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binmeister · 2 days ago

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Hello, I hope you're doing well, I really love your work❤️. I wanted to request what if reader was humming to soda pop and when it got to their s/o parts only then did they sing the lyrics, to see what the boys reaction like?? Would they be giddy about it, or smug, I just find it a wholesome idea. Feel free to reject my idea if you're not comfortable, again I love your works and I want to remind you take care of yourself and stay hydrated and safe!! Byee

Soda Pop

Saja Boys x S/O! Reader

This is a super cute prompt, I’ve injected it with some other stuff but I hope this works still ! Thinking of a demon s/o reader for this because it’d be funny to see their usually demonic boyfriend doing all this aegyo and cutesy fanservice stuff.

A/N: brain shortcircuiting when tumblr autocorrect tries to swap my British Eng to American Eng and im like but i spelt it right---

CW: may have some mistakes, some fluff to heal the soul, established relationships

Setup - Demon S/O! Reader who had tagged along for their debut performance, seeing the performance live and then a few days later when they’re catching up with their partner they start poking fun at his signature move during his part as they sing his line.

Jinu

He was relieved to catch up with you again, his head had been a mess from the plan actually working and the information of one of the feared demon hunters being part demon didn’t help him either. His feet lead him to your usual meeting place, a secluded little back street a little ways out of the main city.

His ears perked up as he heard your voice, humming softly to yourself and he internally groans because it’s that damn song that’s been in his head for weeks on end now - he’s tempted to tell you to shut up but he freezes when he sees you. In your human form. It’s been a while since he’s seen you in it, your skin was smooth and you were dressed comfortably in a simple shirt and some jeans but you looked gorgeous to him.

He doesn’t realise you’ve noticed him approaching, your second loop of humming the song meant that you were about to be at his opening line again and then he watches as you turn and dramatically reach your hand out to him as you jokingly sing at him.

“Dont want you, need you, yeah I need you, to fill me up-” You sing his dumb line at him, hands making the same pulling motion he does when he starts the song and he feels his face heat up at that. He turns on his heel when he makes eye contact with you and hears your laugh, then the approaching sounds of your footsteps as you chase after him before he feels your arms wrap around his waist.

“Where are you going, my little soda pop?” You teased him and he groans as he tries to take another step away from you but not enough effort to break your hold around his waist.

“Actually I forgot I was busy tonight.” He says and you only laugh more as you squeeze his waist before letting go of him, letting him slip out of your arms and he stops moving at that as a slight grumble escapes him before he turns around and forces your arms back around him as he drops his head on top of yours.

“..thought you said you were busy.” He hears you pipe up and he squeezes you lightly which makes you squeak before he replies. “Busy dealing with you.”

"Am I all you can think of-" "Please stop."

Abs

You had asked him to meet with you on the surface, at some cafe you apparently really wanted to go to. Despite being a demon the entire time he’s known you, been part of your life, you’ve always loved food and watching people even though you’d become a pawn of the underworld too. Which leads him to where he is now in his human illusion as his eyes scan through the crowd to catch you and his ears pick up on the sweet familiar sound of you humming a tune. A tune he’s unfortunately too familiar with. Soda Pop.

He spots you finally and he feels his chest burn because you look adorable in your human form. You catch his eyes and that’s when he realises that the song had been playing from some cafe’s speakers, not too loud to disturb the crowd but loud enough that he could hear the pre-chorus playing and he just watches as you mouth the lyrics to him now. Then he sees your body shift slightly in his direction and your right hand raises up and grabs the collar of your shirt, and you pull slightly to reveal some skin to him as you mouth ‘so refreshing’.

His body moves before his mind or mouth can and he’s dashed over and picked you up by the waist, burying his face in your neck to hide the embarrassment and all he hears is your laugh as you playfully smack at his back. You’re stuck now, legs dangling a little as he keeps you in his embrace and then he finally places you back on your feet - not without ruffling your hair to your dismay.

“Hey watch it soda pop boy.” You grumble up at him but there’s still warmth to your tone as you look up at him with a little smile on your face, he rolls his eyes at you as he fixes his shirt from its dishevelled state. Playfully responding back ‘careful, I might drink up every last drop of you’ and you smacked him again as he laughed heartily.

It’s times like these where he forgets that you’re both demons pretending to be humans, because it feels human to him. The way your eyes still light up over cute things or little desserts you come across, the way you drag him along excitedly when you spot something. He’ll just deal with Soda Pop being one of those things since you seemed so happy.

Mystery

He’s recovering and recharging energy after a long day of pretending to be normal and human, violet skin littered in dark purple patterns and his teeth that he’s had to hide are back in their demonic form. Misshapen and hanging out of his mouth. But he was comfortable as he melted into a puddle on the couch of some human apartment the group had invaded and taken over.

You’re nearby, he knows it because he can sense that you’re a few steps away and then he hears your soft humming of the groups’ debut song before he can pinpoint that you’ve steadily moved closer. Your arms slipping around him as you hug him from behind.

“When you’re in my arms, I hold you so tight.” You sang out quietly as you rest your head on top of his, your arms are covered in the same patterns his were and he watches as they vanish to show your smooth human skin and he hums as you give him a gentle squeeze. “So tight.”

He pauses as he realised what you did, as he gets up to turn and look at you he feels you hold him tighter and he can see a glimpse of your human face now even with the glint of gold in your eyes. “Can’t let go, no no-” you continue to sing out and he shifts his body forward so you come toppling over the back of the couch and into his arms as he growls and pins you to the seat cushions.

You look up owlishly at him, feigning innocence before your shoulders start shaking and little snickers and giggles escape your lips as your patterns and demonic form return. He sighs as he morphs his form enough so that his enlarged teeth are gone, pressing a quick peck to your lips before he releases the illusion again and cuddles into you.

“...my little soda pop.” He groans again but lets you off when you laugh and run a hand through his hair.

Romance

He’s amused at you humming to yourself, starting to hum along with you as he watches your shoulders shimmy against your will and he’s enamoured because you’re beautiful. Hell is cold and he’s glad he doesn’t have to keep up the pretence of a dreamy prince when he returns, but when he’s with you there’s a sense of warmth and familiarity - like home that makes it all worth it. You’re seated on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the underworld and all the demons cheering and waving their little light sticks as you continue to hum the song as souls shine and shoot down from above while he’s standing behind you.

Your demonic patterns cover most of your exposed skin but despite them being a curse to you and to him, he finds them beautiful on you. He continues to watch you as you sway a little side to side and continue to hum and do your little dance, then you turn to look up and catch his eye as you lift a hand up. Like you’re reaching out to him and right as he’s about to lift his hand to meet yours, he watches as you dramatically bring your hand back to your chest to hold your other hand that’s resting there as your marks disappear for a moment and he realises what you’re doing.

You’re making fun of him.

He’s surprised and his eyes glint dangerously as you peer up at him, hands still held against your chest and your face innocently human as if you’ve just confessed a heartfelt and sentimental sentence to him before he rolls his eyes and plops down beside you. Lets you laugh at him as you release your form and though your human disguise was cute, he enjoyed seeing you for what you are as you grin at him - sharp teeth and all. He finally settles down beside you after you finish your little laughing fit, enjoying the ways your eyes crinkle from your joy.

“You need to work on your dreamy look.” He finally comments and you lightly smack his shoulder as he chuckles, quickly morphing into his human form to show you what he means and you roll your eyes at him. “It might work on the people up there, but no thanks.”

You reach up and pinch his cheek, waiting for him to release the disguise and quietly confess to him. “I like you better when you’re you.”

Baby

He couldn’t fathom that he was somehow still in hell despite not physically being in hell. He tagged along with you one day when you’re up in the human world, human disguises on and he’s had to deal with you humming that dumb Soda Pop song for a majority of the time that you’ve spent walking around exploring. Though he wanted to complain he kept it to himself because anytime he would open his mouth he catches the way your eyes twinkle, your human form was beautiful and he still couldn’t fathom that he’d never actually seen it in the entirety of knowing you.

So he simply deals with it. Listens to you humming as you lead him around the different stalls and vendors in the street market you’d come across, you giddily picked up snacks to examine what ingredients had been shoved into the teeny tiny morsels of food and then you come across a stand that was selling soda cans from a little ice filled esky. Then you pause and turn to look at him, he’d been trailing behind you and his eyes were bored as he looked at the displays of food and various hand made crafts decorating little plastic tables.

Muffled speakers were now playing Soda Pop as well and the hell that was listening to you hum to yourself was amplified but he managed to tune it out enough, though he did like the way your shoulders would subtly dance to the song as you continued on ahead of him. Then an idea pops into your head, you stop walking when you get to a more secluded area where less tables were set up.

You wait for him to look up at you so you can make eye contact with Baby as his singing line comes up in the song and he watches with a blank expression as you move a hand up to do the little can drinking motion as you sing his line in time with the speakers nearby, “My little soda pop.” A cute little wink accompanied with the line.

His eyes widen and his jaw drops, before he can say anything to you - you’ve turned on your feet and started walking again. He wasn’t sure if his heart was functioning before that moment but it definitely was now as he tries to recover from your little cute stunt.

#kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh x reader #jinu x reader #baby saja x reader #abs saja x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #fluff #established relationship

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beetrans · 2 days ago

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okay separate from the ID, I want to say:

if you don't do this, you Will burn yourself out and possibly permanently damage your ability to do these things that are most important to Proving to yourself who you are. and trust me. it is an Awful experience. so.

to detangle your Self from your Productivity, you have to cultivate other things to define you as a person. not to say Fuck Your Skills but rather that you know and affirm who you are beyond them.

what makes you you?

clues to start finding out:

literally ask your friends. what do they like about you? why do they spend time with you? write this down. refer back to it. repeat it to yourself.

look at people in your life who cannot and do not do what you do. what do you admire in them? in who they are and how they live their lives? cultivating compassion, admiration, connection for & with others can help us apply the same to ourselves.

watch your self. when you're Not doing those things, what do you enjoy? what makes your brain tick, what makes your body move, where and how do you feel joy?

similar to #2: be in community with more people. building connections is so so important. the world ends with you. go to an Activity and show up regularly. honestly ask and listen to people about what they're feeling. find something to compliment someone on.

and similar to #3: i can't remember where i saw it, but "follow the breadcrumbs of your joy." where have you found enjoyment in the past? what senses have you felt connected to? get playful with it if you can -- try to not expect or demand that what you do Will Bring You Joy or Fulfilment but try it for what it is. get a pack of dollar store crayons and scribble. make a shitty loaf of bread. go outside and see how many different shaped leaves you can find.

i literally had no purpose to my life other than making The World A Better Place by doing the Most work and being the Most helpful and having the Fewest Needs and it nearly killed me.

i now do things In Community With People. we share the weight of each other and we lift much more than we could alone. and we make something good from the despair and grief of the world. it was Hard to get here and I absolutely fuck up and ppl say Hey are you doing Too Much and I pause and think and step back and I'm so grateful bc they know me and care about me enough to want me to be Well, not Useful.

#also I pet my dog and cuddle her and go for walks sometimes.#but [redacted older friend very much not on tumblr] I love you and you've helped me immensely and you know this.

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sowerpatch · 13 hours ago

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unfold [chapter eight - home]

Summary: Paige Bueckers didn’t expect to lose the WNBA championship. She also didn’t expect to find comfort in a bartender who spoke more with her in guarded silences than most people did with words.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi doesn't play basketball but works as a bartender.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: In the stillness of the offseason, Paige begins to find comfort in slower days—shared meals, quiet nights, and the steady presence of Azzi at her side. When basketball calls her back, it’s Azzi’s quiet encouragement that helps her step onto the court again, not for anyone else, but for herself.

Word count: 5,177

The apartment smelled faintly of cinnamon and candle wax, a soft sweetness drifting through the still air. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, weaving a rhythm too gentle to interrupt the hush that had settled between them. Golden lamplight warmed the corners of the living room, wrapping everything in a sense of stillness, as if the world had briefly agreed to pause.

Paige sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a plush ivory blanket that fell over her lap in uneven folds. Her damp hair curled slightly at the ends, the scent of Azzi’s shampoo clinging faintly to the space between them. She leaned forward over a takeout box balanced on her knees, stealing another bite of fries while pretending she hadn’t already finished half of Azzi’s.

Across from her, Azzi sat with one leg tucked beneath her, shoulders draped in a faded pink Nike hoodie Paige had left on her bed months ago. Her elbows rested on the cushion behind her, relaxed and effortless, gaze fixed on Paige with the kind of quiet affection that lived in the margins. Her lips held the hint of a smile, subtle and unhurried.

"You always say you’re not that hungry," Azzi murmured, her tone more amused than accusatory. "And then somehow my food disappears first."

Paige shrugged, feigning innocence. "You looked distracted. I thought I was helping."

Azzi tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable except for the softness in her eyes. "Is that what we’re calling it now?"

Paige laughed, her voice warm and low. She reached for another fry, this time handing it across to Azzi with exaggerated care. "A peace offering. For the record, your fries taste better than mine."

"They came from the same place."

"Still," Paige said, leaning back. "Yours had better energy."

Azzi accepted the fry and shifted closer, her knee brushing against Paige’s under the blanket. She didn’t respond with another quip. Instead, her fingers reached for Paige’s hand, settling there lightly, like they already belonged.

The silence that followed carried no tension. It felt lived-in, filled with the comfort of someone who knows how to be still beside another without asking for anything. Paige’s gaze drifted toward the rain for a moment, then slowly returned to Azzi.

“I’ve been thinking about the future,” she said. Her voice dropped slightly, not uncertain, only sincere. “The offseason has been quieter than I expected. Less demanding. I thought I would feel restless. I thought I would panic without a schedule.”

Azzi’s thumb moved gently along the side of Paige’s hand, a motion slow and grounding.

“But I’ve felt good,” Paige continued. “I’ve been sleeping. Eating without counting protein grams. Walking places just to walk. I started sketching again last week. Nothing impressive. It’s just... been nice. Different, but good.”

“I’m proud of you,” Azzi smiled. “Even if you’re just drawing sad cats in the margins of your notebook.”

“They’re contemplative cats,” Paige replied with mock seriousness. “Very existential.”

Azzi leaned forward, her forehead pressing briefly against Paige’s shoulder. Her body folded into the space with an ease that only came from repetition, from familiarity wrapped in affection. Paige tilted her head toward her, their temple to temple contact subtle and natural.

“You don’t owe anyone constant motion,” Azzi whispered. “You’re allowed to find softness. Even in stillness.”

Paige’s throat tightened, not from sadness, but from the quiet impact of being understood so completely. She turned toward her, their knees pressed close beneath the blanket, hands still entwined.

“I used to think if I slowed down, everything I’d built would slip away,” she admitted. “But lately, it’s starting to feel like I’m building something new. With more intention. With you in it.”

Azzi didn’t speak right away. Her fingers pressed lightly against Paige’s palm, a silent response wrapped in contact.

“You deserve to grow in any direction that feels true,” she said at last. “And I’ll be here. Wherever that takes you.”

Paige leaned forward, her forehead resting against Azzi’s, breath mingling in the small space between them.

The rain still moved across the glass, soft and steady, but inside the apartment, warmth gathered slowly.

The restaurant sat on a narrow corner in Silver Lake, nestled between a florist’s storefront and a vintage film bookstore. Inside, low ceilings framed the room in dark walnut beams, and candlelight flickered in tall glasses against exposed brick. A jazz trio played from the far end, upright bass carrying a pulse that never rose above the hum of tableware and softened voices.

The host had led them to a small table set against a back wall, partially hidden behind a tall potted palm. Paige had picked it for that reason.

Azzi wore a black wrap dress, simple and deliberate, her curls pulled into a loose, effortless bun that had held its shape through the breeze outside. She looked comfortable, not styled, which made Paige more aware of how many times she’d changed before settling on her current outfit—a white button up and dark jeans, understated but intentional. The sleeves still bore faint creases from where she’d folded and unfolded them too many times.

“This place is nice,”

“I figured,” Paige replied, setting her napkin across her lap, “if we were going to call something a first date, it should have actual chairs and menus. No milkshakes or drive-thrus.”

Azzi smiled, slow and amused. “So the Chick-fil-A parking lot didn’t make the cut?”

Paige met her eyes and allowed herself to hold the moment a beat longer. “I liked the parking lot. But I wanted you to see me try.”

There was no need for Azzi to fill the space with reassurance. Instead, she reached for her water and took a sip with the kind of measured grace Paige had come to recognize as second nature. It wasn’t aloofness. It was restraint. Precision.

“You’re trying,” Azzi said, setting the glass down. “That much is obvious.”

The server appeared, and they both ordered with minimal discussion. Paige didn’t look at the menu for long. She’d already checked it the night before, wanting to avoid fumbling over decisions. When the server left, a brief stillness stretched between them, though neither one shifted.

Paige leaned back slightly. “It’s strange,” she said. “You’ve seen me at my worst. Most people meet me and only get the version that knows what she’s doing.”

Azzi tilted her head just enough to invite honesty. “And I’m supposed to believe I’ve seen the unfiltered Paige?”

“Filtered isn’t the word. Controlled, maybe.” Paige's fingers traced the rim of her glass. “I was always taught that strength looked like composure. That emotion cost you leverage.”

Azzi sat still, listening without interruption. Paige appreciated that about her. She never filled space just to soften it.

“I used to think vulnerability would make people think I wasn’t ready,” Paige continued. “That I’d lose whatever respect I’d earned.”

“And now?”

Paige exhaled carefully, gaze resting on the small votive candle between them. “Now I think I just want to be known. Even if that means being seen when I’m unsure.”

The response lacked drama or sweeping affirmation. Azzi leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table and lacing her fingers.

“You don’t have to convince me of your strength,” she said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Paige nodded once. The words landed precisely where they were meant to.

The trio on stage slipped into a slower number, something composed of long, deliberate chords and subtle phrasing. The sound curled toward them like something private.

Paige stood and extended a hand across the table.

Azzi raised a brow.

“I’m serious,” Paige said. “One dance. For the record.”

Azzi considered her for a long second, then stood, adjusting the tie at her waist with practiced grace. She took Paige’s hand without hesitation.

They moved toward the small patch of floor in front of the band, joining two other couples who swayed in gentle time. Paige’s form was cautious. Her lead unsure at first, shoulders slightly tense, as though she feared misstepping in a space where she had no playbook.

Azzi placed her hand over Paige’s shoulder, grounding her.

“You’re thinking too much,” she murmured.

Paige smiled, lowering her gaze. “I’m used to leading teams, not feet.”

Azzi leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “Then let this be the exception.”

Paige adjusted, following the rhythm not of the music, but of Azzi’s steadiness. Their movement became less about coordination and more about trust. The room receded—music softening to ambience, voices folding into the background.

The air in the local grocery store held a faint citrus sharpness mingled with the sterile tang of freshly mopped floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a soft electric lullaby.

Paige followed Azzi through the sliding doors, one hand gripping a basket, the other laced gently with Azzi’s fingers. Her gym bag hung off one shoulder, slightly damp from the earlier workout, the towel left behind in the car.

Azzi paused near the produce, crouching low in front of a bin of avocados. Her fingertips pressed delicately at the base of one fruit, measuring its softness with practiced care.

“This one’s too firm,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “It needs to yield, just slightly.”

Paige eyed the pile with exaggerated suspicion. “How am I supposed to know what emotional maturity feels like in fruit form?”

Azzi’s lips curved upward without lifting her gaze. “Sounds like a personal journey.”

Paige reached into the bin and retrieved the largest avocado within reach. “This one looks like it could bench press a truck.”

“That one will ripen somewhere around the next presidential cycle.”

Paige dropped it into the basket with a shrug. “I enjoy a challenge.”

Azzi rose to her feet, one eyebrow lifted. “We’re making dinner tonight, remember?”

Paige tilted her head with feigned seriousness. “We’re consuming something tonight. That might be cereal. That might be toast. That might be my crushed pride.”

Azzi stepped close, her hand landing at the base of Paige’s spine, thumb tracing a slow, familiar arc across the back of her hoodie. “If it comes to that, I’ll fry the toast and serve your pride in small, digestible portions.”

Paige leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, her voice a low murmur. “I really did win the lottery with you.”

They drifted through the aisles without urgency, their pace shaped by unspoken rhythm rather than efficiency. Azzi examined a box of pasta with one hand while Paige balanced almond milk in the other, squinting at the label as if deciphering something ancient.

“You know that’s the unsweetened one,” Azzi observed, tone casual and affectionate.

Paige frowned at the label with mock betrayal. “That feels personally targeted.”

“It’s nutritionally sound.”

“I lift weights.”

“You don’t bench enough to earn emotional milk.”

Paige returned the carton to the shelf with exaggerated offense and replaced it with a sleeve of powdered mini donuts. “These will handle my emotional labor instead.”

Azzi gave her a side glance. “You’re aware I exist, right? Emotional support, right here, carbon-based and available.”

“I like redundancy in my coping strategies.”

At checkout, Paige insisted on paying, stepping forward with the confidence of someone buying a vacation home. Azzi leaned casually against the edge of the counter, watching with an expression too amused to challenge her. Paige handed over her card with exaggerated flourish.

“Will this cover a shared domestic fantasy?” she asked the cashier.

A soft laugh escaped from behind the register.

Azzi smiled, mouthing silently toward the counter, She’s being entirely serious.

The drive to Azzi’s apartment passed in companionable quiet. The sky had shifted by then, soft gold dissolving into violet streaks that stretched across the evening. Inside, Paige dropped the bag onto the kitchen island and reached for the pasta.

“You really trust me with open flame?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

Azzi twisted her hair back, anchoring it with a clip. “I handed you my heart three months ago. The stove feels relatively safe.”

Paige’s grin widened slowly. “You’re absurdly good at this.”

Azzi moved past her toward the cutting board. “I practiced before I met you. Then I got better at meaning it.”

They moved in concert without discussion. Azzi chopped vegetables with efficient precision, the knife gliding in clean, rhythmic strokes. Paige manned the saucepan with theatrical flair, occasionally spinning in place when the playlist landed on a song from her Spotify playlist.

Azzi looked up mid-slice, eyes catching on the scene before her. “Are you dancing with a ladle in your hand?”

Paige raised her arm in mock defiance, ladle pointed like a wand. “This is how culinary magic happens.”

By the time they sat down to eat, the sky outside had deepened into indigo, and the city beyond the windows hummed faintly in the distance. They ate at the counter, seated shoulder to shoulder, their feet bare and brushing occasionally beneath the stools.

“Today felt different.” Azzi twirled her fork, pausing between bites.

Paige rested her elbow on the counter and watched her. “Like something that might stay?”

“Like something that already lives here.”

Paige reached across the narrow space and touched Azzi’s wrist, her fingers tracing lightly along the skin. The space between them pulsed with familiarity, warm and unguarded.

“You’re home,” Paige whispered.

Azzi turned her palm upward and threaded their fingers together, anchoring the moment with quiet certainty. “So are you.”

Paige rose from her stool and stepped closer, brushing her thumb across Azzi’s cheekbone with reverence. She leaned in without hesitation, lips finding Azzi’s in a slow, deliberate kiss.

The kiss unfolded slowly, shaped by intention rather than haste. It lingered with the quiet weight of understanding, as though the space between them had already spoken what words could only echo.

When they parted, Azzi rested her forehead against Paige’s, breath steady. “Cooking with you feels natural.”

Paige’s smile curved gently. “You prefer the kissing.”

Azzi’s laugh came soft and close. “Obviously.”

The atmosphere simmered with quiet excitement in a university bar. Laughter bounced from table to table, punctuated by the clatter of pint glasses and the occasional shriek of triumph from a corner booth.

A chalkboard near the entrance read Trivia Night – Teams of 4–6 – No Phones, All Glory in uneven block letters.

Azzi stood near the bar with her Criminal Law class debate team, a loosely assembled crew of sharp-eyed students in cuffed sleeves and secondhand sweaters. They hovered around a high table, surrounded by baskets of fries and pitchers of cider, locked in some kind of light philosophical bickering about historical accuracy in period dramas.

Paige entered behind Azzi, a subtle blend of confidence and unfamiliarity in her steps. Her jacket hung open, revealing a dark purple shirt, and her hair was pulled back in a lazy bun. She gave a small wave when someone noticed her, then turned to Azzi with a grin that softened the edges of the room.

“You weren’t kidding,” Paige said, eyeing the group. “These people look like they could name every Supreme Court justice... in chronological order.”

“That was last week’s bonus round.”

Paige blinked once, deliberately. “You brought me into a lion’s den.”

“I brought you into a room full of people who think arguing is a leisure activity.”

“Same thing.”

Before they could say more, the host’s voice echoed through the speakers. “Alright teams, pens up. It’s time.”

They slid into their seats, Azzi squeezing in beside Paige while her teammates offered casual introductions. Paige responded with polite nods and occasional charm, clearly out of her element but leaning into it with grace. A basket of onion rings arrived, and Paige took one like it might be a shield.

The first round began.

Category: American Presidents.

Azzi’s team launched into whispered consensus before the host finished reading. Paige scribbled something down and passed the paper toward Azzi. She glanced at it, then covered her mouth.

“Paige. This says Andrew Garfield.”

Paige nodded seriously. “A deeply underrated president.”

“He was Spider-Man.”

“He stood for truth.”

Azzi tilted her head, expression unreadable. “Was this your plan all along?”

“I like to keep the energy unpredictable.”

By the second round, Paige had earned her reputation. Each incorrect answer arrived with a dramatic pause, a raised brow, or an exaggerated flourish.

For a question about the chemical symbol for potassium, she wrote POT-ASS in all caps. Her paper was quietly removed from the team rotation.

Azzi’s teammates didn’t protest. They laughed, they whispered side commentary, and they softened around Paige in a way that surprised even her. There was warmth here, intelligent and wry, and Azzi’s presence at the center of it felt magnetic.

Midway through the game, Paige leaned in to murmur, “You’re glowing, you know that?”

Azzi didn’t look away from the score sheet. “It’s the sweet taste of intellectual conquest.”

Paige bumped her shoulder gently. “It’s the fire of justice.”

Azzi finally smiled.

When the fourth round arrived, Pop Culture and Music, Paige reclaimed her dignity with unflinching confidence. Azzi’s team hesitated on a question about the 2000s chart-toppers. Paige answered before anyone else spoke.

“Destiny’s Child. That song was everywhere.”

Azzi glanced over. “You’re sure?”

“I broke my ankle to that song in fourth grade gym class. I’m absolutely sure.”

The team wrote it down. The answer was correct. Paige raised her arms triumphantly, then stole another onion ring.

By the end of the night, their team landed in second place. The winning group posed for photos and received coupons for free drinks, while Azzi’s team remained clustered together, arguing about which question they should have challenged.

Paige stayed quiet at first, watching them with the fondness of someone gently peering into another life.

As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Azzi pulled her scarf tighter and glanced sideways.

“You survived.”

Paige looked up at the sky, exhaled, and grinned. “Barely. I feel like I just got cross-examined by a table of charming assassins.”

“You held your own.” Azzi slipped her hand into Paige’s coat pocket, threading their fingers together.

“I almost wrote Britney Spears for the geography question.”

Azzi laughed, low and melodic. “That would’ve been a strong stance.”

They walked slowly toward the car, shoes scraping lightly against the sidewalk. Streetlights cast pale circles across the pavement, and the city moved around them in quiet rhythm.

“I like watching you in your element,” Paige said softly. “You’re so... anchored. The way you talk. The way you listen.”

Azzi’s pace slowed. She looked at Paige, her expression warm beneath the brim of quiet surprise.

“You bring something to the room,” Paige continued. “Without having to take anything from it.”

Azzi’s fingers curled more tightly in hers. “You should know that’s the highest kind of compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“It’s the onion rings. They made me poetic.”

Azzi smiled again, the kind of smile that formed slowly and stayed for a while. The streetlamp caught the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brow, the glint of affection in her eyes.

The apartment was steeped in the slow quiet of late evening. City light spilled through the half-open blinds in fractured lines, tracing gold across the edges of the coffee table and the soft curves of Azzi’s knees. The television played muted in the background, some sitcom rerun that neither of them were truly watching.

Paige sat at the counter, a chipped mug of chamomile tea cradled between her palms, steam curling gently toward her cheek. Behind her, Azzi was curled into the corner of the couch, her laptop balanced on her thighs, brows furrowed in that familiar, scholarly concentration she wore like armor.

Azzi’s fingers paused on the trackpad. Her eyes scanned the screen once more, then widened slightly. She sat straighter, her breath catching with a quiet pull that Paige recognized before the words even left her mouth.

“They want me in New York,” Azzi murmured, her voice carrying the kind of disbelief reserved for moments that tilt the earth slightly underfoot. She blinked down at the email again. “Columbia. They read my thesis excerpt. There’s a seminar on policy shifts and youth incarceration, and they want me on a student panel.”

Paige turned toward her, the mug lowering slowly to the counter. “Wait—what?”

Azzi finally looked up. Her features were unreadable for a moment, caught somewhere between awe and apprehension. “It’s real,” she said, as if saying it aloud made it true. “They’re flying in undergrads from a handful of universities. Mine made the shortlist.”

A quiet beat passed. Then Paige’s face bloomed into a smile so full it softened the air around them. “Baby, that’s incredible.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, eyes returning to the email. Her voice dropped, thoughtful but unsure. “I mean, I haven’t even finished the full draft. What if I say something dumb? What if I get up there and blank? What if I—”

“You won’t.” Paige’s voice was gentle, unwavering. She stood slowly, walked the few steps to the couch, and perched on the edge beside Azzi. “You are more than ready for this. They invited you for a reason. They saw what I already see.”

Azzi looked at her, something vulnerable flickering in her gaze, like a lantern shielded against the wind. “I’ve never spoken at something like this before. It’s different from writing. It’s… exposure.”

Paige reached out and touched her wrist, fingers light but grounding. “Do you want me to be there for you?”

Azzi blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Paige said quickly, voice quiet but certain. “I’ll be in the audience with terrible posture and too many snacks. I’ll clap at inappropriate times and glare at anyone who breathes too loudly while you speak. You’ll hate it.”

A reluctant laugh escaped Azzi, soft and warm. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Paige’s collarbone, her body trembling with quiet amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what my middle school teachers used to say.” Paige smiled against her temple.

Azzi sighed, the tension in her spine loosening by degrees. “Alright,” she whispered. “You can come. But no cheering during the introductions.”

“I make no promises,” Paige replied, wrapping her arms gently around Azzi’s waist, pulling her closer until the city outside faded even further into the periphery.

Morning settled over Manhattan like a muted hush, heavy with fog and the distant hum of early traffic weaving through narrow streets. The hotel room sat in a rare pocket of calm, bathed in pale gray light that filtered through the sheer curtains.

Paige moved quietly, arms lifted overhead in a lazy stretch, her back arching as she stepped barefoot across the plush carpet. A yawn slipped from her mouth, unbothered and raw, as her fingers skimmed across the edge of the desk where her phone rested.

Azzi stood near the window, framed by light and shadow, brushing her curls into a neat coil with absentminded precision. Her outfit—a sleek black blouse tucked into soft gray slacks—looked both effortless and practiced, the kind of uniform that allowed her to vanish into academia without sacrificing elegance. She adjusted a delicate silver earring, her face unreadable in the morning quiet.

Paige unlocked her phone, eyes scanning the notifications that had piled up overnight. One text pulsed at the top of the screen, its sender unmistakable.

Stewie: Heard you’re in town. Running a run tonight in Brooklyn. Nothing crazy. You in?

Paige stared at the message, chest tightening beneath the quiet stillness of the room. Her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitation curling in her stomach like smoke. The invitation felt simple in appearance, but beneath it pulsed something heavier—opportunity, risk, the chance to face something she had spent weeks avoiding.

She barely noticed that her breath had changed, shorter now, quieter.

Behind her, Azzi’s voice broke through, smooth and curious. “What is it?”

Paige turned slowly, the phone still loose in her hand. “Stewie wants me to scrimmage tonight,” she said, her voice a little too flat, a little too rehearsed. “Just pickup. Brooklyn.”

Azzi paused, gaze drifting from Paige’s face to the phone and back again. Her lips parted slightly, then closed as she considered the weight Paige carried beneath her words.

“Do you want to go?” she asked finally, her tone measured, the question free from pressure but rich with presence.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t touched a court in weeks since I was with your mom. Not seriously. It feels like a lot. But it might be good. Something to keep my body moving once we’re done at Columbia.” Azzi crossed the room without a word, her steps deliberate, her gaze steady. When she reached her, she touched Paige’s wrist gently, grounding her without demand. Her voice came low, threaded with reassurance. “Then go.”

Paige looked up, her expression drawn tight with uncertainty.

Azzi continued, “You do not have to prove anything to anyone. Let it be motion. Let it be breath.” The words settled over Paige like a balm, uncoiling something locked deep in her ribs. She nodded slowly, the thought still fragile in her mind, but now touched with something new—permission.

Azzi’s eyes lingered on her face for a heartbeat longer before she turned to gather her bag. She pulled her lanyard over her neck and checked her notebook once more, the faint rustle of paper filling the air.

She crossed the room without a word, her footsteps silent over the soft carpet. She paused in front of Paige, gaze steady, lips parted as if weighing how much to say. Her hand lifted and brushed Paige’s wrist with quiet care.

“There’s an academic dinner after the seminar,” she said softly. “Department heads. A few faculty from the East Coast law schools. Mostly people quoting each other to sound important.”

Her mouth curved faintly, but her eyes held a seriousness that rooted the moment. “You don’t have to sit through that, babe. I’d rather you do something that feels like yours.”

Paige’s grip on the phone softened. Her pulse still thrummed low in her throat, thick with uncertainty, but the tension had shifted.

“You’ll support me enough by showing up for the seminar. The rest of the evening belongs to you.”

The words landed with more weight than Paige expected. She looked down at their hands—fingers brushing but not quite laced—and then back up at Azzi’s face, softened by morning light and quiet resolve.

“All right,” she said finally, her voice low. “I’ll go.”

Azzi leaned in without hesitation, her hand rising to cup Paige’s cheek, steady and warm. Their lips met in a kiss that unfolded slowly, with the quiet confidence of something well-earned.

When they parted, Azzi let her forehead rest lightly against Paige’s, their noses brushing as they smiled in the quiet. Neither of them pulled away. -

The gym sat quiet beneath a low ceiling of humming lights, its walls lined with shadowed bleachers and the scent of aged wood and worn leather. The court stretched wide beneath Paige’s feet, a faded canvas of painted lines and echoing footsteps. Overhead, the rafters creaked with the weight of old seasons, while a speaker resting on a folded sweatshirt filled the space with a soft current of bass-heavy music.

She stepped inside without ceremony, the door closing behind her with a heavy click. Her shoes brushed the edge of the court as she paused, her eyes moving slowly across the floor.

Players moved through warmups in loose rhythms, passing and catching with practiced ease, their laughter trailing between the thud of dribbles and the clean slap of palms against the ball.

She walked toward the bench, the strap of her duffel tightening against her shoulder. Her movements were calm, but her heartbeat moved in pulses, loud beneath her ribs. The weight of the court pressed forward like something remembered too clearly—something once beautiful, then lost to time and silence.

Stewie spotted her from across the gym and approached with the easy swagger of someone who never left this world. Sweat glistened at her temple, and her smile landed fast.

“You showed up,” she said, tossing a red jersey into Paige’s arms. “We needed another guard.”

The jersey smelled faintly of detergent and dust. Paige nodded once, pulled it on over her long-sleeve shirt, and sat at the edge of the court to lace her shoes. Her fingers worked slowly, methodically, as if the ritual itself might summon something back into her bones.

The first few minutes passed in fragments. Her timing staggered beneath her, and her feet moved a breath too slow. A pass slipped through her fingers. A shot caught the front of the rim and spun out. Her body responded with the hesitation of absence, like a melody returning without its rhythm.

Still, she remained in motion.

Her breathing steadied as she moved through possessions, her hands beginning to remember the pace of the game. A crosscourt pass landed sharp against a teammate’s chest. Her feet slid into a clean defensive stance. The ball returned to her fingertips more quickly now, as if it too remembered what they used to share.

Stewie called a switch, and Paige rotated across the paint, her eyes narrowing toward the top of the key. She intercepted the next pass, drove the lane with a sharp plant of her foot, and lifted for the layup. The ball arced and dropped through the net with a whisper that touched something deep in her chest.

The bench clapped once. Paige exhaled, the sound harsh and satisfying in her throat.

By the second game, her body moved without explanation. Her shoulders loosened. Her feet found angles before her mind called them. The sweat along her spine soaked through her jersey, and her voice returned in sharp, clear calls. Play wrapped around her like something known, not claimed, but offered.

When the final shot fell and the game slowed to a breathless close, Paige sank to the bench, her legs stretched long before her. Heat rolled from her skin, and her pulse echoed in her ears. Her hands trembled slightly from effort, but her chest lifted with something steadier than fatigue.

She reached into her bag for her phone. A message from Azzi lit the screen.

Azzi: Still at dinner. How did it go?

Paige stared at the text, her thumb hovering for a long moment. She glanced across the court where the last few players untied their shoes and exchanged parting words. The gym had begun to empty, but the weight inside her remained, full and quiet.

She typed carefully.

Paige: It felt real. Like something I didn’t know I missed until I had it back.

Another pause. Then:

Paige: I’m glad you told me to go.

She pressed send. The phone settled beside her, and her eyes drifted up toward the rafters. The lights still hummed above, soft and unwavering, casting long shadows across the court she had once called home. The silence that followed was not empty. It held her like a breath that chose to stay.

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #unfold series

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decayingearf · 2 days ago

Note

Heyy, can I request head cannons of how Smoke shows his love as a lover & dad, w acts of service being his love language pls 🙏🏽🙏🏽

I love your work btw! 🤍💐

elijah moore headcannons

- he is so at peace when he’s at home with his you and your son.

➜ today was one of the most quietist days you and your family had came across in a while. no company, no distractions. just you and your boys. elijah loved that. “baby,” elijah spoke causing you to look up. “ej says he not feelin’ good, im gonna go get him some medicine” to which you sat up and met his gaze seeing his pained expression. “im sure it’s just a stomach bug baby—some other kids in the neighborhood have been getting it but, okay be safe, i love you.” you’d reassure before he leans down over the couch, kissing you gently and carefully. “i love you” he told before making a beeline for the door.

- when you’re on your period he’s super determined to get you whatever you want and need.

➜ grumpy didn’t even begin to explain the bad you mood you’d been in all week. you were being bratty really. elijah noticed and was sympathetic so, instead of taking your snarky comments to heart—he emphasized. you were laying on the couch reading when your husband walked in with a dozen store bags. “hey, i got some stuff” he spoke first lifting the bags in his hands for you to see. “i see” you responded not too interested in what he had gotten oblivious to the fact that half of the things were for you. he rounded the corner of the couch, placing the bags in your lap. you noticed the type of ice cream you like and started raiding the bags. smoke watched from a distance, proud of himself. he also noticed the tears welling in your eyes that you dared to fall. elijah walked over to the couch with a sort of wry smile and offering a warm embrace. he loved taking care of you

- smoke is a great husband because he’s attentive.

➜ you had been feeling kind of down and out. you didn’t even have to bring it up to your husband, he had seen the way you changed in the past few days. he didn’t say a word and instead, got you a edible arrangement with a heartfelt letter stating how thankful he was to have you. how you were not only a strong woman but a strong mother and wife, as well. the present made you feel so seen. the next morning was no different. you woke up to an empty bed bedroom rising to your feet to look for your man. you entered the living space to find him and your son fixing breakfast. “ good mornin’ mommy!” the little boy spoke happily, “daddy’s lettin’ me cook” you smiled at his enthusiasm. “he wanted to help me cook for you” smoke told giving you a half smile. you approached the boy sitting on the counter and scooped him up onto your hip, gently placing a kiss on his forehead before doing the same to his elder.

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mona-risms · 10 hours ago

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Imagine bodyguard reader backstage while Huntrix is preforming pulling out long ass strands of purple hair out of her clothes cause of Rumi

I'd have joked and asked about how someone could shed so much hair but I remember I was the exact same 😭 people just found my hair in random places and it's just like how tf did this longass strand get here

You should Technically be focused on watching the three of them and making sure that they weren't in danger or anything, but you were so much more occupied by the random strands of purple hair on your clothes from all the times Rumi's gone near you or leaned into you 😭. It most definitrly wouldn't JUST be you as security, so you could be mumbling about Rumi's hair as you pick them out and through your earpiece, you're just hearing the team laughing and teasing you to hell ("got a bit too involved w the client? Unprofessionaaaaaalllllll" "okay no it's from just me doing my job idk how anyone can shed so much hair" "try living with someone with long hair.......oh wait you're living with two of them 😂")

Imagine the trio's going through their number and you catch Zoey's attention as you just Keep Picking Out Strands, which them has Zoey almost laughing and immediately signalling for Mira to look over, which ALSO has her almost laugh and they end up working tgt just to get Rumi's attention to spot you 😭😭 and her voice cracks in the middle of a note bc she was gonna laugh and feel bad at the same time 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Next thing you know at the end of the concert people are tweeting about the trio's sudden moment and theorising what's going on 💀 all while Rumi's buying those lint roller things and apologising 💀 though that still doesn't stop the hair problem when it is EVERYWHERE and Rumi really really likes being around you HAHAHA

#mona's appetisers...#kdh bodyguard!reader #rumi x reader #kdh rumi x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters imagines #kdh x reader #kdh imagines #huntrix x reader #huntrix imagines #huntr/x x reader #huntr/x imagines

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huginsmemory · 2 days ago

Text

I think there's a lot of merit here in pointing out that white Americans (and in general white settlers of all the British colonies) have their own culture! But I think it doesn't get to why these white settlers do feel like they don't have a culture, nor do I jive with the flippancy about getting into ones ancestry. And I think that really comes down to that these settler colonial countries, especially America, are capitalist and neoliberalist, and as a result strongly discourage the creation of community through individualism; also they value people not as people but as workers. Not to mention, the classification of whiteness coming directly as a way to control people for exploitation and break intercultural solidarity... something that deliberately stripped ancestry beyond the label 'white american'. Culture typically is used as a way to say I'm part of a community; here are my ancestors, here's the lands we've lived on for hundreds of not thousands of years, here's my family, here's my traditions and religion and food. And often these cultures still are more community and family oriented than America. Many directly emphasize broader family relationships, compared the individualist idea of the nuclear family. When I introduce myself to other Indigenous folks one of the first things I say is which families I'm from, and ask them where and who they are from, because locating oneself and ones community is important. That's how you know who you are. And this nuclear family idea also breaks down more in Europe as well; my family that still lives in Germany, who often many live in the same house with their parents, or directly across the street, or a five minute drive. Something that's not unusual! Even just looking at community gathering spaces (villages vs suburbs). Also, for everyone it's also become very common to also move according for work; a constant uprooting from connections to place and people (away from your family, your friends). And within America and Canada the idea of stranger danger also is death of the community; why would you talk to anyone if you perceive everyone else as a threat? And the list can go on. I mean, you look at people talking about the epidemic of loneliness and the mental health crisis we are dealing with, and it really comes down to people are craving connection and community but aren't getting it. So you have white settlers turn to other cultures and begin to culturally appropriate, or turn to their ancestry (a literal, connection to people, to your family) to try and experience this community and connections, because the current capitalist settler colonial culture doesn't provide that community (beyond the american christian church, which many have zero interest in engaging with because of how toxic it is). Like definitely, there is culture within the USA or other white settlers colonial states, but is it providing what people are seeking?

(Also, how much of that culture also comes from other cultures immigrating over, bringing their own flavours of culture to the settler-colonial country? You mention baloney on white bread; where did those two ingredients come from? Who brought them over and popularized it? There's a lot of overlap and interconnection.)

the reason you, a white american, believe that white americans don't have culture is the same reason fish don't believe in water

#hugin rambles #hugin politics

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lovelynim · 1 day ago

Text

On his nerves

Love and Deepspace - Sylus & Zayne

A/N: I really hope you like this, Mia ( @ticklygiggles ) :blushy:. I wanted to make something to make it up for missing your bday and for thanking you for all the time we spent together this past months, but it was really hard figuring something "new" out

So... maybe you favs fighting might do the trick? Heheh. Anyway, hope you enjoy it!

Summary: You leave Sylus and Zayne unattended to go buy some groceries... surely they would get along, right?

Word count: 1368 words

[Also on Ao3]

The door had barely closed and the smile on both men’s faces had already faded without a single trace left. There was no need to put up the act if you weren’t around, anyway.

Sylus sighed lazily, laying back into your couch and kicking his feet up. With one ankle crossed over the other and his legs resting on top of the armrest, Sylus closed his eyes behind his shade glasses - there was nothing else worth of his attention left in your place, anyway, so he might as well use this time to get some rest.

“Tsk, unbelievable,” Zayne muttered under his breath, but loud enough to let Sylus hear it from the small distance between them.

It wasn’t like he was happy about the company you left him with, but Sylus thought this one would have the decency to keep his mouth from running. “Anything wrong, doctor?”

How you managed to get them to meet each other was still a mystery - to you and to them as well. From growing up next to Zayne and Caleb, to working with Xavier and Rafayel and meeting Sylus during a mission… Some could say it was fate, but would fate really let you in such a tangled mess?

While they seemed to live each on their own world, you couldn’t help but grow close to them as time went by - especially to Sylus and Zayne, in this matter. Part of you wish they, too, would get along with each other. It would be much easier if they did, honestly. But, at the same time, another part of you couldn’t help but feel a little… happy to see how they would bicker and have little fights over you.

Now, since one shouldn’t really encourage violence or fights - and since neither Zayne nor Sylus had officially made their move - why not try to get along, you thought? And, then, against all the odds, here they were.

Akso Hospital’s most renowned doctor and Onychidus’ boss, both in your living room, waiting for you to come back from a trip to the nearby store to buy some snacks.

“I’m just contemplating,” Zayne snapped, trying to keep himself as the bigger person and not let his feelings get the best of him. “Trying to figure something out.”

“Oh? My mistake, then,” Sylus hummed with a chuckle, folding an arm behind his head while using his other hand to gesticulate, “I didn’t take you for the kind that speaks by yourself and thought it was related to me.”

Zayne felt like a vein in his temple would burst at any moment now. “Surprisingly, you’re not half-wrong this time,” he retorted, the passive-aggressiveness in his tone growing worse by the second, “it does concern you, to some degree.”

Sylus sighed out loud, highlighting his lack of interest for whatever was about to come his way. This was going to be a long afternoon, he thought. “Is that so?” He groaned softly, his shades tilting to the tip of his nose as he looked over to Zayne’s direction, “and why?”

“I just can’t help but wonder what she sees in you,” Zayne smirked slightly, trying to mask his annoyance. “The more I think, the more I assume that, at this point, you could only impress me, Sylus.”

“Hah,” Sylus scoffed, coiling his long legs before turning around, sitting up as he faced Zayne with a defiant look, “I must occupy quite the space in that handsome head of yours. Flattering, I do say.”

Their eyes locked, the tension enough to stop time itself. If this wasn’t your place, if they weren’t waiting for you, who could guess how bad it would go?

“A difficult personality, to say the least, terrible history and don’t even let me get started with your field of ‘work’, Sylus,” Zayne shook his head, showing the full glory of his contempt. He wouldn’t let this side of him out anywhere near you, but Sylus? That was a different story. “You’re a menace, to her and to society, if you ask me.”

Still, the more words Zayne threw at him, the large Sylus’ grin seemed to grow. “What else, doctor? Are you going to say I don’t look good enough for her, too? I think I’m going to cry,” he chuckled.

Zayne knew it was no use to keep talking, that it wouldn’t do him any good to play Sylus’ games and that it could even backfire - but the thought of that guy hanging around you made him sick, feeling like his blood was boiling inside his body. “You-”

“Now, if you ask me,” Sylus started, looking at his hands, “maybe she looked for someone like me because you’re lacking.”

!!!

“You are always frowning and nagging at her, don’t you think she is ge-”

“Enough!” Zayne hissed, clenching his hand and swinging the back of his fist towards Sylus’ face.

“Careful there, doctor,” Sylus hummed, holding Zayne’s wrist as he blocked the hit, “you might get yourself another patient at this rate. You need to relax.”

“L-let go, you ruffian- agh!” Zayne groaned, unable to stop Sylus from pulling him off his seat and into the couch, next to him. Charging at someone who was, clearly, physically stronger and more experienced in fights was a mistake. “U-unhand me, you- aghahaha!”

“So you do know how to smile, huh?” Sylus teased, holding Zayne’s hand out of his way while tickling his now exposed side. His fingers pressed and tweaked at the doctor’s stomach and lower ribs, making annoyed giggles spill from Zayne’s lip one after the other. “You’d be much more charming if you smiled like this more often, for starts.”

That man was quickly becoming one of the worst things that happened in his life, Zayne’s thought. As much as he wanted to hiss and roar with annoyance, all he could do was flash Sylus a crooked smile, baring his gritted teeth. “S-shuhut it!! I dohon’t neeheed to hehear it frohohom you!”

“Do you have any other option right now?” Sylus mocked, letting out a quiet smile when Zayne’s back arched as soon as he moved his hand up to tickle his ribs, “might as well make the best of this situation and learn a thing or two, doctor.”

“S-StoHOhohop it, yohohou bahahastaha- AHAhah!”

“That wasn’t very nice, now, was it?” Sylus shook his head, clicking his lips as if he was reprimanding a child, “ask me nicely and I might stop before you embarrass yourself.”

Zayne felt his face burning, the bloodrush making his cheeks warm up quickly. He used his free hand to paw and swat at Sylus’, trying to stop it from tickling him, from climbing his body any higher. “A-as ihihif! I d-dohohon’t make deheheals with peheople lik- aHAHAha, l-lihike yohohou!”

“Suit yourself,” Sylus shrugged, making Zayne interrupt himself with his own laughter as he managed to sneak his fingers under the doctor’s arm, prodding at that sensitive spot. “Maybe this way I can teach you who is the boss around her-”

Click.

Despite the mess the two had themselves into, the sound of the door’s lock opening echoed through the living room loud and clear. Sylus and Zayne looked at each other, both suddenly squirming to push the other away.

“Sorry for the delay,” you hummed, holding the groceries’ bag in your other hand as you closed the door behind you, “the store was packed and my phone died on my wa…”

You stared at the scene, Sylus and Zayne sitting at each of the couch’s edges, their backs turned to one another. Zayne’s face was red and his hair disheveled while Sylus’ clothes were all wrinkled up.

“What were you guys doing?” You asked, suspicious, slowly walking inside your home.

“Nothing,” Sylus hummed, looking at Zayne with the corner of his eyes while hiding his shit-eating grin behind his hand, “right, doctor?”

“...Yes,” Zayne huffed, furrowing his brows as he focused on ignoring that annoying, insufferable man, “nothing at all.”

“Sure,” you sighed, deciding that it would be better to not pry into it, even if you didn’t buy that half-assed explanation, “I will get the snacks ready and then we can start our movie, alright? Wait for me ~”

#love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace tickling #lads tickling #lads zayne #lads sylus #lee!zayne #ticklish!zayne #ler!sylus #zayne x reader #sylus x reader #could i use #sylus vs zayne #dunno but anyway #tickle fic #debt payoff

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loganficsonly · 2 days ago

Text

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 6: sinking in ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 5.2k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: multiversal travel, gratuitous cameos, merc with the potty mouth, angst?, violence, attempt at canon compliance, feelings feelings feelings

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i can feel the ending creeping up, can you believe we've gotten this far??? as usual, comments are like crack to me and i appreciate whatever you can give <3

The air in your bedroom suffocates you.

You hear those words again, this time louder, more final.

I was thinkin’ of movin’ out.

You didn’t press him for answers. You weren’t prepared to ask questions, much less the right ones. You know Logan thinks things down to a singular point, the only part which he says out loud.

An idea so sharp it can’t be misunderstood. That was what you got.

He said them softly, but his words were blades.

Lying down in bed doesn’t help much. You still feel slightly disembodied from the encounter, unmoored by the turbulent tempest of thoughts in your head. It sweeps you back to two months ago. Memories of you and Logan before tonight flash like lightning.

In the past two months, you’ve seen past his weaponized reputation and become familiar with the depths of him. What you found was unexpected, beautiful in the way life is: rough around the edges, but honest. Real.

On top of that, he’s been nothing but kind to you. You’ve enjoyed his patience. Stayed close to his warmth. Eventually, calling him a grump became near impossible, because how could you say that when he’s been nothing but sweet and self-effacing?

He made soup for you when you were sick. You didn’t even tell him you were, but he knew.

Was that not what it was—a way to show he cared? Enough to make sure you were fed?

He told you about his very first AA meeting, a piece of information even Wade Winston Wilson isn’t privy to yet, as far as you know.

He asked you to cook for him, called you sweetheart, teased you about the labels you pasted on every moving box…

You don’t know if that’s just him underneath the armor, or if things changed for him after the whole thing with Wade. After getting a chance to breathe.

Because somewhere along the way, you changed.

Stopped resorting to “I’m fine” just to dodge the explanation. Learned to be comfortable receiving help, and later on asked him for it—not just with the small stuff. Existed without demanding yourself to be useful all the time.

You blink at the dark ceiling, eyes tired.

How did it come to this, then? Were you just some kind of default option to him? The most convenient source of comfort?

No, he’s not like that—you know he’s not like that. You’ve seen firsthand the time it takes for him to open up, to trust. You’re the exact same. He has his reasons.

Stop being cruel to him just because he made a personal decision, you scold yourself.

But the whispers threaten to close in from the corners of the room. They’re waiting for the moment you let go of control over your thoughts, susurrations of old insecurities ready to cloak you like goosebumps on skin.

What ugliness did he see in you that made him pull back? You’re not sure if you want to know, but you find yourself asking anyway.

A flurry of possible answers come to mind. Being unkind to yourself is easy, familiar, but they haven’t hurt like this in a while. The thoughts sting the way papercuts do: shallow, but excruciating in the most hidden of places.

That must be why your eyes feel wet—the pain within fighting to make itself known to the surface, but you close them, focusing on the shapes floating behind your eyelids.

You must not cry.

Nothing existed between you and him in the first place. Nothing that warranted tears.

But as the seconds tick by and the moon climbs higher, restlessness continues to blanket your every twist and turn under the sheets. You struggle against it, employing everything at your mind’s disposal to distract yourself from the ache.

You find yourself turning to your favorite form of distraction: thinking of things that you can do. No time to feel when you have a laundry list of tasks to clear.

One: scour the internet for a good place, a Logan kind of place. You open browser tabs in your mind, websites you should take a look at in the morning.

Two: you’ll need a new roommate.

That’s a big task, one that snakes around your lungs and squeezes at the thought of having someone else around the house that’s not him. They’ll live in his bedroom. Sit at his spot on the couch. They’ll replace every single trace of Logan in this apartment with themselves.

You push through the mental to-do list, sighing to the dark. Time to hit the Facebook groups again. You’re not a big fan of that. Maybe a text blast to your circle of friends would work better, ask if anyone’s looking for a place to stay…

At work, they call this trait of yours a ‘bias for action’ and praise you for it. In therapy, it’s an unhealthy coping mechanism.

It takes about an hour and multiple open tabs in your brain for you to finally fall asleep.

When you get up in the morning, groggy and not at all rested, the house is empty. You’ve come to know when he’s home and when he isn’t. Judging by the remnants of water on the bathroom floor, he probably left not too long ago.

You stare at his dark blue toothbrush sitting quietly next to your pink one. His shaving cream is in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. A pair of boots sits on the shoe rack, dust all over it—the ones he wears to work.

Apparently two months is just enough time for a person to be molded into your life.

Because you can see the two of you on the couch, watching TV together, stealing glances at the other’s reaction. Around the kitchen island, where you’d tend over a frying pan and he’d do the dishes despite your protests. You remember that one time you fed him with a fork and he stood so close, close enough to kiss.

He’s everywhere. All the time. In this place. In your head.

You steel yourself to go to work, but your stomach drops at the whiteboard hanging on the door.

Gone till Saturday

His handwriting stares back at you like a little gift to soften the blow of last night. It brings you back to middle school, like a crush turning you down with a ‘can we stay friends?’ as if you could ever look them in the eye again.

Six days until Saturday. You’ll use the time as practice for when he’s gone for good.

The task is simple: save a dying timeline.

The method is not as simple, but they’ve done it before: short-circuit matter and antimatter flows on a new version of the Time Ripper, redesigned to heal timelines rather than destroy them.

The possibility of being atomized beyond regenerative healing is still present.

To start, Time Ripper 2.0 must be installed in a safe and secluded location within the universe while remaining connected to a source of energy powerful enough to run it.

“Which means we can’t just install it at a cornfield in Iowa, zap ourselves, and save the world?”

That was Wade during the briefing, and the obvious answer B-15 gave was a flat no.

Nothing was ever that easy.

So here they are. Miss Minutes’ mercenaries doing a larger-than-life job.

A week-long recon mission in a different version of New York, beacon of civilization, that smells a little worse than the one they currently reside in, trying to find a hiding place that has enough electrical outlets for that giant machine.

He replays the steps in his head.

Secure a spot to deploy Ripper 2.0, hold hands while his body battles the constant waves of your very cells being pulverized into non-existence, and if that didn’t kill him—which it shouldn’t—go home.

“Missed opportunity to rename it, really,” Wade quips, shifting under his disguise, voice muffled under a surgical mask. He looks like an old-timey detective caught a cold. “Could call it the Time Fixer. Time Stitcher. Time Unfucker.”

Logan shoots a withering look from underneath the brim of his hat, hands deep in the pockets of a trench coat.

The suit he’s wearing feels scratchy despite being made of high quality materials, distracting him even more than he’s already been since the briefing.

His mind has been… elsewhere.

While Wade was more than happy to play dress-up as part of the job, Logan protested against it, citing silliness. He retrospectively realized his point was easily made moot due to his own superhero costume.

B-15 shut him down matter-of-factly with a more practical reason.

“This is another universe entirely. You need to blend in.”

And thanks to TVA’s in-house tailor—who, to Wade’s relief, was a different non-predatory person—they did blend in.

It’s impossible to tell who he is after putting it on. His outfit is sensible in all the ways his instincts are averse to: polished instead of wild. They made him wear a crisp white shirt and a three-piece suit. He realized grumbling was futile the moment they handed him the finishing touches: a trench coat and a dark wool fedora.

The color of the clothes were an aesthetically pleasing combination of camel and cadet blue, but it didn’t matter. They faded into shades of grey the moment he stepped through the TemPad portal Wade opened. He glimpsed at the display.

Earth-90214

What greets them are the streets of a black-and-white, 1920s New York.

The avenue is dimly lit, conveniently silhouetting passersby who cover themselves with black umbrellas. It’s drizzling, the light trickle of rain visible under cast iron street lights that stand at almost a storey high, while the rest of the street’s corners remain dark. Automobile headlights create chiaroscuro reflections on the wet pavement, a soft rumble as the tires glide by. There’s chimney smoke rising in the distance.

This universe’s anchor being perished, the reason they’re here in the first place—one Anthony Stark. From what, Logan doesn’t remember. Only the important pieces of the mission stuck with him, including B-15’s strict warning before they entered this universe.

“Remember,” she looked at them pointedly, “do not engage anyone, most of all your own variants. The smallest interactions could lead to an entire domino effect that’ll fray the timeline further—maybe even cause it to branch into a new one entirely. The mission will end before we get the chance to start.”

Wade drones on as they walk down the street. It’s nearly midnight. Not the best time for him to run his motor mouth.

“Time Patch-er. Get it? Patch? Maybe a little too meta for you.”

A clipped tilt of Logan’s chin snaps Wade out of it. There’s commotion, coming from the main road beyond the bend, about fifty yards away. Doesn’t sound threatening, but sounds like company. And if B-15’s warning is to be heeded, company might as well be a danger while they’re here.

They emerge from the small street, getting a view of the main road, standing by a row of brick buildings. The source of noise is clear: a group of young adults dispersing from one of the houses down the row. Their giggles and movements suggest a type of merriment—the kind that involves alcohol.

Wade smirks. “You think getting drunk hits different in Prohibition? Bet it’s hot, too, ‘cause you’re breaking the rules.”

“Only the first few times,” Logan replies dryly, eyes tracing each person’s figure until they disappear down the street, none the wiser. The rain lets up. They swing their umbrellas as they walk home.

Two people linger on the street in front of the house, as if unwilling to leave the moment. A man and a woman, trading hushed whispers under the streetlight, his arm cradling her body by her waist to stand closer to his.

They’re far enough but they’re coming this way.

Logan’s nose twitches.

It’s you. He smells you before he sees you.

You’re in a simple, soft-looking frock under your fur-trimmed coat, trying your best to walk straight. The young man by your side has an arm around you, a steady guide who oozes charm. He’s dressed casually—under his coat, a long-sleeved shirt and suspenders clipped onto a pair of dark slacks. The newsboy hat covers his handsome features.

The man looks at you with a softness that is usually reserved for lovers.

“Holy fuck, that our little honeybee? We only got here a few paragraphs ago and we’re already meeting variants of people we know?” Wade whisper-screams, pulling his homburg down to cover more of his eyes from view. “And what is she doing, out late with a cute boy at this hour? Scandalous. I’m so telling her about this when we get back.”

Logan doesn’t react. He continues to watch.

Your cheeks are flushed and the smile on your face is a little loopy, but there’s a tenderness in your expression. The man stops walking and so do you. He pulls you closer to him.

Logan catches the way the air shifts. The curl of your lips changes intentions like shedding skin. Innocence melting into something more siren-like.

You let the man kiss you in the middle of the street.

It may be dark, but not dark enough for Logan to miss the way the man’s hands disappear under your coat, gripping your waist as you lift yourself onto your tiptoes. The slot of your lips against his is deep, and your lashes flutter when you part.

You look smitten. So does he.

You’re walking down the street again when the piercing blue eyes of your companion meet Logan’s. Of course they’ve been noticed, two tall figures standing at the edge of a side road, casting long shadows under the street light.

Walking away would be too late, and much too suspicious.

A tip of the hat and a boyish smirk thrown their way.

“Gentlemen,” the man hums, just loud enough for them to hear. Wade tips his hat back in an awkward response. You bite back a giggle, burying your face in the man’s chest, hiding even as you walk next to him.

And then you’re gone, disappearing down another bend, two pairs of shoes clacking against damp vitrified brick. Logan hears a twinkle of your laugh at a distance, and even that was too dream-like to prove that the encounter was real.

You sounded like you’re having the time of your life.

“Thank god for this era-appropriate surgical mask,” Wade hisses, making the lapels of his coat stand up straighter before continuing to walk opposite where you went. “Wonder if honeybee’s our friend in this timeline, too. Hope she didn’t recognize my beautiful eyes.”

Logan stays, feet frozen in place.

A slow pain builds in his chest. For a moment he wonders if this is what cardiac arrest feels like. His jaws are tightly clenched, enough pressure to break a molar as he tries to hold back the strong urge to chase you.

But what then? What happens after he catches up with you and your boyfriend, or whoever that was?

He banishes the compulsion. You probably don’t even know who he is, not in this universe. The two of you aren’t roommates. Maybe that man was. Maybe he fell for you that way, because how could someone not fall in love with you? Maybe he had the guts to actually tell you, and that’s how you ended up leaving a Prohibition party in his arms, kissing him under the rain.

You looked so happy.

“Peanut?” Wade turns around. “You got literal gum on your shoe or somethin’?”

He doesn’t answer. One glimpse of you and his world ends all over again.

You’re not just the first good thing he’s had in a long fucking while, and ‘good’ is a massive understatement. You’re heaven. You and everything you touch—the food, the apartment, the whiteboard at the door.

In his years of hurt, nothing’s come close to the salvation he’s found in simply relearning what it means to live. With you. Because everything feels right with you.

So when he sees you like that, in another time, in the arms of a man who makes you forget where you are, free of the cares of the world—

That’s what he wants for you. A love that’s easy.

Something he can’t give you.

Because you haven’t seen who he is, who he can be. Haven’t witnessed what he’s like at the bottom of his twentieth bottle, drunk out of his mind despite his mutation. Haven’t seen the man who could only stare at the grimy bar counter while his friends—his family—were cut down like lumber. Haven’t felt the weight of his body when he’s unable to stand up straight.

Whatever it is between the two of you, it had to stop. If he had to be the one to stop it, then so be it.

He won’t let you waste your time on someone who’s not worth the effort.

“Hello? Noir-Earth to Logan??”

Wade is now in front of him, waving a gloved hand and not bothering to keep quiet anymore.

“Boy, I know seeing her is a surprise—a nice one, especially with her hunky boyfriend there—but it’s bound to happen. Boss Lady told us it’s very possible that we’d meet variants.”

“You talk too much,” Logan grits, finally finding it in him to start walking.

“Awww, you miss her? I’m sure she’s waiting for you at home. She’s a good girl. Speaking of, are you gonna make her your good girl soon? Saw the way you look at her legs. Smooth and—”

“Finish that sentence an’ I’ll cut the fucking voice box outta ya.”

The sentence is growled out, as if Logan were some kind of guard dog, an invisible leash tethered multiversally to you.

It’s Wade’s turn to freeze.

“Oh,” he says quietly, “fuckkk.”

Logan swallows, gaze hardening. Wade’s surgical mask isn’t enough to conceal the blooming grin on his face.

“Of course you’re in love with her. It’s not just I-wanna-fuck-you eyes you keep throwing at her, it’s I-wanna-fuck-you-and-make-you-mine-forever eyes!”

“Shut the fuck up about my eyes,” Logan walks away. They’re supposed to be at the safehouse by now.

“You’re not denying it, pal!” Wade sounds like a kid who just won a lifetime supply of candy, slightly shaky and high-pitched. “You love her! God, I knew this was going to happen. Yes, I’ll be your best man, you don’t even have to ask. GASP. Your baby’s godfather? Of course, I’m so honored—”

“I’m not in love with her,” Logan snaps.

He ignores the sting of his own voice. In his head is a voice, sing-song through a wicked smile.

Cassandra.

Liar, liar.

Wade catches up from behind him.

“Oh, no need to be shy, Logie Bear. The renowned bard Doechii of Florida once said “denial is a river” and I can tell you’re absolutely drowning in it. You just have to get your boots out of the mud and tell her—”

“I’m movin’ out.”

Reality seems to stand still just then. The light rain is like static.

“...What?”

“I’m movin’ outta there.” He looks back at Wade as he barks the words out, as if trying to convince himself.

“When?”

“Soon as we get back from here.”

“You told her that?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

Silence. Logan’s eyes stare straight into Wade’s, unreadable under the soft moonlight, but the lack of response is telling.

Understanding drifts softly onto Wade’s expression.

The punch lands cleanly on Logan’s right jaw. It’s so sudden that before he can get his bearings, he’s already lifted up by the lapels of his coat, feet inches from the ground. He tries shaking Wade off, hat dropping the ground, but the merc pursues quickly. Gloved fists curl by the collar of Logan’s shirt.

“Look, you stupid, emotionally constipated supercentenarian,” Wade begins, soft but clear, “I thought that holding hands while we sacrifice our lives with Madonna playing in the background was enough to rekindle your will to live. I believe it did because you didn’t walk away when I called after you.”

His eyes glare baby knives into Logan’s, voice dipping low. He uses his free hand to tug his mask down.

“I know it’s hard. I don’t claim to understand how you feel, but I wore a toupee and sold used automobiles for six years. No offense to Drivemax employees and hair system customers.”

A breath.

“But the point was… I ran away from what I really wanted, and it cost me the love of my fucking life. Took me fisting Paradox’s timeline-killing machine to get her back, and even after that I had to really earn it.”

Wade’s eyelids flutter, overcome in the moment, and then he lets Logan go. The crisp shirt is now wrinkled, necktie askew.

“You deserve to be happy, Logan. And I think you know that, deep down.”

Logan’s still stunned, but his mind flies to the moment he knew he was staying.

Somewhere between the bites of shawarma, the decision settled like dust after a fight. He remembers the way it grew stronger, more certain with every step back to Wade’s apartment.

He thinks of each time he turned down Scott’s request to wear the suit.

Couldn’t have ‘em thinkin’ I wanted to be there.

How regret swept him like entire oceans after they were killed. How he wished he could tell them they made him feel like he belonged.

Then, the memory of crackling firewood and Laura’s voice.

You were always the wrong guy… until you weren’t.

Something in him shifts. Something that feels like resolve. Wade notices it too, a firm hand clasped on his shoulder before he walks ahead of Logan.

“C’mon. We need to end this mission early.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Find a power source strong enough to handle Hot Tub Time Machine, blast Madonna while we get disintegrated, and get our asses home. Quickly.” There’s no teasing in his voice. He turns around, looking at Logan square in the face.

“You need to get over yourself and tell her.”

Logan swallows. The growing feeling chips at his stubbornness, fracturing it until it’s barely there.

Wade’s right. He’s a hypocrite. Maybe the worst kind. If he didn’t believe in second chances, he wouldn’t be restoring doomed timelines at the TVA’s behest. Wouldn’t be squatting in Wade’s universe after stopping Paradox.

Wouldn’t have walked into that public library for that first meeting. The people in that room want a second chance, him included.

And he believes every single one of them deserves it.

But he hurt you. Pushed you away under the guise of protecting you, when in fact he’s the one who’s scared.

The look on your face after he said he was leaving flashes in his mind. You put on your mask so fast he could see the cracks clearly under the living room light. You didn’t ask questions then—not out of nonchalance, but out of shock, and maybe out of the pain of getting the answers.

He knows what that feels like.

The walk to the safehouse is quiet, Wade two feet ahead, as if giving him space to think.

He’ll apologize to you when he gets back, Logan decides. Tell you the truth. Why he said what he said, why he’s so scared.

Maybe Wade can teach him how to really make it right with a person you love.

He’ll spend his whole life doing it, if that’s what it takes.

By day three, you’re trying to move on even before he’s truly gone.

You’ve searched the interwebs. Bookmarked pages. Made a list of people in the market who seemed promising. Drafted messages to send to them at the right time.

You find yourself on your phone after dinner, scrolling through apartment listings while he’s off saving the world, wherever he is. Looking for the right place for him. You know his budget. What he’d like. Somewhere quieter, maybe. Private.

Before you can stop yourself, you imagine what his life would be, unfolding in the thumbnail images of units for rent.

He’ll come home from work and crack open a can of soda. He’ll have a bookshelf for himself and take his time building a collection. Small, but undeniably him. It’ll be the classics first—Grapes of Wrath?—and then westerns—No Country for Old Men. He’ll keep choice cut meats to grill when Laura drops by.

His voice rings in your ear like he’s next to you.

Less awkward if I have some company over.

Logan has stayed with Wade and Al for three months after arriving to this timeline, and then with you for the subsequent two. That’s five months of constantly being around people. It’s no wonder someone like him craves a little privacy.

But you also know the company he means is not just the friendly kind.

You see it. Him bringing someone home. He hasn’t done that while living with you, likely out of courtesy.

What would she look like? She’d be eye-catching, no doubt. Bold with a knowing smile. Wants him and shows it with no fear, happy to say all the words he’d otherwise leave unsaid.

She’d be pretty—no, she’d be hot, especially when she takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom.

A bitter taste in your mouth snaps you back to reality.

If that’s what he really wants, he’ll get it. But first, he’ll need a new place to move into, and you’ll need to find a new roommate. Your brain switches gears, outlining next steps that tear off the metaphorical bandaid that did nothing to cover your wounds in the first place.

Never mind. You’ll heal after this is all over.

Though you have to admit, the hurt is not what you’re used to. You have a lot of experience killing harbored feelings, driving your heel to the ground until it wheezes to a quiet death. Isn’t that why it’s called a crush? The withering “what-ifs” that cling during adolescence don’t faze you anymore.

But this? This is messy. Bloody, black-eyed, bruised. Lungs coughed up one’s throat, knuckles skinned. The feeling fights back, no matter how many times you kick it in the knees. Stubborn. Firm.

It keeps getting back up, staring straight at you with the clarity of a single thought.

That somewhere along the way, somewhere in between movie nights and knowing looks from across a crowded room and the way he calls you ‘sweetheart’, you’ve fallen for him.

Maybe you knew you would, and that’s why you were so careful around him in the first place.

That obviously didn’t work, and before you knew it, you started to care if he thought the globe light in the living room was too warm for his tastes. If the dishes you made were too spicy. If you’re the only person he’s told that Casablanca story to.

Fuck, you’ve got it so bad for him.

So much so that, now that his happiness is intertwined with yours, you can’t untangle them.

If he wants to move out, you’ll help him. Find a good place. Put his stuff in boxes and pretend it’s not your heart you’re packing up. Come over to hang out and cook once in a while, as long as he wants you around.

Maybe after all of that, it’ll be okay, and you’ll tell him about your feelings over grape juice. ‘Yeah, I had a crush on you. Imagine that.’ It’ll be something to quietly laugh about. An inside joke.

Your chest hurts. Even after letting time do its job, you probably won’t let him know how much he meant to you.

Won’t have the guts to.

‘I loved you, actually. I still do.’ What the fuck would he say to that?

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then press ‘send’ on your phone.

The mission ended two days early. Logan is more than happy to get out of that stuffy get-up. Back in the twenties he wore a tucked-in shirt and khakis, not a three-piece suit.

The world looks so much better in color.

His phone buzzes. The first notification upon reentering a universe where the right satellites could reach him.

A text from you. His heart jumps. He takes a moment before opening it.

“Thought you’d like this one”, followed by a link.

When he taps on it, it shows him an apartment up for rent. It’s a studio—small, but not uncomfortable, nestled between expensive riviera estates and the Bronx Zoo. Just the way he liked it.

A good price. A good find.

He should be grateful, but instead, he’s angry.

You sent it to him, not knowing he’s been trying to figure out how to tell you that he’s sorry, scrambling for the right words to stitch together that will make you understand just how much he fucking cares about you. Not knowing he spent the entire debrief playing things out in his head, scared shitless for the moment he has to say it out loud in front of you.

Are you that eager to get rid of him?

He doesn’t have the right to ask that question, mostly because he was the idiot that said he wanted to move out.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it either, because when he gets out of the elevator to your still shared apartment, he can hear that you’re not alone.

Two voices—you and another person. A man, whose voice and scent he doesn’t recognize.

Logan opens the door a little too quickly. You stare back at him, and he sees who you’re with.

He’s day to Logan’s night. Warm brown medium-length hair curling around a face that spells H-A-R-M-L-E-S-S, smiling at Logan like he’s an old friend. The man is dressed casually in an oversized blue pullover and slacks. He seems to be about your age.

A friendly dog comes to mind. The kind that wags its tail at everyone who passes by while it waits for its owner to finish grocery shopping.

“You’re back. I thought you’d be gone until Saturday.”

You snap him out of it. He hasn’t heard your voice in a while since the time he saw the other you, laughing in the arms of your lover.

“You’re the Wolverine,” the man whispers reverently. “Oh my god, he’s your roommate?”

You nod politely, a sense of nervousness crawling up your spine. You’re aware of how this looks—someone coming over while Logan’s away on a mission that wasn’t supposed to end till the weekend, especially with one specific intention…

“Logan, this is Bob. He’s interested in renting the place, so I let him take a look.”

“I-I’m Bob, it’s such an honor to meet you,” he extends his hand.

Logan says nothing, but grips a little too hard.

“It’s a really nice place! Not sure why you’d wanna move from such a perfect location.”

Why, indeed.

You usher Bob to the door.

“Thanks for dropping by.”

“No, thank you for, uh, working around my schedule. Could you let me know once there’s a move-out date? I’d love to lock it down.”

“I will. Have a good one, Bob.”

“You too,” he smiles, disappearing down the hallway.

You close the door. Take a breath.

When you turn around, Logan’s already looking at you.

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx @hits-different-cause-its-you @mrfitzdarcyslover @snowlycanroc @teresas-lisbon @fidgetingbee @poopie-poopie

#an independent woman #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #x men #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction

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theresattrpgforthat · 22 hours ago

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Hello! I feel like the best way I know how to answer this question is in the form of a recommendation list, so hold onto your hats! Below is a list of trans-feminine creators whose work has changed the hobby for the better, adding insights, games and contributions that challenge, inspire, and uplift everyone who participates in the community.

A clarification: Not all of the people I've listed here specifically identify as trans women, but I'm fairly confident that the folks I've listed can resonate with transfeminine experience. Gender's a fun playspace that doesn't have solid barriers, and in my list of trailblazers there are people who align more closely with a non-binary gender or no gender at all. Regardless, I think it's beautiful that so many trans creators have had the ability to flourish in the design space, and leave a lasting mark, and first and foremost, the goal of this list is to honor and celebrate that.

snow

snow has quite a significant games catalogue, her two most notable games being .dungeon and Songbirds 3e.

The original game of .dungeon is about characters (and the people that play them) living in an MMORPG. It's described by Spencer Campbell as a classic dungeon crawler that's incredibly meta, a game that well, talks about games and what they mean to the people that play them. As a result, loss isn't just represented in hit points - it's represented in your ability to continue playing the game with your friends. Both the original and the remastered version put a lot of emphasis on making the game easy to learn, especially with the tutorial adventure that is the first thing you read in the remastered version.

Songbirds 3e is an OSR-inspired game that synthesises ideas from places such as Breath of the Wild, Dune, Dragon Ball, Disco Elysium, Fallout New Vegas, Into the Odd, and much much more. This game is consistently praised for its content more than anything else; the weird and fantastical, the depth of the lore, and the themes of movement between death and life. The setting is full of dungeons, but it's not necessarily fantasy; there's modern technology, shopping malls, basements, paintings, and strange growths in the wilderness that can all be dungeons. (Snow's kind of known for showing how anything can become a dungeon.)

I personally appreciate the game theory playlist that snow put together on Youtube. Most of the videos on this list are not about ttrpgs. But the thoughts put forward in these essays are really interesting, highlighting themes and mechanics in other media, including video games and music, that prompt you to re-contextualize and draw from the subjects of the videos in your game design.

Snow's work asks you to push fantasy far past the limits of typical sword and sorcery games, and challenges you to think about how to blend and mix genres into new and flavorful combinations.

Jenna Katerin Moran. @jennamoran

Jenna Katerin Moran is a prolific author, who has written for Steve Jackson Games and White Wolf, but some of her prominent works include Chuubo's Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine, Nobilis, and The Far Roofs.

Nobilis is a diceless game about people who are personifications of concepts; it's abstract, and pulls from modern mythology in a way that feels historied and yet new. Many of the reviews about this game praise its text and writing, while also admitting that it can be a terribly difficult game to pull off, because, for a 'narrative-style game', it's incredibly dense. In 2003, the 2nd edition of this game won the Diana Jones' Award for Excellence in Gaming.

Chuubo's Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine, like Nobilis, is diceless, and like Nobilis, is set in the same game universe. Where Nobilis is grand and sweeping, Chuubo's small-town and slice-of-life, using character quests and goals to drive players to figure out what they do next. Like Nobilis, Chuubo's has beautiful writing, that draws the reader into the world and gently asks them what they want. The genres and arcs of the game help players highlight the story pieces that mean the most to them, and serve as guideposts, making very clear to everyone around the table what kind of themes and narrative threads you want to play with.

The Far Roofs is Moran's newest game, a game about talking rats and the people who perhaps might have once been rats but are now heroes. It's an urban fantasy game that pits tiny creatures against moon-stealing monsters and dead gods.

Moran's work is beautiful and poetic, exploring fantastic and emotional worlds while proving that just because a game feels narrative doesn't mean it can't be just as complex as a tactical game. Her games ask you to think about the world your characters live in, not just the characters themselves, and in many ways I think it can be difficult to pin her work into one specific genre. Reading her work is rewarding even if playing the game is difficult; Moran's work touches your heart and asks you to walk away from your experience with a new perspective.

Jay Dragon, @jdragsky

I was gobsmacked to find out that Jay Dragon started publishing games one year after I discovered ttrpgs, because Wanderhome exploded onto the scene in a way that took the indie world by storm. Wanderhome looks like a cozy game on the cover, but buried inside its pages are themes of grief, trauma, and loss, in a world where the good guys didn't win. Wanderhome is a game about community, the journey between disconnected places, and a world where hospitality and the kindness of strangers can make a big difference in anyone's life.

Yazeba's Bed & Breakfast, another game spearheaded by Dragon, takes away the option of creating your own character, and instead introduces the players to a vibrant cast of characters, asking you to place them into pre-written chapters of a piece of lost children's media, unlocking new content the longer you play the game. Similar to Wanderhome, Yazeba's is a game that can be played with a different play group every time; both of these games refrain from punishing players who can't make it to every session, while keeping the anticipation of wondering where each character is going to go next.

What I appreciate about Jay's work most of all is the consideration both of these games have for folks who have different gaming needs. Wanderhome and Yazeba's Bed & Breakfast reduce the barriers to play, from giving players the ability to step away from sessions without falling behind, to giving play options that allow players to participate in the practise of roleplaying without feeling the pressure to contribute to the story in the same way as everyone else.

Jay's most recent game, Seven Part Pact feels like a considerable step away from her previous work, I've already heard stories from play-testers about the ways the game affects them after they play it, particularly the strange trend of "wizard dreams." I'm curious to see where this game brings us once it's been published.

Avery Alder / Buried Without Ceremony

Avery Alder is the mind behind Monsterhearts, Dream Askew, and The Quiet Year, three games about community, queerness, and existence on the margins.

Apocalypse World is a game that introduced a whole new style of design to the indie scene, but Monsterhearts was the first game built on the Apocalypse Engine that proved that you didn't have to make the game about combat. Monsterhearts emphasized the personal conflict between characters that can be fruitful story seeds for roleplayers who truly feel fulfilled when their characters are emotionally backstabbing each-other. At the same time, the game was honoring media that was often derided due to the fact that it was loved by teenage girls - movies like Twilight, and monster romance fiction. Monsterhearts also took away a player's choice about who they were attracted to; being a game about teenage sexuality, it left attraction up to whatever happend when the dice hit the table, which, considering the way games can often be a way to explore identity, blew a lot of players' minds wide open.

The Quiet Year, and its partner, Deep Forest are GM-less map-making games that have provided the bones for various other map-making games. The games separate players from individual characters, instead asking you to introduce new people and make a few statements about them before handing them over to the table, their stories free for anyone to pick up and examine. Both of these games are about communities that are attempting to rebuild, and the obstacles & opportunities that stand in their way. One of the most poignant pieces of these games is the way that characters express dissent: if a character feels left out of a decision or harbors dissent, the player representing that character takes a Contempt token. These tokens give those characters justification for actions taken that harm the community as a whole, but they also sit as silent reminders to the entire table that the community is out of step with one-another; the lack of trust that can sit and simmer until it's too late.

Dream Askew is a product of the Powered by the Apocalypse design ethos, but re-contextualizes many of the processes into a new line of games, styled as Belonging Outside Belonging, or No Dice, No Masters. These games are known to typically be diceless and GM-less, with players taking ownership both of a major character as well as an element of the world they live in. This form of design democratizes decision-making at the table, both removing an element of power imbalance that exists at a GM-led table, as well as encouraging all of the players to contribute in similar ways. It gives players ownership over the setting, and invests the table heavily into the game.

Overall, Alder's design seems to prompt new ways of playing at the table, and her work is a priceless contribution to both storytelling-type games and GM-less tables. I'm personally touched by the ways her games aim to confront a sense of community and care even in moments where conflict isn't easy to navigate.

Jennell Jaquays

Jennell Jaquays is one of the early pioneers of games, known for both he work in ttrpgs and video games. Her work is a fundamental pillar of dungeon design, particularly her adventures titled The Caverns of Thracia Dark Tower, (adventure modules for D&D) and Griffin Mountain (for Chaosium's RuneQuest). Her dungeons exhibited a previously-unseen flexibility, and even gave birth to the term "Jaquaysing the dungeon", which referred to creating a dungeon that had multiple paths for players to follow, allowing a nonlinear progression. A dungeon with multiple pathways and entrances can be traversed multiple times over, with new layers and added complexity as the players grow in skill and knowledge.

Adventure modules in the OSR do this pretty much all the time now, but Jaquays is considered the godmother of the idea. The decision to give players options about what to tackle and what to avoid increases player agency and makes the game feel less scripted. While Jaquays passed away in 2024, her work leaves a legacy that has likely left an impact on any dungeon you pick up to play.

Adira Slattery

Adira's work is quintessentially indie, in that I feel that her games are made for her 30 sickos, and then outside of that, anyone who's willing to dip their toes in. I can't pick just two or three games to highlight when it comes to her work, because her ideas are unique and punchy and vibrant.

Deadly Weapons is a game about girls with guns who hunt demons, and hacks the BXLLET system in a way that removes dice nad randomizers, instaed asking players to take on risks in order to achieve their goals, all while being haunted by the guns that force them to kill demons.

Bad Moon is a cathartic game about yelling at the Moon, because you love her and she has wronged you.

No Love's Land is a duet game about lesbian robots working for opposing forcees in a war, assigned to assassinate each-other.

Feedback is a solo drawing game about answering surveys and drawing chairs.

Slattery's games are weird, they're messy, and they ask you to be vulnerable and engage with ritual. She uses unique mechanics and approaches to game design to give you new play-tools and challenge you to re-define what a game actually is. Her work is intimate and violent and I love the contrast that exists between the two.

Nem, the founder of Sandy Pug Games

Sandy Pug Games is a game-production co-op with a huge library, the most notable game being Monster Care Squad, a game about healers in a fantasy world working to take care of sick creatures in a humane way, and the most recent game being Hellpiercers, a game about breaking into hell after all the gods have died to free those unjustly imprisoned.

Nem is certainly not the only person who helps manage a co-op, (and certainly not the only trans fem person doing it either), but Sandy Pug is emblematic of what collectivist labour looks like; it's a studio that lifts up the work of all its contributors in a way that is heartening to see in an industry that commonly has various solo hobbyists trying to figure out how to make their passion a reality, figuring out the steps on their own. The community aspect makes their work special, and as the group's founder, Nem deserves some credit for spearheading the charge.

Emily Allen @cavegirlpoems

Emily Allen is the author of Dungeon Bitches as well as the adventures The Stygian Library and The Gardens of Ynn (to name a few).

The Stygian Library and The Gardens of Ynn are both system-agnostic adventures that work exceptionally well in various OSR-style games. Allen's adventures invented the idea of the depth-crawl, a method for procedurally generating a location as you play. Disparate locations and encounters are written up in the adventure, but the order in which they appear isn't set in stone; they show up according to player choice and GM dice rolls. The rolls generate different locations depending on how deep the players go, allowing for compact dungeon design that feels different every time you run it.

On the flip side, Dungeon Bitches is a PbtA game about queer women trying to survive in a cold and unforgiving world, with space for romance, sexuality, and the catharsis of grappling with abuse. There is no respite for your Bitches; polite society has no place for them, and the dungeon doesn't care about who they are or how they feel, it wants them dead all the same. The game embraces the ability of PbtA playbooks to make bold statements about the kinds of characters that live in this world and the specific struggles each archetype is going to face.

Between these works, Allen also has war-games, lyric games, osr games and experimental metafiction, wrestling with surrealism, whimsy, pain and queerness. She has range and depth in astounding abundance, and it makes her accolades well-deserved.

And now, a lighting round…

April Kit Walsh, designer of Thirsty Sword Lesbians, which as a naming convention, is probably the most transparent label you can give a game.

Evey Lockhart, who writes wild and weird content for Troika, the science-fantasy multiversal ttrpg.

curatrix-ribston, @ribstongrowback, a horror connoisseur and author of doll.bod, a cyberpunk game that lives rent-free in my head ever since I found out about it.

@thydungeongal is the world's foremost Rolemaster fan and her thoughts on what games do and what game design does have resonated in the the works of designers and games academics.

Austin Ramsey / @austinramsaygames is the designer of Beam Saber, as well as radiant and enthusiastic contributor to the Forged in the Dark design space: her game of mech pilots and an unwinnable war has inspired the PARTIZAN season as found on Friends At The Table, as well as CalazCon, a mega-campaign actual play featuring 30 players.

Kayla Dice of Rat Wave Game House @ratwavekayla is a Diana Jones Emerging Designer Award Winner who is behind The Fight Card System, a dueling game system that uses trick-taking games as a resolution mechanic. Kayla is also the host of the podcast This Is Your Lifepath, which interviews various designers.

Tanya Floaker is the designer of games such as Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Mum Chums, and Be Seeing You, games about capitalism, community, and surveillance, and their work examines the way things are while asking if the structures we live in have to stay that way.

wendi yu, @wendiyu, is a brazilian game designer known best for her game here, there, be monsters!, an unapologetically monstrous game about being queer, being monstrous, and resisting the boxes that capitalism and fascism try to shove us into. The game flips monster media on its head and asks you to embrace your weirdness and cherish the outsider.

Lex Kim Bobrow, aka @titanomachyrpg, is a non-binary game designer and the creator of Caltrop Core, the first of many SRDs that made it easier for newcomers to try out game design for the first time. Lex's work is also aggressively human-made, a testament to the beauty and uniqueness of personal creativity.

(as someone who isn't trans, I welcome criticism from trans creators who find any remarks in this essay that turn out to be insensitive, inaccurate or thoughtless)

Shout-out your own fave trans creators! I'd love to add to the list.

Trans women: I love you. <3

I don't think I can overstate the depth of impact trans women have had on indie ttrpgs.

#tabletop games #game recommendations #indie ttrpgs #indie ttrpg

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mugsywrites · 10 hours ago

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Randomly posting part of the "Eddie Goes to Therapy" fic I started after 8.17 but will probably never finish. It's technically a crossover with Apple's Shrinking, because I think the only way to help this man is to put him on a different network in a different genre, but you don't need to be familiar with the show, just watch this to familiarize yourself with Eddie's new therapist.

The drive to Pasadena is long. Eddie almost turns around twice on the way there, and again when he pulls into the shady parking lot of the Cognitive Behavior Therapy Center. Sunk cost is the only keeping him from turning around when he walks into the living Anthropologie catalog the is the interior. Eddie can too easily imagine the sort of people who usually walk into this place—older, whiter, and wealthier than he is, who sit down and pay some shrink north of three hundred bucks an hour to whine about how they’re just not happy.

Eddie, of course, is not paying that much. Even if he had that kind of money to spend on this he wouldn’t; but Frank was apparently able to call in a favor and work out some kind of deal. Which is what he says when Dr. Rhoades (“Call me Paul”) asks what brings him in today. “I guess I’m too messed up for my former therapist. Or anyone else within reasonable driving distance, so he referred me to you.”

“Yeah, that was my fault,” Dr Rhoades—Paul-says, “Should have been more specific. What brings you back to therapy in general?” He has sharp eyes that peer out from his rugged, craggy face, and a low, gravelly voice. He sounds like if Salvador Sanchez, the boxer mix Helena Diaz used to keep for protection while Ramon was away, could speak human words.

“Same shit. Different day,” Eddie says. He may be sitting down but he’s holding himself-mentally and physically—at attention. Face blank, so that the drill sergeant can’t pick out any weakness to grip onto and exploit.

“And by ‘same shit’, what exactly are you referring to?”

“I thought Frank sent you my file,” Eddie says, staring at the space just behind Paul’s left shoulder.

“Yeah, I have Frank’s notes. But I’d like to hear it from you.”

God, this is why he hates therapy. The shrink just never comes out and says what he thinks, just tries to make you say it in your own words. It reminds him of when he was a kid and his mother would ask if he lost his sense of smell or something, rather than just say flat out he forgot to take out the garbage. “PTSD. Survivor’s guilt,” he pauses, “Anger issues.”

“Uh huh,” Paul says. He has a little black notebook that he pages through, takes a moment to write something, then looks back at Eddie, “You were seeing Frank for about a year, right?” Eddie nods, “Did you find it helpful?”

Eddie has to admit that he did, “Yeah. I was having panic attacks, and Frank was able to teach me how to get them under control.”

“Uh huh,” Paul grumbles again, sounding more like Sancho than ever, “Why did you stop going?”

“Like I said, I was able to get my panic attacks under control. Didn’t seem like the most effective use of my time.”

“But you’re back now. What changed your mind? Was it a specific incident, or just general feeling?”

Eddie feels the control of his Staff Sergeant Diaz at Attention mask slip for just a second. He wonders if Paul Rhoades catches it. Probably. The guy is old as fuck, white-haired and needs to whip out reading glasses to write in his little notebook, but those eyes were sharp when he first took in Eddie Diaz. “I got into a fight with someone. It got pretty ugly.” Then, because he knows Paul will ask, “With my uh. With my best friend’s boyfriend. Or maybe former best friend, I don’t know. Buck, my…he’s taking Tommy’s—he’s taking his boyfriend’s side on this, so.”

“When you say fight,” Paul says, “Do you mean an argument, or did it get physical?”

“Both,” Eddie admits, losing control of Staff Sergeant Diaz again.

“How’d this fight start?”

“Well, he started the verbal portion of it. But I am the one who threw the first punch, so I guess I get why Buck is taking his side.” Not just Buck, he reminds himself bitterly. Everyone his taking Tommy’s side on this one, from his Captain to his coworkers to his own son. Christopher doesn’t even know the details, but he’s still team Buck and Tommy. Or maybe just team “My Dad is an Asshole”, the team he’s been on since they moved back to LA, the team he’s about to be voted MVP-

Paul interrupts his increasingly frustrated train of thoughts, “I didn’t ask who started it. I asked how it started.”

“Man, I don’t even know!” bursts past Staff Sergeant Diaz’s tight control, “The whole thing, it just came out of nowhere. Tommy just started unloading on me, saying this fucked up shit to me…”

You think Evan’s just fucking great when you need free therapy or childcare or a free fucking punching bag—

Fuck you, Kinard. What are you implying, that I’m some kind of abusive monster, or-

Oh! Gosh no, Diaz! Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything. I meant to unambiguously state you’re a shitty friend and selfish user. Not just when it comes to Evan. You use anyone who tries to be your friend, you use your own family, including—

You need to be very fucking careful what you say to me next, Kinard.

Or what? Because if you put a hand in my face I will mail it back to you. As I was saying, you use your own fucking son as carrot and a stick when you fuck up with Evan-

“Tommy said some pretty unforgivable shit, including bringing my kid into it. I think I’m entitled to take a swing at anyone who throws Christopher in my face. Besides, he practically dared me to.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth he winces, knowing how they sound. He doesn’t even need to look directly at Paul’s one judgmental eyebrow. “Tommy is a firefighter too. Former military, plus has three inches and thirty pounds on me, knows Muay Thai, and I may have started the physical part of the fight but he definitely finished it.” Weeks later and there’s still a lingering tenderness in Eddie’s shoulders from Tommy practically twisting his arms out of the sockets in the process of pinning him to the ground.

But what Buck had said to Eddie when he tried to explain himself was, You don’t get it, Eddie. I…I’m not…I am never going to forgive you for this. We’re done, we’re not. W-we, I can work with you, and I s-still. Chris can always come to me, but I don’t want to talk to you, or see you for a minute more outside of that. We’re not friends, not anymore.

We’re not friends anymore. Like they were in fucking middle school.

We’re done, like Eddie was the one who was Buck’s fucking boyfriend, and he was breaking up with him.

I am never going to forgive you for this. Like Eddie was a fucking monster. Like this one (admittedly fucked up) incident was enough to erase almost a decade of friendship.

Although really, should Eddie really be surprised by that? Buck had been distant for months before the confrontation with Tommy. Eddie hadn’t noticed it at first, chalking it up first to lingering grief over Bobby, then to his confused situationship with Tommy rotating to “on again”. Eddie was in El Paso for a long time, maybe Buck just got used to being without him. Maybe it was easier to be friends with someone like Ravi, someone younger and easier to impress.

Jesus, now I’m the one who sounds like we were fucking boyfriends.

“We’ll go back to that,” Paul says, “But I still don’t have a clear idea how this fight started. Where were you? Was it just you and Tommy, or was anyone else there?”

“It was just me and Tommy,” Eddie says, “We were at Tommy’s house.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was looking for Buck. I needed to talk to him about something, and Buck’s…well, it’s not official, but. That’s where he lives now,” Eddie’s mouth twists, “Buck practically moved in with the guy like, a week after they got back together.” Eddie’s hit with a fresh wave of anger and betrayal. Tommy dumped Buck out of nowhere, broke his fucking heart, Buck spent months baking away his feelings while Eddie did his best to stop him from spiraling. Even after all of that, Eddie was nothing but supportive when they decided to give it another try. And the guy had the balls to say Eddie was a shitty friend. “You know, up until that night, I thought…I thought Tommy and I were cool. We were friends before he and Buck started dating the first time. I thought we were still friends. So when he said Buck was out with Ravi—another friend of ours, I asked if he wanted to hang out for a bit while I waited for Buck to come back. Have a few beers, shoot the shit. He said no, that he bad shift and he quote unquote ‘literally can’t deal with Diaz Drama on top of it.’”

“That’s kinda harsh,” Paul says.

Eddie snorts, “I actually thought he was joking, at first? His sense of humor is like that, deadpan, kinda dark. I even laughed. But he told me he wasn’t kidding, and wanted me to fuck off. Stuff escalated from there.”

“I see,” Paul says, with a thoughtful grumble, “What did you need to talk to Buck about?”

“Nothing. Just some stuff,” Eddie says, back in Staff Sergeant Diaz mode.

“‘Just some stuff’? That’s why you went to his house instead of calling or texting, and why you decided to wait until he got back?”

“Nothing that’s important to the fight I had with Tommy,” Eddie replies. Nothing that warranted being accused of using his son.

“Humor me,” Paul says.

“It’s really not why I’m here,” Eddie says, jaw tightening. He is here because Tommy fucking Kinard picked a fight with him and Eddie went too far in response. He apologized, to Buck and to Tommy, and he won’t do it again. But then Buck said they were done, not friends any more. Then everyone else found out and had to throw in their two cents, draw lines and take sides. Now Eddie is the one who has to take at least three hours—probably closer to four, he’d being going in the wrong direction when he went home—out of his day to drive to fucking Pasadena and sit in this bougie office spilling his guts to a guy who looks old enough to have been around when lobotomies were cutting edge psychiatric treatment.

“When I asked what brought you back to therapy,” Paul says when it becomes clear Eddie isn’t going to say anything else, “You said ‘same shit, different day’ in regards to you PTSD and anger issues. Have you ever gotten violent with anyone in the past?”

“I fought in Afghanistan. What do you think?”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

“Sorry?” Eddie asks with a jolt, as though Paul had read his mind.

“You implied earlier that my office wasn’t within reasonable driving distance. So. How long did it take you to get here?”

“An hour and fifteen minutes,” Eddie says.

“Probably be worse on your way back into LA,” Paul says.

“Definitely,” Eddie says. Traffic will be bad enough, if there’s a fender bender or something worse…

“So why are wasting even more of your time dancing around why you’re really here? Because this whole thing will go a lot faster and be a lot more productive if you answer my questions.”

#bucktommy #eddie diaz critical #911 abc/#paul rhoades could fix eddie diaz #anyway this was kinda inspired by the slew of fics i read where tommy witnesses the kitchen fight and got physical with eddie #and while i get how cathartic that is i wanted to explore what the consequences of that would be for eddie and tommy both #because spoiler alert buck almost breaks up with tommy over this #but they're seeing a couples counselor and talk it out

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rafesteddy · 1 day ago

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝓕𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂…

ＭａｘＣａｍｅｒｏｎｘＲｅａｄｅｒ

𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙

c/w: mild language

I tried to include a few parallels from rafe x reader’s love story 🧸 there’s lots of family lore in this one. It’s based off an anon ask. Sorry it took so long hun. Also, I wanted you to get a feel of how they met before I wrote the rest of the ask. I hope that’s okay.

Winnie’s POV ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆.

There’s a soft, golden haze hanging over the dining room—candlelight bouncing off glasses, silverware clinking, and somewhere in the background, a piano’s plays. My parents… sitting beside each other as always, doing that flirty eye-contact thing like it’s still their first date. I mean, seriously? You’d think after all these years they’d dial it back—but nope. Classic them.

Not grossly. Not in the way sometimes parents do when they think they’re being subtle but it’s actually unbearable. Just smiling at each other like they can’t help it. Chuckling at the same time at the little things—things that, even after a lifetime together, I’ve yet to pick up on. Leaning in close when one of the twins knocks over a glass or asks for another bite of mashed potatoes from their plate.

Mom’s all curled into Dad’s side, her hand resting on his arm, when her face suddenly lights up—like someone flipped a switch. She’s seen her.

“Baby,” she says, barely above a whisper, nudging Dad with this kind of urgent energy. Her hands flutter like she’s trying to land on the right words before they slip away. She grabs her cocktail, lifting it to his lips, his eyes going wide as he guzzles against his will.

“Just drink it, baby,” she says through gritted teeth and a smile as she looks out onto the dining room.

Dad finishes the last drop and she wastes no time, waving sweetly to someone behind me. “Oh! Sweetheart?” She calls gently, flagging the waitress with a smile like they’ve been friends forever.

I can see the wheels turning in her head as she reaches out, tapping her manicured finger rapidly on my phone screen, never breaking eye contact.

“Max,” she whispers to me. Dad sucks his teeth, fighting back a smile like maybe their plan is finally coming to fruition.

This trip, Max is MIA. Not elusive. Not wasting away in his room. Just living his best life. The single life. A life of afternoon wake-up times, lavish lunches, unlimited drinks, and a fake ID. Max practically lives on the pool deck these days, chasing sun like it’s his job. He’ll show up to family dinners now and then, mostly on his own schedule. Anything, really, to keep his brain from drifting back to Coco Thornton.

The waitress turns toward us—gives this quick, polite smile—and walks over, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear as she reaches our table. And yeah… she’s pretty. No, more than that—she’s the kind of beautiful that could knock the breath out of someone like Max. The kind that might actually make him forget, at least for a minute.

“Hi again,” Mom says warmly. “You’re working dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, just covering,” she smiles and nods. “They needed someone for the late shift.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Mom beams, gesturing to her empty cocktail glass. “Could I get another one of these? We’re celebrating.”

She gives this quick, breathy giggle and bobs her head like, “Yep, be right back,” then slips away. In that beat before the waitress disappears, Mom’s already shoving a look at Dad—her eyes shining like she cracked a code.

“She’s perfect for Max,” she murmurs, almost under her breath, like she’s launched a top‑secret campaign.

Dad just hums, wrapping his arm around her shoulder—practically a daily ritual at this point—leans in, and places that soft little kiss on her temple. “I know, baby,” he says, like he’s got this whole plan mapped out. “You were plannin’ their wedding last night. Think I forgot?” He teases as she rolls her eyes.

“It’s fate. She’s been doing the breakfast shift all week, and he’s been sleeping until noon… This is his moment.”

He chuckles against her skin, pulling her a little closer. “You need to calm down, pretty.”

“I am calm…” She sighs, and she means it, but she’s practically bouncing.

He rolls his eyes this time, tucking himself into her neck. “You’re doing a terrible job of playing it cool—”

“—She’s sweet, she’s gorgeous, she works mornings—he needs someone to keep him humble,” she cuts in excitedly as one of the twins starts to fuss.

“Quite the wingwoman,” Dad says, grinning as he wipes applesauce off the corner of Rory’s mouth with a napkin. “Text him, yeah?”

Your POV ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆.

You ease the last dessert onto the corner of the table, trying not to bump the little girl’s elbow—or her napkin, which is a chaotic mess of crayon scribbles at this point. The twins shoot you these huge, open-mouthed grins, like you just handed them buried treasure or something.

Their eyes are all lit up, pure joy. It’s ridiculous, sure—but also kind of sweet. The way only little kids can get away with.

You start to turn but Rory yanks on your apron—quick and rough—practically shaking, eyes round and bright. He holds up this crumpled piece of paper, both hands wrapped around it like he’s been hanging onto it all day just waiting for you to look.

“I made the solar system,” he says, all serious. He pushes his glasses up without even looking at you, already laying the paper out flat like it explains everything. “That’s Saturn. That’s Jupiter. I made Jupiter big ‘cause it is. And it’s got a red spot—that’s a storm.”

You crouch slightly, hands on your knees, smiling wide. “This is amazing,” you tell him, and Rory lights up, cheeks pink with pride. His sister nods beside him like she agrees, chin already smeared with chocolate.

He’s still explaining his planets when Poppy taps your arm, holding a purple crayon. “I drew my family,” she announces, lifting up her paper proudly.

You bend a little to see—crayon stick figures in mismatched sizes, all holding hands. There’s Mom in a sundress, Dad with big muscles, Winnie with pompoms, Rory in his glasses, and a tall, messy-haired boy with a football in one hand and a red heart floating over his head.

“You have a big brother?” You ask, smiling as you gesture to the tallest stick figure.

Poppy nods. “Mhmm. That’s Max. He’s the best.”

Across the table their mom’s eyes crinkle as she leans into her husband’s shoulder. “Almost like you planned that one, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a warm laugh, brushing a kiss to her temple. “You want dessert, baby?”

She lifts her eyes—just as the front of the restaurant stirs behind you. “Mhmm… Oh, our son’s walking in now,” she says, smiling knowingly. “I think he knows what he wants to eat already.”

You glance toward the entrance—and that’s when you see him.

He’s tall. Like, really tall. His shoulders hit first—broad, easy. That kind of tan you only get by not trying. Hair all pushed back, but not on purpose. When he smiles—god, something just flips in your chest. There’s a cockiness to him, yeah, but the second his eyes hit yours, it changes. Like it catches him off guard. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting you.

You don’t move at first—your heart’s pounding—and he still doesn’t look away. He just walks right up and pulls out a chair

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough.

His smile is there but under it, you catch it—a flicker of nerves.

“Hi–Umm… What can I get you?” You manage; eyes flicking to your notepad as your cheeks burn up.

“I’m not sure. What do you like?”

You tell him your favorite and he smiles, passing you back the menu with a gentle, “that sounds good. Thank you.”

You turn to leave, and the smile just sort of happens. By the time you make it to the waitstaff station and start tapping in his order, your stomach’s already doing flips.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚

“We’re gonna get these two to bed. Just charge the room?”

You reach for the check, catching the generous tip scribbled across the receipt. Max’s mom gives you a soft smile before she laces her fingers through her husband’s. Rory trails beside her, while Poppy’s already fast asleep in her dad’s arms.

Max and his sister stay behind.

Right on cue her phone buzzes. Her face lights up instantly. “Jackson,” she says quietly, sweet and fond.

She stands, offers you a grateful smile and a little wave, then mouths a thank you before slipping away—leaving just you and Max.

It’s quiet for a beat. Long enough for your nerves to creep back in. Then he looks up, that grin back on his face.

“Now I can give you a proper hello,” he says, eyes glinting. “Since everyone’s not watchin’.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He straightens up in his seat. “I’m Max.”

You give him your name, and he smiles again—slower, softer. “Pretty name,” he says. “Suits your smile.”

You smile, soft and flustered, and let out a breathy sigh. “Thank you.”

“‘Course.”

“I heard you’re headed to Miami?” You ask a little too fast, nerves slipping out.

But it doesn’t faze him—he just grins wider.

“Yeah. And you?”

“Mhmm.”

Your answer makes his blue eyes spark. “How lucky am I?”

You bite back a smile.

“Kitchen’s closing soon,” you offer. “You want dessert?”

“Yeah. Whatever you like, sweetheart.”

Your heart stumbles at the pet name. He leans in, lessening the space between you. “I can take it to go. Since you’re closin’.”

You tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear. “I get off in five, so…”

“So?” he asks, all hopeful charm.

“I’d love to talk more.”

His smile spreads, slow and sure, like he just won something. “I’d love that too.”

You step out of the kitchen a few minutes later, crisp white box in hand. Max gets up the second he sees you. Watching as you walk closer. You tilt your chin up to meet his kind eyes. Max doesn’t say much just smiles. Just takes the box from your hands and tips his head toward the door.

You fall into step; side by side. He keeps a bit of space, but it’s the good kind. Like if he’d known you a little longer, maybe his hand would’ve found your back. Instead, he just reaches ahead and opens the door for you—quiet, unhurried.

“Where to?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder.

He smiles—low and crooked. “Anywhere you wanna go.”

The deck’s quiet. Soft lights run along the rail, warm against the dark sky. There’s wind, just a little, and the ocean’s close enough to hear. You spot a spot that feels tucked away, like it’s waiting for you. Not hidden, but private enough. Just the right kind of quiet.

Max sets the box down between you, flips open the lid, and grabs the fork. “First bite’s yours.”

You giggle and lean in. The frosting’s sweet and decadent, lingering on your lip until you lick it clean. When you look up Max is watching you.

“Good?” He asks, voice rich and deep..

You nod, a little flustered. “Delicious.”

“Looks like it.”

You hand him the fork before your heart rate can climb any higher. And somehow, time stops mattering. The two of you talk like it’s the easiest thing in the world—about families, hometowns, Poppy’s drawing. He grins when you bring it up.

“I paid her to say that,” he jokes, bashful behind a bite of cake.

“You close with them?” You ask gently.

“Yeah we’re close,” Max says, like he’s proud. “Rory’s a genius. Like, actually smart smart. He knows more than I do already, which is kinda depressing.”

“Mhmm…” You hum and now. “Jupiter is an oblate spheroid, by the way.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Rory?”

“Rory,” you chuckle. “And Poppy?”

Pop’s a total daddy’s girl. She’s got this big voice and even bigger opinions—but she’s sweet too. Her and my mom basically run the house.

His grin tugs at your lips too, contagiously so.

“She’s the most put-together of all of us—super kind, super disciplined, a perfectionist for sure. She’s sweet but she’ll still wreck your ego if you cross her.”

“I can’t picture her being mean,” you say, like he let you in on a secret.

“I mean I’ve had to get in a few fights protecting Win, but she doesn’t need anyone really–she can handle her shit on her own.”

“She sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, Winnie’s my best friend, honestly... I don’t think we’ve ever had a real fight.”

“What about your parents?"

“My parents, I don’t know… They’ve been together forever, and somehow they still act brand new. My dad tries to play it tough but he’s a goner around her. Always has been. He’d do anything for my mom—worships her, honestly.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm. Had me right after freshman year. Winnie came the next.”

“Holy shit,” you laugh.

“Insane, right?” He grins as he runs his fingers through his hair. Spent the first four years of my life livin’ next to a damn frat house—I got more “uncles” than I can count. But they made it work. My mom got a job teaching job back in my dad’s hometown, he started sellin’ yachts—”

“Yachts?” You chuckle.

“Sounds like a douche, right?” He chuckles. “I’m sure you get a lotta them here, huh?”

“All the time,” you answer simply. “Not all of ‘em.”

“I’m tryin’ really hard,” he answers honestly, his cheeks reddening as you giggle and sigh.

“You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” he stops you with a smile.

Under the soft glow of the deck lights, with cake between you and a warm breeze drifting off the ocean, something feels like it’s beginning. Small. Sweet. The kind of beginning that sneaks up on you and stays.

You shift the topic with a quiet smile. “So, are you staying in the dorms this fall?”

Max groans immediately, rolling his eyes. “Unfortunately. I was tryin’ to get out of it; had a plan to move into this football house off Alton Drive with a couple of the guys but my dad was like, ‘Nah, dorms build character’. So I’m staying in Centennial Village?”

He says it like more of a question than not. “I am too.”

“No shit?” He asks with a smile.

“Mhmm,” you say, holding his gaze. “Haven’t gotten my room number yet, obviously. But hopefully we’re close.”

“I hope so,” he says and it’s so raw, so honest, it makes you look away bashfully.

He tells you he’s moving in early August for football. You tell him you’ll already be there—working all summer. His face falls slightly. “No days off?”

“Not really. But I don’t mind.”

He gives you a look—soft and kind of pouty, like you just gutted him a little. “We’ve got a few more days, then.”

“Yeah. A few more days.”

He leans forward, thumb tapping open his phone. Then he passes it to you.

“Put your number in?”

You do and a moment later your phone buzzes with a new text from an unknown number, making your heart skip.

He walks you back, weaving through the ship, elevator dipping lower than most guests ever see. Max walks beside you, hand in his pocket, the other brushing yours, stealing glances like he wants to say something but keeps talking himself out of it. When you stop at your door, he smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast?”

“Really? I figured you weren’t a morning person. You’ve missed it all week.”

He hangs his head, slightly embarrassed and nods; blush creeping across his cheeks before he looks up at you again. “WelI am now.”

Max lingers a second longer. Standing close. You don’t know who leans in first—maybe both of you. But then he’s there, warm breath brushing your skin, and a kiss, right on your cheek.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, low and warm against your skin. And just like that, he turns and walks off, stealing over last glance before he takes the turn to catch you staring and it’s nothing but butterflies.

You don’t move. Not at first. Not until he’s gone and your heart calms just enough to function. You slip into your room, standing there for a second. Back pressed to the door. Heart still racing like you haven’t quite caught up to yourself.

Eventually, you crawl into bed, still smiling—Max’s number burning a hole in your pocket. You take it out, thumb hovers for a second before you type…

You read it once. Then again. Your cheeks flush; stomach fluttering. You set your phone down on the pillow, relaxing into the sheets.

Outside, the ocean keeps rolling beneath the ship, and floors above, Max lies awake in his family’s suite, phone still in his hand, replaying the exact moment his lips touched your cheek—wondering how the hell he’s supposed to sleep now.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚

#rafe cameron #rafe #outer banks #obx #rafe x reader #⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ daddy #ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ dilf!rafe x milf!reader au #dad!rafe cameron #dad rafe #dad!rafe #older!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #older!rafe #older rafe cameron #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron blurb

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dark-lord-of-awesomeness · 2 days ago

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You know the tale “the girl with the green ribbon”? where it’s a girl who wears a ribbon around her neck all the time, and it’s because she’s actually headless so the moment she takes the ribbon off her head falls off her body?

That but with Stan. Another au where we curse poor Stan, this time with decapitation. He wears a ribbon or a choker or a scarf or whatever he has around his neck to keep his head on. This curse isn’t so bad, as if as long as his ribbon is on his head stays in place and things are fairly normal. He’s only had people take his ribbon off on him a few times, and each time his head falling off scared them away so it was a win for him.

Stan lives life in his technically decapitated state the same way he did before he was cursed. Nothing really changes.

Until he gets a postcard asking him to please come.

Stan goes to gravity falls to see Ford and things go as canon until the fight in the basement, where at some point while grappling for the journal, Ford grabs Stan’s ribbon and pulls. And Stan’s head falls off.

Ford freaks out.

I am aware of the tale! Its very fun, and horrified me as a child :)

SO Stan's cursed, his head falls off if he doesn't have something holding it in place. Its annoying, but as long as he's got a scarf or something he can get along just fine. The hardest part is getting his head back on, as its very hard to control his body when he can't see what he's doing.

Life is still awful, Ford still calls for aid, Stan rolls up, basement, fight, going at it, Ford grabs Stan's scarf, pulls, then stares as Stan's head rolls off.

He just killed his brother. He did it so quickly Stan's body is still moving, so instantly the signals haven't stopped.

Oh god.

He's a murderer

He killed his brother (somehow? A little blurry on the details)

He killed his brother, after a fight, and and

oh god. He can still hear Stan's voice. He's cradling Stan's still twitching corpse and he can hear Stan's voice.

It sounds kind of panicked.

Then he turns to see Stan's embarrassed head, having rolled away and sort of not really looking at Ford because he can't flop over and his hair is getting in his eyes. Awkwardly asks if Ford could please let go of him so he can put his head on?

Computing.

Ford just killed his brother, and now he's hallucinating.

Gets up, shuts off portal, leaves the basement with Stan's still screaming corpse. goes upstairs like a zombie, feeling empty and awful. Only for Stan to show up twenty minutes later, annoyed that Ford would just? Ditch him? Kinda rude. Even more rude that Fords muttering and ignoring him now? Ford? Hello?

Puts his hand on Fords shoulder, only to get punched and screamed at when Stan's head goes rolling again. Panic attack part 2 electric boogalo, Ford has killed his hallucination that touched him.

Then watches Stan's body stumble around and try to pick his head up, tripping over Fords things and slamming into the ground while the head on the far side of the room curses.

Cue brothly bonding as They kick Bill out and Ford works to stop Stan's perma headlessness. Potential angst route of Ford not telling Stan about Bill, then Bill having fun by snatching Stan's head and running off with it, sticking a gag in Stan's mouth and hiding it somewhere then watching his body stumble around in a panic. Fun head hunt of Ford and his brothers headless body.

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #stan pines #ford pines #stan the cursed man #love cursing this guy

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ihavenoideahowtodream · 18 hours ago

Text

its the american's fatalism

though, I feel like you are asking the wrong question.

its not "could be"

there is a gun there. like. its there. a lot of them. we are all very aware there is probably a gun with in a hundred yards of us at any given time. likely, because its in the house we live in or in the car with us. I dont own a gun, but if i wanted to, I could own a gun before lunch today.

and yeah, any gun could go off at any moment , i could get hit by a bus, im more likely to die of a car accident (which is because americans interact with cars more than guns 🙄) the way several people have brusquely noted, yada, yada, yada. but please stay with me to the end.

we can sit here and list statistics all day long but facts and math has never changed anyone's mind or feelings. Like I can see every statistic and still not see why anyone has a problem with guns as an invention and such cause the philosophy i have is guns dont go off by themselves and most gun safety basics is general knowledge of how gravity fucking works in the rare occasion of a misfire. however, i know that me liking and having access something i think is cool, fun to shoot, and/or harmless in the correct hands is not more important than the fact that they are an unnecessary item to live (with the singular exception of bear encounter. but there aint bears in places walmarts and buses are) and the moment a gun is no longer in the hands of someone who chooses not to shoot it, the bullet can never be unshot. People will always find ways to be violent but a knife is considered the looser when you bring it to a gun fight for a reason.

how do i deal with the fact that there is a gun within a hundred yards of me at any given time? i dont care till i need to.

the bona fide nut cases are my neighbors and so are the extremist anti gun nuts and the people who are generally in between. we all have some measure of delusion about us that we absolutely have to be right. which is the problem. our job isnt to be right, our job is to extend ourselves to others. but thats a vulnerability. i can list the propaganda of the glamor gun violence from movies and war heros for hours same way i can list the names of every child who has died in a school, church, mosque, etc shooting. obviously those lists wont change our minds about guns or it already would have. and frankly, pay attention to the survivorship biases of the nut cases you are dismissing. because that is genuinely how many people do deal: if i can draw first then i live. some people fancy themselves clint eastwood others are understandably scared of cops. either way, thats a 50/50 gamble that probably wont happen in walmart. but i have known many people (frequently of color) be violently removed from public spaces like malls, banks, and stores for fabricated infractions. in which case them having a gun on them would likely have escalated things more than anything. I myself, am baned from Macy's because i accidently walked out the door with 8 bucks in sports bras after a 3 man escort to a little prison in the basemen. they treated my 3 inch pocket knife like it was a longsword. The man interrogating me acted like he caught the guy who shot jfk.

so what do we do about it? we can live in fear and hide away but that has never proved successful in helping anyone when in fact it actually drives us more insane, as our failed experiment at individualism that our culture has demonstrated. ptsd with violent situations doesnt get treated with isolation, either, though a gentler method of socialization than bus/walmart/whatever is often more comfortable for everyone. you want to get rid of our guns in public spaces you have to take away our reasons for shooting them there. so yes i go outside and see friends and loved ones in crowed places that i know have guns in them because i have to. i love the people in my country, "sea to shining sea" and all that jazz and if i dont go outside then i dont find people to love. people to keep choosing to care enough about to create a place that gives up the individual need for Being Right for the collective need for Caring For Others. right now, im likely to die of being unhoused and lack of food security for the same reason i may be shot on the bus. this sounds fucking nuts, but i have to go outside to prove to myself and others that there isnt a need for the guns in public spaces. yeah, some times theres a way to "be smart about it" some times theres not. but hiding inside to not be shot is the same concept of wearing modest clothes to not be raped. we literally live in a game of russian roulette and im betting on the five blanks every goddamn time.

ill care about the gun in the public space when it is pointed at my face, until then i have people to care about.

this is the american's fatalism.

Americans - how do you function in daily life knowing there could be a gun on the same street / in the same bus / in the same Walmart as you? At any given moment? Like how do you not go insane with fear? I am genuinely asking.

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suspiriuums · 7 hours ago

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what about y/n taking care of namgyu when hes like drunk or super high after work and he gets turned on... just a thought...

.ᐟ.ᐟ contains. 18+ content | mdni; mentions of drug & alcohol use, vomiting, some fluff, awkward boner, needy and whiny nam-gyu, not proofread .ᐟ.ᐟ author's note. haven't been able to stop thinking about this prompt oh i LOVE this. this came out a lot more fluffy than expected but the tension is still there. and this is longer than expected so enjoy!

The texts that ROOMMATE!NAM-GYU had been sending you throughout the night worried you. The nonsensical jumbles of words progressively became more and more difficult to decipher, so you were prepared for what came home to you at the end of the night. Just as you expected, Nam-gyu came in through the apartment door swaying and reeking of alcohol.

You just sighed. At least it was just liquor and not uppers this time.

Nam-gyu annoyed you. There were times where you even harbored a deep hatred for him, but he was still your roommate. Your "friend". And as long as you two lived under the same roof, you took care of him.

In the front entrance, you helped Nam-gyu steady himself as he switched shoes—the first difficult task of the night. You listened to him mumble nonsense under his breath, going on about the club where he worked and some guy who called himself Thanos. You didn't much care about that shit. Not when you could hear him audibly gag and nearly double over.

You offered him small encouragements as you helped him to the bathroom, knowing he was seconds away from puking up every last drop of alcohol from his system. In the bathroom, you watched as Nam-gyu struggled to take off his jacket and threw it on the ground before taking his place on the bathroom floor. His ring-clad fingers gripped the sides of the toilet, and you raked your fingers through his oily hair to keep it out of his face. You prepared yourself, then it happened.

Lovely.

"You're okay, buddy," you said to him, listening to his pathetic, pained whines between bouts of vomit. You lowered yourself next to him and rubbed his back, letting him get it all out and keeping up with brushing his hair out of his face. "Let it out, 'gyu. You're okay,"

It seemed never-ending. You scrunched up your face at the mixing sour smells of puke and alcohol, but you held it down. You've definitely smelled worse in your lifetime. Nam-gyu's body trembled as he violently expelled everything from his body, exerting mass amounts of energy. You were jealous at the deep sleep he was gonna get that night.

He rested his forehead on his forearm, gasping for air as he was seemingly done with vomiting, and you watched as he reached a shaky hand upward to flush. You quickly took a rag and ran it under warm water to wipe off any ick off his face.

You quietly instructed him to lift his head and you gently began wiping at his face. "There you go," you whispered, one hand on his cheek, holding up his head. "I got you. Feel better?"

Nam-gyu just whined in response, and by the twitch of his hands you knew he wanted nothing more than to swipe at your hands to make you stop touching him. But he did not have the energy to do so.

And even if he tried to smack your hands away, you wouldn't let him.

You let him sit there on the cold bathroom floor to help him come back down to Earth, looking at his poor, sweaty form process the poison that he ingested earlier in the night. This wasn't the first time you cared for a fucked-up Nam-gyu. It was an unfortunate common occurrence—one that happened multiple times per month. The thing was that it was never this intimate. For a reason you couldn't put your finger on, you felt closer to Nam-gyu on an emotional level.

Looking at his trembling body and watching his color slowly come back, you noticed him moving himself closer to you. You thought he was trying to stand on his own, to which you quickly reached out and held him so he didn't fall. To your utter surprise, you stiffened as your roommate wrapped his arms around your shoulders and crawl into your lap.

Your eyes widened, hands out and not daring to touch him as he whined in your ear, nuzzling his face into your neck and your mouth dropped.

What... the fuck?

"Hey... dude," you said, trying to tap into any part of his brain that'd bring him back to normal. "Yo, Nam-gyu... dude. Whaaat the hell is happening...?"

You made the mistake of looking down at the man in your lap, and you could see the unmistakable outline of an erection in his jeans. You took in a shaky breath, staring at it in utter bewilderment, and a bit of morbid curiosity.

It was obvious at this point in the relationship that your roommate harbored sexual feelings for you. And as much as you tried to deny it, you also had some untoward thoughts and feelings about him, but you never thought you'd act on them. Especially not now, as he was in a vulnerable state. He had his guard down. Poor guy probably didn't know what he was doing.

You sighed before saying "Fuck it," and holding his body close to you. You could feel him nuzzling his body closer to yours, breathing in your scent and muscles relaxing in your grasp. This was the least you could do; to just let him relax in your arms like this after a night out.

"This is probably the weirdest thing that has ever happened between us..." you said to him. "And that's saying something,"

You felt him breathe and adjust himself so he could prop his chin on your shoulder, looking behind you at the dark apartment. "Shut up..." he whined. "Stupid... stupid girl..."

You just nodded. There's the Nam-gyu that you knew—cuddled in your lap on your bathroom floor with a raging erection.

"You need a fucking shower, dude," you said. "You reek,"

#suspiriuums. ❀#cw vomit #tw emetophobia #roommate!namgyu #squid game #namgyu #namgyu x reader #namgyu x y/n #[namgyu]#inbox ❣︎#+ anon

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the-kr8tor · 2 days ago

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Hobat and blobbie request?

How would blobbie and Hobat first react to meeting each other if they were together inside the same universe? Let's say R just found this pile of...cat? hidden away underneath the bushes besides the house and the creature is now stuck to them like glue as soon as Hobie enters the scene

-🪦

Blobbie and Hobat!! My two favourite creatures 😍 I hope you like it!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, set in my IPOB series, vampire! Hobie, established relationship, blob the cat symbiote au, hunter! Reader, fluff!

Navigation

You love living in a two hundred year old house, the walls are actually made of brick and stone and not cheap plywood and drywall where you can hear every shuffle from the other room. The fixtures are a work of art, every corner, every wall and every window has some kind of engraving or a design that would make every art lover stare at it in awe. Even the balconies and doorknobs are beautiful and a reminder of a bygone era.

Of course there are downsides to living in a house that's older than some statues and bridges around the country. The pipes break down every few months or so, and the amount of cobwebs and dust the house produces out of thin air would have your allergies on high alert. The house is old, yes, beautiful, absolutely. But the vintage narra floors or the fifty year old grand piano in the living room doesn't compare to the beauty and age of the vampire living in the same home as you.

Hobie practically clung to you the second he woke up from his slumber. His crimson eyes blink slowly, still crusted with sleep as he refuses to let you go inside the shared coffin. But after a thousand kisses placed on every inch of his cold face, he still wouldn't let you go so he proposed the idea that he'll turn into his bat form and hold onto you while you go about your day. To which you accepted wholeheartedly when you really needed to go to the bathroom.

It's one of those days for him you suppose.

Now with a fresh face, stomach filled with breakfast, or dinner for that matter, Hobie in his tiny bat form squeaks inside the pocket of your denim overalls. His claws grasp onto the hem, a small fluffy head peeking over the fabric as you gather your gardening supplies.

His head tilts up, looking at you through big bat eyes as he speaks to you inside his head through the mental connection he established between the two of you to communicate.

“You said you were done with chores.” Huffing, his nostrils flare at you with mild annoyance.

“I forgot about the snapdragons in the greenhouse. It's feeding day, remember?” To placate Hobat, you pat his head simply with your index finger. To which he shuts his eyes close in content. “After this it's your turn to feed.”

His eyes whip open, smiling happily at you. “Really? ‘m sick of bloodbags, lovie, it makes my throat itch.”

Chuckling, you pull open the glass door to the greenhouse, humidity hitting right on your face the second you enter. “You and I both know that it's the same blood from me, Hobie. Just in a different bag. Besides, you can help me with watering the plants so I can finish this faster and therefore you can feed.”

Smiling, his neck is probably hurting by now from the prolonged tilt. “Remind me why you need to do all of this when they're not your plants?”

“The trio may be out at summer camp but that doesn't mean I'm going to let their plants die.” You utter, feeling eyes on the back of your head as you kneel down to fill the watering can with water. As you look at the source, you find nothing but Miles’ snake plant that hisses and calls for you.

Hobie snorts inside your mind. “I bet the camera crew are havin’ a field day with all the supernatural beings at the summer camp.”

You shake the feeling away, “definitely, a selkie friend of mine that went there once said that the place is brimming with different entities.” Standing up, heaving the heavy watering can, you slide it beside the snapping snap dragons as they bare their sharp teeth at you. “Did you go to the summer camp, Hobie?”

Scoffing, he rests comfortably inside your pocket. “It didn't exist yet, love, if it was I wouldn't go.”

Opening a drawer to grab the snapdragons’ meal, you feel eyes on you once again, hand pausing on the drawer. “Why not?”

“I hate schmoozin’ with other vampires, you know that— you alright? You're distracted, I can hear your thoughts, remember?” Lifting off from your pocket and flying into a hanging potted plant, he perches himself on the clay while he gazes around the greenhouse. “You hear that?” His pointed ears twitch.

“I think so.” Dropping everything on the counter, you grab a nearby pair of sharp shears at the ready. “I keep feeling someone staring at me.”

“You sure it's not me or Pav's dozen mandrake plants?”

“No, it's different.” Raising the garden shears, you slowly walk towards what you think is the source of the wandering eyes. As you near the fluffy pink cotton candy bush, you quickly grab it and unfurl the curly leaves open to reveal— nothing. Letting your guard down, you laugh at yourself. “I guess it was really just the mandrakes—!” Something gooey and black encapsulates your vision, making you stagger around like a chicken inside the greenhouse.

“Love!” Hobie swoops in, retaining his bat form but instead of the cute and fluffy kind, he turns into a large bat that's the size of a bike. His wings flap around, claws desperately grabbing at the black blob sticking to your face. “Hold on! Can you breathe?!”

“Mmhm!” You gasp, clawing at the mess on your face.

“Shit!” Without a choice, Hobie bares his fangs, sinking it inside the slimy flesh. Within a half second, the black goo stretches away from your face and onto a nearby table.

You fall to your knees, gasping for breath as Hobie returns to his regular form, cold callused hands grasping at your face with worry.

“Jus’ breathe, love, breathe.” His hands desperately cling to you, eyes etched with concern as he sees your frantic expression. “What the fuck was that?”

Your eyes widens, and Hobie uses his quick senses and raises his arm up behind him, effectively thwarting an attack from behind. There's scratching over his arm, but the vampire doesn't care as he slowly turns towards your would-be assassin with a glare.

“What the fuck are you?” You and Hobie simultaneously say, curiosity replacing fear as the goop that was suffocating you is now a black cat with white eyes and sharp teeth.

“Mreow?” The so-called cat tilts his head adorably. Maybe that's his way of dropping your guard down by using his cuteness.

“Nah, this isn't a bloody cat.” Hobie shakes the black cat in his arm until it lets out mewls.

“Hobie, stop.” A hand wraps around his bicep while you look at the cat's big shiny white eyes that seem to look at you apologetically. “I think he's saying sorry.”

“Say—! Love, it almost suffocated you!” He exclaims, still holding the cat at arm's length away from you. “I had to bite its ass! It tasted like black liquorice for some reason!”

“I know you hate that stuff, but trust me on this one.” You gaze at him softly, palm gently brushing along his jaw. “Please let the void go?”

When he doesn't respond, steely red eyes staring at you flatly, you bring out the big guns. With one final stare at the cat that's now licking cutely at its paw, you pucker up, pressing a sweet kiss at Hobie's cheek. You hear his staggered breathing from the kiss, eyes closing slowly as he savours the sweetness and warmth you provide for him.

Leaning away, you bat your lashes and gaze at him fondly. “Now can you let him go?”

Sighing, Hobie kisses you back right on the tip of your nose briefly before moving away. “One day your bribery won't work on me anymore.”

“We both know that isn't true.” You say with a smirk, knowing that you've won.

Rolling his eyes, he gently nuzzles your cheek for a moment with a longing sigh. “I know, love.” Gently placing the cat down on solid ground, it mewls for attention immediately. Yours specifically as he walks elegantly on his paws. “‘m keepin’ an eye on him.”

“Alright,” you shrug, approaching the cat with your palm up as you let it sniff your hand. You've found weirder things inside the ancient house, whether that's a book written in an unknown language or a dodo bird casually roaming around the basement, this one takes the cake. But you're not at all surprised by it, you'll look up what exactly this cat is in your tomes, but for now, you'll make sure that he's fed. Judging from his skinny goopy body, he needs some food in his system. “I think I just startled him earlier.” Just as you said it, the cat licks at your finger daintily after giving it a good sniff.

Hobie leans back, watching the interaction closely. “Sure— oi, where are you goin'?”

You abruptly stand up, gesturing for the cat to follow you. “I'm going to see what he eats so I can feed him.”

Standing up and following suit, Hobie scrunches his nose. “What? For all we know he eats brains! Don't let him inside the house!”

“You drink blood, Hobie, and we let you inside the house.” You say teasingly with an eyebrow raised.

“It's my bloody house?” He scoffs out, hands on his hips as the various metals on his belt jingles. “What happened to feedin’ me first?”

You meet with the cat's milky eyes before the two of you turn towards Hobie. “Finish watering the plants and we can.” Smiling at the slimy mess at your feet, you wave at him again to follow you. “Come on blobbie, let's find you something to eat.”

“You named him already?!” Hobie stands in the middle of the greenhouse all alone while the plants snap at him for food. “Lovie!”

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