#writing this at 2am instead of sleeping for work

[kivaember]

For the couples, what’s one thing they like about each other? Like a core aspect of themselves.

HMMM okay let's see:

Rusty likes a few things about 621. There's the usual shallow stuff off he thinks he looks incredibly hot and is carnally attracted to him, but what really draws him is 621's brutal efficiency and cleverness on the battlefield. Rusty is attracted to competency, which there is a worrying lack of in a corporate setting, where people aren't promoted due to merits but nepotism or brown-nosing. So, seeing an pilot who can do sinfully amazing things with a junker of an AC gets him all kinds of hot and bothered...

What 621 likes about Rusty... well, he's not quite sure LMAO he likes that Rusty listens to him when he 'talks', and asks questions and seems genuinely interested in what he has to say. 621 is used to people brushing him off as strange or socially awkward, and while Rusty does think he's strange and awkward, he isn't put off by it and actively tries to understand him. Ofc those feelings became a little complicated when 621 realised Rusty was a spy and likely was profiling him as a future enemy BUT STILL. He liked it. It was Nice.

He does wish that Rusty stops being so confusing to deal with though...

Right, time for the jupiter lads. It'd be hard to get Walter to admit to liking anything about Michigan, but he does like some things about him. He gets easily annoyed with his loud and boisterous personality, and he hates how nosy he is, but he does like how Michigan just... rolls with things and is actually very open-minded, considering. Michigan is unbothered when Walter's in an anti-social and snappish mood, and knows when to give him space and when to pester him. Walter just likes that with Michigan he doesn't have to actually tell him things for Michigan to kind of get what he needs... but he wishes he stops being so fucking nosy lmao

And what Michigan likes about Walter is that he respects and admires how driven he is and all the hardwork he puts into stuff. Like, he understands that Walter had to work himself to the bone to succeed for that scholarship to Furlong Dynamics' pilot academy, that he began from a very disadvantageous position but clawed himself into something half-way decent. Michigan respects that kind of grit! He does wish Walter stops being so stubborn and acting like he's carrying the galaxy on his shoulders though...

(also michigan likes that walter bussy ok)

BONUS ROUND: freud/rusty time. Freud likes that Rusty is seemingly on the same wavelength as him when it comes to refining their craft as AC pilots. All the other Vespers are pencil pushers, with the exception of Snail who's. well. Snail. Freud also likes that Rusty presents a very intriguing mystery for him to pick at, because quite a few things in his past don't make sense, and O'Keeffe should've picked up on those discrepencies but hasn't... so there's a mystery for him to unravel here... it seems like a fun time :)

Meanwhile, Rusty hates Freud bc he's a corporate dog, but he respects his skill as a pilot and somewhat empathises with his position (from decoding, where he realises that Freud has little to no control over his life, thanks to Arquebus micromanaging everything). I feel that if Freud was an independent merc, though, Rusty would be just as attracted to him as to 621 because... competency, brutal skill on the battlefield... Rusty finds that so hot...

[dixons-sunshine]

So I know none of y'all asked for this, but I thought I'd give you all an update on where I am with writing requests.

This idea by @louifaith smacked me right in the face and I'm currently working on that, and then I'm moving back to I Never Lived For The Applause (a fic that I managed to combine five requests into) to finish up the last scene, and then I'm gonna work on some NSFW headcannons for Scud (somebody asked for a fic but I tried to write and rewrite it so many times and couldn't successfully write what they wanted, so I thought I'd put their ideas into a headcannon list.) Then it's over to Daryl with a Polish reader and Daryl with a Hispanic reader and then I'm done and can open requests back up!

But while we wait for that, here's a sneak peek to the fic I'm currently working on:

[reiderwriter]

hey, i really love your writing esp fluff hehe..

I was wondering if you could maybe write a story where gf!reader has anxiety and decides to spend night at spence's but constantly keeps apologizing cause she is like afraid to be inconvenience but he keeps hugging and comforting her just some really fluffy story

Love yaaaa🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶💕💕

-🍓

A/N: FINALLY getting back to some classic requests! Thanks for this cute one 🥰 I love fluff where Spencer is so caring and considerate, so I hope you like this one, too!

Summary: After a traumatic experience, you avoid confronting new fears with your new coworkers until a late invitation lets you find comfort in Spencer's arms.

Warnings: mentions of kidnapping, guns, other cases details etc.

If any other member of your team had so bluntly asked you the question ‘are you okay?’ you'd have lied to their face, convincingly, and not felt bad about it for even a second. 

It had been, after all, long enough since your kidnapping to have become comfortable with new surroundings again. You went on cases fine. You dealt with similar unsubs perfectly, and you were absolutely a professional. 

But with Spencer Reid in front of you asking you that same question, you felt like you were one slight breeze away from crumbling entirely. 

The night had grown old as you sat with Spencer looking over some case files. You weren't shipping out for this one, thankfully, but you still wanted to be sure you knew every detail of the case so you could help find your guy and get him off the streets. 

But having worked from 6 pm to 2am, your eyes were growing bleary, and you had to finally look up to the clock to see how long you'd been zoned out for. 

“Shit,” you murmured, wiping the sleep from your eyes. 

“I have to go, Spence,” you scrambled for your keys, pulling your bag onto your shoulder as your heart started beating. 

It was okay. You'd be okay. It was dark outside, but you'd driven in the dark before now. The roads were clear anyway, and you weren't on a job. You could drive home, get some sleep, and forget anything happened. 

“Y/N, it's late, you’re tired,” Spencer said gently from opposite you, grabbing your bag from your hands and gently placing it down again. “It's okay, you can just… stay over tonight.” 

In the few weeks since you'd been kidnapped, you'd told everyone you knew that you were okay and doing fine and that it would take a lot more than that to get you down. And then you'd go home to an empty apartment, triple check every lock, barricade yourself into your room, and sleep with a gun on your bedside table and a knife under your pillow. 

You didn't drive in the dark. You didn't eat or drink anything you hadn't personally prepared, and you didn't dive head first into cases anymore. A few people had remarked about how you'd matured as an agent. They didn't understand that bile rose up in your throat every time you thought about being alone in a room with men. 

Being alone with Spencer was different. He was your Spencer. You'd seen him kill unsubs, but you'd more often see him peacefully trap and release spiders instead of killing them. You'd seen him fumble talking to women by pulling out magic tricks, just as often as you'd seen him be approached by every single working girl you'd interviewed on a case. 

You'd slept over before. This wasn't any different. 

“Yeah… yeah  you're right. It's probably not a good idea to drive this late.” 

He smiled at you as you abandoned your path to the door, and went to grab you some clothes to change into. You paused, and tried to breathe deeply as you assessed the situation. 

You'd been to Spencer's apartment before. If you slept in the living room, your best route out would be the front door. The kitchen didn't have any good exits. The bathroom window didn't open wide enough. The fire escape was connected to both the living room and the window in Spencer's bedroom. If anyone came through the front door, it would be safer to sleep in the bed and jump out the window before they had a chance to pursue you. 

But if they came up the fire escape, they could choose between which window to come through. Without a second thought, you crossed to Spencer's window and checked the locks. They worked, but they were old. They could easily be forced open. 

You checked, and you still had your gun on you, thinking about where the best place to store it would be. Next to the bed, under the sofa, somewhere it'd be easy to grab and shoot. 

You worked yourself up walking yourself through your plan that when Spencer came up behind you again, without thinking, you turned the gun on him.  

“Whoa, Y/N!” 

“I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I don't - I was just thinking about what I would do in a h-home invasion, and it seemed safer to have the gun close, but-” 

Slowly taking the gun from your hand, Spencer pulled you towards him and into his arms. 

“Are you okay?” he asked again, and though it was the 100th time you'd heard the question in the last few weeks, you finally, finally broke down and told him the truth. 

“N-No.” 

Stroking your hair, Spencer held you as you began to quietly sob, not pulling away as you clung to him for dear life, letting the fear slowly drain from your body. 

“It's okay. It's going to be okay, I'm here,” he whispered. After a few minutes, you gathered yourself and pulled away, wiping your eyes as you looked up at him again. 

“I'm sorry, I must just be really tired. I'll just crash on the couch-” 

“No, Y/N, you can't do that.”

“It's fine, I'm fine now. I've crashed on your couch before, and-” 

“And the couch is next to the door. You're going to sit there all night with your gun in your hand, waiting for the door handle to turn. You won't rest.” 

You opened your mouth to retort, but he grabbed your hand and led you to the bedroom again. 

“I know what it's like, not being able to sleep at night. Feeling anxious and alone and scared all the time.” 

He handed you a pile of clothes and let you sit on the bed as he began to untie your shoelaces. 

“Sleep in the bed. The window has a secure lock, and it's covered by the alarm system. The bedroom door locks as well." Finishing, he looked up at you from the floor, smiling weakly before standing up and pressing a kiss to your temple. 

Your heart, which had been resting comfortably with the new details of your security, flared up into a fast-paced drum beat again as he left for the bathroom. You weren't sure if you were scared still, or if somehow a small kiss and care he'd shown you were enough to have you flushed like a middle-schooler. 

You quickly slipped on the pajamas, which you recognised as old FBI training clothes, and hopped into the bed before your brain could decide to investigate any further. 

Spencer returned quickly and climbed into bed right beside you, turning off the lights beforehand. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, looking at him as you laid on your side. 

“What for?” 

“For not making this awkward.” 

“Awkward? Is it weird for us to share the bed? Should I have taken the couch? I should have taken the couch, let me go-” 

You leant over the small space between you and wrapped your arms around him.

“Thank you for not letting me spiral. Thank you for letting me be not okay.” 

He relaxed into your touch as you spoke and pulled you into him for a hug quickly. His hands rested awkwardly still on your shoulders and waist, as if he were scared to touch you more, to seem inappropriate somehow. 

“Spencer?” 

“Hmm?”

“I think I'd feel safer if you just held me a bit tighter.”

With your head on his chest, you heard the short rumble of laughter that popped out of him as he relaxed into your hug, closing your eyes and falling asleep to the sound of his heart beating. 

[mattyriddlesbitch]

Headcanons of the boys while you're pregnant bc my hormones are crazy and want me to get pregnant again so I'm doing this instead.

My period hit an hour after writing this so that explains it.

Draco Malfoy

Stressed omg. Like he wants everything to be perfect

Will hire help when he's away at work just so you don't have to do anything. Cleaning? Maid. Cooking? Personal chef. Even a chauffeur

I, for some reason, feel like he'd handle your mood swings the best. Always so calm, no matter if you're crying, yelling, or stressed.

1000% helping with the nesting period. You're ready to set up the nursery, he's with you, picking out things and setting it up. Will also hire someone to do a cute mural on one wall.

Lowkey will cry by himself when you're sleeping about how happy he is that he's having a baby with you. Like will sneak off to the nursery, sit in the rocking/gliding chair with the ultrasound and smile as tears fall.

Will buy all the types of ultrasounds at one of those places that does it. Normal, 3d, video, getting a recording of the heartbeat(even putting it in a bear). Anything and everything.

Tom Riddle

I'm gonna be honest, I don't think he'd be the best. Like at least not emotionally.

I do feel like he'd get 10x more protective though.

Won't let you leave the house without him. What if something happened to you?

Will help you with everything physically. Like will help with building things for the nursery and doing anything tedious so you don't strain yourself.

Will make sure you don't eat any junk food. Always on top of your prenatals. Making sure you're eating 3 square meals a day and will make sure none of it is food you will puke, making sure if you do puke from the food, you never eat it again.

But when it comes to your mood swings, I don't see him being any more gentle with you than normal. Will probably just remind you it's pregnancy hormones and that everything's okay, but that's about it.

Mattheo Riddle

Doesn't know what to do. Panicked at every new thing happening to you.

Will go to every appointment and ask a million questions every time to the doctor.

Does find your pregnancy cravings amusing and will try them with you, even the gross combos. Will also try to get them for you, no matter the time of day.

Almost like Tom in the protective part, like not letting you leave without him or someone else.

Tries so hard with your mood swings. He doesn't understand how to calm you down. He understands it's pregnancy hormones, but doesn't understand how you're crying over a dog video and doesn't know how to calm you down.

Will not let you do anything for the nursery other than pick out items. Will bring a comfy chair in the room or set up the rocking/gliding chair first so you can sit in it and tell him how you want everything, where you want everything placed, all that.

Blaise Zabini

The best. Omg. He's already so sweet, and this will just turn him into the sweetest boy ever.

Already buying matching outfits for all of you the day you tell him you're pregnant. Also buys you the cutest maternity clothes, you're almost disappointed when they don't fit anymore after the baby.

Loves indulging in your cravings. Even if it means getting up at 2am to go get ice cream because you want this specific ice cream, not what we have in the freezer.

Will talk to the bump at night so baby will recognize his voice. Also loves feeling the kicks. Also buying a doppler so you two can hear the heartbeat whenever you'd like.

Didn't understand the nesting period at first, like why are you cleaning and stressed about getting everything ready? We still have two months. Once he learns, he is off his ass and helping with everything.

Also like Tom with the meals and prenatals, but doesn't mind junk food. Just tries to get you to eat healthier food first, but baby's in charge here, he knows if baby doesn't want it, you're not eating it and would rather have you eat cheetos and candy than nothing.

Lorenzo Berkshire

Cries when you tell him you're pregnant, partly from happiness, partly from 'holy shit we're gonna be parents'. Cries when he sees the ultrasound too.

So doting. Asking every 5 minutes if you need anything, water, a snack, a massage, cuddles?

Handles your mood swings pretty well. He just wants to find out what the problem is. How can he fix it? Hugs? Cuddles? Kisses? You wanna go get some treats or snacks or food?

Obsessed with your bump. Paying for the top top top maternity photographer so he has high quality pics forever. Buying cute maternity clothes that show off your bump.

Will let you help with small things for the nursery, like putting up decorations on the shelves and wall and rug just so you can feel like you helped without doing anything too tedious.

Will get you a pregnancy pillow but gets so jealous of it when he realizes it's pretty much impossible to cuddle you with it. 'Am I not comfortable enough?' Glares at the pillow when you're not looking like it's a real person.

Theodore Nott

Smiling like an idiot when you tell him. Hugging you so tight, he's nearly crushing you.

Already like your personal chef, but he's researching the best meals for pregnant women and making them for you. Lowkey almost feels insulted if you throw any of them up but has to remind himself it's not you or him, but the baby. Will whisper to your bump when your sleeping too about 'how dare they? that was excellent food?'

Speaking of, is big on talking to the baby, like he'll come home and lay or sit down with you and talk to the baby about his day. Not even directed at you and if you make a comment, he'll jokingly say smth like 'hey, I'm talking to the baby, not you.'

As soon as you get the furniture for the nursery, he's setting it up. You don't even have to ask and it's most likely done without you knowing. Like you'll walk into the nursery and all the furniture is ready to go, you just need to decorate and rearrange.

Will have a shelf dedicated to yours and his old baby stuff too, just so there's a little part of you two with the baby always.

Finds your mood swings funny and tries not to smile, but you can tell and it makes it worse. 'cara mia, why are you crying? it's just a commercial.' He'll say, but wrap his arms around you anyways to comfort you.

Taglist:

@jeannie-beannie @yourenogoodforme @mixvchelle @helendeath @evaslytherpuff

@soaked4abby @hpnsfwaddict @mayamonroem @motherfing-stargirl @brittney-121

@dracoslovergirl @littlemadamred @mattheoriddlesbitch @acornacreacure @opheliamalfoy236

@demieyesore

Let me know if you wanna be added!

[captain-huggy-bear]

"I've got you..."

Pairing: x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood, nudity (in a helping someone get cleaned up way/non-sexual)

Summary: You wake up at 2am to find you've started your period. Clayton takes care of you.

Notes: Periods suck so this is designed to make everyone feel better about a shitty situation.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Maybe it's the stomach cramps that wake you, the feeling like you’re being stabbed in the stomach repeatedly, or maybe it’s the uncomfortable feeling of wetness beneath you, like you’d spilled a glass of water to cover yourself. You can’t be certain, what you can be certain of is that it’s 2am and you’re suddenly awake, groggy and confused, and that you know that something’s gone terribly wrong with your nightly plan.

Clayton is fast asleep besides you, curled up with his pillow, nose twitching in his sleep, so you’re careful, trying to be quiet when you peel the covers back to check the damage, already knowing from the wet sensation between your legs and beneath you what you’re going to find. 

It’s like a crime scene on his white mattress cover, a pool of red blood beneath you where you’ve started your period unexpectedly early. It’s everywhere, across the mattress cover, the underside of the duvet, across your thighs and the crotch of your sleep shorts. To add to it you feel like you’re being kicked repeatedly in the stomach and the lower back. It’s…it’s embarrassing, you’re staying over Clayton’s for the first time in weeks because of his schedule. This wasn’t supposed to happen…

“Mmm…” You glance over at Clay as he shifts, his blue eyes blinking open as he wakes up from your movements. You start to panic when he nearly rolls over into the mess you’ve made, relaxing when instead he pushes himself up to a seated position, chain swinging gently as he rolls his neck and shoulders to shake out the aches and pains of sleeping awkwardly. 

 “You okay, baby?” Clay’s voice is rough with sleep, deep and gravelly in a way that would scratch a part of your brain if you weren’t so emotional and fixated on the shitty situation you’ve found yourself in. Fuck, this is the worst, you’ve never done this before…never bled all over your boyfriend’s mattress and you’re sure he’ll be upset, who wouldn’t be?

“No…” You try to hold it in, really you do, but waking up at your boyfriend’s house with stomach cramps, covered in blood, having ruined his sheets is just too much for you. You can’t help that you start crying even as you’re sniffling trying to hold it in because this is embarrassing enough as it is without sobbing over it as well.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” It’s dark and Clay can’t really see what’s got you so worked up, but he can tell you’re upset and there’s nothing he hates more than that. You both should be sleeping, curled up together, happy. You should be nuzzling into him while he spoons you, not crying in his bed at 2am when you have work in the morning. 

“I…I bled all over your sheets, ‘m sorry!” It’s the early hour wake up that has him confused because what do you mean you’ve bled over his sheets? Are you hurt? Did you cut yourself somehow?  The confusion mixed with the dark has him patting the bedside table in an attempt to find the lamp there. 

Clayton manages to find the switch, flicking it on, the warm light from the lamp filling the space and illuminating the scene which has you apologising and crying in his bed at such a ridiculously early hour when you should be sleeping. You’ve created a big red patch on the bed that he knows is going to stain, blood pooling underneath you where the mattress dips, not that he really cares. You’re covered in blood as you practically curl in on yourself in discomfort, thighs ruddy, sleep shorts stained, smears of crimson over your legs where you must have moved in your sleep.

The sight of you like that, covered in blood, embarrassed and crying, has him hushing you, soothing little shushing sounds leaving him as he goes to pull you into his arms even as you try to protest, to keep him at a distance, worried you’ll cover him in blood. Like he wouldn’t happily bathe in the stuff if it meant he could comfort you, he’s spent so much time playing hockey that the idea of a little blood really doesn’t phase him.

“It’s okay, hey…I don’t care, baby, it happens.” You’re not stronger than Clay’s desire to have you in his lap, no matter how hard you try he’s got you up from the wet patch and sat on his lap. The blood doesn’t bother him, the fact his sweats are probably ruined doesn’t matter because now he can wrap his arms around you fully, a hand cupping the back of your head as he tries to reassure you, to comfort you.

“B-but…your sheets, your sweatpants...” You’re blubbering into him as he gently guides your face to his shoulder, your tears are wet against his skin, droplets trailing down his chest, as he tries to soothe you. His free hand runs over your back in circles, rubbing circles more firmly when he reaches your lower back at the feeling of all the tense muscle there 

“I can get new ones, okay?” You nod into his shoulder, tears starting to slow at his reassurance but he knows you have to feel horrible, that there’s no way you’re comfortable right now covered in sticky blood and probably dealing with cramps and pains. 

“Let’s get you into the shower, okay? Then I'll change the sheets and get you some tylenol, baby.”

“Okay…” 

Clay helps you out of the bed, hands on your hips as you waddle in front of him towards the bathroom, an awkward sort of walk as you try to stop blood dripping onto his floor as if he doesn’t have the money to pay for someone to clean it if you do stain it. You wait awkwardly, feet curling on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, holding yourself like you don’t want to exist in your own body, like you’re trying to shrink yourself as he starts the shower, waiting for it to warm up for you. 

“Arms up, sweet girl.” He’s gentle as he pulls your shirt (well, one of his you’ve stolen) over your head, before kneeling down to help you peel off your shorts and underwear. You shiver from the cold, but it’s not long before he’s gently guiding you into the shower to clean up, the warm water soothing some of your pains and chasing away the chill.Clayton leaves you there as he takes your clothes to be washed, bundling the pile of stained, bloody clothes in his arms. 

It doesn’t bother him, stripping the bedding off, each layer being pulled free. It doesn’t bother him, putting all the blood stained laundry into the wash, coated in stain remover. It doesn’t take him long to do and even making the bed, one of his least favourite chores, means very little when he knows he’s helping you. He works off auto pilot, a desire to make everything as easy for you as possible when aunt flo decided to make her chaotic and unruly appearance. 

You’re just standing under the spray, eyes closed, barely moving except for the rise and fall of your chest, when he comes back into the bathroom with clean clothes for you. Clayton places them on the sink countertop before reaching under the sink for a pad from the stock he’d put there the moment he’d started dating you. He places it atop your clothes before slipping out of his underwear and stepping under the spray of the shower with you to wash off the smudges of blood that had gotten onto him from where he’d pulled you into his lap earlier.

He’s careful as he reaches for the shower gel, the one you bought because it was better for your skin and smelled like vanilla, lathering it in his hands before rubbing it across your shoulders and down your arms. You hum under his attention, head leaning back to rest against his shoulder. There is nothing sexual about it, the way he touches you is intimate but solely focused on making you feel clean, better. Any trace of blood on your thighs is gently washed away, every smudge of red on your legs cleaned off by his hands as he kneels on the floor of the shower beside you. Extra care is taken where you’re most sensitive and uncomfortable, fingers rubbing circles into your tummy and back each time you groan out in pain. 

Clayton’s chain glints in the bright lights of the bathroom when he reaches for the shampoo, lathering it in your hair, fingers massaging your scalp and neck as he works it into your strands. He takes a sort of pride in the way your muscles turn to jello under his attention, how all that tension, that stress disappears a little even if he catches you wincing every now and again, hands rubbing at your stomach where he knows you’re likely cramping. He likes taking care of you. It’s nice to be able to do simple things, like rinse shampoo from your hair and massage conditioner into the ends. He takes pride in being useful to you, even when he knows you don’t expect him to do this for you. 

“Thank you…” Your voice is almost too quiet compared to the sound of the shower, water hitting the ground in sheets, but he hears it anyway. Always hyper aware of you in any situation. Clay pulls you back against him, until your back is flush with his chest, his hands coming to rest on your tummy, working circles into the soft skin there in an attempt to relieve some of your cramps. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another, and another. 

You really don’t have to thank him for taking care of you, if anything he should be thanking you for letting him. He likes doing it, likes fussing over you and seeing to all your needs, it makes him feel useful especially when he has to spend days at a time away on roadies and gets home late from games often. Hell, his schedule had been so shit lately that this had been the first opportunity in two weeks for you to sleep over. 

“You don’t need to thank me, baby” He mumbles it into your shoulder because the idea of pulling away from you right now is unthinkable, not when you’re leaning so heavily into him, sighing happily at the way his warm hands soothe the ache in your belly. 

When the two of you eventually get out of the shower, Clayton doesn’t let you lift a finger. He’s drying you down with a towel, helping you step into your new clothes, pad in place so you don’t have another ‘incident’ and helping dry your hair enough that it won’t upset you while you sleep. He takes more care drying and dressing you than he does himself, just throwing a pair of boxers on, skin still a little damp so the fabric sticks.

“Get in bed, baby, I'll go get you some tylenol, okay?” He’s pulling back the freshly made bed covers for you, letting you crawl into your spot before tucking you in. The covers are pulled up to your chin, making sure you’re not going to get cold.

“Can you make me a hot water bottle please?” You ask shyly, not wanting to be a bother as you look up at him, at the chain resting around his neck, the damp strands of hair curling around his ears, the soft smile he offers you as he looks after you. 

“‘Course, you want anything else, baby?” 

You shake your head in the negative as you burrow down into the fresh sheets. Clayton leans forward slowly, careful not to swing forward too quickly lest you take his cross to the face, to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering slightly before leaving for the kitchen. Hating the fact he has to leave you, but knowing you need some pain relief.

He tries to do it all as quickly as possible. Water boiled in the kettle, cooled slightly before being poured into your ghost shaped hot water bottle that you got last Halloween, tylenol grabbed, glass of water in hand. There’s no delaying, no distractions. It’s near 3am and all he wants is to make sure you take some painkillers, get a hot water bottle where you need it and wrap you up in his arms. All he wants is to cuddle up with you and fall back asleep, for you to fall back asleep.

Maybe he’s a sap. Maybe he’s whipped. Or maybe Clayton Keller just really likes being needed, being quietly helpful to you in the worst moments, the moments when he wants you to seek him out rather than shying away. He knows there are guys who’d freak out at waking up at 2am to blood over their bedsheets, he’s played against a few, the sort of guys that don’t want to even hear the word ‘period’. He doesn’t get it. He’ll never get it. His only thought is to make you comfortable, to ease some of your embarrassment and discomfort. 

“Here, baby, take these.” He helps you sit up briefly to gulp down the tylenol before handing you your hot water bottle, watching you melt when it rests against your stomach, cramps easing under the warmth. 

“Can you hold me?” You bite your lip after asking, like you’re worried he might say no. An impossibility really. Clayton’s never really been able to deny you anything. Especially not cuddles and affection. 

“You want cuddles, baby?”

“Yes, please.” You blink up at him from where he’s standing, tired and soft, slow, like even blinking is an effort right now.

“Okay, just let me turn all the lights off first.” He tries to make it quick, rushing around the house until all the lights are off again, the only one remaining being the lamp in the bedroom.

Clayton eases himself into his side of the bed, turning the bedside lamp off, before curling in behind you. He tugs you until you’re flush with his chest, butt fitting against his hips, legs tangled together. Clay’s arms wrap around you, one replacing your own to hold the hot water bottle to the spot where you’d been cradling it against your stomach. You sigh out happily when he presses his face into the crook of your neck, careful, soft little kisses pressed there like he can’t help himself. 

“Go to sleep, baby…I've got you.” and you don’t doubt it, Clay might be the first man in your life that you believe when he says that.

[leighsartworks216]

Happy Birthday, My Jasmine

Zayne x gn!Reader

Happy birthday to me!! I actually started writing this like a week ago, but the 2am inspiration hit and now here I am, staying up when I should be sleeping to write about Zayne being domestic (so so worth it)

Warnings: bathing, implied nudity, kissing, established relationship, very very vague reference to his myth, birthdays, domestic fluff

Word Count: 921

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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You sigh softly, displacing the steam floating through the air. The hot water soaks deep into your muscles. It caresses out the tension and the stress, replacing it with pure relaxation.

Originally, you had planned on doing something while you bathed, indicated by the novel and fresh mug of tea sitting nearby, but the water drew you in too deep to even think about doing anything other than unwind. It’s not often you get a chance to take a bath; between the amount of time it takes to indulge to make the set up worthwhile and your work, you just never saw a reason to. But you didn’t have to worry about either of those things today, for one very simple reason:

Today is your birthday.

Now, you don’t make a big deal of it anymore. As a kid, of course, you’d want the whole nine yards of gifts, games and gâteau, surrounded by all your friends (or, at least, all your classmates). But as the years go on, the less weight they carry. You don’t need nine yards - just one will do. You hadn’t even asked for time off work! You’re pretty sure Tara told Jenna, or else Jenna paid close attention to the birthdays of her team. Either way, you have the whole day off.

Zayne wasn’t so lucky. He was so sweet about it, though. He got up early enough to make you breakfast and wished you a happy birthday with your good morning kiss. He asked what you wanted for dinner - whether it was takeout, a restaurant, or something cooked by him - and he called you during his lunch break. (You ended up video chatting while eating your respective meals. Yvonne and Greyson heard your voice and ran into his office to wish you a happy birthday, too.)

Your tea is lukewarm when you hear the front door open and close. Your spirits rise impossibly higher as you wait, watching the wall of the hallway through the open door for his appearance. Sure enough, he’s there in no time, smiling fondly as he crosses over the tile floor to kneel down beside the tub.

“Hello, my love,” he hums. You brush wet, pruny fingers along his cheek. He pulls away from your teasing, only to hold the back of your hand and press kisses to your palm. “How has your day been?”

You sigh contently. “It’s much better now.”

With a hand on the rim to support himself, he sits up and leans over to kiss you properly. His tie dips past the surface of the water, but he pays it no mind. His lips move slowly and purposefully with yours. It’s a languid dance, unhurried and painfully smitten.

You groan quietly against his mouth. “If you don’t stop soon, I’m going to pull you in with me.”

He chuckles, kisses you once more, and pulls away, sitting back on his knees. “Alright.” He kisses your hand again instead, before pulling it from his face to rest over his heart. “I brought dinner. Would you like to eat it now?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll go set it up.” He kisses your hand one last time before freeing it from his grasp to stand. He picks up your half-empty mug. “Do you want any more tea?”

You can’t wipe the stupid, lovestruck smile from your face. You’re not sure you ever want to. “Not gonna tell me how bad caffeine is at this hour?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I think you deserve to be a little reckless on your birthday.”

“Can you make me hot chocolate?”

“Of course.” He moves your towel to be closer to you. “Take your time getting out.”

“Wait.” You just catch onto his sleeve before he can get too far from you.

He turns his hand over to hold onto yours again. “What is it?”

You can’t help admiring him for a second. He’s tired - you can tell even if he’s trying hard not to show it right now. You see it in the way he carries his shoulders and the slow way he blinks. Yet here he is, taking care of you, ensuring you have the best possible finish to your birthday despite his absence. He’s so beautiful in the white bathroom light. If you could, you’d marry him all over again.

“I love you.”

The tinge of worry along his brow disappears immediately. He sets the mug down beside the sink and bends at the waist to reach you, one hand cupping your cheek as the other holds onto the tub once more to support himself as he kisses you once more. And twice, and again for good measure. They’re not slow, lazy kisses like before, either. He breathes into your mouth with each kiss, slightly shaky, as if he can’t contain his love for you any longer. On the second kiss (second only because he needed to pull back briefly for air), he almost gathers his wits again. On the third, he nearly loses them when you open your mouth to him, wet fingers tangling into his hair to pull him closer and keep him there as he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth. He has to pull away then for fear of crawling into the bath himself, but he doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours and taking in the bright, adoring look in your eyes.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, heart racing with so much adoration in his chest. “Happy birthday, my jasmine.”

---

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@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikacuzhc

[babyscottoncandy]

Night Shift

Art Donaldson, Challengers

Summary: Stanford¡Art Donaldson x Fem¡Music Artist Reader,, Art and (Y/n) were more than just a fun college "fling" - it was a real connection. (Y/n) writes the story of their ending love through music as he projects his aftermath of them in his tennis performances.

TW: Angst,, Sexual Innuendos,,

Based off the song "Night Shift" by Lucy Dacus

I do not own any of the songs mentioned, it's all for fanfic purposes :)

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Not just any party. One of those crowded, sweat-drenched, red-cup-in-hand frat disasters that reeks of beer and bad decisions. You’re there because your band’s bassist begged you to “get out of your own damn head” and Art is there because… well, he’s always there.

He spots you across the room after your half-drunk karaoke rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” And he’s grinning like he just won Wimbledon. That smug, golden-boy, tousled-blonde charm oozing off him like cologne.

“You know you sing like heartbreak in a leather jacket?” he tells you, a little too close, definitely too bold.

“You play tennis like you’ve got something to prove,” you shoot back.

You don’t sleep with him that night.

But you text him the next day.

It’s never serious.

Not really.

He shows up at your apartment at 2AM with a busted lip from practice and kisses you like the world’s ending. You play him your demos while lying on your back, legs tangled, wine-stained teeth, laughing at your own lyrics. You scribble his name in the margins of your notebook but cross it out twice. He brings you a guitar pick keychain from his first away match win. You joke that you’ll write a song called Boy with a Backhand.

Sometimes he disappears for days — training, tournaments, locked in with Tashi and Patrick. You don’t ask questions. You don’t have the right to.

But when he’s with you? It’s electric.

A storm bottled up in his grin, your voice, the tension of two people who almost fall in love every time they touch — but don’t. Not really.

The lamp is on — dim, warm. A Fleetwood Mac record crackles faintly from the dusty turntable in the corner. It smells like incense and sweat and sex in the air, and Art’s arm is slung across your stomach like it’s his birthright. You stare at the ceiling. He stares at you.

“Your ceiling needs work,” he says lazily. You snort. “So do your commitment issues.” That earns a sharp grin. He doesn’t deny it.

He shifts, half-draped across your body now, chin nudging your shoulder, voice low and boyish. “You’re meaner after sex. I kinda like it.”

“Shut up, Donaldson.”

You both fall into silence again — but it’s not uncomfortable. Not really. His thumb brushes slow, lazy circles into your hipbone. You can feel your heartbeat syncing to his without even meaning to.

“You ever think about it?” he murmurs, suddenly.

You blink. “About what?”

“If we weren’t just… whatever this is.”

You turn to look at him. “You mean if you weren’t busy being golden boy of the court and I wasn’t writing breakup songs about you before we’ve even broken up?”

His smile softens. “You’d write good ones.”

“You’d deserve them.” Another beat of silence.

He kisses your shoulder. Gentle this time. Not the frantic, breathless thing it usually is. Just soft, like he’s saying sorry without saying it out loud.

“I like this,” he says, and he means you. “Even if it’s messy.”

You should say something clever. You’re always quick with him. Always deflecting.

But instead, you just whisper, “Me too.”

You both lie there, knowing it won’t last — but pretending it could, just for a moment longer.

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The air is still except for the hum of her space heater and the soft creak of her guitar strap shifting against her shoulder. The room is low-lit, draped in shadows and string lights that cast a soft glow across her desk — cluttered with tea-stained mugs, scribbled notes, and last week’s setlist.

She’s in his hoodie. Of course. She didn’t mean to put it on, but it was the one closest to the bed, and it smells like him — like detergent and the faintest hint of sweat and something warm and sharp that always made her dizzy when he leaned too close.

Her notebook is a mess of half-finished thoughts. Lines crossed out. Words rewritten. Arrows pointing toward margins where she tried — and failed — to make sense of what she felt. Or maybe, what she wasn’t supposed to feel.

She strums absently. Slow. Thoughtful.

It’s not supposed to be a sad song, but everything comes out aching.

This wasn’t love. Not really. But it’s enough to keep her up at night. Enough to make her wonder what would happen if he ever looked at her the way he does when he talks about tennis. The way he does when he’s winning.

She hums a melody, soft and low, then catches the thread of something real. Something sharp and too honest. Her pen scratches the paper fast now, fingers trembling a little. The song takes shape like a bruise — slow to form, impossible to ignore.

It’s about him. Obviously.

But she doesn’t write his name. She never does.

The title comes last — written in all caps at the top of the page: LOVESICK.

She underlines it once. Then again. Then a third time, harder.

Her tea’s cold now. Her guitar is quiet in her lap. The song is finished, but the ache is still there.

And so is he. Even when he’s not.

It’s been a week since Art’s last message, a text that she’s still replaying in her head. She tries not to obsess over it, but it lingers, gnawing at her. The message was simple enough: “Busy. Catch up later.” But there’s something off about it. Something that feels like he’s already pulling away without saying it out loud. She knew he was distant, but this… this felt like an end without the finality.

She stares at her phone, at the little blinking cursor in the text box, but the words don’t come. It’s like she’s frozen in place, too afraid to write something too much or too little. So, she doesn’t write at all.

Instead, she taps out a half-hearted reply, hoping the weight of the last message doesn’t sit too heavily in her chest. “Alright, take care.” She sends it before she can second-guess herself, dropping the phone to the desk and forcing herself to look away.

She doesn’t reach for her guitar like she normally does when she’s trying to shake off an uncomfortable feeling. Instead, she leans back in her chair, staring out the window at the soft glow of campus lights. It’s hard to ignore the pit in her stomach. He hasn’t stopped texting her altogether — no, that would be too obvious. But it’s all become so… distant. His replies are shorter now, more detached, like he’s just going through the motions. The playful banter, the easy flow of their texts, it’s all gone. And she knows why. She knows it’s because he’s moving on — without saying it.

The next day, another message comes through from him. She jumps when she hears her phone buzz, reaching for it with a mix of hope and dread. It’s another simple message, but this time, it’s even more detached than the last. “Busy. Catch up later.”

She forces herself to breathe, pushing down the growing sense of disappointment. It’s not his fault, she tells herself. He’s a tennis player, he has a life outside of her. He has commitments. He’s just not her commitment. She can’t expect him to change. She’s been trying to convince herself of that for days now, but the more time passes, the more she can’t ignore the quiet ache that’s starting to settle into her chest.

The next few days pass in a blur. She goes through the motions — classes, rehearsals, writing, hanging out with Avalon — but every minute of it feels a little heavier without him. She can’t stop thinking about him, even though she’s telling herself it’s fine. She writes a few new songs, each one spiraling into something more raw, more real. She doesn’t mean for them to be about him. They never are, until they are.

One evening, she gets another text from him. She picks up her phone, her heart racing for a brief moment. This time, it’s a group chat. His name shows up among the list of students from their program, asking if anyone’s up for a game. It’s casual, nothing special, but it stings all the same. The absence of his personal messages — the ones that used to be just for her — feels like another goodbye.

She doesn’t respond. She just stares at the screen, fingers hovering over the keys. She wants to send something back, something that says I’m still here, still waiting, but she doesn’t. She won’t.

Days turn into weeks. The space between them becomes a void she can’t cross. She tries to fill the silence with music, with friends, with everything else, but it’s always there, looming.

Then, one night, after weeks of almost nothing, her phone buzzes again. She picks it up, her heart jumping into her throat when she sees his name.

It’s a simple text. “Yo, sorry I’ve been MIA. Let’s hang soon?”

It’s a text she would’ve expected to come a few days after that first one. Not now. Not after all this time. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard, but she doesn’t know how to respond. There’s too much between them now. Too much silence. Too many unspoken words.

Let’s hang soon? It’s so casual. So easy. And maybe that’s the problem.

She puts the phone down, staring at it for what feels like forever. He’s reaching out, but it’s like he doesn’t even realize how much he’s already pulled away.

She tries to tell herself that it’s fine. That this is what he does. That maybe he just doesn’t understand how much it hurts. But deep down, she knows the truth — he’s moved on. And part of her hates herself for still caring.

She never answers. She lets the message sit there, and in the quiet that follows, she finally admits something to herself: he’s gone. Not in the way she thought he would be, but in the way that leaves someone feeling hollow, like the absence of someone you thought was never going to leave.

It doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like a door quietly shutting. And there’s no way to open it again.

The quiet hum of the campus outside the dorm is drowned out by the muffled chatter of the other students in the hallway. Inside, the dim glow of string lights cast soft shadows across the room, her guitar leaning against the desk in the corner. The space is cozy, cluttered with books, scattered notes, and a few random items from various shows she’s played over the past few weeks. It’s a place she feels safe, but tonight, it feels different.

She sits on her bed, scrolling mindlessly through her phone. She hasn’t heard from Art in days, and she’s told herself she’s okay with it. He’s busy with his tennis, with his life — she can’t keep clinging to something that was never meant to last. But even as she tells herself that, she can’t shake the emptiness that settles in her chest when she realizes he hasn’t reached out. Not in the way he used to, not in a way that makes her feel like she matters.

And then, there’s the knock.

It’s quiet at first, just a faint sound against the door, but she knows exactly who it is. Her heart skips, a sudden, inexplicable rush of anticipation running through her. She doesn’t want to let him in. She knows what that would mean — the heat of it, the mess of everything they haven’t said yet. But she can’t ignore it. Not now. Not with him standing on the other side of that door.

She stands up and opens it, her breath catching in her throat as she comes face to face with him. Art. His tousled hair is messier than usual, his eyes tired, but the smile — that familiar, crooked grin — is there. He looks like he’s been thinking about this moment just as much as she has.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “What do you want?”

It’s a defensive tone, the kind she’s been using the past few weeks, but it’s hard to hide the way her body still responds to him. The way she’s never really been able to stop wanting him, even if she’s tried.

“I…” He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering to hers before dropping to the floor, like he doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been great with words when it comes to this. But he steps closer, closing the distance between them. “I miss you.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it. Not like the usual flippant way he says everything, but like he’s admitting something to himself too.

She looks up at him, her arms still crossed, but her walls feel thinner now, the anger from weeks of silence starting to crumble. “You’re only here because you need something, aren’t you?”

Art frowns, shaking his head. “No… not just that.” His hand brushes against hers, tentative at first. When she doesn’t pull away, he lets his fingers trace along her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m here because I want to fix this… whatever this is between us.”

She swallows, her pulse quickening despite herself. “And how do you plan on doing that?” She can’t help but sound sarcastic, the frustration bubbling up, but it’s mixed with something else. A quiet hope she’s been trying to bury for weeks now.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, his voice a little rough. “But I want to try.”

The tension between them thickens, the air charged with something neither of them can ignore. She knows she should say something, tell him that this isn’t the way to fix things, that it can’t be that simple. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls him closer, hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, and kisses him. It’s not slow or gentle. It’s all the frustration, all the confusion of the last few weeks, spilling out into a kiss that’s almost desperate.

Art responds immediately, his hands on her waist, pushing her back toward the bed, following her as she stumbles back, breaking the kiss only for a second to catch her breath. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She knows this isn’t the answer. She knows this won’t fix anything. But she doesn’t care. Not right now. Not when he’s here, this close, looking at her like maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way.

He kicks the door closed behind him, and the next few moments blur together — hands on skin, lips on necks, the frantic rush of bodies trying to reconnect in a way words never could.

She feels his breath against her skin, his hands tugging at her shirt, desperate and slow all at once. They fall onto the bed together, tangled in a mess of limbs, both of them moving like they don’t want to think about what this means, just feeling each other. His lips trace the line of her jaw, down her neck, and she shivers under the warmth of his touch.

For a moment, it feels like everything else doesn’t matter — not the silence, not the distance, not the way they both know this can’t last. She doesn’t want to think about the end. She doesn’t want to think about the mess they’ve made of things.

But when their lips meet again, slower this time, there’s something deeper in it. Something that feels less like a quick fix and more like something they’ve both been craving. He pulls back for a moment, looking down at her, his expression unreadable.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching hers.

For a second, she thinks about the mess they’ve made. About the silence. The distance. But then she looks up at him, her heart racing again, and she knows, without a doubt, what she wants.

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice soft but honest. “But I want this. I want you.”

And in that moment, as their lips meet again, she forgets about the consequences. She forgets about the unspoken things. For now, all she wants is him. And for once, it feels like that’s enough.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft hum of the campus outside. The string lights that decorated the corners of the room cast a gentle glow, but the air between them feels thick with something unspoken.

She lies beside him on the bed, the weight of his arm still draped over her, his fingers lightly tracing circles on her skin. She’s staring up at the ceiling, her mind spinning as the quiet settles in. The adrenaline of their heated kiss, the rush of their bodies moving together, has faded into something deeper, something more confusing.

Art shifts beside her, his breath still coming a little faster than usual. He’s always been good at pretending like nothing matters, like everything’s just for fun, but there’s a tension in the air now, something new that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she’s almost grateful for the silence. What can either of them say after this? What are they supposed to do with the tangled mess of feelings and broken boundaries they’ve just created?

She feels him shift again, this time sitting up slightly, his back against the headboard. He’s looking down at his hands, the momentarily post-coital bliss fading into a nervous tension. She can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, the weight of his usual detached mask starting to settle back into place.

“So…” he starts, his voice breaking the silence like he’s unsure of where to go next. “That was…”

She turns her head to look at him, her body still flush from the heat of their kiss. The space between them feels vast now, like they’re two people who’ve just shared something intimate but are no longer sure how to bridge the gap that’s still between them.

“Yeah,” she says softly, trying to keep the vulnerability from creeping into her voice. “It was.”

His gaze flits over to hers, lingering for a moment before quickly looking away. She sees the slight tension in his jaw, the way he seems to be avoiding the deeper implications of what they just did. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? Everything’s a game until it gets too real.

She sighs, the weight of it all settling heavily on her chest. “I thought this was just… supposed to be a fling,” she says, testing the words on her tongue. She hadn’t expected it to feel so confusing, but now that it’s over, she can’t stop wondering if it was ever really just that.

“Yeah, me too,” he replies quickly, almost too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as her. He doesn’t look at her, his eyes still fixed on the space across the room. The cool detachment in his voice doesn’t match the warmth in his touch just moments ago, and that shift makes her heart ache in a way she didn’t expect.

The air between them grows colder, the tension thickening like a fog she can’t shake. She swallows, the words catching in her throat. “Art… why did we do this?” She’s not asking for an apology. She’s not even sure what she’s looking for. But she needs to understand.

He finally meets her eyes, and for a moment, it feels like he’s seeing her for the first time tonight — really seeing her. But the guard in his expression quickly returns.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quieter this time. “I think we both know the answer. But neither of us is ready to say it.”

His honesty stings, but it also makes her heart ache even more. She wants to tell him that it’s okay, that they can just leave it behind them and pretend it was nothing, that they can go back to the way things were. But the truth is, she’s not sure she can do that anymore. She’s not sure she can pretend it didn’t matter.

Instead, she sits up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “I don’t want to play games, Art,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t care, when I do.” Her heart races as she says it, the vulnerability slipping out before she can stop it. “I don’t want to keep doing this thing where we’re just… this. Where I’m just someone you see when it’s convenient.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches on. She can feel him pulling back again, the space between them growing even larger than before. She’s not sure if it’s the tension from their night together, or if it’s the realization that everything has shifted now, but the words he finally speaks make her heart drop.

“I told you,” he says, voice low, almost regretful. “I’m not good at this. At being… what you need. I don’t know how to be that for you.”

It’s a punch in the gut, hearing him say it out loud. She wants to argue, to tell him that he doesn’t have to be perfect. That she doesn’t need him to be anyone other than who he is. But she knows, deep down, that she can’t change him. She can’t make him want more if he’s not ready for it.

She swallows the lump in her throat, pulling her knees to her chest. “I know,” she says, her voice barely audible. “But I thought maybe… maybe there was more to us. Or at least, I hoped there was.”

Art looks at her for a moment, his eyes filled with something — guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s too late for that now. He doesn’t know how to give her what she needs, and she can’t keep hoping he will.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s the first time she’s ever heard him sound so unsure. “I’m just not the guy you need, and I don’t know how to be him.”

She nods slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. “Yeah,” she says, voice cracking slightly. “I guess I knew that all along.”

He doesn’t say anything more after that, and neither of them moves. The space between them feels infinite now, and neither one of them knows how to bridge the gap.

After a long pause, Art gets up, his movements stiff and mechanical. He grabs his jacket from the chair, looking back at her for a brief moment before heading toward the door. “Take care,” he says, the words hollow in the air.

She watches him leave, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing through the room. For a long time, she just sits there, alone, letting the silence wash over her. She’s not sure what she expected, but she knows that whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

And now, all she has left is the emptiness.

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It starts slowly. A single uploaded clip from a smoky bar set. Her voice — smooth, aching — wraps itself around a melody she wrote on the floor of her college dorm the week after he stopped answering. People listen. Then they listen again.

Within a year, she’s playing sold-out shows in indie venues, her lyrics dissected on TikTok, fans crying in front rows to songs they don’t know are about him. About Art Donaldson, the boy who kissed her like a promise and left like a storm.

She never named him. She didn’t have to.

The songs said everything.

They weren’t angry songs — not all of them, at least. Some were soft. Remembering the way his laugh curled around the edges of her bed. The way he’d press his forehead to hers like he was trying to memorize her. But there were others, too. Bitten-off lyrics about unreturned texts, the silence that never came with closure, the way he made her feel like a question without an answer.

By the time her debut album dropped, it was clear: she had become something real. Something permanent. Critics called her “a poet with bite.” Rolling Stone named her the voice of heartbreak for a generation. Her second tour sold out in hours.

And Art?

He saw her name more often than he admitted. First on a playlist someone else was playing. Then in ESPN articles mentioning her in passing — Stanford alumna and rising artist (Y/N). The same girl who used to hum melodies under her breath while folding her legs into his lap. The same girl who asked him what they were and got silence in return.

He didn’t listen to the album at first.

Then one night, alone in his apartment, he played it. Track one to eleven. No skips. Her voice hit him like a bruise, familiar and unforgiving. She didn’t sound bitter. That’s what hurt most. She sounded… past him. Like she’d loved him deeply. And then learned how to leave.

He knew he had no right to feel hollow.

They hadn’t spoken since graduation. He hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t either.

But every time her voice floated through a store, or a girl he brought home played her music off her phone, he’d freeze. Because every line — every verse — was proof she remembered. That it had meant something. That he meant something.

And she was everywhere now.

He wondered if she knew how famous she’d become. If she remembered the way he used to tease her about singing too loudly in the shower, or how she once made him sit cross-legged on the floor of her dorm and listen to a half-finished song.

She used to look at him like he was the only thing in the world she couldn’t figure out.

Now, the whole world was listening to her trying to do just that.

He never reached out. He couldn’t. She had become something brilliant, untouchable. And he was still stuck at the edge of that memory, holding a version of her he no longer had any right to.

He had always been good at running from things.

But her voice was everywhere now. And no matter how far he went, he couldn’t outrun that.

The art gallery in Manhattan is small, tucked between a café and a bookstore, the kind of place where people sip free wine and pretend to care about the brush strokes. She’s only there because her label’s throwing a private event — “an intimate evening with taste-makers,” whatever that means — and she agreed because they promised her she wouldn’t have to perform.

She’s dressed in a dark silk slip, leather jacket hanging off her shoulders, a glass of red wine cradled in one hand. Her hair’s a little messy, her eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. She looks like success. She looks like a woman who’s healed.

But then she sees him.

Across the room, standing in front of an abstract painting he’s probably not even really looking at — Art.

It shouldn’t hit her so hard. But it does. That stupid familiar profile. The jaw she kissed at three in the morning, the curve of his shoulder she cried into once and pretended she didn’t. His hair’s shorter now. He’s wearing a button-down and dress shoes, like he might be here on behalf of some sponsor or charity tennis thing.

He looks… older. Like time’s touched him but hasn’t taken anything away. He still looks like Art.

And he sees her.

The moment hangs there — a quiet, invisible thread tugging across the gallery. His expression shifts, flickers. Not surprise. Not really. Just a kind of slow, dawning ache. Like he knew this would happen one day, and it still caught him off guard.

She doesn’t look away.

Instead, she downs the last of her wine, sets the glass down, and walks toward him — not slowly, not confidently. Just steadily. Like she’s been walking toward this for years.

“Didn’t think you were the art gallery type,” she says when she reaches him, her voice even.

Art breathes out a quiet laugh, but it’s tight, caught somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Well.” She shrugs, glancing at the painting behind him. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

Silence stretches between them like a wire, thin and sharp. She can feel it — all the weight of what was left unsaid. The night in her dorm. The way he disappeared. The songs.

“You’re… everywhere now,” he says, voice low.

“Yeah. I know.” There’s no pride in it. No smugness. Just fact. It’s the one thing she has that he can’t run from — she made sure of that.

He clears his throat, eyes dropping for a second. “I heard… the first album. All of it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You and everyone else.”

“No.” His eyes meet hers again, suddenly sharper. “I heard it. I knew it was me.”

She crosses her arms, leans against the wall beside him. “Took you long enough.”

His jaw tenses. “Why didn’t you reach out?”

She blinks. Laughs once, incredulously. “Are you serious? You disappeared, Art. You ghosted me, and then what — I’m supposed to chase you down and beg for closure?”

His face twists, regret creeping in. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snaps, voice quieter but harder now. “But you didn’t even try. You made me feel like I imagined the whole thing.”

He flinches. Just a little.

She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s fine. Really. I wrote songs, people listened, I moved on.”

“Did you?”

The question lands heavy. He doesn’t say it with cruelty — just curiosity. Honest, stupid, late curiosity.

She hesitates. Because part of her wants to lie. To say yes, of course, and mean it. But the truth is, a part of her still carries him in those lyrics. In the silences between chords. In the parts of herself that still ache when she thinks of what they almost were.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “But I don’t write about you anymore. That’s gotta count for something.”

He nods slowly. Looks at her like he wants to say something else — I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready. You deserved better — but all of it would be too little, too late.

So instead, he just says, “You’re incredible, you know. You always were.”

She smiles, tired. “Yeah. I know.”

And then, she walks away.

She doesn’t look back.

And neither does he.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

[lilithschosen]

I can totally see Rio sitting on the couch playing her Nintendo Switch, but Agatha wants to have her own fun

should i have been sleeping? yes. did i have to write Rio playing Stardew on the switch? also yes. heheheheheheheheh

Resting the controller in her lap while she reaches for her water bottle, Rio sips from the straw quickly before snatching the controller back and grumbles to herself about how she's "not making it home before 2am". The little low quality graphic of her character runs (as fast as it can) down the road before stopping and the screen turns black.

"Fucker," she mumbles. A text box flashes on the screen as she gasps and sits forward on the couch. "He took how much of my money?"

Agatha strolls into the living room, her flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows, beer in hand. She laughs, seeing Rio sat glued to the television.

"Still in your game, huh?" she asks, ungraciously falling onto the couch next to her girlfriend. "This the, uh, farm one? Star whatever?"

Rio nods, "Yeah, I passed out just outside of my farm so the dickhead hospital guy stole a bunch of stuff and money from me."

"You should go kick his ass."

Rio rolls her eyes, turning to watch as Agatha winks and sips from her beer. "That's not how it works, babe."

Agatha sniffs loudly, shrugging. She kicks her feet up on the table, knee pressing into Rio's thigh next to her. Rio smiles, patting Agatha's leg before she goes back to playing her game. Saturday evenings were lowkey, normally self care for the both of them after whatever hell they went through with work the week prior. Agatha spent the full day tinkering in the shed, determined to fix the weed-whacker she's been using since her early 20s, leaving Rio to play her Switch unbothered.

She rarely had time for games, only able to sneak half an hour here and there. Today she managed to log nearly ten hours in her game.

Agatha watches for a beat, trying to understand why this pixelated farming game has her girlfriend by the throat but smirks at the thought of having her by the throat instead.

She leans closer, shoulders nudging, and places her hand on her inner thigh. An innocent enough touch, something Agatha does absentminded when she's watching hockey and Rio joins her. Rio doesn't pay it any mind, both hands on her black Nintendo controller as she tends to the crops. She grumbles under her breath when the watering can runs empty mid-watering.

"So how focused do you have to be to play this?"

Rio pauses the game, tongue flicking into the inside of her cheek. "Depends. Why do you ask?"

Agatha shrugs, "No reason."

She keeps her hand on Rio's leg, watching her as she continues with her game. She taps the right bumper a couple times to bring up the watering can in her hotbar, then resumes watering the crops. She putters about the farm, organizing her inventory with the various chests she has strewn about.

The warmth from Agatha's palm still firmly placed on her thigh has her clenching legs together inadvertently. Agatha smirks, fingertips pressing into her skin.

"You okay, hon?" she asks in faux concern, "You need something?"

Rio's swipes at her nose with the back of her hand, raising the controller up as she does so and shakes her head. She tries to ignore Agatha, tries to make her way toward the mines, to try and reach the bottom finally. Yet her mind pulls her elsewhere as Agatha's fingers crawl closer to her core until she fully cups her through her thin, cotton shorts. She can't help but whimper at the contact and click her tongue in annoyance at herself.

Agatha's grin slowly spreads across her face, knowing she was winning. The little game they constantly played with one another of chicken. Who would crack under the pressure, how far they'd get until they're giving in. Rio holds strong normally, can last until Agatha starts to tease her fingers through her folds before she's grabbing and pulling at her for more.

Agatha presses her palm down, her other hand snaking up underneath Rio's simple tee, reaching for her breast. She keeps moving the joystick, walking her character through the town square and up toward the community center.

"You're really trying to play this game, aren't you?" Agatha asks, fingertips grazing her nipple, hardening immediately at her touch. Rio bites down hard on her bottom lip, knuckles turning white around the controller. "Just pause it, let me take care of you."

Rio's thumb lifts from the joystick, hovering over the pause button as she nearly gives in, but quickly keeps pressing on.

Agatha rolls the hard nipple across her fingers, pinching it gently between her thumb and forefinger while she grinds her palm into her clit. Rio gasps, mouth falling open from the simultaneous contact. She keeps playing, crossing a bridge and tucking into the pixelated cave. Just as she approaches the ladder down to the mines, Agatha lowers her head to her chest and licks her other nipple through the shirt.

"Fucking hell, Agatha."

Rio drops the controller, hands immediately grabbing at her flannel shirt to pull her head back up. As Agatha meets Rio's face, the obnoxious proud look on her face, Rio crashes their mouths together. She knew she could withstand more, but Agatha was playing dirty.

She moans into Agatha's mouth at the taste of her tongue, eyes closing as Agatha grinds her palm harder between her legs. Rio spreads them further, lifting one up to drape over Agatha's for her girlfriend to get better access.

Agatha tilts her head back, breaking the kiss, and she chuckles. Rio rolls her eyes, hissing as Agatha pulls her nipple before pinching it again.

"Needy?"

"Clearly," Rio bites back, lip curling in annoyance. "If you don't fuck me after all of this, so help me."

Agatha pouts, removing her hand from underneath Rio's shirt. "Oh now you're going to be bossy?"

She goes to take her hand away from Rio's cunt, but Rio grabs her wrist and holds it still. Before Agatha can even blink, Rio is straddling her waist on the couch with her hand still firmly between her legs.

"Don't move," Rio rasps, rolling her hips into Agatha's hand. "If you won't do anything, I'll just use your hand for you."

Agatha's mouth goes dry, dial tone sounding in her ears as her brain lags behind. This wasn't part of her plan, one of the tricks up her sleeve she was going to pull out. Rio smirks now, knowing damn well her wetness has bled through her underwear and probably through her shorts by now.

"If you were packing," Rio begins, setting her pace as she rocks into Agatha's open hand. Her clit drags against the fabric of her clothes, and the added bonus of Agatha's palm providing friction was perfect for her. "I'd be doing this on your cock. But no, I have to use your hand instead."

Agatha doesn't move, doesn't speak. She's entranced by Rio, how quickly the cloak of power was ripped from around her neck and firmly draped over Rio's shoulders.

Rio's head falls back as she continues to grind into Agatha's hand. She stutters a breath as she feels her fingers gently caress her entrance through her shorts.

"Now you wanna help?"

Agatha looks up at her through hooded eyes, fingers wrapping around the bunched up leg of her shorts and shoves them aside to make enough gap to fit her hand. She pushes the underwear to the side as well, and sinks two fingers into Rio's soaked pussy.

They both moan together, the feeling of Agatha finally sinking into her after the teasing was enough to make her cum at this point. She curls her fingers as she fucks her, thrusting her hips up as she kicks herself mentally for not putting the harness on before coming to distract her.

"I love you," Rio cries out, hands lifting to grope at her chest as she rides Agatha's fingers, "I love you so much, I'd fucking die in that damn game countless times if it means you'd fuck me like this."

Agatha laughs, a deep, velvet sound. She thrusts up, grinding herself into the back of her hand while she scissors her fingers into Rio. She feels her walls flutter, massaging them with each motion until they clench around her. Rio stiffens, face twisting in pleasure as she cums.

The screen behind her goes black, a small text box appearing. She doesn't hear the sounds or even care what happened now, her hips jerking erratically as she rides out her orgasm in Agatha's hand.

"That's it, baby," Agatha watches her, heart pounding in her ears. "You're so beautiful, so perfect. All mine."

Rio whines, her body taut until she finally relaxes. Her hands fall from her chest, landing behind her to grip Agatha's knees to hold her steady. She opens her eyes, tongue instantly wetting her lips as she looks to the TV and groans loudly.

"I fucking passed out again."

Agatha looks around Rio's body, her fingers still inside of her. She doesn't understand the implications, and doesn't care to learn them.

"I didn't have much on me either," Rio slouches, body curling into Agatha's on the couch. "Harvey is going to take my fucking sword, I just know it."

"Are you sure you can't just kick his ass for your stuff back?"

"It's not that kinda game, babe."

Agatha shrugs, slowly removing her fingers from Rio's cunt. She pulls her underwear back over and tries to unfurl the leg of her shorts before firmly planting her hands on Rio's hips.

"Well," she starts, pressing a quick kiss to the side of Rio's head, "How about we give up on this game and go to bed?"

Rio frowns, "But I have stuff to do."

Agatha slaps at the top of her ass, "And I have a hot girlfriend to do. Up."

[bunsreverie]

Bello!! I wrote something for my sister so I thought I’d post it. Zhou Hong enjoyers this is for you

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Zhou Hong had no idea what time it was at this point- 2AM? 3? He rolled his eyes at nothing, and stared down at the stacks of paper that lie spread out on the desk in front of him. As per usual, Zhou Hong only lets out a huff and begins writing and scribbling at the papers, swiftly turning page after page. The workload seemed endless, and just when he’d think that he was almost done, it was as if more and more paperwork would magically appear.

After another hour, only about a fourth of his work is done. Although he was far past done with his required workload, he insisted on getting it all done in one night. Zhou Hong knew he had a long night ahead of him, and he’d anticipate not stopping until he was finished. What he didn’t anticipate however, was a knock at his office door. The Esper Union was normally empty and silent at this time of night, and so he had no idea who it possibly be- the noise had startled him back to his senses and roused him from his half asleep state. “Come in-“ he spoke up, and the door swung open, with you, his favorite coworker and lover standing in the doorway. His exhausted face slightly morphed into a half smile upon seeing you, but he’d frowned again when you began speaking.

“Zhou Hong! What the hell are you doing up this late? What have I told you about working overtime?” You scolded, glaring down at him. You were rather upset with him for overworking himself like this, but you couldn’t help but feel a bit of pity as well to see him in this state. You scanned over him, taking in his dark eye bags and heavy eyelids. “Look at you, you’re hardly even awake. Are you even comprehending what you’re writing?” You questioned, slightly agitated. Instead of getting too defensive, his demeanor changed to that of defeat. As much as Zhou Hong hated being told he was wrong, he couldn’t deny that you were right- he’d felt guilty every time you scolded him for his habitual overachieving tendencies.

“It’s fine-“ He stated, but you’d cut him off. “Do you even know what time it is right now?” “Does it matter? Won’t you let me finish this up, please?” Zhou Hong asks, and yawns. The smell of strong coffee wafts in the air of his office. You sighed and set your bag down, pulling out a chair to sit next to him. You peered down at the heaping pile of paperwork, wondering how in god’s name he planned on getting this done. “You know, I can just take you home and I can stay over, I can make sure you get some sleep.”

Zhou Hong hesitated. He wasn’t even sure if he should accept or ask you to go home. “No thank you- you ought to get yourself to bed, (Y/N).” This just made you even more concerned. You watched him as he turned his attention back to his work and begin writing. “I could say the same for you. You’ve got to get to bed. You’re hardly even awake, how can you expect the quality of your work to be proficient if you’re half asleep?” Zhou Hong stopped writing momentarily and looked at you. He was flattered by your concern, and something he hated more than neglecting his work was saying no to you.

“If I don’t get this done, I won’t be able to sleep anyways. (Y/N), I appreciate your concern, but I am completely fi-“ “No you’re not.” You grabbed at Zhou Hong’s arm, gesturing for him to stand up. He wanted to go with you desperately, but his mind was telling him not to. “The stress of your work is getting to you, I can tell. Won’t you come with me and let’s go to sleep, please?” You pleaded, and your grip on his arm traveled down to his hand, brushing over his knuckles. The gesture finally broke him, and he grinned lazily, patting you lightly on the head. Something he enjoyed doing, considering the height difference between the two of you. He let out a sigh of defeat. “Alright— fine, fine. I’ll take a break for the day, just for you.” You smiled, glad that he finally relented.

Zhou Hong stands from his desk, stretching and yawing a second time. You watch his expression of exhaustion. The sight made you yawn as well- His weariness was contagious. The both of you chuckle. Seeing his mood lighten a bit made you feel a lot better. “You’re tired too, huh? Come on. I’ll take us home.” Zhou Hong walks alongside you, and the both of you get in his car to get home- you’d insist on driving of course, as he was obviously not fit to be behind the wheel.

Half an hour passes, and the both of you arrive at Zhou Hong’s apartment. It was small and slightly cluttered with his work, but you didn’t mind. You’d crashed here plenty of nights where he was working overtime, and this wasn’t near the first time you’d had to drag him home from work to get some rest. Zhou Hong hadn’t even bothered to change his clothes, nor shower, and instead he instantly sunk bonelessly into the plush mattress. You quickly joined him, and he hooked an arm around you and sighed.

His body went limp- there was hardly a point in making pillow talk, because you knew he was already falling asleep. “Goodnight, Zhou Hong.” You brushed a stray hair out of his face, and the smallest smile appeared on his face. He murmured, “Love you, (Y/N). Thanks for taking me home. But you’re making breakfast when we wake up, just so you know.” You laughed softly, and closed your eyes sleepily. “That’s fine. Just go to sleep, and for the love of god stop staying up so late. I thought you were going to pass out.”

Zhou Hong doesn’t say anything and simply nods in acknowledgment, and pulls a blanket over you and then himself. You didn’t mind having to force him to stop working so late and drive him home at 3 in the morning, if it meant sharing moments like this with him. He’d worry about work later, because he’d rather spend his time with you than spend his time working any day.

[lilystyles]

when not in rome.

a @lilystyles blurb!

my masterlist & no strings attached masterlist & blurbs masterlist

authors note idk this was a random thing i wrote at 2AM because i just missed them, i am still working on style so don't worry that should be out soon. also this is set way before no strings, i love writing about them in their previous moments!

brief description harry surprises y/n at her graduation (also listen to love of my life by h whilst readinggg)

warnings! angsty? fluffy? drunk y/n and harry (2.1k)

younger!lhh!nostrings!h x reader

* * * * *

SIX YEARS BEFORE

University has a funny way of making you feel like you might never cross the finish line. Y/n like everyone else had multiple days where she would just sob and scream from the stress of it all. Exams were totally a torture device.

When Y/n graduated with her first degree before deciding to write her thesis Harry surprised her.

He’d been touring the world with One Direction for months now and she hadn’t seen him since Paris the year before, when he’d surprised her by flying her to join them in their Paris show and they’d had a wild few drunken nights that she felt blurred the lines of friendship into something more.

But after their few days, when the champagne ran out, and she came back home, she sobered and realised that nothing would ever happen between them. And if you spent a few nights with Harry in a limo drinking champagne and dealing with his wandering hands you too would fall for him. Just a bit. It's only natural.

She missed him, though, loads. He was one of her best friends after all.

Around a month ago they phoned each other, it was late for her and the morning for him, she’d been studying and they talked for hours catching up till the sky turned bright for her and her eyes drooped shut. The time between their phone calls had grown longer and longer now, and she missed him. She’d mentioned that she was graduating soon and that they were both supposed to be graduating if he’d stayed in Uni. She remembers them staying up late at parties discussing their futures and how post-graduation Harry was insistent that they’d still be roommates. She realised now that their dream definitely wasn’t a possibility anymore.

He’d told her that instead of being there graduating like they’d suspected he was going to be, he was in Rome at some fashion show gala thing, and his date was this sexy model named Rosalie who had her sex tape leaked a couple of months ago. She was happy for him, but a part of her couldn’t help but be disappointed. She felt like he was drifting away from her every day, but she couldn’t find in herself to be cross with him. He was swept up by the fame of it all, and how on earth could she be mad that he was literally a rockstar? She knew that he was still Harry and she was still Y/n but they weren’t Harry and Y/n anymore. Not like before.

And honestly, she’d probably leave everything and everyone behind, party all night, and sleep with sexy models too if she had the chance to be famous. But she couldn’t sing for shit. So instead she did what she was doing, and shoved her nose in a book rather than in lines off a bathroom sink, and she was rather content with the peacefulness of it all.

All thoughts of Harry were swept away from her mind when she walked across the stage in the grande hall. She was finally graduating! Thank god! She thought. She had a sash that showed she was an honours student, and she was blooming with pride, when they called her name her list of achievements was longer than the four painful years she’d spent studying in their grande libraries. She was so glad to shake the hand of one of her favourite professors and leave, the next year ahead she planned to travel and work overseas, she was excited about that.

But honestly, she was even more excited to get absolutely shit-faced at the graduation after-ball party. She found herself a few pints down, sitting by the edge of one of the fountains, when she nearly fell in at the absolutely shocking sight in front of her.

There was just no way it could be true. I mean he was in Rome, and she was drunk in London. She’d seen photos on her Twitter of him wrapping his tattooed arms around that Rosalie model girl, so how could he be here in London just like that? It was not real, surely. She must be hallucinating and the second-hand smoke of all the spliffs had finally got to her brain. But suddenly the man turned around and Jesus Christ it was him. It was Harry. His eyes were pinched as he searched the crowd and when he finally saw her they lit up, all green like a forest, and his mouth kicked up into that devilish grin of his.

He saw her dumb-struck expression and laughed softly walking toward his best friend. He was dressed in a suit jacket like everyone else, and since they were all drunk none of them noticed it was the Harry Styles of the One Direction AKA the biggest band in the world. To them, he was just some random twat who just graduated too.

His hair had grown all long and curly, and he just looked so much more like a man than when he’d left. Had he gotten taller? More strong? The arms of his jacket strained and Y/n sighed at the sight of him.

She didn't think she'd changed much, but Harry thought she looked even more beautiful than before, if possible.

When he stood right in front of her, her mouth was still wide in utter shock. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He laughed. “Is that all you hafta’ say? Come on, hug your best friend!”

She sprang up from her seat and the silky long dress, which was a teal blue colour. All smooth and tight on her skin was hiked up slightly. Her gown and cap were long gone, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders. He lifted her up off the floor and spun them around. 

She smelt like peaches and sweetness, and God, he could've stayed holding her for weeks.

She giggled and felt her face hurt from smiling so big. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you!”

When he placed her down, his hands did not leave the curve of her waist. “Surprise, babe.”

“What the- shit- I thought you were in Rome! How’d you even get here?” She asked 

He smiled. “I was, got a flight this afternoon. It was the only one coming home, sorry for missing the graduation part.”

She just smiled up at him. “You’re crazy.”

He shook his head landing a hand on her shoulder. “I knew how important it was to you, and I missed you. Sue me.”

She laughed, eyes welling with slight tears. Maybe he wasn’t drifting too far from her after all. “Oh, god, don’t make me cry, you know how I get after a few pints, H.”

He laughed, arms outstretched for her to cuddle him. “Aw, pet, c’mere.”

She smacked his chest playfully but cuddled him nonetheless. “Let’s go get royally fucked, mate,” She whispered and they pulled apart, hands interlocking as she lead him off to one of the pubs where everyone was buying drinks.

It was called The Ducks Nuts.

A few of her mates were inside. Ones Harry didn’t know, but she’d already spent a good portion of the night with them. So she told them her old friend had surprised her and they’d be here and there.

Harry ordered them some shots and eventually the night was just a blur of hands touching each other, as they got so drunk Y/n felt her world spinning. They’d hopped around multiple different pubs and bars and Y/n was so tired. Her heels itched her feet with pain and she ripped them off, along with her bag. As they walked with little purpose she threw her things at him and began to dance in the middle of the road.

Harry was holding her things as she danced in the street showing her best Elton John impression, and he silently decided that was what made her so perfect. She was just herself. And he loved that about her, he loved everything about her.

He laughed and told her what a realistic impression it was, and how they’d met at some award show to back up that comment. She was infinitely jealous, she loved Elton.

On her way back toward him she landed in his arms after losing her footing he shook his head at her.

“You are very drunk, Lovie. Aren't ya'?" He said, in a soft tone one that made her tummy turn in flips.

She sighed as they walked in a direction with no destination in mind. “You aren’t drunk enough, you need to get on my level.”

He noticed her shiver under his arm and quickly ripped his coat off. It swallowed her form and she smiled gratefully hugging the coat around herself. It felt like a warm embrace, and that smell filled her nose and suddenly she was home in her old flat with him, home in Holmes Chapel, home with him. Just home.

“Smells good.” She giggled as she sniffed the shoulder pad, her cheek brushing against the soft material all dog-like. “N’ soft too.”

“Why thanks, it’s Gucci.” He replied. 

She rolled her eyes. “Come on then, money-bags, let’s get you as drunk as me.”

They strolled into a tavern near her flat and drank so much tequila that they had to practically carry each other home.

As Harry looked up at the stars and moon, feeling the cool air nip her skin he sighed. He hadn’t gotten this drunk, and been this happy in such a long time. He was giggling contently, as she leaned into him and he silently wished that the night would never end.

He never wanted his time with her to end either. He loved spending time with her, whether they were on an adventure or doing nothing at all. Y/n made it worthwhile.

When they reached the shitbox of a flat she lived in Harry followed calmly behind her, and when one of her neighbours spat a comment about drunken youths he sighed, “I wish you would’ve taken up my offer,”

She looked up at him as she played with the jammy door that never seemed to open on the first try. Shoving her shoulder into it as she managed to finally wedge it open, stumbling inside ungracefully.

And with a roll of her eyes, she ushered him inside. “There is zero chance I’d let my all-of-sudden bazillionaire rockstar friend buy me a flat, just cause he can afford shoes worth more than my entire life savings. Anyway, how could I ever pay it back? I have two p to my name and a packet of noodles in my possessions, Harry.”

He laughed. “Think of it as a graduation present then,”

She sighed. “Just shut up and sit down, and I’ll get some wine.”

It was almost 4AM now, and neither cared. They were beyond drunk, but Y/n missed him and if force-feeding him wine would get him to spend a whole 24 hours with her, she totally would.

When she sat down with two mugs spilling with a cherry red wine, that was the cheapest shit she’d ever bought, Harry laughed. Her wobbly legs forced her to land awkwardly on one thigh practically on top of his. He smiled, one that showed his kind eyes. 

Green pools of emerald she wished to swim in for eternity. She laughed at the thought, she really got poetic when she was drunk, huh?

“God, remind me to get you drunk more often.” He whispered.

She sighed. “Oh shut up, and fill me in on life then. Who are you shagging?”

He looked at her pointedly. “Who are you shagging?”

A blush crept up her neck, and suddenly the only secret she had kept from him was threatening to slip past her drunken red-stained lips.

“None of your business, but there’s this hot guy in my physics who I would totally shag,”

He laughed, but underneath it, he felt a jealousy creep up his spine, he knew he had no right since he’d been balls deep in two Italian models this morning, turns out threesomes are a really good cure for hangovers by the way. But despite that, he felt an itch he couldn’t scratch that resembled something pretty close to jealousy.

“What’s he like?” Harry asked.

She shrugged. “Dunno, tall, glasses, got that whole nerdy silent thing going for him.”

“That’s what you like then, silent types?” He asked, running a hand through his long curls, and she reached out to play with one.

She shook her head, and said distractedly, “I don’t know.”

“Makes sense why you never dated me then.” 

During primary school, Harry dated every girl in their class including Daisy and Penny, except Y/n who told him she didn’t fancy him. It was an ongoing topic of discussion between them. Why wasn't he good enough? He always asked.

She laughed at that comment. “I know you too well for that, and I get the unfiltered you, and I lived with you which was basically like being married to you. We bickered too much to ever date, Haz.”

He looked at her with hooded eyes, and for some reason that stung, but trying to be light-hearted he said. “Never say never, what if we needed to repopulate the earth?”

She looked over at him and placed a hand on his and kissed his cheek, all soft and slow, and for a moment he thought she might actually kiss him for real but instead, she said. “There’ll be no hope for humanity then.”

He sighed, fake pouting before a couple of minutes of silence passed and he turned to her and said. “Come with me to Brazil.”

Her eyes widened, “What?"

“I leave tomorrow night, come with me.” He said.

She frowned. “What? Come with you? You can't be serious.”

He nodded. “Please? I miss you! And we can party for a whole week together, or sleep, or do whatever the fuck you want! Just come, pack a bikini and something sparkly, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Y/n and Harry did end up going to Brazil but that’s a story for another time.

She stood up from the couch holding her hand out to him, and he slid his into hers. Cool rings grazing the soft skin of her palm.

“Let’s just go to sleep, you're talking like a crazy person.” She said, softly pushing a lock of his hair away from his eyes.

He sighed at her, “But m’ serious, Love.”

“Alright, ask me again tomorrow. That is if you even remember...now come on, let’s listen to Fleetwood Mac and sleep until tomorrow evening.”

Y/n's room was cosy and welcoming. Harry felt his eyes droop at the sight. A tiny lamp shining over them in an orange glow, her cot-like bed covered in blankets and the scent of her likely covering those sheets.

That night they slept in Y/n’s twin bed, cuddling, with Stevie Nicks serenading them to sleep. Cheeks plump and pink from too much alcohol, hands wandering scandalously, and the love in air was thick and obvious.

Before Y/n fell asleep she pecked his lips, in a quick kiss, one that it barely even touched him and said, “Night, mate,”

His lips burned like wildfire, and from that night on, he did think humanity had a chance if it was up to them. Whether or not she believed that.

“Night, Love.”

i have been a bit slack with updates lately...second year of uni is crazy and im already soooo busy, but i missed them and i wanted to write a lil sum for y'all until my next proper update :) BIG LOVEEEE

[adimouze]

For u oomfie hand in rotten hand (it keeps growing I want more soft maxiel I will write it for all our needs)

--

He doesn't take the jet there. He thought about it. Doesn't want people - his people even, to know. To think they can stop him. He doesn't even text Daniel.

They talked before his flight, although Daniel doesn't know Max was leaving. Was landing. Max remembers saying something about sim work, words about the race half swallowed in embarrassment, in excitement. He remembers the soft smile - indulgent even, that Daniel kept throughout. You’ll win, he said and Max doesn't want to correct him.

He would. Could have. Still can – but Max does not want to. Or rather, he thinks – he wants, for himself, for the first time.

He wonders if Daniel has found peace now. Does it have Max’s name on it? Does it make a place for him? Max rubs sweaty palms into his jeans. Refuses the offer from the stewardess to have more to drink. Screws the cap on further against his brow just in case someone recognises him even when they boarded at 2am.

The gin doesn't taste as nice as in his own jet. He sweats more. Sleeps through a guy snoring even with the space between them in first class. He sleeps an hour, two. There are eighteen more to go.

Max watches the plane travel across the world on the screen instead. His heart doesn't stutter when it glances near Abu Dhabi. It flutters when they cross Hong Kong, aches as they cross the ocean and the Australian coast appears in the corner like the DVD logo of Max's childhood.

Words spill behind his tongue. Daniel’s name too. He rehearses what he wants to say. Mimes the words as the figure plane follows the dotted line. It doesn't get easier.

He turns airplane mode off when they land. It blows up with notifications. GP, Rupert – Christian emailed a schedule. He starts the sim session tomorrow. Today, in fact.

Max may already be late. He scrolls past them. Marks them muted. Crosses into Australian land and hot tarmac. It doesn't quite smell like the Melbourne track.

Daniel sent him memes in the last few hours. Before he started feeding the animals. Max has learnt and memorised their names. Even Maximilian the calf. It still makes Daniel snort when he says it - says the baby cow stares at him as much as Max does. Hence the name, Maxy.

Asks Max ten times if he gets the joke - Max, Max Emilian, Maximilian. Max nods, laughs anyway, as it makes Daniel laugh harder. Tells him his joke is silly, and Daniel replies he spent an hour thinking of the name thank you Max. Rambles about how he thought about it as baby cow not Max was being licked by his mother, calf hair sticking up everywhere just like my Max after a race.

Daniel doesn’t say anything when Max chokes on his water, when he breathes too loud. Chokes on Daniel’s name. Tries to find a joke about his hair and the baby calf. Doesn’t come up with one. Daniel smiles, pleased thing Max screenshots with clumsy fingers. It’s blurry. Max sets it as Daniel’s profile picture everywhere. Sends it to Victoria unprompted and gets a heart and a thumbs up from her.

Sends it to team redline. Mutes Luke’s dms for an hour or two after.

Max thinks he stares morethan Maximillian the baby calf anyway. Loves Daniel more than the baby cow. Wants the way Daniel smiles softly at it, the cooing in his voice making Max’s stomach tighten with need. The baby cow doesn't realise how lucky it is, to get Daniel’s affection so freely. Max will be there soon.

Max wants to beg Daniel to give it to him too.

Two more memes. He likes them all, even if Lando sent them to him two weeks ago, when they first appeared on TikTok. It’s cute. Max can't wait to watch them and hear Daniel laugh as he does so - always.

Daniel also keeps sending this guy - burly, hairy - working on a farm. Max always gnaws at his lips so he doesn't ask Daniel if he would like Max that way. Would Daniel be ok if Max burns under the sun instead, that his hair is blonde everywhere and will not be as dark as the TikTok man’s. He can get burly, he thinks — but Daniel will need to let him race with the team online, in exchange.

He knows there is a spare room, in Daniel's farmhouse. Max thinks he can fix his set up there. Can buy a new one. He already knows the ridiculous shipping fees, and has it on back order anyway. Can get Daniel to play with him maybe. He knows Daniel will say yes. Even if Daniel sucks at FIFA. Max tells him whenever he can.

--

My oomfie here writes the best fics btw!!!! This healed me!!!!!

[olympiastar]

Anytime | John Munch + Reader

A/N: I’m meant to be studying but I wanted to write instead :-) Hope you like this, fellow Munch enjoyers!

The clock on your nightstand reads 1.35am, you hadn’t gotten one minute of shuteye and your alarm was due to start blaring in only 5 hours time.

Your mind wouldn’t stop running - you were going over a multitude of things. Work, your social life, familial expectations, the lot.

“Ugh..” You groan to yourself as you push your face into your pillow. Trying to sleep for the umpteenth time.

Eventually, after more tossing and turning you decide to just get up - if you ended up feeling exhausted at work, caffeine would have to help you out.

You make your way into your living room - which is thankfully the perfect size, with an equally perfect view of the Queensboro bridge. You sat in your armchair which sits in the corner of the room, and you start to think again.

Work had you, well… worked up.

Every day was getting increasingly busier, and your hands never seem to get a break from writing and typing at your desk. Your boss never seemed to give you, or your coworkers, a damn break. As soon as five o’ clock struck you made your way down the stairs at an athletes pace.

Your work had managed to entangle itself into your home life as well, sometimes you had to take a big stack of files home - which kept you working well into the evening. It was actually a miracle you got to sit in your armchair, even if it was in the middle of the night, as these days it just looks like an untouched piece in a furniture store.

You sighed. You actually felt your heartbeat getting faster and your chest hurting as you thought about work.

The beige telephone was glaring at you from across the room. It sat on a cabinet just to the left of the window, practically begging you to get up and dial…

No.

It’s the middle of the night. He’ll be asleep and you don’t want to wake him…your work was sunshine and rainbows compared to his. He needs his sleep.

A loud sigh escapes your lips as you feel yourself getting up out of the comfy seat and walking over to the phone. Damn it.

You bring the phone to your ear and start dialling your favourite number. His.

Please don’t actually pick up You think, already feeling slightly regretful for even letting the phone ring.

It doesn’t ring for long however…

“Munch” He says, sounding relatively awake considering the time.

“Hi… it’s just me. I know it’s late and I’m really sorry to bother you-” You start, saying all of that in what seemed like one quick breath.

“Hey sweetheart.” He starts, his tone softening slightly, “is everything okay? You’re not bothering me, not at all.”

“This is likely a stupid question for this time of night but, how on earth do you decompress after work?” You ask.

“You’re callin me at 2am to ask how I de-stress after work?” He replies, a clear hint of amusement in his voice.

“It’s just.. your work seems so hard - mentally. How do you relax after seeing that kind of stuff every day?” You sigh gently.

“What’s going on? You having trouble at work?”

“Yes.” You admit, a little sheepishly.

“Ah, now the question makes more sense.” He starts,with a slight chuckle, “talk to me.”

“The deadlines, the amount of work, the amount of clients. It’s crazy and feels like it’s getting worse by the day!” You whisper.

“I know I probably shouldn’t complain but I just… it’s frustrating. My boss makes me feel like shit even if somethings two minutes late.”

“She’s running a tight ship, huh?” He says, and you can tell he’s got that little smirk that you adore on his face.

“Ha, you can say that again.” You reply, a smile easily finding its way to your face. John always knew how to make that happen.

“But seriously, you could’ve told me this sooner. You know you can talk to me whenever.” He says, slightly more seriously.

“I know, I know. I just hate bothering you. Your job is important, and you’re busy. I don’t want to interrupt your free time.” You reply.

“I love hearing you talk, sweetheart, even if it is at 2 o’clock in the morning. What do you say we talk about this properly, in person?” He offers.

“I’d really appreciate that. But maybe at a more appropriate time of day?” You jest.

“Definitely.” He responds instantly.

“I better let you get back to your beauty sleep.” You joke once again, a smile now stuck on your face.

Before he gets a chance to reply with his notorious wit, you talk again. “By the way, thank you, John. I appreciate you more than you know.” You say, your mood now much better than when you first called.

“Anytime.” He exclaims.

[marchsfreakshow]

Bloodthirsty And Lustful [James Patrick March]

SMUT.

You're a stressed out writer, and came to the cortez, James has been helping you ever since you got here. Now, after a nap, he wants to ask you your deepest desires. Maybe even help you let go.

Warning; this is the most unhinged smut you will ever read from me. This just came out of a dark place in my brain cause of a c.ai chat lol. Thank you to @babygorewhore for being a beta-reader for this <3

Actual warnings!: you like blood. Like, you really like blood. (Reader is really unhinged in this, please bare with) descriptions of organs, bones, skin layers, grinding, switch!reader & switch!JPM, PnV, riding, James lets you take off his neck velvet. Crud smut writing.

18+! MINORS DNI- READ MY SFW WORKS

No one's perspective.

���˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

James peered through the door to see you sitting on the bed, laptop on your lap, head in hands, and a pair of headphones thrown randomly across the room. You looked a mess, and James was worried you hadn't slept enough. Your novel had to be perfect! You needed to spend every moment writing! Every word needed to be up to standard. It drove you crazy and led you to fall asleep right then and there. Everything came crashing down when your headphones broke while taking them off. Instead of freaking out and crying, you just let out a sigh and threw them across the room.

The man stood there, staring at you while you slept, intently watching every unconscious move your body took. He wondered how on earth that odd device in your lap could cause you such problems. Wasn't it meant to make writing easier? Maybe so, but didn't stop the frustrations of wanting to write the next great American novel. It just worried him, and he kneeled by your side. Seeing how you breathed, how you gently gripped the pillow and your eyebrows furrowed together in frustration. A dream or nightmare of something that has stressed you out.

"James." You whimpered in your sleep. It made the man jump back slightly before he walked to the other side of the bed, sitting by your side. Worries were overtaking your wonderous dream. James wanted nothing more than to kill who was hurting you in your beautiful mind.

The night went on, and you woke up slowly at whatever time. You couldn't tell, and you also didn't care. James was sitting on one of the chairs, occasionally looking over to you. The curtains were always closed, and the door barely stayed open. Lights were on, but dim. Sitting up, you rubbed your eyes, and the figure sitting in the chair was blurry. "Love, you're awake." He mentioned when he saw you sit up. You nodded in response. The ghost motioned you to come over, which you obliged despite not understanding much around you. Leather chairs were never comfortable. You were so comfortable in the bed, thinking about how to write, what to write and the deadline.

"What is it, James? I was so comfortable." Grogginess was the undertone in your voice, and you were unable to keep your eyes open. It felt like 2am or 3am. But what a ravishing man next to you. He sat up properly, posture still incredible even after death. Then you were curling up on the cold, leathery, old chair, hugging yourself.

"Dear...I want to talk to you."

"We can do that in the morning."

"No." His voice almost snapped and was rushed. "No...we're alone at this hour." Typical. The night was his favourite time to talk. Sure some people were still awake, but he knew how silent it was at 3am.

"Fine." You groaned slightly. "What did you want to talk abou-"

"Your desires. Your true wants, and needs." Sudden eye contact intimidated you and your sleepy eyes. Cue fiddling with your necklace, your own blood vial. The small amount of liquid rushed around in the vial, caused by your own finger. You never had anyone to do it with you.

You never said it creepily! All you asked your friends was if they wanted to share a blood vial because it was pretty. No one accepted. So you cut your finger. Your pinky on your non-dominant hand. It hurt, but only for a second. Seeing the blood slowly drip out, and the skin layers opening up so quick, it was invigorating for you. Opened up a deep fantasy, and morbid desire. One no one was ever told about. It was a secret to you, and maybe your stuffed animals. Was it that James was asking you to explore those fantasies with him? Impossible unless he could read minds. A secret fantasy like this always hid itself in the back of your mind, never to be found.

James noticed your darting eyes, your fiddling and laboured breaths. "Darling.." He trailed off, feeling your free hand softly, almost too soft. You felt the ghost-like touches (ha-) and your bloodshot eyes met his.

"James, you're..a murderer."

"...Well, yes. I have indeed told you that fact before. In fact, you were not as shocked as others. Humans are fascinating creatures." He chuckled, seeing the humour in your sentence.

Ah, a sentence that put you on edge. They are. Humans, with their layers, complexity. Humans with their need to have attention on them at all times, to create for others. All of it, it was all in your obsession. "Tell me about your interest my hummingbird. Nothing can be too much for me."

"Can I? Can I really?" You asked with a whisper, a slight glint appearing in your eyes. James nodded, and you immediately let loose. A dam breaking in half to bring in a flood. "Human bodies are so, fascinating." Your instant smile was almost manic like you lost your mind when your interest was mentioned.

"Medical shows seldom get it right. Scrubs does. They do it well."

"Have you, ever seen a body in real life? Not on these shows you mention?" James interjected. He wanted to ask you for details of your sick and morbid love for the dead. To see if his erection would get any harder. The thought of seeing you killing or exploring a body, covered in blood made James want to fall harder for you. Your crazy matched his crazy. Maybe more.

"No. It's...a dream though. Whether someone else cut open the body, or I cut them open...I've always wanted to dig around and feel what the organs feel like, hold a bloody bone in my hand..." You then go to bite my nails nonchalantly like you didn't just confirm your want for a morbid and murdering mind. He stared at you, something in his eyes. A sudden need to murder, and a flame of lust for you. Knowing someone shared his deep desires and could help each other, it made him want you more, But hid it with a breath.

"It's so fucking deranged! but the body is so complex. I want to study the tiny nerves and pick out the bones or organs I'm closest to. Having a fully empty body. Maybe even just having a skin and muscle body. It's just so, interesting." A sly smile reached you and almost made you giggle like a maniac. This sudden insanity made James light up.

"Come here." He beckoned you, and you submissively stood in front of him. But not 3 seconds later did he pull you down onto his lap, holding your waist. Gripping your skin, and nails digging into your sides. One more word from you about your loves, and he would have taken you right then and there. "You are, full of surprises my love."

Feeling him under you, you bit your lip and rested your head by his ear. "I bet your ghostly body is the most interesting. I wonder if there's anything different about a ghost body compared to an alive body." You gave in to what he wanted. He wanted to know everything. Every gory detail that your horrid brain could conjure up. Adding to your warm breaths on his neck, you gently traced around his chest, fiddling with his buttons, but never undoing them. Teasing James to hell and back.

James' breathing hitched slightly, before he took a hold of your face, and brought you close, noses almost touching. "Tell me. What else do you want to explore? Please."

You gazed at his lips before meeting his dark eyes once again, "Everything. I want to explode a heart. Maybe even open up organs, and see what makes a human tick. Take out the muscles, and bend them backwards. And, I want to knock open a skull. See what makes a human live. Unravel the brains, read what goes on." While talking, you occasionally moved your fingers to where you were talking, letting your fingers trace James' head and slicked back hair.

He shuddered as you moved around. Both his imagination and yours going crazy. You felt him twitch under you, and it was only a matter of time until he gave in to his lust. This urged you to carry on talking, to dig deeper into the fantasy that you forbade yourself from thinking about. "James?"

He whined out a "hm?" Eyes closed, and hands gripping onto the chair arms.

"give me a fresh body."

"wh.. what?" He spluttered before moving his hands around your torso. The way your soft skin moved in his hands, mouldable like putty.

"cover me in someone's blood. And let me taste the sweet iron on my tongue." The way you spoke felt sensual, and you ran your hands through his hair, the slicked-back threads being thrown in any and all directions.

It simply drove the man insane.

"Your wish is always my command my sweet bird." He was hungry. He wanted to devour your words while they were being choked out of you. He wanted to hear your cries for murder while he fucked you like nothing else mattered. "What, other things do you wish to see? How much depraved insanity can one handle?" James picked you up and almost threw you onto the bed.

First your shirt went, then your trousers. His clothing came next. "I have such an urge to kill. I want to see the way a human body dies." You sighed. His vest went in one direction, your bra went the other way. "How fire burns the skins and the muscles. I want to see a fresh slash open up the layers of skin. I want it all James."

The cold man on top of you hadn't even penetrated you, yet he felt like he was close to an orgasm. Hearing your insane wants and needs so close to his own. Using your depraved thoughts as a way to get him to fuck you was nothing but insanity. Craziness you could only tell him.

"I want to kill someone whilst you're inside of me. Is that crazy to want?" You confessed in a whisper, on your knees and undoing James' belt.

"Nothing is crazy my hummingbird. I'll happily oblige." He took your chin in his hand, doe eyes meeting his. The pure, slightly innocent look on your face made him closer and closer to bending you over and making you feel heaven. You reached your hand up to his velvet, but he hissed slightly and backed away. "Bunny..." He panted.

"I know it's sensitive, but can I see..it sir?" You asked, pressing kisses closer and closer to the wound that haunted James so. He felt frozen. You wanted to see something so, forbidden. Something he never let anyone see. Something that held a memory.

He took a deep breath before pushing his control back onto you. "My... you want something so...forbidden.." and you nodded intensely. He was only left in his velvet and boxers. Something had to go first, it had to be that dear fabric he wore so closely.

"I won't touch it, I promise. I just, fuck, I want to see neck layers, I want to see what nerves you had to cut for this to happen to you." You knew it was an odd choice, but he nodded after a few minutes of silence. He stiffened up as you reached behind his neck and pulled it off slowly. The man couldn't find words to describe the way he felt. Having someone be so, interested and obsessed with the way he died, almost wanting to have sex with him because of the fantasies they denied.

Your deep breaths felt warm against the cold cut, and you spoke before James had a chance to tell you to stop. "Oh, James. Oh, this cut is magnificent. So many layers..how much blood spilt out..?"

The question threw James off a bit, but nonetheless, he was happy to answer, getting closer to fucking you at every point. "More than you could imagine." He left his fingertips resting under your chin.

The words that left his lips almost tipped you over the edge, and you forced James to lie down on the bed. You were, once again, on top of him. This time, tugging at his boxers, and moving your own underwear to the side. Everything hit you like a freight train and you couldn't hold back anymore. Degenerate, depraved, blood fuelled sex. It was what you needed. To be filled by a killer you wanted to kill with.

Two pairs of hands unable to sort and fix themselves in one place, they had to move, they had to grip, scratch and trace. Two pairs of eyes focusing on eachother, unable to look away from the bloodlust you felt for the other.

It was rough, fast and hard. He moaned out for you louder than he had ever been before. You whimpered his name, desperate for a quick release. There were no other noises other than your lewd moans, until you stopped all of a sudden.

"Darling.." James whined slightly. Eyes slightly erratic, you held his face in your soft hands.

"I need you James. I need you eternally. To see you covered in the deep red of blood." The utmost eroticness of your words almost earned you a 'fuck' escaping from your partner below you.

Almost.

Instead he groaned, slapped his hands to your waist and thrusted upwards over and over. It was careless, but hard. Every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, letting your eyes nearly disappear up into your head. Moans were practically screams.

The thought of seeing you covered in blood, waiting for him to take you made the man desperate. Everything everyone else couldn't be. He was getting close and even more desperate for both you to come at the same time. It drove you over the edge as you finished faster than expected, and you sort of wrapped your hands around James' neck, then laid down the best you could while he was still inside you. He chuckled darkly and thrust inside of you once more, earning an almost pornagraphic moan from you.

Feeling paralyzed, you adjusted yourself so you were simply just laying ontop of James. Silence was the best sound at that moment, and he kept his hands placed on your waist. "Mine." He smiled against the crook of your neck.

"Especially because of my deranged, bloody thoughts?"

"Especially because of these beautiful thoughts you have."

You supposed James was your murdering partner now, and would help you fulfill the fantasies you desired for. A gentleman, yet a physcopath who used the bodies of those he killed. Everything about him shouldn't be so, handsome and you shouldn't want him the way you do. But a murdering gentleman is someone you couldn't refuse.

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tagging;

@fear-is-truth @nahoyasboyfriend @slvt4jamesmarch @taintandviolent @tatelangdonsweater @lvxybby

[saddled-on-stars]

Hey! So for some reason your ask was deleted somehow?? It disappeared from my drafts?! But anyways, here you go lovely <3 @habitabel asked: please write Keatlejuice gifting reader stuffed animals please 🙏 and then listening to reader ramble on about the names, backstories, and how they got the stuffed animals they already have ty 🫶 I’m sorry that this one took me so long!! I hope you enjoy it!!

Happy reading! - Star ★

-★-★-★-★-★-★-★- Trigger Warnings: Explicit Language, Suggestive Themes -★-★-★-★-★-★-★- Key: ★ (Y/N) = Your Name ★ (L/N) = Last Name -★-★-★-★-★-★-★- Requested by: @habitabel (THANK YOU FOR BEING SO PATIENT WITH ME, I'm sorry that this took so long ����🙏) -★-★-★-★-★-★-★-

- ★ - Stuffing Stories - ★ -

It’s 3AM, and the only sounds in the room are of your own groaning, and the pillows shuffling along your bed. You can’t sleep due to the constant negative thoughts running through your brain, at a million miles a minute.

The day was going great—work was it’s typical busy, but you don’t mind, and you even had a lighthearted chat with your coworker about your shared love for old sitcoms. But then came the side-eyed comment about your ‘Unwilling Service’ from someone who didn’t even know you, and how much it got into your head. You were just trying to answer their question, which was unbelievably bizarre. They asked something about how to get to the park that was thirty minutes away. Hell, you didn’t even know the place existed, and you didn’t work for a directory station.

You are already practically on edge as you walk through your apartment door. Dinner is an afterthought, the thought of eating even something small, sounding like too much of a task. And though you try distracting yourself with a movie, The Exorcist, obviously, the restless energy refuses to fade.

It isn't just today, though. Sleep had been a problem for weeks, a relentless cycle of tossing and turning that left you staring at the ceiling, wondering why you just couldn’t sleep. Tonight is no different. The clock ticked past midnight, then 1AM, now 2AM, each passing minute a reminder that tomorrow would be another day of exhaustion.

Your chest grows tight, your breathing shallower than you’ve experienced, in a LONG time for that matter. The usual distraction techniques aren’t working. Counting sheep, breathing exercises, even scrolling through your phone—all useless.

You pull the covers over your head, but the heaviness of the day’s events looms large. That offhand comment from earlier—’unwilling service…’ Did they mean lazy? Disinterested? Were they secretly annoyed with you? Did everyone at work feel that way? Was it the same with your friends?

The spiraling thoughts claw their way deeper. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms. You hadn’t meant to start tossing and turning, the pillows shuffling deeper.

"Fuck, what is wrong with me?" you mutter under your breath.

With a shaky breath, you sat up, rubbing your eyes. The weight in your chest hadn’t gone away, but you knew someone who’d make it bearable.

"Beetlejuice," you whispered, voice cracking. "Beetlejuice... Beetlejuice."

The flash of green and black in the corner of the room becomes bright with flair, causing his entrance to be as grand as ever. "It's showtime-”, he begins, but the second he takes one look at you, his demeanor shifts.

“Whoa, whoa. Babes? Fuckin’ hell, you okay?” he says, eyebrows furrowing as he notices your trembling hands and red-puffed eyes, shaking his head as he curses himself for not being there sooner. He’s by your side in an instant, sittiing on the bed with a mix of concern and determination.

“C’mere,” he mutters, pulling you close. His arms wrapped tightly around you, his striped blazer soft against your cheek. “Talk to me, Babes. What’s going on?”

You want to answer, but the lump in your throat won’t let you. Instead, you bury your face into his shoulder, your breaths uneven.

Beej doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask questions. He just shifts back against the headboard, tucking you against his chest, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it by yourself, okay? I’m here.”

The familiar rasp in his voice, usually cocky and teasing, was softer now, filled with a warmth you didn’t know you needed.

As you start to calm down, the sound of his voice keeps you grounded. “You know what you need, Babes?” he said, pulling back slightly to look at you with a small grin. “Some quality cuddle therapy... and maybe a new friend. One sec.”

Before you could protest, he vanishes with a poof, leaving you in a sense of longing, wondering where he’s gone. Only for him to reappear quickly, holding something behind his back.

“Ta-da!” He reveals a small stuffed bat with button eyes and a goofy grin. It’s actually quite cute, and it’s got a lot of character, it seems. He chuckles, and holds up the little creature, “Meet, uh... Flappy. Thought you might like him.”

The absurdity, yet adoration, of the name makes you laugh, a weak but genuine sound that seems to lift the tension in the room.

“Flappy, huh?” you say, gently taking the plushie in your hands. “What’s he doing here?”

“Oh, you know. He’s a night owl. Bit of a chatterbox. Thinks you’re the coolest guy around.”, Beej says with a large grin.

You smile, turning the toy over in your hands. “Guess he can join the others.”

Beej’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Wait, you’ve got others? Babes, you’ve been holding out on me.”

And just like that, the weight in your chest eases, feeling the utter excitement of getting to share your wholesome obsessions over your stuffed animals, each one having a characterized personality of its own. You find yourself rambling about your collection—each stuffed animal, its backstory, how you’d gotten it.

Beej listens intently, actually seeming interested in what you have to say, throwing in the occasional quip, but mostly just letting you talk.

“And this one’s name is Gemini! My friend named her, since it’s her zodiac sign, but she’s a little fruit bat, who was an orphan from the time she was a baby! She got adopted by a bunch of normal bats, who accepted her into her family, and when she grew up, she went to explore the world!”, you exclaim happily to Beej.

Beej nods with excitement, “Woah, Babes! I had no idea how much you knew about these little guys.”, he says with a joking tone and a wink.

You feel the heat rising to your cheeks, as you blush. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bore you with these little guy-”, but you’re quickly cut off.

Beej’s lips are softly pressed against yours, his eyes closed, as your eyes flutter to do the same. You wonder what made him want to do this, but you’re too shocked to care.

He pulls back slightly to look in your eyes, chuckling softly. “Do not EVER apologize for that, Babes. I think hearing about them is very sweet to hear from you. And besides, what kind of demon would love you if they didn’t hear about your little stories?”, he asks with a smile.

Your face is surely entirely red now. What did he say?

“W-What did you just say?”, you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

His black-circled eyes soften as he gazes at yours, “I love you.”, he says in a whispered tone, his gaze flickering to your lips.

Your gaze follows to his own lips, as you softly whisper back, “I love you too.”. You lean closer slowly, closing the space once again.

Out of all the backstories that you’ve shared tonight, this one will always be your favorite.

- ★ - Written By Saddled_On_Stars - ★ -

[tpwkwriter]

i recently started reaading ur writing and boy it is lovely and sooooo cute!!!! so i would like to request Y/n being terrified of thunderstorms and harry comforting her, have a good dayyyy <3

Your too sweet thank you so much lovely<3, I hope this fic is what you hoped for🩷

Warnings: cussing and thats it.

—————————astraphobia———————————

The weather in England was almost predictable most of the the time.

Rain.

And more rain.

Y/n didn’t have an issue with rain, it gave her an excuse to stay cosy in bed but thunder, thunder was something she was sure she couldn’t get used too.

As a child thunder meant losing electricity and being in the dark and as a young child that was something that shaped her.

Y/n felt so silly being her big age and still frightened of some noises from the sky, but it was something she was eager to work on but struggled each time.

Y/n was staying over Harry’s one night and despite the weather being slightly foggy, a thunderstorm at 2am was unexpected.

Y/n shot up at the sound of a large “bang” outside followed by the sound of harsh winds against the window pane.

“Fucking shit” she whispered under her breath.

She turned to Harry who seemed to be ever so snug under the duvet, eyes still closed and the sound of soft snores followed ever so lightly.

Y/n envied his possibility to just be able to just to sleep through anything, she really wanted him to wake up and bundle in his arms while he tells her it’s gonna be okay, however with his recent workload and knowing how exhausted he’s been these past few days, she decided against it.

Instead she snuggled up to his exposed back under the cover and slung an arm over his dainty waist, feeling once again cosy and warm, however that didn’t make the scary noises go away.

The sound caused her to hide her head further into his back.

“S’not often y’big spoon love” Harry sleepily muttered out putting his hands on ontop of hers.

“Did the storm wake you up?” Y/n asked innocently.

“That and the fact m’girl seems to be clinging on for dear life” he hummed.

“No complaints tho” he added.

Another rumble hit the sky.

“Fuck” she flinched, again snuggling further into him.

“Baby?” He asked realisation clicking in.

Without another word he moved his body to face y/n, putting on palm on her cheek and resting his forehead on hers.

“It’s silly I know”

“S’not if your scared of it” he hums.

“I’m 25 and scared of a thunderstorm”

“And” he answered

“It’s embarrassing”

This time a strike of lightning hit the sky causing a light to flash across the window.

And y/n retreated and fell straight into him, causing him to lay on the bed with y/n on his chest.

“Oh baby” he practically purred, running his hands through her hair.

“Your okay, y’fine” he reassures.

He pulls up the duvet to her shoulders making sure she was engulfed both by him and warmth.

“Y’think y’can try and get back to sleep?” He hums into her ear.

“Think so”

“Just relax, f’me”

Y/n immediately relaxes into his embrace, and focuses her mind on his heartbeat and the pattering of rain against the concrete outside.

“Doing Great lovie, so so proud of you”

The girl who was once tense was now relaxed and eyes were slowly drooping as time went on.

“I love you angel, so so much, y’always safe always, nothing could happen to you, not when I’m here ever”

——————————————————————————

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Neurodivergent!Hobie Brown Headcanons - Hobie Brown having AuDHD

Hobie Brown has AuDHD (Autism & ADHD) because I have AuDHD and I love him and want him to have AuDHD :) i was reminded of this and this is mostly me projecting so uhhh...here

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Love the idea of Hobie Brown having ADHD and autism

Like his attention is shit. And he doesn't care.

He's always working or tinkering or planning away at something, writing some song, but he's never doing what 'he's supposed to do'.

He's Hobie - he's going to do whatever he wants to do and whatever strikes his fancy.

It's the ADHD. He procrastinates, and if you tell him to do something - yeah, he's not doing that

but when he needs to get something done he gets it done. ALWAYS. Somehow.

Miguel is asking for mission reports and he's like 'piss off m8'. He gets it done when he needs to don't ask questions

Super truthful. He doesn't see the point in lying. He's never mean about it, but he never hides the truth.

Stims a lot.

Always fidgeting with something. Doesn't carry stim toys cause he always loses them - fiddles with anything his hands come across instead

Chews on pens when he's trying to think or write a song

Fiddles with his piercings and lip ring a lot

Constantly losing his guitar pick, gets pissed off and can't find it even though it's right in front of him

He has ADHD-combined so sometimes he's pacing back and forth and other times he's just zoned the fuck out daydreaming

DOODLES on everything.

STICKERS everywhere.

Doesn't mask AT ALLLL

If he doesn't understand a joke he will ask - especially if he can tell it's meanspirited

Sleep schedule is wrecked. He hates the AM - and gets up at like 4pm. he's up at 2am playing electric guitar on the loudest volume and drinking a coffee at 8am before going to bed

Bounces his leg really really hard then tells people to piss off when they demand he stops

VERBAL STIMS. OH MY GOD

CONSTANTLY repeating song lyrics, even random ones. Repeats them to himself while pacing as a way to relax

Stims on his guitar, plays the same chord over and over and over.

The chords of 'Immigrant Song' - by Led Zeppelin is a popular choice of his

Gwen stims by tapping and drumming on things so they can be sitting there and play-stimming a song without even noticing

Doesn't follow rules he doesn't understand or thinks are unreasonable

Will argue with someone over it when confronted and tell them exactly why their rule makes no sense

He'll 'talk back' to authority and someone will be like 'Hobie you can't say that!!!' and he will genuinely be like 'why???'

Used to get put in 'time out' A LOT. Big 'problem child', always talking in class, wandering off, etc

Light sensitive.

His room dark as fuck boooooyyyy

Black out curtains, no clothes in the drawers, 12,000 unattended water bottles everywhere

NEVER makes the bed but has other cleaning routines he HAS to do

loves planning shit, planned out all of ASTV in detail, keeps really detailed notes of stuff

but his handwriting only makes sense to him

remembers everything about his friends but doesn't know what day it is

Time Blind as FUCKKKKKKK. So hard to get a hold of him or get him to text back.

You see him when you see him - either he's early or he's late as hell.

Says 'five minutes' but gets distracted or severely underestimates the time.

Special interest is his records and they mean a lot to him

Knows everything there is to know about every album he owns, takes really good care of them and his player - the only thing he'll spend money on

Very creative, has many creative projects he starts and stops and never really completes

10,000 half finished patches and prototypes

But he's really talented and handy because of it

Like he knows random ass statements in dozens of languages cause he memorizes the weirdest stuff and sometimes run into situations where he really needs it

Like the first time they go to Mumbattan looking for Pavi Gwen is like "ugh how are we gonna ask people 'have you seen this boy' in Marathi?" and Hobie is like "i got this" and she's like "Bro HOW"

REAL ASS AUDHD EXPERIENCE: Being able to memorize copious amounts of information about things that don't matter at all

Hobie has so many facts inside of him that he just drops so casually

And people are like how are you so smart

and of course he's like 'i was smart this whole time'

People think he's rude or an idiot because he doesn't make eye contact or doesn't face people when spoken to

but he's not at all, and he's very good at picking up little details

Dry but hilarious sense of humor that takes seven layers of irony and 3 years of context to even process

Probably has one completely left-field unrelated hyperfixation that catches people off guard. Is completely unashamed about it

When he's overstimulated he gets very irritated and snappy and fidgety -

Has to leave the room immediately - will stop everything and just get up and head straight to the door

If he can't leave he'll start covering his ears or put his head down against a table

Has loss of speech episodes sometimes, but not only when stressed. Lots of times it happens while relaxed or really deep in thought/daydream. His closest friends can understand him perfectly fine, and can tell when he's just chilling vs when he needs support

Will stand up in a 'quiet' room and say "what's that noise??" cause he can hear electric buzzing and it's pisses him off

He still blasts his music loud as hell in his headphones

Puts something into one of his many pockets then immediately begins to look for where he put said thing

Always pulling stuff out of his pockets, looking slightly impressed but confused as to how it got there, or how long it's been there

Has the weirdest palette. Weird ass food combos. The type of guy to put one sauce on everything

Probably eats beans on toast like twice a day

His comfort food is a Gregg's Sausage Roll from a very specific branch in East London, others taste a bit off to him and he can tell if it's not the right one. He'll still eat it, but he can tell it's not right

Most of these are SUCH a projection but I love him so so so much ok bye bye