#un-birthday prompts
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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento
wc: 7.2k
summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.
contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.
a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.
ao3 (needs account)
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to
CLAY.
Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?
You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.
The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.
Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.
As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.
You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.
A geometric study on blank canvas.
It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.
The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.
Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.
It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.
The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.
You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.
And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.
You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.
.
You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.
The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.
Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.
The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.
You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”
It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.
You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.
“Let me buy you another sandwich.”
He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.
“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”
“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”
He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.
“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.
You nod.
He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.
The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.
“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.
He hums.
“But I couldn’t find you, so…”
He hums again.
The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—
“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”
A pause.
“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.
You snort, “I wish.”
The line moves forward.
“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”
When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.
The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.
“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.
“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”
“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”
You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.
An interesting man.
You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.
And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.
Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.
His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.
He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.
“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”
“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.
“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.
“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.
Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.
The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.
“Do you come to this–”
“My studio is just by the corner, so–”
You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.
“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”
“It’s on the way to work most days.”
You nod, humming.
Another awkward pause.
“I hope you��”
“I should get–”
You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.
He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.
“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”
“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.
That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.
“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”
Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.
“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.
You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.
“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”
The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.
.
.
.
MOLD.
Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?
In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.
You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.
Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.
After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.
People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.
“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.
A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.
He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.
“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”
He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.
“And this?”
Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.
“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”
The PR answer.
Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.
“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.
You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.
“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”
The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.
“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.
He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”
You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.
It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.
.
You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.
Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.
Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.
A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.
“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.
The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.
The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.
He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.
“Just ask, I know you want to.”
The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.
“Who is it?” he asks.
You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.
“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.
He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.
When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.
“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.
As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.
He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.
“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”
‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.
It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.
“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”
Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.
“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.
You encourage him to go on, nodding along.
And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.
He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.
A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”
“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.
And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.
Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.
You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.
(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)
People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.
If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?
.
During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.
He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.
“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.
“Would that be troublesome?”
You laugh at his rigidness.
“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”
The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.
You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.
The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.
A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.
“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.
You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.
It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.
You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”
“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.
“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”
It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.
But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—
—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.
So, no.
There’s no other place he’d rather be.
.
.
.
DRY.
Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?
“Will you be free next weekend?”
His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.
Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.
You must have forgotten to mention it.
“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”
His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.
Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?
The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).
It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.
“Not for a session.”
You tilt your head curiously.
The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.
“For a date.”
.
You begin to take up his weekends now, too.
Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).
He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?
(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).
The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.
For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.
Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.
He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.
The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.
(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)
You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.
It’s unexpected, but you like that.
And you like him—quite a lot, really.
This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.
Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.
Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.
Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.
You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.
There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.
Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.
When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.
It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.
“Kento,” you whisper.
His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”
Then you kiss him.
It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.
You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.
It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.
.
Things are good a month until your exhibit.
Things are good until they aren’t.
You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.
The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.
All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.
It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.
And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.
It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.
The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.
You groan, banging your head against the table.
Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.
Nanami finds you in your studio that way.
He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.
If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.
Then this.
And it’s too much—it’s all too much.
Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.
He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.
“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.
Silence.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.
You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”
“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”
“There’s no time.”
Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.
“Then we’ll do what we can.”
The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.
“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”
“Who?”
You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”
He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”
You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”
“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”
That makes you look up.
Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.
You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.
“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.
.
You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.
You remold and repair to build up yourself.
The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.
And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.
.
.
.
PAINT.
Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?
Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.
Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.
He smirks, “You’re a natural.”
“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.
It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).
You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.
His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.
On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.
He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.
“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”
There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.
“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.
Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.
He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.
“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”
You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.
The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.
This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.
.
In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.
He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.
Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.
A gasp escapes you.
Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.
He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.
You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.
He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.
Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.
So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.
He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.
Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.
You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.
(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)
Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.
A tear drips down your face.
“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.
“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”
So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.
He moves his body against yours.
It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.
For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.
.
He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.
It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.
You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.
Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.
He smiles at you the same.
‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.
It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.
Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.
To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.
It is as much you as it is him.
That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.
Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.
Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.
a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.
thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
#nanami x reader#nanami kento x reader#kento nanami x reader#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#kento x reader#nanami x yn#nanami x y/n#nanami x you#nanami kento x yn#nanami kento x you#shotorus.writes#shotorus.events#in's and out's event
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plsss I NEED switch!Patrick x switch!Reader with like, him being dominant in the beginning and sub in the end, with them mentioning art the whole time trying to make each other jealous about him? Idk if it make sense but kinda like when tashi was saying patrick should be intimidated by art except in that case they both had sex with him (separately) and they're more like "yeah? can art make you cum this fast hm?" etc
okay👍👍👍👍👍(im actually drooling this is so good ty angelnon)
“on his birthday, i fucked him so good he forgot his own name,” patrick boasted, pressing hot, angry, open-mouthed kisses to your puffy lips. “i do that everyday,” you breath out, pulling your shorts down desperately, throwing them somewhere obscured in your tiny dorm. he’d already undressed amidst the heat of your quarreling, and you were grateful. you didn’t know how long you could wait and stay sane before he would finally fuck you.
patrick huffs from above you, throwing your leg over his shoulder and bullying his unfairly sized cock into your cunt. he’s ramming into you at such a speed where you can hardly feel when he’s snapping his hips back and at what point does he push back in. “i fuck him better, i fuck him so much better,” is all you can mutter out, tugging on patrick’s hair as your hips grind up onto his un-groomed pelvis, unable to get close enough to him. “mm-mm, nope. have you ever made him cum dry? i have.”
“he ever let you film him?” is your rebuttal, smirking cruelly at patrick as he nearly whimpers at your confession; he makes a mental note to himself to ensure he sees it—by any means necessary.
patrick quickly finds himself getting lost in the heat of it all, the brutal nips at his throat upon dipping his head in the crook of your neck make him melt.
he’s made himself pliable enough for you to ease his full weight onto you with no protest. he whines as you slip his cock out of you, but his head stays buried in the junction between your head and shoulder. your hand slides between the two of you, tugging at his cock and using your free hand to prompt him to look you in the eye.
“you wanna come?” you falsely pout at the darkened blue eyes boring into yours. “mhm, yes. please,” he says, not really begging because he knows you would never deny him an orgasm… right?
“say you can’t fuck him like i can.” your voice is completely devoid of any of the sweetness dripping from it just moments ago. patrick shakes his head ‘no’, resulting in a harsh tug on his scalp. “so what i’m hearing is you really want me to get up and make you watch me get myself off, and then leave? that’s what you want, patrick?”
he shakes his head fervently, “no, no, no, please,” if he’s begging to cum or begging to change the conditions, you don’t know, but you cup your palm over patrick’s flushed tip regardless, circling over it and making him squirm atop you.
“say it.”
“i can’t fuck him like you can! fuck, you’re better than me, so much fucking better. please, i wanna cum, pleasepleasepleaseplease—“
he’s had enough, you’d decided. “cum, patrick.”
those words have him unraveling, a load unlike one you’ve ever seen comes out of him, shooting all over his and your bare stomachs and your hand.
his dick fucks into your hand languidly as he rides out his own climax. you make sure to clean him up with your mouth, and patrick’s fingers drive you to your finish.
and when the high is gone and the smell of sex in lingering in your dorm, you fall asleep on your friend’s chest.
little do you know, when patrick is sure you’re asleep, he grabs your phone, punches in tashi’s birthday for your password, and opens your camera roll. he’s only looking for one thing when he not only finds the amateur film, but also photos of his girlfriend’s naked body splayed out on the very bed he lie on now.
he looks at you no different the next morning.
#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 !#angelnon 🤍#kai's got mail <3📑#artsy nd tricky🎾#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig#challengers smut#patrick zweig fanfiction#art donaldson challengers#challengers#challengers 2024#challengers fanfiction#challengers movie#art donaldson smut#josh o’connor smut#josh o'connor#mike faist smut#mike faist#this was a pretty great request🥰🥰#kaia writes patrick#queued..
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MATT MURDOCK MASTERLIST.
<- back to navi
last updated: may 17, 2024
KEY:
☾ -> fluff/ comfort
★ -> smut
✧ -> angst
blank -> miscellaneous
imagines/headcanons ☾
seeing stars - you and matt share a tender night after his nightly patrols ★
right here - matt comforts you during a depressive episode ☾
don’t close close your eyes - elektra comes back to town with one goal in mind: to get matt back. she’d do anything to get him back, even harming his girlfriend (from a request/ prompt) part 1/2 ✧
through your eyes - matt is struggling to come to terms with the death of his girlfriend. part 2/2 ✧
extra credit - you’re a struggling law student at columbia and seek out help from your temporary professor, matt murdock★
REQUESTS:
ruin you ★
encounters ★
switch up ★
growing by one ☾
rooftop apologies ☾/✧?
girls night with matt ☾
lunch [no] date ✧
about time ☾
lunch [no] date part 2 ☾
behave ★
days apart ★
pillows ★
work break ★
before breakfast snack ★
spillage ☾
valentine’s day ★
after patrol delight ★
sweet treats ☾/✧?
first time ★
black lycra ★
meeting matt’s friends ☾
roof-side to bed-side ★
four times a charm ★
past, present and future ☾
dessert delivery day ☾
that’s not my cologne
surprise at breakfast ☾
adoration ☾
you can take it ★
me or her ✧?
satin secret ★
bandages ☾
morning ‘kisses’ after josie’s ☾
shouldn’t have said that ✧
accidental break✧
peanut butter and pretzels ☾
mine ★
like that ★
accidental break part 2 ✧
klutz ☾
unintentional ☾/✧?
I spy ★
in tune ★
girls night out ☾
fort stories ☾
wasn’t about me ★
want to choose you ✧?
sandalwood ☾
birthday boy ☾
nsfw alphabet// hc’s ★
reward ★
parking bay play ★
red tinted ☾
through the wall ★/ suggestive
“answer it” ★
headspace ★/✧?
I know you can ★
worth the wait ☾
in good time ☾/✧?
(un)lucky number seven -> suggestive
friday’s ★
fall girl ☾
matt fixing you up ☾
sabotage ✧?
apartment hunting hc’s ☾
sub matt hc’s ★
12 days of christmas ★
leap ☾
gentle loving ★
nosey ☾
distance ✧?
heartbeats ☾
daredevil vs matt murdock ★
few minutes spare ★
study buddies ☾
when the day is done ☾
© little-miss-dilf-lover // all work is my own. please do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.
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Best Present Ever - Stranger Things - Steddie - G
A/N: Haven’t had a chance to write for the main prompt this month, but couldn’t miss out on the bonus prompt since it’s a special occasion. Happy Birthday to @steddieas-shegoes. Don’t forget to check out all the other great fics at @steddiemicrofic too💖.
Written for bonus prompt: BIRTHDAY | wc: 290 | G | cw: none
Vecna was dead. Hawkins was no longer split open. It was time to celebrate.
The kids missed so much while they fought for their town. Everyone missed a lot, but Steve couldn’t help thinking it was hardest on the kids. That’s why he organised the party. Taking a lead from Alice in Wonderland, one of the few books he remembered his mom reading to him as a kid, it was an un-birthday party, to make up for all the birthdays that had gone by the wayside while defeating the Upside Down.
There were banners and balloons all over his house, plus a huge cake. There were even presents, one for everyone, including those older than fifteen.
Everyone except Eddie and Robin had thought it was simply a pool party. The expressions on their faces as they had arrived and seen the banners had been worth the hassle of keeping it secret.
It was late now, everyone happy tired and full. Steve was lying on one of the loungers by the pool with Eddie curled into his side.
“You did good, Stevie,” Eddie said as they watched El and Erica as the last holdouts in the water.
“We did good,” he replied, smiling down at his boyfriend. “Couldn’t have done it without you and Robin.”
“Your idea,” Eddie insisted. “And you didn’t tell us about the presents. Would have got you one.”
“Wanted that to be a surprise,” he admitted, “and this,” he indicated everyone lounging around outside or inside the house, “is the best present.”
That they were all alive and mostly whole was the only gift he needed. His family were safe. His family were here. His family were happy. That was more than he could ever ask for.
#steddie#steddiemicrofic#steddiemicroficmarch#steddie fic#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie ficlet#steve x eddie#fluff#eddie munson lives
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CUPCAKE CHAOS
PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ [1.4k] A lazy Saturday spent attempting to bake before JJ shows up.
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ fluff, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc.), mentions of drugs, swearing, mentions of food
A/N‧₊˚ This is my first post on here, I'd been stalling by organizing my blog (which I haven't even finished😭). I'm very nervous but I hope you guys like it!
˗ˏˋ jj masterlist ˎˊ˗
IT SEEMED AS IF ALL THE POGUES WERE BUSY AS SOON AS SUMMER BEGAN. John B was hanging with Sarah, Kiara had to help out her dad at The Wreck, Pope was getting the last of his community service hours, and your boyfriend wasn't answering his phone at all.
You had the house to yourself considering your parent were out on yet another business trip and you, being used to their absence, knew they wouldn't be back for another week at least.
It was around 2pm that your immense boredom and the unbearable silence of your home had taken over, prompting you to get out of bed and to look for something, anything, to do.
You tried looking for something to watch, all the shows seemingly uninteresting or cheesy. You tried stepping outside for some fresh air but the scorching sun that typically adorned the sky of the OBX didn't seem as appealing as it normally did, almost immediately bringing on a headache.
So, here you were, rummaging through the cupboards in your kitchen for who knows what.
Opening the cabinet just above the stove, you found some baking essentials—flour, icing, sugar, etc. You remembered your mom kept a recipe book from your late grandmother who loved baking with her whole heart.
She made all of your birthday cakes and treats and it became a staple of hers.
The only problem was you didn't exactly know where said recipe book was. Your mother never told you. But it had to be in the kitchen somewhere.
AFTER a couple minutes of going from cabinet to cabinet, drawer to drawer—you found the little recipe book. A small brown notebook that your grandmother printed her name on to. The small thing barely able to close with how full it was; inked pages, colored tabs sticking out of the side.
Sitting down on the counter-top, something your mother would surely scold you for, you flipped through it—searching for anything that sounded appealing.
A couple minutes pass and one page catches your attention. Valentine's Day Filled Strawberry Cupcakes. A brief glance over the recipe told you it was essentially just vanilla cupcakes iced with strawberry cream cheese icing and some kind of strawberry-purée filled center. Now, of course, it was nowhere near Valentine's Day but... who says it had to be in order spread a little love?
A smile crept its way onto your face, that sounds so damn good right now. You loved strawberries, you loved cupcakes, and you hadn't eaten anything all day.
You went back to the now open cabinet that sparked this idea, pulling out some of the ingredients that the cupcakes required; flour, sugar, baking powder, and vanilla extract. Moving to the fridge, you pulled out more. Eggs, Butter, Milk, Strawberry Cream Cheese... —who bought all of this? Your parents aren't necessarily home to cook often and you usually order something or eat with the Pogues. You should be grateful, you guess.
There were a couple of other ingredients you gathered and some things labeled as optional such as sprinkles and food coloring.
With everything laid out in front of you—the ingredients, the mixer, and your utensils, you washed your hands, dried them and turned to pre-heat the oven.
"Let's try not to screw this up."
"SHIT!" That was the sixth time you had over-filled one of the cupcakes tins. You wouldn't be so upset if it wasn't such a frustrating task to un-fill it, having to scoop out some of the batter and drag it, very messily, to the next tin, little splotches of pink-ish batter scattered all over the metal pan.
While you were wiping your hands on the apron you had conveniently found after you got flour on your shirt, there was a distinct knock at the door that let you know who was there before you even opened it.
Groaning slightly, you trudged over to your front door. Swinging it open, quite aggressively might I add, letting a gust of wind in that swayed your loose apron and dusted some of the flour off of you.
"Woah, what...happened?" Your boyfriend chuckled, still standing on your doorstep. He was visibly trying to hold in a laugh, causing your hand to fall from the door and cross them both over your chest.
"It's not funny." You huffed, glaring at him. You turned on your feet and began to make your way back into the kitchen, noting the sound of his heavy boots entering, closing the front door, and continuing to trail after you.
You came to stand back in front of your half-filled tray of cupcake batter. JJ entered the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, taking in the chaos before him. Batter-covered spatulas and spoons in the sink, measuring spoons covered in flour, egg shells sitting at the top of the waste bin. There was so much going on.
"Oh. I really like what you've done with the place." He joked.
When he took in your seriously defeated expression looking down at the tray in front of you, he entered the kitchen and made his way over to you. Wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder, feeling your tense shoulders deflate. "What's wrong?"
"What else? Everything is a mess." You grumbled. It truly wasn't that serious but you couldn't deny that you were beyond frustrated.
He suddenly found the situation less humorous. Albeit, you'd probably be laughing about it too once you actually got the task done but he knew how frustrated you got when you felt like you couldn't do something or it didn't go as smoothly as you had hoped. No matter how small or big it actually was.
He unraveled himself from your waist and he turned your body to face him by your upper arms. His hands dropped to the counter behind you, careful not to knock anything over. His face now inches from yours, eyes glazing over your grumpy expression.
You quirked a brow, a silent expression of your confusion. From your perspective, he was just staring at you. Suddenly, one of his hands came up to brush his thumb in between your eyebrows. "Fix your face. They're just cupcakes, sweetheart." He spoke softly and smiled, trying to uplift you.
Whether it was shown on your face or not, it was working. "But it shouldn't be this difficult. I went over the recipe like ten fu-
"Language."
You rolled your eyes slightly and sighed, throwing your head back slightly. "Maybe I'm just tired. Or hungry. Or lonely because all my friends are busy and my boyfriend wouldn't answer his phone-"
"Ow!" He cried when you plucked his arm. "Uh, for starters, I was busy, too. Little Miss Violent..." He muttered in mock offense, rubbing the spot where you pinched him lightly. "Some Kook was looking for someone to mow their yard quickly for 200 bucks, which is insane, so I took it. I didn't see your call until I was done and I thought I'd come over to see you."
"Is that why you smell like grass?" You questioned teasingly, a visible smile edging its way on to your face.
"Shut up." The blonde spoke, seeing the smile you tried so hard to hide. He grabbed the sides of your face and pecked your lips multiple times.
"JJ!- C'mon-"
He stopped and let your face go, he moved his hands to ruffle your hair. "You're so cute when you smile." The boy gushed. "Now, do you want some help? Because, I for one, am an excellent baker."
You snorted at that, causing the blonde boy to quirk an eyebrow. "Are you now?" You inquired, moving past him to wash the mess off of your hands.
"I bake brownies all the time." He assured from behind you.
"Edibles. You make edibles all the time."
"Same difference. They're just fun brownies. We could also make the cupcakes fun-"
"We're not putting weed in the cupcakes, JJ." He groaned and rolled his eyes. "But, if you want to help—see if you have more luck pouring the batter in than I did. Don't over-fill them though, just a little past the-"
"I got it, I got it..." He cut you off while you dried your hands and he began to pour the batter in with ease.
"Well, excuse me." You teased.
After a few minutes, JJ had poured the batter in the tray with minimal effort and he did it near perfect. He took a dramatic bow and winked, eliciting and eye-roll from you as you slid the tray carefully into the oven. Before you could fully close it, JJ spoke.
"Are you sure we can't just a put a little-"
"No weed in the cupcakes!"
feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.
©loveharlow.
#obx fanfiction#obx jj#jj mayback x reader#jj mayback imagine#jj maybank#jj maybank x reader#jj maybank imagine#outer banks#outer banks fanfiction#jj maybank fluff#jj maybank one shot
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Group C, prompt B with you and Charles at his birthday party
pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader
prompt: one person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.
at the head of the table, charles sat with a wide smile on his face, brighter than all the lights that were flashing at him. you sat next to him, smiling just as wide as your boyfriend squeezed your hand under the table.
“c'est fou,” charles shook his head, a laugh of disbelief escaped his lips, “tout ça pour moi?” this is crazy. all of this for me?
your eyes caught arthur’s on the other side of charles. he was frowning, his own eyes rolling at his brother’s words, “et moi, mais s'il te plaît, ignore-moi comme tu le fais toujours.” and me, but please, ignore me like you always do.
“alright, alright, let’s not get carried away,” you giggled, hand already coming up to close charles’ mouth just as it opened, “no fighting at your shared birthday celebration, please.”
arthur gave you a sickly sweet smile, “me? fight with my stupid older brother? never!”
“hey,” charles pushed arthur’s head away with one finger on his forehead, “if i’m stupid, what does that make you, huh? et je suis plus âgé que toi, traite-moi avec respect.” and i’m older than you, treat me with respect.
“tu dois mériter mon respect, je ne vais pas te le donner comme ça,” arthur leaned back in his seat smugly, “essayez plus fort.” you need to deserve my respect, i won’t just give it to you. try harder.
pascale came around, yanking arthur by his ear, “tu marches sur une fine couche de glace, gamin. traite ton frère avec respect, je ne te le redemanderai pas.” you're walking on thin ice, kid. treat your brother with respect, i'm not gonna ask you again.
charles smirked, sticking his tongue out at arthur. pascale turned to her older son, rolling her eyes while smacking him across the back of his head, “charles, s'il te plaît, arrête de te comporter comme un enfant. tu as vingt-cinq ans maintenant, arrête de contrarier ton frère.” charles, please stop behaving like a child. you're twenty five now, stop antagonizing your brother.
charles frowned, hand coming up to rub his head, “ah, ok, ok. maman, vous m'embarrassez.” ah, okay, okay. mom, you're embarrassing me.
pascale narrowed her eyes at him, “tu peux penser que tu es un crack, mais tu es toujours mon fils et j'ai le droit de te gronder quand et comme bon me semble.” you might think you're some hotshot, but you're still my son and i get to scold you whenever and however i see fit.
your loud laughter caused several heads to turn your way. you hid your face behind your hands, shoulder shaking as charles whined at you to stop laughing.
“amour, please,” charles grabbed your hand, tugging it down, though you wouldn’t let him, “this is so embarrassing. defend me!”
you wiped under your eyes, hoping no makeup got smudged with the tears that formed from your laughter, “i am sorry, my love, but i can’t defend you. la mère sait toujours ce qui est le mieux.” mother always knows best.
pascale smiled at you, hand smoothing down your hair before she leaned over and pressed a kiss to your head, “ah, my favourite child,” she glared at her two boys who were looking at the two of you, “you guys should learn something from her.”
pascale walked away soon after, with arthur following behind her spewing complaints, leaving you with a pouting charles.
you giggled, “why are you pouting?”
charles’ pout deepened and he crossed his arms, moving his body away from you. to think this man had turned twenty-five today, you refused to believe it.
“oh, so i’m getting the silent treatment now?” more silence, “well, this is highly unfair. can i know why, at least?”
charles’ eyes flitted back to you. he stayed quiet for a second before breathing deeply, “you didn’t defend me.”
you held back the laugh that threatened to escape, “charles, are you serious right now?”
charles turned towards you, a deep frown on his face, “le plus grave.” the most serious.
you rolled your eyes, “you’re acting like a baby.”
charles said nothing, arms still crossed at his chest and a furrow in his eyebrows.
you sighed, “fine, i’m sorry i didn’t defend you. i promise i won’t leave you hanging like that ever again.”
his pout returned, “i don’t believe you.”
you leaned closer, lips pressing against his pout. you pulled away shortly after, charles unwilling to cave.
his pout remained, although his eyes showed slight flashes of amusement. you hummed, “guess i’ll just have to try again.”
you leaned forward once again, this time pecking his mouth multiple times before pressing a single long kiss against his lips, hard. seconds into the kiss, you felt his lips quiver, pout transforming into a smile. his teeth just barely grazed your lips before he pulled back, unable to keep his laughter down.
his shoulders shook as he shook his head, “fine, fine, i believe you.”
“good,” you smiled, leaning back in your seat, “now, stop acting like a drama queen. you’re worse than arthur.”
charles’ laughter stopped, eyes wide as he stared at your side profile. he gasped, “you did not.”
you gave him a saccharine smile, “oh, but i did.”
#— kisses for 500#f1 driver x reader#f1 imagine#fluff#ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ writes#f1 imagines#formula 1 x reader#formula 1#formula 1 imagine#formula one#drabble#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#timestamp#drabbles#formula 1 one shot#formula one fic#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc drabble#cl16#cl16 drabble#charles leclerc x you#f1 blurb#f1 x you#f1 fic#charles leclerc fanfic
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Guidelines // NSFW Prompts // Pinned Post
Kyle Week 2024 is a character appreciation event that will run from May 20th - May 26th. Each day has two prompts to choose from, of which you can do anything: write, draw, edit, make a playlist, whatever you like!
La Kyle Week 2024 es un evento creado para mostrar nuestro cariño y apreciacion por el personaje, y se desarrolla desde el día 20 de Mayo hasta el 26 del mismo mes. ¡Cada día encontrarás dos temáticas entre las que elegir, que puedes usar para crear cualquier contenido que gustes; como escribir, dibujar, editar, crear playlists, etc!
SFW PROMPTS – TEMÁTICA SFW
Day 1: Family, Sports – Día 1: Familia, Deportes
Day 2: Animals, Fairy Tale – Día 2: Animales, Cuentos de hadas
Day 3: Yandere, Genderbend – Día 3: Yandere, Genderbend
Day 4: Favorite Kyle Ship, Favorite Kyle Costume/Outfit – Día 4: Tu ship favorita con Kyle, Tu disfraz/atuendo favorito de Kyle.
Day 5: School Photo, Clothes Swap – Día 5: Foto escolar, Cambio de atuendo
Day 6: Free Day – Día 6: Día libre
Day 7: Birthday, Adult/Post Covid – Día 7: Cumpleaños, Adulto/Post covid
Further explanation and suggestions for themes are listed below. – Puedes encontrar explicaciones y sugerencias para los temas aquí abajo.
Day 1 / Día 1:
Family: The Broflovskis (parents, brother, cousin Kyle, your own headcanons) Kyle’s children (fanon, canon), etc.
Familia: Los Broflovskis (padres, hermano, el primo Kyle, tus propios headcanons), Los hijos de Kyle (tanto canon como fanon), etc.
Sports: Whether he’s a spectator, a player, or a hater, there’s something for him!
Deportes: Tanto si es espectador, o jugador, o hater, ¡cualquier cosa que puedas imaginar!
Day 2 / Día 2:
Animals: Pets, his elephant, Willzyx, Kyle as an animal (or animal traits!), animals you associate with him, ones that he doesn’t like?
Animales: Mascotas, su elefante, Willzyx, Kyle como un animal (¡o con rasgos de animales!), animales que asocies con él, ¿o quizá animales que no le gustan?
Fairy Tale: Little Red Riding Kyle, his favorite story, or your own spin on fantasy!
Cuentos de hadas: Kyle caperucita roja, su fábula favorita, ¡o tu propia historia o mundo de fantasía!
Day 3 / Día 3:
Yandere: Maybe Kyle is a closet freak, or maybe someone else lurks within the darkness. ;)
Yandere: Quizá Kyle está un poquito loco… o quizá hay alguien en las sombras que está loquito por él.
Genderbend: Panderverse, your own fem Kyle design, Kyle is the only one who stays the same? You choose!
Genderbend: Panderverse, tu diseño femenino favorito de Kyle, Kyle siendo él único que es un chico entre sus amigos… ¡Tú decides!
Day 4 / Día 4:
Favorite Kyle Ship: Any and all ships are welcome, including OCxCanon!
Tu ship favorita de Kyle: Todas las ships son bienvenidas, ¡incluidas OCxCanon!
Favorite Kyle Outfit: His favorite, your favorite, his partner’s favorite!
Tu atuendo de Kyle favorito: bueno, tu favorito, o el de Kyle, ¡o el de su pareja!
Day 5 / Día 5:
School Photo: Will we finally get a smile?
Foto escolar: ¿Conseguiremos que finalmente sonría?
Clothes Swap: Kyle in M4’s clothes, Kyle in Asuka’s (NGE) clothes, whatever!
Cambio de atuendo: Kyle con la ropa de los otros M4, Kyle con el outfit de Asuka de Evangelion… ¡lo que sea!
Day 6 / Día 6:
Free Day: Anything that your heart desires!
Día libre: ¡Lo que sea que tu corazón desee!
Day 7 / Día 7:
Birthday: Party time!
Cumpleaños: ¡De fiesta!
Adult/Post Covid: Age Kyle up like a Sim. PC designs or your own takes are more than welcome! Stick him in an office, take him on a vacation!
Adulto/Post Covid: Cambialé la edad a Kyle como a un Sim. Cualquier versión, tanto su canon Post Covid, como tus propios headcanons, ¡son bienvenidas! Métele a chambear en una oficina, o llevátelo de vacaciones!
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Loosing Control (Jordan Nobbs x Reader)
Warnings: none
a/n: for my well being, i’m going to pretend Jordan is still with arsenal!! also, jordan is the love interest and plays a big part in the story but it’s also kind of an arsenal x reader fix. based on this request:
Prompt: In which fans were getting disrespectful ( i’ll be using this prompt a lot bcs i love it )
You loved playing at the Emirates. It was one of your favorite stadiums to play at, behind Wembley. But, with big stadiums, came more fans, and usually you loved the environment they brought. The cheers, the happiness, the support… it was always welcome by the Arsenal girls. Except today, it seemed as though people were unusually un-tamed.
It was Leah’s birthday, and the second leg of the quarter final against Bayern, you were 2-0 up at half, and then after. Arsenal was playing amazing. Your girlfriend, Jordan Nobbs got subbed on in the 73 minute. You were worried about her, she wasn’t getting the playing time she deserves. But that was a thought for later. You pushed hard, working to try and keep Bayern out of Manu’s box. As a defender, you were making crucial tackles constantly, and by the end of the game, you just fell down onto your back.
Jordan ran up to you, smiling wildly and kneeling down behind you, doing a drum roll on your stomach. "That was fucking amazing!" She yelled, you let out a laugh and sat up, soon helped up by the smaller girl. You hugged her tightly, then pressing your forehead against hers.
Your bubble popped when you saw the Arsenal girls and staff lining up and holding hands, all of them looking at the fans. You and Jordan ran up to them and you grabbed Leah’s hand in one, and Jordan’s in the other. You all ran up to the fans and lifted your hands in the air, the crowd was wild.
You took a few pictures, and talked to a few of the girls on both teams, consoling Giorgia Stanway. Then, fans started calling your name and you walked over to them, smiling. You signed jerseys, hats, flags, scarves, arms, paper, phone cases. Everything. But it was starting to get a lot. "Y/n!! Look over here! Y/N! WHAT THE HELL DUDE?!" An especially angry man was yelling at you, and most fans around him were eyeing him weirdly. Jordan was signing things beside you and Manu was busy talking to a girl wearing her keeping jersey on your left. You didn’t really notice what was going on in the cluster of thighs being waved at you. But then you heard someone say. "Y/n! Can you sign my cleat?" And then you saw something flying towards you.
The object made collision with your head, making you let out a scream and double over in pain. You rested your hands on your knees, bending over. After a second to recover, you brought your hand to your forehead and felt sticky, wet blood. There was then a hand on your back as you straightened up and placed the entirety of your palm on your cut. When you took away your hand, you saw it covered crimson red. Manu looked at you, worried and then Jordan noticed the commotion as the crowd had gotten quite silent. The people in other sections of the stadium were looking around in confusion and so we’re both teams and their managers. You looked up at the fans, anger you couldn’t hold in on your face. You slipped off your shirt, and then the fans started yelling, thinking you would give it to them. "What the hell is wrong with you guys?!" You yelled, but no one but Manu and Jordan who were at your side heard. Pressing your jersey to your forehead, you walked back to the bench, accompanied by your keeper and girlfriend. "What the hell happened?" Jordan asked, stopping you in the field and placing her hand over yours that was keeping the jersey to your face. She pulled the jersey away gently and looked at the cut before applying pressure with your jersey again. "Some psycho threw their cleat at me. They wanted me to sign it." You said. "You’re joking." Manu said, looking behind her shoulder. "I wish. Shit it fucking hurts." You were now almost at the bench when Jonas and the medical team came rushing up to you. "What happened?" Jonas asked, doing the same gesture Jordan had done and taking the jersey off your forehead. "Someone threw their cleat at her. I’ll kill them! I’m not joking." Jordan snarled. "I’ll kill them too! Let’s go!" Jonas said, "Hey! I’m coming too!" Katie yelled, wobbling on her crutches. They all started to walk towards the section you had just came back from. But most of the Arsenal girls, having noticed a commotion had surrounded you guys now, and Jonas got held back by Stina and Rafaelle, Leah held back little Jordan and Caitlin stepped in front of Katie. "Calm down. Okay everyone take a second to breathe. Let’s go in the tunnel." Stina told the group as loudly as she could.
The medic had replaced your dirty jersey with a wet towel that you were holding to your head as you walked into the tunnel, you walked into the changing room and everyone took places at their cubbies. "Okay girls, we’ll address the… y/n situation-" Jonas started saying as you laughed. "-later. But right now… WERE ON TO THE SEMIS!" He yelled. The group started screaming and jumping out of joy, but you stayed put because the medical examiner was cleaning your cut. "You won’t need stitches. I’ll just put a bandaid over it to keep it closed." The man said. You nodded at him and thanked him. He put on the bandaid, informed Jonas and then walked out. "Do you think they got the person throwing their cleat at you on video?" Katie asked you. "I don’t know. Maybe?" You asked.
There was a TV in the changing room and sooner than you knew it, Leah had turned the broadcasts on and rewinded it. Surely enough, there was a camera panning the stadium just as you got the cleat to the head. You can clearly see how you doubled over and how Manu came rushing to you.
"Ten bucks says I can go back out there and make the person who threw that shoe wish they were never born." Jordan said, only half joking. "I’d pay good money to see that. But you don’t want to end up on those 'when arsenal women loose control' videos on youtube." Caitlin joked. "Oh my god… I yelled. I yelled at the fans when they started screaming for my jersey when I took it off to wipe my blood. Am I gonna be on those videos? I can’t be on those videos. Those are like.. 98% clips of Katie!" You said, making Katie scowl at you even though she knew you were right. "Don’t scowl. You know it’s true." You said to her.
"No one heard you, the stadium was too loud. It’s all good." Manu said, smiling at you from across the room.
You went on to shower and then change, and eventually it was only you and Jordan left in the locker room. "I’m proud of you. You played great." You told her, walking up to her and putting your hands on her waist. She held your arms and smiled at you. "Thank you. It felt good to be on even if it was only for 20 minutes." She told you, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. She leaned in to kiss you, and you kissed, tangling your fingers through her hair. "Let’s go love birds." Kim Little said, peeping through the door way. "We don’t get any privacy, do we?" You laughed, keeping your hands on Jordan as you both looked at Kim. "You’re making out in the changing room like teens. Let’s go." She laughed, walking away. "Sit with me?" You asked, looking back at her. "Why do you always ask me that? I’ve been sitting with you every trip for years." Jordan said, grabbing her bag and yours. "For old times sake. To remember the first time you asked me to sit with you." You said simply.
7 years ago.
It was your first away game since joining Arsenal. You had joined only a month ago, but due to international break and the schedule, all your games had been home games. You were nervous, not wanting to be the one sitting by yourself. You had gotten close with the girls, but you were still shy. Jordan Nobbs had caught your eye, having talked to her a few times. You were 21, and fresh out of the university of Portland. Moving to London… it was hard. But you knew it would be worth it. The team were all waiting at the training centre with their luggage, waiting for the bus that would take them to Manchester for their game against City. You were standing quietly in a circle with a few of your teammates when Jordan came running up, the girl looking even smaller beside her large luggage. "Am I late?" She said, joining the group. "Yep. As always." Leah teased. "Damn it. Don’t tell Pedro." Jordan said. You smiled at yourself, finding her tardiness funny. "What you laughing at?" She teased you, nudging your side. "You." You laughed, looking into her eyes with a smile. Jordan looked back, ignoring the girls who had started up their conversation again. "Hey, sit with me?" She asked. Your eyes widened at the offer, but you nodded. "I’d love too."
#woso fic#woso imagine#woso x reader#woso#arsenal fcw#katie mccabe#leah williamson#caitlin foord#jordan nobbs#georgia stanway
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…Sometimes Not (Part 7)
Hard To Go Back
This is a submission for @choicesflashfics, using prompt #2, “Everything that we were afraid of happening, happened.”
Title inspo: What If I Wasn’t Done Loving You - Fly By Midnight
A/N: This is an au mini series to my Always You story. Thank you @burnsoslow for prereading! Please excuse any errors.
Book/Pairing: TRR; Liam x OC (Reyna)
Rating: T • Warnings: None but some mild language.
Word count: 2500
Catch up here
“We’re almost there. We’re going to slip in through the private entrance,” Reyna said to Maxwell on the phone. “Ok, see you in a few.”
“Are they there?” Liam asked when she hung up.
“Just pulled up,” Reyna smiled.
Liam had arrived in New York the previous day for the UN Gala taking place tomorrow evening. Maxwell, Olivia, and Leo had tagged along for the event, along with some other members of the Cordonian Court.
After spending yesterday relaxing off the jet lag with Reyna at her apartment, Liam suggested going out that night to blow off some steam with her and the others. It was the first time they’d all been together in New York in nearly four years and the first time they’d gone out for a night like this since their Parisian reunion.
As the SUV carrying them turned down a side street toward the club, Liam drummed his fingers against his thigh; he glanced over at Reyna, who was scrolling through her phone, wondering what exactly that night might bring. In the months since reconnecting in Paris, despite his multiple visits to New York and the couple she had made to Cordonia since her return for Leo’s birthday, they hadn’t been drunk together; they hadn’t gone out and let loose like they planned to that night … like they used to before.
In the past, they always had an odd habit of tiptoeing along that line whenever they were drunk; they’d always become more flirty when inebriated, and it would lead to lingering looks and touches, and that would eventually lead to slipping one foot across that line with spur of the moment, drunken stupor kisses that they’d brush off as nothing and ignore afterward as though they didn’t happen.
That was before, however. Before they crossed that line that summer nearly four years ago. Before they confessed their long-held feelings and had become a couple. Before they had been torn apart by circumstance. Before the three years they spent apart.
Looking back, Liam couldn’t help but think that things seemed so much easier then. There was no elephant in the room, no questioning whether any feelings remained because back then, those feelings had been left unsaid; there was no worry of losing her again because he’d never lost her before.
Now, that’s all Liam could think about. He’d been struggling more and more every day with keeping his feelings for her at bay, and it was far worse than it was all those years ago before he ever confessed to them at all. He knew what it was like to be with her, to love her and have her love him in return, what they could be, and it made keeping those feelings to himself this time around much more difficult. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but Reyna seemed perfectly content where they were now — Liam and Reyna, two best friends and nothing more. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that, and he feared confessing he was still in love with her could very well push her away.
And if they crossed any sort of line that night … Liam wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself back over to his side and keep his feelings contained, worried it could destroy any thread of restraint he was holding onto.
“What?”
Liam snapped from his daze, realizing he was still staring at Reyna, and she’d just caught him. “Sorry,” he chuckled sheepishly. “I zoned out.”
“Still jet lagged?” Reyna snorted as the SUV stopped outside of the private entrance.
“I’m fine,” Liam smiled.
Reyna nodded with a grin before she opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk; Liam followed behind her.
****
“Another round of shots!” Leo yelled over the thumping music as he set a full tray down on the table in front of them. They all grabbed one, clinking their glasses together before tossing them back.
They’d been there a couple of hours now, all feeling the effects of the alcohol. And that small space that had been between Liam and Reyna at the start of the night on the velvet sofa they sat on was now non-existent. They were huddled together with no room left between them at all, having inched closer together with each drink.
Reyna knew what could happen going into that night. She remembered all too well how she and Liam could get when they had more than a few drinks in them; she remembered every drunken moment they’d ever shared.
When Liam first mentioned going out, Reyna was almost hesitant. Almost. She’d been struggling with her feelings for Liam and the way they were taking over every thought, and she was worried about what she would do or say having that liquid courage coursing through her. It didn’t take all but a few seconds for her stupid heart to have her agreement to go out spilling from her lips, though, even telling him that he could crash at her place, offering him the spare room so he didn’t have to worry about any press outside the hotel seeing him arrive back so late. She tried convincing herself that things were different now, that the way they used to act was years ago, and that they would both be able to control it. She had to control it.
With each drink she had, however, the less and less Reyna seemed to care despite knowing better. And thus the game begun with the lingering stares and smiles, the inconspicuous touches, and the way they had inched closer throughout the night.
Reyna grabbed two more shot glasses from the tray and turned, handing one to Liam. He took it, offering a lopsided grin as a thank you. “What’re we toasting to?”
“To us,” Reyna smiled as she hooked her arm around his; they locked eyes before tipping back the glasses. “Come dance with me!” She stood and grabbed his hand; he went with no hesitation, following her out of the VIP section to the dance floor.
“So, are we going to take bets on how long this round of ‘we’re just friends’ is going to last?” Leo asked.
“Who knows with those two,” Olivia scoffed before tossing back a drink.
Maxwell laughed as he set an empty shot glass on the table. “They spent 10 years doing it last time.”
“So another 10 then, yeah?” Leo snorted.
“No. Absolutely not,” Olivia shook her head. “I cannot do another 10 years of that. I’ll lock them in one of my damn cells before that happens again.”
“Cheers to that,” Leo chuckled, raising another glass in salute before tipping it back.
****
In the early hours of the morning, Liam and Reyna laughed as they stumbled their way down the sidewalk with her arm looped through his to help steady her steps. While Leo, Maxwell, and Olivia headed back to their hotel, they opted to stop at a diner for something to eat before walking back to her apartment, hoping the fresh air would help sober them up a bit.
When they entered her building and stepped into the elevator, Reyna stared at the buttons; she attempted to push the one for her floor but missed three times before Liam stepped in. “Let me,” he snorted and she laughed and stumbled back before he hit the button.
“Thanks,” Reyna giggled as she rested back against the wall.
“Tonight was fun,” Liam said, coming to lean against the wall beside her. “I haven’t had a night out like this in a long time.”
“Glad I could help,” Reyna grinned as she looked up at him.
Liam stared down at her, unable to stop his eyes from dropping to her full lips. He could feel that all-too-familiar pull, not even realizing that he started to imperceptibly lean down, as if some kind of magnetic force was pulling him in.
Suddenly, the elevator chimed and jerked to a stop, pulling Liam from his momentary daze. When the doors slid open, he shot upright off the wall as Reyna, who hadn’t seemed to notice what he’d been doing, pushed herself forward and stepped into the hallway. He trailed behind her, following her to her door.
When they entered her apartment, Reyna let out a relieved breath as she kicked her heels off and tossed her bag onto the counter. She walked to the refrigerator and opened it, pulling out two bottles of water. “Here,” she said, tossing one to Liam; she laughed as he fumbled it in his hands before grasping hold of it. “Come on. I have stuff for your bed.”
They walked down the hall into Reyna’s room and Liam saw a folded blanket and a pillow on the floor. “These?”
“Yeah,” Reyna nodded as she shrugged off the lightweight leather jacket she had on before tossing it over the back of her desk chair.
Liam picked up the pillow, fluffing it before looking at her bed. He dropped it and reached over, grabbing one of hers. “I want this one.”
“What’s the difference?” Reyna chuckled. “They’re both feather-down.”
“This one is more broken in,” Liam said; he squeezed it to his chest as he subtly inhaled the scent of her perfume that lingered there.
“That makes zero sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Liam retorted.
“That’s my pillow. This …” Reyna bent down and grabbed the one he dropped, hiding her mischievous grin. “This is yours.” She came up, swinging the pillow with her, smacking Liam in the side of the face.
Silence filled the room as Reyna stifled a laugh, waiting for Liam to react. He stretched his neck before slowly nodding, clicking his tongue as he looked at her. “You’re done.”
Before she could move, Liam swung the pillow, smacking her in the side of the stomach with an audible thwack, causing her to yelp. Reyna laughed as she swung back and sidestepped to dodge his next attack. The sound of the pillows hitting them filled the room, mingling with their laughter and the shuffling of their feet as they tried to outmaneuver the other.
Feathers began flying around them as the pillows started to rip, but neither stopped, swinging wildly through bouts of laughter, grunts, and yelps. It wasn’t until there was nothing left in his pillow that Liam had no choice but to stop; Reyna started to swing at him again, but he tackled her onto the feather-covered bed before she could make contact.
Both out of breath and laughing, Reyna looked up at Liam as he hovered over her … and suddenly, time slowed down. Remnants of feathers floated down around them as he stared at her; their smiles started to fade, and neither was sure who moved first, but in the next moment, their lips connected.
The kiss was desperate and filled with passion, too much yet not nearly enough.
Liam sighed against her lips, swearing he could feel life being breathed back into him as his tongue curled against hers. He pinned one of her hands above her as her other curled around his neck at the same moment her legs wrapped around his waist. When she deepened the kiss even more and arched her body into his, a low groan escaped him, but there was a whisper of a voice in the back of his head: not like this.
When Liam drew back from her lips, both their chests were heaving. “Rey—” His whisper was cut off when she lifted her head and kissed him again, earning another quiet groan from him. That voice got louder, however. He couldn’t reconnect with her in that way like this, inebriated and unsure of where they even stood. Somehow, despite the alcohol and the way his body thrummed and ached for more of her — to feel her, touch her, taste her — he drew back again. “Rey, wait …”
Reyna’s eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze as his hand shifted to her chin; he brushed his thumb against her lower lip, and she had to force herself not to kiss him again, knowing they needed to stop. “We shouldn’t,” they both whispered in unison before offering sheepish smiles, knowing what the other was trying to say. “Jinx.”
Liam closed his eyes, and when he felt Reyna’s legs fall from around his waist, he sighed before reluctantly shifting his body off hers; he dropped next to her on the bed, and they both stared up at the ceiling in conflicted silence.
*******
The following evening, Liam stood at the bar in the ballroom of the hotel where the UN gala was being held. As he waited for his refill, his eyes settled on Reyna; she was chatting with her parents, Maxwell, and Olivia.
Like in the past, they didn’t talk about the kiss they shared the night before. After helping her clean up the feathery mess they made, he’d gone to the spare room and went to bed; when they’d woken up that morning, it was never mentioned. They’d spent the day together, got ready for the gala together, and had been at each other’s sides all evening … still, it wasn’t mentioned.
It was all Liam had been able to think about, however. He wondered what would’ve happened had he not stopped it, and wondered what, if anything, it meant to her.
Reyna glanced over from where she stood next to her father, watching Liam make his way out onto the balcony. She quietly excused herself and started after him. That kiss they shared last night had been all she could think about all day, and she needed to talk to him.
In the past, they always flouted those unspoken boundaries between them when they drank. Unlike those moments in the past, however, they had a deeper, more entangled history this time around. They didn’t have to talk about it before, but she couldn’t help but feel like they should talk about it now.
Last time, everything that they were afraid of happening, happened. They crossed that line and the one thing that kept them from doing so all those years became a reality: they lost each other.
They couldn’t do it again.
“Getting some fresh air?” Reyna asked as she stepped onto the balcony.
Liam turned with his scotch in hand and smiled. “Yeah.” He saw her holding a water bottle; he noticed she’d had nothing but water all evening. “Had enough to drink last night?” he quipped.
Reyna smiled as she leaned against the balustrade beside him and looked out at the city below. “Something like that …”
Despite her adding a quiet laugh at the end, her tone of voice told him there was more behind that statement and something weighing on her. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah.” Reyna met his gaze again. “Last night … and that kiss …”
Liam subtly stiffened, surprised she was bringing it up. “Oh …?” Did that mean she’d been thinking about it like he had?
“I don’t … I don’t know if it’s a good idea for us to venture down that road, Li.”
“What road?” Liam questioned.
Reyna sighed. “With our history, I mean … yeah, we used to have those kinds of slip-ups in the past when we would drink together, but that was before … before everything else happened. And I just … I don’t want things to get … complicated because of it.”
It took everything inside Liam to mask the sting he felt from her words and what she was saying: it can’t happen again. “No, I, uh … I get it. Like you said, it was a slip-up … just a heat of the moment kind of thing.”
“Yeah … exactly,” Reyna nodded, dropping his gaze. “We were drunk. That’s all it was.” She lifted her eyes back to his. “Right?”
Liam blinked, wondering if she was asking for confirmation for any reason in particular, but then that fear of history repeating itself, the same fear he didn’t know she was also feeling, snapped him back to reality. Instead of telling her the truth — no, that’s not all it was, not to him — the thought of losing her again flashed in his mind, choking off the confession.
“Right,” Liam nodded. “It was our first night out like that … we just got wrapped up in it,” he lied, struggling to maintain the feigned conviction in his voice. “And I get what you’re saying. I don’t want things to get complicated either.”
Despite knowing this was for the best, his words still stung, but Reyna shook it off. “Ok,” she nodded. “So … we’re good?”
Liam offered a halfhearted smile as he pulled her into a hug that she eagerly returned. “Of course we are …”
***************************************
Perma Tags (if you’d like to be added or removed for this story, please let me know): @zaffrenotes @cocomaxley @emichelle @sweetest-marbear @indiacater @gibbles82 @the-soot-sprite @esmckenzie @dcbbw @burnsoslow @deb-1106 @bbrandy2002 @txemrn @charlotteg234 @kat-tia801 @neotericthemis @foreverethereal123 @choiceskatie @sirbeepsalot @gnatbrain @openheart12 @sincerelyella @superharriet @queenrileyrose @aestheticartsx @kingliam2019 @indiana-jr @bascmve01 @rainbowsinthestorm @emkay512 @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @forallthatitsworth @walker7519 @iaminlovewithtrr @amandablink @mainstreetreader @mom2000aggie @princessleac1 @21-wishes @appleone @tessa-liam @pixelatedpassion @malblk21
#the royal romance#trr#choices the royal romance#choices trr#liam rys#king liam rys#liam x oc#trr liam x oc#choices liam x oc#king liam x oc#trr liam#king liam#trr fanfic#trr fanfiction#trr fan fiction#choices trr fanfic#trr au#choices trr au#trr au fanfic#choicesflashfics#cfwc fics of the week
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Anon rebelde
Como bien señalas en la cena hay matrimonios entonces, que impide que Cait acuda a la misma con el que dice que es su esposo? O ese *esposo solo le sirve de vez en cuando para para calentar los ánimos en un fandom fácilmente caldeable? Ya sabemos que Sam está en Londres así que Cait no puede estar allí y en Glasgow tampoco, esas obras no acaban nunca 🤣
Dear (returning) Anon Rebelde,
Y muy reactiva, hoy. 😉 Como se dice en Chile: 'a ver, a ver/por qué llora esta mujer'?
'As you very well observed, there were couples invited to that dinner. So, why would Cait not be there with the one she says it's her husband? Or would that be that the *husband* is only useful once in a while, to fire up tempers in a fandom that's easily heated? We know that Sam is in London, so Cait cannot be there or in Glasgow, so it never ends. 🤣'
You know I agree with everything you wrote, spare one detail: S was apparently not in LHR in October, when the Belfast dinner took place. I had to go look at my archives and make some sense of the context. And although I am not Marple, I couldn't help but notice last October was a very active networking/promo/shit show month for both of them, as the SAG-AFTRA strike was still not over yet.
Just a short summing up:
October 4, 2023 - C's 44th birthday and another mysterious donation to Project CaiTreena/One Tree Planted. S in NYC for drinks and Departures interview with Sophie Mancini. Fandom gets ballistic speculating - an empty 💩, of course.
October 5, 2023 - S in NYC for the Keepers of the Quaich US Chapter gala, with Norouzi (as I predicted) and Mancini. C's whereabouts unknown - not the US, I suppose. Maybe in LHR, re-enacting that Prophet Song excerpt, on behalf of the Booker Prize?
October 8, 2023 - C spotted in LHR for Harrods Iconic Dining Hall Relaunch hosted by Stanley Tucci, with McIdiot (the only time, that month!). Hullaballo ensues for something very close to a nothing burger. S supposedly in GLA, as shown by FaceTime snippet convo with Amanda Tutschek, Venice Beach topless artist extraordinaire. Date of above FaceTime snippet - unknown.
October 10, 2023 - S confirmed in GLA, likely latergram (IG SS gin pics taken on own driveway). C confirmed in LHR, first by Gareth Bromell, then by Getty Image pics at Loewe Foundation's Studio Voltaire Award. Sans McIdiot.
October 17, 2023 - S signs APUK's Palestine letter, whereabouts unknown (my bet is on NYC/Nevis). C confirmed in LHR at the Portia Coughlan play Press Night/After Party, Almeida Theatre. Sans McIdiot, but with Tobias. LOL.
October 19, 2023 - S on Jimmy Fallon's Tonight Show, in NYC. Ring ding ding proves to be a very effective lookie here, not there prop. C's whereabouts unknown, as S's in the October 10-17 interval (Nevis? both? That would be my best bet, and yeah, go ahead and screech. I DGAF).
October 25, 2023 - S confirmed in GLA, despite posting 'from Nevis' the same day and shirtless thirst trap the next day. C's whereabouts unknown? Not really, I should say.
Back to the Northern Irish dinner - bear with me, Anon Rebelde, I am trying to pinpoint a date, here. Begin Again, Jeffers' book that prompted it, was out in the US on October 2 and in UK/Canada and Ireland on October 10:
October was a dementedly busy month for the author, as shown by the excruciating dates of his North American and UK book launch tours (https://www.oliverjeffers.com/begin-again-book-tour):
One of the events surrounding this launch was held at Belfast's Crescent Arts Centre in partnership with No Alibis Bookstore, on October 24. Best thing? He is dressed exactly like in the NYT article pics.
My best bet is that dinner took place in Belfast on October 24, Anon Rebelde or at the latest on October 25 (next to 0 chance, given the identical attire, but let's allow some margin of error to our estimate).
As for Jeffers' position on the Israel-Hamas Gaza War (which, may I remind you, started on October 7), I think this is a very clear statement:
You draw your own conclusions, Anon Rebelde. I am here to try and bring some clarity in a shitstorm, not brainwash you.
Always waiting for your input, which is much appreciated! Hasta luego, hija de la rebeldía!
youtube
PS: The timeline game was fucking exhausting. I am not the Securitate, so you won't see me play at that any time soon :)
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for a fun prompt: the crew of the starblaster celebrating the 69th birthdays of their human members
I went pretty far off script with this prompt but I think it’s still entertaining haha.
——
“I can’t have a crush on her, Merle!” Barry tugged anxiously at his hair, pacing back and forth so forcefully that he was liable to wear a hole in the carpet. “She’s, like, 110 years old! That’s barely adult for an elf! I’d be dating a twenty year old!”
“Ehhh, elf ages and human ages are both dumb,” Merle said, poking distractedly at the little potted plant in his lap. It gave a disconcerting, entirely un-plant-like hiss. “Even more so, now that we’re in some kinda funky reset loop. If you like her, you like her, and if she likes you she likes you. Why get hung up on the details?”
“But she’s— I’m— we’re—” Barry stopped in the middle of the floor to gesticulate madly. Tiny, confused fireworks of prestidigitation popped in his fingers. His shoulders slumped all at once. “I mean, she probably doesn’t even see me that way,” he mumbled.
“You know, for all you’re sayin’ you’re the one who’s too old for this relationship, you sure are acting like a kid,” Merle said cheerfully. He tickled the underside of a leaf on the plant, which promptly opened like a jaw a bit him. “Ooh, feisty little guy!” Merle said to the plant. He seemed entirely unconcerned by the blood now oozing from his finger and the thorns still buried in him. “All this drama over a crush! And you’re worried you’re too old for the interdimensional astronaut elf! Come on, Barry. I mean, by that standard, I’m decades too old for half the plants I’ve—”
“I am begging you not to finish that sentence.”
Merle grinned at him. “The point is— I mean, how old even are ya?”
“I’m fifty— no, hang on.” Barry mouthed to himself, counting silently. “How many cycles are we on? Sixteen?”
“Beats me,” Merle said. He was stroking the edge of the leaf that was still embedded in his finger. Something yellow and nasty was starting to ooze out of the wound along with the blood.
“No, crap, seventeen, I forgot about the hamster wheel planet.”
“Oh yeah! Your whiskers were adorable.”
“Are you going to heal your finger?”
“Aww, the little guy’s just playing, don’t mind him,” Merle said. “So seventeen cycles puts you at…?”
Barry stared up at the ceiling. “It’s almost the autumn equinox, isn’t it? Oh man, Merle, I turn 69 next week.” He started pulling his hair again. “Merle, I’m almost seventy!”
“Hey, congrats, you’re narrowing the age gap!”
“That’s not how this works!” Barry rubbed a hand over his face. “Merle, that plant is poisoning you, and I am not wasting a diamond to raise you if you keel over on me.”
“Alright, alright!” Merle, who had been turning faintly green and yellow, like his entire body was a fading bruise, said. “Sheesh, you’d think I never heal anything unless I’m told.” He extricated his finger from the plant and with a short murmur, the wound zipped closed and the poison dissipated beneath his skin. “The point is, Barry, maybe it’s hard to see because you’re human, and you can only see it from a human perspective, but adulthood is weird when you live a long time.” Merle shrugged. “I don’t know all that much about elves, but I know they don’t stay in their mom’s skirts until they hit their first century. A hundred years is still a hundred years, even if you feel it a bit differently. She might think you’re the little kid here. Either way, you’ll never know if you don’t talk to her about it.”
Barry sighed. “As usual, Merle, you’re somehow both a lot of help and no help at all.”
Merle gave him a broad grin. “I strive for oxymorons!” he said. “By the way, when did you say your birthday was?”
“Huh? Oh, next week. But it’s not like we’ve been celebrating—”
“Next week! Got it!” Merle hopped off his chair and waddled to the door. “Don’t you dare die before then, Barry!”
Barry was left behind in Merle’s bedroom with a hissing plant, somehow now much more worried about his birthday than he was about Lup.
*
A week later, with no further word from Merle, Barry had almost forgotten his birthday was coming, until he walked into the Starblaster’s common room one morning in a ratty t-shirt and sleep jeans to his entire family around a cake in the shape of a giant 69, shouting in bellowed chorus, “NICE BIRTHDAY, BARRY!”
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Demon Ritual at 3AM Gone Wrong.
Prompt: Academically Smart Reader who summons young Demon Sae Itoshi through a 2013 emo blog. Except Reader’s lowk stupid.
————————————-
You didnt think the demon summoning ritual youd found online was actually going to work.
But it did. As stupid as it was, you were bored out of your mind with the fact you were taking a gap year. Nothing to do, and your social battery was not yet ready for a meetup with your friends.
And so, one (un)faithful night, when you were left alone in the confines of your house, you decided to be daring-if that was the right word. You’d graduated college with high honors, you could afford to be a little stupid for once.
And of course, you’d decided ‘summoning’ a demon would be the thing to cure your boredom.
After picking some lackluster blog site from 2013, you read through the brightly lettered instructions listed out before you. ‘Good god. I forgot how saturated everything was back then..’ You muttered under your breath with squinted eyes.
First step, choose a location.
You chose to do the supposed ‘ritual’ in your living room- for a few reasons. One being that, in the case where anything did go wrong, youd have an easy escape through the windows.
And two- so you could blast Gee by Girls Generation on the TV as you performed the ritual. The rules didnt say anything about music being forbidden after all.
Second step, cover your chosen area in a large ring of salt.
You were tempted to draw multiple rings, just to see what would happen. Alas, you stuck to the rules as you hummed ‘if he liked it then he shoulda put a ring on it,’ on repeat, circling around until a white ring was formed.
Third step, draw a circle and pentagram within the circle with chalk.
Luckily your brother was an art fanatic. You snatched one of his white pieces of chalk, and proceeded to draw.
By the end of it, your back was starting to hurt.
Fourth step, candles.
You placed a candle for each point of the pentagram, lighting them with the match youd found in the kitchen. God, you’d always had a certain.. fear, of fire ever since your granddad accidentally set fire to your hair on your 2nd birthday.
Fifth step, an offering.
You deadpanned when you read it. ‘An offering?’ You repeated to yourself, wondering if your brother would be fine with the proposal.
You decided against it, opting to offer a random necklace you’d found in your bag one day. (You still dont know just where it came from.)
You placed the necklace in the center of the circle, and now, you held your phone in your hands, about to recite the words from the website.
Eyes narrowed, you hesitantly stumbled over your words. ‘Saecula..Saeculorum..’ You said. ‘God what mind of name is this..’
You shook your head, resuming. ‘Be my friend, be my friend..?’
A moment of silence.
You waited for a second longer, before you felt the amusement bubble inside you as you started chuckling. You stood up, stretching as you grinned.
‘Who was i kidding. A demon ritual?’ You laughed. ‘Please, its not like this was ever going to work-‘
And suddenly, you saw flashed of light emitting from the centre of the circle. Ruby red, and emerald green.
What the hell.
You blinked more times than should have been humanely possible. Maybe your vision had gotten worse after all?..
Then, a man appeared, through some kind of warp hole in the ground that dissapeared as soon as it came. A handsome one at that. Long red hair that didnt reach below his neck, sharp emerald eyes. His slitted pupils latching onto your offerred necklace with curiosity.
Except, was he really a man if he had horns and a tail?
The horns that matched the colour of his hair; only being a darker shade. They looked smooth, reaching from the sides of his head up. His tail, slim and somewhat elegant, the tip thrashing back and forth.
You were stunned, a clear look of disbelief on your face.
The boy-demon, whatever he was, who had just appeared in your living room, suddenly turned his gaze towards you. You felt exposed, seeing that sharp gaze directed at you, and not the necklace.
You could only feel pity, and a sense of relation to the piece of jewellery that had suffered his stare for so long.
The ‘creature’ tilted his head, making a dismissive sound. ‘I suppose your offering has been more satisfactory than i would have expected.’ He-it said.
You continued staring, whether from awe, confusion or disbelief, you didnt know. ‘My.. my offering?’ You repeated dumbly.
The boy-demon simply held out the piece of jewellery. ‘The necklace. Or are you simply that forgetful and unaware?’ He said bluntly.
You finally snapped out of it, eyes narrowed in clear as day confusion. ‘Hold on, let’s backtrack here. Who the hell are you?’
A simple, slight tilt of his head back. ‘Dont you mean what am i, human?’
‘To put it simply,’ He started off, voice smooth. ‘I am a demon of the Itoshi bloodline, who has finally, and tragically been summoned.’ He sighed, seeming not too much bothered by the whole situation.
You deadpanned again, looking at him with a blank look as though your head was in the clouds. Eventually, you just said the first thing that came to mind.
‘What.’
The Itoshi sighed, dreadfully. ‘Dont tell me i have to repeat myself again. Are all humans this stupid?’ He muttered, tail lashing.
You shook your head. ‘No, no i mean, i get..? that youre a demon. Or well, kind of. This really just feels like a fever dream.’
You leaned closer curiously, eyes wide with that same look of curiosity and awe. ‘What i mean is.. How are you a demon?’
A quirk of his brow. ‘What do you mean by that?’
You leaned back, crossing your arms as you looked to the side. ‘I guess, i expected demons to be a lot.. uglier.’ You shrugged.
‘You even look human!’ You exclaimed, marvelling inside at his pretty face. ‘Well, besides the horns and tail.’ You pointed out, refusing the urge to touch them out of curiosity.
He shrugged. ‘Demons do look like humans, like you said. In fact, im pretty sure some demons have blended in into human society.’
‘Like Andrew Tate!’ You exclaimed.
The Itoshi deadpanned. ‘I dont know who that is. But yeah, i suppose.’
A moment of silence passed by, with the both of you staring at the other. You were too busy and caught up with admiring him to notice he was doing the same to you.
‘Say, I didnt get your name.’ You muttered.
And you wouldnt. Because just as you said that, you saw the familliar glare of lights pulling into the driveway.
‘Shit!’ You cursed, before grabbing the startled demon’s hand and half running, half dragging him upstairs to your room. Crashing through the door, you pushed him into your closet. He only deadpanned at you through the dark, surprisingly comfortable.
———————————-
You had to explain to your parents that you were doing an arts/science collaboration experiment.
They didnt believe you. But as long as you werent dealing weed and you cleaned up the mess after, they let you off the hook this once.
Once finished with your horrible at best excuse, you backed off, hands behind your back, and an uneasy smile on your face. As soon as you were out of sight, you swiftly sprinted upstairs.
When you peeked through your closet door, you were surprised when you still saw those same emerald eyes piercing back into you.
‘Youre still here.’ You said quietly, the hints of an amused smile on your face.
Though, the demon only huffed. ‘Yeah, and now i cant go back.’
‘Youve just trapped me on earth, until you reverse the ritual, that is.’
#Sae itoshi x reader#sae x reader#Bllk x reader#blue lock x reader#bllk imagines#bllk scenarios#sae itoshi#sae x y/n#Itoshi sae fluff#bllk x reader#bllk x you#blue lock#blue lock imagines#blue lock fic#Sae bllk x reader#Sae blue lock X reader#Sae blue lock#sae blue lock#Sae itoshi imagines#sae imagines#sae headcanons
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Pedri Gonzalez (FCBarcelona) - Holy
Requested: yup
Prompt: 18) "Are you drunk?"
Warnings: mentions of alcohol, drinking, etc
Y/n was awoken in the middle of the night by her phone ringing loudly. She could have sworn she had it on silent, but that was just her luck. She groaned and turned to her phone, the light almost blinding her. She read the caller ID; Pedrizou. She rubbed her eyes and answered. "I know you're out but you need to not call me at this time when I have to be up early tomorrow."
"Y/n? This is Pablo." His teammate? "Pablo, what's going on?" Y/n asked, sitting up. "We're at the playground outside your apartment building. I tried to tell people that we know someone that lives here but they wouldn't let us up and you wouldn't answer the door so I had to call you." He said. "Why couldn't you bring him back to his house?" She asked, grabbing her jumper, ready to go downstairs. "He didn't want his family to see him this way and thought his brother would record him and put it up everywhere." Pablo explained. "And he couldn't go back to yours?"
"Not after last time." He was of course referring to a couple months ago at Pablo's 18th birthday when him and Pedri got so wasted, Pedri ended up climbing on a table and dancing until he nearly fell off. "Okay, okay, I'm coming now." She opened her apartment and brought the keys with her. She quickly walked down the stairs, nearly tripping once or twice. As Y/n walked out of the apartment building, she heard the drunk chatter of Pedri across the road. It was shocking he could be that loud. She watched as the two Pablo's watched him. Pablo Torre with his hands in his pockets walking about the swing set, while Gavi sat on one of the swings beside Pedri. "Puedes empujarme, Papi?" Pedri cackled at his words, Gavi chuckling along quietly. "Te empujaré frente a un autobús si no te callas. La gente está tratando de dormir, tío." Torre muttered. "You don't have to push him, I've got him." Y/n called over. The three men looked over to Y/n crossing the road. "What did he have to drink?" She asked, her arms "Too much." Torre replied. "No, really?"
"Quiero ver Los Morancos." Pedri slurred, on the verge of falling off the swing. "Vale Pepi, vamos." She said, walking over to help him up. "Do you need help with him?" Torre asked. "No, it's fine. I have him." She groaned as he was practically hanging onto her. "If you're sure." Gavi added. "Seriously. Go home, I've got it from here. Gracias." She smiled and bid the pair of Spaniards goodnight.
It took a long time to get Pedri up to her apartment. The block didn't have a working elevator and the stairs were a headwreck, especially with Pedri having strange questions at almost every floor. "Okay, come on. This is it." She said. Y/n felt aggravated. That wasn't a secret at the moment, but with one of her good friends being drunk beside her, he obviously didn't see it. She put him leaning against the wall beside her and unlocked the door. "We need to make more Barcelona chants." Pedri laughed. "Pedri, get inside."
"You're so kind." He laughed again, falling in the door. "Pedri!" Y/n helped him back up only to see a lazy smile on his lips as if he hadn't just fallen. "I think I love you." Pedri said, a smile on his face. "Are you drunk?" She asked, laughing as if he was joking. "I still love you." He sang. "Pepi, you need to be quiet. My neighbours are trying to sleep." She whisper shouted. "I want everyone to hear it." Y/n sprung forward and covered his mouth with her hands to muffle his volume. "Pepi! Please!" She begged. She felt a strange wet feeling on her hand. She looked up to his eyes and could see that he was smiling. "Did you just luck my hand?" He nodded, making Y/n jump back and wipe her hand off his shirt. "Aw. I like this camiseta." He pouted. "Stop with the spanglish." She said and turned towards her kitchen. "Where are you going?" He asked. "Im getting you water. You'll thank me in the morning."
"Can we put on music?" He asked. "Quietly. The walls are sound proof anyway." She muttered. "So why are you telling me tp be quiet?" He asked. "Because when you get to a certain volume, the neighbours can hear." She explained and watched as he walked over to her music thingy. It was like a radio, but headphones were plugged into it. "How do you work this?" Pedri asked. "You plug the headphones in and listen." She watched as he struggled, but was careful to make sure he didn't break it. Eventually he did it. It was humorous to see him dancing in what seemed to be silence. Pedri turned to see her smiling at him. "Baila conmigo por favor." He smiled. "No hablo español." Y/n replied. "Eso era español." She chuckled and opened her eyes. "Please?" Y/n sighed and stood up. "Let me help you." Pedri said, lifting the second pair of headphones. "You help me? I think it's meant to be the other way around." She giggled. Pedri placed the headphones carefully over her ears. In the process, they locked eyes and neither dared to look away from the other. "I didn't know you liked Justin Bieber." She said. "I don't. This is just a contagious song." He mumbled. "I like how your English gets when you get drunk." His smile came back with her words. "Tal vez deberíamos quedarnos hablando español." Y/n nodded in agreement as she began swaying to the song. Pedri took hed hand into his and danced with her, his smile not leaving for even a moment. "Te amo." Her breath hitched as he said it. That would be the second time or something. "Eres mi Todo y te amo y eres como mi propósito y me haces querer despertar todos los días y te amo."
"You said that you love me a few times there." Y/n said. "Podría decirlo toda la noche y el día, mi vida." He whispered, their foreheads touching and lips tantalisingly closr together. "Esa sería una buena letra para una balada de amor." She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Hueles a tostadas." He whispered. "I can speak Spanish you know!" The pair nearly buckled with laughter at what he had said. Silence grew between them both once again, both only looking between their eyes and lips. "I know him." Pedri muttered to break the silence between them as Chance the Rapper mentioned Messi. "I know. You bring it up a lot."
"I bring up you a lot too. The team knows everything about you because I won't shut up." Y/n pressed a small cheek onto his cheek, catching him off guard. "You're so sweet."
"Can I kiss you?" He asked. "As much as I'd love it, I don't think you should. How about we try this again tomorrow?" Pedri smiled and kissed her cheek gently. "You always have good ideas."
--------
"My head is killing me." Pedri groaned as he left the shower the next morning. "I'm guessing the shower didn't help?" He shook his head and sat down at the small table by the window. "Here. Try some juice. Might make you feel better." He sighed and took a sop of the juice she had placed in front of him. Suddenly, Y/n's phone rang. Her face twisted into one of concern before there was a a knock on her front door. Pedri looked towards it confused. "Expecting someone?" He asked. She shook her head.
"Can you get the door? Just need to answer this call." Y/n said quickly. Pedri nodded and walked out, droplets falling onto the floor and a slice of toast hanging out of his mouth. He opened the door with a smile on his face, only for it to drop when he was faced with his brother looking equally as confused. "Nevermind. I found him." Fernando muttered and put the phone into his pocket. "Qué tenemos aquí?" He chuckled. It wasnt long before Y/n came sprinting towards the front door. "Fernando it isn't what it looks like!" She shouted. "It looks like you and my little brother have just-" He paused and looked between them. "I know it does but there is a perfectly logical explanation."
"Can you give us a few minutes to come up with a lie." Pedri joked, earning a slap from Y/n. "Just shut the door and get the story straight and don't come out until you can both agree."
#fcbarcelona#laliga#football#football blurbs#football imagines#pedri gonzalez#pablo gavi#pedri gonzalez imagine#pedri gonzalez blurb
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Tease
AN: Based on a prompt from this list and dedicated to @my-secret-shame (my beloved) whose birthday is today! Happy Birthday, mon ami 💖💖💖
(Un-beta'd)
“Santiago,” you whisper, doing your best to sound firm as you elbow him in the side. “Can you at least try to behave? My Great Aunt is sitting at the next table.”
He chuckles, nuzzling your jaw with his nose to taunt you further. “That’s what makes this so fun, cariño.”
Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?)
Words: 1,409
Pairing: Santiago "Pope" Garcia x F!Reader
Warnings: cursing, kissing, dirty talk, p in v, fingering, car sex, santiago being a menace, established relationship
AO3
——————
You weren’t even going to go to your cousin’s wedding; you hadn’t been all that close when you were kids and haven’t really spoken much over the years. But when the invitation had come, you’d been in a good mood and had checked “Yes” on the RSVP card.
Right now, however, your boyfriend was making you regret that decision.
"If we weren’t in public right now,” he breathes, his arm on the back of your chair, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’d have my head between your legs.”
You swallow thickly, grunting as you shift in your chair a little. You don’t need to see him to know he’s got that look in his eyes.
“Santiago,” you whisper, doing your best to sound firm as you elbow him in the side. “Can you at least try to behave? My Great Aunt is sitting at the next table.”
He chuckles, nuzzling your jaw with his nose to taunt you further. “That’s what makes this so fun, cariño.”
You grumble at him to be quiet, and he sniffs, warm breath tickling your skin. ��Feel free to use kisses as a method to shut me up.”
You snort, shaking your head as you bite back a smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He hums, dragging his nose down the line of your jaw. “Hell yeah, I would.”
Your eyes sweep the room, and you’re thankful when you see no one is looking at either of you, tucked back here in the corner.
“I wonder how wet you are right now,” he ponders, voice low as he nips at your ear lobe. “Bet you’re soaked. Bet I could just…slip right inside.”
Your breath stalls in your chest when he slips his tongue into your ear, your hands balling into fists in your lap. You feel his lips curl into a smile and you know he’s noticed, noticed that he’s getting to you. You should push him away, tell him to stop, but you’re pretty sure it’d do more harm than good.
“Would you like that, baby?” he continues, the hand not on the back of your chair coming to rest on your knee, just below the hem of your dress. “My thick, hard cock inside you, stretching you, making you sing for me.”
His voice is low and gravely in your ear, his breath against the skin of your neck making you shiver. You bite your lip against the moan currently trying to claw its way out of your throat as Santiago’s fingers slip silently beneath your dress.
“Santi,” you breathe, trying to sound admonishing but only succeeding in making him chuckle knowingly in your ear.
“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, slowly sliding his hand up your thigh.
You part your legs for him, the anticipation thrumming in your veins. He nuzzles your cheek as his hand makes its ascent, his calloused fingers tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You try to focus on controlling your breathing, your face slipping into an indifferent mask. He’s almost there, just a few inches south of where you want him, his lips brushing against your ear again—
Someone calls your name from across the room and you jolt, looking around guiltily as you all but shove Santi’s hand from beneath your dress. It’s your cousin, the bride. She runs over to your table, arms spread wide. You hastily stand to your feet, dragging Santiago with you, and plaster an exaggerated smile on your face. She squeals in your ear when she hugs you, the high-pitched sound making you cringe a little as you hug her back. She laughs as she pulls back, hands clasping your shoulders as she goes on and on about how long it’s been and how much has changed.
She must be drunk because she also hugs Santi (who she’s never met) and tells him how nice it is to see him again. He plays along, smiling graciously and congratulating her on her nuptials. Thankfully, something else captures her attention and she scurries away, leaving you and Santi alone once more.
"She seems nice," he says, shooting a teasing smile at you.
You scoff, nudging him with your shoulder. "Shut up."
He chuckles, raising an eyebrow before holding out a hand to you. "Dance with me?"
You eye him suspiciously for a moment before taking his hand. He leads you onto the dance floor just as the song turns slow and pulls you against his chest, wrapping an arm around your waist. As you sway, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the base of your neck, his stubbled cheek brushing against your skin. You sigh, smiling as you pull him closer, your chin resting on his shoulder.
He hums softly to the music as you continue to move, trailing a hand up and down your back soothingly. You close your eyes, savoring the moment, the smell of him, the feel of him against you—
“Santiago,” you chide, eyes shooting open as his hand drifts just a little too low.
“What?” he questions innocently, shrugging his shoulders. “Your ass looks lonely without my hands on it.”
You snort, burying your face in his shoulder. He chuckles, nuzzling against your cheek.
The song finally ends, switching back to something faster and drawing more people to the dance floor. When you sense that he’s about to pull away, you smirk, whispering breathlessly against his ear.
“Santi?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I’m not wearing any underwear.”
He pauses, fingers flexing against your lower back, and you know he’s considering your words, wondering whether you’re telling the truth or just teasing him like he’s been teasing you all evening.
True or not, they have the desired effect, and you bite back a smile as he all but drags you to the valet to collect his car keys, his hand clenched around yours like a vice.
You make it less than a mile down the road before he slips a hand beneath the hem of your dress again, his eyes still focused on the road ahead. When his fingers brush your bare sex, he groans, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.
He works you up with his fingers, sliding them through your slick folds, jaw clenching tighter with every sigh and soft moan that spills from between your lips. When you come around his fingers, head thrown back in a silent moan against the headrest, his patience finally wanes.
Several minutes later, he has you in his lap, his hands on your hips as you slowly sink down onto him with a gasp. He bunches up your dress so he can watch, groaning as he’s swallowed by your heat. You ride him slowly, your fingers clenching on his shoulders as his cock drags deliciously inside you, hitting all of your sweet spots. You lean in to kiss him, humming as the slight change in the angle causes friction against your clit. He groans into your mouth when you clench around him, his hands palming your ass as you sink down onto him again and again.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans, panting against your lips. “You feel so good like this.”
You kiss him again, whining into his mouth as you undulate in his lap. He’s close already, you can tell by how fucked out he is, his jaw slack, eyes glassy—guess it wasn’t just you he was working up earlier.
“You gonna come for me, Santi?” you purr, slowing your pace a little, your fingers tangling in his curls.
He nods, eyes half-lidded as he watches you, his fingers flexing on your hips.
“Want you to fill me up,” you breathe, chewing your bottom lip as he groans.
He thrusts up into you hard and you gasp, forehead pressing against his as pleasure surges through you. He does it again, moaning as you flutter around him. His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves and pushing you closer and closer to your peak. When he comes, it’s with a choked groan, his hips stuttering as he spills his warmth inside you. You follow not long after, moaning against his lips.
With a sigh, you sag against him, your fingers absently combing through his hair as you both come down.
“Wow. Maybe we should go to more weddings,” you joke, smiling when Santiago’s laugh puffs against your cheek.
“Baby, if they all end like this, I am so there.”
If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖
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#santiago garcia x reader#santiago garcia x you#santiago pope garcia x reader#santiago pope garcia x you#triple frontier fanfiction#triple frontier fic#santiago garcia smut#santiago pope garcia smut#my fic
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Candy - Chapter 16
Word Count: 1075
Cassidy confronts her step-father and she and August confront their relationship
MINORS DNI
TW: Talks of SA and violence
"Happy early birthday, pumpkin," Lloyd's voice oozed with amusement as he raised his hand and delivered a sharp slap across Travis's face, jolting him awake. "Rise and shine!"
Cassidy instinctively retreated into August's protective embrace, her eyes wide with shock as she watched Travis groggily lift his head and scan the room. "How long has he been here?"
Lloyd waved off the question casually as he sauntered over to a table in the corner, where an array of sinister-looking tools awaited. "Only about a week. I've been keeping him alive, just barely."
"You guys have been tormenting him?"
"Well, tormenting is more Lloyd's expertise. But when I heard about what he did to you, I couldn't resist joining in," August remarked with chilling nonchalance.
"Catie..." Travis mumbled weakly as August forcefully pushed Cassidy away, closing the distance to the captive.
"Don't you dare look at her!" August's fist shot forward, connecting with Travis's nose and sending a spray of blood across the room, prompting a horrified gasp from Cassidy.
Meanwhile, Lloyd approached her, extending a knife toward her. "Care to join the festivities?"
"What?! No!" Cassidy pressed herself against the wall, her escape route blocked. Panic surged through her. "What's your plan here?"
Lloyd shrugged, a sardonic smirk dancing on his lips. "He won't be leaving here alive, that's for sure."
"Y-you're going to kill him?"
"The world is better off without him. Don't you agree, doll?" August's voice took on a softer, more soothing tone as he approached Travis. Lloyd, with a twisted grin, began to carve a long, cruel gash into Travis's arm.
Cassidy hesitated, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. "Yes," she admitted with a tremor in her voice, her gaze fixed on the gruesome scene before her. "He tormented me for years. It started when he moved in when I was just 7..." Both men stood silently, seething with anger, as Cassidy recounted her harrowing experiences. "It didn't start out sexual, but it didn't take long to escalate. I used to cry out for my mom, but it was always in vain. When she wasn't high, she'd just stand there in the doorway, watching, never doing anything..."
"Cass..." August's voice cracked, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch her, but she swiftly brushed his hand away.
"Don't touch me... I just want to go home."
"I warned you this was a terrible idea," August hissed at Lloyd, who merely shrugged.
Lloyd moved August aside, standing before Cassidy and cupping her tear-streaked face with his hands. "Look at me. This is your chance for closure. The chance to never have to look over your shoulder again. Never wondering if he'll reappear, or if he'll come after you."
She sniffled, pondering his words as he gently released her and placed a knife in her trembling hand. "Don't force her into this, Lloyd," August cautioned.
"I'm not forcing her. It's her choice."
"You don't have to do this, doll."
Cassidy nodded, her gaze not meeting theirs as she walked more confidently toward Travis. She seized his hair, lifting his head to make him meet her gaze. "You destroyed my childhood... you're the reason I had no friends... you're the reason I left as soon as I turned 18... you're the reason I couldn't let another man touch me until I was nearly 20." With determination, she plunged the knife into his abdomen, surprised at how easily it slid through his flesh. She turned back to Lloyd and handed him the knife. "Make him suffer. August, take me home."
August glanced over at Cassidy as he parked the car in the underground garage beneath her apartment building. The drive back had been eerily quiet. Since leaving the warehouse, they had made a quick stop at the hotel to retrieve her belongings, and now, she stared out the window, still wrapped in her own thoughts. He released his seatbelt and leaned over to undo hers, his concern growing. "Doll... come on."
She accepted his hand as he walked around the car to open her door. They entered her apartment in silence. Cassidy removed her shoes meticulously, placing them neatly on a small shelf beside the door. Her voice trembled as she finally spoke, her eyes still distant. "Will you stay with me for a while?"
"Of course," August replied, his voice gentle. He kicked off his shoes when they reached her bedroom, closing the door behind them as he joined her in bed.
"I know I should be angrier about you invading my privacy, but—"
"But you find it endearing?" August interjected, a teasing glint in his eyes, making her chuckle for the first time that morning.
"No, it's incredibly invasive, overbearing, and controlling... But," she sighed, allowing him to pull her close against his chest, "thank you."
He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as she nestled against him. "I would do anything to protect you."
Cassidy started to say something, but their conversation was abruptly interrupted by a knock at the apartment door. "Stay in here," she told August, climbing out of bed. She closed the bedroom door quietly behind her, leaving August alone.
Joe stood on the other side of the apartment door. "Cassidy... I was hoping we could hang out. I have a free day."
Cassidy scoffed, her arms crossed over her chest, refusing to let him in. "You mean your other girlfriend is busy?" She watched his surprise and tension, but he chuckled, shaking his head.
"What are you talking about?"
Rolling her eyes, Cassidy pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Cut the act. You're a terrible liar. I don't care. But we're done."
"What?! No! She meant nothing. What's the difference? You sleep with other men all the time!"
"It's a job! It's not romantic!" Cassidy shouted, her voice echoing through the apartment. She was aware that things were starting to feel different with August, even if she wasn't ready to admit it to herself. "Just go away." She slammed the door before he could respond, ignoring his persistent knocks as she returned to the bedroom and crawled back into bed with August. Eventually, the knocks subsided.
"Not romantic?" August finally asked, and Cassidy laughed, looking up at him.
"I think I might be okay with you being my only client... But I don't want it to feel like you're my client..."
August chuckled, rolling her onto her back with a smirk. "Then I won't be. I'll take care of you, and we'll be together."
"What about your wife?"
He sighed, his fingers idly tracing the hem of her shirt at her waist. "I don't know yet. I'll figure something out..."
Chapter 17
Candy
Taglist
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#henry cavill#henry cavill fanfic#chris evans#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill xofc#henry cavill au#august walker#lloyd hansen#august walker fanfic#august walker fic#augustwalker#lloyd hansen x ofc#dark lloyd hansen
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Updated, Upcoming & Finished Work…
Key: S: Smut, F: Fluff, A:Angst)
Completed/Updated stories are in blue font. This list will be updated as I finish writing.
•Request: Britt Baker x Reader (S)
-Summary: This is an anon request from long ago came with absolutely no details soooo I'm taking some liberties lol. Britt and Reader get off on the wrong foot. Some good ole hate fucking ensues. (Tags/TWs: 18+, I'll be writing a male reader version and female reader version, hate fucking, enemies to hatefuck buddies, heel!Britt/babyface!Reader, hotel room sex.)
•Cody Rhodes x Reader (F/A)
-Summary: Cody and Reader have a forbidden romance. Reader is Brock’s advocate. Her girlfriends cover for her as she goes to make sure Cody’s okay after a brutal assault by Brock. (Tags/TWs: budding romance, forbidden romance, injury, a bit of angst, first kiss; Brock is more obsessed with Cody than the reader herself, let’s be real.)
(Read “Behind Closed Doors” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Cody Rhodes x Reader (S)
-Prompt: If you want to come, you’re going to have to beg. (Tags/TWs: orgasm denial, toys. Filth. Just pure filth. Sorry in advance… no I’m not.)
(Read “If You Want to Come, You Better Beg” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Damian Priest x Fem Reader :
-Summary: Damian and Reader hilariously argue with one another in Spanish during a segment. Rhea has to step in. (Tags/TWs: banter, kayfabe arguing, heel/babyface segment.)
(Read “The Last Word” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Damian Priest x Fem. Reader (F):
-Summary: Reader gets a bit jealous watching Damian celebrate his NXT North American Championship win with beautiful women. (Tags/TWs: established relationship, jealousy, tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort.)
(Read “Worthy” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Drew McIntyre x Fem. Reader (S):
-Summary: Reader comes back from a friend’s birthday party only to realize she’s being followed. (Tags/TWs: 18+, consensual kink, consensual non-consent, dirty talk- lots of it, simulated stalking. )
(Read “(Un)Willing Participant” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Drew McIntyre x Fem Reader (F):
-Summary: Vamp and Farmer!Drew catches Vamp!Reader in the act of feeding off his animals in order to survive. (Tags/TWs: budding romance, farmer!Drew, vampires, blood drinking, animal death but nothing graphic, I promise.)
(Read “Bound by Fate” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Drew McIntyre x Fem. Reader x Roman Reigns (S)
-Summary: Reader has a bit of a filthy fantasy. Her boyfriends, Drew and Roman, take it upon themselves to fulfill that fantasy for her- without the need for getting arrested. (Tags/TWs: 18+, simulated public sex, consensual kink, sex in a home theater, a lil dirty talk, Dom/Sun dynamic.)
(Read “Just Like at the Movies” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Judgement Day x Fem. Reader (F)
Summary: Scottish!Reader has Dom, Damian, and Rhea try Scottish foods like haggis and black pudding while they're on tour. Things don't go so well for DomDom.😂 (Tags: wholesomeness, Dom trying his best not to puke, on the road shenanigans. Requested by @motorcitygem)
(Read “Ith do Shath!” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Judgement Day x Fem. Reader (S)
Summary: This takes place a little bit before Edge's departure. They and Reader have a little fun at Edge's home, but the cracks in the faction start to slowly show as they all fight over control during their scene with Reader. (Tags/TWs: 18+, gangbang, overstimulation, jealousy, possessive!JD, vaginal penetration, fingering, oral sex- male and female receiving, consensual kink.)
(Read “At Their Service” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Live Forever (Ch.1) (Judgement Day x Fem Reader (F/S/A)
-Summary: Human!Reader comes into the WWE as Hunter's personal assistant. During one of Hunter's meetings with Vamp!Rhea, Vamp!Damian, Vamp!Dom, and Demon!Finn, JD and Reader take an instant liking to one another. (Tags/TWs: 18+, consensual sex, budding poly relationship, sex in the workplace, biting, slight bloodplay.)
(Read Ch. 1 of “Live Forever” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Idea: Liv Morgan x Ruby Soho (F)
-Summary: Liv asks Ruby why Ruby fell in love with her. (Tags/TWs: tooth rotting fluff, established relationship, hurt/comfort.) I believe I wrote this prompt a long time ago and now I can't find it. So I figured it'd be fun to rewrite something similar!)
•Idea: Mercedes Mone x Fem. Reader (F/S)
-Summary: Mercedes loves to spoil her girl as often as she can, so they decide to take Mercedes' new limo for a spin. (Tags/TWs: 18+, sugar mommy!Mercedes😼, oral sex, begging, sex in a limo.)
•MJF x Fem. Reader x Baron Corbin (S)
-Summary: Max and Corbs like to share everything. Including their girlfriend. (Tags/TWs: 18+, threesome, sex in a private jet, name-calling, biting, fingering, daddy kink, consensual kink.)
(Read “Mile High Club” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•MJF x Fem. Reader x Wardlow (S)
-Summary: Max, Reader, and Wardlow are all living together for the week while reader’s apartment is being repaired... (Tags/TWs: 18+, thigh riding, dirty talk, Dom/Sub undertones, threesome.)
(Read “Three’s Company” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Rhea Ripley x Fem. Reader (F and a little bit S)
-Summary: Rhea and Reader are an on-screen couple. So of course, Reader "jokingly" offers to “practice" their kissing for if the necessity arises. (Tags/TWs: first kiss, flirting, onscreen relationship turns very real.)
(Read “First Kiss” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Roman Reigns x Fem Reader x Damian Priest (S)
-Summary: Reader enters Liberación looking for stress relief and light smut ensues. (Tags/TWs: 18+, voice kink, , first time kinkster, simultaneous praise and humiliation kink, consensual kink) within the Liberación world)
(Read “Voices like Honey” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Roman Reigns x Male Reader (S)
-Summary: (Requested) Roman and Male Reader have some fun of their own in the ring after everyone’s gone for the night. (Tags/TWs: 18+, established relationship, anal sex, consensual sex in public, soft!Ro.)
(Read “Outta the Spotlight” on Tumblr & Ao3)
•Idea: Seth x Fem. Reader (S)
-Summary: Reader comes over while Seth’s sister-reader’s bff- isn’t home.
(Tags/TWs: best friend’s brother, Reader is in her mid 20’s, consensual sex, doggy style, hint of exhibitionism, biting (if you blink).
(Read “BFB” on Tumblr & Ao3)
* WIP/Series Updates:
-Liberación (Chapter 6 &7/?)
(Main Pairing(s): Damian Priest/OFC, Roman Reigns/OFC, Drew McIntyre/OFC, Liv Morgan/Rhea Ripley) (S/F/A)
(Read “Liberación” on Tumblr & Ao3)
-Primed for Sin (Chapter 2/2) (Pairing(s): Werewolf!Roman Reigns/Sex Demon!Reader/Werewolf!Baron Corbin/Vamp!Drew McIntyre) (S)
(Read “Primed for Sin” on Tumblr & Ao3)
-Brats Have More Fun (Chapter 2/?) (Misc. Pairings) (S/F/A)
(Read “Brats Have More Fun” on Tumblr & Ao3)
-As Fate Would Have It (Chapter 6/?) (Pairing(s): Drew McIntyre x OFC) (S/F/A)
(Read “As Fate Would Have It” on Tumblr & Ao3)
-Lock & Key (Chapter 5/?) (Main Pairing(s): Drew McIntyre x OFC) (S/F/A)
-Sweet Dreams (Chapter 2/2)
(Main Pairings: PT. 1: Roman Reigns/Reader, PT.2: Jey Uso/Reader) (S/F)
(Read “Sweet Dreams” on Tumblr & Ao3)
#gigis wrestling wips#gigis wip list#wip list#update list#fic updates#wip updates#wwe fic#wwe fanfic#wwe fanfiction#wrestling fic#wrestling fanfic#wrestling smut#wrestling fluff#wrestling angst
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