feels like another planet.

But the idea lingers.

She rereads the email. Then again. The cursor hovers over the reply button, but she doesn’t press it.

Instead, she opens a new tab.

Searches flights.

It’s impulsive. But it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels… like relief. A door quietly swinging open in a house that’s been locked up too long.

She checks the dates. The price.

Her finger taps the trackpad once. Twice. And then the ticket is booked.

Only after the confirmation hits her inbox does she lean back on the couch, blinking like she’s just come out of a dream. The quiet returns, thick and undisturbed.

But now it’s different. Not emptiness. Just space.

Space to go. Space to leave. Space to figure out what’s next.

<3

“You’re going where?” Caroline stares at her like she’s grown a second head.

Azzi rolls her eyes. That’s about the reaction she’s gotten from everyone so far. “Just for a couple of months. My great-aunt needs help getting ready for winter, and I figured… why not?”

“This great-aunt you’re apparently so close to that I’ve never heard of her?”

Azzi shrugs. “She’s extended family. My cousin usually helps her out, but he’s overseas this year. I thought it’d be good to step in.”

Caroline raises an eyebrow. “Good for her or good for you?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away.

Caroline raises an eyebrow and says it again. “Good for her or good for you?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the floor. “Does it matter?”

Caroline lets out a quiet breath, softer now. “I mean… maybe not. I just didn’t think your idea of a break was chopping wood in the middle of nowhere.”

Azzi lets out a dry laugh. “Me neither.”

They fall into silence. The kind that only happens between two people who know each other too well. Caroline doesn’t press further, but she doesn’t look convinced either.

“You okay?” she finally asks.

Azzi picks at the edge of her sweatshirt. “Yeah. I just… need a reset. Clear my head.”

Caroline nods, but her concern lingers. “And the middle of Montana is the only place you could think of for that?”

Azzi smirks. “Exactly. No distractions. No press. No expectations.”

“No cell service, probably.”

“Even better.”

Caroline watches her for another beat, then sighs. “Alright. Just… don’t disappear, okay?”

Azzi’s smile softens. “I’ll text you when I hit civilization.”

“Or when a bear chases you down a mountain.”

“Also a possibility.”

Caroline shakes her head, but she’s smiling now. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Probably,” Azzi says, grabbing her duffel. “But I’ve been in my mind too much lately. Time for a change.”

<3

The airport blur comes next: security lines, gate announcements, people moving with purpose. Azzi moves on autopilot, nodding at flight attendants, answering texts she doesn’t want to send. When the plane finally takes off, the city shrinks below her, just a mess of lights and motion, and she doesn’t look back.

The connection is tight in Denver. Then it’s onto the second leg: a much smaller plane, the kind with propellers and a handful of passengers, most of whom seem to know each other by name. Azzi keeps her hoodie up and her earbuds in, though she’s not listening to anything. Just noise-canceling the world for a while.

She dozes off somewhere over the Rockies. Wakes up to light turbulence and a wide stretch of sky through the window.

When she steps off the plane, the cold hits her immediately, sharp and clean. The air smells like pine and something older, untouched. Mountains loom in the distance, dusted with early snow. The sky stretches wide and unapologetically blue.

She shifts her duffel onto her shoulder, boots crunching on the gravel as she scans the lot. There’s no terminal, not really, just a low building with a hand-painted sign and a vending machine out front. A pickup truck rolls into view, slow and steady, the kind of red that used to be brighter, now dulled by time and weather.

Behind the wheel is Ruth, just as Azzi remembers from childhood photos: small but square-shouldered, wrapped in a thick flannel and ball cap pulled low over wild gray curls. She parks, doesn’t bother turning off the engine before hopping out.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ruth calls, letting the door slam behind her. “You actually showed up.”

Azzi manages a tired smile. “I like to keep expectations low.”

Ruth eyes her like she’s checking for cracks. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like someone who just quit a job instead of won a trophy.”

Azzi shrugs. “Maybe it’s both.”

That gets a short laugh. “Well, you’ll fit in fine out here. No one much cares what you’ve done, long as you know how to stack wood and keep the pipes from freezing.”

“Sounds like exactly what I need.”

Ruth nods once and reaches for her duffel. “Good. Grab the other side. It’s a long drive.”

The road out of the airport winds through a patchwork of fields and pine-covered hills. Azzi watches the landscape roll by: rusted mailboxes, hay bales wrapped in white plastic, cattle huddled along fences like they’ve all agreed to stand in the same direction.

Every so often, Ruth hums along with the radio. Not words, just melody. Azzi doesn’t ask what station it is. She doesn’t ask anything, really. It feels good to be quiet.

After nearly an hour, the truck crests a small ridge and the house comes into view: a white farmhouse set back from the road, its porch slouched slightly to one side like it’s been exhaling for decades. A red barn leans with similar exhaustion off to the left. The sky is beginning to turn gold behind it all, as if the land is shrugging into dusk.

“You remember it?” Ruth asks, voice softer now.

Azzi nods. “Yeah. It’s smaller than I remember.”

Ruth chuckles. “That’s ‘cause you’re bigger.”

They get out. The cold bites harder here, less filtered by trees and buildings. Azzi drags her bag up the porch steps while Ruth fumbles with a ring of keys the size of a belt buckle.

Inside, the house smells like cedar and something faintly sweet—maybe old apples or cinnamon from another season. The heat kicks on with a groan as Ruth stomps off her boots.

“You’ve got the upstairs bedroom,” she says. “Sheets are clean. Water heater’s moody, so don’t get greedy.”

Azzi drops her bag just inside the door and turns in a slow circle. Wood-paneled walls. A crooked picture of someone riding a horse. A faded braided rug she remembers tripping on as a kid.

“You hungry?” Ruth asks.

Azzi hesitates, then shakes her head. “Think I just want to shower. Maybe sleep.”

Ruth gives a noncommittal grunt and disappears into the kitchen.

Azzi climbs the stairs with the same ache she gets the morning after a game: muscle-deep and impossible to stretch out. But this is different. It’s not the kind of tired you can fix with sleep.

The upstairs room is small and square, with a quilted bedspread and a window that frames the darkening sky. She sits on the edge of the mattress, listening to the wind outside, the ticking of the old house as it settles into night.

Azzi lies back against the pillow, eyes tracing the jagged silhouette of the mountains against the night sky. The wind whispers through the cracked windowpane, carrying a chill that seeps into her bones. She pulls the quilt closer, but warmth feels farther away than ever.

She wonders if this is what quiet feels like for people who’ve never lived in noise, not just the buzz of the crowd, the clatter of sneakers on hardwood, or the endless hum of expectations, but a real, deep quiet that lets your own thoughts echo loud and clear.

The hours slip by. Somewhere below, the slow creak of the old house settling shifts into rhythmic breathing, a steady lullaby that somehow soothes her. She thinks of the question still echoing in her mind. What now?

Azzi sits up. She pulls her knees close, fingers tracing the faded patchwork on the quilt. She’s done chasing the next goal, the next highlight reel, the next victory. But that doesn’t mean she’s ready to give up.

She needs to find out who Azzi Fudd is: without the trophies, the cameras, the noise.

Morning comes soft and slow. Sunlight drips through the curtains like honey. Azzi dresses in layers, the cold reminding her of the world beyond herself. Downstairs, the kitchen smells of brewing coffee and something baking, maybe apples, maybe cinnamon.

Ruth is humming again, this time words drifting through the kitchen like a gentle breeze.

“Morning,” Azzi says, voice rough but steady.

“Thought you’d like some breakfast,” Ruth replies, sliding a plate across the table. “Apple pancakes. Figured you could use something sweet.”

Azzi smiles, a small crack in the armor. “Thanks.”

They eat in comfortable silence, the kind that feels like an unspoken truce. Ruth glances up, eyes sharp but kind.

“So, what brings a champion to a place like this? Besides the obvious ‘reset,’ of course.”

Azzi takes a deep breath. “I don’t know yet. I just… need to figure out how to be me without basketball defining every part of me.”

Ruth nods slowly, as if that makes perfect sense. “That’s a long road, kid. But you’ve got time. And you’ve got help.”

Azzi looks out the window, watching the wind stir the pine needles. Maybe this is the beginning of something not the ending she feared, but a new chapter she didn’t know she needed.

The morning light stretched across the kitchen table as Azzi savored the last bite of her apple pancake, the warm sweetness settling in her stomach like a small comfort she hadn’t realized she needed. Ruth’s humming had faded into the background, replaced by the soft tick of a clock and the occasional creak of the old farmhouse.

“So,” Ruth said, breaking the silence, “you got plans today? Or just gonna sit around pondering the meaning of life?”

Azzi smiled, the first genuine one in days. “Maybe a little of both.”

Ruth nodded knowingly. “Well, you’re in luck. There’s always something that needs doing around here. Plus, it’s good to keep busy when your mind’s spinning.”

Azzi stood and stretched, the chill still lingering in her bones. “What’s on the list?”

“Wood chopping, fixing the fence by the barn, and you might want to get your hands dirty in the garden before the frost really sets in.”

Azzi laughed softly. “Sounds like a full day.”

“Don’t worry,” Ruth said with a wink, “it’s the kind of work that lets you think without distractions. No press conferences, no highlights, just you and the land.”

Azzi felt a strange calm settling in. For the first time since the championship parade, she wasn’t fighting against the silence, she was learning to listen to it.

<3

The sun hadn’t fully crested the ridge when Azzi stepped outside. Frost coated the porch railings, glittering like crushed glass in the dawn light. The cold was a bit sharper than yesterday, and she pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck, her breath puffing in soft clouds.

The world was still. No horns, no chatter, not even a dog barking in the distance, just the soft crunch of her boots on frozen grass and the low hum of wind in the pines.

She wandered out toward the edge of the property, past the old tire swing that swayed lazily on a branch, half-frozen. Beyond it, the fields stretched wide and silent, dusted with frost and framed by the deep blue of the mountains. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cut across the sky, wings slicing the air with a kind of grace that didn’t need an audience.

Azzi stopped at the edge of the fence. The wood was old, bleached gray and splintered, the kind of weathered that came from years of standing still.

She leaned against it, arms folded across the top rail, eyes following nothing in particular. There was a weight inside her she couldn’t name. Not sadness exactly, just a hollow ache, like her soul had run too many sprints without stopping to breathe.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. No bars. No emails. No news alerts screaming about MVP votes or off-season trades.

She scrolled anyway, out of habit. Photos from the championship flicked past: her arms raised, confetti falling, smiles so wide they looked permanent.

But they weren’t.

She clicked the screen off and stuffed the phone back in her pocket. Her fingers were cold. Numb in a way that felt earned.

Down by the barn, a crow landed on the fence post and gave a sharp caw, like it was calling her out for pretending to blend in here. She raised an eyebrow at it. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

The bird blinked, unimpressed, then took off in a rush of black feathers and wind.

Azzi closed her eyes for a moment, letting the cold press against her face. Letting it ground her. There was something brutal but honest about it, nothing performative here, nothing artificial. Just cold, wind, and silence.

She exhaled slowly.

For years, her life had been structured down to the minute: weight room, practice, film, travel, repeat. Even rest days were scheduled. Now, time moved differently. Stretched. Slowed. It made her restless, itchy. But also… free?

She wasn’t sure yet.

A rusted wheelbarrow leaned against the side of the barn, half-buried in leaves. She made a mental note to clean it out. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.

One day at a time, Ruth had said last night. Azzi hadn’t replied then, but now, as the sun finally broke over the trees and spilled gold across the field, she thought maybe Ruth was right.

One day at a time.

<3

Azzi was mid-swing, splitting another log clean down the middle, when the sound of an engine grumbled down the road like it was held together with duct tape and spite. She paused, axe in hand, watching as a beat-up blue pickup skidded to a stop just past the fence.

Out stepped a girl, late twenties maybe, tall, broad-shouldered, and giving off a cool-confident energy. She wore a hoodie under a grease-stained flannel and a backwards trucker hat, blonde flyaways peeking out the sides. She took one look at Azzi, then the axe, then the stacked wood, and let out a low whistle.

“Damn. Ruth really out here recruiting lumberjacks now?”

Azzi didn’t smile. She shifted the axe on her shoulder, her voice flat. “Are you always this nosy with strangers, or just bored?”

The girl didn’t back off. If anything, her grin widened. “Little of both,” she said easily. “It’s a slow morning, and you’re new. That makes you interesting by default.”

Azzi said nothing. The silence stretched just long enough to turn the air sharp.

The girl glanced at the stacked firewood again, then nodded, almost to herself. “Clean cuts. Either you know what you're doing, or you're trying real hard to look like you do.”

Azzi’s grip on the axe stayed loose, casual. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “Just trying to get a read. You don’t exactly scream ‘local.’”

Azzi’s eyes flicked toward her. “And you do?”

She laughed in response, low and unbothered. “Fair. But I’ve earned the right to look out of place here. You?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

The girl waited a beat, then shrugged and stuck out her hand. “I’m Paige. Mechanic-slash-resident pack mule when Ruth’s got too many chores and not enough people.”

Azzi looked at the offered hand but didn’t take it. “Azzi.”

Paige lowered her hand, unfazed. “Cool. Well, if Ruth hasn’t run you off in the first week, I’ll probably see you around. I’m the one she yells at when her coffee machine acts up.”

She turned to go, then paused with one hand on the truck door. “Word of advice: if it starts making that weird grinding noise, hit it once and swear at it. Works most days.”

Azzi gave a single nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Azzi watched Paige climb into the truck, the engine coughing and sputtering like an old beast begrudgingly waking from a long nap. Dust swirled in the late morning sun, settling back onto the worn gravel road. She lingered for a moment, the weight of the axe grounding her, the steady rhythm of the forest around her a balm against the chaos still echoing in her head.

She hadn’t meant to snap at Paige well, maybe just a little, but the guard was up, like it always was these days. Trust didn’t come easy out here, especially not for someone who’d spent years under the spotlight, performing on hardwood courts, under bright lights and constant scrutiny.

Azzi shifted the axe from one hand to the other and exhaled slowly. The sharp snap of a twig somewhere behind the barn reminded her she wasn’t alone, but still, the isolation pressed in close, like a weight she couldn’t quite shake.

Paige was right, though, she didn’t scream ‘local.’ And maybe that was okay. Here, no one cared about championships or highlight reels. No one was watching her. Just the trees. The sky. The quiet.

Azzi let herself feel the moment, the chill in the air, the distant hum of a tractor somewhere on a neighbor’s farm, the smell of pine and earth settling after the morning dew. For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of something besides restless energy. Maybe peace. Maybe a chance to breathe without the world watching.

[kxsagi]

First time doing an ask kinda nervy

How do you hc they’d react to reader being in a friendship/relationship they’re not happy in? Or maybe it’s unhealthy.

Ones that came to mind: Itoshi Brothers, Shidou, Ness, Kaiser, Reo? And, or, any you feel fit this scenario.

Love the way you write them 🙏

“𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐜𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫”

a/n: i think ness and kaiser especially would feel very protective of your situation considering all they wanted to do as children was get out of their toxic home environments 

also thank you so much! i love that one line i used for kaiser's 🤍

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, ness alexis, kaiser michael, mikage reo, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru

itoshi rin

he noticed the change before you even said anything. your texts got shorter, your voice got quieter, and your smile didn’t reach your eyes anymore. he’s always been observant, especially with you. rin isn’t the type to pry, but when he sees you walk into class with that hollow look again, eyes dim and phone clutched too tightly in your hand, he snaps. 

“you’re not happy.” it’s not a question, it’s a statement. sharp and quiet. his brows furrow like he’s physically in pain seeing you like this. 

“you don’t have to stay, you know.” he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t name names. he’s already researched every red flag of emotional manipulation and abuse online the night he caught you zoning out in the cafeteria after a phone call. 

and if you break down in front of him, rin will sit there, legs stiff, jaw clenched, fists in his lap. and then, tentatively, he’ll reach out – awkwardly pat your head and say in the softest voice, “you don’t need them. you have me.” 

itoshi sae

he doesn’t like people. so when he tolerates someone for your sake, it means a lot. but if that person starts draining the light out of you, whether it’s a toxic friend or a possessive partner, he’ll notice immediately. 

“why do you let them talk to you like that?” he’ll ask plainly after overhearing one too many snide remarks. when you laugh it off, sae’s gaze sharpens. “you know that’s not normal, right?” 

he won’t let it go. he’ll send you articles. he’ll forward you a playlist titled "songs to leave toxic people to.” he’s not subtle. not even a little bit. and when you start realizing it too, he’ll be there – arms crossed, phone in hand, saying, “took you long enough.” 

but he’ll also take you out after. just you and him. ice cream and silence and the occasional sarcastic jab that somehow makes you feel like yourself again. 

shidou ryusei

he doesn’t do “restraint.” so when he sees someone talking down to you, treating you like a burden, or clearly draining you emotionally, he is ready to go feral. 

“who the hell do they think they are? huh? you let that crusty little worm make you feel like that?” 

if you try to defend the person, he growls. yes, growls. shidou is chaos, but when he cares, he cares hard. and watching you try to be okay in something clearly breaking you? he can’t handle it. 

he’ll start showing up more. walking you to class. dragging you away from group chats. planning “accidental” interruptions anytime you're alone with that toxic person. 

“you need someone who worships you,” he says one night while he swings an arm over your shoulder, eyes glittering with something oddly soft beneath the smirk. “not someone who clips your wings.” 

and that night, for the first time in weeks, you sleep with no pit in your stomach. 

ness alexis

ness would notice the moment your voice lost that happy lilt when you talk about your friend/partner. he lives for the joy in others, especially you. so when that fades, his heart drops. 

“is everything okay?” he asks one day, mid-latte sip, his eyes lingering on the tired slump of your shoulders. 

you nod, but it’s not convincing. so he becomes your shadow. not in a clingy way, he just... makes sure he’s there. little distractions. random dancing. gifts. compliments. 

but one day, when you flinch at a text or tear up silently during a hangout, he just blurts it out: “you don’t deserve to feel like this. like you're walking on glass all the time.” 

he tears up, too. because he hates seeing you hurt. and when you finally talk, he listens like he’s holding your world in his hands. and maybe... maybe he’s always wanted to. 

“you’re allowed to choose better, y’know?” he whispers. “maybe even choose me.” 

kaiser michael

he hates the guy. or girl. or whoever the hell is making you look like that. kaiser doesn’t do subtle, so the minute he clocks the way you shrink when your phone buzzes or plaster on a fake laugh in a group setting, he’s launching into “operation: get you out.” 

“you don’t need them,” he says one night, tossing his keys onto the counter while you sit numbly on the couch. “you know that, right?” 

he’s not gentle, but he is honest. painfully so. “you’re the best thing to ever happen to them, and they’re treating you like a convenience store tissue.” 

kaiser doesn’t even hide his disgust. he’ll talk shit with full names and call them a walking red flag. but when you cry, when you look small and lost, his voice softens. 

“you’re a damn galaxy, schatz. why’re you orbiting a rock?” 

he’ll take you somewhere the next day. expensive food. a view of the city. “you deserve this,” he’ll say, hand brushing yours. and for the first time in a while, you’ll believe it. 

mikage reo

reo notices it slowly. not because you told him, but because he knows what you used to look like when you were happy. and you’re not. 

“you’ve been quiet lately,” he says, handing you a smoothie, watching you stir the straw without drinking. “is it because of them?” 

he lets you talk if you want to. but even if you don’t, reo is already working behind the scenes. inviting you out more, gifting you self-care kits, even subtly rerouting conversations when that person starts trying to dominate them again. 

if they’re controlling or emotionally manipulative, he sees through it instantly. and when he finally gets you alone, he doesn’t sugarcoat it. 

“you don’t have to prove your worth to someone who refuses to see it.” 

reo will support you every step of the way out. and when you ask why he cares so much, he just smiles softly. “because i’d never let you dim yourself just to make someone else comfortable.” 

isagi yoichi

he’s not the best at picking up social cues right away, but with you? he notices everything. the way your smile has been a little forced lately, how you’ve been brushing off invites with “i’m tired” more and more. at first he blames himself – maybe he’s been too busy, too distracted with training. 

but then he meets your partner or sees one too many “friends” make little passive comments that make you visibly shrink. and that’s when isagi’s warmth turns cold. 

“they don’t treat you right,” he says quietly one day, sitting beside you at the park bench, both your knees touching. he’s fidgeting with his hands. “you look… smaller when you’re around them.” 

it hurts him to say. it probably hurts you to hear. but he’s not the type to stay silent when you’re hurting. 

“you don’t have to keep pretending. not with me.” 

he doesn’t push. he just stays. and somehow, his presence feels safer than anything else right now. 

nagi seishiro

at first he doesn’t understand it. you're always tired. you don't talk about your friend/partner the way people usually do when they're happy. you cancel hangouts, and your energy feels... drained. 

“they’re annoying,” he says bluntly one day after hearing you take a phone call that ended in you sighing and muttering “sorry” like a reflex. 

when you glare, he just shrugs and mutters, “what? it’s true.” 

nagi’s the type to not talk much, but he watches. and what he sees is someone he cares about losing color by the day. 

he starts inviting you over more. no pressure. just “you can crash at my place,” and “i got your favorite snacks.” he doesn’t force you to talk. but when you do, when you finally vent, he listens with his head leaned on the wall and eyes half-lidded, but alert. 

“you don’t have to stay if it makes you miserable.” 

and then, more quietly: “i like it better when you’re happy. i like you better. not the version they’re trying to shrink.” 

bachira meguru

he can sense it like a storm before the clouds even roll in. you laugh differently. your eyes don’t sparkle. your aura – it’s dulled. 

bachira starts drawing more – doodles of you with a little rain cloud above your head. versions of you smiling with big hearts in your eyes. he gives you the happier ones. keeps the sad ones in a sketchbook, like a secret he can’t bear to throw away. 

one day he catches the tail-end of a call you don’t want him to hear. 

“... i didn’t mean to make you upset, i just wanted to hang out…” 

his expression turns uncharacteristically serious. “why are you always the one apologizing?” 

you try to make excuses. he just tilts his head, golden eyes too clear, too sharp. 

“you’re not a toy. they don’t get to break you and then ask why you're cracked.” 

and then, because he’s bachira, he smiles and gently pokes your cheek. 

“run away with me instead. we’ll eat mochi and paint stupid stuff and never ever say sorry for existing.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[diabolicalevil]

I love your writing. It honestly makes my day sometimes when it’s just been a shitstorm inside a shitstorm. If you’re up to it, i would like to see your interpretation of what the primarchs would do if their spouse was murdered or assassinated. They have the highest standing in the Imperium, and their spouses would have only a little less political power, whether they wield it or not, would always have a target on their back.

Primarchs reaction to their lovers assassination

gn!reader

ill b real anon I was in alottt of pain when I got this but I did drop everything to do this request. it makes me so incredibly happy that you enjoy my writing xx

Warnings: angst, reader death, murder

Lion El'johnson: He has had a list of potential suspects since the day you became "offical." Unsurprisingly many people from his legion are on it, including Luther. He wouldn't put it past a single one of them to kill you for the purpose of "setting him back on track." Regardless of who was culpable he mourns deeply. An ornate and empty coffin is on display at the fortress of Caliban and your body rests hidden far beneath it.

Fulgrim: After several political marriages, some failed some successful, he's no stranger to assassination attempts. Key word attempts. Never before has his partner been killed by his many rivals and he laments that the first was you. His legion becomes stricter, not just more militant but he believes your death was a due to his imperfections and must be rectified. A decoy coffin is kept by him as well with a indistinguishable replica. Your real body lays in a room only known to him, preserved as though blood still pumped through your veins.

Perturabo: His legion gets it immediately, they are the first target of suspicion and its not unfounded. Many emotions cloud his mind but chief among them as he tears through suspects is regret that he did not stamp out the growing resentment towards you. He knew it was there but, perhaps naively, he hoped his legion could let him have this sole joy. Of course, he's not ignorant to outside suspects. After some time, your killer may lay buried in the pile of bodies he's created looking for them but it doesn't matter as he will never feel the search has ended. Your casket is sealed in ceramite, never to be opened by him or anyone, but he visits frequently.

Jaghatai Khan: He will find and behead them personally, with or without his sons. But of course they are with him, why would they not be there to avenge the lover of their Primarch. The funeral is perhaps the most somber the White Scars who knew you have and ever will be. However, there is no looking back. Once you are buried he will continue on relentlessly for both of you.

Leman Russ: He and the legion rally to find and butcher the culprit. One of their own has been killed and they will not rest until the favour is returned. To him it matters not who it is or why they did it, infact the only thing that matters about that person now is their days are numbered. Your body is handled in a traditional Fenrisian way and he personally lays you to rest at the place dearest to him on Fenris.

Rogal Dorn: For all his obsessive planning and confidence in his legions ability to protect you he had not believed any attempts on your life would be successful. He blames himself relentlessly, it had to have been some kind of oversight. There had to have been something he could've done to prevent it. Hunting down the killer is easy, he has the might of the Imperium at his finger tips. Yet he couldn't save you. Your funeral is standard and practical but the mood of him and his legion would make an outside observer think they were mourning a thousand men slain in battle.

Konrad Curze: What else could you expect other than a trail of dead bodies as he walks. He has no firm concept of political machinations, infact Jago has to point out to him that it was unlikely this was a senseless act of violence. Obviously, his legion are also an immediate main suspect and he cuts down their numbers significantly, with or without evidence. He can't bring himself to bring you back to his wretched home planet, nor does he want to leave you where you are. After days of your body decomposing he finally makes the decision to cremate you and spread your ashes where you will finally be free.

Sanguinius: An angel he may be but a Saint he is not. His wrath is immediate and scorching, were his legion not their to reign him in the thirst might have led him to kill hundreds. Sanguinius leads the charge to find your killer but he is noticeably absent minded. What good are his visions if they couldn't save you. He mourns openly, even knowing he must stay strong for his legion the urge to weep is ever present. Your funeral is obscenely decadent and yet he still consider it not enough. No where near enough for you.

Ferrus Manus: The first Iron Hand to make light of the situation gets executed by metal fists to the face. And the next one and the next after that. He cannot trust them for a minute to find your killer, he does it himself or with Fulgrims help. He knows what each of them are thinking and he loathes them for it. No Iron Hands may attend your funeral, but baselines and whatever friend you may have made from other legions are permitted. He almost doesn't attend himself but he must say goodbye to you. Ferrus lays you to rest deep in the ground of Medusa. If he had your body above ground he might never get anything done again.

Angron: Your relationship in his mind was unstable enough as is but now you are gone, dead and cold. The agony is unending, so is the blood that flows from his kills. He barely has the sense to guess who but he knows an outside force has killed you. He may hate his legion but they are useful idiots to round up and throw at a problem. He cannot attend your funeral and he knows this and it kills him but he trusts that those present will say goodbye to you on his behalf.

Roboute Guilliman: He has not felt such grief for a baseline since his mother passed. It is a different grief than he is used to, he knew it was an inevitability yet he took that risk and he is paying the price for it. It agonises him but he must inflict a slow, creeping death to your killer. Spilling blood isn't enough, whatever false dynasty they have shall rot to it's core and topple under his orders. He shall destroy every aspect of their and their families pathetic lives and it will not be sufficient retribution. Your funeral is honourable, as though a soldier or politician has died. He visits your grave often and speaks to you. The chair he kept for you in his office is never removed and he speaks to that too.

Mortarion: You promised you would not leave him, you promised. All he has known is grief and loss and he is frighteningly angered that you have been included in that. He advances his legion under false pretenses, no one must know why he is declaring this house a traitor and no one will ever know. Your funeral is private and minimal. There's no where on Barbarus your body wouldn't corrode in mere years so instead he keeps you preserved, with him on his ship at all times. It's one way of keeping your promise.

Magnus: All the arcane knowledge in the universe couldn't enlighten him to the elusive workings of a human feeling challenged. Your death was senseless, you were a simple baseline caught in the cross hairs. Quick work is made of your assassins their employers but it means nothing to him. He must bring you back, he will bring you back. Your body is preserved and enhanced because you are coming back.

Horus Lupercal: Warmaster, what a terrible joke it seemed now. He could not protect you alone, how was he to defend the Empire. He had a million men to deploy to avenge you but it was pointless. Sacrificing a million wouldn't bring you back but if it could he'd do it without question. Crafting you a lavish funeral befitting a Primarch could not fill the emptiness in his heart as he realised he was once again alone.

Lorgar Aurelian: Word Bearers and their Primarch are not known for their brutality but your death illicits a cold and violent efficency in them. Your funeral, however, is treated with the reverence of a Saint and nothing less is acceptable.

Vulkan: Grief isn't the word for it, his feeling is so primal and raw it cuts through the universally expansive warp without him knowing. All the protection and kindness in the world cannot teach humans to behave so he shall find them and do so personally. Your funeral is a Nocturne one but he has you buried on your home planet. It's the least he could do, if not for him you would still live.

Corvus Corax: Death comes to your killers from the shadows. Slow and drawn out, a mockery to remind them of how they ordered you be killed. Under different circumstances he may have taken your assassin under his wing but no, they must die by his hands. Cremation or casket, you will not leave his side even in death.

Alpharius & Omegon: To sneak in to Alpha legion territory and kill not just one of their own but their most treasured, they almost admired it. Almost. They could study their mind and its methods plenty after they had broken and extracted it from their wretched skull. They will make your killers wish they had been captured by the Drukhari instead. Alpharius and Omegon are the only one allowed to see you buried, they are the only ones you will ever need.

I LOVE U AGAIN ANON!!!!!! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN

[mrsfancyferrari]

Yes To Me

Summary: CS55 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment

Song: Say Yes To Heaven · Lana Del Rey

Author’s note: I saw this prompt and I'm lovin it so much that I'm writing this same prompt for Oscar AND Carlos separately and see where it goes. Tell me which one is better! one is Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶

Word count: 2.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The scent of your own home, growing up, was always faint, a sterile whisper of air freshener and old books. It was quiet, too, a hushed reverence for order that stifled laughter and muted tears. Affection was a concept discussed, perhaps, but rarely demonstrated.

A pat on the head for a good grade, a polite nod for a clean room – these were the currencies of love you understood. Physical touch was minimal, emotional expression even less so.

You learned early to self-soothe, to compartmentalize, to believe that needing someone was a weakness and showing vulnerability was a surrender.

Then there was the Sainz household.

The moment you stepped across their threshold, a sensory explosion hit you. It smelled of garlic and olive oil, of citrus and freshly brewed coffee, of lively conversation that always verged on shouting but was always, always imbued with warmth.

Reyes, Carlos’s mother, would engulf you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe, her voice a comforting rumble as she asked about your day, your feelings, your dreams.

Carlos senior, a man of formidable presence on the track and off, would clap your shoulder with genuine enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling with an intensity that communicated pure joy.

And then there was Carlos, your Carlos, a whirlwind of energy and sun-kissed hair, whose presence was a constant, solid anchor in a world that often felt adrift.

He was your age, a year older, perhaps, and from the moment you met in kindergarten, he carved out a space in his boisterous, loving world just for you.

While your own parents might offer a fleeting "Are you okay?" before immediately diverting to homework, Reyes would pull you onto her lap, stroke your hair, and insist you tell her everything. You’d watch, fascinated, as Carlos and his siblings openly debated, laughed, cried, and then embraced, their emotions worn plainly on their sleeves.

It was alien, bewildering, and utterly intoxicating. You craved it, absorbed it like a thirsty sponge, yet a part of you, the part meticulously sculpted by your own family, recoiled.

You learned to observe, to listen, to feel a deep, resonant warmth in your chest, but still, you struggled to reciprocate the open affection. Hugs felt awkward; emotional confessions felt like exposing a raw nerve.

You’d laugh, you’d smile, you’d be present, but you wouldn’t initiate the touch, wouldn’t voice the overwhelming gratitude, wouldn’t confess the profound longing his family’s love ignited in you.

Carlos, bless his patient soul, understood you in a way no one else did. He didn’t push, not then. He just was. He’d share his snacks, protect you from bullies, listen to your quiet thoughts with an attentive lean of his head.

He learned to read the subtle shifts in your eyes, the slight tightening of your shoulders. He knew when to offer a comforting silence, and when to break it with a ridiculous joke.

As you grew, your friendship deepened into something uniquely profound. He was the one who saw past the carefully constructed walls you wore like a second skin.

He knew you loved his family’s chaos, even if you never said it. He knew you treasured his presence, even if you rarely put your arm around him first.

Adolescence arrived, bringing with it a new, awkward tension. Late-night phone calls stretched into dawns, filled with shared secrets and hushed dreams. You’d watch him from the stands as he tore up karting tracks, then junior formulas, a fierce pride swelling in your chest.

His ambition was a tangible force, pushing him forward, but he always looked back for you, a quick glance, a wave, a knowing smile.

Others tried to break through your emotional barriers – crushes, early boyfriends – but they always stumbled on the impenetrable wall you’d built.

You’d find reasons to pull back, to minimize feelings, to convince yourself that intense emotional connection was not just unnecessary, but dangerous.

The moment someone showed too much interest, too much vulnerability, you’d find an excuse, a distraction, a way to create distance.

Carlos, however, was different. He didn't try to chip away at your walls; he seemed to simply exist within their shadow, a steady, unwavering presence.

He’d make light-hearted comments about "us," always with that knowing glint in his eye, but he never pressed. He understood your need for space, even if he didn’t fully grasp its depth. You mistook his patience for a lack of true romantic interest, a comfortable continuation of your lifelong friendship.

It was easier to believe that, to slot him into the "best friend" category, ensuring he couldn't get close enough to hurt you, or (more terrifyingly) to be hurt by your inability to reciprocate in the way you secretly yearned to.

His career soared. Formula 1. The pinnacle. Your world, once so intertwined, now consisted of continents and time zones. You’d watch him on the television, a world away, a Spanish flag draped over his shoulders, champagne spraying.

You were immensely proud, but a strange, unsettling feeling began to take root. The distance, which your dismissive avoidant tendencies had once welcomed as a kind of relief – no pressure to be emotionally vulnerable! – now felt like a gaping chasm.

Visiting him at races was exhilarating, but also overwhelming. The intense media scrutiny, the constant travel, the vibrant, transient F1 paddock – you'd find yourself retreating, finding quiet corners, struggling to bridge the gap between "Carlos, my childhood best friend" and "Carlos Sainz, F1 driver."

You’d talk on the phone, whenever his demanding schedule allowed. He’d pour out his frustrations, his triumphs, the raw nerve of competition. You’d listen, offering pragmatic advice, analytical observations.

He’d often pause, a quiet question in his voice, "And you? How are you feeling about all of it?" Your heart would quicken, a familiar panic fluttering. "Oh, you know," you'd deflect, "busy. Work’s good. Nothing much to report on the emotional front."

You’d hear his sigh, sometimes subtle, sometimes a little more pronounced. He’d let it go, for a while.

But there was a limit, even for Carlos.

It was after a particularly brutal race, a DNF from a strong position, the kind that gutted a driver. He flew home, exhausted, defeated. You met him at the airport, a familiar ritual.

He looked pale, lines of fatigue etched around his eyes. You offered a soft "Rough one, huh?" and a small, sympathetic smile. He nodded, but didn't meet your gaze.

Back at his family home, the usual comforting chaos was a little muted, out of deference to his mood. Reyes hugged him fiercely, whispered words of comfort. His father put a hand on his shoulder, a silent testament of support.

You watched, feeling the familiar warmth in your chest, but your body remained stiff, your hands tucked into your pockets.

Later that evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, you found him in the dimly lit living room, staring out the window at the familiar Madrid skyline.

"Are you okay?" you asked, because it was the acceptable social question. He turned, his eyes tired, but with an unfamiliar sharpness. "Am I okay?" he repeated, a little laugh escaping, devoid of humour.

"No. I'm not okay. I'm gutted. I'm angry. I'm tired. And honestly?" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm talking to a wall sometimes."

Your stomach dropped. "What are you talking about?" "Us," he said, the word heavy. "This. This dance we do. I tell you everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. And you... you give me a weather report. A logistics update. Anything but what's actually going on inside that head of yours." He gestured vaguely towards you. "Or that heart."

You felt a familiar defensiveness rising. "I'm here for you, Carlos. I always have been."

"I know!" His voice rose slightly, raw with frustration. "You're always here. Physically. Logistically. But emotionally? Do you even need me? Or am I just... convenient? A familiar anchor you can drift safely around without ever having to truly drop yours?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. They were true, brutally true, and the truth felt like a betrayal of everything you thought you were. You recoiled, a physical flinch. "That's unfair."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, his voice softening, but the pain was still there. "When was the last time you initiated a hug, really hugged me without me prompting? When was the last time you told me you missed me without me having to say it first? When was the last time you let me see you truly vulnerable, truly scared, truly hurting, without shutting down a second later?"

His eyes searched yours, pleading. "I know your family wasn't... demonstrative. I know you didn't get that growing up. My family gave you that, always. We tried. But I can't be everything, for everyone, if you don't let me in. This isn't just about me needing you. It's about you needing to need me. To need someone. I can't keep guessing, hoping. I can't keep running this race alone."

The silence that followed was deafening, filled only with the frantic beating of your own heart. He was laying it all bare, all the fears you’d meticulously buried, all the truths you’d avoided.

He was exposing the very core of your dismissive avoidant attachment, though neither of you used the term. It dawned on you, with a sickening lurch, that you were on the verge of losing the one person who had been your constant, unwavering source of warmth and acceptance. The thought of a future without him, without the subtle comfort of his presence, was a cold, terrifying void.

The fear, raw and unbidden, finally broke through your carefully constructed walls. You felt a sting behind your eyes, a foreign sensation. "I… I don't know how," you choked out, the words feeling alien and clumsy on your tongue.

"I don't know how to... to need like that. To show it. It feels... dangerous. Like if I let you in, eventually you'll… you’ll leave. Or I’ll hurt you. Or I’ll just be too much." The last words were barely a whisper, a lifetime of suppressed anxiety surfacing.

Carlos’s expression softened completely. He closed the distance between you, but didn't touch you.

"I'm not leaving," he said, his voice deep, resolute. "I've never left. Not truly. And you could never be 'too much' for me." He paused, then offered a small, tired smile. "Reyes always said your family's quietness made you a listener. A deeply empathetic one, even if you don't show it. And I've always felt that from you. That's why I'm still here. But I want more. I want us."

He took a tentative step closer. "I'm not asking for you to be someone you're not overnight. I'm asking you to try. To let me in, little by little. To tell me when you're scared. To let me hold you when you're hurting. To let me know when you need me, even if it's just to sit in silence. Can we try that?"

You looked into his eyes, seeing the years of shared history, the unwavering love, the immense patience. The sterile quiet of your childhood home, the overwhelming, chaotic warmth of his.

He was offering you a bridge, asking you to brave the terrifying journey across the chasm of your own fear.

A single tear tracked a path down your cheek, a testament to the dam that had just broken. You didn't wipe it away. For the first time in your life, you didn't want to hide it. "Okay," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "Okay, Carlos. I'll… I’ll try."

That night marked a turning point. It wasn't a magically instant cure. There were still moments, weeks, even months, where you’d instinctively pull back, where the old patterns would reassert themselves.

A sudden urge to text him, "I miss you," would be instantly countered by a mental censor screaming, "Too vulnerable!" But now, you had a new tool. You had awareness. And you had Carlos.

He was endlessly patient, always there. He’d gently prompt, never push. He’d celebrate the small victories: the first time you spontaneously reached for his hand, the halting confession of a deep-seated fear after a particularly stressful day, the unprompted hug you gave him after a race win.

He took care to verbalize his own feelings, not to make you uncomfortable, but to model the vulnerability you struggled with. "I feel so happy when you do that," he'd murmur after you finally reciprocated a lingering kiss. "I really missed you this week," he'd say, giving you permission to admit the same.

The Sainz family, observing the subtle shifts, offered their unspoken support. Reyes’s hugs became a little softer, her questions a little less insistent, as if sensing you needed space to initiate.

Carlos senior would catch your eye, a knowing nod passing between you, acknowledging the growth.

Slowly, painstakingly, the walls began to crumble. You learned to distinguish between healthy boundaries and harmful avoidance. You learned that true strength wasn't about being emotionally self-sufficient, but about the courage to trust, to open up, to allow yourself to be truly seen.

You discovered the profound relief of shared burden, the intoxicating closeness of true emotional intimacy. You allowed yourself to love him, fully and without reservation, and in doing so, you learned to love yourself, the vulnerable, needing parts included.

Years later, sitting beside him in a quiet moment after a Grand Prix, your hand resting comfortably in his, you could still feel a faint echo of the old avoidance, a whisper of the fear.

But it was just a whisper now, easily dismissed. You looked at the man beside you – a world champion, yes, but more importantly, the boy who had brought light and warmth into your quiet world, the friend who had patiently waited for you to learn how to feel.

You turned your head, met his gaze, and for the first time, without conscious effort, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I love you, Carlos," you murmured, the words no longer a struggle, but a quiet, profound truth. "More than you'll ever know."

He smiled, that familiar, knowing smile that encompassed a lifetime of understanding.

He squeezed your hand, and the warmth that spread through you was not just from his touch, but from the deep, abiding comfort of finally being home, within yourself, and with him. . . .

[jennamoran]

More on Games as Serialized Fiction with Emergent Messages

@horatiovonbecker writes:

Hm. I was mostly looking for 'tips for recognizing what the important bits are', I think.

(Especially in a serialized context, when figuring those out faster means you can spend more time on them.)

I gave a long answer on the other post, but it was mostly explaining my original point in more depth. Pulling this one out to give new points instead!

I believe that the signpost for what's important, when you're playing an RPG, is joy. The things that are important, and in particular the things that are already important, not will-become-important-later, are the things that make you feel like:

"This. This is going to be cool."

When your mouth starts tugging up into a smile. When your eyes spark with mischief. When you want to say, when you love that you're saying, the thing that you're about to.

The generic advice that crosses all art forms is:

choose to do art, and choose to indulge

In an RPG, in particular, there are two basic obstacles to implementing this advice:

You keep winding up "on the spot" when you don't want to be and desperately flailing for the right thing to say instead of reaching down into your chest and drawing out the thorny heart of wonder; and

When you do actually have the perfect thing to say, someone else is talking.

My best advice for 1 is to prep lists of somewhat generalized things to say, or ask, or do, when you're on the spot. Those can be provided by the gaming system or book or you can just make them.

Possibly being great at improv helps, and possibly training with an improv group helps with that, I dunno. I've only tried lists.

Procedures are also probably good ("when in doubt, roll a d6 and turn attention to 1-3 them 4-5 the gods 6 the weather") but I haven't tried them either.

This won't help you find things to say that bring you joy but it'll clear away some of the weeds on top of that, you know?

I have no good advice for 2. When playing, I am always coming up with the exact right words to say just as the other players give up on me and turn their attention away---quite possibly not a coincidence---and when GMing, the situation is only slightly better. When playing or GMing, I am always staring blankly in response to questions or situations or gulping excess caffeine in a desperate attempt to manifest the Jenna you see in online settings like this instead or both. This may be a thing that mechanics can address, but there's an underlying social interaction issue that I am not fully qualified to resolve.

I think there's advice in PbtA about being a fan of the PCs (as GM, but probably also as the other players)? That might help with 2, and to a lesser extent with 1, but it's pretty difficult. Part of the problem is that when someone else is talking in an RPG, either they're saying something cool that you care about or they're not.

But like ... what can I tell you? It does no good to forcibly grab the group's attention, because then you're back at 1 only ruder, and it does no good to stock up what you plan to say because it'll only end up obsolete, and listening attentively to what they're saying is possibly correct but not a solution to 2 at all, so ...

That one, I dunno.

I do stand by my earlier observations on how ... contextual ... the idea of an important message is. You can roll on a table to decide whether a given PC action is thematically relevant and in what way, and it's not even intrinsically a bad idea----if I didn't have enough on my plate, I'd go write that right now to be honest---but you can't use a special magnifying glass to distinguish important statements from unimportant ones. There's just ... what feels important to you.

[rafeyscherry]

this account is sooo cute even if you don’t have any fics written yet🩷💗!! But i would like to ask for one😇 Im not sure if you write smut but i thought it would be really cute if you did a fic where rafe and reader are a newer couple, and so in love. they decide to have a sleepover (at either of their houses, you choose ofc😊) and have their first time together? maybe the sleepover is after a party at rafes house or something!!

Anyways, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this hon!! I hope you know you’re so so so loved💕💕

(P.S can i be -💐 anon??)

hi lovely!!! thank you so so so much for your request, i hope i did it justice because this is my first time ever writing smut lol. of course you can be the 💐 anon! 💗💗

NO 1. PARTY ANTHEM

rafe cameron x reader

cw: smut!!!

The slam of the car door startled you awake. You don’t remember most of the car ride, but you do remember Rafe letting you lay down in the backseat with your head in his lap because “you needed your beauty sleep,” and who was he to deny you of it? You felt Rafe shift you a bit in his arms to get the keys out of his pocket, and that's when he noticed your eyes had opened. “Hey baby, sorry. Just give me a second…” he trailed off as he fiddled with the door, finally opening it with a click. He carried you inside and sat you on the long couch in his living room and turned on one of the lamps, the white light filling the room and worsening the headache that had grown from the party's music earlier. “Did you get my purse?” you asked, turning your head away from the bright lamp and over to where he was fiddling in the kitchen. “Mhmm, it’s on the table. Headache?”

“Yeah.” you mumbled as he walked back over with a cup of water and medicine, placing it on the coffee table before sitting next to you on the couch. He slid an arm around your waist as you leaned forward and took the pills, letting you swallow before pulling you into his side. You practically slumped into him, still a bit groggy after your car ride nap but not tired enough to sleep again. He smiled and kissed the side of your head, his hand running through your hair. “You looked pretty tonight, baby. Like a fuckin’ angel.” he mumbled, looking down at your dress then back at your face.

He never failed to make you feel like the prettiest girl in the room, because in his eyes it was true. Even with the smudged highlighter on your face and a bit of mascara goop in the corner of your eyes, he thought you were perfect. “Thank you.” you mumbled, looking up at him. He hummed and leaned down, giving you a small kiss. Then another one, and another one. With each kiss the intensity rose and his hands got more grabby, and you grew more awake. You straightened up from your slumped state against his chest and pushed your head up a bit to meet his lips halfway, feeling his arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

He started running his hands up and down your back during the kisses, his hands fiddling with the zipper on the back. You pulled away slightly, your lips still brushed up against each other, and asked “bedroom?” He was silent for only a second, because you had always just made out, nothing more. But he was growing a tiny bit impatient over the weeks, so hearing you say that? He was practically jumping for joy. He nodded, pressing one more kiss on your lips before standing from the couch and hoisting you up into his arms, ascending up the stairs and towards his bedroom as you kissed his jaw and neck.

He made it to his room and pushed the door open with his foot, stepping in and leaning back against it to close it and sliding a hand back to lock it. “Just in case,” he mumbled, placing another kiss on your lips. He walked to the bed and dropped you down onto it, making you squeal at the sudden fall. He leaned down and kissed you once more, his hands sliding behind your back and yours around his neck. His hands found the zipper and tugged it a bit, silently asking for permission. He felt you nod a bit against him, and it was all he needed to unzip it. You helped slide the dress off and onto the floor, leaving you in just a bra and panties. He looked down at you, his hands running all over your torso and hips and started placing kisses all over your collarbone and neck. Your head tilted back for more access and let out a small whine, making him smirk a bit.

“Fuckin’ stunning baby. Perfect,” he complimented between kisses, his hands sliding up to the clasp on your bra. “Can I?” he asked, fiddling with the fabric. You nodded quickly, a bit of nervousness building in your chest but also excitement. He unclasped it and pulled it off, tossing it somewhere onto the floor before cupping your chest in his palms. “Gorgeous.” he mumbled, guiding you back onto the bed and he leaned down, sucking small hickeys and kisses onto your tits. You moaned quietly, your back arching up just a bit as his kisses trailed down your chest and stomach, stopping at your hip line to hook his fingers into the fabric of your panties. He looked up at you with the silent question, tugging slightly on them. You nodded quickly, helping him by lifting your hips so he could slide them off easily.

“Atta girl, look at you.” he praised, his fingers tracing your thighs as he went to lift your legs over his shoulders. “You still okay up there, baby?” he asked, looking up at you. “Mhmm, I'll say somethin’ if I don’t like it, promise.” you said, your hands finding his head. He nods slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound before practically diving in. His tongue slid in between your folds and you arched up, a strangled gasp escaping your throat at the sudden pleasure. He flicked his tongue back and forth over your clit, not being too rough yet but enough for pleasure to coarse through your body. Moans were spilling out of your mouth as his fingers shifted from your thigh to your folds, moving his mouth to latch onto your clit and sliding in two fingers.

You gasped and gripped his head a bit more. “Rafe—oh fuck—“ you moaned, your head tilting back and eyes fluttering shut as his fingers pushed in and out. He smiled up at you and mumbled “I know baby,” before latching onto your clit again. You felt yourself tipping towards the edge before he suddenly pulled away, the warmth gone too. You immediately went to protest, but before you could get a word out his lips found yours again as he pressed his pelvis against yours, slowly rocking his clothed hard-on against your bare folds.

Your hands tugged at the waistband of his pants, to which he pulled away for a moment and moved to your neck, his hands helping wiggle off his bottoms and boxers and throwing them elsewhere. He looked back up at you as he spread your thighs wider, rubbing the fat of them a bit. “You ready?” he asked sweetly. You nodded almost desperately, and he smirked and leaned down for another kiss. You gripped his shoulders as he started pushing in slowly. You both weren’t virgins, but you had started dating a while back so it had been a while. He whispered praise after praise as he bottomed out, your nails digging into his shoulder blades and your hips trying to rock back and forth underneath him. You had waited so long and was practically begging now that he was inside you.

The moment he started thrusting it was like a game over. You grabbed onto him and tried to keep up a steady pace on your end, but he just took over. His pace increased quickly as he threw a leg over his shoulder to press deeper, making you moan loudly. “Rafe—don’t stop. Please—please don’t!” you cried, as if Rafe had enough willpower left in him to even attempt that. He didn’t slow down once, not even when he felt you clench around him and finish. He needed more—he needed everything. Your head was thrown back on the pillow as his pace quickened for the last time, both of you reaching the edge. He quickly pulled out and came all over your stomach as you panted, trying to catch your breath and come down from the intense moment.

He just kind of hovered over you for a moment, as if processing what just happened, before he leaned down and kissed your cheek. “You’re so beautiful. Did perfect for me, y’know?” he mumbled against your ear tiredly. You nodded sleepily at his praise, the tiredness from before creeping back into your system. He smiled down at you, his hand finding your hair. “Sleepy?” he mumbled. You nodded as his hands found your waist. “Alright baby, go to sleep. I’ll get you all cleaned up, don’t worry.” You hummed tiredly as he kissed you once more, your consciousness already fading as he got up and walked to the bathroom to get a towel. The last thing you felt before slumber overtook you was him pulling you into his arms, kissing your temple and drifting off alongside you.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

idol jamil story killed me so bad (in a good way) the childhood friends to something worse than nothing at all trope..rhgh….argh……why did you do this to my heart 💔

[ Referencing this fic! ]

Aaah, thank you 🫶 I wasn’t confident in it because I’m not super familiar with idol culture (and actually find stan culture pretty uncomfortable), but I’m glad it seems to be been decently received.

I’m proud that I managed to write Jamil x Reader stuff for this AU to snipe my Jamil Liker friend, hehe while also incorporating the beef he has with fellow talents like Azul and Leona. Those parts were the funniest for me to write. In every universe, Jamil is just a hater/h 💀

As I said in my reply to the ask above, I usually have an aversion to idol AUs because I find the idol industry and stan culture distasteful. My Twst idol AU has a childhood friends twist to it because I found that made the AU more palatable for me.

I love the angst that comes with growing distant from your friend but there still being this lingering tension between the two of you. The longing… the PINING 🥺 And then mix that with the idol backstop and it heightens the drama. Suddenly your friend is way too busy to casually hang out. Everyone knows them, and you become another face in the crowd. You can never be with him romantically because the idol has to always be “available” and to be cute/flirty with the fans. It feels like you can never go back to those innocent childhood days, when you only had each other. I love how those elements compound 💞

Around the time Blazing Jewel was announced, a friend and I were playing around with this idol AU’s concept. (We still joke that we manifested irl Twst idol era with this/j) We each used our own OC to fill in the role of childhood friend to a now famous idol, albeit in our version they still try to keep in touch despite everything and the idol boys are slightly needy/seeking validation from the friend. We’ve still been getting a lot of joy out of it, so I thought to make something and to share that feeling with others.

[verso-dans-la-nuit]

Merman!Verso imagines

a very self-indulgent Merman!Verso thoughts (；∀；) + he's a pisces so i think it suits him very well

He's been alive for centuries and knows how to blend in with the people. He dyes his hair black to avoid drawing any attention.

He lives alone in a seaside cottage. His room is like a museum of things he has loved. Simple but full of memories. It got a bed, a writing desk, a wall full of prints and photos, a large chest full of antiques, and an old piano in the corner.

He always carries a journal with him, so he can write down or sketch whatever comes to mind. Thanks to random inspirations.

And a perfume too, for hiding his salty scent. It's not unpleasant, but he still wants to erase it.

At a glance, he looks like a normal human. He acts like one, too, you won't notice that he's a merman unless he tells you so. But he never mentions it to anyone.

Maybe, if you observed him very closely, you could see very faint lines of the gills on the side of his neck. But it's mostly covered by his hair. His eye colors are also unusually pale.

Originally, he was a faceless merman who could steal the face of their victim. The victim will become faceless as a consequence, losing their identity and the ability to breathe, slowly leading to death by suffocation. These species of merfolk are cursed to steal a face; otherwise, they will die of suffocation as well.

However, it took him a while to realize that the stolen faces came with their personalities, too. He changed them frequently, not being able to settle down with one.

Verso had many faces in the past, but out of all of them, his current face was the most useful and satisfying. It was the most "likable" face. However, it didn't take long for him to realize how hollow it felt.

His ability is both a curse and a gift; he can easily become who he wants to be, but never truly of himself. He can't remember what his actual personality was.

Due to his condition, he never lets people get too close to him. Maybe a short-term relationship, but nothing more than that. He left many people's hearts broken, as well as his own.

He avoids any objects that allow him to see a reflection of himself, such as a glass, a mirror, or even a surface of water. He is too afraid to look at himself, or the face he has stolen ages ago. Whenever someone compliments him for his looks, he never knows how to feel about it.

Can't he find someone else to replace his face? Sure, he can, but that'd mean sacrificing an innocent person. And he felt most loved with his current face. He hates these mixed feelings.

The only joy in his life is observing people from a distance and writing poetry about them. It's like a fairytale to him, something he can never experience, but he still wishes for it to happen someday.

He might be chronically depressed, but still puts meaning into believing something because it gives him hope. It doesn't matter if it comes true or not; he lives for that feeling. The idea of hopes and dreams. Since he can't end it for himself, he learned to find peace and comfort in the smallest things.

Still, Verso wonders what it feels like to be loved for who you are.

Let's say Verso found the love of his life because he deserves one.

Oh, to be cradled in his arms and wrapped by his long tail...he's physically affectionate. You can glue yourself to him, and he wouldn't find it bothersome.

He would look for shells and rocks that match your hair/eye color as a gift. If you're fond of a certain type of shells or whatever, he will search every corner of the ocean just to find that.

Writes poems about you. His journal is full of you, reminiscing about every moment he had spent with you. Every second is precious to him; it's never mundane. You're his world.

He loves it when you brush his hair. Kind of like falling asleep when someone plays with your hair.

He misses you the second he gets separated from you, but doesn't express it with words. He holds them back. Not because he's uncertain, but too afraid.

He wants to tell you the truth about himself, everything he has been hiding from everyone. But he's so scared that you will leave him if you learn the truth.

And the answer is: No, you won't. Never. He was expecting you to glare at him with eyes full of disgust and horror, but instead, you embraced him quietly.

[chaos-chloe]

Forever obsessed with the idea of droid and reader both secretly liking each other and the guys subtly helping them get together just for them to be like "get a room!" Once they're actually together, but they actually are so happy, and they also probably bet how long it would've taken them to get together (they sure do love a bet don't they)

Omg so I'm not only one obsessed over this idea, but I'm with any of the guys! I really hope you and other enjoy this cause I surely enjoyed writing this fic! :)

Heartfelt Moment

Summary: Embarrassing moment turns into confession

TW: Friends to Lovers, small embarrassment, soft confessions, mutual pining

Life in the Clooless house was, for lack of a better word, chaotic. But it was our chaos. As the unofficial heart of the content we created, ElasticDroid was a natural magnet for attention – and affection. I wasn’t the only one who felt it; BigPuffer, Pezzy, and Grizzy all harbored their own not-so-secret admiration for him. He was just that kind of guy – effortlessly funny, surprisingly sweet, and always down for a bit of creative madness.

We were all sprawled out in the Clooless living room, a symphony of mismatched beanbags and worn-out couches. The afternoon light streamed through the big windows, dappling across the room. Droid and I were tucked together on the largest sofa, my head leaning comfortably against his arm, his fingers idly tracing patterns on my sleeve. He’d just whispered some absurd inside joke from last week’s stream, something about Puffer’s questionable fashion choices, and I’d erupted into a fit of giggles, burying my face into his shoulder. The pure, unadulterated joy of that moment, of just being with him, was intoxicating.

"Get a room!"

Puffer’s voice, booming and entirely lacking in subtlety, cut through my happy bubble like a chainsaw. I snapped my head up, my cheeks already hot. Pezzy, bless his mischievous heart, burst into a fresh peal of laughter from his spot on the floor, practically wheezing. Grizzy, ever the hype man, started whooping and clapping, making it worse.

My face, already flushed a deep crimson, felt like it was on fire. I glanced at Droid, whose usually composed features were now a matching shade of scarlet. Our eyes met for a mortified second, and then, as if on cue, we both sprang apart, a chasm forming between us on the sofa. The comfortable silence we’d shared minutes before was replaced by an awkward, ringing quiet, punctuated only by Pezzy’s dying chuckles and Grizzy’s victorious whoops. It was mortifying. I mumbled something incoherent about needing a drink and practically fled the room.

Later that day, the mortification hadn't quite worn off. I was sprawled out on my bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone, replaying the embarrassing scene in my head. The door to my room, which I’d left slightly ajar, creaked open a little more.

"Hey," a soft voice said, accompanied by a small, almost hesitant knock on the doorframe.

I looked up. It was Droid, his shy confidence smile playing on his lips. He leaned against the frame for a moment, then pushed off, slowly walking into the room. He didn’t sit in my desk chair or on the floor. Instead, he came to my bed and, with a careful gentleness, sat down at the foot of it, facing me. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between us.

"Um," he started, his gaze fixed on his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap. "About earlier… and, well, other times, I guess." He took a deep breath, and his eyes met mine, holding them. "Look, I know Puffer's a loudmouth, but… he wasn’t entirely wrong."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Oh?" I managed, trying to sound casual, but my voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah. Because… I really like you. Like, really like you," he confessed, the words coming out in a rush, his cheeks tinging pink again. "More than a friend, I mean. I know it's probably obvious to everyone else, but I had to say it. And… I hope it’s not just me."

I couldn't help the wide, goofy grin that spread across my face. "It’s not," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "It’s definitely not just you, Droid."

A wave of relief washed over his face, and his shy smile widened into something truly genuine. He shifted closer, then hesitated. "So… what now?"

"We take it slow," I suggested, my mind racing with possibilities. "And we keep it off-screen for a bit. No streaming 'couple goals' content, no overt flirting during Clooless recordings. Just… us, figuring things out, testing the waters. Sound good?"

He nodded eagerly. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

The next morning, I braced myself. The guys were already at the kitchen island, nursing their morning coffees.

"Guys," I began, taking a deep breath. "Droid and I… we talked last night."

Pezzy dropped his mug, thankfully empty, with a clatter. Grizzy sat bolt upright. Puffer, however, just slowly lowered his coffee cup, a knowing smirk blooming on his face.

"Took you guys long enough!" Grizzy practically yelled, throwing his arms in the air.

"Finally!" Pezzy crowed, looking between us like he'd just witnessed a solar eclipse. "I was starting to think you two were going to orbit each other forever without ever colliding!"

"Called it," Puffer said, a smug look plastered on his face. "Thirty-seven minutes into the living room incident. I said by midnight they’d have a talk. Pezzy said morning, Grizzy said a week. Pay up, boys."

Pezzy grumbled, pulling out his phone. Grizzy groaned dramatically.

"You guys bet on us?" I asked, a mix of disbelief and affection bubbling up inside me.

"Of course, we did!" Pezzy laughed. "It was the most obvious slow-burn in Clooless history! Congrats, losers!"

Droid just chuckled, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into a side-hug. I leaned into him, feeling a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the morning sun. It wasn't perfect, and it was certainly going to be a wild ride with these guys, but for now, it was more than enough. And Puffer, confound it, had won the bet.

[locketsvault]

「 CASTORICE ACCIDENTALLY TOUCHES YOU 」

pairing: castorice x gender neutral reader

tags: gender neutral reader, first person (you), no pronouns or agab mentioned, fluff, hurt/comfort, happy ending

warnings: canon castorice past, panic attack, i promise there’s comfort for the hurt, not proof read

request: Hi! I hope it's okay that I'm requesting something again! Can you write something with Castorice accidentally touching her gn!partner and realising that she can do it without killing them? Some hugs and maybe hurt/comfort? You can add anything you want to this, feel free! (original request found here.)

word count: 755

a/n: I actually talked to a friend about this very topic, and ever since it hasn’t left my mind! The idea of Castorice finally getting to touch someone, especially someone she loves, breaks my heart in the best way possible.

You and Castorice have been dating a couple of months. It took a lot of coaxing to get her to feel safe enough to be in a relationship. You showed her that love can be expressed in so many ways besides physical, and that not being able to touch her genuinely didn’t bother you. Being able to love her as a whole was worth that sacrifice.

It still ate away at her. She felt like she couldn’t give you a proper relationship and that you deserved more. But she trusted you. And she was glad to be in a relationship. And the joy of having you in her life outweighed her fear.

She was over at your house while you were cooking, it was pretty common for one of you to be at the others house for a little date night. If she wasn’t busy that is. You both liked to keep things private and special. You believed it helped her feel more comfortable without judgmental eyes.

You were gathering all the ingredients you needed before you started cooking. It was your turn to make the food since she did last time. You preferred her cooking, but you did enjoy being able to cook for her as well.

While lost in your thoughts, you miscalculated your step as you reached up into the counter and stumbled back. Right when she was walking behind you. Both of you froze as you made clear physical contact. She immediately pulled away but it was too late. A few seconds ticked by, both of you silent and still and yet… nothing happened. You didn’t feel any different, you didn’t look any different.

Her face changed from pure panic to confusion, to hope, and then fear. You weren’t dead, even though you touched. You even made skin to skin contact. And yet you’re totally okay. How?

You took notice of this too, looking down to check yourself over. You have always been suspicious, since being near her never caused any of the effects others say they’ve felt. This confirmed it though. Somehow, for some unexplained reason, her ability does not work on you.

You took a cautious step forward. One, two, then another. She took a step back every time you moved, until she was backed into the dining table. She wasn’t trapped per se, but she felt it. You reached your hand out to cup her cheek. She flinched away but you didn’t let her go. And she couldn’t deny she too was curious.

Your hand ghosted over her cheek, and when nothing happened, you properly cupped it. She stared at you in pure panic, like a lost child. Then the panic attack came, she couldn’t understand, how was she able to touch you? How? She rested her hand over yours and leaned into your touch. It was so warm.

She couldn’t breathe, and shortly after she couldn’t see either, the tears welling in her eyes taking her vision from her. “How… I don’t understand…” she’d mutter over and over.

You moved both hands to cup her cheek and wipe her tears, hushing her gently. You did your best to ground her, your tone soft.

“I don’t know my dear, but I’m grateful for this blessing. Now you can feel my love as well as see it. Now you can see, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

She let out a choked sob at your words before tackling you in a hug. She tucked her head into your neck and cried, her grip tight in you, though not painful. You could breathe easily enough. Your arms wrapped around her as quickly as they could, and you cradled her head.

“It’s going to be alright Cassie, everything is going to be alright.” You whispered, those words being for both of you. You could finally touch each other.

Her head tucked further into your neck as she let out a relieved sigh between her cries. Her biggest wish had come true, and for you. Out of everyone, it was you. She didn’t know who to thank, but she was secretly thanking the gods.

You gently lead her head away from her neck before laying a gentle kiss on her lips. “I love you Cas.”

She couldn’t help but smile wide, her voice gentle as she whispered back “I love you too.”

You both stayed in each others arms for a little while longer, forgetting about the meal you were just about to make. This was more important, you could always eat later.

main hub ✦ masterlist ✦ to do list

[lilmarshie]

How do you think Bucky would give hugs? Thanks, I just want to squeeze him to death :DDD

Hugs are the Best Medicine

Bucky Barnes x Reader Headcanons

A/N: Thank you for the ask, anon! This was super fun to write! Enjoy! My requests and asks are always open! ✨

WHEN YOU’RE SAD:

- He'd approach slowly, his metal arm held slightly away from you, as if gauging your reaction.

- He'd ask if you wanted a hug, and if you said yes (or even just looked at him with those sad eyes), he'd wrap his human arm around you, pulling you close but not too tight.

- His metal arm would hover protectively, gently touching your back, offering a comforting weight. He wouldn't say much, just let you feel his presence, a silent promise of support.

WHEN YOU’RE HAPPY:

- This Bucky is a bit more playful. He’ll come up behind you and scoop you into a hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

- He'd be laughing, a genuine, joyful sound, and his grip would be firm and secure.

- He might even spin you around a little, just reveling in your happiness.

WHEN YOU’RE SCARED:

- Bucky would be quick to offer reassurance. He'd pull you into a tight hug, his arms wrapped firmly around you, shielding you from whatever was frightening you.

- Bucky would whisper soothing words, telling you that you're safe, that he's there, and that he won't let anything happen to you.

- His heartbeat would be steady and strong against your ear, a grounding force in the midst of your fear.

WHEN YOU’RE JUST BEING YOU:

- These are the best hugs. He'd simply walk up to you, a soft smile on his face, and pull you close.

- It would be a comfortable, familiar embrace, a silent acknowledgment of your connection.

- He'd rest his chin on your head, just breathing you in, content to simply be near you.

- These hugs are a reminder of the quiet, everyday love you share.

COMFORTING HUGS:

- When you’re feeling down or upset, Bucky would approach you with a soft, gentle demeanor.

- He'd wrap his arms around you securely, but not too tightly, allowing you to sink into his embrace.

- He'd rest his chin on your head, offering silent comfort and reassurance.

- Bucky would sway slightly, providing a calming rhythm, and whisper soothing words if you wanted to talk about what was bothering you.

CELEBRATORY HUGS:

- If you achieved something significant or had a moment of triumph, Bucky would be quick to offer a celebratory hug.

- This hug would be more energetic and enthusiastic, filled with pride and joy.

- He'd lift you off the ground slightly, spinning you around if the situation allowed, and shower you with praise and congratulations.

- His smile would be wide and genuine, reflecting his happiness for your success.

REUNION HUGS AFTER A LONG TIME SPENT APART:

- After a period of separation, whether it's a short trip or a longer mission, Bucky's reunion hug would be filled with longing and relief.

- He'd pull you close, burying his face in your hair, inhaling your scent as if to reassure himself you were really there.

- His grip would be firm and possessive, conveying how much he missed you and how grateful he was to have you back in his arms.

- He might linger in the embrace for a long time, savoring the moment and he would be reluctant to let go.

PROTECTIVE HUGS:

- In moments of danger or uncertainty, Bucky's protective instincts would kick in, and he'd offer a hug that shielded you from harm.

- He'd position himself between you and the threat, wrapping his arms around you tightly, creating a barrier against the outside world.

- His body would be tense and alert, ready to defend you at a moment's notice, while his hug would convey a sense of safety and security, assuring you that he wouldn't let anything happen to you.

[wolfythephoenix]

Describing character details, that doesn't feel like info dumping

First and foremost of all, i have to note that i'm nowhere near an expert, just a hobby writer, who's still learning. But i think i might have some useful information, resource that can help others who happened to need it. Anyways, let's get started!

They always say the phrase ,,show, don't tell", but never say the key information, that there IS such thing as too much information. If you share too much information about EVERYTHING about and around the character, the sheer amount of info dump WILL overwhelm the reader. Just like back in math class, the more information the teacher rushed to squeeze into kids brain within the 45 minutes timelimit, the more confused they were. No need to rush everything in one go. You have to let your readers get to know the characters just as much, as the characters in your story. Especially if you, for example, want to write a twist villain. Add just enough information you feel serve the purpose, and let them slowly learn the rest. And to do that, here are some tips/tricks i use the most often.

The power of colors

Even tho you don't really need to describe every single piece of clothing on your character(s) in details, you can still give a general description of them for your readers. That would help them get a mental image of the character, as well as an unconscious feel of their personality, because of the habit of connecting certain colors to certain feelings/emotions. Here are some examples:

Red: the symbol of love and passion

Green: the symbol of health, nature and harmony Purple: the symbol of imagination, mystery and royalty Yellow: the symbol of joy, warmth and happyness

But wait, doesn't it feel like something is wrong? I haven't mentioned any negative trait for these. Despite that, each and every of these colors have a negative side. Just as everything in the world. Every coin has two sides to it.

Red: anger Green: especially dark green, poison Purple: we often connect purple to dark magic and evil energies Yellow: it can also mean envy (where i live, we have a saying that ,,they're yellow from envy")

Also, the more darker the color is, the more negative feeling they emit, while the more light it is, the more positive they get.

Using colors, and their shades can tell so much about a character. A melancholic widow, who always wears black. An overly enthusiastic, passionate warrior, who'll cover themselfs in flashy red and yellow. A peaceful forest dweller, who hides in green, to be one with nature. The possibilities are endless, and it's up to you how you want to use colors. Will you use them to accurately describe your character? Or will you use it to mislead your readers? The twist villain, who gets rid of their white cloac, to reveal the dark purple underneath. The reserved guy in the back, who's never get picked, who then reveals their true, honest, joyous light colors, once getting to know him.

Here are also some visual examples from my works so far, to show what i mean exactly:

Tighnari (my Genshin fanfic/comic)

Just as in the game, in my fanfic too, he's a more reserved guy, leaving behind the city life, to move in a village, in the forest. As you can see, he mostly wears various greens and browns, with a dash of creamy yellow. No harsh colors that scream in your face ,,LOOK AT MEEEEEE", no. Just the calm, but colorful colors of nature. Indicating a calm, collected, reserved natured character, whom you feel like you can put your trust in. And this nature also shows with every of his actions too, with always ready to help out others who need it from the backstage, and also teaching others.

Cyno (my Genshin fanfic/comic)

Both in game, and in my fanfic, the guy holds a ton of mysteries behind his intimidating, dark exterior. Dark purple, almost black, jacket to hold the mysteries, and to also cast a dark aura around the character, combined with the arm -and shoulder guards an the bulletproof vest, all just tell ,,don't mess with me". If the contrasting, unnatural ghostly white hair and red eyes wouldn't be enough of a sign already. Despite the rough, dark exterior however, it all hides much lighter shades of purple, still holding some mystery, but much friendlier to the look. While the dark, intimidating exterior helps in his work in catching and/or intimidaing criminals, the lighter internal layer shows a much calmer side of his everyday life. For his close ones.

Akuma (my w.i.p. fantasy novel ,,Akaruma")

Melancholic black and dark greys all over his figure, that tells a story about nothing but grief and mourning. Mourning of a life he couldn't -and will never have. With the only color decorating his appearance, is a really vibrant red. But once getting to know him, will one realise, it's but a practical choice, nothing more. A desparate attempt. Meanwhile the black helps him to blend into the darkness of the night, hiding him away from a forever unwelcoming world, the dash of vibrant red helps him in locating his belongings, as the vision of his eyes slowly but surely blur into nonexistance.

Descriptions that show the character's personality

It's also helpful if you use other character's POV to describe the desired character. This both helps you in easing the job, and also shows the reader, how others see them. Are they intimidated by them? Or are they down right scared to death? Are they misunderstood? Or are they holding up a mask towards others, so they can hide their true self? Here are some examples:

,,As she gets closer, she can see his whole body's build and contours. Tall? Check. Black hair? Check. Black and red cloack? Check, thrown on the floor with a black sweater and a gray shirt. Tho the young man himself is more like creepy, than weakling. At least, Kalulah is wary of him just by the look of him. It's not just his height. It's more like…everything. His whole appearance. His well-built, scar covered, glinting from a few sweat droplets, bodystructure, the red rope, that ties his black hair, the fact that he's able to stay in that position with only one hand […]"

(Akuma from Kalulah's POV, very first run-in)

"[…] long hair, that reflects the night sky's darkness. Tiny, orange- and yellow colored feathers crowning the female figure's hairline, and two bigger feathers sticking out around her ears. She has a warm, gentle, welcoming smile, that immidiatly eases his every bit of sadness he had temporarly started to feel."

(??? from Akuma's POV as a baby)

,,Huge, majestic wings, with one tucked behind his back, and the other caressing the female from behind. Tiny feathers crowning his hairline, like an actual crown, made from flames. He has a melancholic, but gentle smile, with scars all over his well-built body."

(??? from Akuma's POV, as a baby)

,, […] strange shadow in front of him. It's not his, it's a grown up's shadow, he thinks to himself. And as the stranger, who's casting the shadow clears his throat, both he and Namur spins around, to face a...not so happy Cyno, with crossed arms."

(a troublemaker kid's POV of Cyno, first encounter)

,,He heard stories about Sumeru's ruthless General, the General, who's always wears an emotionless face. Who, when it comes to criminals and wrong doers, is unstoppable at serving justice. Who, even has to tell horrible jokes, just to not scare his own colleagues. And yet, the very General is now on his knees, helping the boy pick up the pieces of a, from a point of view of a man of his rank, worthless project. Even took the effort to actually hear him, a random boy, out."

(a bullied kid's POV of Cyno, first encounter"

,,She's the embodiment of life itself." ,,It's like hearing little chimes in harmony. Just a soft, pure, angelic laughter, to which the General just cracks a half smile."

(Nilou from Cyno's POV)

,,Not to mention, he's probably not even interested, given the workload his duty puts on him and his overall work-centered mindset. They're really blessed with him, that's for sure." ,,You keep connecting sand to death. The end of an era. The forever remaining force, that keeps long gone civilizations hidden away from praying eyes."

(Cyno from Nilou's POV)

Or you can use the power of being the narrator, to describe your character. But remember, only detail what's necessary for your storytelling, for painting a picture of your character.

For example, in my fanfic/comic, Cyno is more aggressive, and all of his combat actions resemble the fury of a wolf. A relentless, powerful hunter. And so, the words to describe his actions are also reflecting that.

,,Not a single soul around aside from him and his pray, who couldn't have picked more perfect place for Cyno. For his hunting ground." ,,Cyno intentionally letting his feet crash a piece of trash on the ground, so his victim would notice it. And so he did. Looking left and right, but because of the flickering light of the -now off-service- marketing-screen and mostly dark alleyway, he can't see much. But soon enough, he jolts from the sound of something scraping on the wall." ,,His pray is surely cocky, they've stepped right into Cyno's personal hunting territory." ,,He can easily trap his pray, as they trying to find a way out."

Or, Reijin from my w.i.p. novel. A grieving man, who just recently lost his child, and so, every of his actions are reflecting grief and sorrow. But also, the care and gentlness of a father.

,,His steps are really slow and heavy, hunched over slightly, with a bucket in hand, and a face that shows nothing but grief and sorrow." ,,He kneels down to the edge of the calm river, his miserable face looking back at him." ,, […] he takes off his jacket, leaving him with only a thin layer of shirt on in the freezing cold. But he doesn't care, right now, this kid needs warmth more than he does. Then, he gently wraps up the boy with the jacket, carefully taking him in his arms, and starts to rush back to his home […]" ,, […] despite the winged man's melancholic expression, he sences a similar warmth and gentlness as from his dreams […] " ,,This winged man went out of his way, showing, proving that those stuff won't hurt him, and even using much easier words, that he now mostly understood finaly."

Or Akuma, still well within his teen years, but already beaten down by the cruelty of fate.

,,The very child, who is now can be considered a teenager. But without the natural rebellion and youthful fire of one. Instead, what radiates from him is the calmness, melancholy and exhaustion of a grown adult man. The end product of human cruelty. But this does not mean, he'll back down. No, he's too curious and got blessed with a strong willpower for giving up that easily."

If you have a character with animal features, like tail, ears or horns, you can also incorporate those! For example, here are the ways i've incorporated Tighnari's fox features:

Tail: i use his tail in 2 ways, one is to show his emotions, and the other is just a simple little detail he does unconsciously.

Here are how his tail tells his emotions, even if we don't see his face:

neatural/confident: upright

happy: wagging it all around

annoyed: fluffed up, like in an Anime

sad: either draging behind his leg, or curled around him (Note: he also curls it around him, when he's on the motorcycle alone, so it won't get covered in dirt that much.)

bonus: He's also wrapping his tail around the ones he's close to:

Ears: it's pretty self-explainatory, the more it gets lowered, the more sad he is.

neatural: fully up, or a bit tilted rotated to the side

got an idea/peaked interest: perks up a little

little sad/confused: ears slightly lowered to the side, or to the front (Note: if something is above him, he obviously also has to lower his ears.)

very sad/full-on depressed: flopped behind his head

Little habits, personal ,,rituals"

It also can be helpful, if your character has any kind of habit. A nevrous habit. A unique way of speaking to different people. An oddly specific routine. Maybe they're strangely obsessed with cleaning. Maybe they have the habit of picking their nails, when feeling nervous. Maybe they can't fall asleep until they've read a page of that one book, that's completely uninteresting to others. Maybe, even when preparing for an assasination mission, they'll feed their kitty every single time. Maybe they always put their stuff on a very specific spot.

This can not only show the reader the character's personality and values, but also make them think, why do they stick to those habits? Especially if it's a really strange one. Why do they do that? Is that just them being weird, or does it have a deeper meaning behind it?

As an example, in my w.i.p. novel, Akuma has 2 very specific habits. One is always, in every given situation, keeping his clothing and other stuff within his reach, and in a specific spot; and the other is always making sure he has at least some sweets with him. The former one is due to his already bad eyesight, that's progressively gets worse over time (that's also why he's got some vibrant colored parts on his clothing, so he can find them easier), and the latter one is to combat the forever-lasting taste of blood in his mouth.

Changes

Changes can also be powerful, when it's built up right. A sudden change in their habit. Progressively messier hair, or overall appearance. A sudden change in apetite. Suddenly, they're not interested in whatever they were before. To achieve the desired effect, you first need to establish their ,,norm" before, by incorporating those details into their actions. And then, if they suddenly stop those, not just the characters, but the readers too, will feel that something isn't right.

As an example, Akuma has a strong interest in learning new things, and likes to eat. So, when he suddenly stops being interested in learning, and stops eating, you KNOW something's up.

Another example is that in my Genshin fanfic/comic, Cyno is normally altho a bit impulsive, but not blood-thirsty. So, when his power gets unleashed for too long, and it gets too much in control, we can also see and feel it. He's becoming more and more aggressive, more and more forgetting to plan out everything beforehand. It's an eerie contrast between an intimidating, calculated hunter, and an erratic, blood thirsty wild animal.

Welp, that's all i can think of right now that i know, hopefully it was to any help at all! ^ ^

[knowledgeableknitter]

The New Avengers… And Their Mom

Chapter Eight: Beach Day 

*****

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Kay Romano, a plus sized/curvy ofc; Platonic Thunderbolts x Kay

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: A casual comment from Yelena about never having had a real beach day inspires Kay to plan one. What follows is a happy, chaotic outing filled with sun, volleyball, ice cream, and a bit of a meltdown. Bucky gets VERY distracted by Kay and Yelena struggles to process her joy.

Trigger warnings: Beach day fun! including sandcastles, skimboarding, ice cream, and beach volleyball. Oh, and someone gets water thrown on them.

Author note: This one was a joy to write. Both in the Kay/Bucky interactions, as well as the Yelena/Kay interactions.

Story Masterlist

Chapter 7

*****

The TV cast a golden, flickering glow across the compound’s living room, saturating the walls with flashes of ocean blue, red swim suits, and glistening, over-oiled abs. The screen cut between pounding surf and heroic slow-motion jogs, set to a soundtrack of 80s tunes.

Throw blankets were bunched up across the floor and a lukewarm mug of tea sat abandoned on a coaster. It was the kind of comfortable mess that only happened when no one was trying too hard.

Yelena laid out on the couch, spine rigid as always, chewing on a slice of apple like it had personally offended her. She narrowed her eyes at the screen with analytical disdain.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered flatly, her accent crisp and unimpressed. “Do Americans really do this?”

Across the room, Ava reclined upside down on a beanbag, legs over the back, head nearly brushing the carpet. “Define ‘this,’” she said, mouth half-full of popcorn. “Sunshine and cardio? Or the slow-motion running with oiled-up cleavage?”

“Both,” Yelena replied, gesturing with her apple toward the television.

Bob, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a sweatshirt and pajama pants, didn’t even look up. “I mean… slow-mo is kind of a thing. We do love a good dramatic entrance.”

Kay, stretched out beside Yelena with a popcorn bowl balanced precariously on her stomach, let out a soft chuckle. Her feet were tucked under a throw, socks mismatched. Her hair was half braided, strands falling loose in soft waves.

“What?” she asked lightly. “You’ve never been to the beach?”

Yelena waved at the screen again like it offended her personally. “Not like this. Not for fun.” Her tone was dismissive, but her eyes lingered longer than they should have on the scene, on the cast laughing and crashing into the water in chaotic, golden joy.

“Surveillance and extraction, sure. But not this.” She gestured vaguely again. “Sandcastles. Ice cream. That stupid volleyball Americans always want to play.”

She said it like a joke, dry and dismissive. But Kay caught the way Yelena's voice lingered ever so slightly on ‘ice cream’, the tiniest pause before she moved on. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes stayed on the laughing group in the movie longer than necessary. There was a sliver of longing there. It may not have even been conscious, but it was real.

Kay didn’t tease. Instead, she slowly turned her head on the couch cushion, narrow-eyed with purpose. A sly little smile crept across her lips, the kind that meant plans were forming.

“Oh,” she said softly, stretching out the vowel like a promise. “We’re fixing that.”

Yelena’s head turned abruptly to Kay, almost fearful in her wide eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Ava perked up immediately. “She’s talking umbrella drinks. Sand between your toes. Mandatory sunscreen. And ice cream. Lots of it.”

“With sprinkles,” Bob added solemnly.

Kay reached over her head without moving the popcorn bowl and grabbed her phone from the coffee table.

Yelena leaned over slightly, squinting. “Kay. What are you doing?”

She got no answer. The only sound Kay gave was the sound of her nails tapping on her phone screen, and that same mischievous smile growing by the second.

“I hate that smile,” Yelena muttered, deadpan.

Kay’s fingers paused.

“You’re gonna love the beach,” she said sweetly.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “I already regret telling you anything.”

Kay passed her a new slice of apple from the bowl on the table. “Too bad.”

Kay just smiled, sly and satisfied. “You’ll thank me later. We’re getting you ice cream. And sand in every pocket of your gear.”

Ava lifted a piece of popcorn to the ceiling. “To ice cream and vengeance.”

Bob clinked his apple slice against her popcorn. “To dangerous beach moms.”

Yelena looked around at them all: ridiculous, chaotic, and utterly sincere. She rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved, just barely. “You people are exhausting.”

Kay grinned. “But you love us.”

“I tolerate you,” Yelena said. Then quieter, almost to herself, “...most days.”

The Baywatch theme kicked up again in the background.

And for a moment, Yelena leaned back against the couch, thinking maybe the idea of sandcastles didn’t sound quite so stupid after all.

*****

The next weekend, the team pulled up to a quiet, sun-drenched stretch of private beach, one of those hidden pockets of paradise known only to the wealthy and well-connected. The road had narrowed into gravel before ending at a rickety wooden gate flanked by wild sea grasses and signs that warned off trespassers. A lazy expanse of golden sand stretched ahead, edged by tall dunes and seashells, the ocean glittering just beyond like poured glass under a cloudless sky.

Ava was already bounding toward the water, hair flying, sandals in one hand and a pool float in the other. Her laughter carried on the salt breeze. Bob trailed dutifully behind, weighed down by a backpack the size of a small fridge and two oversized bags stuffed with snacks.

The SUV’s trunk popped open with a soft hiss. A cooler thunked heavily onto the sand, packed with sandwiches, and one suspiciously clinking bottle of vodka someone had smuggled in.

Bucky hauled four folding chairs over his shoulder like they were featherlight, scanning the perimeter out of habit. His eyes caught everything. 

At least, until the passenger door clicked open and Kay stepped out.

A pale linen beach cover-up fluttered around her thighs, sheer enough that the bold blue of her two-piece popped in vivid contrast beneath it. The straps framed the strength of her shoulders, and the sunlight painted her skin in gold and honey, bronzed where the light hit and warm with life where the fabric shifted. Her long hair danced in the breeze, strands catching around her neck.

She bent over her tote, rifling for sunscreen and hair ties, her body shifting with natural ease, unaware of the small devastation she was causing. The cover-up pulled taut as she twisted, clinging to the curve of her waist before billowing free again.

Bucky froze mid-step, mid-thought, and mid-breath.

His jaw actually dropped, just slightly, like gravity had taken hold and he forgot how to resist it.

She didn’t notice, not at first. She was still focused on the tote, lips pursed in concentration, sunglasses sliding down her nose.

Then she glanced up, and caught him staring.

Their gazes locked, and her eyes flickered. Her hands hesitated at the top of the bag and her shoulders tensed, like she’d been bracing herself all morning and wasn’t sure now if she’d made the right call.

She reached up, gathering her hair to braid it, her fingers moving fast and efficiently, but not carefree anymore. Her sunglasses slipped again, and she didn’t bother to fix them.

She told herself she hadn’t worn this for him, and maybe that was true.

But she’d thought of him when she picked the color. When she’d turned in front of the mirror and imagined the look in his eyes when he saw her in it.

And now he was staring, silent and watching.

Don’t do this to yourself, Kay.

He had his opportunity. And didn’t choose you. 

Today, you choose you.

Bucky visibly shook himself, like he'd just been yanked out of another timeline. His hand flexed against the chairs. His throat worked.

“Jesus, Kay,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel. “You trying to kill me, doll?”

She blinked, genuinely startled by his words. “Sorry,” she said automatically, then frowned in confusion. “Wait. What am I sorry for?”

He stepped forward, just a little, words escaping before he could clean them up. “For looking that gorgeous in that swimsuit.”

He gestured, vaguely and helplessly. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

The compliment hit with the force of a wave, unexpected and undeniable.

Her face flushed, heat crawling up from her chest to her cheeks. But she didn’t glance away in shyness this time.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was more measured than before, as though she was quietly amused instead of flattered.

“Thank you,” she said, voice warm, low. “I like it too.”

She let the silence stretch, wanting to receive it, process it, and let his compliment land.

Then her grin curved sideways, lips pressing together in mock innocence.

“Though…” she said, with a flicker of mischief, “I did pick the suit because it matched your eyes.”

Her voice dropped, velvet and deliberate. “I just couldn’t resist.”

It was flirtation, sure, but it came with intent now. Not softness or surrender, but the precise slash of a knife. 

She stepped past him before he could find a response, close enough that the scent of sunscreen and citrus lingered, but she didn’t. She didn't glance back, didn't check to see if he followed. That wasn’t her style anymore.

Let him look. Let him wonder. She wasn’t here to chase.

This time, she wasn't giving him anything he hadn’t earned.

He exhaled like he’d been punched in the ribs. Every instinct screamed to follow, but his feet didn’t move.

The hem of her cover-up fluttered in the breeze like his own personal white flag of surrender. 

Behind him, someone let out a low whistle.

“You okay, Barnes?” Yelena strolled past, towel over her shoulder, sunglasses hiding nothing of her smirk. She sipped from a sweating bottle of lemon seltzer like it was a cocktail. “You look like you just got hit with a heat-seeking missile wearing lip gloss.”

Bucky blinked, still trying to recover. 

*****

They played volleyball.

Or tried to, anyway.

The makeshift court had been drawn hastily in the sand with a stick. The net was barely anchored, sagging between two poles jammed into the dunes, but no one cared. The sun was high, the wind mild, and the sound of surf crashing against the shore made everything feel a little less serious.

Kay was objectively terrible. She had heart, but her timing was a crime. More than once, the ball bounced off her elbow or shoulder with a comedic thunk that had everyone wheezing. She laughed each time, utterly unbothered, winded and grinning.

John, shockingly, was worse. He played like he was back in high school: aggressive, overconfident, and completely unable to track the ball. At one point, he tripped over his own feet, took out part of the net, and lay in the sand laughing like a man defeated by God himself. 

Across the court, Yelena narrowed her eyes with battlefield precision, then leapt and spiked the ball so hard it blurred. Bob barely had time to yelp before he dove, sunglasses flying in one direction, dignity in the other, leaving a perfect snow-angel-shaped imprint in the sand.

Ava shouted “Man down!” and blew an imaginary whistle. “I’m benching myself. I’m ref now. This is too dangerous for me.”

Eventually, Bob gave up on sports entirely and turned to his true calling: engineering. He began sculpting a sandcastle near the tide line with intense focus and surprising grace. Yelena, intrigued, joined him, kneeling beside him in her black bikini like she was ready to storm their sandcastle. Her hands were damp and efficient, shaping small towers with wet sand and using bottle caps for detail.

“This,” she said grimly, frowning at one wall, “is tactically inaccurate.”

Bob’s face fell. “So… you don’t like it?”

“No,” she said, eyes sharp with approval. “I love it. But the west wall is vulnerable to amphibious assault.”

Bob blinked. “Oh. I can fix that.”

They began reinforcing it together: tiny sticks for support, shells embedded for aesthetic defense. It looked like a medieval fortress imagined by a five-star general and built by children, which, to be fair, in some ways it was.

Farther down the beach, John discovered a skimboard someone had left behind and took it as a personal challenge.

He launched forward with too much enthusiasm and hit the sand face-first in front of the incoming tide. There was a dramatic slap, followed by a stunned silence, and then… 

Cackling. 

Alexei filmed the entire thing, narrating in mock commentary like it was an Olympic disaster. “And the American champion goes down! Magnificent form! Disgraceful landing!”

Laughter rippled down the shore like a wave.

Just as the laughter began to die down, Ava, grinning wildly, attempted to sneak up behind Kay with a loaded beach bucket.

“Don’t you dare,” Kay warned, backing up quickly, only to collide right into someone solid.

Bucky.

He barely grunted, catching her easily. “Whoa—hey—” But he was too late.

Ava dumped it in a glorious arc over both of them.

Kay shrieked, arms flailing as cold water doused her from the shoulders down. Her fingers instinctively clutched Bucky’s forearm for balance as he stepped forward and wrapped his metal arm around her back, steadying her without hesitation.

The splash splattered his bare chest, but Kay got the worst of it, hair dripping, sundress clinging to her skin like a second skin. The sheer fabric stuck to her chest and ribs, highlighting every curve, droplets racing down her bare thighs. The sun caught her wet skin, making it shimmer, casting golden light across the arch of her collarbone and the slope of her neck.

Kay gasped, startled by the burst of cold, then burst into laughter.

She threw her head back, throat arched to the sky like she belonged to it. Her eyes crinkled and her mouth was wide with joy. 

The sound of her laugh echoed down the beach.

And Bucky just watched her, his hands still holding her waist, even as his world spun. She was radiant, sunlit, and soaked, and wild, and alive.

In that moment, he didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her, carry her straight into the waves, or build a damn temple at her feet.

Behind them, Ava gave a triumphant fist pump. “Bullseye!”

“Perfect shot!” Yelena called from the sandcastle.

Kay wiped the water from her face with a dripping sleeve and shot Ava a glare that lacked any real heat. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Bucky still hadn’t let go.

*****

Later, the mood softened into something sun-warmed and drowsy.

The sun hung low and heavy above the horizon, casting everything in a warm haze. Salt clung to their skin in delicate crystals. Sand dusted ankles and elbows. Wind tugged gently at hair and fabric, softening every edge like the whole world had been smoothed down to something safe.

Kay unzipped the cooler and began laying out the food she’d packed: sandwiches, cold pasta salad, watermelon slices glistening in their containers. Bob passed around cookies like currency while John held a crinkled bag of chips he was pretending not to hoard.

Everything tasted better after a day like this. They were tired and glowing and a little sunburned, and the kind of exhausted that came from being alive in a body that had played instead of fought.

Bucky settled beside Kay beneath the slouching umbrella, a little too close to be casual. His thigh brushed hers. Once. Then again. Until neither of them pretended it was the shifting of the sand.

Her shoulder, slick with sunscreen, bumped his bicep as she reached for her drink, leaving a faint smudge. She didn’t apologize and he didn’t move away.

She could feel his unraveling in the way he watched her without letting his eyes linger too long. It was in the way he kept fidgeting like his body wanted to move closer, but hadn’t gotten permission from his brain.

He offered her a bite off his fork, insisting the combination of pasta salad and watermelon was life changing. She didn’t tease him, just leaned in, unbothered and knowing. She didn’t need to try; just being near her was already undoing him. He still forgot every mission, every enemy, and every plan he’d ever made when her lips closed over the tines.

His fingers twitched slightly on the metal handle.

Then she licked a droplet of watermelon juice from the corner of her bottom lip with a lazy flick of her tongue.

It wasn’t calculated. She wasn’t trying to unravel him and that made it so much worse.

She reached for her water bottle, tipping her head back to drink. Her coverup slipped slightly, revealing more of the sapphire blue strap beneath. Her hair was tousled and tangled from wind and seawater, curling slightly at the ends. And then, God help him, a single drop of sweat slid down the column of her neck, down her chest, disappearing into the blue suit. 

And he wanted to chase it with his mouth. More than his very next breath, he wanted to press his lips there, feel the warmth of her sun-soaked skin and the salt she wore like perfume.

He coughed and looked away.

He tried very hard to remember how lungs worked.

“You good?” she asked, the corner of her mouth curved up. Amused, maybe. Or worse: curious.

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t look and survive it.

“Fine,” he said, hoarse. “Just… sun’s hot today.”

She turned to face him fully then, one leg tucked beneath her, sundress shifting with the motion. The sheer fabric caught the light, and the silhouette of her swimsuit underneath, cut perfectly to her curves, seemed to glow.

She caught him looking.

And she smiled like it was a secret.

“Would you like some water?” she murmured, voice low and lilting, holding out her water bottle.

He reached for it, careful not to touch her fingers, though the urge to do so was near-physical. His grip was too firm on the bottle, like he didn’t quite trust himself to handle anything delicately right now.

The cap was still damp from her mouth.

He swallowed hard and took a slow drink, gaze fixed out at the water as if it might save him.

He didn’t taste the lemon in the water. He tasted her.

And he absolutely did not think about her lips on the rim. Or the feel of her breath in his space. Or the color of her swimsuit, his goddamn eye color, clinging to her like it belonged there. He very deliberately did not think about any of those things.

Or, at least, he told himself not to. 

“Thanks.”

He tried to hand the bottle back and nodded once, too brisk, the water doing nothing to cool the burning that still raged inside him.

“Keep it,” she said lightly. “I think you need it more than I do.”

And she turned back to her sandwich like she hadn’t just set him on fire.

Just then Yelena dropped onto the sand, stole half of Kay’s sandwich, and smirked at Bucky. “You’re pinker than Bob’s sunburn, Dad.”

“Mind your own business, Belova,” he muttered. But the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him, even as his pulse thundered like high tide against the shore.

*****

The sun had just started to slip below the horizon, bleeding gold into the sea, when the unmistakable chime of an ice cream truck broke the lazy hush of the beach.

At first, no one moved.

Then Kay casually reached for her phone and smirked. “Good. He’s on time.”

Yelena sat up like a meerkat. “You summoned ice cream?”

“I summoned joy,” Kay replied, standing and brushing sand off her legs. “Ice cream is simply the catalyst.”

The group reacted like schoolchildren on the last day of class. Bob let out an actual whoop. Ava blinked once, then strode toward the parking lot like a soldier on a mission. Alexei clapped his hands, muttering something about “superior dairy culture.”

The truck itself rolled in with obnoxious cheer—striped in faded red and teal, speakers blaring a tinny rendition of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” The side window flung open, revealing a teenager in a bucket hat who looked terrified by the approaching horde of enhanced adults.

Bob, already grinning, peeked at the menu. “Yelena, I’ll buy if you get the sprinkles.”

“Today, I do not need bribing to add fun,” she replied, already pointing. “Vanilla soft serve. Rainbow sprinkles. Cone. Largest size you have.”

“Make that two,” Bob added quickly. “And can I get, like, fifteen napkins?”

John stared up at the display. “Do they have buckeye flavor?”

The joke didn’t land, but Bob offered helpfully, “Kay should get that one.”

She didn’t bat an eye. “No thank you. I prefer vanilla soft serve with a cherry dip.”

The team snorted.

Alexei, meanwhile, stood analyzing the flavor profile of a towering scoop of classic vanilla in a waffle bowl. “Is fine,” he declared. “But next time, I bring Plombir. Russian ice cream. Denser. More dignified. Not this—” he flicked a sprinkle off Yelena’s cone—“confetti nonsense.”

“Say nonsense again and I’ll feed yours to a seagull,” she muttered, brows angled in severity.

Ava rejoined the group silently with her lemon Italian ice, already halfway gone. 

Bucky leaned against the side of the truck, sipping a coffee milkshake with one hand in his pocket, looking deceptively at ease. He watched the others laugh and bicker, but only half of him was paying attention.

The other half?

Focused entirely on Kay.

She returned from the window with her cherry-dipped vanilla cone in hand, lacquered red and glossy like a candy apple.

She took one slow lick, and Bucky froze mid-sip.

A single drip rolled down her hand, trailing across her knuckles. She caught it absently with her tongue and hummed, low and satisfied.

His brain short-circuited. The straw remained between his lips, but the milkshake was entirely forgotten. 

Another drip slid down her wrist, but she didn’t rush to wipe the mess away. Instead she let it melt and let herself enjoy it all: the sun, the cone, the quiet power of feeling good in her skin again.

She licked again, slow and unhurried, without a care in the world.

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then jerked away like it had scorched him.

That red gloss… He didn’t want to think about what else her tongue could do, but his brain was no longer in charge. He hated how badly he wanted to melt with her, right there, in broad daylight, with witnesses.

Kay didn’t look his way, not directly. But the corners of her lips curled, like maybe she knew exactly what this cone was doing to him.

Bob turned, gesturing with his own cone. “Hah! Who needs the beach when Kay’s over here melting Barnes with an ice cream cone?”

That finally snapped Bucky out of it. He rolled his eyes and took another sip, like it might cool whatever had been burning under his skin. “Just remember who leads your training, Bob.”

Kay chuckled, the wind tugging at her hair as the fading sun lit her from behind like a halo. She licked the cone again, slower now, following the corkscrew pattern of the swirl like it had earned her attention.

And Bucky took another long pull of his milkshake, praying it would keep his hands, and his mouth, from doing something deeply unwise.

*****

At the end of their beach day, on the edge of it all, Yelena stood quietly.

She’d kicked off her shoes somewhere near the towel pile, and now stood barefoot in the cooling sand, arms loose at her sides, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. The wind tugged at the ends of her hair. 

She watched the others scattered across the shore: Bob adjusting the fortress turrets, John dramatically reenacting his skimboarding disaster for a second time, Bucky and Ava arguing over the virtues of pasta salad versus caesar. 

It was loud and messy and sun-warmed, the kind of afternoon she had once believed only existed in cheesy movies she used to mock from behind tinted glass or mission reports.

She didn’t know how to catalog it. 

Didn’t know what to do with the gentle, unfamiliar ache blooming quietly behind her ribs.

Then, when no one was looking, she crossed the sand.

She didn’t say anything, just padded over and slipped her arms around Kay from behind, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The contact was tentative at first, like she half-expected to be shrugged off.

Kay didn’t startle.

She exhaled softly and leaned slightly into the embrace without hesitation, her hands coming to rest over Yelena’s forearms, grounding them both.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft, but not delicate. Like she knew better than to coddle, but still wanted to hold space for the woman.

Yelena didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, arms tight around her, face tilted so her cheek brushed lightly against the side of Kay’s neck.

“I just…” she said finally, voice nearly lost beneath the breeze, “I don’t usually get things like this.”

There was no self-pity in her tone. Just quiet, raw honesty it was delivered like a confession scraped from the deepest parts of her history.

Kay turned slowly in her arms, shifting until they faced each other, sand crunching beneath bare feet. She didn’t ask questions, just pulled Yelena into a full embrace and wrapped her up like she was already home.

“You deserve good things,” she murmured. “You all do.”

She drew back just enough to meet her eyes, voice gentle but unwavering. “And we’re lucky to have you here.”

Yelena blinked behind rapidly drying eyes, but didn’t look away.

She didn’t let go, either.

She stayed there for a long moment, forehead lightly brushing Kay’s temple, the heat of the day folding into the steadiness of quiet acceptance.

 

Chapter 9

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods