a vent by ky

A vent to me, nonsense or relatable shit to you💫

[chars4u]

I MISS FLUFFY FICS EVERYTHINGS SMUT NOW💔

[the-blueprint]

[maichan808]

My gif-making skills are rusty, but I MADE A THING 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

[rickrude]

[itskybabes-blog]

Happy kinktober!

[saintk3nn]

spent 90% of the summer thinking about kwn

[itskybabes-blog]

Type shit

[melodicwriter]

[lalalieb]

The Recipe for Remembering

The Bear AU (Part ten)

Part one / Part two / Part three / Part four / Part five / Part six / Part seven / Part eight / Part nine

Pairing: Carmen x Fem! Reader

CW: language

Summary: Y/N wakes up in Carmen’s apartment, surrounded by familiar objects that stir something deep and comforting within her. As she adjusts to this unexpected sense of belonging, she begins to uncover small pieces of her past—both through quiet moments alone and a meaningful conversation with an old friend. With her repaired phone in hand and a heart full of questions, Y/N takes her first steps toward rediscovering who she was… and who she still might be.

A/N: It's been a long time since my last upload, but again, another hard sick week :/ Now I'm feeling much better and hopefully, you will like this new update! For the ones asking about her recovery... Take a deep breath! It may be closer than ever ;) As always, thank you for all the support and please keep giving me feedback!

Y/N wraps her hands around the old ceramic mug, the one she recognized yesterday the second she stepped into Carmen’s apartment. Hand-painted by her grandma, chipped near the handle. Now it’s here again, warm with coffee, nestled between her palms like it never left. And somehow, this tiny object makes her feel cozier than she’s felt in months. 

She ended up staying. Last night, when the pizza was gone and the silence stretched long, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to her apartment. It felt too cold. Too lonely. So she asked, gently, if she could stay. 

Carmen didn’t hesitate. 

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “You can take the bed.” 

She’d offered to take the couch instead, but he shook his head, already pulling blankets from a closet. “I’m used to it. You used to hate when I fell asleep out here... Said it messed up my back. Said it messed with your sleep, too.” 

And even if she didn’t remember that exactly… she understood it. Lying in his bed, under those soft, worn sheets that smelled like him, she could swear she hated it too. It wasn’t about comfort. It was the silence. The warmth of the sheets. His scent in the air, familiar and strange, tangled with hers like a memory her body held, even if her mind had let it go. That even though it wasn’t a memory, it felt like one.  

She hadn’t slept much—not because of the bed, but because of him. Because he was still in the next room. Because she secretly wanted him near. She wanted to keep talking, to keep hearing his voice as he opened up about the life they had, the version of him she’d fallen for. And because of what happened between them just hours before. 

Their kiss. 

It had caught them both off guard. They hadn’t said anything after. Just held each other until the pizza came. And then… nothing. Neither of them trusted themselves to talk about it, not yet. But the way Carmen moved around her changed after that—softer, like he didn’t want to spook her. And though she still felt shy, like her heart was constantly on the verge of sprinting, she couldn’t stop herself from asking questions. 

She asked what they used to talk about. What their future looked like. If they had seen each other in the time she was in Copenhagen. And then, finally, if her family knew about them. 

Carmen had been quiet for a moment. Then he told her that the only person who ever knew about them was Mila. Her best friend, from back in London, the one she hadn’t seen in years. That part surprised her. Not because Mila knew about them—because she came back to her life. 

"When you moved to Copenhagen, she was already there," Carmen had said. "You guys got in touch again. Lived together for a bit. She works for some high-tech company in China now. Guess she said, she can work from anywhere." 

Hearing that made Y/N’s chest tighten in the best way. Somehow, even if she couldn’t remember, she hadn’t been alone. She had Mila. Of course it would’ve been her. Of course she was the one Y/N trusted. And the thought of reaching out, of maybe unlocking more pieces of her past with someone who truly knew her—it made her feel hopeful for the first time in a while. 

There was something else Carmen told her too. Something that still echoes in her chest. 

That day—the day of the accident—they were supposed to meet. There was a new delicatessen downtown, and Carmen was already on his way when it happened. Chicago traffic was hell, and a biker had swerved off the street, cutting across the sidewalk too fast. Y/N had just stepped out of a shop. The guy didn’t see her in time. 

Carmen had almost been hit too. He told her all of this with a rawness in his voice she hadn’t heard before—his jaw tight, eyes darting between the floor and her face. There was agony there. Rage. Grief. 

And she hadn’t known. Not until now. 

She closes her eyes, letting the steam from the coffee rise into her face. 

Carmen had already left for the restaurant by the time she woke up. She hadn’t heard him leave. But last night—just before bed—he’d paused at the doorway, hair tousled, eyes soft with exhaustion. “You can stay as long as you need,” he’d said, voice low, like a promise. 

And then, just as he was about to go back to the living room, he paused. 

“Oh—and that key,” he said, glancing back at her with a faint smile. “The little silver one on your ring? That’s mine. You’ve had it this whole time. Round top, a little scratched on the edge. I gave it to you when we were still…” He trailed off, but the weight of what he meant lingered between them.  

She blinked, caught off guard—not just by the key, but by the fact that she’d carried it all this time without even knowing. 

“You can come and go whenever you want,” he added. And then, a little softer, a little more hopeful: “Would be nice to see you here when I get back.” 

The sound of her phone vibrating across the counter jolted her out of her thoughts. She grabbed it, still cradling her coffee in one hand, and answered without checking the number. 

“Hi, this is Y/N.” 

“Hey! Just letting you know your phone’s ready,” the guy from the repair shop said. “It booted up fine after the data transfer. We had to replace the screen and the battery—honestly, it was a mess—but everything’s in there. Photos, messages, apps, all of it. You can come by whenever.” 

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “That’s… great. Thanks.” 

She hung up, a strange flutter in her chest. 

Suddenly, the idea of talking Mila didn’t feel so far away. Maybe now, she could really try. Get answers. Fill the blanks. She set her mug down and headed toward Carmen’s room, half-excited, half-anxious, hoping to find something decent to wear. 

She hadn’t expected to find so much. But the dresser drawers weren’t just full of Carmen’s clothes—they were full of hers too. Folded t-shirts, cotton shorts, a scarf she bought in her first week in Chicago three years ago. Her favorite navy sweater. Some pieces looked newer—unfamiliar—but still unmistakably hers. She found a soft green dress, the kind she might’ve picked out for a summer day and realized it would match the sandals she’d noticed by the shoe rack yesterday. 

She changed quickly, heart tight with something she couldn’t name. 

On the way to the store, she felt a stab of guilt about missing work again. But last night, Carmen had told her it was okay. 

“You don’t have to rush,” he’d said, voice quiet. “I can handle things until you’re ready. Take the time. Just… come back when you want to. When you want to.” 

And she did want to. She missed the kitchen—the rhythm, the chaos, the feeling of building something real with her hands. But maybe she needed just one more day. 

---- 

“Battery was cooked, screen had some ghost touches, but I managed to recover everything. Photos, contacts, all your apps. Just had to reset the system and restore from backup,” he’d explained, tapping the counter like he was proud. “It should all be there.” The guy behind the counter—a sleepy-eyed kid with dyed red hair— walked her through everything. 

She’d thanked him, even smiled, but deep down her stomach had twisted. Overwhelming didn’t begin to cover it. It felt like someone had just handed her a sealed box of her own life, and now she had to decide whether or not to open it. 

Photos. Messages. Voice notes. Who she’d been before. Where to even begin? 

She didn’t want to do it standing outside on a noisy street. So instead, she walked.  

The day was bright but breezy, and she kept her phone tucked in her bag, holding onto it like a secret. By the time she reached the park, her heart had settled into something quieter. She wandered until she found a half-shaded bench near a tree beginning to bloom. Then she sat, finally letting herself breathe. 

When she pulled out her phone, the home screen lit up like nothing had ever happened. But everything had. 

She opened her messages. Mila’s name sat at the top. Nat’s just under it. Then her parents. Then Carmen’s. 

She didn’t touch his chat, but she could already see the last message, sitting there unread. 

Be there in 10, babe. You can wait inside 😉 

Dated the day of the accident. 

Her breath caught. Shit, too much. She wasn’t ready yet. 

Instead, she tapped on Mila’s name. Their conversation was a trail of scattered messages—little check-ins, voice notes, memes, always full of warmth but never daily. Their own rhythm. It didn’t feel distant, just lived-in, like the kind of friendship that didn’t need constant proof. 

The most recent one was from five days ago: 

Missing you today. Hope you're taking care of yourself. Let me know when you're up for a call ❤️ 

Y/N stared at the screen for a moment, then without checking the time, without giving herself a chance to overthink it, she hit the call button. 

She just needed to hear her voice. 

“Hello?” 

Mila’s voice was a little breathless, like she’d picked up mid-sprint. There was rustling in the background—maybe wind, maybe traffic. 

Y/N hesitated. “Hi…” A pause. 

“…Y/N?” 

“Yeah. Sorry, I—God, I didn’t even check the time, is this okay?” 

“What? Of course it’s okay!” Mila’s voice jumped with a warmth that immediately wrapped around her. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” 

There was another pause—just long enough for Y/N to think she might cry. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still—if we’d still be… you know. Close.” 

Mila laughed softly on the other end. “Don’t be stupid! What are you talking about? I’ve been waiting for you to reach out. How are you?” 

Y/N hesitated. And Mila must have heard it, because her tone softened immediately. 

“Hey… what’s going on?” 

Y/N drew in a breath, quiet and shaky, then told her everything. 

The accident. The memory loss. Waking up in a hospital with only pieces of her life left. The confusion. Carmen. The apartment that felt like hers but wasn’t. The faces she kind of recognized without context. The ache of trying to piece herself back together without even knowing where to start. 

Mila was silent through most of it. Just listening. Processing. 

“Jesus, Y/N,” she finally said, voice thick with emotion. “That’s… insane. Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted. “Some days I feel okay. Others… it’s like I’m watching someone else’s life through a window. Everyone’s so kind, but I can’t stop wondering if I’m just pretending to be this version of myself they remember.” 

“You’re not pretending,” Mila said gently. “I mean… even now, I can still hear you in there. And I know you’re still you—because I’ve already seen you change and still stay the same.” 

Y/N frowned slightly. “When?” 

“When you came to Copenhagen,” Mila said. “You were glowing when you got here. Confident. Sharp. You’d just come off that high in Milan, and I could tell you finally felt like your work was speaking for itself. You weren’t lost—you were so grounded. And even then, you still reached out.” 

Y/N leaned back on the bench. “You make it sound like I had it all figured out.” 

“You didn’t,” Mila said with a soft laugh. “But you were proud. And I was proud of you. You sent me a voice note out of the blue—‘I’m moving to Copenhagen for this stage and I’ve got a decent couch if you’re crashing through.’ Next thing I know, we’re having wine at that weird bar by your place and talking like we hadn’t missed a single day.” 

Y/N smiled, almost in disbelief. “I remember none of that.” 

“Well, I do,” Mila said. “You let me in again. You always do. Living with you again was like slipping into old shoes,” Mila said. “We stayed up until 2 a.m. most nights. Talked about everything. Your work. My work. The crazy people you met at the restaurant. That first week, you made us fish and chips or Yorkshire pudding almost every single night because you said Copenhagen was too quiet.” 

That made Y/N smile. 

“I'm so sorry I can’t remember all this...” 

“It’s okay,” Mila said. “You will. Or maybe you won’t. But none of it’s lost. You’re still in there, you know?” 

They talked for over an hour. Laughed. Filled in some blanks. And slowly, as the fear ebbed away, Y/N began to feel more grounded—like this wasn’t just some borrowed life she was stumbling through. She had been here. She had lived. 

Finally, when the nerves stopped knotting in her throat, she asked what she’d been avoiding. 

“Mila… about Carmen,” she said. “Did I ever talk to you about… us?” 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Mila let out a small, knowing breath. 

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Are you seriously asking me that?” 

Y/N frowned. “What?” 

“You were so in love with him. Like, annoyingly in love.” 

Y/N laughed, despite herself. “Really?” 

“You couldn’t shut up about him. Especially when he finally asked you to move back to Chicago. You told me everything—how scared you were, how long it took you both to get to that place, how much it meant that he was asking.” 

Y/N’s heart thudded unevenly in her chest. 

“You said you needed more time, but… you also said he made you feel safe. That working at The Bear wasn’t just about your career anymore—it was about building something with him.” 

“And you think… I was happy? With the decision?” 

“Y/N,” Mila said, with total certainty. “Are you crazy? Of course you were happy. You glowed when you talked about him. Even when things were hard, you never sounded unsure. You were ready. And you didn’t just fall in love with him. You chose him.” 

Y/N blinked hard, the words hitting deeper than she expected. 

Chose him. 

She looked down at the phone in her hand, Carmen’s message still lingering just beneath the surface.  

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“For what?” 

“For still being here.” 

“Always,” Mila said. “Even if you forget me again, I’ll just wait for your call.” 

Y/N smiled, this time with tears in her eyes. 

Maybe she didn’t remember everything. But some things, she could still feel. 

------ 

She ordered a tea she doesn’t even like, just because it’s warm. The same bartender from last time nodded at her again, a little more knowingly this time. Y/N picked a corner table near the window. Familiar. Comfortable. Still. 

She pulled out her phone, swiped through the lock screen. No new messages.  

Mila’s voice echoed in her ear from that call—stories of laughter and late nights in Copenhagen, of burnt pastries and inside jokes. Then, instinctively, she went to the chat with Mila. Maybe looking for something funny, something light. Even more proof of this life she forgot. 

Aside from the many messages and memes, she found pieces of herself. 

Photos. Her and Mila in oversized coats, holding coffee cups with gloves on. Snapshots of Copenhagen rooftops at golden hour. Another one of her plating at Noma—blurry, but you could tell she was proud. The two of them at a wine bar. Selfies outside the market. A wine-stained smile. 

Her thumb keeps scrolling. And the time-stamp shifts. 

She hesitated, heart catching in her throat, and exited the chat. She looked happy.  

Chicago. Six months ago. Y/N on a stool in the restaurant’s office, Carmen asleep on the couch behind her. A photo of her feet next to his, their matching kitchen clogs. 

A video of her whispering “Smile,” and Carmen groaning from behind the phone, hair a mess, eyes barely open. 

A beat passes, but curiosity takes over. 

She switches apps and goes to her main gallery. The phone loads for a second. 

And then it hits her. 

Thousands of photos she forgot she ever took. Photos she doesn’t remember receiving. Carmen’s hands—just his hands—floured up, holding a bowl of pasta. Him in his kitchen, shirtless, holding a bag of sugar like a baby. A low-angle photo of her, mid-laugh, taken by someone who had to be sitting on her floor. A mirror selfie—his arm around her, lips at her neck. 

She shifts in her seat. There’s heat pooling in her stomach now, and not from the tea. 

Now a photo of her. In bed. Wearing nothing but Carmen’s chain. She looks directly at the camera, smirking.  

Another mirror selfie. Not hers. His. The lighting was bad, but he didn’t seem to care. Hair wet, towel slung low on his hips, the kind of low that made her instinctively avert her gaze—even though she was alone. 

And then her eyes dropped. 

His bulge was visible. Not obscene, but obvious. Intentional. Confident in a way she didn’t expect from him. 

Her thumb hovered over the screen like it burned. She locks the phone. Too much. Too fast.  

She swallowed. Suddenly she’s not in the café anymore. She’s back there, with him. 

Or at least, she thinks she is. Because her brain isn’t remembering, but her body is. Her skin goes warm.  

Stares at her tea. Then unlocks it again.  

There’s more. More than one. 

A few of her. A few of him. 

Not full-on explicit, but suggestive enough to knock the air out of her lungs. 

And she doesn’t remember any of it. Doesn’t remember sending them, posing for them, or what she felt when she hit “send.” 

It feels like she’s snooping in someone else’s life. But it’s hers. Theirs. 

Her thumb hovers over one of the photos. One of those photos. She doesn’t open it. Can’t. Her heart is beating too loud. She locks the screen. 

And that’s when it happens. 

The other phone rings. The spare one. The one she’s been using since the accident 

She blinks, startled, fumbling for it in her coat pocket. 

Carmen. 

The name lights up the screen like it’s always belonged there. The number she’s been avoiding. The man she’s been trying not to feel. 

She stares at it. Ringing. 

She shouldn’t pick up. She can’t trust herself right now—not with these pictures still ghosting behind her eyes, not with her stomach twisting. 

But she does. It takes her a second to answer. Her voice is quieter than usual when she says, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he echoes. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” 

“No,” she lies. “I’m at that little café by the park. The one you said we used to go to.” 

He hums softly, like that means something to him too. “How’s the day going?” 

She hesitates. “Good... I mean, weird. Kinda slow. But yeah, uh — nice weather.” 

Another pause. He doesn’t press. 

Then, “You, uh, gonna be back at the apartment later?” he asks. Casual, but too casual. 

She bites her lip, torn. She glances at the phone on the table again, her cheeks flush and she’s suddenly warm. “I think I’ll head back to mine tonight,” she says slowly. “So you can have your bed back. And actually rest.” 

There’s a pause on his end, just long enough for her to know he’s disappointed. 

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. That’s… good. That’s probably good.” 

She softens. “I just—I wanna rest too. I’m thinking of going back to work tomorrow.” 

His voice lifts a little. “Yeah?” 

She smiles faintly. “Yeah.” 

“That’s good. That’s really good. It’ll be good having you back in the kitchen.” 

Her heart twists at the warmth in his voice. She wonders if he knows he sounds like that. 

“I mean,” he continues, “if you want—if you feel like it—I could come by later? Bring something to eat? Or just…talk.” 

It’s a kind offer. He always offers. And maybe that’s why it hurts to say no. 

“I think I just need some time to myself tonight,” she says gently. “But thank you.” 

He doesn’t push. “Okay. Yeah. I get that. Just… call me if you need anything.” 

“I will.” 

A beat of silence. Not cold. Just full. 

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says. 

“See you, Carm.” 

And then the line goes dead. She stares at the phone for a long time, quiet, like if she doesn’t move, she can hold the moment just a second longer. Like maybe this—this slow unraveling—isn’t something to run from. 

There’s a flutter in her chest. Not heavy. Just… alive. Like the start of something. 

She closes her eyes. That photo—his towel slung low, that look on his face, the way he looked at her—through that mirror, through that lens—it’s all there. And she can’t unsee it. 

Her finger hovers over the screen again. She unlocks the phone. 

She opens the messages. The ones with Carmen. The thread she’s been avoiding like it might burn her alive. And maybe it will. 

The chat loads slow, the way things do when there’s too much there.  

The first thing she sees is the last message he sent.  

Be there in 10, babe. You can wait inside 😉— sent on the day of the accident, probably minutes before it all happened.  

She scrolls through the recent ones. The past few weeks. Her thumb hesitates above the message: 

I love you too, babe 

It's too much. Too soon. 

So she scrolls. Scrolls past the softness. The everydayness. The evidence of a life she no longer remembers living. 

A picture she sent — the view from his window, early morning, sunlight spilling across the sheets, with the caption Where are you, bear?  

His reply, Geting breakfast, be there soon. 

Another — Coming home soon? — In 10. Should I bring wine? 

It’s all so… couple-y. Intimate in that unspoken way. Two people in rhythm. Shared rituals. She hadn’t realized they’d had that. 

Her pulse picks up as she exhales and drags her finger up. Fast now. All the way up. Trying to reach the beginning. But the thread keeps loading. And loading. And loading. 

Thousands of messages. Three years' worth of friendship and complicity and everything else. It has no end. 

“Jesus,” she grins, doesn’t even mean to. 

So instead of the very beginning, she picks a moment in the middle. The time stamps change, two years ago. 

She sees a photo. A dish she sent him—some kind of artful, wild plating, herbs twisted just so.  

Tried something new today. Little acidic, but the chef liked it. 

His reply came fast, You always plate like that or just to flex on me? What’s the base? 

She scrolls. She’d explained her idea. Talked through the prep. 

Wanna tell me about it during my break? I got 20 mins between prep and service. A moment later — Just wanna hear how your brain works... and maybe your voice too. 

She paused. Heart beating in her ears. He was always like that. Curious. Careful. She hadn’t realized he talked to her like this. Hadn’t realized she liked it so much. 

More messages followed. She’d sent another picture of the same dish from a different angle. Then, a few hours later, a selfie. Just her in chef whites, flushed from the heat, a smudge of sauce on her cheek. 

His reply came at 1:12 a.m. You look tired. Then a second message — Still beautiful. 

He didn’t answer right away. Yeah. Just miss talking to you when you’re not around. 

Her breath caught. And she must’ve been stunned then too, because her reply was, 

You okay over there?, with a little blushing emoji. 

She scrolls a little further. A few days pass. Then—Milan. The date. She recognizes it. 

The workshop. The visit. After that night. Everything changes. 

His replies are even more frequent. Longer. Warmer. He sends her photo of a polaroid stuck on his fridge—her, blurry and mid-laugh. Stole it from Mila. Don’t think she’ll miss it. 

She doesn’t reply immediately. But when she does, it’s a mirror selfie. Nothing provocative—just her in his hoodie. Bare legs. A teasing caption, It’s okay...You left this. Not giving it back :P 

Fair. And then — Miss you already. 

A slow grin creeps across her lips. This wasn’t casual. It never was. 

He’d fallen first. Or maybe they both had, without knowing it. 

And now, as she sits alone in this café—tea gone cold, the city dark outside—she realizes she’s not just reading messages. 

She’s reading a love story. Her own. 

Tags: @coffeemin, @huh01011, @mryuyux, @nojamsonmytoast, @just-mj-or-not, @ravenouswild, @hipothetical-introvert, @yousigned-upforthis, @dayluxe, @hello-therree, @you-sunshine, @iloveramensm, @lazygirljulia, @ariiireads, @carmenberzattosgf, @nerawrites, @johnmurphys-sass, @zorrasucia, @j23r23, @sithdaya, @bexxs, @toowastelandtale, @gflrs, @bumb-lesy, @justbecause6, @juulifandom, @daisy-the-quake, @itsmadamehydra, @pfudorqueen, @asuperconfusedgirl, @jingjingyi, @sewerrat7984, @6-noir, @criesinlies, @beingalive1, @sydapril15,@cannonindeez, @smthgsmthgidk, @nommingonfood, @drowsyhobiiiidddd, @ssopeworld, @crazygirlinthisworld, @leminjelly

[itskybabes-blog]

This story? *finger snaps* I know a story’s amazing when I have a mini crashout when I see the tags pop up

[itskybabes-blog]

Kendrick Lamar is the third most awarded rapper at the Grammys: Jay Z is 27, Ye is 25, he’s only fucking 21 awards in!

Crazy.

[shadafaml]

🚨 Help Save Shada’s Family and Baby Adam! 🚨

My name is Shada Kassab, and I am a 24-year-old mother living in Gaza. Every day is a fight for survival for me, my husband Hussein, and our baby boy Adam, who is just five months old.

Our lives have been turned upside down by war. My home has been reduced to rubble, and my husband lost his water truck, which was our only source of income. We’ve been forced to evacuate twice—from Deir el Balah to the Nuseirat camp—and now, we live in constant fear of what the future holds.

To make matters worse, Adam was born with clubfoot and urgently needs surgery. The cost for his treatment and specialized medical boots is at least $3000, but this surgery isn’t even possible in Gaza.

I recently graduated as a nurse, and I dream of building a better life for my family. But to do that, we must leave Gaza and start over in safety.

💔 I need your help to save my family and give Adam a future. Even a small donation 5$ can bring us closer to safety, and if you can’t donate, sharing our story means the world to us.

Donate to Support Shada's Family to Escape Gaza, organized by Jess Rapoza

Hello supporter, my name is Jessica Rapoza from USA and I’m raising funds for 24 yea… Jess Rapoza needs your support for Support Shada's Fam

I dream of living in safety, of seeing Adam grow up healthy, and of building a better life for us all. Please don’t give up on us. Your kindness can make all the difference.

❤️ Thank you for taking the time to read this. Your support and compassion give us strength to keep going.

[itskybabes-blog]

Tapped Out

Daniel Garcia x fem!wrestler!reader

Warning: angst, swearing, references to sex… I’m really a saint

wc: 2.2k

Merry Christmas and happy hols🥰

Disclaimer: this has been written by someone with dyslexia. Please forgive all spelling and grammar mistakes.

His time spent on the sidelines halted the good thing you had going on. You, Y/N, were new to AEW but already an established star on the indies, picking up women’s belt after women’s belt (even a few men’s titles too) along the way. You were the big ‘I am’, a rising superstar – something Daniel knew all about.

It’s something you bonded over. Being young and living out your dreams on TV every Wednesday, you often found comfort in knowing that – whatever you went through – he could understand. And soon, all the big group hangouts at the club or whatnot turned into casual one-on-one meetups, which led to you guys texting all the time. Before you knew it, your ankles were pinned to your ears and he was digging in your gold until daybreak.

You let your best friend back home about the sneaky link-ups you had with the Buffalo kid but, at work, no one could ever know that Y/W/N was getting rammed over a roadie case in an abandoned corridor of whatever arena they were in that week. That the duo would soothe each other’s wounds once they got back to the hotel and would fuck cuddle up, savouring their solo time together. One time, it was pretty close.

In front of their friends, they act chummy. They might share the odd loving stare every now and again, but – for the most part – you acted like you usually would when hanging out with them: just friendly.

“Oh, Y/N! Don’t let me forget to hook you up with my boy, Nathan,” Isiah called out across the seating area while you waited for your turn to bowl. You can see Daniel’s head whip around to look at you with a dumbfounded look while Skye cheers for herself because she knocked over eight pins on her first go. The clanging in the background got louder and your heart pounded because you were scared Dare Bear would take it the wrong way.

Scrunching up your eyebrows, you asked Isiah, “Who?” before he reminded you that you asked him to recommend you an amazing tailor for a new gear idea.

“Oh, I thought you were setting me up or sum,” you mutter, melting back into your seat as embarrassment set in. Daniel also lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, giggling along with his best friend. Seems like all was restored – or so you thought.

“But seriously, Y/N. When are you gonna get yourself a foinnneee man?” Aminata jovially asked.

“We talking about Y/N?” Skye says, exchanging places with her boo Kyle before returning to her seat. “Girl, if you need help, just say that! Aminata and I have a 100% success rate.”

You scoff. “Who have you hooked up?” you remark.

“100% of nothing is still something!” She says before poking out her tongue. You and Aminata roll your eyes at her before her face drops into a sarcastic look of surprise, “What did I do?”

You catch a glimpse of Danny. He’s looking in your direction but it doesn’t seem like he sees you. He’s looking through you with this directionless glaze glossing over his eyes. You want to see if he’s OK but you don’t wanna blow you guys’ cover.

“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?” you ask quickly, instantly regretting the fact that you have given the duo to permission to pester you with date requests from mediocre men.

Aminata and Skye squeal as they promise that they “won’t let you down” and expect to be bridesmaids at your wedding.

You felt like you had eyes on you all night long, often catching Danny’s – now filled with fire. You couldn’t even comfortably celebrate the fact you won at bowling because, while everyone jested and congratulated you, all you could focus on was how Danny towered over you quietly.

Well, he told you how he felt that night. Like always, Daniel snuck into your room an hour after you settled in. You were already a little nervous because you wondered if he thought your eyes were wondering but – in actuality – he was your everything. He filled your heart with the warmth of 10 million suns. So when he just walked into your room without giving you a kiss, a “heyyyy,” or even a smile, your heart sank to the depths of the earth.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask him, taken aback by his demeanour. He’s always so caring with you.

He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs hands together. “Are you dating other people?” He rebutted back, staring deep into your soul.

Your eyes widen as you quickly move across the room to caress his face. “No, I haven’t,” you replied.

“Why would you accept their offer to set you up on dates like that shit’s sweet?”

“I didn’t know what else to say to get out of the situation-”

“I don’t know. Maybe, you could say you got one?”

“Then they’d ask me who. I… I-"

"You what? Want to go hop on another man's dick? What the fuck is this even meant to be?" Danny cuts you off and aggressively stands up, making you take a step back.

You've never discussed exactly what the levels of this fling was. You were more than happy to keep it between the two of you, but this was more than two friends getting into a situationship. You guys discussed your life plans with one another, heard each other out and were one another's peace. All the stress and chaos from the outside world couldn't seep into you guys' bubble (well, it has), but you hadn’t explicitly told one another that you're strictly dating them.

You blink blankly at Daniel, hoping that if you stay quiet, the stress of the conversation would go away.

Daniel takes a step closer to search your face again. "Do you even want to date me?" he says, a little dejected this time. His breathing is heavy, fanning over your lips – driving you wild because all you want to do is kiss him.

"Of course I do," you whisper, scared that your voice will forsake you.

"Then what are we doing here?" Danny asked again, looking away from you. Your fingers touch his chin again, guiding his face to look at yours.

"I really, really like you, Danny," you tell him. "Now, if you don’t want anything serious, I get it like you're some hot wrestling star travelling the world. You can have any girl you want, so why pick lil ol' me? Don't feel like I'm holding you-"

Daniel smashed his lips on yours for a sloppy make-out session, letting his hands cruising all over your curves. You expel all the air from your lungs in the kiss and rip yourself away from those moreish swollen lips of his.

“Why did you do that?” Daniel shrugs his shoulders and drags you over to the bed, sitting down and placing you on his lap.

“I really, really, really like you too, Y/N,” he admits before turning his attention to an area he knows you love him nibbling at; your neck. He peppered kisses down it, earning a breathy whimper from you.

“Would any of those dates know your body like I do?” He whispered in your ear. “Any of them gonna make you feel how I make you feel?”

You bite your lip and vigorously shake your head. He chuckled into your ear, sending chills down your spine.

However, in this erotic moment, a surge of confidence overtook you. “Can I get a reminder for how good you make me feel?” you tease, cheekiness dripping of your tone.

Let’s say there was no more confusion between the two of you about where you stood with one another.

You guys continued to text and socialise in your friendship group like normal until Daniel had that blood-thirsty All Out match with MJF.

You wanted to give him your love in person before his match, knowing that the New Yorkers planned something brutal for the fans. But you were stuck on a medical bench, getting checked after being knocked out by Mercedes Moné and Kamille while pursuing the former’s TBS and NJPW Strong championships. You shot Daniel a text, hoping it’d be enough but that was the last time you communicated with him.

The doctor said you had no signs of a concussion and were good to go, so you left the room with the mission to find your man (if you can call him that yet). You didn’t have to look far as he was being rushed inside of the medical room next to you.

You tried to ask what was wrong and get some sort of explanation for someone but no one would talk to you. That’s the only downfall of keeping your relationship on the low.

You pace around the halls, trying to expend all the nervous energy you had because all you wanted to know is if Danny was OK. It didn’t seem like you’d get that answer until you saw Isiah walking down the hall with two duffels in hand. You waved him down quickly.

“What happened to Daniel?” you asked him with a scared look on your face, thinking MJF knocked him out again.

“He’s all good. Don’t worry, sis!” The Brooklynite reassures you. “He’s tired so I think he’s just gonna go back to the hotel and get some rest.”

You nod your head and tell Isiah to send him your love before running back to your locker room and freshening up. When you finally make it back to the hotel, you check to see if Daniel read any of your texts – to which, he didn’t. Strange.

You checked his location (you had each others to make it easier to find one another quicker) and saw that he was at the hotel so why is he not reading your messages? You sent a last text sharing your floor and room number and stayed awake, hoping for a text back.

Your alarm abruptly woke you up. Awkwardly hanging off of the edge of the bed, you found yourself still in your loungewear with your glasses on and your phone in your hand showing that he never read your message.

Disappointed, you dragged yourself around your room to pack and do what you needed to do to catch your plane back home. You tried to call Daniel to tell him you got home safely like you always did, but his phone was off. Stranger.

You spent weeks waiting by the phone, wondering why your best friend and confidant wasn’t talking to you like you were used to. You told each other everything down to the smallest details and there’s been so much you’re holding in because you need to tell Danny first. So, this period of silence is secretly cut you up.

“Oh, girl, get over that bum now!” Your childhood friend Shania told you during your weekly catchup over some red wine and assorted pastries. “Doesn’t he know his 30 minutes was up a long time ago?”

You both sniggered, reminiscing on the funny Tiffany Polard meme.

“I know, but he was my friend first. I just want to know that he’s alright.”

And he was alright, for sure. Rolling his suitcase through the corridor with his shades on with his typical bounce, he looked just as great as he did before. For months, you’ve been trying to convince yourself that he’s a dick for just airing you like that – but seeing him now flooded your mind with all the same feelings as before.

The leather vest was a nice touch, too. Oh, how you’d love to stroke it, maybe even scrap your acrylic nails down it while you ride him like a bronco bull, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

You froze in place when your eyes landed on him and, when he noticed you, you could see his jawline tighten – something he does when he’s nervous and avoidant.

“Shit,” you scream internally, quickly looking away in hopes that he would just walk right past you… and he did.

Why didn't he want to talk to you? Considering all you shared with one another and how vulnerable you allowed yourself to be, how did he find the audacity to just drop you like he did your panties that one night? Focus! He cannot get away with this.

You feel the rage you've had for months bubble up again and your face contorted into one of fury. "It's like that?" you babble to yourself before marching back to your locker room.

You’ll just have to show him what he’s been missing, then.

[icystorm76]

[iguessweallcrazyithinktho]

"x black reader"

[mjfsupremacy]

My brother and I were watching a recap of the WWE show the other day for a laf, and one of the wrestlers got busted open, and my brother was like oh are they doing blood now? And I was like, I think it's more of a if it happens, sell it sorta sitch rather than like intent, you know? And my brother deadass goes, but how will Triple H know if he doesn't see colour? When I tell you I died.

[itskybabes-blog]

Just screamed😂

[itskybabes-blog]

A lil Daniel Garcia x reader teaser

Daniel Garcia x reader (POC friendly🫶🏾)

Warning: suggested smut – nothing else

I got a burst of energy to write another story about DG so, while I finish it, lemme give you a sneak peek at the first two paragraphs.

Disclaimer: this has been written by someone with dyslexia. Please forgive all spelling and grammar mistakes.

—————😘—————

His time spent on the sidelines halted the good thing you had going on. You, Y/N, were new to AEW but already an established star on the indies, picking up women’s belt after women’s belt (even a few men’s titles too) along the way. You were the big ‘I am,’ a rising superstar — something Daniel knew all about.

It’s something you bonded over. Being young and living out your dreams on TV every Wednesday, you often found comfort in knowing that — whatever you went through — he could understand. And soon, all the big group hangouts at the club or whatnot turned into casual one-on-one meetups, which led to you guys texting all the time. Before you knew it, your ankles were pinned to your ears and he was digging in your gold until daybreak.

[minimomoe]

please do not comment shit like this on my page. it is not a compliment that you like my stuff but have the black reader tag blocked. if you haven’t noticed MY WHOLE BLOG IS FOR BLACK PEOPLE. Every! Single! Story!!! go read something else if curly hair makes you upset

[beenathembo]

Now imagine if I came into all the white writers my lil black self was forced to read on Wattpad and here for YEARSSSSS and said something minorly akin to this????

Mom like so confused by the logic of them saying “I’m not black so I don’t want to be described as such” in a literally black writers post— how do they think we felt reading ‘…my blush making it obvious how I really felt’????

‘Her creamy skin shimmered under the spring sun, flowing tresses pulled into a messy bun giving off the vibe she doesn’t try hard’

I truly can’t further examplify their tone-deafness of falling in love with a series written by a Black author…and feeling emboldened by your (white) privilege to voice your OFFENCE AT BEING “mis-perceived” as Black!

Dear non-black readers and writers, please acknowledge that we went yearsssssss having no proper representation within fandom spaces & YOU HOLD NO RIGHT in these x black reader fics

It’s labeled for a flipping reason

[harmshake]

This is racist.

If you're actively avoiding reading fics because of the reader's race, or stop reading fics that you enjoy because you discover reader's race, you're racist.

As black people, we've come to accept that white is the default for damn near everything and we still enjoy the media where we are not represented.

But if we're creating our own works to represent our skin tones, hair textures, and that makes you uncomfortable? Fuck off.

That's white privilege for you, though: Thinking you as a white person have a say in how we write/tag fics for us by us.

[trippinsorrows]

^^^^ all of the above ^^^^

and this is why it's so important to write for us by us. black and poc readers have spent years not being seen and invalidated by white writers in their supposedly 'universal' reader insert fics. so much so that when we would politely try to inform them of certain things that are not representative of true universal reader insert fics (running fingers through her hair, blushing, etc), often times, they would respond rudely and display a disrespectful level of disrespect.

this is the textbook definition of white privilege. (some) white people can't stand to not be the center of attention and focus. argue with ya mama, not me.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

WHAT THEY SAID!!!

[itskybabes-blog]

Ate that down

[cuxjmber]

[mjfsupremacy]

I think we should all just stan them forever actually