#me when. me when sometimes I look in her eyes and that’s where I find a glimpse of us. WHAT EVER DUDE

[moonstruckme]

hi angel!! can you please write a fic with sirius x shy reader where she meant to be going out with sirius and his friends where some girls who have previously liked him and shes feeling nervous/insecure about what they'll think of her so she drinks a bit for liquid courage and later on sirius takes care of her listening to her drunk babbling and reassuring her? thanks lovely!!

Thank you <3

cw: intoxication, feelings of inadequacy, some mature implications but nothing happens

Sirius Black x shy!reader ♡ 1.2k words

The thing is, Mary is really lovely. She’s sweet, bubbly, gregarious. One of those people who makes you feel in on the joke. And she’s beautiful, so you can understand why Sirius dated her. They must have been a perfect match. 

You, you need three gin fizzes before you can even begin to match Mary’s natural congeniality. Not to mention the rest of Sirius’ friends. They’re a fun, chattery bunch, each clever and funny and entertaining in their own individual but reliable ways. Your packed corner booth covers so many topics so quickly it makes your head spin. 

You find some solace in the women’s toilets. White fluorescent lights that bring attention to the makeup smudged just underneath your eyes, it’s here that you realize you may have overdone it. You look at yourself in the mirror as you release a slow breath, listening to the laughter outside the door from within your little bubble of quiet. 

When you force yourself to go back out, Sirius is waiting. 

“Hi.” Your liquid courage seems to abandon you without the rowdy pub atmosphere to bolster it. This is just you and Sirius in a dim hallway, your boyfriend’s smile igniting a familiar warmth in his eyes and nervous flutter in your gut. “I could’ve found my own way back,” you say. 

“I didn’t think you couldn’t.” Sirius steps into your space, hand on your waist as he presses his lips to yours gently. “I just wanted a chance to do that without getting loads of shit for it.” 

You smile. “There would have been booing,” you agree. 

“Oh, definitely. James would’ve pretended to be sick.” 

You rest your forehead on his shoulder. Selfishly, you want to keep the both of you here a little while longer. Sirius seems to understand this, his hand drawing back and forth over the sliver of skin between your trousers and the back of your shirt lazily. 

“Mary had to leave,” he says, “but she threatened me with all sorts of vile things if I didn’t give you her number. She wants you to have coffee sometime.” 

“That’s nice,” you hum, really extraordinarily pleased. “Why’d she have to go?” 

“She forgot she was supposed to meet a friend at ten.” 

You smile ruefully. That sounds exactly like a girl like Mary. Her only flaw is that she has too many people who wish for her company and not enough time to devote to them all. 

Sirius smells nice. Like clove and nighttime, and a little bit like the greasy chips James ordered for the table. You imagine you smell like gin and fizz. You mumble your question into the neckline of his shirt, so that the warmth of your breath warms the cotton and Sirius makes a confused tsking sound. 

“I can’t hear you when you talk like that, baby,” he says, encouraging you away from him with a hand on your cheek. You look up at him through heavy lashes. 

“Have I embarrassed you?” you murmur. 

Sirius looks like he’s going to laugh. You won’t be able to take it if he does, you think. You’ll have to lose Mary’s number as well as his and move across town. 

“What?” His voice is amused, brows raised. “No, you haven’t. Not at all. Why would you think that?” 

You shrug, embarrassed. “There’s makeup under my eyes.” 

“Is there?” Sirius’ smile grows. He adjusts his hold on your face, licking the pad of his thumb. “I didn’t notice, but we can’t have that, can we? Hold still.” 

You don’t hold still, shying away the first time he reaches for you. But Sirius understands that it’s not him you’re trying to get away from; he’s patient and diligent, wiping beneath your lashes with careful touches. You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your chest. 

“There. Perfect as ever before.” He plants a smiling kiss on your lips. “Is that all, lovely?” 

“I think I’ve maybe had too much.” 

Concern touches the space between Sirius’ brows. “Are you not feeling well?” 

“No, I just—well, no one else had as much. I feel like they can tell I’m faking.” 

Sirius is frowning properly now. Inadequacy rings baldly in your tone. His thumb strokes down your cheek. “Faking what?” he asks you. 

“Being good at this,” you murmur.

“You are good at this.” He seems defensive, as if you’re discussing his shortcomings and not your own. “You don’t—there’s no one way you have to be. Sweetheart, I want you here because I want my friends to meet you. It sort of defeats the purpose if you’re putting on someone else for them to meet.” 

“I just—okay. I’m not jealous of Mary. That’s not what this is.” You’re talking a bit too fast, drink lubricating your throat so near anything seems likely to come out. “But I can see how you two would have worked together, and how she works with your friends—she fits in. Everyone’s so fun, and you’re all fast with your jokes, and I’m, I’m not that. I can try, but I think…” Your voice quiets. “I’m not very good at it.” 

As you’re talking, Sirius’ eyes are narrowing. He’s brazen in his thoughtfulness, seeming to size you up while he listens. Whatever audacity is left in you sputters out under the weight of that look. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks after a moment.

You hum softly. 

“I don’t know how you’ve not managed to pick up on this, because I haven’t been trying for subtlety” —he draws you closer by your waist, until you’re nearly stepping on his toes— ”but I think you’re perfect. Really. You can go out there and ask anyone at our table, they’ll tell you I’ve been saying it since a week after we met. Marlene would probably love to tell you, actually, she found it rather irritating.” 

You look down at his throat, but Sirius encourages your chin back up with his finger. “You’re fun,” he says. “You’re loads of fun. And you’re just as quick with jokes—actually, you’re loads funnier than Remus, though you can’t tell him I said that.” 

“Sirius,” you chide, suppressing a smile. 

“Dead serious,” he says with a straight face. “Really, lovely, just because you’re not as outspoken as all of us twats fighting to shout over each other doesn’t mean you don’t have important things to say. They know that, they all know that. And can I tell you something else?” 

You hum again, made wary by the glint in his eye. 

Sirius leans closer to your ear. “I sort of like that you’re usually only loud for me. In private.” 

Your laughter comes out suddenly enough to startle you both, you closing a hand over your mouth while Sirius leans away, grinning. 

“God, sorry,” you whisper, looking around in case you’ve attracted attention, “that was loud.” 

“Well, we are in private.” 

“You’re awful.” You hide against his front, giggling. 

“Yes, yes, I’m awful and you’re perfect.” Sirius kisses your hair. “I know all of this already, it’s only news to you. Listen, I don’t mean to rush you, but we probably should get back to our table before they send James for us. They were already complaining about you being too long in the loo before I left; they’ve grown rather attached to you.” 

Your brief silence must communicate enough of your surprise, because Sirius laughs. 

“Oh, right, yeah. They really like you. Shocking.” 

[izzih22]

Can you do like a part 2 of whose side are you on and it be Paige gets in a fight with either a teammate or a sibling and azzi is in the middle?

Blood and Anchor

Note: this was hard to write ngl so it’s short sorry also remember it’s just a story it’s not real

It’s supposed to be a chill weekend. Just family visiting from Minnesota, a few laughs, dinner, the usual awkwardness of siblings crashing into the life she’s built away from home.

Azzi even offered to leave give them space but Paige told her to stay. She wanted her there. She needed her there. Azzi is family.

What she didn’t expect was for it to go sideways this fast.

Her younger brother makes a joke something about how she’s “basically famous now,” how she “probably forgets about the rest of them,” and it’s harmless enough until it isn’t.

Until it turns into,

“You’ve changed. You’re not the same anymore.”

And then,

“Honestly, you’re kind of a jerk when you’re around us.”

And then finally—

“Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with basketball and that whole perfect image thing, you’d remember what it’s like to be part of a family.”

Paige hears it like a slap. It’s not even yelled, just dropped into the room like a grenade.

Azzi’s head snaps up from where she’s sitting on the edge of Paige’s bed. The silence that follows is sharp.

Paige tries to laugh it off, stiff and bitter. “Okay. Cool. Thanks.”

But her voice breaks on the “thanks.” And then she’s up, grabbing her jacket, pushing past her brother without looking back.

Azzi hesitates for half a second before rising, steady and calm. “I’ll go after her.”

She doesn’t wait for permission. She doesn’t need it.

⸻

She finds Paige in the stairwell.

Alone. Sitting on the cold concrete steps with her hands tangled in her hair, elbows on her knees, breathing like she’s trying to keep something in.

Azzi doesn’t say anything at first. She just walks over and sits next to her. Their shoulders touch.

It’s quiet.

And then—

“He thinks I don’t care about them.”

Paige’s voice is low. Raw.

“I give everything I have to this sport. To this school. To being someone they can be proud of. And he says that.”

Azzi watches her closely. “Do you believe him?”

“No,” Paige answers instantly, then quieter, “I don’t think so.”

Azzi reaches out, gently links their fingers. Paige holds on like she’s drowning.

“I’ve missed birthdays,” Paige whispers. “Holidays. I forget to call sometimes. And I know I’ve changed. I had to. I’m doing the best I can and it never feels like it’s enough for them.”

Azzi doesn’t rush to fix it. She just lets Paige talk.

“I already beat myself up for it,” Paige continues. “But hearing him say it… like I’m selfish or fake… it just…”

She stops.

Azzi squeezes her hand. “It hurts.”

Paige nods.

“Can I say something?” Azzi asks softly.

Paige nods again.

“You are different,” Azzi says. “You’ve grown. You’ve been through hell. You’ve had to figure out how to keep going even when it felt like your body and your mind were working against you.”

She turns toward her. “But none of that made you cold. Or selfish. You love so hard, Paige. You carry everyone. And maybe they don’t always see it, but I do.”

Paige’s eyes finally meet hers, full of glass and hurt.

Azzi shifts closer, brushing her knuckles against Paige’s cheek.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved,” she says. “Not by them. Not by me.”

Paige exhales shakily. “Sometimes it feels like I have to be.”

Azzi presses a kiss to her forehead. “You never do with me.”

And that’s what cracks her.

Paige pulls Azzi into her arms, burying her face in her shoulder, shaking slightly from the quiet sobs that follow.

Azzi wraps around her without hesitation. Rubs soft circles into her back. Holds her like she’s piecing her back together.

“You’re home,” Azzi whispers into her hair. “Right here. Always.”

⸻

They sit there for a long time. Eventually, Paige calms, her breathing evening out, her grip on Azzi no less tight but more steady.

Azzi kisses her temple. “Want me to talk to him?”

Paige shakes her head. “No. I’ll handle it. I just… I needed you first.”

Azzi smiles, brushing hair from Paige’s face. “I’ll always be your first stop.”

And for the first time all day, Paige lets out a real breath.

“Thank God for you.”

[thespianinthebackcorner]

Hey hey hey writers!!! Especially y'alls who are struggling to develop character or have white room/still character syndrome!!!

Look into Uta Hagen's acting techniques, specifically her 9 questions. I'm not kidding. She built off Stanislavski's techniques to help actors develop their characters and roles & bring that to the stage- specifically, and this is why I'm pushing Hagen specifically and not anyone else, their relationship with the set, props, other characters, setting (yes that's different from set), history and the play's plot, and how that changes how they act and speak. I have my textbook open I'll take some pictures.

If you need a transcript/image description I'll put it under the cut, they're a little blurry cause I'm bad at holding my phone... I know alt text is a thing but I don't want y'alls to have to scroll through a tiny box lmao.

[Image 1 alt text]

The lower part of a textbook page. The text reads:

Uta Hagen's acting exercises

[Out-of-transcript note: Most of these, with the exception of Three Entrances, are less useful in terms of writers, but you could make it work, especially for roleplay.]

Basic Object Exercise: Sometimes called "two minutes of daily life," this exercise requires the actor to replicate activities from their own daily routine in specific detail (think making breakfast or getting ready to go out). The goal of this exercise is to increase the actor's awareness of their un-observed behaviour.

Three Entrances: Starting offstage, the actor enters the environment of the scene. The actor's performance should answer three questions: What did I just do? What am I going to do? What is the first thing I want?

Immediacy: Hagen asked actors to search for a small object that they need. You can perform the exercise on a set or in your home. As you search, you should observe the behaviour and thoughts that arise as you authentically try to find something. The objective is to identify the thoughts, behaviours, and sensations you experience when you genuinely don't know the outcome, so you can use them on stage.

Fourth Side: This exercise starts with a phone call to a person you know. You should call them with a specific objective in mind. During the convention, Hagen wants you to focus on your surroundings and the specific objects that your eyes rest on. The purpose is to help actors observe how they interact with all dimensions of an enclosed physical space so they can recreate privacy on stage.

Endowment: this exercise is designed to help actors apply their observed behaviours to endow props with qualities that they cannot safely have on stage. Hot irons and sharp knives are typical examples. The Endowment excercise asks actors to believably treat objects on stage as though they have the qualities the actor needs in a scene.

Uta Hagen's exercises are her greatest gift to actors working today. She developed them between Broadway jobs to solve some acting problems she had never seen anyone tackle to her satisfaction. The result is that Hagen's exercises give actors a way to observe human behaviours and catalogue it so they can recall it onstage when useful in a role.

[Image 1 alt text end]

[Image 2 alt text]

Most of a textbook page. The image cuts off about 3 quarters of the way down the page. The text reads:

Uta Hagen's 9 Questions

Who am I? This question's answer includes all relevant details from name and age to physical traits, education, and beliefs.

What time is it? Depending on the scene, the most relevant measure of time can be the era, the season, the day, or even the specific minute.

Where am I? This answer covers the country, town, neighbourhood, room, or even the specific part of the room.

What surrounds me? Characters can be surrounded by anything from weather to furnishings, landscape or people.

What are the given circumstances? Given circumstances include what has happened, what is happening and what will happen to a character.

What are my relationships? Relationships can be with the other characters in the play, inanimate objects, or even recent events.

What do I want? Wants can be what the character desires in the moment, or in the overall course of the play. [Out-of-transcript note: I recommend figuring out both for writing, the former multiple times for whenever it changes! Outside of Hagen's technique, we call it objective and superobjective.]

What is in my way? This is the actor's chance to understand the obstacles the character must react to and overcome.

What do I do to get what I want? In Hagen's teaching, "do" means physical action.

Uta Hagen's nine questions help actors develop the granular details of their character's backstory. The questions come from Hagen's first book, "Respect for Acting," though in her later book, "A Challenge for the Actor," she condensed her original nine questions into six steps.

Uta Hagen's revised six steps to building a character are:

Who am I?

What are the circumstances?

What are my relationships?

What do I want?

What is my obstacle?

What do I do to get what I want?

Later in her life, Hagen distances herself from her first book and encouraged her students to rely on her second book, which she felt was clearer about her concepts. Both books are popular with acting teachers and students today, however. Hagen's questions and steps are the foundation for all of her acting exercises. Whether you rely on the nine questions or the six steps depends on personal preference.

[Image 2 alt text end]

Personally I like the 9 questions more, but like the book says, personal preference! So yeah, if you're a writer, try some of these out for your characters. :]

[keirareidss]

Mean!reader shoves her fingers in Spencer’s mouth when she wants him to shut up when he’s rambling….. do what with that you will….. I need something of this

I'm obsessed. Literally, I love this. Thank you for requesting, hope you enjoy! (decided to make this a blurb because I'm working on bigger fics right now, but I did still really want to write this)

wc: 0.8k

You loved Spencer's rambling. Of course you did, it's part of what made you fall in love with him, His ability to be so passionate about what he's interested in. But sometimes, it was a tad bit much for you. Especially when you were trying to make a move on him.

"But, really, when you think about it, the 'it's all relative' aphorism is not that applicable especially in broader terms-" You kissed a long his neck as he spoke but he wasn't deterred. "The main issue lies in confusing 'relative', which is dependent on context or comparison, with 'subjective', which is based on perception or personal opinion. But while many experiences are subjective that doesn't mean they are relative-" You decided to try a different tactic, moving your kisses to his lips.

He hums against you and you know that means he has another thought brewing that he wants to tell you about. You pull his bottom lip in between your teeth, determined to prolong the kiss to avoid another ramble that will keep you from your seduction. But poor, poor, adorable Spencer doesn't realize that.

"There's actually another popular misconception that philosophy is directly related to-"

"Spencer..." You cut him off in a sultry voice, using two fingers to tilt his chin up. He looks into your eyes, his own going wide. You slide your two fingers up his jaw to his bottom lip, tracing it.

"I-"

"Shh, baby." You cut him off, pushing your fingers past his lips, his tongue finding them immediately out of instinct. "Don't speak." His mouth closed around your digits, sucking dutifully as he looked up at you with half lidded lust-filled eyes. You slowly pulled your spit-soaked fingers out of his mouth, a string a saliva following. You brought your hands down to his waistband, unzipping his pants. He swallowed, saying your name on a whimper.

"Please. Touch me."

"Good job, Spence. You're getting better at that." You'd been trying to teach him to tell you what he wants in a rather... unconventional way. And by that you mean edging him until he finally spits out the words. But it seems he's learned and for that, you'd reward him.

You pulled down his pants and boxers, his cock springing out. You instantly grasped him in your fist, stroking up and down and using his own spit as lube. He moans at the feeling, his hips jerking.

"I- I want- ngh, please..."

"Come on, use your words, genius, you were talking so much before." You teased and he whined.

"I want- I want your mouth." You grinned, leaning forward and slanting your lips over his, purposefully misunderstanding him.

"You want my mouth here?" You asked, barely pulling back from the kiss. He shook his head, breathing heavy.

"N-no."

"Where then?"

"I- I want it... I want your mouth on- on my cock." He stammers out. He blushed instantly at the vulgar terminology, squeezing his eyes shut. You chuckled, moving down his legs until you were able to bend down. You flicked your tongue out, licking at the head of his cock and he jolted.

"If you want me to suck you off, you're going to have to open your eyes, baby." You said and he huffed out a breath, forcing his eyes open to look down at you. He knew he wouldn't last long. he never did when you made him watch you but he hadn't realized that that's want you wanted. You had a bet with yourself to see how fast you could make him cum. Your best time was 56 seconds. But that's a story for another time.

Once his eyes were on you, you wrapped your lips around his length, slowly sinking down on it. He shuddered, letting out a long moan. No matter how many times you sucked him off, you never got used to the sounds he made. They were so needy and desperate, it made you wet just thinking about it.

You bobbed your head up and down, drawing said needy noises from the man above you, circling your ruthless tongue over his tip. You let your teeth graze his shaft as you moved your head down and then up again.

"Ah! Shit, I'm close, I'm gonna-" And then he was cumming down your throat, letting you swallow him up dutifully, spit dribbling down your chin. You sit up, wiping your mouth and grinning at the man twitching and panting before you. You check your watch.

"Damn it." 72 seconds. You'd have to try to beat your record another time. You brushed Spencer's hair back from his forehead, looking into his eyes.

"You're amazing." He murmured, entirely fucked out. You press a loving kiss to his lips.

"Thank you, baby. Now, let's put that mouth of yours to good use."

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

[biteofcherry]

In your peripheral vision, you see the other women in line trembling. Some cry quietly, and some try to brave through it. Some are quite flirtatious with their smiles and cute pouts.

Perhaps they're the smartest of them all, playing to the new fate instead of showing weakness, so the sharks won't rip them to pieces.

Most of them are young and you know what that means. Regardless of how the new regime tries to sell it.

They're ripe for the picking.

Brave soldiers and other useful cogs in the machine need to be rewarded. With wives. Or playthings.

It's heartbreaking to witness. Repulsive.

What the hell you're doing here, is the biggest mystery, though.

You and a few other women, who are past the typically desired age of below the point when the brain is fully formed. Or at least under thirty years old.

As you study the proceedings, forcing yourself to just stay still and survive, you quickly find the answer to your question.

A small team clad in dark navy combat suits, sans weapons and tactical gear, are marching down that line. Two men and a woman, who's probably supposed to put you all at ease. She's the one who decides if a woman is lead on the left side - where all those young, beautiful women are directed; or to the right.

As you notice, when it comes to "older" women, she studies not only their looks (those she briefly glances over) but reads files on the sleek pad in her hands. Then either points to the right, or have the soldiers escort them out.

To freedom, you hope, since you didn't hear any gunshots or dreadful ghost stories upon completely missing women.

Considering your own looks, your age and the fact you had zero influential connections, nor do you come from a wealthy family, your certainty to be released grew.

Seriously, there is nothing they could be interested in when it comes to you.

When it's your turn, the woman gives you a glance over.

You expected a quick, bored one, like with so many others. Unexpectedly, her gaze slowly drags up back to your face.

She tilts her head to the side, curiosity twinkling in her eyes.

"You're not scared." She states.

"It would be stupid of me to not be scared." You reply steadily. "This summoning was sudden and nothing has been explained."

"And yet your breathing is regular, pulse doesn't appear quickened, you're not shaking like a leaf." Even if you despise the woman for being a part of this dark command, you have to admit she's perceptive.

A tiny sigh escapes your lips, clearly one of annoyance, though you hope it won't get you killed on the spot.

"It's obvious you're targeting women who are useful," you say, meeting her gaze. "Either in their beauty, youth and fertility-promising hips, or in their connections, wealth, or potential to bring political power."

"Since I fall in neither of those categories, I simply assume I'll be released back into my boring life."

Sometimes, it truly is a blessing to not stand out and be just an average woman.

The woman stares at you for a long, silent moment, before her mouth twitches in an amused smile.

She brings her wrist to her lips and says into the tiny, unnoticeable intercom:

"I've got someone you should meet."

You frown at that, suddenly feeling a spike of unease.

Would they punish you in some way just because you didn't shake in fear?

The woman doesn't point at you to move neither left nor right. She keeps you in place. But she orders one of the men accompanying her to bring your things, which have been taken from you when you were all guided into the big hall.

Just your handbag and within it your phone.

A few moments later, the entrance to the hall opens and an imposing silhouette strides in.

Breaths all around are taken in hitched, panicked rushes. Most of the women recognize the infamous leader, who brought the havoc and change that rocked your world.

He moves in a fluid prowl. His eyes quickly scans the area to settle on the woman who has to be within his close inner circle if she is allowed to address him by his name.

From her, his gaze shifts to you, and that's when fear switches on all of your survival instincts, flooding your body with adrenaline and your head with voices screaming at you to either run or play dead.

The woman gives him the pad, undoubtedly with your personal data on it. Her smirk isn't cruel, rather amused, as she explains why you're so interesting.

"Smart girl, figured out the workings. Held my gaze without flinching, too."

"Waiting for a gold star for understanding the basics of politics?" The man snorts, browsing through your file.

"A simple goodbye, go home, would suffice." It slips out of your mouth before you're able to stop yourself.

His eyes lift up from the pad. Crystalline blue of his irises slides you open like a scalpel.

"Her phone." He gives a short comman without taking his eyes off you.

The intensity of his gaze makes you gulp. A small betrayal of nerves that he notices instantly. A predator's triumph glinting in his eyes.

You would be really stupid not to fear him.

For physical aspect alone. He's much bigger. Broad and heavy. It would be no hardship for him to overpower you.

"Intel files are one thing," he says, skimming his fingers over your smartphone and easily bypassing all security.

"Apps, browsing history, and private folders, provide the juiciest truths."

Corners of his mouth twitch as he notices your pupils widening.

His smirk stretches into a wolfish grin when he looks down at the phone in his hand and opens one particular private folder.

Somehow, you know exactly which one.

With photos of you that shouldn't be seen by anyone other than you, or a man who you wanted to see you naked.

He is not that man.

Embarrassment fills you in a scorching wave, but you grit your teeth in hopes to not show how much you want to grab your phone back and hide.

You're not ashamed of those pictures. It's just that they are intimate and shouldn't be seen by someone like the monster in front of you.

"There are no juicy truths," you grit out. "Some risky selfies are the staple folder of ninety percent phone users."

"Ah, but are they smart enough to not only figure out the system here, but in what capacity to show me defiance without crossing the line that could cost you your life?"

He looks up at you again, with hungry interest and growing amusement.

"Don't sell yourself short. And tell me- are you, really?"

Before you ask what he means, he lifts your phone up, showing you the photo currently on the screen.

Not even the most scandalous. You with slightly tousled hair, cheekily smiling, with the tip of your tongue peeking out. And wearing a tight crop top with bold, pink letters.

Brat.

You know, you just know that you should drop your gaze and let the trembling part of you out on the surface. That would undoubtedly push you back into the bag of boring, mundane lot. Lose his attention.

That self-preservation instinct he claims you have doesn't react fast enough, though.

Forcing your lips into a tight smile, you reply in a stupidly challenging tone:

"I'm a fucking delight."

Something flashes in those blue eyes. Danger and joy.

Slowly, he slips your phone into his own pocket.

As his eyes hold you gaze captive, your heart hammers to the staccato of doom approaching you.

"Take her to my penthouse." He commands, not raking his eyes of you.

He drinks up each flicker in your eyes and the parting of your lips as his intent sinks in.

You won't be returning to your home.

"Assign someone to transfer her belongings and oversee the bureaucratic procedures. They have a week to prepare everything."

Your fingers twitch at your sides helplessly as he takes a step towards you. Then another, until he's fully looming over.

A single finger curls under your chin, tilting your face up.

"You're going to be my delight."

He says it almost softly, but it still cuts through you like a heavy guillotine.

" 'Til death do us part, brat."

_______________________________

Who is he?

[totallyprentiss]

There’s something quietly, heartbreakingly tragic about Emily Prentiss—about the way she’s been yearning to be loved for her entire life, and doing it so quietly, so subtly, that some people might not even notice.

It started young, with the coldness of Elizabeth Prentiss, all polished diplomacy and razor-sharp expectations, offering nothing soft for Emily to fall back on. No warmth. No trust. Just pressure and passports and places that never quite felt like home. She was always the new girl. Always trying to prove herself. Always chasing something that looked like belonging.

And then she was fifteen and pregnant - not because she was reckless, but because she was desperate. Desperate to be wanted. To be liked. To feel anything real in a world that felt so far away from her. She couldn’t even tell her mother. Not about the boy, not about the pain, not about the choice she had to make. That’s where the loss began. Quiet, unspoken, already buried under years of pretending everything was fine.

And then it just.. keeps going, doesn’t it? This pattern of aching. Of reaching. Of being the one who loves harder. Wanting to adopt Carrie not just out of duty, but because she needed to prove to herself that she could love. That she had love to give. That she was more than her job and her trauma and her silence. She wanted to believe she was capable of being someone’s person. But how do you believe that when no one ever chooses you?

Sure, she’s liked. Respected. Admired, even. But she’s never been the one anyone picks when the room is full. She’s the one people lean on, but never the one they stay for. And she carries it all with so much quiet grace you almost forget how much it must hurt. The guilt over Declan, even when she did everything right. The way she watches families from a distance, eyes soft and sad like she’s looking at a life that was never meant for her. The way she looks at JJ sometimes, wishing she had what she has. Maybe it’s just Paget’s quiet acting but it’s there.

Don’t even get me started on that damn moment in Season 15 - Emily staring at the baby stroller by that coffee cart like she’s mourning something she never even got the chance again to have. That one second of vulnerability, of wondering what if—and we move on like nothing happend.

I get it. I really do. The writers want her to be this… symbol of strength, the woman who married her job, who doesn’t need a partner or a family to be whole. And I guess that’s fine! some people really do find joy in that life. But if that’s the road you want to take her down, then at least make it look like she’s okay. Like she’s content. Like she’s not carrying all this silent grief behind her eyes. Because right now? She just looks tired. Dude they even took her freaking cat!

She deserved so much more. She still does.

[pricegotmedickmatized]

hiiii it's the person who sent you the graves x fem reader request yesterday (idk if you wanna keep track of anons but if so can i be 🦜?) anyway i'm having more Thots about him:

graves bringing his gf(reader) to the shadow company base and having her wander around some empty hallways so he can hunt her down and fuck her (in all his gear ofc. idk what it is about a tac vest but they're fucking sexy). in my head it's a whole cnc/roleplay thing where he's super into it and really leans into his scary military man persona :)

hi pookie!!! i don't have any tracked anons yet but i'd love to start!!! you can definitely be 🦜anon!! (also i hope you liked the first little drabble, this one got...far longer lmao)

you should have known that Phillip was up to something when you walked out of the bedroom that morning to find him still sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug of long cold coffee. the smirk alone hadn’t rung any alarm bells, he was still Phillip, and if he wasn’t smirking he was pouting scowling.

but when you’d asked why he hadn’t already left for work as was his usual habit all he’d said was that he wanted to take you along. show you around.

“Half of it’s yours, honey, don’t you wanna see what your man gets up to during the day?”

which that was a whole other problem, what did he mean by ‘half of it’s yours’ exactly? and with you thus distracted and shocked by his casual notification that oh yeah, he’d already signed over half of everything he owned to you “What the fuck else would I do, babycakes, does that ring on your finger not mean nothing to you?” you didn’t wind up pressing him on why today of all days he decided he wanted to show you around Shadow Company.

it was, of course, an extremely impressive operation. not that you really knew much about military private contractors, or what Phillip and the Shadows did while off on assignment, sometimes for months on end, but you figured you got the big picture idea around the time he was proudly showing off an armory that would make several countries green with envy.

and now he was laying out his usual kit for you, piece by piece, your eyes growing wider and wider as he just kept adding things until you interrupted his lecture on why he preferred a specific kind of knife in this specific holster to blurt out-

“There’s no possible way you can carry all that around all the time.”

he blinked, smirk curling up the corners of his mouth. “That so, sugar?” chuckling, he leaned in, teasing, “Should I be hurt you think so little of how much I can lift, honey?”

“No, I mean,” you huffed, waving a hand at the veritable ton of equipment now neatly arranged on like three different stainless steel tables. “I just mean that…Phillip there’s so much of this stuff, if you tried to carry all of it all the time you wouldn’t be able to move around, and even if you could, it wouldn’t be quick!”

Phillip laughed, denim blue eyes dancing. “You’d be surprised, pretty baby. Wanna see?”

raising a brow, you crossed your arms over your chest. “Only if you’re prepared for me to laugh at you when you get it all on and you look ridiculous and run a four hour mile. No, I’m calling your bluff, you’re just trying to impress me in some weird, macho military man way.”

in a second Phillip had your chin gripped in his hand, pulling your head up to seal your mouths together with a kiss that stole your breath, and several brain cells. when you were a panting, horny mess (god, he knew what it did to you when he groaned into your mouth how good you tasted he did that shit on purpose) he pulled back, smirking wide with his pupils blown, hair mussed from your hands still tangled in it.

“Babycakes,” he crooned, “now that’s a mean fucking lie. You know I ain’t gotta do a damn thing to impress you by now, honey. But if you wanted to see me all kitted up, shit. Happy to arrange it for you, sugar.”

you couldn’t even scrape together the wherewithal to protest or defend yourself, the inside of your head all cotton stuffed and hot from his kiss and wandering hands. he chuckled as he picked you up by the waist and set you down on one of the long metal tables with a warm but firm, “Keep it parked there, sugar, eyes on me, you know how I like it.”

and so you did, trying not to squirm as you watched him pull on sheaths and holsters heavy with weaponry, wrap something that looked suspiciously like a collar around his neck, then came the vest, the gloves, the beige balaclava, the helmet-

why was it so fucking hot watching him get dressed? wasn't it supposed to be the other way around?

but he looked so...dangerous.

in your head you knew that he was dangerous. you knew what he did for a living, and that he was good enough at it that he could afford to, if he wanted, literally buy and sell Dallas itself.

you'd just never really dedicated a whole lot of thought to this side of him before. at least not in front of Phillip, where he could see you quivering in your seat chewing on your lower lip, thighs clenched together as your pussy got hot looking at your fiancé wearing all of his tactical gear.

he wasn't just your fiancé right then, and that was what was really fogging up your head. he was a soldier, the soldier, the best of the best, faceless, unfeeling, unmovable object and unstoppable force.

in the back of your head, an idea prickled.

sometimes he went on missions to try and find people.

what if you were one of them?

what if you had to try and outrun the Apollonian god before you?

by the time the last strap was buckled tight, you were sure you'd soaked through your panties.

trying to ignore it, you hoped he couldn't hear the threadiness in your voice as you teased, "Well you got it all on, but that doesn't mean that you can move around all that fast."

his head tilted to the side, and the fabric covering his face shifted. he'd be smirking beneath it, you knew him well enough to know that instantly. and then he chuckled. low and...vicious.

that was when your stomach flipped, some gut deep instinctive reaction born out of evolutionary necessity. and you got the first inkling that maybe, just maybe you’d walked into a trap.

"Wanna bet?" his voice was muffled a little, but you didn't have any trouble hearing him. all you could hear was him as he took slow, measured steps forward until he was caging you in against the table, blotting out all light, all sound, everything else in the world but him. "How about we play a game, sugar?"

it took a few tries, but eventually you were able to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth to mutter weakly, "A game?"

"Mmhm." one rough gloved hand came up and took your chin, the scratch of the material making you shiver. "I'll give you a sixty second head start. And then I'll come after you. F'you get out of the building 'fore I catch you, I'll make dinner for a month."

oh god. oh god oh god oh god, he really had seen what you were thinking hadn't he?

the words came out of your mouth unbidden. "What if you...what if you catch me?"

his thumb rubbed over your mouth, pressing against the swell of your lips, mindless of disturbing your lip gloss that got smeared over the black fabric.

when he chuckled again, the sound went right to your clenching, empty pussy. "F'I catch you, I get to do anything I want. Wherever we are. Even if you try and pretend like you don't want it."

a moan slithered out between your parted lips before you could catch it.

Phillip dropped your chin, stepping back and neatly avoiding your hands reflexively coming up to try and keep him close. "Time starts now, honey."

the beige balaclava stretched, his denim eyes burning through your body above it. "Run."

you did.

in the moment it was like some wild animal had taken over your brain. no thought. no plan. no instinct. just something driving you deeper and deeper into the darkly shadowed labyrinthian halls, something that you couldn't even begin to pretend was just plain fear.

sure, there was some fear.

that was normal. healthy. that was a billion years as predator/prey in your bloodline pushing you to run further, faster, harder away from your pursuer.

but the pulse in your pussy? the hot clench of your stomach every time you froze when you heard the tiniest sound before you scrambled through another door you didn't recognize? the way you could feel your nipples tight and needy against your thin shirt Phillip had picked out for you just a few hours ago?

that wasn't fear.

not even close.

god, had he planned this?

of course he had, he must've. but how had he known?

you turned another corner, panting hard, staring at a long line of lockers, most decorated or obviously in use. your heart was racing, drowning out anything you might have heard beyond your own heavy breathing.

and that was when you saw it.

the door just to the left and all the way at the back of the room, opened ever so slightly. a tinge of sunlight falling through onto the dark floor.

you dove for it, but a thick muscled arm wrapped tight around your waist, hauling you backwards into a wide, familiar chest.

and even though you kicked your feet in the air and back at those sturdy legs, and scratched at the thick fabric covering that burly arm, it didn't do a single bit of good.

against your back you could feel the hard threatening lumps of the weapons and various equipment Phillip had strapped on. his other gloved hand raised, curling around the front of your neck, and you froze instantly, brain going blank.

"Caught you," he purred.

even just the sound of his voice like this was different somehow, and not just because of the balaclava. you'd never heard him sound like this, raw and vicious and arrogant. a predator who'd caught his prey.

the arm around your waist shifted, and his gloved hand moved to start playing with your breasts, rougher than normal, like he wasn't taking care to control himself for once.

"And what a pretty little thing I've caught." he sounded so proud, as his fingers found your nipple through your shirt and pinched, hard enough your hips bucked and you whined, way louder than you should have.

he only laughed, low and mean. "Look at these pretty things, could cut right through that flimsy fucking shirt, babycakes, couldn't they? Aw, sugar, don't tell me. Don't tell me you liked being hunted."

you heard it then, the slight waver in his voice. felt the shift in his stance as he continued to hold you aloft against his body. you couldn't feel the press of his hips, not with him wearing his vest and weapons, but you knew, you knew he was hard.

"P-Phillip-"

the hand around your throat tightened. not cutting off air, not yet, just threatening to. "Nah, honey. Don't even think about fucking lying to me."

with a few long strides he turned you to face the nearest blank wall, pinning you against it, barely able to brace yourself on your tippy toes as he reached down and shoved your skirt to the floor.

his groan drowned out your strangled sound of surprise. "Fuck, can see you liked it. Fucking soaked these panties, sugar, feel that?"

another whine snuck out of you when rough, blunt pressure rubbed at your cunt, the sensation lighting sparks up your spine, blinding you for a moment.

"I got a confession, honey." Phillip hooked a finger in your panties and ripped them right off. "I fucking liked it too."

he was still wearing the kit. still wearing the helmet, the balaclava, the gloves. you were completely and utterly at his mercy, dripping wet around his digits as he unceremoniously shoved two knuckle deep inside of you uncaring of the rough drag of the unfamiliar fabric against your ultra sensitive walls, and all you could do was stay there and fucking take it, squirming and moaning until you were dizzy with it.

you shouldn't be as close to coming as you were. he'd barely touched you, and what he had given you had been mean and cruel, but it just made your cunt drip and your thighs shake.

"Fuck," Phillip grunted in a tone you only recognized from when he'd already gone two rounds with you in a night just to find that it still wasn't enough. you'd never heard him sound this base and primal outside of nights like those. "Fuck."

he leaned forward as his hands disappeared, fumbling behind you, his masked mouth pressed against your ear, his body weight keeping you in place.

in the back of your head, you remembered his terms. once he caught you, he got to do whatever he wanted with you.

you could feel the heat of his breath as he bit out, "Gonna feel that fucking pussy on my cock right fucking now. And I don't wanna hear you whining that it hurts or you can't take it. Be a good girl, sugar and just - just fuck - fucking - god!"

Phillip usually liked to tease you. liked to fuck your folds, rubbing the head of his cock against your clit or only fucking you with the head of his cock and asking you sweetly why you weren't satisfied, why you were begging for more, wasn't he being a gentleman by not fucking you with the whole thing? why couldn't you be grateful and just take what he gave you? and only after you broke down into near hysterical teasing would he give in and finally sink deep.

but not tonight.

tonight he rammed balls deep in one thrust and set a deep, brutal pace that had your eyes rolling back, your hands clawing at the paint on the wall like it could help your fluttering, spasming walls around his cock as you struggled to take him, could help that deep point inside of you where he was ramming his cockhead against your womb.

like it could help the rising tidal wave of pleasure threating to hit you and knock you to the ground at any moment as he fucked you in the open for his own pleasure, like you were nothing more than a toy for him to get off with.

patience was out the window and he was proving a point that you didn't even know was in question.

"You belong to me," he growled, not even sounding that out of breath as he just kept pounding, easily catching your hips and holding you up when your knees gave out as you came untouched and unasked for on his cock. "Every inch of your body, and especially this perfect fucking pussy, it belongs to me, and I can do whatever I want with what's mine."

your head bobbed mindlessly, back arching sweetly as you tried to take his cock, every thrust jolting you head to toe. tears stung your eyes, started sliding down your cheeks as you shouted when he shifted the angle almost imperceptibly and started nailing your g-spot on every thrust.

"Say it," he snapped. "fucking say you belong to me, angel."

"I - I be-belong to y-you!"

"That's fucking right." his voice was like a snarl, uncaring of your squeal and your writhing as his hips picked up speed. "Think I don't know how fast you can run? Think I don't know how that pretty head works? Can't fucking fool me, babycakes, you wanted this almost as much as I did. My perfect fucking slut, god, so goddamn greedy for my fucking cock, take it so fucking good, c'mon baby, c'mon baby, c'mon baby fucking cum for me, one more time cum right on my cock or you won't cum this whole fucking week I swear to god-"

you screamed as another wave hit you, your body bucking against Phillip like you could push him off, secure in the knowledge you never could, that he'd keep you pinned against the wall with those hands bruising your waist as every muscle in your body contracted.

you could feel every inch of him inside you. every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his cock as he fucked you sloppy and deep.

and you could hear him, muttering hotly against your ear, "Atta girl, atta fucking girl, darlin', god, that's it, that's it, just stay tight for me feels so goddamn good, let me fill up that pretty pussy, hm? Want me to fill you up with my cum?"

speech was totally beyond you now, black spots blinking in and out of your field of vision, and all you could do was nod and whimper pathetically, weakly trying to tilt your hips back to give him the perfect angle.

"Fuck, yes, good girl, my good fucking girl ain'tcha darlin', just take it, be good and fucking - fuck, fuck!"

he slammed in one last time, all the way, deep enough it did more than just stretch you, it felt like he was about to break you, like one wrong move and you'd be feeling his cock in your throat and not just your stomach.

searing heat filled you as he pumped you full of his cum. your legs shook, the only thing holding you up was his hands, his cock, and the wall.

heat burned over your face and chest as you felt some of that cum start to drip out, coating your inner thighs, sliding down your leg.

all you could manage was a thin, reedy whine.

"Shh," Phillip soothed, hoarse and breathless. he shuffled closer, leaning against you and the wall a little more. with him that close you could feel the barest hint of a tremor in his own thighs pressed against your own. "Fuck, sugar. Gimme a second. Still fucking cumming."

and he was. you could feel every pulse, every twitch of his cock inside of you like this, could hear every mutter and moan he made as he rode it out.

when it was over he let out a long, relieved sigh, like an itch that had finally been discovered and scratched to satisfaction.

"Good girl." his hands gentled, arms sliding around your waist and mouth pressed against your neck, humming like a lazy cat in the sun as he carried you over to a long bench and sat down, keeping you in his lap, his softening cock still inside you.

you whimpered, jolting, but his gloved hands rubbed over your thighs, your belly, up between the valley of your breasts to cup your throat.

"Shh, s'alright, babycakes," he crooned. "Jus' need a little breather. Jus' wanna feel you a little longer."

one of his hands left you briefly, and you heard his helmet fall to the floor. and then his mouth was on your neck, smothering every bit of skin he could get in kisses.

the two of you moaned when an after shock of pleasure made you clench down on him again.

Phillip's hand turned your face to his so he could kiss your slack mouth. "Gonna be the fucking death of me, honey."

pouting, you forced out a disagreeable sound.

he just laughed, smoothing his hand over your stomach, squeezing the inside of your sore thigh. "The ideas you come up with? Having me hunt you in my own company building? God, that was so fucking hot."

for the moment, you refrained from reminding him that it had been all his idea. you were too fucked out and sleepy to bother with it for the moment.

Phillip's hands were checking on you, massaging muscle, testing sore spots, gently soothing abused skin and muscle as you climbed down from your high.

"Better be careful," he cautioned, smirking against your throat. "Or I'm gonna want to do this all the time. Gonna want to put you on those pretty knees in a conference room here, bend you over my desk and fuck that tight, pretty little asshole of yours."

you just moaned in response, which of course made him laugh.

asshole.

he'd definitely been planning this all along.

but he was your asshole.

and you'd get your revenge, one way or the other.

[imagine-it-was-us]

when am I gonna lose you? || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Local Natives "When am I gonna lose you?"

Author's note: Had a real block – purely because I wanted to write something about love. Not the meet-cute. Not the breakup. Just that heart-wrecking, honest kind of love where you’re so happy, you almost can’t believe it’s real. And trust me, it was a struggle to find a song in my playlist that captured just that. But I found it – so here’s a little glimpse into my mind (and my playlist).

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: some angst and one swear word.

Summary: A quiet evening on the coast turns into something deeper when two anxious hearts confront their shared fear. It's not a story about falling in love – it's about choosing it, keeping it, and learning to trust that it’s real.

Word count: 1.4k+

She felt it mid-movie – his hand suddenly tensing around her thigh, even though the scene on the screen wasn’t meant to stir anything dramatic. She turned to him, catching him stealing a glance her way before he quickly snapped his gaze back to the TV, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What?” she prodded, half-laughing. It wasn’t often she caught him staring. Whenever she did, it always set off a cascade of anxious thoughts. Maybe there was an eyelash on her cheek. Maybe her mascara had smudged, and she looked like a raccoon. Maybe–

He gave a tiny shake of his head, eyes still trained on the screen. “Nevermind.”

“Nah, you’re not doing this to me,” she said, laughing as she reached for the remote and paused the film. These kinds of quiet, uninterrupted moments were rare. Even rarer was Lando choosing silence over commentary. He always had something to say – a thought, a theory, a stupid pun. So when he didn’t speak, it meant something. It meant everything.

With the screen frozen in mid-frame, he leaned back against the sofa and turned his head slightly toward her. And there it was again — the exact moment that had caught him off guard before. The sun was melting into the sea, casting golden slits of light through the blinds, painting lines across her face, her collarbone, her shoulder like some divine stencil.

He let out a quiet breath. “Don’t you ever get that feeling�� when everything’s perfect, and you just know something’s going to come along and fuck it up?”

The words hit her like lightning out of a clear sky – sudden, sharp, strangely poetic. But she didn’t flinch. She just nodded slowly, like some part of her had always been waiting for this exact question.

“I do, sometimes,” she said softly. “But… why now?”

“I don’t know. I just love this moment.”

His hand found hers, fingers gently fidgeting with hers — not restless, not anxious, just… soothing. Like the motion might slow his thoughts down enough to catch them.

He was used to his mind running laps. Constantly. Overthinking things that didn’t need thinking about. Race results. Snide comments online. Whether thirteen spring rolls were the magic number to feel full or just too much. The cute golden retriever he saw at the paddock last weekend, the one he’d probably never see again. He’d gotten used to that kind of mental noise – the static that never turned off.

So when there was stillness, when there was peace – real, earned, golden-hour kind of peace – his brain didn’t quite know what to do. It reached for the nearest thing to worry about. And it always landed on her.

What if he lost this?  What if he lost her?

She was more like him than he ever expected. A year in, long-distance and late-night calls, airport reunions and sleepy goodbyes, and somehow they’d figured each other out pretty well. They both had restless minds – sharp, hungry, buzzing. They could spiral in sync. They could reassure each other just by existing. It made their bond easier in a way. But it also meant that peace felt like walking a tightrope, always half-waiting for the fall.

“But…?” she said, already sensing it. There was always a “but” with him.

He glanced sideways at her, cheeks slightly pink now in the fading light.

“But I was sitting there, just looking at you… thinking about how pretty you are. How lucky I am that you chose me – even with everything that comes with me. All the noise. And then I thought–”

His voice faltered for a second.

“–when am I gonna lose you?”

Her heart shuddered at the words he said. She hadn’t expected that kind of vulnerability from him tonight – not here, not now, with the ocean humming outside and the world finally leaving them alone. And yet, she knew exactly where it came from.

Because she had felt it too.

Their relationship, from the outside looking in, probably never should have worked. On paper, it was ridiculous. She was – for all intents and purposes – a nobody. Just a student who’d gotten separated from her university tour group while wandering through the endless corridors of MTC. He’d been on a break, taking a breather from a wall of sponsor commitments. She’d made some half-sarcastic remark about the building layout – something like “Hard to believe you’ve got all these engineers and no one thought of a better floor plan.”

He laughed. Not just a polite chuckle. A real, head-tilted-back, god-I-needed-that laugh.

He helped her find her coursemates. They walked maybe ten minutes, tops. But in those ten minutes, something clicked – fast, easy, effortless. By the time they reached the others, he was practically pleading for her number. Just in case, he said.

Now here they were, a year and a half later. Sitting in a cabin tucked between the trees and the sea, miles from anyone, basking in quiet. Days of decompressing behind them. Long talks about futures they both secretly hoped would intertwine. It was surreal.

She looked over at him. His hand was still playing with hers absentmindedly, his eyes on their fingers instead of her face – like he wasn’t sure he could handle eye contact after saying something that raw.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” she said gently.

He glanced up, cautious hope flickering across his features.

She exhaled. “But I get it. I do. Sometimes when you call me after a race and you’re so tired you don’t even sound like you – I get this ache. Like, what if this life of yours pulls you so far away I can’t reach you anymore?”

He opened his mouth to protest – to say no, never, that’s not how it’ll be – but stopped himself almost immediately. Because how could he argue against what he’d just admitted feeling himself? It would’ve been hypocritical. Even worse – unfair. Her fear was valid. 

Their worlds had collided in the most unlikely way, and he was still keeping her tucked away from the spotlight – not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted something that was just theirs, untouched by the noise.

“But we keep showing up for each other, yeah?” she went on, voice steadier now. “In the little ways – the answered calls, the random surprises I hide in your luggage. The voice notes when the time zones don’t match up. The flowers that you order every time an older bouquet starts to waste away. Every person we let into our shared world.”

He looked at her then, how her face softened when she talked about them, how she said “shared world” like it was sacred.

“There’s this thing about people like us,” she continued. “We expect good things to vanish. We prepare ourselves for it. But maybe… maybe this is one of the rare things that’s actually built to stay.”

For a moment, all he could do was sit with it – the weight and the lightness of her words, the quiet miracle of being known so well. Then, he squeezed her hand, gently but with purpose.

“You know what I think?” he murmured.

She tilted her head toward him, a question in her eyes.

“I think we don’t give ourselves enough credit,” he said. “This? What we’ve made – it’s not just luck. It's an effort. Intention. It’s staying up at 3 a.m. just to hear your voice, even if I’ve only got five words in me. It’s you reading the same boring post-race summary just to tell me I sounded confident. It’s both of us choosing this. Every day.”

Her lips parted slightly, the corners lifting, and he could see the words landing – not as a grand gesture, but as truth. And the most amazing thing for her was how in reality he was talking himself out of the spiral. 

“I’m not afraid of losing you because something out there takes you away,” he added. “I’m afraid of losing you by accident. Letting something slip. Not fighting hard enough.”

“But you are,” she whispered. “Fighting for it, I mean.”

She cuddled into him, light slowly slipping away.

“And if we keep doing just that, we will never lose each other. So let’s keep it that way. And whenever that curly little head of yours starts telling you these kinds of things, remember us here,” she murmured.

He couldn’t stop smiling, even as he gently kissed the top of her head.

“I will.”

Neither of them said anything else for a while. She unpaused the film, and they eased back into the cushions, limbs tangled, breaths in sync. The dialogue from the screen filled the silence between them, but something had shifted – something small, steady, and unshakeable.

They watched the rest of the movie just like that: closer, lighter, stronger. And this time, neither of them was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

[erikawrites13]

“Where the cameras don’t reach”

Part two of "What the Cameras Miss"

13- My notes. Please read part 1 of this before you read part two!

Part 1

Oscar Piastri x Y/N (female reader) Y/N and Oscar fight to keep the truth behind his image. In stolen moments, desire burns and masks fall. But can their passion survive the spotlight?

Later that evening, Monaco shimmered like liquid fire beneath the deep indigo sky, the city’s opulence glowing against the cool night. The distant murmur of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft strains of jazz floated in from the terraces, but inside the hospitality suite, the air was thick with tension and the relentless glare of flashing cameras. Y/N stood at the edge of it all, her eyes never leaving Oscar. To the world, he was a perfect enigma—smooth, polished, untouchable. But she knew the truth beneath the flawless facade: the weight he carried, the exhaustion etched behind his eyes.

When their gazes met across the room, the noise around them dimmed. His subtle nod was a lifeline, a whispered promise: I’m still here. I’m still yours.

The media frenzy finally moved on, and Oscar slipped through the crowd like a shadow, finding her waiting just beyond the exit. The chaos of the suite fell away, replaced by an electric silence between them.

“I hate this,” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue and something raw—something that set her skin alight. “All those faces, those endless questions. They don’t see me. They see a story, a mask I’m forced to wear. Sometimes I forget who I am beneath it all.”

Y/N stepped closer, her hand sliding along his wrist, fingers warm and grounding. “Then maybe it’s time to stop hiding.”

His eyes darkened, fierce and hungry. “And if I don’t want to come back?”

She grinned, slow and wicked. “Then I’ll make you.”

Her fingers tangled in his thick curls, pulling him closer, bodies pressed tight enough to feel every breath, every heartbeat. The heat between them was a live wire, crackling with promise.

Oscar’s hands framed her waist, thumbs tracing circles, pulling her impossibly close. His breath hitched, voice low and teasing, “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good,” she whispered against his ear, “I want to burn.”

Their kiss was a slow-burning fuse that ignited into a wildfire—soft and tasting at first, then fierce and consuming. His hands roamed beneath the delicate fabric of her dress, memorizing every curve, while her fingers slid beneath his shirt, trailing hot, daring paths across his skin.

He groaned deep and low, a sound that sent shivers racing down her spine. “I’ve wanted this all night. Wanted you.”

She smiled against his lips, breathless. “Then don’t stop.”

With a swift motion, his arms lifted her, pressing her flush against him. The world—the cameras, the crowds, the spotlight—disappeared, swallowed by the night.

“Come with me,” he whispered, lips brushing her jaw, voice thick with desire. “I want to show you the part no one else sees.”

Her pulse thundered as she nodded, hands clutching at his shirt. “Lead the way.”

They slipped into the cool night air, the buzz of Monaco far behind them. Oscar led her down quiet corridors, through dim stairwells, and out to a sleek black car waiting silently. The driver melted into the shadows as they slipped inside, sealing them away from prying eyes.

Once inside, the tension that had been simmering all evening broke loose like a dam. Oscar pulled her into his lap, lips crashing onto hers with fierce hunger. His hands tangled in her hair, fingers tracing the delicate line of her neck, sending sparks flickering beneath her skin.

Y/N arched into his touch, her own hands exploring—the hard planes of his back, the sweep of his shoulders, the strong grip of his fingers on her waist. The leather seats creaked softly beneath them as their bodies melded, each kiss stoking the fire burning between them.

“God,” Oscar breathed, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, “I don’t want this night to end.”

“Neither do I,” she whispered, her voice thick with want.

His lips trailed down her jaw to her neck, brushing soft, hungry kisses along her pulse point. She gasped, fingers clutching his shirt as the heat inside her flared.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her skin, voice a seductive growl.

Her lips curled into a daring smile. “You.”

He laughed—a low, breathless sound—and captured her mouth again. “Good answer.”

The city lights blurred past as the car glided through the night toward a secret hideaway—a secluded villa perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, far from the cameras and the noise. Here, in this stolen sanctuary, they could be simply themselves—raw, unguarded, free.

Inside the villa, the door closed softly behind them, the world slipping away completely. Oscar’s hands roamed anew, tracing fire along her spine as she pressed closer, every touch igniting a frenzy of sensation.

“Show me,” she whispered, voice trembling with need. “Show me everything.”

[barnesonly]

Half-return

dad!bucky barnes x reader (implied)

trope: absolute angst.

summary: your daughter skips school to visit Bucky’s — her father’s — grave.

word count: 1499

A/N: Oh gods, I actually made myself cry while writing this. I imagine this happening in 2010’s, reader was pregnant when her and Steve fell into ice. I might write part two one day, let me know what you think! Also this is heavily inspired by this song.

The cemetery was quiet that morning.

No birdsong, no wind. Just the gentle crunch of gravel under small, determined footsteps. Her backpack bounced against her spine with every step, heavier than usual — not because of books, but because of the secret folded in the front pocket.

A homemade card. Pink construction paper. Crayon hearts. A little drawing of a man she never met.

She hugged her hoodie tighter around herself as she walked between rows of graves, her sneakers brushing against wildflowers that hadn’t been cut back yet. The sky hung low with heavy clouds, soft and gray, like the world was holding its breath.

She knew where he was.

She didn’t need help finding it anymore.

James Buchanan Barnes.

1917 — 1945.

Beloved friend. Cherished soldier. Never forgotten.

The letters on the stone were starting to wear a little. She ran her fingers across the name like she always did, just to feel it. She imagined his hand might’ve felt rough like the stone, big and strong and warm if she ever got to hold it.

She glanced around — empty. No one saw her. No one followed.

“I skipped school,” she said quietly, her voice too small for the sky. “I’m not supposed to. But I needed to see you.”

She sat down cross-legged in front of the headstone, brushing some leaves away from the base. Then she opened her backpack and carefully pulled out the card, like it was treasure.

“I made this at school,” she whispered. “Everyone was making cards for their dads. And I didn’t know what to do at first… but then I made this for you.”

She set it down gently against the headstone, the crayon hearts already smudging a little from the mist in the air.

“I just wanted to come alone this time… Without mommy… I wanted you to myself today.” She smiled, just barely. Her chin trembled.

She picked at a thread on her sleeve, then leaned forward like she was telling a secret.

“They gave us this math test yesterday,” she said, nose wrinkling. “I didn’t do so good.” She frowned for a second, like she was scolding herself. Then she glanced up at the headstone and shrugged.

“But… I think you wouldn’t have minded. Mommy says you weren’t great at math either.”

There was a small pause, and she plucked a piece of grass, twisting it between her fingers.

“My teacher, Miss Carr, she’s always talking about heroes. She says we’re supposed to write about one for this essay thing. I picked you.” She smiled again, a tiny, proud thing.

“Even though you’re not in any of the books at school. I had to ask Mommy a bunch of stuff so I could write about you right. I said you were brave and kind and that you protected people. And that you fell off a train ‘cause you were trying to save people. I think you would’ve liked that part.”

Her voice wavered a little at the end, but she pushed through it.

“They all picked people like Captain America… Or other Avengers… or firefighters. But I picked you. ‘Cause you’re my dad. Even if you’re not… here.”

She reached out and adjusted the card again where it leaned against the stone, like it needed to stand straighter.

“I think maybe you would’ve walked me to school. Or helped me with spelling. I bet you’d tell really funny jokes that made Mommy roll her eyes but laugh when you weren’t looking.”

A soft gust of wind blew her hair into her face, and she tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I see kids with their dads, and I wonder if you’d be like that. Or if you’d carry me on your shoulders even though I’m not that little anymore. Mommy says you’d love me so, so much.”

Her throat tightened.

“I think I’d love you too.”

She was quiet for a long time after that. Just sitting, legs curled beneath her, fingers tugging at grass. The wind picked up a little, brushing against her cheek like a hand that wasn’t there.

Then she spoke again, even softer than before.

“Uncle Steve told me you’d always protect him from bullies when he was younger…” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “I wish you were here to help me like that now. I’d really need it.”

She blinked fast and looked up at the sky, like maybe if she didn’t look at the headstone, the sting in her eyes would stop.

“There’s this girl at school who always laughs when I get answers wrong. She says I’m weird. She makes fun of my shoes, and my backpack, and one time she called Mommy weird ‘cause she always looks tired.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“I didn’t tell Mommy. I don’t wanna make her sad. She’s got enough worries. But I thought… if you were here, maybe you’d wait outside school for me. And if she said something mean, you’d just look at her and she’d stop.”

She smiled at the thought. A sad, flickering smile.

“Uncle Steve said you were like that. That no one messed with him when you were around.”

She traced the edge of the headstone with her finger again, slow and gentle.

“I really wish you were around.”

She sat still for a while, eyes locked on the card like it might fix everything just by being there. The crayon lines were running now — little streaks from the mist or maybe her fingers, she wasn’t sure.

Then suddenly, it hit her.

The weight.

The emptiness.

The truth.

Her lip trembled. She looked down at her knees, then back at the stone. And the words tumbled out in a breathless rush—broken, cracked, helpless.

“I don’t even know why I came here alone…” Her voice shook, barely holding on. “I always come here with Mommy but… I wanted to talk with you alone. I…”

Her small hands curled into fists against her jeans.

“I realized I don’t have a single memory with you. None.” Her shoulders started to shake. One sob slipped out before she could stop it.

“I don’t know your voice. Or your laugh. Or how your hugs feel. I don’t even know what your hands looked like.”

Tears spilled over now, hot and silent at first, then building until they came in waves.

“And I… I just really wanted to have one. Just one memory. Just you and me, Dad.”

She covered her face with her hands, sobbing into the quiet.

“I came here so I could pretend. Just for a little bit. That you’re here. That you’re real and you’re listening and… and that I’m not alone.”

The card fluttered a little where it leaned against the stone, caught in the wind like it was reaching for her.

She sniffled, dragging her sleeve across her face, and then — barely above a whisper:

“Mommy misses you so much.”

She didn’t look up. Just spoke into her knees, into the earth.

“She tries to be strong… but it hurts her. I see it.”

Another tear fell, but slower now. Heavier.

“She cries when she thinks I’m asleep. Sometimes I hear her say your name. Sometimes she just sits in the kitchen with the lights off.”

She looked up at the grave, eyes red and full of something bigger than a ten-year-old should ever have to carry.

“I don’t think she ever stopped loving you. I don’t think she ever will.”

She reached out again, touching the stone like it was his hand.

“Neither will I.”

She sat like that for a while — still, small, and hurting — until her legs began to ache. Slowly, she unfolded from the grass, stiff and heavy, like every part of her was tired.

She looked down at the card, bent from the wind but still standing. She knelt and adjusted it carefully, pressing a small rock against the corner so it wouldn’t blow away.

Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out something small — just a string bracelet, all crooked and uneven knots, the kind only a kid could make.

“I made this in art class,” she whispered, holding it in her palm for a second. “It’s not… very good. But it’s yours.”

She laid it beside the card, fingers lingering for a moment before pulling away.

Standing again, she looked at the grave, at the name carved so deep it would never fade. And even though her face was blotchy and red, her voice was steady — shaky, but trying.

“I have to go now.”

She hugged herself tightly.

“Mommy’s gonna be mad I skipped school. But I just… I needed this.”

A pause.

“I needed you.”

The wind rustled the trees above her, and she looked up, eyes shining.

“I’ll come back soon. I promise.”

She stepped back, wiped her cheeks one last time, then raised her fingers to her lips, kissed them and pressed them gently against his name.

“Bye, Dad.”

Then she turned. And walked away.

The bracelet stayed.

The card fluttered quietly.

And the empty grave watched.

[vingtetunmars]

Silver Springs

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Years after Corroded Coffin's rise to fame, the band's frontwoman and Eddie Munson — once lovers, now estranged — find their past echoing through every lyric and chord. After a bitter fallout tore them apart, a chance reunion at a music awards gala rekindles old wounds.

tags: Lovers to Strangers to ???, angst, hurt/maybe comfort, possible second chances, Eddie's a bit of an ass but dw he regretted it, she'll follow him down till the sound of her voice will haunt him. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: I was showering when Silver Spring came to shuffle, and I just had to barf it all out before I go down a spiral. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

word count: 3.290

masterlist

1984

You were always louder than the amps.

Not in volume, necessarily, but in presence. In grit. In the way you stared down a crowd with that crooked little smirk before you opened your mouth and sang like the world had done you wrong and you were going to make damn sure it listened. You were all spitfire and heartbreak, leather and chipped black polish, and Eddie Munson thought you were the most electrifying thing to ever walk into his life.

He met you during an open mic night at some dingy bar in Hawkins — before Corroded Coffin was anything more than a few boys dreaming out loud. You stepped onto the stage like it was a throne, borrowed guitar slung over your shoulder, and sang something raw, throat-shaking, and holy.

You didn’t even look at him that night.

He looked at you like a revelation.

He said it first — because of course he did. Three beers in and high off your shared first rehearsal, sweaty and wild in Gareth’s garage with your voices cracking and your fingers bleeding.

“You know you’re trouble, right?” he said, lying on the floor, hair a mess, arm slung over his eyes.

You tilted your head, curled your lip into a grin.

“Only if you get too close.”

He got close.

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It was louder than that. Messier. A series of late-night drives in his van where you argued about song lyrics and made out between takes. Sharing old Walkmans and trading off headphones. Whispering melodies into each other’s mouths when sleep wouldn’t come.

“I love you,” he murmured into your hair one night, quiet as a secret, scared like it might jinx something.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered back, but your fingers were in his curls and your cheek was pressed to his chest, listening to the way his heart kicked.

Sometimes you’d be backstage, just before the lights hit, his hand squeezing yours. He didn’t need to say it every time — the way he looked at you said enough. Like you were the beat that kept time. Like you were the reason any of this felt real.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he'd ask, teeth flashing, eyes gleaming.

“Always,” you’d grin, adjusting the mic. “Don’t fuck up the solo this time.”

He never did. Not when you were singing.

You were chaos and stardust, he used to say. A storm in black eyeliner. The voice of Corroded Coffin, the girl who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in every photo and never flinched when the spotlight got hot.

It was good. It was so good.

And maybe that’s why it still lingers, even now — like the ringing in your ears after a show, like smoke on your clothes, like a song you wrote together that you can’t bear to listen to anymore.

But you’re not there yet.

Not quite.

Right now, it's still the early days. Fingers tangled in guitar strings. Eyes locked over crowded bars. Two kids in love, chasing noise and fire and fame, and thinking it would always be enough.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he whispered, voice hoarse from screaming and weed and maybe too much wanting.

“You better,” you breathed, and kissed him so hard your teeth knocked.

2003

Eddie Munson hadn’t thought about the band in weeks.

Not in the way he used to, anyway. Not with urgency, not with that gnawing need to make noise until the world listened. These days, it was contracts and appearances and the occasional reunion show when the money was good enough and the nostalgia ran deep.

Corroded Coffin had been something. Sold-out tours. Magazine covers. A platinum record that still hung on the wall in his home studio, half-covered by dust and a denim jacket he hadn’t worn in a decade. There was a time when they couldn’t walk down the Sunset Strip without someone yelling their names.

But that was a long time ago. And you? You’d been gone even longer.

He didn’t know where you were now — not exactly. He knew the cities. The setlists. The way your solo career took off like a lit fuse, how critics called you “a voice made of gasoline and god,” how the world found in you what he already knew. What he used to have.

Eddie didn’t listen to the radio much anymore. Too risky.

But the van was on its last legs, and the aux cable had finally died for good, so he was stuck with FM, flipping through static and commercials as he took the long drive up the coast. Maybe to clear his head. Maybe to escape it.

He was halfway through a sharp turn, Pacific glittering to the left, when it happened.

That voice.

Your voice.

Soft at first. Just a breath. Then a note — long and low, curling at the edges like smoke.

He gripped the wheel tighter.

He almost swerved.

It was that song. The one from your third solo album. The one the public picked apart like vultures, trying to find which lyric meant him. They never needed to guess. He knew. He always knew.

Because you wrote it the way you lived: no filter, no mercy.

He turned the volume down, but not off.

It was masochism, maybe. Or maybe it was penance.

You sounded older. Not in a bad way. Just… lived-in. Weathered. Like someone who’d survived the kind of love that scars.

And god, did he miss you.

Not just the you who kissed him backstage, or finished his sentences in interviews. He missed the fighter in you. The fire-eyed, foul-mouthed girl who spit lyrics like knives and made every stage feel like the center of the goddamn universe.

You’d burned so brightly. He should’ve gone blind.

Instead, he let you leave.

And now you haunted him in every melody, every lonely drive, every radio signal strong enough to carry your voice across the coast like a curse.”

He pulled over.

Parked at the edge of a lookout, engine ticking, chest tight.

He let the last notes play out. Let the silence settle.

You were still following him. Maybe always would.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t reach to turn the dial.

1998

It started with a song.

Like most things between you and Eddie.

Rehearsal had already gone long. Too many late nights. Too many new eyes on the band. The label breathing down their necks, looking for the next hit. The tour looming. The air thick with pressure. Eddie’s knee bounced restlessly on the amp he was sitting on, fingers tapping out a rhythm even though they’d been playing for hours.

You were standing at the center of the room, boots planted, mic cord coiled like a whip around your wrist.

“You’re flatting it again,” he muttered, not looking up.

You stared at him. “No, I’m not. I changed the phrasing — it’s intentional.”

“Well, it sounds off. The chorus loses punch. The whole hook feels—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—detached.”

You blinked. “It’s supposed to hurt, Eddie. Not everything has to be a punch. Sometimes people just bleed.”

Gareth, Jeff, and Doug exchanged glances, silent.

Eddie stood up. “You’re too in your head about this one. It’s a single. Not a therapy session.”

That was the first blow.

You flinched like he’d slapped you. “Is that what you think this is? Just me being sad with a guitar?”

“I think you’ve been turning every verse into a fucking diary entry,” he snapped, jaw tight. “And it’s getting old.”

Your breath caught.

“Oh, right. God forbid I actually feel something,” you spat. “Sorry I can’t be a caricature of your perfect riot girl fantasy anymore.”

It was personal now. Everyone knew it. They always danced around it, pretended the tension in the studio was just artistic friction. But the truth was—it hadn’t been just music for a long time.

You stepped closer, voice low. “You want a puppet, Eddie? Someone who’ll smile for the cameras and sing your lyrics and shut up when you take all the credit?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Twist this into some goddamn betrayal.”

You scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who said I was nothing without this band.”

Eddie’s face darkened.

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.” Your voice cracked then — barely. Just enough. “You don’t think I see it? How you’ve been freezing me out since LA? How every time I bring in a song it’s suddenly not 'Coffin enough'?”

“Because it’s not!” he shouted, finally exploding. “It’s you! It’s all you, all the time — it’s not a band anymore, it’s a goddamn solo project featuring the rest of us! And maybe—maybe that’s all you ever wanted.”

Silence.

Even the amps seemed to hum nervously.

You stared at him, eyes wide and stung. And then you laughed. But there was no joy in it.

“I begged you to work on that song with me,” you said, quiet. “I waited for hours while you got high in the parking lot. I covered for you when you forgot lyrics on stage. I believed in you when no one else gave a shit about this band, Eddie.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“And all this time,” you went on, breath shaking, “you were just waiting for the moment I got too big for you.”

The silence stretched. Jeff shifted awkwardly, but no one spoke.

Finally, you nodded to yourself. Like the final note had hit.

You unwound the mic cord from your wrist, set it down gently on the amp beside you.

“Okay,” you said. No dramatics. No tears. Just finality.

You turned, grabbed your jacket, and walked.

Gareth started to move — maybe to call after you. Maybe to stop you.

But Eddie didn’t.

He didn’t say a word.

Not then.

They played one last show together.

Not officially — not that anyone knew it at the time — but everyone felt it.

The venue was packed, lights low and golden, the air thick with heat and screaming fans. But backstage, no one was screaming. No one was even speaking. Except for Gareth, maybe, trying to crack a joke that didn’t land.

You wouldn’t look at him.

Eddie kept his guitar in his lap, fingers picking a riff he didn’t even realize he was playing. The setlist hadn’t changed. The songs were the same ones they always played. But something else was loaded in the air, like stormclouds hiding just behind the amps.

And when they got to that song — the one you wrote about him, for him, against him — the audience felt it.

Every note. Every glance. Every sharp intake of breath.

It started with your voice — steady but biting, like you had something clenched in your teeth. You didn’t sing to the crowd. You sang at him. Your eyes found his, once, and didn’t flinch. The way your mouth wrapped around every lyric was more like a warning than a performance.

And when it came time for his part — the backup line that was never meant to be loud — he stepped forward into the mic.

He didn’t harmonize. He fought.

They weren’t singing anymore. They were shouting in tune.

Like every word was a dagger, every verse a memory dragged back from the grave.

It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was defiance. It was betrayal. It was two people who still loved each other in ways that hurt too much to hold.

And everyone saw it.

Even now, fans talk about that night like it was folklore. They say you could feel the stage crack under the weight of them. That it wasn’t music — it was a breakup set to distortion. That her voice had never sounded so sharp. That his never sounded so wounded. That you could watch their history bleed through every lyric, every gaze that almost met and then didn’t.

After the final chord rang out, she left the stage first.

No wave. No bow.

Just gone.

And the next morning, you were too.

Eddie would never forget the sound of your boots echoing down the hallway, or how you didn’t even take your leather jacket.

That performance would be the last time they stood side by side.

And the world wouldn’t stop replaying it.

2004

You didn’t want to be here.

The makeup, the flashbulbs, the champagne that tasted like coins. You hadn’t walked a red carpet in four years — not since the last album, not since you decided your voice didn’t need a face to haunt people. But your team insisted. A legacy award. A lifetime achievement thing. You weren’t even forty, but they called you iconic now, which usually meant still alive, but no longer a threat.

The dress was black. Sleek. Simple. You never liked frills. Your eyeliner was heavier than usual, a silent act of defiance. You stayed near the edge of the crowd during the afterparty, cradling a whiskey neat in one hand, eyes drifting between velvet curtains and industry ghosts.

That’s when he showed up.

One of those golden boys — platinum records, model exes, cheekbones sharp enough to slice through ego. He sauntered over like he’d won something.

“Didn’t think you were real,” he said, offering a smile like it was a business card. “Thought you were some kind of myth.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. “Disappointed?”

He laughed. A little too loud. Definitely a little drunk.

“Nah. You’re better than the stories.” He leaned in slightly. “But I gotta ask—what’s it take to get a legend like you to come out of hiding?”

You took a sip of your drink, slow. Let the silence stretch. He wasn’t used to that.

“A good reason,” you said flatly. “This barely qualified.”

His grin faltered for a second. Not enough to make him quit — just enough to make him recalibrate. He leaned against the wall beside you like he belonged there.

“You know, I used to have posters of you in my room,” he added, fishing for a reaction. “You were kind of my first heartbreak.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s unfortunate. You should pick better crushes.”

“I don’t know,” he said, trying for charming. “I’ve always had a thing for complicated.”

You tilted your head, something colder sliding into your expression. “Then you’d love my discography. It’s full of people who wanted the fantasy, not the fallout.”

His smile cracked then, just a little. You looked away, eyes drifting to the ceiling like you could ignore the glitter and the chatter and the weight of everything this place used to mean.

“Sorry,” he said, quieter now. “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t.”

You just weren’t interested.

Because in the corners of your mind — even now, years and lifetimes and lovers later — there was still him.

The boy who played guitar like he was exorcising demons. The man who let you walk away because neither of you knew how to hold on without breaking everything else. The ghost you carried in every song, every verse that ended in silence instead of resolution.

And no amount of charm from a stranger could scrape that out of your chest.

“I should go,” you said, already walking away.

You didn’t look back.

And you thought of him.

Still.

Always.

You were across the room before he even realized what gravity felt like again.

Eddie hadn’t expected to see you tonight. He hadn’t even known you’d be here — nobody ever knew with you. You didn’t do red carpets anymore. No late-night talk shows. No surprise features or industry dinners. you voice stayed, sure — in soundtracks and charts and in his fucking head — but you youself? you had vanished from the public eye like a magician pulling off one last trick.

But there you were.

A black dress. A sharp line of eyeliner. Whiskey in your hand and that same steel in your posture, like no one could touch you unless you let them. Everyone else in the room blurred into wallpaper the moment you entered.

And god, you looked like something he used to pray for. Still did, sometimes, by accident.

He found himself walking toward you before he had time to second guess it.

When you looked up and saw him, your eyes didn’t widen. No gasp. No drama. Just a stillness — like something old settling into place.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said, once he was close enough to speak without an audience.

You sipped your drink. “Didn’t think you’d still remember me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You wrote yourself into every radio. Kinda hard to forget.”

You tilted your head slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

He nodded. “I know.”

A beat passed. The air between them felt almost too full to breathe.

“I heard your speech,” he added. “It was… good.”

“You mean short.”

He shrugged. “Poetic.”

You cracked a faint smile. That old kind — the one that didn’t show up in press photos or magazine spreads, the one only a few people in the world ever earned.

“It’s weird,” you said after a moment, softer now. “Being here. Letting people look at me again.”

“They never stopped,” Eddie said. “They just didn’t know where to look.”

You glanced around the room — not knowing how to react — then back at him.

“You still write?”

“Bits and pieces. Mostly for other people now.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. “You were always better when it was yours.”

“You still sing like you’re trying to save your own soul,” he said, and she looked away — like it hit too close.

You glanced at him then — really looked. Like you’d just remembered how.

“You hurt me,” you said. No venom. Just the truth.

“I know,” he said again. Softer. “I hurt me too.”

That surprised you — just a flicker in your eyes, like a memory resurfacing.

“I didn’t stop you,” he continued. “That’s what I’ve been stuck on for years. You walked, and I just… let you.”

You didn’t say anything.

So he kept going.

“I thought if I said something, if I begged you to stay, it would’ve made it worse. Like admitting how much I needed you would break what little we had left.”

“Maybe it would’ve,” you whispered. “But at least it would’ve been honest.”

He nodded, jaw tense.

“Do you regret it?” you asked suddenly.

“All the time,” he said without hesitation. “But not the music. Never the music.”

That made you smile. Barely. But it was there.

“I never said I was sorry,” he said quietly. “Back then.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I did.” He looked at you, honest and wrecked. “I should’ve said something. Anything. I should’ve stopped you.”

your jaw clenched slightly. “I don’t know if I would’ve let you.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I still should’ve tried.”

Something in your face cracked then — just a flicker. Not pain, not anger. Just recognition. Like a ghost brushing your shoulder and whispering, you’re not the only one who remembers.

They stood there for a moment, years layered between them like sediment.

The gala hummed around them — clinking glasses, polite laughter, a distant jazz band trying its best.

Finally, you said, “I don’t know what this is.”

“Me neither.”

“But it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

He smiled. Not the stage kind. The old kind.

“No,” he said. “It never did.”

you finished the last sip of you drink, then set the glass down on a tray.

And before you turned away, before you left him standing in the hum of chandeliers and chance, you said—

“Maybe we start with a conversation.”

And he nodded, heart catching in his throat.

“I’d like that.”

A beginning. Again.

Maybe.

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

☽ ◦ ◦ ◦ ✩ Cute Moments With Them (HSR) ✩ ◦ ◦ ◦ ☾

✩ March wants the very best photo of the two of you to be her lockscreen. She takes it very seriously. She mulls over what's in her camera roll in contemplation to consider what could be. You ask her to show you what photos were in the running. When she puts her phone to you, showing you some of the cuter photos you've both taken together, you take the opportunity to dart off in the other direction with her phone. She chases after you, and you take a picture of you running with her all blurry behind you. You make it her lockscreen before handing the phone back. You're laughing the whole time, while she pouts at you for taking her phone. "I'm keeping this as my lockscreen to remind you of how mean you are!"

✩ Natasha looks very stern when she spots the cut running down your leg. To the point where you're already apologising before she even says a word. She sighs with the shake of her head. "I shouldn't be surprised these days, go on sit." She works in swift movements of cleaning the blood of the cut and wrapping the wound in bandages. "There all done, I'd tell you to be careful but I'm honestly starting to wonder if you get hurt just to come see me." You laugh sheepishly at her comment, and while she should give you another stern look she merely shakes her head again but this time with a smile.

✩ "Sweetheart, you're a bit heavy handed with your pour." Gallagher doesn't let anyone behind his bar to pour their own drinks. But you're the exception, as much as Siobhan teases him about it. Sometimes he hears her laugh from around the other side, when you give him your best doe eyes and sweetest voice to let you behind the bar. He doesn't mind, you don't do it often, and most of the time you're doing it wanting to make him a drink. But you seem to be a bit too free with your measurements, sometimes one drink has even him feeling a bit buzzed. He still drinks it everytime as long as you promise to let him lean on you all the way home.

✩ Topaz has been looking all over the place for you and Numby. She wasn't overly concerned, as she thinks that if both of you are missing it's clear that you've wandered off somewhere together. She just wasn't expecting you both to come back with a bag full of treasure and Numby draped in random shiny gems you'd both found along the way. She bursts out laughing, a noise that causes Numby to jump in delight. "Hold still I need to get a photo of this!" The photo she takes on her phone is one that always makes her grin when she sees it.

✩ "I don't think pottery is your talent." Aventurine had considered lying about the disfigured mug you had made, but you seemed very aware of how ugly it was when you showed it to him. But miracalously it still ends up serving it's purpose, as you find out several mornings later seeing him drink coffee out of it. As you stare at him puzzled that he's even drinking from the mug that he almost burst out laughing at how strange it looked. "It has it's endearing qualities. I won't have it openly out on display, ever. But it's still useable." By endearing qualities, he means the thought of you attempting to make the mug only for it to turn out like this but you don't need to know that.

✩ Jing Yuan encourages you to come visit him on slower days. Not because he's looking for a chance to slip away, well okay, that's part of it. But because he takes any chance he can to spend time with you. He hadn't intended to doze off before you'd arrived, but alas sleep had sunken its claws into him. He stirs slightly upon hearing the closing of doors and you saying his name. Curiously, he keeps his eyes shut to see what you'll do while thinking he's asleep. You call his name again, footsteps growing closer until your right by his side. He doesn't expect you to attempt to rouse him by running your fingers through his hair. But you also don't expect him to move so that he's pressing his face into your hands.

[xynczachrome]

"I'll go talk to them." Kai said as he walked past them, chasing after the ongoing mystery in their little family.

"So this is where you've been hiding lately." He couldn't help but comment as soon as he reached the roof of the abandoned building that that Xync had taken refuge on. He vaguely remembered Lloyd mentioned it in the passing before.

"Is there something you require of me?" Xync's quiet voice broke through his thoughts as he walked up to the 'Eternal Observer of Ninjago'.

At least that's what Wu called her.

He still find it a bit ridiculous that he somehow lived that long but he supposed he had seen some weirder things ever since he had take on the mantle of a ninja.

"Just wanted to check up on you." He spoke as he watched over the breathtaking scenery of the night city before them, "So what's all that about earlier?"

"If it's because your partner, you know you don't have to do anything." Xync commented, causing him to become flustered.

"Cole isn't my partner!"

"Did I say it's him?" Xync pointed out as he looked up at the ninja who was red in the face. Her eye seemed to be able to see right through him that it made the fire ninja question what kind of expression they were actually making.

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" Kai huffed before taking a seat next to him, "And you're avoiding my question."

"..." Xync stayed quiet for a moment, looking back at the city of stars.

"It's just.." He started, she seemed to taking a lot of pauses as if thinking about what she was trying to say, "Overwhelming, I supposed."

"Just a few weeks ago, I was asking him to take me away with him and now... I'm the only one here in this new modern world with all these new technology." Xync looked down at her hand, seeing no scars or calluses due to her perpetual healing factor.

Kai watched over them, seeing the exhaustion of eternity on those shoulders and couldn't help but see a glimpse of Lloyd in him.

Before realizing it, his hand had already reached over to give her a pet on the head. Although he can't quite see her expression, he had a feeling she was surprised by the gesture. He was surprised himself.

"...You know I'm way older than you, right?" She questioned but didn''t slipped away from the offending hand.

"Ah- right. Sorry, it was a habit." Kai pulled his hand away and sat there awkwardly, "I just sometimes do that whenever Lloyd or Nya gets sad."

Kai could see that Xync was looking over at him before letting out a sigh, "You're just like Pyr."

"Pyr?" Kai blinked before turning to look at him.

"Your predecessor, the First Master of Fire." She revealed, lifting up a hand to let particles of light dance around before turning what seems like a person.

First master of Fire, he assumed.

"Pyr, Nyad, Bing Yu, Terra, Zen.. You all act like them, Especially Lloyd. He looked and acted just like Him." He whispered as more figures appeared in the form of light particles, "I thought I was back in the past with them and everyone."

"But then reality revealed itself." Xync's usually soft voice seemed to have taken an edge as she scattered the figures into the air, "And everyone's gone."

Kai couldn't help but pity this person who seemed so lost in this new world. He could sympathize that it must be overwhelming for her.

He was overwhelmed too when he first learn about the whole ninja thing.

"Well, maybe not everyone." He realized, unable to stop himself from flinching when he saw her looked over at him with such sharpness in her eye.

"What do you mean?" His voice now sounded guarded as their single uncovered eye seemed to be seeking some answers in Kai's.

"Well, how about Mystake? Wu said that she's been around longer than him." He offered, wondering if it was a bad idea to mention when she's already grieving over the loss of pretty much everyone she knew.

Damn it, Kai, why did you have to open your big mouth-

"Or maybe you know what? Forget about it- I'm probably just being ridi-"

"She's alive..?" Xync's quiet whisper seemed to managed to interrupt his panicking ramble before he couldn't help but look at them.

"Uh.. what?"

[jjwolves]

INSIDER TRADING 𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ

What: 5 Yandere ENA the Worker X Reader Headcanons Where She’s Delusional

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1100 words, ~6 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: Toxic/Abusive Behavior

ENA does everything a little too much, even if she’s trying to be friendly. She smiles too wide when she finally gets to shake your hand, gripping it with both and over-eagerly examining it. “This sort of deal is rarer than you’d formulate! I need to take this opportunity before it slips away.” She scowls too deeply when another person talks to you, enviously wringing her hat as she stews in the distance—from which divine blood is squeezed out and dribbles onto the ground. On top of all that, she gets way too intimate with you than what’s normal. It’s not unusual at all for you two to complete a job and find a place to recuperate when ENA suddenly sits as close as she can, triangular eye pointing downwards with a passing sense of scorn for everything around her. But one day, she takes it too far.

One day, when you were sitting next to ENA, she turned to you and gave you an ill omen of what was to come. “Tell me. Have you ever had something you ought to trade away, which you refused to part with because of how valuable it was?” You had to admit that no, you didn’t think that you were too attached to any of the things you’ve sold before. She sighed a long breath which distorted and got louder the longer it hung in the air until vanishing completely. “Treasured customer. Loyal affiliate. That’s not what I’m gesturing towards.” Then what was she getting at? “My new offer… Is this.” Planting her hands on either side of your hips, she crawled forward slowly, deliberately, as her eyes fluttered closed. Her flat mouth parted just slightly as she now revealed her hand—she was obviously about to kiss you. Confused, you put your hands on her shoulders and kept her in place. A look of surprise, and then a turn of the head so that the other side could take its turn. “Don’t chicken out now, bug!” You kept her where she was and tried to explain to her that you liked her, yes, but that you two would need to work into that in the future, if it would ever happen at all. You weren’t ready for that yet. “What are you blabbering about?! You’re MINE! END OF STORY, NOW BURN THE BOOK!” Your ears rang from the beating ENA’s voice gave them and your body hurt from the rough embrace that ENA now had you clenched in. This was going to be a complicated situation.

She doesn’t mean to, but ENA embarrasses you a lot in front of customers. Sometimes the entities that you sell to can get a little handsy and overly friendly, at which point ENA feels the need to assert your status while wrapping a free-floating arm around your waist. “Apologies, there seems to have been a miscommunication. Allow me to clarify: No touching. Dearest is my intellectual property, after all!” ENA turns her head to you with a wide smile like you’re in on the joke, but you’re not. You’re the butt of it. Afterwards, she complains about the lechery of such a rude customer in a rough voice that bounces around in your head once your ears are done taking a beating. “Who do they think they are?! Who do they think you are?! Who do they think I am?! No, seriously, who? Because I keep forgetting our vows!” You do your best not to facepalm. You’re not even dating, let alone married. How far was ENA going to take this weird fantasy of hers?

As far as she has to, apparently. When work is finally over and you round the corner to head home, ENA surprises you. You yelp, which is particularly embarrassing, but could anyone blame you? She stands still with her often-default vacant, smiling expression. When she takes a step forward, you take a step back, bumping against an ancient stone wall which looks like it was painted by cavemen. Her arms are out like she’s struck a deal blessed by the gods, but as for what she’s selling you have no idea. “I’ve been rotating you in my mind, darling! And I’ve come to a startling realization: I never sold you a commemorative ring! I have one, see?” She floated her arm over to you and made a dainty gesture to show you the ring she was wearing on one of her pointed fingers. It was like the crest of an ocean was compressed into a circle and wrapped around her finger, thrumming to the heartbeat of someone else. She moved it in front of her to better inspect it. “I came to an interesting understanding. All this time, I thought you were mine…” You shiver, but that’s because it’s cold, probably. It’s definitely not because this is a little terrifying. “Yet I forgot to Ring you. Ha! Silly me. I suppose there’s a price to being such a busybody—you forget the recipe! Ahem. Anyways. About our loyalty program...” ENA’s face did something weird when she reached into a pocket to retrieve a ring for you. It flashed pale, like she did when she was yelling, but there was no red. No slick salesperson. Just blackness and a signal that dropped out a long time ago. She presented a glowing, orange ring which which brightened the area like neon. “J-just put this on… S-so I can be sure. T-that I was right.” ENA’s darkened eye buzzed with anxiety.

You couldn’t really say or do anything. As much as you didn’t want to hurt ENA’s feelings, all of this intimacy and commitment was in her head. You were friends, sure, but you weren’t… on the level that ENA thought. And you said so. “W-what? You’re saying I m-made it up? That… can’t be right…” She looked very un-ENA like for a moment. Not like her geometry reconstructed or anything like that, but she looked hurt, and confused. And then her geometry did change. Putting her head in her hands, defiantly shaking her head ‘no’, she exploded into a tangle of branches and vines like it was a sacred unspooling into nervous thread. You startled and fell back. The branches and strings that were ENA solidified for a moment into a tree, which grew a fruit and dropped onto the ground, and then burnt away. The fruit grew into ENA. You were so confused. “Apologies, dear. I had to get my head back on my shoulders.” A crack. “NOW PUT THE DAMN RING ON AND SAY ‘I DO’!” You were starting to think that there was no way out of this.

[tullipsoftheearth]

where it doesn't hurt

Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem!reader (established relationship)

TW: Emotional neglect, trauma,depression, suicidal ideation (non-graphic), childhood abuse themes

AN: this is a hard read so be prepared : )

My childhood wasn’t just empty. It was brutal.

Fists came down like storms—sharp, sudden, leaving black bruises blooming across my ribs and arms.

But no one asked. No one cared enough to ask how I got those marks.

When I tried to scream, my voice disappeared into the silence that filled our house — a silence that promised safety but only delivered more pain.

Mom’s hands were cold and angry, striking without warning, her eyes like storms I couldn’t outrun.

Dad? He looked away, like if he pretended it wasn’t happening, maybe it would stop.

But it never did.

No one saved me.

No one even tried.

I learned early that begging for help only meant more pain — more silence — more loneliness.

School was no refuge.

There, I was invisible. A ghost no one wanted.

No one held my hand, no laughter chased the dark away.

The halls echoed with whispers I could never drown out — whispers that made me smaller and smaller until I felt like nothing.

I stopped looking in the mirror.

Because the face staring back wasn’t mine anymore.

Some days, it was a stranger — cracked and bruised and broken in ways I didn’t understand.

Some days, I thought if I stared too long, I’d see myself shatter — and maybe that would be easier than this endless ache inside.

I thought about the quiet that comes after the pain — the kind of silence only death could give me.

I thought about slipping away so no one could find me — so I could finally be free.

But every time I got close, something—hope or desperation—held me back.

Then Ellie came, like a wildfire cutting through the cold.

I never thought someone like Ellie could exist in my world — the one inside my head that twisted everything until I barely recognized myself.

She was loud, messy, fearless — everything I wasn’t.

And suddenly, I wasn’t invisible anymore.

She found me curled on the cold floor of my room once, the walls closing in so tight I could barely breathe. The voices—those endless, hateful whispers — were clawing at my sanity.

Ellie didn't run.

She sat beside me, silent at first, her hand brushing my tangled hair.

“Hey,” she said softly, like she was talking to a scared animal. “You’re not alone.”

I wanted to tell her no, I was always alone. But the words got stuck somewhere in my throat.

So I just let her stay.

She became the reason I kept breathing on the worst days — the nights when I felt like my brain was trying to swallow me whole.

She held me when I felt like I was drowning in my own thoughts — the ones telling me I was worthless, broken, unfixable.

She was the light when everything else was black.

We’d sit on the roof, the city lights buzzing far below, and she’d laugh — loud and real — pulling me out of the spiral just by being her messy, fierce self.

“You’re stronger than you think,” she told me once, like it was a secret only she knew.

For a while, I believed her.

For a while, that was enough.

Ellie was my salvation.

We made plans — stupid, silly dreams of a future where maybe the past didn’t weigh so much.

I started to see colors again — even if just for a moment.

But salvation isn’t simple.

It waited, patient, lurking behind my smile and the way I clung to Ellie like a lifeline.

Sometimes, I saw the exhaustion in her eyes — the way she tried so hard but still faltered.

One night, she said, voice shaking, “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry you all the time.”

I didn’t want to hear it, but I knew it was true.

Love can’t fix everything — especially not a mind that’s been broken for so long.

And when she walked away, it shattered me in a way nothing else had.

Not the bruises, not the silence, not the nights I spent begging myself to stay alive.

So I wrote her a letter with my heart too weary to fight anymore.

I left the note folded on her doorstep, each shaky word a plea I couldn’t voice aloud.

“Ellie, I don’t want to lose you, but sometimes I’m drowning, and I’m scared you’ll drown with me. If you can still stand beside me, please stay. If not, I understand.”

I watched from the window, breath caught in my throat as she picked it up. Her eyes flickered over the words once, twice. Then, without a word, her fingers curled the paper, crushing it into a tight ball.

Her face twisted—not in anger, but something softer, broken, like the weight of those words had crushed her too.

She let the crumpled note slip from her hands, letting it fall to the ground as if she wanted to forget the pain it carried. And in that moment, I saw how much I was dragging her down, and how close she was to slipping away

Losing Ellie was like losing my last reason to fight.

Only this time, it was colder.

Only this time, it was endless.

[clonetrooperjournals]

Hello!! I had an idea for a 501st x force sensitive reader (maybe a bad batch cameo pls?), where she can see force ghosts of passed clones and she wants to try and find a good way of telling Rex and the others boys that their brothers are ok and happy. Maybe she gets headaches because ghost fives is talking her ear off while she’s trying to listen to the briefing.

Hope you had a good weekend!! Love your work!xx

Summary : You have a secret... You can see dead people. What happens when Captain Rex finds out? Pairings : Captain Rex x Fem!reader (Mechanic reader) x Fives? Warnings : ansgt, talks of death, talks of ghosts, talks of fives death and the beginnings of order 66, fluffy, cute ending, Rex is adorably awkward Words : 3.8k A/N : Okay I am in LOVE with this request! I had so much fun with this and I went a little crazy but I really hope you love it! It's absolutely one of my favourite stories I've done so far! And the Yoda cameo? we love to see our favourite little green Jedi! All ghosts talk in italics masterlist here

Be quiet  

Be quiet  

Be quiet! 

Your head was pounding as you and your astromech R0-80 (or ROBO) were currently welding new paneling to a shuttle that is scheduled to leave in the morning. All around you whispers and cries that only you could hear were bouncing off your skull, giving you a wicked headache. Normally you could just ignore it and push through, you have your whole life but, on days like today when the talking is so loud you can’t think straight.  

Please! I know you can hear me!  

“Robo can you do the bottom of the shuttle while I weld the top?” 

He chirps happily and rolls off under the ship to continue welding. Slowly and shakily, you climb up to the roof of the shuttle and start welding again.  

I need to complete my mission! 

Just ignore it. Just ignore it. Just ignore it.  

You take a deep breath and continue your welds, slowly with slightly shaky hands but still straight. You finish your panel and move onto the next one, slowly crawling over to the next spot and it is only then that a voice yells out to you. 

Please listen to me!  

The shout makes you jump and lose your footing, and you go flailing backwards and fall off the top of the ship hitting the hangar floor with a hard thud! You lie there for a moment stunned, the voices quieter than normal, your vision slightly dizzy, when you hear heavy footsteps approach you.  

“You alright ma’am?”  

A gloved hand waves in front of your eyes making you jump. You look up to a blonde head and the most beautiful pair of brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Once the dizziness settles for a moment you realize that Captain Rex is standing over you looking concerned. You can hear quiet chuckles in the distance whether those are from other soldiers or from the voices you're not sure.   

Your cheeks go bright red as you slowly sit up instantly regretting it as your head pounds behind your eyes, “I’m ok- Ouch!”  

“Don’t move I’ll call Kix to come look at ya.” he says already comming the medic before you can protest, “Kix, we need you in the hangar and bring your kit!” 

You look down closing your eyes to ease the aching of your head and to ignore the gaze of the beautiful captain above you, “Really captain I’m alright. No need to waste resources...” 

“There’s no such thing as wasted resources when someone's in need.” he says gently patting your shoulder with a small smile.  

You’ve watched Captain Rex and his men of the 501 since your first day. Like all the soldiers they gave a strong presence wherever they go and even though they are a bit radical like their general and commander you always admired them. They are really sweet and goofy and have even come over to talk to you sometimes while you were working asking you random questions, you think it was pre mission jitters that made them come over to you because there really isn’t any other reason to come talk to you but you appreciate it nonetheless.  

Looks like captain is flirting. Didn’t know he knew how. 

“He’s not flirting shut up!” you hiss. 

Rex looks down at you with red ears, “What was that?” 

You look up at him your cheeks burning bright, “Umm nothing!” 

Rapid footsteps approach the two of you and you both turn to see Kix, “I’m here captain! Where’s my patient?”  

“Our mechanic here took a fall from the top of the shuttle. I think she hit her head pretty good.” he explains while Kix opens his med kit and grabs a scanner. You sigh as he goes over your whole body, feeling the embarrassment of lying on the hangar floor being checked for injuries while groups of soldiers walk by and stare as they get prepped to leave on their next mission.  

Kix looks down at you with a smile, “Good news is there’s no concussion. Just a visible bump on the head for the time being. A bacta patch and you’ll be good to go.” 

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” you say gently with a smile. 

Kix applies the patch to your head making you wince, “Just doing my job. Now you be more careful up there. Don't wanna bruise that pretty face of yours.” 

And now Kix is flirting... I shouldn’t be surprised all the boys are fawning over you. You are beautiful. Maybe I should shoot my shot too eh cyare?  

“Kriffin hell please stop talking!” you say exasperated only to realize you said that out loud and both clones look at you with sheepish, confused expressions. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean that I... wasn’t talking to you...” 

Rex and Kix both look at you confused, “Who were you talking too?” 

“U-Uh... myself.”  

Kix grabs his scanner from his bag again with a concerned look, “I’m gonna scan you again just to be safe...”  

What the three of you didn’t know is that Master Yoda had made an unexpected trip down from the temple to the hangar when he felt something odd in the force. He stood from a far watching you as various fallen clones try to get your attention. The only way they would be this persistent is if they knew you could hear them, or see them... 

As Kix stands over you with the scanner and Rex beside him you hear a faint tapping sound getting closer and the three of you turn to see Master Yoda coming toward you.  

“General!” 

“General!” 

Master Yoda nods at them as he stares directly at you with a curious smile, “come with me young one. Much to discuss we do!” 

... 

You remember the first time you seen a ghost, you were five years old. Your parents had been telling you a story about your grandma who had passed away many years ago, reminiscing on the time they had with her with fond smiles. You had never met her, but you had seen a holophoto of her taken a few days before her passing. As they told stories from the memories they had of her an old woman faded into view behind your mother. She had the same bright blue eyes that your mom had, and her hair was long and grey, braided in two braids just as your grandma always wore.  

She smiled at you with a brightly, and you tilted your head curious, “What’s your name?”  

Your parents looked at you startled wondering who you were talking to when they see you were talking to the empty wall behind your mother.  

My name is Mary-Ann.  

“Mary-Ann is a pretty name. My grandma has that name!” you say happily. Your parents look between you and the empty wall in horror not understanding what is happening in that moment. The old woman walks across the room slowly with her cane and stops in front of you.  

You my granddaughter have a gift. Something special that not a lot of people have. 

“I have a gift? You mean like superpowers?”  

She chuckles warmly. Yes, you have been given the sight to see those who became one with the force once more.  

“What’s the force?” you ask.  

It's what connects all living things and if you have a special power like yours, it can connect you to things that are no longer living as well.  

“So... I can see ghosts?” 

Yes, that right. Though many of us do not have the strength to appear before you. You will hear most of us without ever seeing us.  

“So, I can’t see the ghosts but... I can hear them?” 

As you grow, so will your gift. It will be hard, and you will suffer, but my dear the force chose you for a reason. Never forget that. Take care and may the force be with you... 

She fades away slowly, and it is just you and your parents again. You look at your parents and their shocked expressions as tears fall from your eyes, “can you tell me more stories about grandma?”  

After that encounter you started to hear people, whispers and quiet conversations of people who weren’t there. You very rarely seen a ghost, but you did on occasion. You came to learn that the more you knew about someone, if you had pictures or memories or stories that connected you to them in some way you had a higher chance of seeing them if they chose to appear before you.  

You thought it was really cool at first, you had a super power that nobody else had, not even the Jedi, but as time went on and you would constantly hear voices talking in your ear, or cries of those who suffered before they died it changed you. You constantly got headaches, you mumbled and whispered to yourself as a way to ease the voices to thinking you were talking to them. You had no friends because everyone labeled you the weird kid, the one parents told their kids not to play with because something wasn’t right with you. Your parents tried there hardest, they took you to doctors, specialists and shamans, but nothing helped and nothing worked.  

You continued to grow up isolated and alone with only the voices and ghosts of the past to comfort you over a gift you never asked for. You started to ignore the voices, ignore the ghosts and instead do everything in your power to drown out the noise. You took up mechanics, constantly tinkering and building, taking things apart and putting them back together. The loud noise of the tools, the memorizing of manuals, the comfort you felt in being able to fix something that's been broken like you wish someone could do for you, it became your life. You excelled in mechanics and when the war started you decided that you could use your skills for good and joined the GAR. It was also because the Jedi were the only people you haven't tried to talk to about your gift, and you figured if they couldn’t help you then nobody could.  

You sat on a mat in front of Master Yoda as you told him all this his eyes never leaving yours. Somewhere during your explanation, you started crying and you felt as crazy as you probably looked to the old Jedi. He smiled at you, “Yes. A gift you have... From the force indeed it is...” 

You sigh wiping the tears from your eyes, “but why me? I can’t do anything a Jedi can. I can’t lift things or jump high or fight with a saber. All I can do is hear people I don’t want to hear!”  

“A mystery this is... Research we must do... Louder the voices have become, yes?” he asks you.  

You nod, “Yes. I think... the fallen soldiers are talking to me.” 

“Yes... Sense them around you I do.” he says as he sits in front of you now grabbing your hands, “Know you can hear them, they do...”  

Master Yoda waves a hand around your head and your headache eases, the voices that were trying to get your attention now a whisper. “What did you do?” 

“Trick of the mind. To quiet the voices. Still there they are but... less.” he explains simply and gets up again, “tell no one of this you must. Call for you when I know more, I will.” 

You nod gratefully toward him, “Thank you, Master Yoda!”   

... 

The next day you sat in the mess hall at a table in the far corner away from everyone. Rex walks in with Jesse and sees you out of the corner of his eye and smiles slightly at you. You sat cross legged on your chair, your sandwich shoved in your mouth while you were tinkering with a bunch of small parts that looked like junk, but he could tell it wasn’t junk to you. Your hair was pulled up into a high tail that swung every time you turned your head, and your eyes kept scanning around you like you were looking for something. Rex grabs his lunch and against his better judgement walks over to your table.  

“Hey uh... Mind if I sit here?” he asks with a hesitant smile.  

Your heart flutters in your chest as you rip your sandwich out of your mouth, “S-Sure!”  

He sits down and looks over at your bandage, “How's your head?”  

“Hmm? Oh! It’s okay, I’m okay!” you say smiling, your cheeks burning. You look down at the parts you were tinkering with to avoid his gaze.  

“What are you working on?” he asks trying to carry on the conversation.  

You look up your gaze flickering between the parts in your hand and the warm brown eyes of the captain, “Umm... it will be a solar energy powered stun grenade...” 

He looks startled, “You're building a stun grenade in the mess hall... for fun?”  

“It’s solar powered. Which means it won’t go off and hurt anyone unless its charged with sunlight. And I... like to build things... keeps my hands and my mind busy.” you shrug as you continue to pull parts and jigsaw them into a sphere.  

Oh Cap’s got it bad! He’s getting embarrassed look at his ears!  

You casually glance up and see his ears turning red as he stirs his soup and you smile at him warmly, “You know Captain, this is the first time someone's sat with me at lunch.” 

“R-Really?” he asks stunned.  

You nod again, “Yeah, I’m... a little weird. Most people don’t enjoy my company...” 

“Well, I enjoy your company.” he states matter of fact making you both blush and look down.  

We all knew the captain was awkward but this is just painful...  

You sigh at the soldier's voice and put the final pieces of the grenade together completing it. You smile at your little contraption and when you look at Rex, he’s watching you with a gentle smile, “You’re not weird you know. I think your pretty interesting.” 

“Just wait. You keep hanging around me you’ll see...”  

He chuckles, “Can’t wait.”  

Captain you sly dog you!  

Jesse comes over to your table and puts his tray down beside Rex eyeing you and him with a grin, “Hope you don’t mind captain but the other tables full and I would rather sit at a table with a beautiful view.” 

Kriffin hell! The di’kut stole my line!  

You chuckle at him as Rex looks at him exasperated, “who taught you that line? It's terrible.�� 

“Fives obviously. Who else?” he says with a sad smile that Rex returns.  

“Whose Fives?” you ask curiously already thinking you may have the name of the soldier whose been annoying you for the last two months.  

They both look to each other and nod, “He was one of the finest arc troopers in the army of the republic. He was also a terrible flirt.” 

“And he had the most ridiculous sense of humor!” Jesse laughs.  

Rex smiles warmly, “Yeah. He always stood up for us and all our brothers. Losing him hurt more than most...” 

“Sounds handsome.” you smirk and the two of them start laughing.  

Jesse slaps the table he’s laughing so hard, “We all have the same face ya know!”  

“Thanks for the reminder” you wink at Rex, and he blushes hard rubbing the back of his neck.  

Maker just ask her out already! It's embarrassing captain. Man up!  

You try not to laugh at the nagging fallen soldier, “Why did he choose the name Fives?”  

“His number is CT-5555. He even got a five tattooed on the side of his head,” Rex explains thoughtfully as you take a sip of water. It is then that a soldier starts to appear beside Rex, his hand on his shoulder. You lock eyes and you choke spitting your water across the table at Jesse and Rex.  

“Oh maker! I-I'm so sorry I- hold on!” you stammer completely flustered as you grab a napkin and lean across the table to wipe Rex’s face.  

You can see me! You see me! I know you did! 

“It’s alright. I can get it y/n you don’t have to...” he says flustered as Jesse chuckles wiping his own face beside him.  

You hand Jesse another napkin, “I am so sorry I promise I didn’t mean to do that I just... kriffin hell! I gotta go!”  

You jump up grabbing your stuff and shoving it into your bag as you run off flustered and embarrassed beyond belief, leaving the two soldiers wet and confused. Rex looks beside him to the empty space wondering what you saw that spooked you so bad.  

... 

You sat on top of Master Yoda’s starfighter giving it routine maintenance to keep your mind busy. You heart hadn’t stopped racing since you left Captain Rex and Jesse in the mess, you really are ridiculous. Why do you even try to make friends? Honestly as if Rex would see you as anything other than a mechanic with a tendency to do the stupidest things. This is why you're better off alone, so you don’t get your hopes up.  

Don’t throw a pity party it was a mistake. Honestly it was my fault. 

“Of course it was your fault! You’ve been yapping in my ears for the last two months! What do you want?”  

Fives sits on the hood of the starfighter looking down. Honestly, I’m not sure. I just... can’t rest until I know my brothers are safe.  

You drop your tools in your toolbox, “Fives were literally in the middle of a war! Nobody can promise their safety!”  

I know Rex put in a report on what happened when I... died. I know he’s searching for answers. Please tell him to be careful, it’s not his time to join me yet. He needs to finish what I started, for all of us but he has to be careful. 

You sigh rubbing your aching head, “That’s an awful lot of responsibility to put on one man.” 

Yes, but he can do it. He’s Captain of the 501, if he can put up with us and General Skywalker he sure as hell can do just about anything... 

You hop out of the star fighter and sit on the hood beside Fives. You were right he was handsome. His hair was cut short showing his fives tattoo on the side of his head and a cute triangle goatee on his chin, and this lazy smirk that you could tell got him in all kinds of trouble.  

“Is there something else?” you ask quietly.  

He looks at you startled for a moment and then smiles knowingly. Yes. I want him to be happy. We all have had our fair share of loss but Cap he... has had to deal with so much. He needs a light at the end of the tunnel ya know?  

You nod not really understanding where he was going with this.  

He's had a crush on you for a long time and I-  

You gasp, “He what!? Fives that’s not true...” 

I’m not lying. It's pathetic really. He watches you when he thinks no one is looking. He even drunkenly admitted at 79’s one time that he wanted to ask you out but he’s just too busy to commit to anything and he wants to do right by you if he’s gonna ask you.  

Your cheeks heat up, “Th-There’s no way. We barely talk. I literally spit water at him today like a lunatic! And that’s not including I'm literally sitting here talking to you beyond the grave right now! I am a mess, he doesn’t want me!” 

He smiles at you warmly, y/n... you might just be what each other needs and you both don’t know it... 

You sigh, “You said it yourself. Rex has been through so much. The last thing he needs is another person with issues to come into his life and cause more chaos for him to clean up. No matter how much I like him... I will not put him through more grief...” 

“You like me?”  

You jump as you look down and see Rex standing in front of the ship with bright red cheeks and wide eyes, you turn to Fives and he’s laughing, “You did this on purpose didn’t you? You knew he was there?” Fives just shrugs his shoulders and continues to chuckle. “If you weren’t already dead I would strangle you right now!” 

You slide off the ship and stand in front of Rex your cheeks on fire, “How much of that did you hear?”  

“I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been here for a while and I think we need to take you back to Kix because-”  

“Rex... I have a secret. A gift that I’ve had since I was a kid, it’s... I can hear and sometimes see people who have... died.” you whisper while not looking at him. You can’t bear to see his expression.  

“You...? Can see ghosts?” he asks confused.  

“Y-Yes I can. And it’s alright if you don’t believe me, it's a lot to process which is why I don't tell people, and I shouldn’t even be telling you right now, but I just want you to know that I’m not crazy! I- well honestly, I might be crazy-” 

“y/n” 

“And I really don’t want to cause you any more trouble than I already have I-” 

“y/n” 

“Even if you don’t believe me, I just want to continue being frie-” 

He grabs your waist and kisses you, hard. You freeze, all around you, you can hear cheers from thousands of soldiers only you can hear making your ears ring and your head pound, but you could care less in that moment. Fives stands off on the side hollering with a huge smile. 

Atta boy Cap!  

He pulls away and strokes your cheek, “I believe you y/n. And like I told you earlier today, I think you’re really interesting. I didn’t realize how interesting you were going to be but... I still wanna ask you out if that’s okay with you?”  

“Really? After knowing what you know about me?” you ask stunned.  

He nods, “The Jedi can do impossible things so who's to say there aren’t other people in our galaxy that can do them too?” he leans forward his head touching yours, “so can I ask you on a date then?” 

You smile and you feel his breath on your lips, “I would love to go out with you Rex.” 

Finally! I’m dead and even I didn’t know if he was gonna go through with it!  

You can’t help but laugh, “Shut up Fives!”  

dividers by @saradika-graphics