#please.... feel free to cut it down as much as you please y'all know the drill!

[wtftarot]

PAC: What are the truths you need to face

Another thanks to @lifeofaie for suggesting this pac. If you've got a pac idea feel free to send it to my inbox!

This one can be a little bit of a call-out, but I mean, it is a reading on what truths you need to face.

as always this reading is for entertainment purposes ONLY and is not a substitute for professional advice in any capacity. Remember use common sense and don't be a dumbass.

Pick either the Sword, the Cat or the Stars and head on to your reading

The Sword

This group is kinda heavy, please be gentle on yourself.

The High Priestess, Four/Cups, The Tower, and the Seven/Wands on the bottom of the deck.

So, y'all kinda already know what truths you need to face. The problem is you're fighting them off. Y'all may be asking spirit or your guides a lot of questions that you already know the answers to. I'm hearing 'where there's smoke there's fire". With the Tower here, there's one truth in particular that you know that if you let yourself look at it head-on, things will have to change. It could even be painful to look at it head-on, (if it is please have some support when you choose to face it) It's like, all the signs are there but you're still iffy on it. This could be a person who you've started to notice the red flags or a situation that you know is bad but you won't let yourself really focus on just how bad. A few of you I'm getting, keep reading romance/ what are they thinking PACs for a person that you know isn't treating you right and maybe ignoring when the readings tell you that. I'm not trying to be harsh or call anyone out. I don't think any of the truths this group is facing are easy, little ones. I'm actually hearing the word "catastrophic". I know how scary it is to face something that you know will hurt. Cause part of it is admitting that it hurt and actually letting yourself feel that hurt instead of pretending it's not there. You are so brave and so so fucking strong and you will get through this. The advice for you is this be gentle on yourself and fucking tough on the situation. This will be hard and you want to give yourself time and space to rest and rebuild your strength. Then kick its fucking ASS. Bad shitty work/living situation? Setting boundaries with a shitty fucking person? Digging yourself out of a mental health pit? All of these are fucking tough as hell but you survived, ya know what that makes you right? Tougher than hell, that's what. Be fuckin cut-throat when it comes to getting things to a better place and then REST, alright? Eat, drink a lot of water, and do things that make you happy. Cause this is fucking hard and you need to take care of yourself. You are smart and capable and you deserve fucking better. Another thing that your guides keep pushing is support, you fuckin need it. I dunno if y'all have been trying to deal with all of this alone or if you haven't told anyone you're struggling but you need to. I'm fuckin serious. Talk out loud to spirit if you have to, just saying things out loud or writing them down can really help you process what's going on in your head. I believe in y'all.

random ass vibes: 10:10, Blue, camping, birds, 90s, cat cartoons,

The Cat

The Emperor Rx, the Star, The World Rx, and the Eight/Cups on the back of the deck

Listen, I don't really do relationship advice but some of y'all need to be told that you can't change him. You can't and no, he won't change for you. And you shouldn't go into a relationship expecting a person to change. That's not for everyone, take it as it resonates. You need to take action towards what you want. Y'all are dreamers and that's awesome. It seems though, they're just staying dreams. I'm a Pisces moon, I'm not judging y'all at all when I say this but y'all really kinda live in a fantasy. Y'all seem to have this tendency to ignore what's in front of you for what it could be. The way it's coming through is that y'all are leaving so fucking much on the table that could EASILY be yours but the fantasy obviously is more than reality could ever be so that's where your mind wants to stay. Thing is, y'all know we don't live in a fantasy and you want to do better in reality. BUT you see the fantasy you have as how things "could" be and when you do act on your dreams and they don't match up to the fantasy, you feel inadequate. Like you're not reaching your potential. So, you get down on yourself and never want to pursue your dreams. I know it's hard to accept that reality can never meet the fantasy we build up in our heads. Reality is messy and in our fantasy we never have to shit or floss or maintain what we have, we just have it. The truth is having to accept that life will never be perfect. There is no perfect relationship, perfect job, or perfect life. No routine is going to magically fix your life. The people you love will always have traits that annoy you a little bit, just like you have traits that annoy them a little bit, but you love each other and know you're both worth mild annoyance. It's time to ground your ideas into reality and let them be imperfect. Let them breathe. Y'all are limiting yourself to the idea of perfection. Your life IS going to be a little fucked up and messy no matter what. Some of y'all ain't even perfectionists, you just don't believe in yourselves and use things not meeting your fantasies as evidence that you can't do it. I'm not getting much in the way of advice for y'all other than to act? If this is your group then I'm betting you've had an idea of what this has all been referring to for you and know what action comes with that. Good luck!

random ass vibes: Gilmore girls? starting tarot reading (hell yeah!) a good nights sleep, 122,

The Stars

Judgment Rx, Four/Pentacles, The Hermit Rx, Two/Swords Rx and the High Priestess on the back of the deck.

So, first thing is: that you can't manifest yourself past the time some things need to take. Some things just take time. Y'all seem to be holding on to this idea that you're not the active force in your own life making things happen? It feels like there's a person or a group of people, or maybe you believe in fate but there's something that y'all are endowing with more power in your life than you. It's like to you it doesn't matter what you want, what decisions you make because it'll work out how this other thing deems it should. Your judgment doesn't matter. Some of y'all even feel like you don't have a say in who YOU are. Y'all may have had or do have really controlling parental figures. But FUCK. That's devastating, y'all. I can't imagine feeling like you're not the driving force in your own life. Listen, I don't believe in fate, destiny, soul-mates, or "meant to bes" and I am not judging y'all if you do but fate isn't engineering every single little thing in your life. It's not all that serious, I promise. You can just do things. It's not all make-or-break-life-altering-weight-of-cosmic-destiny-on-your-sholders. Your life shouldn't be focused on figuring out what your fated path is and sticking to that rigidly. Why? Cause that's not life, babe. That's following a script. The truth for y'all is that you are the driving force in your life and you need to start trying to see yourself that way. And this reading is looking to be short cause it's kinda existential, but you have free will and can choose and act and change things. If there is a "path" it's a vague one and you're making the rest up as you go. You can just step off of it. Anytime. Head in any direction you want. You don't have to be with that person if you don't want to just cause someone said y'all were soul mates. You don't have to choose that career just cause it seems "fated", if you hate it, hate it and leave. YOU make the decisions.

random ass vibes: Russian Doll (tv show), 144, reds and yellows, thumb bone part that looks like a chicken leg lol? Disorientation by Katie Mack

#tarot reading #tarot #divination #tarot community #tarot cards #pick a card #pac reading #pick a pile #tarot readings #pick a card reading #pick a picture #wtftarot #tarotblr #pick a photo #intuitive

[as-is-above-so-below]

Cardigan - John Price x F!Teacher!Reader

Part 2: Midnight Rain

summary: you get yourself in a pickle a/n: hi! I return again! I'm sorry it's short, but I'm trying a new method of posting. Instead of aiming for a specific word count (which leads to me getting writer's block and not posting ANYTHING), I write until I'm satisfied with what I'm trying to achieve. Hopefully, I've achieved that goal, and y'all like it :) Blessed be! << Previous | Next >>

You drummed your fingers against the notebook in your lap and gnawed on the top of your pen. It was late, even by your standards; the sun had long since set, and dinner eaten hours ago. But you were up, sitting in the dark in your living room, heavy rain pelting your old windows. You were trying to pull together a new lesson plan for the following day. A few curious students had started asking questions about the modern military. Like, key differences between military strategies used in the time they were studying and today. And, of course, yet again, you made promises that you were struggling to keep. And you always keep your promises to your students.

Fuck.

The internet wasn’t helping at all. You didn’t study military strategy in any of your courses. Was that even a thing?

The last thing you wanted to do was call him. You were so confident that you could solve your problem yourself, at nine o’clock. Now, it was past midnight, and you were absolutely desperate.

Fuck.

Before your tired brain can flood with guilt and change its mind, you grab your phone from your nightstand and tap into your recent calls log. Your stomach churned, anxiety bubbling up with every trill. God, it’s so fucking late to be calling. It felt like you were split in two. One half of you was praying that his phone was on silent (you know it’s not) or he’ll sleep through the ringing (he won’t), while the other–the miserable, exhausted half–needed him to pick up.

The latter won out.

“Y/N? Are you alright?”

John’s deep, sleepy voice made you feel guilty and incredibly happy that you’d woken him up. Soft and grumbly, rolling in his chest; it made you feel soft and warm inside…

Not the point of the call.

“Hi, John. I’m completely fine, I just…” You took a deep breath, the heel of your free hand pressed into one of your dry, worn-out eyes. “I know you’re this big important captain, and you have work in the morning, but I’m in a bit of a pickle and need a massive favor.”

There was a slight rustling on the other end like he had turned slightly to check the nearby time. “It’s one o’clock in the morning, love,” he mumbled.

You felt even worse. “I know, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me,” you begged, running a hand over the top of your head. “One of my kids asked about the military. It sparked a whole discussion in class, and I may have overstated my knowledge. I barely know anything about it, and my brain is turning to mush. I’m so tired I wanna cry, and-”

He quickly cut off your rambling. “Woah, hey. Slow down there. What’s going on?” he asked, suddenly sounding much more awake. 

That brought you pause. You honestly hadn’t thought what you would ask if John actually answered the phone through. It was one o’clock in the morning, which John had correctly pointed out, and your brain wasn’t operating at full capacity. 

“I was…wondering if you could give me a lesson. Because I’m super tired, and I like to hear you talk.”

“…You do?”

“Yeah. I’ve learned a lot from you just…talking to me? But I’m a history teacher. I’m an expert on wars, not war.”

There was some shuffling on the phone. On the other line, John was leaning over the edge of his bed, searching blindly for his little pocket planner in the pile of clothes on the floor. The rustling stopped when he placed the device on his pillow, rifling through the calendar. He sniffed and was quiet for a moment, while you nibbled anxiously at your pen. Again.

The silence finally broke with a tired sniffle from John. “I can do you better. Why don’t I come to your classes tomorrow?” he asked.

You froze, pen still between your teeth. John? Coming to your school? Spending the day with your students? That would be the equivalent of introducing your boyfriend to your children. 

“…Really?”

“Sure.”

Could you even call him your boyfriend? You’d been on a few dates, sure, over the last…two months? No, it was closer to three. Had it been that long already? You did some quick math in your head. You’d gone on about one date a week, with a few canceled due to last-minute commitments. Still, about one date a week, over three months…

Holy shit.

“John, I’m sure you’re busy. I couldn’t-”

“Not at all,” he hummed, cutting you off. “Besides, it would take me ‘til class tomorrow to give you a good enough rundown, and the boss loves shite like this.”

“I thought you were the boss?”

You could practically hear a small smile tugging at John’s lips. The expression was a familiar one. The corner of his mouth quirked up, shifting his beard and creating happy wrinkles near his eyes. His nose would scrunch up a bit, too, especially if you were out in cold weather. 

“Everybody has a boss, sweetness. Myself included.”

Christ. Not the pet names. And especially not in the tired, gravelly tone his voice was currently in. John Price was going to be the death of you, even in his unfocused state.

You unfolded your legs from underneath you and moved your notebook onto the coffee table. Your resolve was fading, and you couldn’t be bothered to argue. While you did feel bad about dragging John to your school to fix the problem you created, you weren’t sure you had any other option. Accept defeat? To a group of teenagers? Absolutely not. You’d never live it down. You sighed, rubbing tiredly at your eyes. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

A soft smile crossed your face. “Is this just a ploy to meet my kids?”

“Maybe.”

Your sleepy giggles were like music to John’s ears. The sound alone was worth the favor. As if he wouldn’t have done it anyway, just to ease your stress. He would take any and every opportunity to make your day easier or make you happy. What he wouldn’t give to hear that laugh in person, laying beside you in your bed–

No. John’s a good man. A gentleman, he would say. A man who was perfectly capable of not acting on his urges and thoughts. At least, not in person. However, in the privacy of his own home? That was a different story.

“Thank you so much, John.”

Right. You’re still on the phone. He heard a soft click on your end of the call.

“That’d better be you closing your laptop, I’m hearing.”

“It is.”

“Good girl.” You blushed furiously. Fuck. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

taglist: @novausstuff, @cutiecusp, @ittosbigfatmantitties, @helpimhyperfixating, @hihhasotherfixations, @dugiioh, @glitterypirateduck, @cringeycookies, @lethalchiralium

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

#captain john price x f!reader #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price x f!reader #john price x teacher!reader #call of duty #captain john price #cardigan as is above so below #as is above so below #cod mw #mw fics #call of duty fanfic #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare ii #teacher!reader #john price x afab!reader

[miloformula123fan]

Hi! i wanted to request lando x fem!reader where dhe studies in the US and is dating lando and talks about him all the time but all of her friends thinks she is joking because she has no proof (she cant post anything yet because lando hasnt said anything abt a gf to the public). and y/n crys to lando because no matter how much convincing she does they think shes just messing with them. (she literally drives his spare mclaren and they still dont beleive her.) so lando decides to suprise her in class and then posts her on insta and all of her friends feel really bad

woohoo!

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

this was so much fun to write haha :)

lando norris x reader

---

Y/N picks up her laptop and some pens with her notebook. She’s got another study date with her friends. She likes them, sure she does, but sometimes they get a little irritating. 

For one, they don’t believe that her boyfriend is THE Lando Norris. They think she’s either got some unemployed schmuck who she is afraid to tell them about due to his poorness (the stuck up snobs) or they think she’s got some old sugar daddy that she doesn’t want them to meet because he’s so old.

So Y/N is taking less than ideal measures. Like today. Lando recently acquired a new McLaren from his work, some customised Spider that came out a couple of years ago. So now that he has his new car, he shipped his old one out to America, so Y/N would have something nice to drive around. His old McLaren GT, not necessarily old, it still cost about $210k, but not Lando’s current favourite, so Y/N could drive it around a bit.

And drive it, she would. Maybe this would finally convince her friends. Once and for all, that Lando Norris was interested in her and was dating her. She grabbed the keys off the table, double checked she had everything and then got into the car, driving the 10 minutes to the coffee shop.

Okay, maybe pulling up outside a coffee shop entirely inhabited by uni students in a custom McLaren wasn’t the best idea, but it was the best one she had. She got out of the car, locking it and headed in, almost immediately spotting her friends.

“Hello! I’ll just grab a coffee and then we can get to it!” She smiled at them, but she could see their faces

“How about you get us all a coffee with your sugar daddy money, Y/N.”

Y/N put her head down and ordered a hot chocolate and a cookie before returning to the table.

“So, how’s Lucas, Gabrielle?”

“Oh come on, no one wants to hear about my boyfriend, Y/N, we all just want to hear about your sugar daddy.”

“As I’ve told you before, I do not have a sugar daddy. I have Lando, who is my boyfriend, not my sugar daddy. And he is good, excited for the Las Vegas Grand Prix, and then excited to be coming home at the end of the season.”

“Yeah right, just cause you’re sending nudes to some old guy, doesn’t mean you can’t tell your best friends… come on, cut the charade Y/N.”

“I-” YN could feel tears welling up in her eyes, so she grabbed her stuff, and her hot chocolate before getting into the McLaren and driving off. 

Thank god it was only a 5 minute drive, else Y/N may not have made it back due to the tears welling up in her eyes. Maybe if she had, she would’ve seen the other McLaren in the driveway, but instead she walked into the house and locked herself in the bathroom, sitting down and beginning to cry.

Lando outside quickly froze. He honestly had no idea what to do. He was planning on surprising his girlfriend when she got home from her study date with her friends, but she arrived 2 minutes after he got home and had immediately walked into the bathroom without even saying hello. Leaning against the door, Lando could hear shaky breaths and sobs through the door, as he leaned his whole weight onto it, he quickly realised that she had not in fact locked the door, as he fell through it, landing on the cold tile floor.

The sobs stopped, as the hiccups continued. “L-lando, are you, okay? Wait, hang on, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in the factory in England?” The confusion in her voice was evident.

“Yeah, well I had some spare time, and I decided to come over, and the door wasn’t locked properly, but what happened? Why are you in here crying pretty girl?”

“It’s nothing, I promise, just me getting upset over nothing.”

“It’s clearly not nothing darling when you’re sitting here on the bathroom crying, huh?”

“Just… well, people don’t think we’re dating. They think I’m lying about it to try and cover for some 80 year old sugar daddy, and they think i’m being delusional.”

“Why, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want to worry you…”

“You’re my girlfriend, Y/N of course I worry about you. Let’s forget about your shitty friends, and let’s go get a takeout dinner and a movie.”

“Love Actually?”

“Yes, if you want.”

---

Y/N dashed into the classroom, running slightly late as she sat down, and pulled open her laptop. Cursing herself for oversleeping, and not having the time to grab a coffee on the way, she sat down and began to take notes.

Halfway through the lecture, Y/N heard the door at the back of the room open again. ‘Well at least I’m not the last one.’ She heard whispers and gasps and tried to focus on the lecture until she felt a presence standing next to her and looked up into her boyfriend’s brown eyes.

In his hands was a starbucks cup, a classic ice chocolate based on the label on the cup. Lando placed the cup on the table, before pressing a kiss to Y/N’s head and half jogging out of the room to avoid the fangirls.

Y/N could feel the judgemental looks at the back of her head, but all she could do was smile.

Lando Norris 

200k likes

Lando.norris love you baby 🙂

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#f1 fic #miloformula123fan #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris #f1 fanfic #lando norris x you

[ever-siince-new-york]

julien baker calling reader a good girl and being in charge🙏🏻

Julien Baker x f!reader

warnings/tags: fingering, oral (reader!recieving), pet names such as... princess, baby, honey, and good girl ofc 🙄 a lil bit of toxicity and lets say stylistic errors in grammar and perspective 🙏(aka grammarly stop being mad at me i'm not gonna buy premium)

author's note: girl you know i had to. 1.2k words, should take around 15 mins to read. thank y'all so much for the requests! i promise i've seen them all, however i have also gotten back into minecraft after they added the cherry wood so... I'm working on it okay? okay. hope u like it okay bye :0

You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this, not again. But, here you were, scrolling to unblock her contact. You thought there was something about this city: the air or something cliche like that. Something that had you calling Julien again and again. Surely, if it were up to you and your own free will, you wouldn’t be doing this.

The ringing from the other line drowns out any rational thought from this point on.

Ring. You shouldn’t be doing this. Ring. You’ll just get hurt again. Ring. “Hello?”

There was a point where you really believed you would never hear her voice again, never even want to. “Hey,” you said.

“So uh… wh-?” you cut her off.

“Come over,” the last of a six-word phone call.

-

You wanted to slam the door shut as quickly as you’d ripped it open. She was still wearing that stupid necklace. The one you had bought for her at a gas station in… Arizona maybe? Somewhere dry, hot. As you weren’t expecting this cruel reminder of the past, you were thrown off-guard. Clenching your jaw, you didn’t know what to say. Luckily, you didn’t have to.

The way she kissed you that night had you drunk on her from the moment she stepped into your apartment. All your attempts at memorizing her touch, her taste, her smell were in vain. Julien always had a way of making life feel straight out of a movie. It was all teeth and tongue, your mouth surrendering to hers as soon as she tongued at your bottom lip. No memory could ever do her justice.

Her hands danced over the expanse of your body, hands moving from your ribs to your hips, your neck to your breast. Fingertips shaping your body into submission like wet clay.

You broke the kiss, leading her to your bedroom. 

“That’s not very polite, Princess. Not even going to offer me a drink?” Her feigned offense only turned you on more, ever the tease. As if she could read your mind, a smirk tugged at her beautiful lips, “I know, baby. Always so needy for me,” she spoke in a low drawl. 

Any sense of control you had was now gone. You were her’s. Again. So you’d nodded with a soft pout.

“We can fix that, honey. But you need to use your words,” Julien said. This woman would be the death of you. “Please, Jay. I need it,” you whispered.

“Need what, baby?”

“Need you,” you pouted. That seemed to satisfy her as she held out her hand for you to grab with a smile. The two of you stumbled down the hallway, towards the open door to your bedroom. 

She pushed you up against the foot of your bed, reaching down to slip her hands under the hem of your t-shirt, abandoning the article to the floorboards. Her gentle kisses up and down your neck did nothing but add fuel to the burning desire between your hips. Hands danced around your waist while yours were planted into her hair. 

You tugged at her roots in the hope of her diverting her attention to where you had craved her since she flew into town. She pulled her head away to look up at you with expectant eyes.

“What do you say, Princess?”

“Please.” That made her smirk. “Good girl,” she had said. Pressing a kiss to your soft lips, she trailed her way down to the fly of your jeans. Kneeling, she popped open the button and unzipped the fly in mere seconds, clearly as eager as you. 

She slid her hand into your cotton panties, collecting your slick before beginning to circle your clit. Very quickly you migrated from standing to sitting as she continued her ministrations. As you arched your back into her touch, she slipped two of her fingers into your entrance. 

She pressed a sloppy kiss on your inner thigh before putting her mouth on your heat. She curled her fingers and started gently suckling on your clit. Her consistent motions had your mouth open and your tongue gently curled up as you laced your fingers back into her hair. The tug you had delivered to her hair every time she changed what she was doing had her moaning into your pussy, sending reverberations through your wet cunt.

Anyone outside your open window would be able to hear what was going on inside those four walls. The sounds of her fingers plunging in and out of you coupled with the wet kisses she was littering among your core were downright sinful. 

Feeling your walls fluttering around her fingers, she knew you were close. You grunted in offense and frustration when she pulled her mouth away from you, but she quickly mended any hurt feelings with her words.

“I missed having you like this, baby. All needy just for me.” It seemed like her pace began quickening after every phrase, her hunger increasing parallel to yours. The ferocity of her thrusting fingers and her thumb now rubbing at your clit had you stumbling closer to your climax.

“You can do it, Princess. Go ‘head and cum for me, baby.”

You tugged harder and harder on her strands with every pulse of your orgasm, the increasing sting on her scalp had her moaning right along with you. The way you were squeezing and oozing on her fingers as you came down had Julien weak. She pulled her fingers out of you and into your mouth.

“Suck.”

Immediately you obliged, your head too foggy to imagine disobeying. Maybe tasting yourself on her fingers was dirty, but it had happened so many times that it almost felt romantic. To the two of you, experiencing the sensual evidence of your euphoria was just as pure and intimate as a kiss. 

You laid alone atop your sheets for a moment until she returned to you. She had removed most of her own clothes, leaving herself in a pair of boxers and a white t-shirt. She brought the wipes she had grabbed from your bathroom up to your pussy, navigating your folds simply with her memory. A soft furrow settled itself between her brows, displaying her focused state as she cleaned you up.

Once she was satisfied, she crawled up next to you on the bed. Pulling your head to lay on her chest. You looked up at her with wide eyes as she stroked your hair.

“Honestly, I never thought this would happen again,” her hushed voice tugged at your heart. “I know,” you said. “I’m glad that it did,” her inflection made the words sound like a question, but you didn’t answer, preferring the quiet to any unsure, over-thought reply you could give. She sighed gently and gave a soft peck to your forehead, tucking your hair behind your ear. Smiles rested on both of your faces, yours spreading to hers.

It was funny how little you cared in the moment you knew you would come to regret. If you could bottle the pure ecstasy Julien had coaxed out of you, surely you would have good reason not to.

For better or for worse, no one else could ever possibly make you feel the way she did, and for right then, that was enough.

#also thank u 4 fifty notes 🙏 #requests ARE still open it'll just take a minute #pls be specific in requests! it helps with inspo 4 sure #carlena's writings (after dark) #carlena's writings #julien baker smut #boygenius smut #boygenius #julien baker #wlw smut #julien baker x reader #julien baker fanfic

[radawayghoul]

His Little Dove | Sneak Peek

A/N: here's a little sneak peek, babies!! this is completely unedited, i literally just typed this up in about five minutes so i will likely make adjustments buuutttt i wanted to give y'all something for now!! if you'd like to be tagged, let me know and i'll start makin' a list!!

Warnings: cursing, people being cunty but i mean...this is Lee Russell y'all...umm 18+ only, MDNI!

For as long as Lee could remember you had been there, with your amazing hair and beautiful, shy, sickly sweet smile. If he hadn’t married when he met you, he’d have scooped you up and made sure nobody else got their sticky little fingers on you. Even still, in his mind, you were his. His saving grace, one of the only people he trusted outside of his wife. He liked to call you his little dove because of how innocent and pure you looked. It was his tradition to tease you when it was just the two of you in the teachers lounge when Amanda finally let you roam free. Watching your face bloom with those shades of red was like doing a bump of coke on a hot, spring vacation evening. It sent a rush of adrenaline through him that made him wanna do it over and over again. And do it, he did. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, hey Neal…okay.” You said as Neal stormed past you just outside Lee’s office. You gave Lee a questioning glance through the glass, a bit stunned you were given such a cold shoulder. 

Lee merely smirked and shrugged, waving you into the room to which you did so eagerly. 

“What was that all about?” You questioned, plopping down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, crossing one leg over the other, adjusting your skirt in the process. 

“Gamby’s being a whiny little cunt about who the next principal is gonna be.” Lee rolled his eyes, “I didn’t call you in here to talk about that loser, Iiii want to know what you’re up to.” Lee rested his elbows on his desk, wiggling his eyebrows with his hands folded under his chin, a small smile playing on his lips. 

Heat rose to your cheeks, dusting them in that beautiful, deep shade he loved oh-so-much. 

“Oh, please, you know I don’t ever have shit going on. Why?” You squinted at him, suspicious about what he might be up to. 

“Ohhh because I have to stay late tonight to get some of these files done on the new teachers and want your beautiful little detective self by my side.” Lee winked, leaning back in his chair, still smiling with that mischievous glint in his eye that he was famous for. 

You snorted. “You and those fucking files,” You shook your head, returning his playful smile, “Of course I’ll help you, Lee. But you really shouldn’t cut into my class time, it makes me look bad.” You fake an exaggerated pout at him with your arms crossed. 

Lee rolled his eyes. “Don’t you worry, darlin’, when I’m principal, you can cut class anytime you damn well please. Now, go on, git.” He shooed you away, shooting you a wink. 

You let out the softest of giggles, shaking your head at your silly friend as you left his office. The butterflies stirring in the pit of your stomach were sure to do you in at some point. The feelings you held for Lee were fierce. But, they had to stay a secret. He was a married man for Christ’s sake. But you loved him all the same and couldn’t deny him even if you wanted to. He was so charming, it was impossible to say no. 

So, on your way back to your classroom, you held a hand to your chest and took a deep breath to calm your sputtering heart. The heat in your cheeks hadn’t let up a single bit since you’d left him. The effect he had on you was intense. It was enough to make you feel cock drunk without ever even having him inside of you. Not that that was something you should be thinking about your best friend who is married but it was the closest feeling you could compare it to. Like you were high on the man that is Lee Russell…even if he is a bit…wild. 

-

tag list:

#lee russell #lee russell x reader #walton goggins #vice principals x reader #hbo vice principals

[imaginespazzi]

Part 2: If Only You'd Been Here

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7

Ain't nobody hurt you like I hurt you (but ain't nobody love you like I do)

(In which a sadistic writer tortures her beloved ship a fair amount and maybe her readers too)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Pining, Hurt/Comfort and maybe Fluff if you squint

Words: 6.5K (someone please be proud that it is in fact shorter 🙈)

TW: Swearing, Alcohol, Injuries, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Good morning my lovelies <3 Just a couple of things I changed that you should know before you read. If you follow WCBB, you know UCLA didn't win the Pac-12 tournament in 2023 but in this universe they did. You also probably know they lost in the NCAA tournament last year to SC in the Greenville region but in this universe, for plot purposes, they're gonna be in the Seattle region. I kept their seeding and who they were playing vague because it was gonna get too complicated to figure out. Also if you saw my list of part titles a while ago, no you didn't lol. As always, feel free to know what you liked, what you didn't, and anything you'd like to see in future parts. And as you're reading, let's just remember y'all love me and everything I do is for the plot. Happy reading and have a wonderful week lovelies!

December 2022

The distinctly “car” smell of her car is starting to make Paige more than a little nauseous. Going by the way Drew is pouting in the passenger seat, he’s also clearly over it. They’ve been driving in circles for what feels like hours. At first, still enamoured with being allowed to sit in the front, her little brother had gone along with her ridiculousness. Now, as they approach maybe the 12th or so lap around the neighbourhood, he seems less than thrilled. 

“Alright let me out and you keep driving,” Drew says, fiddling agitatedly with his seatbelt, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Well hold it in,” Paige retorts unhelpfully as they re-round the block. She keeps her eyes focused on the road, ignoring the glare her brother sends her away. He takes in a dramatic breath and leans back onto his seat. She grips the steering wheel tighter as they pass the house again, still not brave enough to pull into the driveaway of a place she’d once considered just as much a home as her own. 

Drew lets out another groan, “I shoulda just stayed home.”

“Well you didn’t-” Paige’s reply is cut off by the sound of a phone call reverberating around the car. The CallerID reads “Azzi (DON’T YOU DARE IGNORE)”, a name the younger girl had plugged in herself with a warning look the day Paige had left LA. Chewing whatever dry skin is still left on her bitten-to-death lips, Paige clicks accept on the call. 

“What number lap is this?” comes Azzi’s exasperated voice and Paige can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face. 

“Oh you know my car’s feeling the need to exercise today,” Paige hums back, suddenly feeling a lot lighter than she had just a couple of seconds ago. Sometimes, she’s not sure how she managed to go a year with this constant heavy weight pressing down on her ribs, and no Azzi to slowly ease her out from under it. 

“Azziiiiii,” Drew whines dramatically, “please come save me. I’m gonna die in this car.”

Affronted, Paige splutters, “nobody forced you to come.”

“You begged me to come,” her young brother quips back and it elicits a laugh from the girl on the other end of the line. 

“I did-”

“Paige,” Azzi cuts her off, “just come inside okay? You’re wasting gas for nothing.”

“I- it’s just-,” Paige’s hands tighten even more around the wheel, as she stops on the sidewalk, switching on her turn signal, but still not entering the driveway. She leans her head against the wheel, overwhelmed by emotions she can’t quite name. Drew places a comforting hand on her back and she sends him a reassuring smile, trying to shield her younger brother from the havoc in her brain. 

“Hey,” Azzi’s voice floats through the fog, “it’s just me okay? Me and you and us. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

It’s like a child being soothed with their favourite binkie, that’s what Azzi’s promise feels like to Paige. She finally turns into the driveaway, and both Drew and Azzi cheer in tandem. The knot in her chest loosens just a little bit at that because the large crowds that scream for her make her feel adored, but this, her own personal cheer squad for her littlest of achievements, well it makes her feel loved. 

“Freedom,” Drew yells as he practically flings himself out of Paige’s barely parked car. She rolls her eyes fondly at her mini me as he dramatically pretends to kiss the ground. It’s a small distraction from the memories that are swirling like a tornado in her mind. Minnesota is home, it’ll always be home but this place, this had been her safe haven, something she could hold onto at a time where everything else was slipping out of her hands. And then, like a fool, she’d let go of it. 

The door opens even before they’ve made it halfway to the door and Azzi’s brothers run out into the front yard. Jon pretends to take pictures and José practically falls to his knees as they swarm around the blonde. 

“Paige, Paige, can we get a picture or an autograph please,” they yell teasingly, “please Miss Bueckers we’re your biggest fans.”

“Move over boys,” Tim Fudd’s booming voice hollers, as he swats his children away, “her biggest fan is actually me eh Paige?”

The girl in question nods solemnly, her smile stretching the full length of her face, and both Jon and José let out a groan as their father beams at Paige. And then Katie’s there, not a hint of anything but pure happiness on her face as she wraps the younger girl into a hug. Paige melts into the embrace, trying her hardest not to burst into tears. Because all she can think about is the hundreds of calls and texts from Azzi that she’d left unanswered, all she can think of is Azzi's devastated face as she’d told Paige about just how hard she’d tried and that wretched ache of i don’t deserve this i broke your daughters heart wraps itself around Paige’s  heart. 

Over Katie’s shoulder, Paige watches as Azzi finally walks out into the law, her cheeks immediately turning red from the cold. The younger girl winks at Paige with a radiant smile, before giving all her attention to Drew who almost trips as he excitedly launches himself into Azzi, tiny hands wrapping around her waist. Paige watches, still buried in the warmth of Katie’s arms, as Drew animatedly tells Azzi all the stories he possibly can and Azzi nods along emphatically as if she’s being told the most important facts of her life. And Paige takes a snapshot of it to add to her ever growing collection of moments i just knew. 

***

January 2023

“Call her.”

Paige doesn’t bother replying, burying her face further into her tear-soaked pillow. Maybe if she ignores her teammate, Caroline will get the message and go away. The earth-shattering pain that she’d subdued for the last couple of months had finally reared its ugly head. And that too at the worst time possible, when her team needed to be a source of strength and with cameras catching the teardrops falling as she mourned the loss of not being able to play in the epic UConn-Tennessee rivalry. She’d done so well at holding it in, breaking apart only a couple of times, sometimes alone and sometimes with Azzi on the other end of the line. Until tonight, when the bright lights and roaring crowd had reignited the itch to just fucking play ball. 

“Paige,” Caroline says again, “stop being stubborn and call her.”

“She has a game tomorrow, she doesn’t need my dramatic ass worrying her right now,” Paige replies, getting into a sitting position when she realises the other girl isn’t about to just let this go. 

“You’re eventually going to call her. The two of you haven’t gone one day without talking to each other since this summer,” Caroline gives her a look, a hint of a smirk play on her face when it tints Paige’s cheeks pink, “seriously, just call her.”

It’s not that Paige doesn’t want to. She’d scrolled through her contacts and stopped at Azzi’s one too many time’s tonight. And each time, just as her fingers had hovered over the green call button, she’d felt guilt claw at her neck. Since she’d shown up in LA, Azzi had shown up for Paige every step of the way, checking in regularly, listening to Paige vent her anger at the world and whispering words of comfort that only sounded true when they came from Azzi’s mouth. Sometimes, if she tries really hard, Paige can feel the ghost of Azzi’s arms wrapping themselves around her shoulders, just as they had that one night in LA when Azzi had held her, so delicately as if she was made of porcelain, through the worst of her breakdowns. 

“She needs to focus on her game,” Paige says after a moment. 

Caroline sighs, mind wandering to the countless texts on her phone from Azzi begging her to take care of Paige and to let her know when the blonde wasn’t doing okay, “I know but she’d want you to call her if she knew. You need her.”

“And where was I when she needed me?” it’s the word need that triggers it, the quick snap because it’s all Paige has been able to think about lately. 

Without basketball, she’d had far too much time on her hands and she’d ended up going down a spiral of watching Azzi’s games from her freshman year, something she’d religiously avoided doing when they had happened live. At first, it had just been this immense feeling of pride, seeing her best friend be the college basketball phenomenon Paige had always known she would be. She’d shoved away the envy of it was supposed to be us that immersed her seeing the way the Bruins celebrated their new star player, and just let herself be happy in her best friend’s happiness. 

And then something changed around at the beginning of January 2022. It had only lasted a couple of games, but Azzi had hit a wall. Threes were short, cuts were made at the wrong time and she kept on getting lost on defence in a way that was very unlike her. And all Paige could focus on, eyes glued to the screen, was how completely and utterly exhausted Azzi looked during that stretch, despite the fact that she’d just come back from winter break. The smile had vanished off her face, replaced by stress lines Paige wished she could go back in time and erase. 

It wasn’t until she’d binged through all the games, cheering silently as Azzi slowly returned to form, that the realisation had hit Paige. She’d been slapped with the memory of a store decorated brightly for Christmas and a familiar voice calling her name, as she’d purposely walked the other way, pretending she hadn’t heard and the more than deserved i’m done trying text that had followed right after. For a year, perhaps longer, Paige had convinced herself that she was the only one who had lost something, she was the only one who had a right to hurt, to break. And still, she thinks she’d take all of that pain again a thousand times, if it means she could erase the fact that in all of her self-pity, she’d broken Azzi too.

“Where was I when she needed me?” she repeats again to Caroline, as the brunette stares at her in confusion, “the answer to that Carol, is that I was anywhere but with her.”

Caroline’s eyes soften in realisation as she takes a cautious step towards Paige, “oh P don’t do this to yourself.”

“I want to call her,” Paige confesses in a whisper, tears brimming in her eyes, “it’s the only thing I’ve wanted to do all day and maybe- maybe I should have but I’m just- I’ve been so unfair to her.”

“You were hurt Paige.”

“I know- I know that. But so was she. You don’t- god Carol- you don’t even know the things I said to her before she left for LA. And she’s still here,” the first tears fall from her blue eyes, and then the next and the next until there’s a steady waterfall streaming down her face, “you know I almost didn’t let her in when she first came over this summer?”

Caroline doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to come sit next to Paige and wrap her arms around the point guard. 

“I didn’t answer her calls or her texts for a year and still, still she’s picked up every call, replied to every text I’ve sent her since summer. I know- I know I need her and she’s going to be there of course she is. But when she needed me, where was I?” Paige drops her face into her hands, “I just- I don’t deserve her.”

There’s a moment of silence as Caroline rubs Paige’s back and lets the older girl wallow in her guilt. And then she reaches for Paige’s phone on the nightstand, ignoring the little grunt of protest. When the screen lights up, there’s already a notification of new messages from Azzi and Caroline can’t help but smile. 

“I think,” she begins softly, “Azzi’s a smart girl so maybe give that tiny little brain of yours a little bit of rest and let her decide who deserves her,” she hands Paige her phone “let her be there for you. I think maybe she needs that too.”

Caroline gives Paige’s shoulders a little squeeze before heading out the doors, giving the older girl a moment of privacy. Paige sighs, getting herself comfortable against her pillows, and rubbing away her tears, before finally giving in and pressing the facetime call button. 

“Do you want a distraction or do you want to talk about it?” Azzi says as soon as she picks up and Paige can see the concern etched all over her face.

“Or maybe I’m perfectly fine?”

“Ah we’re playing the pretend game tonight. Should have cleared your throat for a second longer maybe Miss Perfectly Fine, your eyes are red as fuck and you sound like a dying cat.” 

“Wow, that was rude. Maybe I’m sick?” 

“With what? The “lies to her best friend” flu?”

“That UCLA education has you making up illnesses now? Damn Az, you’re supposed to get smarter in college.”

“You’re so funny, like so funny,” Azzi huffs sarcastically before they both dissolve into giggles. It’s always just been so easy with them. And Paige’s isn’t a poet, but if she was, she’d write sonnets about the sound of Azzi’s laughter, and the way it makes the corner of her eyes crinkle. 

“I watched the game,” Azzi says after a second, “and I saw you.”

Paige smirks, “so you didn’t actually watch the game, just stared at my gorgeous face the whole time?”

“There’s that comedian streak of yours again.”

“Hey you’re the one who said you were watching me instead of the game. But who could blame you really?”

“I didn’t-” Azzi rolls her eyes, as Paige’s cocky smirk deepens, “stop it.”

“You can admit I’m a pretty girl Az,” she teases, delighted when it makes the younger girl blush. 

“Fuck off, you have enough people telling you you’re a pretty girl.”

“Yeah but it means more coming from you,” she says quietly, biting her lip. It’s not the kind of thing you’re supposed to say to your best friend, at least not in the soft, wanting way that Paige says it. Except they both know that the lines in their friendship are far more blurred than they should be, even if they've both done a pretty fantastic job at ignoring that kiss. Paige had learned over Christmas that Azzi was exceptionally good at the pretending part, moving away the moment Paige’s hands lingered a little longer than they should, changing topics if they even got anywhere near addressing the something between them. It shouldn’t have hurt but it did and Paige doesn’t understand how she can so desperately miss something that she never even had in the first place. 

“So distraction then?” Azzi says after a second, changing the subject back to her initial question. 

Paige closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath, “it was just- it was a lot tonight. I didn’t realise I was being that obvious.”

��You weren’t. I just know you a little too well.”

“These are my favourite types of games, you know. The rivalry, the crowd booing my name and getting the chance to quiet them, that’s- that’s the type of game players live for and I just- I miss it Azzi. I miss shooting, I miss defending, I miss just standing on the fucking court sometimes. I miss playing basketball. So. Fucking. Much,” a fresh set of tears leak out of Paige's eyes, as her free hand fists at her bedsheets. 

There’s silence as Paige’s words linger in the air. In a way it’s freeing to be able to say it out loud, to just let herself feel how she feels instead of fighting them. 

“You’re gonna miss it every day until you play again,” Azzi says quietly, her own voice thick with emotions, “and it’s not really gonna get easier until you get it back. But when you finally do, just- just imagine it okay, your first game back. The feeling of the crowd. Dribbling up the court. Making that first shot as everybody loses their minds. Finally just playing the game you love. That’s when that feeling of loss will finally go away.”

Using Azzi’s steady breathing as an anchor to still her erratic heartbeat, Paige lets herself get lost in the picture the younger girl has just painted for her. She lets her mind run to the future that lies ahead of her and if she focuses hard enough she can almost hear the Gampel crowds roaring as she finally returns to the court. 

“It’s kinda really fucking annoying how you always know what to say,” no it isn’t, it’s the only thing that’s keeping Paige going these days. 

“Surviving an ACL injury will do that to a girl,” Azzi says with a pained smile. 

That’s not it Paige thinks, it’s not experience, it’s you and I really wish you were here. But she can’t say that, so she changes the subject instead. 

“Tell me about your game tomorrow.”

They both settle back into their pillows, getting into more comfortable positions. Azzi tells Paige all about her upcoming game and then moves onto another topic, then another and another and another. They’ll wake up tomorrow morning to phones that died and no memory of when they’d fallen asleep. And then they’ll remember who was on the other end of the line, and if that makes them smile a little too hard, well that’s just another thing they’ll pretend didn’t happen. 

***

March 2023

It’s only natural that when Paige finally feels like she can learn to live with just having a little bit of Azzi, that the world would show her just how wrong she could be. She’s been in a much better headspace these days, her knee finally starting to feel like itself again, bit by bit. The guilt of not being able to help her team is still settled into the pits of her stomach but even with that, she’s reached a sort of acceptance. And while she’s still struggling to fight the part of her heart that wants so much more, she’s learning to be content with just having her best friend back.

It’s that little bit of time in between conference tournaments and the NCAA tournament when it feels like the calm before the storm and it’s the first weekend since before the season that the UConn team finally gets to go out and let loose for a bit. They’re riding the height of winning another Big East title and even if it’s a little bittersweet that they did it without her, Paige is beyond the moon happy for her team. 

She turns up the music in her room and changes the lights for the sake of a little ambience, before sitting down at her desk, to call Azzi and do what little of her makeup she knows how to do. Normally she’d get one of the other girls or Kayla to do it, but she’d rather sacrifice a flawless makeup look then miss out on having Azzi tease her about how she still didn’t quite know how to do her eyeliner properly yet. 

The fact that it takes Azzi longer than the third ring to pick up should be Paige’s first warning sign but instead she’s sucking in a deep breath at the sight of her best friend who looks breathtakingly beautiful tonight. Paige’s heart stutters as she takes in Azzi’s face, the light layer of red lipstick (that Paige wants to kiss off), the blush-tinged cheeks (that Paige wants to caress delicately) and the perfectly done mascara on her eyelashes (that Paige wants to feel flutter against her own skin). 

She lets out a low appreciative whistle, “celebrating that Pac-12 championship in style huh?”

“Something like that,” Azzi bites her lip and really that should have been warning sign number two, “was there- was there something you needed?’

“I can’t just call you?” Paige asks, noticing the tension on Azzi’s face, “are you busy?”

“No it’s not-”

“She is actually,” a different voice cuts in aggressively and Azzi immediately gives whoever it is an exasperated look. Paige doesn’t know who it is, but she guesses it’s one of the UCLA players. It’s no secret they aren’t huge fans of her. They’d made that much clear the few times they’d met Paige during September, always regarding her with a wary eyes. It wasn’t their fault really, Paige understood their protectiveness, in fact she appreciated it more than they would ever understand. 

“Chill Angela.” 

“Are you not busy then?” the other voice who Paige assumes is Angela Dugalic says, clearly a little annoyed. And then Azzi’s phone is being shifted away from her and instead it’s Angela’s face that covers Paige’s screen. 

“Oh,” the blonde manages to get out, taken aback by the sudden change, “hi Angela.”

“Hi Paige,” the other girl says, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. 

“Angela,” there’s a clear warning in Azzi’s voice and Paige already knows, even before the words are let out into the open, that whatever Dugalic is about to say is going to tear her apart. 

“Azzi has a date tonight,” Angela pronounces the last words with a gleeful lilt. 

The world spins and Paige’s head spins with it, as she grips onto her desk for some semblance of stability. She can hear Azzi spluttering in the background as she tries to get her phone back but it’s of no use as the UCLA forward powers on. 

“With a really pretty girl,” Angela smirks at the camera, clearly trying to prove something, “Zoe’s really wonderful. You’d like her, Paige.”

Zoe. Recognition registers in Paige’s brain. She remembers seeing the name flashing on Azzi’s phone a couple of times, accompanied by a photo she never quite caught a glimpse of. But as she tended to do with most phone calls that came during her time with Paige, Azzi had simply just declined the call and texted whoever that she’d call her back later. And so Paige hadn’t really bothered caring about Zoe, chalking her up to being some random friend Azzi had made. But fuck, maybe she should have cared. 

“And Azzi really likes her I think. They’ve been tiptoeing around it for ages you know? But we all knew it was only a matter of time.”

A strangled noise escapes Paige’s throat and she tries her best to disguise it as anything but the cry of despair it is. It feels like there’s a thousand knives digging into her skin, pressing harder and harder until she has no blood left to bleed. 

“They’re gonna make the cu-”

“Give me my phone back Angela,” Azzi’s voice cuts in harshly and Paige hurriedly rushes to contort her features into a smile right before the camera’s back to facing her best friend. 

“So you’re all dressed up for a date then?” Paige manages to get out and the word date sounds like bile on her tongue. 

“Doesn’t she look lovely?” comes Angela’s voice again; the girl seemingly on a mission to break Paige as much as possible, “give her a proper look Az.”

“Angela,” Azzi hisses through gritted teeth. 

“N-no show me the fit,” Paige counters, because that’s what a best friend’s supposed to say right? Show me how fucking perfect you look for a girl that’s not me

Azzi hesitates, swallowing nervously, before she takes a couple of steps back so the camera captures all of her. And Paige wishes she’d never asked to be shown in the first place, hell she wishes she’d never bothered to call tonight. Because she thinks the image of Azzi’s casual light blue jeans and simple green off-the shoulder top will be etched in her mind forever, captioned with the words not for you. 

“You look lovely Azzi,” she whispers quietly, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Zoe won’t be able to keep her fucking hands off of you,” Angela supplies and this time the glare Azzi shoots her is murderous. 

“I think I hear Emily calling your name Angela.”

“I don’t-”

“Yes,” Azzi says pointedly, “yes you do.”

Angela rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest this time. She turns to the phone with a devilish grin, clearly feeling accomplished in being a menace, “nice talking to you Paige.”

She waltzes out, leaving Paige, Azzi and a silence that feels like it could drown them. 

“You could have told me,” the blond says after a second, averting her eyes from the screen, “aren’t dates the kind of thing best friends are supposed to tell each other?”

“Paige-”

“It’s good though- you-uh- you deserve a night out.”

“P-”

“Listen, I uh- I’m going out too so- I- umm- I better get going but-,” Paige takes in a deep breath, “have a- have wonderful time on your date Az.”

She hangs up before Azzi can reply, the concern in the younger girl's eyes becoming too much to bear. For a moment, she stares straight ahead at the wall, just processing. And then she lets herself fall apart. 

***

It’s 1 a.m., Paige is drunk and miserable and so fucking tired; it’s an extremely dangerous combination. Aaliyah and Amari had practically had to carry her to her dorm because she’d been stumbling far too much and everyone was worried she’d eventually fall flat on her face. Personally, Paige thought they just didn’t have enough faith in her. She wasn’t even that drunk, she couldn’t be. After all she could still feel that stupid Azzi-sized scar on heart and wasn’t the whole point of being drunk supposed to be not being able to feel? But she has to be drunk because sober her would know better than to do what she does next, would know better than to call Azzi when she has no control over herself. 

“Paige? Is everything okay? Are you okay,” Azzi’s voice is filled with concern when she answers.

“Azziiiii,” Paige slurs, “areyoustillwithyourdate?”

“What?”

“Are. you. still. with. your. date?” Paige pronounces each word slowly. 

“I- yeah. She’s in a different room. Paige, are you okay?” 

“Interesting,” the blonde remarks quietly, “you never picked up her calls when you were with me. And we weren’t even dating.”

She hears Azzi’s breath hitch on the other end, can almost picture her doing that nervous swallow of hers, “ I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“You didn’t care if she was okay then? Those times she called you?”

“That’s not- she didn’t call me at 1 a.m.” the younger girl justifies hollowly. 

“Bullshit,” Paige scoffs, “1 a.m. isn’t even that fucking late. Why is it so hard for you to admit you care about me waaaayyyyy more than you care about Zara or whatever?”

“Zoe. You’re drunk Paige, go to bed,” and Paige really should listen to the edge in Azzi’s voice.

“Where did y’all go?” she asks lightly, changing the subject, “c’mon Az, best friends share their date stories right?”

“Baltaire,” Azzi relents, choosing to let this battle go. 

“Oooh that restaurant we passed that one time wow,” Paige coos, “too fucking bad you hate fine dining huh? But she wouldn’t know that now would she? Because she doesn’t fucking know you.”

“Paige please,” Azzi breathes out quietly in a pained voice.

“But you know who does know you? Me. And I would have never taken you to some boring old fancy ass piece of shit restaurant like that.”

“Don’t-”

“I would have taken you on a picnic. Do you remember that park you loved, the one by my air bnb? There, that’s where I would have taken you. And I’d have gotten you supermarket sushi even though I fucking hate that shit but I know, I know, you like it. And flowers. Did she get you flowers? Because I- I would have. Roses and peonies and lilies, a whole fucking bouquet.”

And Paige is crying again, for the second time tonight, one hand gripping at her phone as the other one tries to wipe away the frantically falling teardrops. 

“And we’d stay at that park til the sun goes out and I’d take a polaroid of you in the sunset and I’d keep it forever. I swear Azzi, I’d keep it forever and I’d put it on my wall.”

“Paige,” Azzi whispers, as if it’s the only word she knows, as if it’s the only word that matters. 

“I’d bring my laptop so that when it finally gets dark, we can watch a movie. You choose Az, whatever you want. And I’d get distracted and start playing with your hair or something and you’ll pretend it’s annoying you but you’d be smiling. Fuck I love your smile.”

“You can’t- you can’t just say these things Paige.”

“Why not? It’s the truth right- why can’t I say the truth?,” Paige says petulantly, “but hush okay I’m not- I’m not finished yet. And then, then we’d just lie under the stars and it'd just be you, me and the sky. Perfect.” 

Azzi lets out a broken sob and Paige hates it, she hates it but she keeps on talking. 

“And then I’d take you home and I’d kiss you,” she whispers the last bit like a confession, “everywhere. Fuck, I’d make it so good for you Az. So good. Everything you wanted, everything you needed, I’d give you all of it. I’d make you come apart on my fingers and then my tongue-”

“Shut up,” Azzi’s voice is suddenly cold and frosty and it feels like all the heat has been sucked out of Paige’s room as well, “shut up, shut up, shut up.”

“Azzi-”

“No,” Azzi all but yells, “you don’t get to say all of that to me.”

“Then who does? Her? Zia or whatever? Who the fuck even is she?” Paige spits out venomously.

“Zoe. Her name is Zoe and you wanna know she is Paige?” 

She should say no. She should apologise for interrupting Azzi’s date and hang up the phone, but no, Paige doesn’t do any of that, “enlighten me why don’t you.”

“She’s the girl who was there,” Azzi says, her voice cracking, “she’s the girl who held me last year when I was going through the worst time of my life. She was there when I couldn’t make a fucking shot and I thought maybe I’d never be good enough. She was there when I let the pressure and the media and all of it get to my head. She was there when I was crying my eyes out over losing the one person I was sure would always stay. She- she’s who you were supposed to be because she was there, and you weren’t.”

Paige isn’t sure if it’s the bitterness behind Azzi’s words or the brokenness of her sobs that is the reason for the ache in her own chest. All she knows is that she still remembers tearing her ACL, and she doesn’t think it hurt as much as this. 

“It was supposed to be you,” Azzi sniffles, “I wanted it to be you. Because I’d have let you- fuck- Paige- I’d have let you take me on a picninc and if you brought me sushi I’d have brought you your favorite mac and cheese. I- I know you don’t really care about flowers so I’d get you chocolate, the rum-filled ones that you love. And that sunset polaroid would have been a selfie of us, where you’re kissing my cheek and I’d have it framed. I’d pick out a movie but first- first you could watch whatever basketball game was on and you’d get exasperated when I don’t know the team because I’m literally a basketball player,” she lets out a wet laugh, “but I know you secretly like explaining the NBA to me. And then- then I’d have let you take me home and I’d let you take everything. Whatever you wanted, it’d be yours.”

The vivid image of a date that never happened fills every inch of Paige’s brain. She feels like she’s in a bad dream, trying so hard to reach for a happiness that keeps on evading her grasp. 

“But you weren’t there then Paige, and you aren’t here now.” 

“Azzi-” Paige chokes out. 

“Go to bed Paige,” the younger girl says, her voice shaky but adamant, ‘Get some sleep. Maybe you’re drunk enough that you won’t remember this when I call you tomorrow.”

“Right. So we’re gonna pretend this never happened. Again. We’ll just keep on pretending forever I guess,” Paige retorts bitterly. 

“Yes, we will. Because if I stop pretending, I don’t think I’ll be able to survive.”

***

The buzzer rings around Climate Pledge Arena as the UCLA women’s basketball team loses in the Elite 8 on a last second buzzer beater. Azzi’s face contorts into one of sheer disappointment, and in the stands, Paige feels her own heart drop. She’s not one to root for a team outside of her own and god knows what would happen if Nika found out that she’d been screaming her head off each time the Bruins, or at least one specific Bruin, scored, but for Azzi, well, there’s not many of her own rules that Paige follows when it comes to her best friend. 

It had taken a fair amount of convincing on Paige’s part to even be able to come to this game. Everyone had wanted to leave immediately after the Sweet 16 loss but Paige had insisted they needed to stay in Seattle, do something to get the team’s mind off of the terrible end to their season. And that wasn’t a complete lie because even if she hadn’t been able to help when they needed it on the court, she could try and help boost morale. But she knew her teammates weren’t fooled. They knew the schedule just as well as she did and they knew exactly what or better yet, who she wanted to stay for. 

On the court, Paige can tell Azzi’s fighting back tears. The brunette had given it her all, scoring an efficient 34 points and really the game could have gone any way. That last minute heave from the opposing team really probably shouldn’t have gone in, but at the end of the day the NCAA tournament was a lot about skill but also a little about luck. But Paige knows, Azzi isn’t thinking about any of that, too busy finding a way to blame herself even though she’d had a near perfect night. They were just too similar sometimes. 

Azzi’s eyes flicker through the stands, clearly looking for a familiar face. Paige resists the urge to run on to the court and pull the younger girl into her arms and soothe away the defeated look in her eyes, if only for the fact that Azzi doesn’t actually even know she’d figured out a way to stay back for this game. Despite being in the same city, they hadn’t been able to spend nearly as much time together and while Paige’s teammates had tried to be of some help, Azzi’s teammates had seemed determined to pull her away as much as possible. All of that on top of the fact that they’re still playing that stupid game of pretend had left Paige wanting for just one moment alone for the two of them. 

As soon as the UCLA team starts heading back to their locker room, and the crowd starts leaving, Paige scurries towards where she knows Azzi will be. Their assigned locker room isn’t that far from where UConn’s had been and Paige gets there in almost record time, her mind firmly planted on being there for Azzi. She’d missed so many opportunities, but this time, this time she’d be there. 

Azzi’s leaning against the wall, her eyes closed and Paige has to take in a breath at the sight of her. Sweat sheens against her tan skin and her gameday braids are falling apart just a little but still, she’s perfect. Before Paige can take a step towards her, there’s another girl, all dark hair and long legs, brushing past her, rushing to get to Azzi’s side. It’s like the world has stopped and yet is spinning too fast all at the same time, as Paige watches this girl, Zoe, pull Azzi, Paige’s Azzi, into her arms. 

After the night of the date (and everything else they’re ignoring), Paige hadn’t bothered to bring it up and Azzi had never said anything about it again. Naively, the blonde had thought that maybe that meant nothing much had transpired after the date, silently patting herself on the back for possibly even having had a hand in that. Except, the way Zoe holds Azzi isn’t fucking platonic and the way Azzi relaxes in Zoe’s arms, isn’t fucking friendly. 

“I”ve got you Az,” Zoe whispers into Azzi’s hair and Paige wants to die. She should look away, she should walk away but her feet seem to be glued to the ground. And she remembers the way Azzi’s eyes were searching the crowd and oh- she’d been looking for- Paige can’t even let herself complete the thought because she’s sure she’ll burst into flames the second she does. 

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Azzi says quietly to Zoe. To Zoe, and not Paige. If she could feel anything beyond the dagger twisting in her heart, maybe Paige would hear the way there’s still a tinge of disappointment in Azzi’s voice, as if she’s wishing it was someone else. 

It takes Zoe pressing a kiss into Azzi’s forehead, eliciting a sigh from the brunette for Paige to finally tear her eyes away. Her feet finally move and then she’s running faster than she has in a long time, ignoring the way it causes her muscle to ache. She can’t tell if her rapid blinking is to usher away the tears or to try and prevent the memory of Azzi with some other girl from welding itself into her eyelids. It blurs her vision and in the speed of things, she can barely tell where she’s going. Paige runs chest-first into a wall, bruising her elbow. Her phone slips out of her hands, falling to the ground with a loud thud, the screen protector cracking into pieces. 

And when Paige looks at the mess of her phone on the floor, she thinks it couldn’t possibly have cracked harder than this silly little stupid heart of hers.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

[moondirti]

tender / and what’s left

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronze at this time of day, you know you can't touch him to feel the sun.

But you’re not looking for warmth.

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: explicit (mdni) word count: 4.3k summary: what gentle has come to mean warnings: smut, canon typical violence, angst, mild gore, mentions of death, very little plot, blowjobs, fingering, joel is not nice - not necessarily. tumblr please don't tag my shit notes: yeah... yeah. i don't know how i feel about this one. i tried something different with the style. that is, i cut down on the purple prose, so let me know what y'all think about that. also, can you tell i struggled with joel's characterisation? idk, it's a mess. but anyway - enjoy!

You’ll never get used to the smell. 

Granted, the contrary was a lie you told yourself once things had gone to shit. A painkiller – your harsh reality sliced into digestible portions and force fed through a dry gullet. Mother earth will reclaim what spoils – like putrid carnage buried behind a thick cover of dirt, perfuming crisp air. That nature, prosperous again, would wind itself around humanity’s faults and embellish your end with a lush green. 

And maybe it will, one day.

But it takes a while for bodies to burn. You’ve come to accept that’s all you have to look forward to in your lifetime. So, you focus on the scent of sulphur-doused charcoal and try to ignore how flesh sizzles when you throw another corpse into the flame. 

Once the weight is offloaded, you trek back over the beaten path to the truck, your fingers tense with the frigid wind. A storm had come screeching through last night, mewling its sombre song while spewing out a flurry of ice onto the decaying buildings of the QZ. The sterility had lasted all of about an hour before the powdery white turned sludge and jaundice-yellow stains popped back up along the streets. 

The only salvageable thing about winter, tainted with piss. 

Huffing to yourself, you curl your hands to dissuade the frost gnawing on your knuckles and square your shoulders for the next haul. A quick scan of the cargo hold tells you you’re nearly done. There must have been ten or so infected cadavers when the unit had been dropped off – piled atop one another, heads wrapped in bags and arms still bound behind their backs. Joel had divided the work between the two of you – sectioning the heavier builds off for himself – and you’d made quick work disposing of the majority before the stink of death could cling to your blouse. 

As for him–

He brushes up behind you, stunted to a slower pace, carrying a body twice his size. You tune in to his laboured breaths, the grunts he makes with each step, muffled behind the bandana he wears as a mask. In your peripheral, you think you spot it slipping – slicked with the sweat that shines down the curve of his nose. His hair is much the same; speckled grey, glistening with sebum and a gruelling day's work. 

(You recall what it feels like, clutched in your tight grip. You like pulling at it, borderline violently, whenever you can. Whenever he lets you–)

You stop yourself. The tangent has a viscous momentum you’re all too familiar with. Reeling it in, you tuck it near your gut before it can get away from you. Instead, you choose to single in on the way his back rolls when he throws the weight into the pit – the penultimate corpse. Then, back to the task at hand. The trailer stands empty now, save for the last; a smaller frame, curled in on itself, clad in embroidered jeans and a dirty, purple sweater. 

He kept the child for you. 

What’s left of one, anyway. 

Two seconds pass. You crouch to tie your shoelaces. 

(You got them for free – traded off a FEDRA agent with a dependance on oxy. You don’t think you’ll get as lucky with gloves. Winter clothes run like cigarettes here – the theft of your last pair indicative of that fact.)

When you stand back up, the body is still there. 

The chain to the trailer latch is tangled. You decide to undo it before you move.

It won’t disappear.

Just deal with it.

It might be the cold, or the sore patch on your palm, singed from hovering too close to the flame. Food poisoning, credit to poorly cooked rat jerky, or the flu. You tell yourself it’s anything apart from what it is. You know he’s staring – can feel the laden look, sparking the frayed nerves along your shoulder. Just deal with it; the sentiment swimming in dark eyes. Deal with it; his rough voice nails into you.  

It’s not a kid. Not anymore. Not since a network of fungal threads wiggled their way into the gummy recesses of its brain. 

(But its skin is soft. Not one scar on those delicate hands.)

You let your gaze slide across the courtyard. His presence tips the scales of your consciousness, crushing with its force, and you find his brow quicker than you can blink away the wariness in your expression. He’s leaned up against a wall, twisting a spare rag over his fingers. His dry study is indecipherable. 

Your jaw clicks. 

He steps the slightest bit forward. 

With a sharp tug on the body’s ankles, you deflect his intervention and position it so that you can easily heave it onto your bent arms. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be. That, or, it’s the rigour mortis, its joints stiffened to intractable peaks. 

Keep your back straight and use your knees. 

(Joel taught you how to lift anything. He said it’d come in handy, one day. You still can’t tell what he’s preparing you for.) 

When you flip the child into the fire, the bag flies off its head. Its hair is the same shade as yours.

He takes double your shift. 

You were a florist, before, operating right outside Boston. It’s easy to forget what it was like: cramped in that two hundred square foot shop, up to your elbows in thorns as humidified air pooled beneath your pits. There’s the vague picture of a book, fatter than your forearm, always propped open on the register counter. Floriography, a guide to the Victorian language, with watercolour illustrations and an empty page dedicated to your scrawled notes on customer orders. 

And, there is the memory that accompanies it. 

An infatuated friend – no, assignment partner – in your mycology requirement. He’d gifted it to you on your birthday and you’d given a complaisant smile back before going back to the video your professor put on. It didn’t interest you at the time. You were a botany student, desperately clinging to the last shred of your sanity before the end of term, and you did not care about the outdated science of some epidemiologist in 1968. 

Perhaps you should’ve.

But–

You remember the flowers.  

Post-grad. You’d bring them in from wholesalers in Columbia. Dahlias and daisies by the dozen – thriving boscages, nursed in minerals, tepid water. It was a blend of powdered femininity, a reification of the artificial scent you’d practically bathe in as a kid. Soil a pillow for nectar and dew, their roots still branched in the nourishing mix. And it was marginally obsessive, the way you’d drink all of it in. Like divine ambrosia, hung in a drunken stupor of all-natural proportions.

In the mornings, you’d separate their petals with a gentle hand. You felt as though you could sit forever in that quaintness. It did not feel like a job.

Joel takes double your shift, because you cannot wait to get away from shit-clogged sewers. 

He comes back disgruntled, just as the afternoon sinks below the horizon. 

The room soaks in an orange tint, a deluge of evening light spilling in from outside. Scotch whiskey burns a trail down your throat, irritatingly concentrated, and you wonder where he got it from. Not many drinks nowadays pool as deep in your belly, are warm enough to strike your inhibitions. You blink, tipsy – malt and smoke clustered on your tongue – and can’t help but smack your lips, the taste reminiscent of the musk you lick from in between his legs.

He comes up behind you, pulling the bottle from your cradle before you can take another swig. You’d set a dirty tumbler out for him too, lipstains smudged against the annealed glass. He pours two fingers worth, then sits back with a weary sigh. It rumbles from somewhere in his chest, hampered with the deep baritone of his own voice. 

You don’t speak. Neither does he. 

This is what life consists of. Busy work and silence. 

Anything is better than clicking. 

You observe him in your free time. 

It’s not often you’re granted the luxury of running your fingers down his face. You have, once, after coming home much too late to see him knocked out, practically blitzed on hydro. You’d discovered his skin – that it matched the way it looks; rough, sun-worn like old leather. It folds up along his forehead, between his brows, etched in a permanent look of exasperation. He’s marked in wrinkles you don’t think will ever go away. 

(You’d tried smoothing them out. It was a stupidly sentimental action, founded on the sudden spout of emotion that plagued you that night. You had just been beaten an inch from your life, and wanted to find comfort in the fact that – if anything – he was peacefully at rest. But he looked tired, even in his sleep.) 

His eyes are far away, too. His lips, pursed. The way his hair twists on his head suggests that it’d been curly, once upon a time – flipping like waves crashing towards an isolated island. Uncoordinated. Devastating. And his beard is all but an extension of that brutality – patchy and abrasive, particularly when it smooths along your thigh. He’s ruinously handsome; weathered and dry and dark and so, so goddamn handsome.

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronzed at this time of day, you can’t touch him to feel the sun. 

But you’re not looking for warmth. 

You slide off the chair, onto your knees. 

You’ve been around long enough for him to sense what’s coming. His shoulders slouch, slack posture buttressed against the back of his chair, and the movement allows his legs to spread, just so you can slot between two beefy thighs. They ripple with restrained strength when you run your hands along them, muscle apparent even under the cover of his jeans. 

“You’re tense.” You remark, slowly ironing closer to the bulge at his crotch. 

“Long day.” He responds with a torn exhale.

The unfurling of his zipper puts an end to the short conversation. You ruck his pants to his pelvis, then scoop his cock out from behind his boxers. It’s semi-hard, heavy in your clutch, pulsing as though it aches. You slip to the base – nested in a bush of wild, auburn hair – and tug it until he swells to become velvet-covered iron. He thickens, brims with arousal, head darkening to the colour of a day-old bruise. 

It’s when it’s like this– 

When you’re on your knees, or back, or stomach, his flesh smelting your insides like you’re metal over brimstone. Your lips wrap around him – stretching taut at cracked corners, your tongue rolling over his frenulum. You will yourself to sink further, to let him touch your tonsils and the enveloping heat there. Your breath hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in, coating his length with a film of saliva, which aids you when you pull back up. Still, he’s too big for you to fully take, so you wrap what you can’t reach and twist it in tandem to your bobbing head. 

Spittle pools at your lip, globbing out to splatter on his boxers. You can’t control the gags his girth elicit. It doesn’t matter. His large hand cups your temple, guiding you lower. You hollow your cheeks to accommodate the bludgeoning rhythm of his cock, choking on the smell of sweat and denim. He’s heady, potent with brine.  Blurring heat corners your eyes, tears cropping at the sheer indulgence of it all. You don’t know whether he notices as they slip down your cheeks, whether he goes harder because of them. 

It’s in these perennial moments, pearlescent prespend seeping down his shaft – a beautiful compliment to his skin – where you’re simultaneously selfish and selfless in a world that is kind to neither. That he feels more alive than ever. Pumping, pounding, like the fibrous sinew of a still-beating heart.

He’s not gentle as he takes. You don’t discourage it. 

(You believe he’s forgotten how to be. There’s a certain severance you have to make to survive; a detachment from humanity. You don’t doubt he was a good man, once. You hear it in his cadence, that southern twinge that speaks to days of gentleman-like civility past. It’s excusable. You understand. You can’t complain of the strain he puts on your throat. You too have lost your touch. 

But it cannot reduce the red on your ledgers. Gore binds the very books together.)

Cum covers your palette when he spurts his end – a hot, febrile concoction; the ocean lapping up on a beached log, like sand in every crevice. He holds your head down until you swallow, knees spasming against hardwood floors.

You splutter for air when you finally draw away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Joel shifts forward, picking an unknown material off the table above your head. You can’t discern what it is – not until he brings it down to your chin. 

Your washcloth. Threadbare and thinning still. 

He doesn’t let you speak as he helps you clean the evidence of his sin.

Lilies for restored innocence. Carnations for pure love. 

You cycle through your mental index of funeral arrangements as carmine ichor spills from your front. 

The operation hadn’t gone according to plan. 

Joel said it’d be a quick pillage of a newly empty warehouse; an apparent treasure trove for supplies, left abandoned after a firefly attack drove FEDRA security off its perimeters. Lined wall to wall in crates of salvaged items; he’d heard wind of it through a contact in the agency – some son of a bitch by the name of Liam, trying to pay off a withstanding debt. Easy gains, he’d smiled, you can take your pick of the loot.

The knife lodged in your gut begs to differ. 

(You posit another smuggling ring got dealt the same deal. They had come in behind you. Jumped fast, fought dirty – took all the ammo and cigarettes they could carry and left you for dead. Naturally.)

Where the fuck is he?

Vignette shadows edge your vision, throwing everything off kilter. You can hardly process every aspect at once: the pulsing wound, the surge of blood. Nausea encroaches on the site, convulsing in around the jagged blade, cramming your intestines for space. It blazes a fiery path up to your lungs, where your breaths escape in short, shallow increments. Oxygen dwindles. You’d skipped breakfast. Still, you heave as fluorescent lights blink in and out of existence above you. 

The concrete floor is unforgiving. 

Gladioli, perhaps. For someone who’s proven their strength. Tears glue your lashes shut, and you imagine being buried out in a field of their long stems. Swathed in peach, pink, babydoll colours untainted by grime. You wonder if Joel knows a place. 

(You never asked for his favourite flower.) 

The stab festers, broiling over with an impassioned heat. It must be hell overturning your system, bubbling up in pus, swaying you from making your peace. All those lives you took. The thorns you’d clipped. Your head is lifted onto a twitching lap. It’s soaked in carnage and smells like him.

Thank god. Felt like it was gonna explode.

“B-Bout– nghn, time.” You cough. You’re able to discern his silhouette through the fog, cloudburst heavy on your lids. It’s sticky, disorienting.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me now. We’ll get t-this fixed. We’ll get this fixed, okay?” He chokes, wrestling with a roll of something. “I gotta take the knife out, baby. It’ll hurt. It–” 

“It–It’s okay.”

“No, no. Up, open your eyes, c’mon.” 

You were hired to supply a wedding with its finery, back when you first opened shop. It was the gig that promised to put you on the map, insisted upon by a childhood friend who had the money to blow on imports from Holland. You’d spent days fine tuning the arrangements – fussing with leaves, waxing petals, trimming roots. Your cuticles were red, raw by the end.

The next week, all the flowers had wilted. The paraffin you used was the wrong type.

Joel’s voice cracks like a spoiled floret. You burn at the knowledge that it’s your fault. 

He doesn’t give you the option to grieve it, twisting the blade out of your abdomen. You lurch forward, thrashing with a warbled scream. Borderline animalistic, the pain tears through you with harrowing intensity. 

His hand smooths your hair back in the meanwhile, brushing across your sweaty forehead, winding between the tresses. You shudder under a wave of hypoxia and come to a sobering revelation. 

It feels nice.

Something shifts. 

He was quiet before. A man of very few words; upon your first meeting – a partnered smuggle run, arranged via Tess – you recall tallying the hours until he spoke. It hit three, prior to your suggestion of something so bewilderingly stupid he just had to pitch in his discontent. You’d smirked it off. It hadn’t been personal. 

(Possibly the one insight that allowed you to continue working with him.) 

But since your close call, he’s funnelled down to occupy a fraction of his previous presence. You suspect it has everything to do with how you bled out in his arms.

He leaves and returns during your small bouts of restless sleep. You don’t hear from him, or see of him – aside from the rare occurrences when your days intersect; when he comes back, tarnished and tired, to crash on the couch before his next job. You would haul him to bed if you could, yet your gut throbs in barely-healed rage with every exertive move. So, you spend your limited time with him as you’ve grown used to doing – watching.

His nightmares have gotten worse. 

You used to experience them in pyretic transitions, suspended in a state of hypnagogia, your consciousness bleary and flickering like old film set ablaze. You’d feel his tremors, could hear his whispered pleads filter in on your own dreams. But they existed as secondary – something to be acknowledged in that post-apocalyptic, apathetic way. I get ‘em too, bud. He never mentioned them, so you wouldn’t ask. 

To see him unravel is another thing entirely. 

Like corduroy twill being picked apart at the seams. A material made to be durable, to tough out years of erosion. He quivers, forearms contracting over his chest, his brows creasing. Something about Sarah as his hands rub together, clawing at his palms. 

You wind your limbs around your middle. It’s frightening, you realise. You’ve come to know this man in the snarled face of adversity – he’s never so much as stuttered, carved in resilient rock. But it had to have come from somewhere, and if not vomit, if not viscera, if not fungi–

Whatever it is that torments him, you pour a glass of water and wait for him to wake. 

He doesn’t look at you when he does. You don’t blame him; you’re practically pellucid, yellowing undertones an effect of the lesion that marks your stomach. The only thing you’d gotten out of the warehouse were medical supplies in abundance. You credit only them with your continued survival. 

“I’m going back.” Joel says, tapping his index on the glass. You blink, nonplussed at the sudden noise. You recover in half the time, though, and open your mouth to protest. “We left some valuable shit behind.” He interrupts.

“You can’t go alone.” 

“You’re staying behind.” 

“I’m fine,” You start, then wince with the movement.

He stares at you, incredulous. The silence punctuates his point. 

“Tess has a few men holding it down. It should be simple.” And with how he grits it, the words hissed through clenched teeth, it’s evident he means it as an end to the discussion. But doubt maturates, wheezing in the way punctured lungs do, sore under the pierce of cracked ribs. Tension swells from the afflicted site. You can’t control the disillusion in your tone. 

“That’s what you said last time.” 

Nothing erupts. 

Not how you expected it to, anyway. It takes a moment for the blame to meet him, to find its honest meaning. In that time, it hangs between you, echoing, precariously balanced on seething eye contact. Then, his gaze flickers down to your abdomen. 

“I’m not the idiot who almost got herself killed.” 

It carries all the malice you wished for, and more. 

(Whatever tenderness he had left must have bled out with you on that floor.)

He doesn’t die. But then again, that wasn’t what you were concerned about. 

Joel makes his first appearance three days later. The return is sporadic, and divided upon many, each time with a small bag of supplies he stuffs underneath the floorboard. The sacking was successful, then– 

(He throws a bottle of antibiotics onto the kitchen counter, his jerking shoulder a rough indication that it’s meant for your injury. But when his face catches the light, you’re thrown with the inkling that he might need them more than you.)

–though, nothing is without its faults. 

Eggplant purple and violent red blend in a mottled contusion across his cheekbone, painted down to his neck – beyond his collar – hidden to your wandering gape. You’re no stranger to bruises; the world collapsed in on humanity a good twelve years ago, and burst capillaries have become a constant under the macerating weight. Yet it’s another layer stripped, a sheet of titanium snatched off the manifold complexity that is him. You’d never seen the evidence of his pain so clearly illustrated atop his skin. 

“Joel–”

“Leave it.” He snaps. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, pushing yourself up to sit by the sink. It’s futile to beckon him over, so you wait his pacing out by dousing a rag in leftover alcohol. 

“Was there anything even left?” You accuse. He unzips a duffel bag atop the dining room table, ruffling through a layer of bandaids. 

“Yes. The rations’ll last us two months, if we sell to the right people.” 

“Thrilling.” 

Your sarcasm lingers until he finally finds what he’s looking for, pulling out a jar of ground coffee from behind a box of detachable blades. When he walks over to fetch a mug, you grab him by the wrist and wrench him closer. 

(You wouldn’t have been able to, had he not let you. You know his strength trumps yours.) 

When you touch the makeshift wipe to his face, he doesn’t so much as flinch. 

“What did this?” The question stretches, losing its structural integrity under your elemental concern. This is all novel territory – you don’t make a habit of licking another’s wounds clean. But his desperate pleas hold possession over you; the restrained distress, the wavering timbre. Stay with me now. We’ll get this fixed. 

“Gun.” 

Your hand falters over his jaw. 

“Butt end.” He adds. “FEDRA was on the scene.” 

“Right. Do I even have to say it?” You whisper. ‘Told you so’ titters on the tip of your tongue.

“No.” He concedes.

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, locked in a begrudging dance that pulls you off your feet. Winter has nearly melted to its end, now; the howling gale tapering to a draft that crawls beneath window sills. Somehow still, it penetrates you, even colder than before. 

(Joel crackles like a fed furnace, biting at the firm coals of your desire. You unconsciously veer closer, wiggling your hips until your legs cage his. He holds you in place with one large hand, the other gliding beneath the hem of your jeans.) 

“You’re hurt–” 

“So are you.” He settles. His fingers press up against the plush of your cunt, finding that electric centre. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and likewise, not enough; a defibrillator to your core, one that cannot revive you. 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, finding purchase in his broad build. It does nothing dampen the needy moan you make when he pushes your panties to the side, toying with your swollen folds. He spots you, clenching around nothing, soaking the calloused pads of his thumb. It takes place on your clit, then, index and middle inching towards your hole to plug you full.

“Needy fucking thing.” He groans, shoving his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss. Far from it. He doesn’t try to match the pace of your gaping surrendering, preferring to devour you instead. You pant up into his mouth, gyrating with the back and forth of his pumping digits. 

He claws out in you your tender-most spots. 

(But that’s just it, isn’t it?

He might not be gentle, in the worn definition of the word. The touch that peels petals, reverent, finding delicacy in the finest bits of creation; gold leaf and concentrated fragrance. What you spent so long holding onto – the beauty that’s become obsolete in a post-fungal land.  

But you cannot kid yourself. 

He’s raw, uninhibited. You’ve seen it – that supplantation of humanity, a measure to rise above the monsters that hunt you. A sore bundle of mortality and death, left unhealed, yet just as capable of flaring when you reach out towards it.  

Like stepping up when you buckle under the horror of your own reality. Wiping your chin of filth. Shaking with you, fading out on his lap, his best efforts centred in on your mutilated centre. The nightmares that plague him, seeking out whatever weakness lies dormant. 

If you had to choose, you’d say he favours sunflowers.)

“Joel,” You whine, sinking your face in his neck. 

“That’s it… C’mon, baby. Cum for me.” 

That night, he pulls something out of his bag, tucking it in your pocket as he joins you in bed.

“Hm?” Murmuring, you reach to wrap your hand around his. The fabric in his grasp is thick, knitted. 

Gloves.

“Noticed you’ve been cold.”

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[residenthughes]

starting afresh

pairing: leon kennedy x gender neutral reader

word count: 1.3K

tags/warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, re4r leon with re2r haircut/hairstyle

summary: it's been six years since the raccoon city incident. some things change, and some things stay the same (where re4r leon cuts his hair as short as it was in re2r for the first time)

notes: whoever made the mod(s) for leon to have his re2r hairstyle in re4r, no words. just take my money. I'm begging. but if y'all have seen those screenshots/played with the mod yourself, you just know how good he looks with his hair short :((( makes me so soft! hehe

feel like i kind of stepped up my dialogue here, thanks to all the fics I've been reading as of lately 😈 couldn't be more thankful, haha! hope y'all enjoy this and please feel free to let me know your thoughts on this!

“What do you think?”

You’re at a loss for words. Jaw slack and eyes wide. You’re overreacting, you know you are but this quite literally came out of nowhere. It was an uneventful, slow Sunday. As per yours and Leon’s routine, the leisurely day was spent draped in a citrus scented duvet and immersing yourselves in cosy cuddles to recharge for the long week ahead. It was only when your lips ghosted over the rosewood marks of love peppered across the expanse of Leon’s clavicle, hands feverish and wandering that your actions ceased upon the growl of your stomach.

Leon can only laugh, kissing away the flush of your cheeks as he mumbles against your forehead. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s make some food.”

You pout, wanting to beg for five more minutes (like you hadn’t before), bones aching for the pamper the cloudlike bed provides, but Leon’s already leaving you, arms extending up to the ceiling as he stretches. The sliver of afternoon light peeking through the curtains basks his toned body in all kinds of flattering light, muscles expanding and contracting. 

Leon turns to look at you, lips plump with love as the duvet drapes your body like some fine ballroom gown. He swears his heart beats out of his chest. There really is no one as beautiful as you. 

“Race you to the kitchen?” A teasing eyebrow is raised and even though Leon sets himself in motion to sprint, you don’t budge. Not even an inch. 

He deflates, eyes rolling as he pads over to your side of the bed.

“Don’t wanna,” you mumble as you attempt to bury yourself into the bed, cocooning yourself with the dark shadow grey duvet. “Too lazy.”

Leon sighs. “I’ll give you a piggyback ride?”

Your attention is grabbed. You remove the duvet from your face, sly smirk positioning itself amongst your features.

“I’m listening.”

You cupping behind your ear is what does it for Leon. Dramatic as always.

A huff of amusement sounds from him. Considering the extent as to which the man spoils you rotten, you should be babbling for him to recant his offer, carrying yourself to the kitchen before you two move in a synchronised dance practised all the years you’ve been together as you make food. But Leon’s already perched up on your side of the bed, back towards you with his hands behind him.

“Of course you are,” he beckons for you with the flutter of his fingers, an easy smile sent your way over his shoulder. “Now, hop on before your stomach eats itself.”

You follow his lead, as you always do. Hooking your legs around his waist and circling your arms loosely around his neck. You don’t forget to show your appreciation, peppering his nape with kisses that have laughter pouring out of Leon like honey. Once you’re in the kitchen of your shared apartment, Leon sets you down on the cold countertop with the squeeze of your thighs and opens the fridge.

“Shit,” you crane your neck to look into the fridge too. Much like your stomach, it’s pretty empty. “Need to head to the store if we want something edible for dinner.”

“Is there anything for now at least?” You really can’t be arsed to wait to go get some groceries, make a meal and then eat.

“Kind of, but we definitely need to go shopping after this.” Leon states as he brings out the remnants of the fridge. You go to grab the spices from the cabinet and the last of the eggs and stare at your ingredients.

“Let’s get this party started.” 

You groan. 

Leon can be so lame sometimes. Yet so lovable all the time.

-

Once the appetising brunch made with nothing but the utmost of love settles in your stomach, you reluctantly begin to egg yourself on to completing the rest of your weekend’s work and preparing for your Monday back at the office. Blue light glasses perched against the bridge of your nose, you gnaw at the end of your pencil, legs crossed in the way Leon always jokes in the shape of a pretzel. You’ve left quite a bit of work for yourself to complete tonight, so you don’t see yourself leaving your workspace anytime soon.

Leon understands, he always does. Kisses your forehead delicately and murmurs something about getting some stuff from the grocery store for dinner. He’s out the door before you can get a word in. You now understand why he left in such a hurry, understand why he took longer than usual. 

Before you, your longtime partner, with long dirt blond locks that framed the angles of his cheekbones, sports a new hairstyle. Or should you say old. You haven’t seen him like this since you first started dating - bashful young adults about to embark on their journey into adulthood, sweaty palms linked and heart beats in sync. Ever since the ruinous events of Raccoon City, you noticed that with all the scars and burdens Leon carries with him that he never once looked the same. Face gaunt and eyes sunken in. It took a long while before life returned to his eyes. And though you were beyond ecstatic that Leon was seemingly getting better, you couldn’t help but take note of his hair. He never cut it like before. Never. 

Opting for longer strands of his gorgeous hair, Leon always gave a chuckle and said, “thought you always wanted me to grow my hair out,” whenever you asked. It was sweet of him to do so, sweet of him to say, but you and him both knew that wasn’t entirely true. However, you never pried - that was not in your nature, and certainly not evident in all the years you’ve been with Leon. So, you didn’t ask again and when the time came that Leon’s huffs of annoyance filled your ears as he struggled with keeping the strands out of his face, he departed with a smile and cut a mere two inches off his almost shoulder length hair. It remained that way for the next six years.

Now, having grown into his rugged features, the short hair length from all those years ago conjures something else in you. It feels nostalgic but new -  feels right and looks that way too. But more than anything, you feel proud. Proud of Leon and all that he is, all that he’s become despite everything.

“Barber went a bit crazy, didn’t he?”

Oh, bless him. He’s so awkward, so endearing it hurts. Pools of blue avert your gaze, the floor apparently more interesting, fingertip scratching the surface of his cheeks that burn with ruby red. This is a big moment for Leon, you think, but you know better than anyone that he doesn’t want it to be. Just wants your reassurance and all the calmness that comes with it.

Your hands against Leon’s cheeks shift his eyes to yours, getting an eyeful of the absolute fondness that swims in your eyes. He simply drowns in it - knows the glimmer in your eyes signifies the pride that swells in your chest, the tenderness of your touch loving and reassuring. He did well, has always done so well. Deserves his flowers and the whole damn garden. 

“Maybe,” you giggle and your joy is contagious. Smiling with you, Leon feels you twiddle the strands of his hair between your fingers. Slow and gentle - like your love is. It’s so sweet. “But, I’m not mad at it. Not one bit.”

In all the time you’ve been with Leon, there hasn’t been any more than a handful of times you can recall where he willingly leaned on you for support. Not because you lacked the capacity to do so, but because the solitary nature and secrecy of his job kept him from doing so. Facing his nightmares as much as he could by himself, meeting his new nightmares on missions by himself - everything by himself. But in moments like these, where the significance of his trauma can be lost in translation, he surrenders himself to you. Altogether. Unabashed and brave. He couldn’t be more dashing than he is right now, all versions of himself served to you on a silver platter. 

You fall in love all over again.

#resident evil 4 #resident evil 4 remake #resident evil 4 fanfic #resident evil fanfic #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy imagine #re4r #re4r leon #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil fluff #leon s kennedy imagine #my fics

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Restrained (Hunter x f!reader drabble)

Summary: Hunter finds himself tied up and at your mercy.

Warnings: fully filth y'all so minors begone; bondage, restraints, blindfolding, sensory play, oral (f receiving)

Word Count: 478

A/N: shout out to Free for the impromptu mini-event. enjoy, babes

You'll never tire of seeing him like this.

The usually composed and stoic facade of the sergeant crumbles at your touch in an instant. His chest heaves with labored breaths, equal parts exertion and exhilaration, his toned arms bulging where he strains against the cuffs binding him to the bed. Ghosting your fingertips delicately up his thigh, tracing the skeletal tattoo, you delight in the deep, rumbling groan the action earns you.

"P-Please, mesh’la," he grits out, "don't be a tease."

"Oh but it's so much more fun when I am," you purr. To punctuate your point, you rake your nails down his flexed abs. The muscles jerk and twitch under your touch, and he squirms, whining.

You've been here before, Hunter restrained and you in charge, but this is the first time he's been willing to remove another facet of control. His bandana sits wrapped like a pretty bow around his eyes. Every new touch, every new sensation, makes him flinch first and moan second. You know from experience how little vision the makeshift blindfold allows; his other senses are working overtime, oversensitive.

Flattening your hands, you smooth over his hips. You shift on the bed until your mouth hovers above his leaking cock. You exhale a warm puff of breath, then flick your tongue out, catching a drop of pre-cum where it beads at the tip.

Hunter's hips jerk and the cuffs snap taut. "K-Kriff, yes."

Letting out a breathy laugh, you repeat the action, earning another stutter of hips up toward your face, and a heady whine.

"You're being so good for me," you murmur, lips barely skimming the velvet sponge of his tip.

"A-Always," he pants, "always for you, mesh’la."

You hum. "I think you deserve a reward."

Above you, he nods his head frantically, another whine tumbling from his lips. You pause to study him for a moment, relishing in the electric feel of control in your core; his skin is dewed with a fine sheen of sweat, a flush high on his cheeks, his lips parted and so fucking pink. A gush of arousal slicks your already sopping folds.

In that moment, you decide his reward.

"Mesh’la, what--"

Confused words are cut off as you nimbly clamber up his body and cant your hips down toward his wet and waiting mouth. He moans like a kriffing holoporn star and cranes his neck to kiss your cunt, his tongue licking a stripe up your folds and circling your clit. With a sigh, you settle your knees further out and lower to properly sit on his face.

"Fuck, thank you," he mumbles into you, and then the only sounds from him are feral groans and needy whines as he suckles, licks, and worships you to orgasm, the first of many for you both tonight.

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#hunter x reader #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #rhiwrites #x reader #clone x reader #hunter x fem!reader

[heavenhealy]

genre: smut w a side of angst, afab!reader, boyfriends best friend!au

word count: 4.3k

summary: it’s wrong, you both know it, but how are you supposed to resist the pull of his hands, the ticklish strands of his hair on your neck, the whispered promises to fuck you better than his best friend can?

warnings: infidelity, alcohol consumption, swearing, unprotected sex, fingering (f receiving), oral (m receiving), degradation and praise, allusions to pain kink, spit, matty is a tease, marking, coming inside, slight overstimulation, dom!matty x sub!reader, public play (teasing but no sex), hair pulling, lemme know if I missed anything 

a/n: hiiiii, this is my first matty fic but def not my first fic, so I hope y'all like it! I have been harboring so much brain rot for him lately so I just wanted to share it with a likeminded audience. I purposely left readers boyfriend unnamed bc I honestly couldn’t be bothered, considering hes not thatttt important, but y'all are free to think of him as anyone. That being said, please do not go below the cut if you are 1) under 18 or 2) uncomfortable with the content. This is your final warning :)

ps. I didn’t edit or proofread so there may be typos!

The greasy bowl of popcorn has long been empty, but only now as the credits roll are you able to slip out from the weight of your boyfriends’ dozing frame to return it to the kitchen. You dump the bowl in the sink where it clatters against the rest of your unwashed dishes and you sigh. The last thing you want to do right now is wash dishes, but you turn the tap to warm and squat down to find the drying rack under the sink. 

Footsteps creak the wooden floor behind you, accompanied by a wave of cigarette scented air. Matty. Goosebumps rise along the back of your neck as you rise. Your heart hammers at an alarming rate and you try your best to act exceedingly normal even as he approaches you. Just as you drip some dish soap into the filling sink, his hands settle on your hips. You can feel the warmth of his palms and the calloused fingertips through the thin fabric of the t-shirt you've probably had since your freshman year of college. The tap continues to run, gushing water loudly into the sink basin. Despite the steam rising from the hot water you shiver as he presses his lean body into your back. A traitorous hand sneaks up to clear your hair away from the nape of your neck and your mind whirs to remember the last time you had felt quite so electric. A dark, bouncy curl strays across your ear so quickly you almost think you’re imagining it. 

“Lame ass boyfriend you’ve got out there, love.” His voice is silky, tinged with a hint of sleepiness that somehow only makes him more attractive. You can picture the way his mouth curves into a self satisfied smile as you automatically nod. It feels bad to admit, but you truly had been bored by your boyfriend lately. The spark between you had died long ago but you were simply afraid to admit it. 

But Matty certainly wasn’t. “Not even a quarter past 10 and he’s already asleep.” His breath ghosts into your ear, a whisper meant just for you even though you knew no one would catch you. The thrill makes you needy, keening against his body as he reaches around to turn off the tap. A sudden, deafening silence rushes in, and the apartment is so still you’re afraid that time has actually stopped. 

“He had a long day,” you amend as Matty’s teeth catch the shell of your ear, tugging playfully.

“Jesus, love. I had a long day too, and I’d still stay up all night if you asked me to.” You blush and resist the urge to squeeze your thighs together at his words. “Such a pretty thing shouldn’t have to go to waste.” Your head lolls against his shoulder and he knows he has you. His aura intoxicates you and you can’t help but think of all the time he existed in your peripherals: first as the eccentric best friend of the guy you just started talking to, then your boyfriend’s best friend and roommate, and then after one night where your boyfriend was away, your dirtiest little secret. 

A well-worked hand cups your breast through your shirt. Your nipple pebbles immediately at his touch and he laughs the snarky little laugh you would usually roll your eyes at. He knows, you both know, he could reach underneath the shirt and easily have his way with you, pinning you against his frame as his cock hardens and tweaking your nipples until you’re wailing. 

You allow your brain to run away with the fantasy; your boyfriend waking up to the sounds of your pleasure, dazed and confused until he stumbles into the kitchen to see Matty licking between your thighs like a man starved. 

But Matty likes the game. He takes a sick pleasure in the cat and mouse, in teasing you while you could get caught. He loves the deep blush that overtakes your face when he sends you a risky text or makes a point to clench his jaw when you catch his eye. 

He loves that whenever the three of you hang out, you often excuse yourself to the bathroom and send him photo evidence of the mess of slick he caused in your underwear. 

He rolls his hips against you, sure to press his cock firmly into the flesh of your ass. The counter underneath your fingers is your saving grace as he builds a torturous rhythm, nipping and pulling at your ear in a way that has no right to be so sexy. Every time a piece of his hair brushes against your neck you feel as if you’ve gone insane; like someone has attached all of your neurons to a jumper cable. A heady moan escapes your mouth before you can stop it, and Matty rewards you with an indulgent groan of his own. The push of his hips is intoxicating, and the persistent arousal gathering in your lower stomach makes you dizzy. With your eyes closed and his mouth at your neck, it’s easy to pretend that this is simply your life; that Matty is the one you met first, the boyfriend you share a bed and a history with, and that this little kitchen tryst is a sexy story you’ll remember when you miss him and not under struck with guilt. 

“Y/N?” It’s far away, the call of your name, but it distinctly belongs to your boyfriend. Ice fills your veins and you still, overly aware of the tight grip Matty keeps on you even as you try to wiggle away from him and reply. As much as you hate to admit it, you’re happy he doesn’t relinquish you so easily. 

“Y-yeah?” You call back, hoping your boyfriend chalks the shake in your voice up to anything other than his best friend’s hips grinding slowly against you. The couch creaks tellingly as he gets up, and your throat closes up in fear. You can hear his slow descent toward the kitchen, his sleepy shuffle giving Matty ample time to play around with you, and he does just that. His hand drops from your breast and his hips still, but his mouth stays sinfully close to your ear. 

“Good night, love. Come find me if you need someone to fuck you better.” Before your mind can even fully wrap around his statement he disappears, presumably to his bedroom. The absence of his body leaves you cold and frustrated, but the presence of your boyfriend forces you to pretend you’re okay. 

He looks rumpled and sleepy when he finds you in the kitchen, frowning at the time on the stove and the sink full of bubbles. 

“C’mon, dishes can wait until the morning.” He gives you an easy smile, one that would have made you giddy to kiss him a few months ago. Now you just nod and skirt away from his approaching figure, acutely aware of the fact that you would smell just like Matty if he got too close. 

“Go-go lay down, I need to use the bathroom first!” The excuse sounds lame even to your own ears, but he doesn't seem to have the energy to argue as he slips down the hallway, leaving you to purge the evidence before crawling into bed.

----

The restaurant was way fancier than you were expecting it to be, and even though you had pulled on a mid-length sleek black dress with pearled straps you felt out of place. The open planned room was bustling with diners and servers; but most of the noise comes from the exposed kitchen. You can see the slew of chefs as they work and the clashing of pots and pans makes it almost impossible to hear your boyfriend. Or Matty.

He wasn’t supposed to come, to be honest. The night was meant to be a celebration for just you and your boyfriend, who had recently wrapped up a project for a huge client. It’d been a long time since the two of you went to a fancy restaurant, and you had honestly been excited to get dressed up and spend the night with him. When you showed up to his apartment, you were stunned to see Matty, sprawled across the couch in his infinite glory, wearing a fancy black suit. 

“W-what?” You stuttered at the way his eyes pierced you, his hand resting casually on his stomach. 

“’M coming with you guys. Can’t let my best mate go on a celebratory dinner without me paying for some drinks, can I?” He flashes you a dazzling smile that disarms you just enough you can’t find it in you to be upset. 

So now you’re a party of three at the bustling restaurant, and Matty has already ordered a fancy bottle of wine for the table. You hate to admit just how much of your attention he’s stolen already, sitting so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating off of his thigh onto your own. Despite the interesting calamity of the kitchen and the murmurs of slightly-shouted conversations, all you can focus on is the curve of Matty’s lips, the way his eyes shimmer in the low-light. Your boyfriend seems more than happy to idly enjoy the scenery, pointing out the chefs and their specific techniques to you despite your waning interest. The wine goes down easy, and you pour yourself a second glass as Matty starts another inane conversation about whatever dish is getting pumped out of the open kitchen. 

The fuzzy feeling from the alcohol is welcoming, enveloping you in a warmth that helps distract you from the press of Matty’s thigh against your own. You smile gratefully at the waiter who brings you a pasta dish and dig in, thankful for the distraction. You’re careful not to move an inch, so you know it’s Matty who’s pushing further into your side, and you’re sure that the night is going sideways when you feel his pinky finger trace along the top of your thigh. You swallow hard, trying your best not to shudder at his touch. His wastes no time in grasping the meat of your thigh under his palm, squeezing just enough that a spark of pain morphs to pleasure. 

“Matty.” You hope there’s venom in your voice as you warn him against his fingers creeping closer to the inside of your thigh. He just smiles in your peripheral before taking a bite of his own food, disguising the movement of his hand underneath the table skillfully. Arousal runs through you, and you feel your panties soak as a long finger skims across the material. Under anyone but Matty’s touch you would be embarrassed at how fast you became a wreck, but the easy pleasure of his fingers dancing over your clit sends you into happy bliss. 

Matty’s fingers slow and simply press against you, building an internal pleasure that burns into your stomach. You let out a heavy breath and drain your glass of wine in one gulp. Matty laughs, and your boyfriend raises an eyebrow at your behavior. “Maybe you should pour her some more? Don’ let it go to waste.” Matty nods toward the bottle inches from your boyfriends plate. You see him hesitate, but he relents and grasps it, leaning forward to pour you a new glass. There’s a moment of anxiety as his point of view shifts and Matty makes no attempt to move his hand away from your center. In fact, his fingers stir back to life as soon as your boyfriend leans slightly forward to pour you a new glass. Matty slips his fingers under your panties as soon as your boyfriend is back in his seat. His fingers slip against your bare pussy and you close your thighs around his hand. 

“T-thanks,” you stutter, avoiding picking up the glass as a tremor wracks you. Matty takes another casual bite of his pasta and puts on his best confused face. His eyebrows furrow as he fakes a concerned look over you. 

“You aren’t gonna have any? Thought you liked it?” A dexterous finger circles your clit mind numbingly slowly. You glare at him and take another drink. Now that you’re well on the way to being drunk, every single sensation is heightened. A dark pit of arousal is consuming you and the desire to sink your teeth into the flesh of his neck is overwhelming despite the company. Desire makes you bold as you bat your eyes at Matty, biting into the flesh of your lip. 

“I love it.” You cant your hips forward into his hand, sure to emphasize just how wet he had gotten you. It’s debauched, and guilt begins to creep up the back of your neck, but Matty growls under his breath and pushes a finger inside of your walls and it melts away. 

Your boyfriend is blissfully unaware of the mess between your legs all night. He asks no questions about the way your face flushes (easily excused by the wine), the way Matty only eats his courses with one hand (he’s always doing some new eccentric shit), or the way neither of you are able to carry on a conversation for more than a few seconds (the restaurant is quite loud). 

----

The weather is ridiculously hot, and of course it’s the one day of the year you decide to clean and rearrange your apartment. To be fair, you had begun the process of emptying out old clothes and housewares at the beginning of the week, and you had skillfully ignored moving your big pieces of furniture up until today. Your apartment is hot despite the fans you’ve pulled out of storage, and the heavy wooden bed frame you had insisted on buying will not budge. No matter how hard you pushed or pulled on the frame, it stays stubbornly in place. So you call your boyfriend. 

And he can’t come, called into work on account of a picky client who demanded someone fix his renderings today. But Matty is miraculously free; and he’s on his way as soon as you text him. 

And of course, he looks sinful. A plain white t-shirt with a scoop neck affords a wonderful view of his collarbones and sun kissed skin. The urge to pull his stupid smirk into a kiss overtakes you, so for once you listen to the yearning and pull him against you. Matty breathes a chuckle against your lips before indulging you. His tongue slips easily into your mouth and you relish in pressing against the hard planes of his body. His chest rumbles in appreciation when he takes a handful of your ass, fingers hooking down dangerously close to your pussy. You feel alight, floating inside of an undefinable cloud of pleasure as he consumes you. 

You relish in the way his chest heaves with exertion once you part. “Need help moving a bed?” He wipes at his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Sounds like a shitty chat up line to me.” 

A frustrated groan passes your lips, and you ignore the bait he’s clearly dangling in front of you in favor of soaking up air from a fan. Between the heat of the day and the fire of arousal in your stomach, it’s needed. 

“Very funny. Now can you please help me?” You don’t wait for his answer as you walk to your bedroom. His socked footsteps quickly follow your own, and in seconds you’re both standing at the foot of your bed. It’s oddly domestic, with the rumpled blankets gathered at the foot and the delicate floral sheets you  got on a discount. 

“Cute,” Matty comments as he plops himself fully onto the bed, legs sprawled wide and inviting. You try to ignore the bulge tenting his sweatpants and put on a brave face. 

“I need you to help me move it, not lay on it.” You whine, reluctantly shuffling within his reach. Matty catches you easily around the waist and it takes no time for you to collapse into his embrace. He nuzzles into your neck and it’s startling how nicely he fits around you. 

Never one to delay, Matty licks a line of heat down your neck and you lose the last bit of your control. “You smell so good.” The simple sentiment sends liquid heat to your pussy. A sharp nip to your neck makes you squirm and you know that you’ll have a hickey to conceal in the morning. 

His breath puffs against your neck, and you have the urge to turn and face him, tired of looking at the wall instead of his face. As your hips shift he groans, pressing his hips forward until you can feel the twitch of his cock against you. 

“Something you need?” You know the innocent game drives him crazy but you use it anyway and he stalls, assessing the situation with that astonishing wit. The sharp tug of your hair brings you into a place of happy submission. Matty wraps the tendrils between his fingers and makes sure you aren’t going anywhere before cocking your head until you’re stuck staring at him. The chocolate brown of his eyes is nearly eaten up by lust. This close, you can smell the intoxicating mix of his woody cologne and the beginnings of sweat.

“Please,” the word leaves you before you can even guess at what you’re asking for. Luckily Matty has learned to read your body like his favorite guitar. A delicate, fluttering kiss to your nose is just enough to disarm you as he uses the corded strength of his arms to guide you down his chest until you’re faced with the tantalizing push of his cock against his sweatpants. His fingers untangle from your hair but don’t leave, just allowing you the room to work. Something clicks in your mind and the only thing you care about is getting him off- feeling the familiar weight of his cock in your mouth, or the way his fingernails leave untraceable evidence of your tryst on your scalp.

You’re only half surprised to find he has no underwear on but it only makes your job easier. As soon as your tongue makes contact with his cock he’s moaning, guiding your hair into a ponytail at the back of your head and controlling your pace. Spit leaks from the corners of your lips as you finally engulf the head of his cock, but the mess only sends both of you further into oblivion. 

“Fuck, you’re so good at taking my cock.” His voice drips with arousal and you squirm, bucking your hips against the bed as you continue to swallow him down. Matty head no problem taking the lead, pushing you down until your throat spasms. Eyes fluttering, you try your best to make eye contact with Matty as you wiggle your tongue along the throbbing vein. 

“Pretty girl.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and the melodic noises that spill from his lips only spur you on. 

As his hips twitch and his grip loosens you take it upon yourself to change the pace on him, intent on making him cum. His head tips back into your pillows and his cock twitches violently, the delicious cue to the end goal you’re always going for. 

“C’mon, off now,” Matty tugs at the roots of your hair, erupting pleasure that makes you moan around him listlessly. “Fuck, seriously, baby, ‘m not coming in your mouth.” With surprising restraint he pulls your head away and angles his hips out of your reach. Empty, your eyes water as you pout. Spit decorates your chin and Matty’s eyes glaze over before he wipes it away with his thumb. 

“You dirty little thing. Asked you to stop and you kept on like you couldn’t even hear me.” A telltale current of amusement intertwines with the chastising, and curls of arousal have you nodding stupidly. 

“Cock drunk.” He tuts and shucks his shirt over his head. A shit eating grin splits his face as you remove your own, shucking off your bra shortly after without any preamble. Matty makes an appreciative noise at the sight of your tits and surges forward to push you down against the bed. 

He’s on them near immediately, indulging in the newly revealed flesh. His tongue laves over one nipple as he pulls at the other with deft fingers. Your back bends as his teeth scrape across the mounds of flesh. 

“D-don’t leave a mark,” the idea of your boyfriend seeing the marks he surely didn't leave sends your mind reeling, but Matty just laughs evilly. 

“You seriously think he’s gonna be seein’ these tits?” His gaze hardens at the edges and you’re momentarily stunned. You know he’s right, and you hate how much arousal gushes out of you because of it. “Cause who do you belong to?” He’s challenging you now- he knows that you’re on the same page about the truth of your relationship. 

“Y-you, Matty.” 

He rewards you with a blossoming hickey at the swell of your breast which he instantly soothes with the flat of his tongue. In a rush he works your shorts and underwear off of you, exposing the heat of your pussy to the room. Wetness sticks to your thighs and you’re desperate to have him inside you finally. Matty settles over your lower stomach, tracing his fingers delicately across the skin there as your hips jump wildly. 

“Matty, please just fuck me, I can’t wait-” your words trail into a heady moan as he swipes two fingers down your slit, collecting your wetness with a happy hum. Your mind blanks at the touch that almost fills the empty feeling in your stomach, but you know his cock is the only thing that will satisfy you. 

He curls the fingers across your clit until tears spring into your eyes, and then he sticks them in his mouth. The lewd sound makes you blush, and the sight of his eyes rolling back in satisfaction is one you want to bottle and keep forever. His eyebrows knit together at your taste, and you feel like you might combust. 

“Matty!” You grasp his forearm and use all your remaining strength to pull him back towards you. “Please, please just fuck me already. Seriously, wanna feel you.” You push your bare hips into his own and a dangerous glint lights his eyes.  “Oh, love.” You know he’s relenting when you feel him steady his hand on the base of his cock and slide the head over your clit slowly. “You know how many nights I’ve heard you fuck him?” You shake your head dumbly even though you and your boyfriend had certainly been the butt of jokes the morning after, back when the relationship was new and exciting for you both. Matty’s hips flex forward and he pushes into you slowly. The stretch is pure pleasure, and your nerves set on fire at the intrusion.

“All those times,” his voice shakes as he presses into you, a stray curl ghosting over your forehead. “...you never begged him as hard as you beg for me. Tha’s how I know you really want it. Want me.” Before you know it he’s filling you and huffing praise into your ear. Your whole body shifts as he sets his pace and your nails run over his shoulders, surely leaving reddened marks in their wake. 

“Yeah, wan’ you.” Pleasant fuzziness engulfs your body, the ebb and flow of his hips sending you to a plane of pleasure only Matty can take you to. Two deft fingers swirl around your clit harshly. Your bodies slick with sweat and glide together intoxicatingly, and if human limitations didn't exist, you would stay like this forever; your bodies existing in a perfect tandem. 

“So fuckin’ hot, sweetest little pussy I’ve ever had.” Matty’s rambling makes you dizzy as your orgasm approaches rapidly. You don’t even have to warn him that you’re on the edge for him to know, increasing the movement of his fingers until your vision is spotting with black. Your walls clench tightly around him as you finally come, clawing at the plane of his back and chanting his name.

Matty comes shortly after, the warmth of his release filling your deepest, darkest desire. It’s sickly satisfying to feel his cock twitch and empty inside of you, to hear the deep moans that spill from Matty’s kiss bitten lips as he fills you to the brim. 

Still connected, Matty collapses to the side of you, capturing you in a sweet lilting kiss that nearly makes you dizzier than the orgasm. Your tongue burns with a sentence you know you aren’t allowed to say. Matty’s face morphs as he sees you choke on the words, and he smooths down your mussed hair with a heavy hand. 

“Okay?” He asks, a gentle check-in. 

“Yeah,” your voice is hoarse so you clear your throat and try again. “Yeah, it's just that...we still have to move this stupid bed.” 

As if his brain was on a delay from the sexual exertion, it takes a few seconds before his award winning laugh wracks his body. The bed shudders under him, and you can't help but laugh along with him, dumbstruck with love. You swallow the words again and pat his cheek lovingly. 

“Right, Matthew. Let’s get going. Believe it or not, I didn’t text you just to get you into my bed.” He pouts cutely and sighs with dramatic flair as you untangle yourself from him. 

“If we move the bed, can we...?” His teeth shine as he smiles at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you would think the glimmer in his eyes reflects something like the words you refuse to say. 

#matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy x reader #matty healy angst #matty healy oneshot #matty x reader #the 1975 #the 1975 x reader #matty healy fanfic

[iwantabatlleaxe]

Tips for living alone for the first time

I moved out a year ago and thought it'd be cool to share what I've learned so you don't have to suffer as much :,)

Decide a day to sit down and pay all bills and everyone

Know and accept you won't get your initial budget right, it took me a year

Google is your friend, but people are better.

Especially when looking for cheap markets and places to eat, or safe streets to walk around, people know more than google.

4. Speaking of cheap markets... get those (free) memberships for discounts. But most importantly, dowload and check every supermarket app and search for the cheapest one.

5. When looking for a place to live, try to speak with people who live there and check google maps reviews and your countrys site for custumers complaints.

6. You likely don't need to clean as often as your family told you, but cleaning your place will make you feel better. And you gotta clean the fridge. And hair. So much hair.

7. If you don't have a fridge, just a small cooler, check if the building has a common fridge/kitchen and Don't. Be. Shy to use it please.

I recommend not moving into a place without a fridge if you don't plan on eating out or going to the market every two days.

8. Carry your documents with you, or write them down or make a copy. I recommend not carrying the original since if you lose it/get mugged it's a pain in the ass to get it fixed.

9. Cook as much as you can in one go, but don't overwhelm yourself. Get those washed vegetables and cut onions, do what you need so you don't end up exhausted and crying on the floor... not that I've ever done that myself...

10. It's gonna feel hard at times and that's ok! The freedom is worth it, and after a year I'm really happy with all the progress I've made

11. Avoid pets, especially in a scenario that you're moving around or in a small studio or with financial difficulties (this can change from ppl to ppl etc)

12. Join or make a chat group with everyone in the building, without the sindicate so y'all can be honest about complains and create a single, solid complaint before showing it to the sindicate. (apartment manager? syndic? assignee? idk, whoever fixes things)

That's all I can remember for now, feel free to ad or correct me if you like :)

#moving out #living alone #tips and advice #life tips #moving tips #.

[miloformula123fan]

Could you do fic for James Vowles with wife reader? With her being in the Williams garage, she witnessed Alex and Danny incident at the Japan GP and was so worried about them that she ended up going to James at the pitwall for his comfort. He decided to hug her while calming her down and going to both of the drivers to make sure they're okay. Just something fluff and little angst. Add something if you want to. Thanks!! :)))

what is it with me only getting these fics out like 2-3 weeks after the race, anyway, it's again so short but my mental health is suffering right now, so, and im happy with it the length it is.

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist let me know :)

---

“Come on Logan, show ‘em why you deserved to be in the car last weekend.” 

Logan nodded as he pulled his helmet on and gave a thumbs up and a fist bump to Y/N. It was her first weekend at the grand prix, as she preferred to stay at home, and let James call her to give her an update. But James had been pleading with her to come ‘just once’ and after the disaster weekend they’d had in Australia, she had braved the timezone and flown out for Japan.

She sat down on the folding chairs with the rest of the pit crew, while PR managers and assistants and anyone who liked James, which was 90% of the garage, was trying to persuade her to sit on a more comfortable chair. She shook her head smiling, insisting she was fine as long as she wasn’t in the way, on the folding chair, with the pit crew. 

James shook his head fondly, gazing at his wife as she chatted to Alex’s race engineer, before he slung his headset on and walked out to the pit wall.

Unfortunately the joy in the Williams garage lasted all of about 1 corner. A cheer erupted as they all got through turn 1 okay, but it was yelled too soon.

“As they make their way through AND OFF INTO THE WALL, off into the wall goes the 2 cars, and a big crash into the tire barrier,”

“Yeah, that’s going to be an immediate safety car, a heavy impact for Ricciardo and Albon…”

“Red flag, red flag.”

Y/N could see the anger as the mechanics grew angry, yelling stuff, but it all felt muffled underwater, as the camera cut to a replay of the crash. She sat there, staring as she watched Daniel and Alex’s cars clobber the barriers again.

So much for good luck this weekend. She watched as Daniel hopped out of the car, and she saw that Alex was having a little trouble due to the tyres almost balanced perfectly on his halo.

She heard the other cars filtering into the pits and as the pit crews dash around the cars Y/N escape through the garage and up to the pit wall, where she spotted James chatting to some of the other mechanics. She quickly crossed the pit lane and hopped up to the pitwall.

“Hey darling, what are you doing here?”

Y/N didn’t know what to say to that. What was she doing here? She looked at her husband trying to convey all of her current thoughts through her eyes. Thankfully he seemed to get the message and embraced her in a hug.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, they’re both fine, they’re both okay. The red flag is because the barrier is destroyed and they’ll be here before the end of the red flag, okay? I’m sorry darling, that must have been terrifying to see that crash, especially when you have no information. How about you stay here, I think Alex and Daniel will come from there,” he pointed somewhere, Y/N wasn’t paying attention properly “so they’ll walk past here and you can see that they’re completely safe and sound.”

Y/N nodded at that, and snuggled in further to her husband’s embrace as he asked about tyres for Logan’s restart and discussed new strategy, keeping an eye out for the 2 drivers.

come walking down the pit lane. She careful extracted herself from James’ embrace, he nodded as he saw the 2 drivers arriving.

Y/N ran over and embraced them both in a hug, ignoring the commentators comments of ‘mom’ and ‘awwww’ and she pulled them in close and started rambling

“Oh my god, are you okay, that was a big crash, are you sure you don’t need to go to the medical centre, wait, hang on, what’s the test, uuhhhh, how many fingers am i holding up?”

“2, Y/N, relax, we’re okay.” Daniel put a hand on her shoulder

“Y/N breathe okay, I know that was a big crash and that I think was your first big crash while being here, so I’d imagine it's a little scary, but it’s okay. We’re both okay, Daniel and I in one piece.” Alex pulled her into a hug, before releasing her.

Y/N didn’t trust her voice, just nodding and furiously wiping away at the tears falling down her face.

“C’mon, I’ll get you back to James and then by the time the red flag is over, I’ll be back from media and we can watch the race together, okay?”

Y/N nodded again, smiling more than she was as Alex led her back to James.

“Keep her safe until I get back, yeah boss?”

“Oh come on Alex, you don’t trust me with my own wife?”

---

taglist: @leosxrealm, @tallrock35, @wolf-knights, @janeholt3, @pear-1206

#f1 x reader #miloformula123fan #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #james vowles x reader #james vowles #james vowles fanfic #james vowles fic #james vowles x female reader #james vowles x you #james vowles x y/n

[nonsensical-pixels]

exactly what it says on the tin title! after watching @skittlesplays manually resize hundreds of recolor files on stream (and trying to do it myself...), i decided that the only solution when it comes to editing textures for ts2 was... photoshop! here are 9 photoshop actions geared towards 4t2 conversions, but hey, maybe you could use them for other stuff too 💖

i made these for personal use and have been using them on and off for the last few months, so i suppose you could say they've been sufficiently tested... the actions included aren't final though, i might go back and add a few more as my areas of expertise expand 😅 more info and instructions under the cut, long post warning! 👇🏽

DOWNLOAD: SFS | MF 📄

if you encounter any issues with these actions, please do reach out to me and i'll try my best to help! or if you'd like to add on to them, edit them, etc. in any way, please feel free to 😀

How to Install These Actions

open up photoshop and click on the big 'play' button in the corner. that's the actions tab. then click on the little down arrow and 4 lines in the corner of that subwindow.

select 'load actions' from the list, and navigate to wherever you've installed my .atn file! then that's it, you've got them installed, easy-peasy.

How to Use These Actions (1 at a Time)

open up the texture that you want to edit in photoshop; for this example i'm using a dress i'm 4t2'ing from the throwback fit kit. now it's time to decide which action you're gonna use to make this texture compatible with ts2!

as the texture is 1024 x 2048, i'm gonna use the 'texture clothing: 1024x2048 to 1024x1024' action to downsize it.

ta-da! now it's a reasonable size!

How to Use These Actions (Dozens at a Time)

now for what this set was really made for: editing a ton of textures at a time! just go to file -> automate -> batch...

and navigate to the textures you'd like to batch-edit. here's a few things you should probably keep in mind: - checking 'include all subfolders' will edit ALL the textures from that filepath onwards. - if you set your destination as 'save and close' as pictured, all your files will be autosaved after the action has been run. - so if you don't want to live on the edge, like me, and are afraid of running the wrong action, just open up one of the files you're batch-editing and check which action should be run on it before you do the other files.

and behold! all of my textures have been cut down, and a bunch of my time saved 😎

Examples of Stuff Each Action Can Be Used For

in case you were curious! the first two actions, i mainly use for objects. a lot of ts4 cc creators have their texture sizes set to 2048x2048 or even more, which is way more than (my) ts2 can normally handle. i mean, that much for a candle? geez! so these two actions are used to cut down those textures and not kill your graphics cards.

these are for cas stuff, like clothing, hairs, and accessories. alpha creators tend to have larger texture sizes, but ea's are almost always a cool 1024x2048. just make sure you check before you run the actions!

trim is... i honestly can't remember the last time i used trim, just... if you need it, it's there

the last two actions are for floors and walls! floors are set to autosave as .bmp; walls are up to you. the texture sizes are made to match homecrafter's.

and... that's about it! lol. i know this isn't normally what i post, but i figured that since a lot more people are getting into 4t2 converting recently, these actions might help y'all.

have a great day, have a fun time simming, and keep being awesome guys 😘

#resources #sims 2 resources #tutorial #sims 2 tutorial #photoshop actions #sims 2 #ts2 #long post #<3

[kabie-whump]

CYOA Whump Part 20

First | Previous

You chose: Do nothing. Let it play out and wait for a chance to turn things in your favor.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

You and Onthyes end up alone on an upper deck later that night. You sit close together, staring up at flickering starlight and listening to muffled revelry from the other pirates somewhere behind and below.

"We should really tell the Captain what Rye's doing," Onthyes says, glancing over at you. "You should tell him. Maybe he'll cut you some slack."

You shrug. "I cannot help but feel like I have some sort of opportunity here. I do not know what exactly, but this mutiny could be good for me."

"But if Rye takes charge..."

"I know." You shudder, imagining what kind of torture Rye could put you through as Captain. "It is worth the risk. It has to be."

Onthyes fiddles with the chain that connects the two of you. "I just... don't like seeing you get hurt."

You can't help but laugh, wind picking up and swirling playfully through your hair. "Are you not intended to be my jailer, Onthyes? You keep me tied up. You muzzle me every night. And yet here you are saying that you... What? You care for me?"

"I can't help it." You look over, and Onthyes's face is flushed a peachy red. "I see someone in pain who doesn't deserve to be and I just... I think I'm not not meant for this stuff. I was too soft for the navy. I'm definitely too soft to be a pirate. It just so happens to be that being strong and swinging a sword are the only things I'm good for, and believe it or not there aren't too many other places where someone can make a living with only a blade."

You lean towards him until your shoulders press together. "There is a place for you somewhere. You are not useless and you are not trapped."

He looks down at you. His eyes are so much greener with his face all flushed. "What other options do I have? I was kicked out of the navy. I'd rather never go home at all than go home in shame."

"There are other options. You could travel, perhaps. Become a bodyguard for a merchant caravan. Or an adventurer, maybe."

Onthyes chuckles. "Could you imagine that? Me chasing dragons up and down mountains until I die an untimely death?"

You look away, huffing. "I do not see what is so silly about it."

"It's a thing of storybooks. Most adventurers don't make it very far."

"Well, you do not come across as the average glory-seeking drunkard. Besides, I never said you would be doing it on your own. I mean, there is no need to chase dragons on foot when you have a friend who can fly."

"A friend? Do you... see me as your friend?"

"I do spend every moment by your side. And you seem to care for me well enough, so..."

You look up at Onthyes again, and he has some gooey look on his face that makes you giggle. He really is such a softy.

"What do you say, then?" you ask softly. "Chase dragons with me?"

You can tell that he knows what you're really asking: for him to abandon his crew and help you escape. He seems to imagine it for a moment, a silly, hopeful look in his eyes.

Then, "It's a nice thought, but I'm afraid things are more complicated than that. Dreams don't make us any less stuck here."

***If y'all choose to seduce Onthyes I will be writing an explicit nsfw scene about that (with no choices, just a bonus scene), BUT I won't be using the normal taglist since y'all didn't sign up for nsfw at the start. If you want to be tagged in nsfw content as well please tell me and I'll make a seperate list! <3 *** *** Also, the next part is going to come much sooner than usual. Probably tonight or tomorrow, so it's possible I'll stop looking at the poll results before it's finished. ***

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Next

CYOA whump taglist: (let me know if you want to be added or removed):

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @rainydaywhump

@whumperofworlds @hauntedroseart @3-2-whump @fleur-a-whump @whumpsday

@whumpisfun @whumper-whimsy @ghost-whump @fabled-whump @violets-whumperflies

@whumped-by-glitter @thewhumpening-thesequel @lumpofsand @whumpycries @unicornbeck

@gala1981 @a-formless-entity @ryahisbored @mentallyunwellautism @idontreallyexistyet

@aethernorwood @starfields08000

#whump #whump community #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpblr #whump scenario #whump ideas #nonhuman whumpee #magical whump #pirate whump #cyoa game #cyoa whump #oc whump #magic whump #fantasy whump

[elliesflower]

i saw you in a dream [2]

chapter 1 here

summary; you and ellie get closer as she helps you with playing guitar.

chapter; 2/? 2.7k words

cw (per chapter); recreational marijuana usage, language

a/n; let's play a game called 'how many times did i use the word 'guitar' in this god forsaken chapter?' anyways, i'm sick with a cold right now so i've had lot's of time to write, but little mental capacity for proofreading. let me know what y'all think of this chapter <3 (and find it on AO3 here)

“Be my guest,” Ellie relaxed a bit once she realized you were truly okay with everything, reaching behind her to grab her guitar. “You sure it won’t mess with your concentration, though?” 

“Oh please,” you waved your hand dismissively. “If anything, it’ll help.” 

“With the guitar playing, or the nerves?” Ellie smirked, crossing one leg and resting her guitar in her lap, fiddling with the tuners. Almost immediately, you felt another blush creeping up your neck. Were you that obvious? You opened your mouth to speak, but she cut you off before you could get a word in.

“Relax, I’m just fucking with you,” she laughed, not even glancing your direction. You gripped the bong tighter, letting out a nervous laugh as you let your eyes wander down, admiring the tattoo that graced her forearm and trailed off on her wrist. Her hands worked their way around the guitar, dancing over an intricate moth design at the top of the neck that matched the one on her arm. 

“Well to be fair, you are giving very suspiciously free guitar lessons,” you pointed out, walking past her to sit gingerly on the edge of the mattress. It felt very personal all of a sudden, sitting on the bed of a complete stranger, about to smoke weed that may or may not be laced with poison. Ellie laughed again, plucking a couple strings in an unfamiliar melody like it was second nature. She looked up at you, and you only hoped that she couldn’t somehow hear your heart rate increase. 

“This is true,” she said thoughtfully, resting a hand on the side of the guitar. “Yet here you are.”

You swallowed harder than normal, and instead of saying something potentially embarrassing, you brought the mouthpiece to your lips, lighting the bowl. Yet again, you faintly heard Ellie’s enchanting laugh over the sound of the bubbling water before pulling out the bowl to breathe in the smoke. You held it in for a moment, letting it flood your lungs before exhaling gently, passing the glass to Ellie. She took it with a quiet thanks.

You didn’t smoke nearly as often or as much as Dina, so the first hit—especially off a bong—always gave you a slight, yet pleasant and relaxed high. It was definitely needed, as you found yourself scooting back farther onto the bed, before prying open your guitar case. The anxiety in your brain slowly dwindled as you pulled your own guitar out along with the sheet music, crossing your legs before resting them in your lap. 

“So, are you a music major?” You asked, looking up at her.

“Oh, no,” she smiled before blowing smoke. “I’m a graphic design major. Music is just a minor. My step-dad taught me to play guitar when I was in high school and I just fell in love with it.” Ellie moved the guitar back into playing position and strummed a few chords. A few loose strands of hair fell into her face as she looked down at her hands, and you let your gaze follow—her long, slender fingers produced a beautiful sound from the strings, and you had to stop yourself before you stared for too long. 

“So you just decided to give free lessons…for fun?” You pressed further. The weed had you caught between feeling both assured and apprehensive.

“Well, kind of for fun, kind of because I’m bad at remembering to do my homework and my teacher agreed to extra credit in exchange for me giving out some free lessons,” she explained, ceasing her strumming and grabbing the bong once more. She pulled it to her perfectly pink lips, and you couldn’t help but to stare this time. 

“Anyways,” she said suddenly, looking back up at you. You quickly averted your gaze, but not before she caught you looking. She smiled, warm and inviting, blowing smoke from her nose. It was hard to tell what was making you high at this point—the weed, or the way she looked at you. Probably both. “What is it that you’re having trouble with? A certain song? A certain technique?”

To be honest, it was kind of everything that you were having trouble with. It felt clumsy whenever you tried to move your fingers at the same time you strummed, you always forgot the difference between a whole step and a half step, and all the notes on the page sometimes just looked like hieroglyphics. But you couldn’t tell her that—not when Dina was halfway-right and Ellie does seem like some sort of guitar legend.

“Well, for the final we just have to pick a song and play one verse, but we get extra credit if we can do the chorus too,” you explained. “I picked Sparks by Coldplay because it seemed pretty easy. I’m…okay at doing the verse, but I’m having more trouble with the chorus. I think it’s the strumming pattern I can’t get down.” 

“Ah, that's a good song,” Ellie beamed at you, eyelids just a bit lower now. “When’s your final?”

You hesitated for a moment. 

“Wednesday.”

Her eyes widened almost comically. 

“Wednesday, as in, this coming Wednesday?” she asked. You nodded sheepishly.

“Well…let’s hear you play the verse, then,” she conceded. The nerves started to settle back in; however, this was no one’s fault but your own at this point. She stood up, reaching behind her to grab a short, well-loved music stand, before placing it in front of you. It wobbled slightly as you opened the sheet music onto it, watching her settle back into her chair. God, was it too late to ask for another hit?

“Okay, um,” you mumbled, sitting up straighter and positioning your hands on the guitar. You took a deep breath and looked at the music sheet—there were only eight notes in the whole song, and you knew them, logically, but getting your fingers to cooperate was a different story. It especially didn’t help that Ellie was laser focused on you now. You gripped the neck and placed your fingers in a C-chord position, taking in a deep breath. 

Slowly, you began to strum, and almost immediately you could tell your strumming pattern was off. It sounded like a five-year-old was playing as you moved your fingers into A-minor-seven on the wrong beat. You continued playing for a moment, feeling abashed until you reached the chorus and gave up. You risked a glance at Ellie, and to your surprise, she didn’t look like she was going to laugh at you. In fact, she said:

“That wasn’t so bad!”

You let out a laugh that was both amused and mortified. 

“Thanks for sparing my feelings,” you said, burying your face in your hands. 

“No, I'm serious! I’ve heard worse, trust me,” she assured, standing up and walking towards you with her own guitar. You felt the bed dip near your side as she sat next to you. You peaked through your fingers and saw that she was this close to touching your thigh with her own. “You should have heard me when I first started playing.”

Lifting your head from your hands, you rested your elbows on your guitar. Her reassurance was appreciated, but you still felt embarrassed. Ellie looked over at you with sympathetic eyes, sparkling in the faint lamplight, and it took everything in you not to burn under her gaze. 

“Look, let’s just simplify it for a moment. You know what the original song sounds like, yeah?” she asked, pulling her guitar into position. 

“Yeah, I love the song,” you replied, watching her movements. 

“Okay. We’re basically playing a few different variations of the same three chords: C, A-minor, and F-major,” she strummed the notes as she listed them. “Do you know those three chords?”

You nodded. 

“Good. So I think one of the main things that you’re struggling with is the strumming pattern. Try leaving a beat in between, like this,” she played the three notes in a much more basic strumming pattern—though it was obviously not the original, it was easy enough to understand, and definitely made more sense than the one you had been trying. 

“You’re really good at this,” you seemed to lose inhibition around her, though, of course, you’d just blame it on the weed. Ellie didn’t look at you, but gave a breathy laugh. 

“Okay, let’s hear you try now,” she said, avoiding the compliment. “Just pick one chord and practice the pattern.” 

You lingered on her side profile for a moment, admiring the way her nose bridge sloped into an adorable peak, the slit in her eyebrow, the concentration on her face as she studied her own guitar. Before she could look over, though, you brought your guitar back into position and did as she said. 

Much to your dismay—and humiliation—this new strumming pattern sounded worse than the first one you’d been practicing. You groaned in frustration, slapping your palm over the strings to stop the awful sound they were emitting. Squeezing your eyes shut again, you refused to look over at Ellie, in fear she may be about to give up on you already. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said softly, and without warning, you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder. Normally, your instinct would be to shrink away from the touch, but you found yourself completely subdued by it. It was gone just as quickly as it had come, and by the time you opened your eyes, she was already standing up. Had you just imagined that?

“Put the guitar down for a sec,” she said from across the room now. Her own guitar was already leaned against the dresser as she grabbed the bong from her desk. 

“Don’t I kind of need the guitar to practice guitar?” You questioned, despite following her instructions anyways. Faintly, you heard your mother’s voice in the back of your head, asking you, if all your friends were going to jump off a bridge, would you really follow them off it? Unsurprisingly, your answer was almost always yes.

Ellie gave you an amused look. “Not always. Just trust me.”

She outstretched the bong to you, and you accepted it, gratefully. She began messing with the speaker behind her as you took another hit, and another one, and another one, until she was sitting in her chair and rolling it towards you. All the racing, anxious thoughts in your mind slowed, one-by-one, and your arm felt heavy as you handed the glass back to her, pushing your legs out in front of you to hang off the edge of the bed. 

“Feeling better?” She asked with a slight smile. Your mouth unconsciously turned up at the corners to match hers, and you nodded. 

“I don’t know if I can play like this, though,” you laughed now, your restraint flowing out the slightly-open window. “Do you get all your students high?” 

Ellie laughed, rich and harmonious. 

“Just close your eyes and lay back.”

Though her words should have had you nervous, the insinuation enough to send a shiver down your spine, you obliged. Your head fell back onto the duvet with a soft thump, eyes closing in bliss. The smell of her was everywhere, in the bedding and in the air, the woodsy-amber combined with the ever-present peppery musk of weed. You were only slightly aware of her presence at the edge of the bed until she spoke again. 

“Just listen to the song. Pay attention to the guitar,” her voice was almost commanding. Not that you needed any persuasion—you were ready to jump off that bridge as the music started, the wistful acoustic filling the room. 

Did I drive you away?

I know what you'll say

You say, ‘Oh, sing one we know,’

Your fingertips lightly traced the silhouette of your guitar next to you as you listened, eyes fluttering open slowly to stare at the ceiling. 

But I promise you this

I'll always look out for you

Yeah, that's what I'll do,

Faintly, you heard a second guitar chime in with the song, quiet, yet heady. Your head lolled to one side and you caught sight of Ellie, strumming along with the track. Her mouth moved slightly in time with the lyrics, but the combined sound of the speaker and the guitar were too overpowering to hear her voice—you longed to know what harmonic sound escaped her lips. 

Sitting up, you watched her face as she continued to play. She didn’t glance up at you, but she did stop singing out once she caught you looking from the corner of her eye. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly with concentration, yet she exuded bliss. It was like she was in another world as she played. 

My heart is yours

It's you that I hold on to

Yeah, that's what I do,

Remembering why you were even listening in the first place, you tried to focus on the guitar like Ellie had said. Not her extremely enticing face. You listened to the blend of her playing along with the track itself, willing yourself to focus. Maybe taking so many hits wasn’t such a great idea. 

La, la, la, la, o-oh

La, la, la, la, o-oh,

“Aren’t your eyes supposed to be closed?” she asked, playfully squinting at you as the song came to an end. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me guitar?” You retorted with a laugh. You felt at ease now, looking at Ellie through the thin cloud of smoke in the room—she didn’t look away this time. She only looked back with an expression you couldn’t quite read. 

“Just pick up your guitar and try again,” she shook her head in defeat, a small grin still present on her lips. “Start from the beginning. Try it with the basic strumming pattern, and just focus on the C, A, and F chords. Fuck everything else.”

Though your nerves were long gone at this point, you still weren’t sure you’d be able to play in your altered state. The guitar felt bulky as you pulled it back into your lap and leaned forward, toes just barely touching the floor. You drew a deep breath as she watched you, pulling together all your brain power.

And then, it was magic. 

You could visualize Ellie in your mind, her tattooed arm flexing as it moved up and down along the guitar, and you mimicked the movements. The sound coming from the guitar actually sounded halfway decent—not great, but definitely an improvement. You chanced a look at the redhead, and she was already smiling at you. Before you reached the chorus, you stopped playing and looked down at your fingers, wondering if she possibly performed some sort of witchcraft on you. 

“See? Sometimes you do need to put the guitar down in order to play,” she smirked, putting her guitar down. “That was much better.”

Your cheeks flushed and you averted your eyes. Normally, you could take a compliment, but it felt…different, coming from Ellie. Here she was, a perfect stranger, letting you into her space, letting you smoke her weed, dedicating her time to you—it all felt remarkably intimate in such a short amount of time. Was it just the sapphic passion that seemed innate in you at this point?

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you are a pretty good tutor…or whatever,” you trailed off, bashfully looking back up at her. She beamed back at you, but before she could say anything, your phone chimed from your pocket. Ellie simply twirled around in the chair, beginning to play yet another song that she plucked from her memory, and you only wished you could have even a fraction of the skill she seemed to possess. 

You pulled your phone from your pocket and unlocked it. 

hey, you still alive over there??

i’m actually really bad at writing please don’t make me write a eulogy

do you think i could pay someone to do it

would you be offended if i paid someone to write your eulogy

You nearly snorted at the messages from Dina. It was almost hard to imagine that barely an hour ago you had been nervous to even come here. 

Everything’s going good!

You texted back. Her reply was almost immediate:

just good???

“good” as in you’re good at guitar now?????

or good as in good ;) ?????

orrrr good as in you’re narrowly avoiding death as we speak?????????

You looked up at Ellie through your lashes, and watched as she bobbed her head lightly, singing softly with the sweetest voice you think you may have ever heard. 

You texted back:

Good ;)

chapter 3 here

#ellie williams #tlou #ellie tlou #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x reader #ellie x you #tlou part 2 #the last of us #dina tlou

[coldfanbou]

Momma's Boy

I'm really cutting it close with these birthday fics. Here's a Momo quick for all y'all. A small titjob, a mommy kink, and a sprinkle of breeding are involved.

Length 1.2K

Momo x Mreader

You wake up struggling to breathe as you feel two large mounds pressed against your face; as you begin to struggle, you feel their retreat. That’s when you realized Momo was tightly embracing you while you slept. “Oh, it was just you, Momo. I thought I was going to die.”

Momo gets up close to your ear, and in a slow seductive voice, she says, “You will if you can’t please, mommy.” She takes a step back, and you get a full view of her outfit. A tight dress that shows off her toned stomach and hugs her every curve. 

“Oh, mommy, you’re all dressed up.” What had initially started as a one-time roleplay became a kink for Momo. She loved this idea and couldn’t live without it now.

“I had some business to take care of, and then I came home to my baby sleeping when I needed some stress relief. Will you be my good boy and help mommy out?”

“Yes, mommy.” 

Momo rubs your cock through your shorts as she gets by your ear again. “That’s what I like to hear. Now let me see that big hard cock of yours.”  After pulling down your boxer and shorts, Momo lays down behind you. Her soft and smooth hand reaches around, searching for your cock. She gives agonizingly slow strokes, so she can continue whispering to you. “Did my little boy miss his mommy?” 

“Yes, mommy. I missed you.”

“Tell me how much you need me. Tell me how much you need me to stroke your cock.” While you give your answer, Momo starts nibbling on your ear. She sent shivers down your spine as she continued to toy with you. She’d take small licks at your ear, loving how you shivered.

“I need mommy Momo. I can’t live without her.” 

“I’ll make sure you get everything you want.” As Momo continues with her slow strokes, she takes a moment to squeeze down on the head of your cock. “I’ll give my good little boy everything he could ever want, but first, you have to help me get rid of all my stress.” 

“I’ll make sure to get rid of all your stress, mommy, I promise.” 

“Then help me out of these clothes.” Momo gets in front of you, slowly undoing the zipper holding the top portion up; you see it fall away. Her bare back is now facing you; you hold onto the bottom part of her dress as she stands. Her shapely ass is free of its confines. Momo, as her dress drops to the floor, takes ginger steps out of it. When she turns around, Momo presses her body against your forcing you onto your back. Her big tits rub against your chest. “You love my big tits, don’t you? I bet you want them squeezed around your cock.”

“I want your big tits around my cock, mommy, please.” 

“Fine, but you can’t cum, okay? It’s all going to go inside my tight pussy, understood?” 

“Yes, mommy.” Momo slides down to your cock, leaving kisses along your body.  Momo gives it a sloppy kiss before taking it in her mouth. Her eyes watch you as she bobs her head; her tongue swirls around it, bringing you even more pleasure. Once she thought you were sufficiently slick, she popped you out of her mouth and wrapped her tits around your cock. Momo starts pumping your cock using her tits; when the head of your cock pokes out the top, Momo takes the opportunity to lap at it. You moan, “Fuck, mommy, your tits feel so good. as she moves her tits around your cock. 

“Does my boy want to cum all over his favorite tits?”

“I want to cum all over your tits, mommy.”

“You’re not allowed; you have to hold it in, baby.” As you feel your climax approach, your cock starts to pulse between Momo’s tits. Knowing what’s coming, Momo stops her titjob and moves up, straddling you. “I told you you’re not allowed to cum unless it’s in my pussy, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, mommy.” 

“And you nearly painted my tits with your cum right now. I need to give you a punishment.” She says with a wink. Momo grabs your cock and presses it against her folds; without another word, she drops her weight, sinking onto your cock. You can feel Momo’s pussy stretch to fit you inside her. She screams in pleasure, “Oh fuck! My baby’s so big; I can feel him hitting my womb. You’re going to pump all that cum in your balls into my womb by the time I’m done with you.” Momo lifts herself until the head remains inside and drops down again, impaling herself on your cock. Your cock slides in without a problem; you feel her walls exert a lot of pressure on your cock, as you force them apart. “Fuck, this is just what I needed.” She grinds her hips against you, prompting moans from both of you. You hold onto Momo’s hips as she continues bouncing on your cock. As you watch her tits bounce, you can’t help but lean forward to get one in your mouth. Momo’s moans grow louder as you do so. “That’s right, baby, suck on mommy’s big tits, make her feel good.” You move your hands down her body, reaching her ass you give her a hard smack. “Oh, you naughty boy! Spanking mommy like that.”

Taking her tit out of your mouth, you tell her, “I know you like it, mommy,” before giving her a few more hard smacks leaving her ass with a handprint. Momo takes the opportunity to kiss you. Her lips crash against yours as she forces her tongue into your mouth. You grip her ass hard enough to leave small imprints of your fingers when you release your grip. Momo’s continued use of your cock drives you both to the edge. She can feel your cock pulsing inside her as you tell her you’re going to cum. 

“Cum inside, mommy, pour all your baby batter in my womb! Breed your mommy!” Momo again drops her hips down on your cock, engulfing it all, as you start to unleash wave after wave of cum. Your orgasm triggered her’s as her pussy tightened around you, milking your cock. Momo collapses on top of you once her orgasm ends. “You did such a good job pumping mommy with your baby batter; I’ll get pregnant for sure.” She mumbles

As the two of you lay there for a moment, you ask, “So, how was your day, sweetie?”

Momo laughs as you act like you hadn’t fucked each other’s brains out seconds earlier. “It was fine, just a lot of boring work today. I really just wanted to come home to you today.” She peppers your face with kisses before continuing. “I missed you so much; I’ve barely been able to see you with these promotions going on.”

“Don’t worry about all that, Momo; let’s just cherish these moments together. You know if you get pregnant, we could spend more time together.”

Momo slips your cock out of her before lying next to you with her head on your chest. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Yeah, right. Let’s just sleep like this; you’ll be my big teddy bear, right?”

“Always Momo.”

#momo smut #twice smut #kpop smut #m reader #male reader