Tags: established relationship, fluff, bit of feels, no use of yn, baran al hashimi i would do anything for you forever
Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!
Word count: 0.7k
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Baran is not proud to say that she nearly loses a fight with the football strewn across the driveway. She gives it an irritable kick once she regains her balance—that's for nearly making her face-plant onto the gravel—and pulls in a breath as she grabs her keys from her bag, some of her drowsiness dusting off with the brief fright.
Idly, she hopes you haven't heard her strangled yelp—not because you would laugh, no, but because you would get that look about you. That displeased frown, the twist of your mouth that wordlessly says you hate all of this, how the hospital bleeds her dry, how she won't let you inconvenience yourself—"it's not an inconvenience if I want to, Baran"—and she's too weary to rehash it all again tonight. Actually, she thinks, slotting her key into the lock, she'd very much prefer to never speak about any of it again, in any capacity.
The door quietly creaks open, the house's warmth drifting through. Baran steps in with a slow exhale. It's unusually silent, with Kian at his father's, but light floods everywhere, the familiar scent of home lifting some of the weight off her shoulders.
She's grateful not to find you in the living room. You're not in the kitchen, either, though a pot of something bubbles at the stove.
"Azizam?" She calls out, trudging over to the stairs.
"Here." Your voice drifts down. It's a little muffled, courtesy of the half-shut door of her bedroom. Baran reaches it and gently nudges it open, her smile, already in place, slipping when she takes in the sight in front of her.
There's a basket of laundry at the foot of her bed—laundry she hadn't washed before leaving, she's certain—and you're sitting on top of the covers with your legs crossed, folding. Piles of neatly folded clothes flank your side—short stacks of her t-shirts, another one for her leggings, small balls of socks gathered into a circle. All in dark shades, her blacks and browns and deep grays.
Baran stares. You look up from the shirt you're folding and flash her a smile. "Hey."
Her eyes dip down to your hands, locked on their fluid movement. You tuck in the sides of the shirt, smoothing the sleeves down flat, then fold it in half.
"What—" She finds herself faltering, briefly taken aback. Baran swallows—the action is difficult in a way that alarms her, her throat suddenly tight, her voice coming out more choked than she expects. "What's this?"
"What?" You stand, carefully sidestepping the towers of folded clothes. She's still frozen in the doorway, startled back into moving when you reach for the bag on her shoulder and rid her of the weight.
Her eyes grow hot. "You don't have to do my laundry for me."
"Can't I want to?" You murmur, drawing back closer, tugging her into a hug. "Hi."
Baran swallows again. "Hi," she whispers. Her arms sling around you, her head falling to rest against your cushiony warmth. Her eyes shutter closed; she breathes in, feels your scent filter into her lungs. She holds it for as long as she can, her lungs itching, then pushes it out slow. "You didn't have to do that," she says quietly.
"I know," you hum, squeezing her. "How was your day?"
Baran sighs into you. She feels you brush a soft kiss to her skin, then feels you reach around to free the clip from her hair. Feels you ease the teeth out, gently smooth over the crown of her head, loosening the ache that had been pounding up at her temples. At her prolonged silence, you give her another kiss and cinch your arms around her tighter.
"Long, huh?"
"Mm." She mumbles.
It's all she can manage. She hates it sometimes, how forcing the words through feels monumental. You're never upset when she comes home like this, her mouth suddenly too heavy, her jaw feeling like it's glued shut.
Baran digs her face deeper into you. All at once, she's overwhelmed—with you, with the way you love her, lift her up like it's so easy. She'd grappled with her independence for so long. It's been an uphill battle, her whole life—yes, she's capable, yes, she can be responsible. But it's different, having someone else take over the reigns—not because you think she can't. Never because of that.
Tags: unit chief emily, college student reader, age gap (no ages mentioned), yearning, soft emily, one use of yn
Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!
Word count: 0.6k
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You're sprawled out on the grass, soaking up the flimsy April sunshine, when a shadow falls over you. It lingers through your closed eyelids, blotting darkness across your face. When it doesn't budge, you crack one eye open, expecting it to be a friend.
But no friend of yours wears such expensive, neatly tailored clothes.
"Hey." You sit up hastily, tugging your earbuds out of your ears. Tinny music floats out into the air and Emily smiles down at you, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. "Hi."
Did you say that already?
"Hi," she says, crisp black boots disturbing the grass around you. Before you can stand, she's stepping closer and lowering herself down onto the picnic blanket you're lying on. You blink at her, both to help your eyes adjust and to soak in the strange sight.
You've seen Emily around your campus once or twice, yes, but you've never seen this: her sitting on a brightly checkered blanket, dressed in velvety shades of black, both her hands planted behind her to hold her up. She neatly crosses her heels on the grass, and amidst throngs of sleep-deprived, casually dressed college students, every bit of her looks out of place.
"What are you doing here?" You ask, switching off your music.
"I was passing by." A light breeze stirs her hair, and she tucks some of it behind her ear. "Have you eaten?"
You pause, thinking. Emily gives you a look.
Your shoulders rise to your ears. "I had a pastry—"
"Pastries don't count, Y/N," she says, but there's an amused tick to her mouth. It fiddles with your pulse, more so when she nudges your shoulder. "C'mon, I'm starving too."
"I have a class," you say, reaching for your phone. A class you were debating skipping. She won't want you to, but it's one of your most tedious ones, and it's still an hour and some away. "But maybe somewhere close?" You gnaw on your lip.
Emily's smile does something to you. She nods, rising to her feet. "I know a few places. Are you picky?"
Not when it means free food.
-
"How are your exams going?"
Your nose scrunches. "They're going."
Emily chuckles. It's a rich, pleasant sound, warmth unfurling deep in your stomach.
"I mean, I'm trying my best."
"That's all anyone can ask of you. As long as your best doesn't come at your own expense." She looks away from the road to throw you a glance.
You give her a wry smile. "Doesn't it always?"
"No." Her voice goes firm. "No, it doesn't." She heaves in a breath, "You can't let it interfere with your—"
"I know, I know, work-life balance and all that." You interrupt. You get it, and you do try to maintain that balance, really. But it gets away from you sometimes. "It's just hard to stay on track, sometimes."
"I know it is. But not eating"—her tone goes pointed—"not sleeping…that can't be happening on the regular. It messes with you, and you're young, still." She murmurs, softer now. Dove-like. "If you keep running on fumes, it'll come back to bite you in the ass."
You look back at her, your cheek sticking to her cool, leather seat. The confined space of her car makes you feel closer to her. Impossibly more attuned. She's always striking, her beauty sharp enough to stop your breath in its tracks, but here, right now, something about her feels strangely…intimate. Like she's yours.
But you know she could never be.
"Well," you say quietly, begging for her to look at you and swallowing your thrill when she does, "at least today, it won't."
Hi! Thank you so much for being here! If you’ve ever liked, reblogged, commented, or sent me a kind message, I appreciate you beyond words. This event is just a small way for me to give back to you, so feel totally free to send in as many requests as you want!! (But please only choose one category at a time and have a look at my request guidelines first). You're more than welcome to specify the scenario you want for a more accurate fic! I'll begin posting a week from now :)
Open from July 16th to July 31st.
Place your order!
𓇢𓆸 Spiced chai — choose a character + a prompt from this list, this list, or this list—or send me a prompt of your own (fluff, hurt/comfort, angst)—and I'll write a small drabble, 1k words or less.
𓇢𓆸 Taro bubble tea — send me a kidfic prompt + a character and I'll write a small drabble, 1k words or less.
𓇢𓆸 Wild berry infusion — choose any two characters + a prompt and I'll write a poly drabble, 1k words or less (crossovers welcome!).
𓇢𓆸 London fog — send me a scenario or a trope + a character and I'll give you my headcanons for it, or send me a headcanon of yours and I'll give you my thoughts.
𓇢𓆸 Moroccan mint tea — send me a character + an au, aesthetic, trope, or concept and I'll make you a moodboard.
𓇢𓆸 Custom blend — tell me a little bit about yourself and I'll ship you with a character (and, if it applies, a season-specific version of them! Ex: season 4 Emily Prentiss).
Feel free to specify a character era (London Emily, unit chief Emily, etc.) or a certain reader archetype (ex!reader with Baran, assistant!reader with Emily, etc.)!! AUs are more than welcome! You can also add in dialogue of your own or any more details you have in mind to make your request more specific :) thank you again!! I hope you'll have as much fun with this as I know I will, and as always please nothing nsfw <3
Tags: shy nurse!reader, soft whipped emery (but don't tell anyone), fluff, yearning, no use of yn
Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!
Word count: 0.7k
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There's a lot about you that confounds Emery, but mostly the way you make her pause. She's not one for idling around—she never has been, and especially not at work. But just the sight of you, doing something as laughably simple as staring down at your tablet with a pursed lip, has her feet stalling before she can fight the movement.
Or, something as ridiculously transfixing as setting down your weary head on your desk and letting your eyes drift closed amongst the ceaseless din of the hospital. You're still in your scrubs, a heavy darkness under your eyes, your chest rising and falling slow. Somehow, despite the rush of day shift settling in around you, you're fast asleep.
Emery's bag is already hitched on her shoulder when she spots you, her phone out, earbuds slipped in. By all accounts, she should be leaving. She is leaving. But.
Two hands stretch her in opposing directions: she's already itching for bed, her back aching, head still throbbing with the interns' asinine questions—and you're slumped in your chair, forehead tucked into the crook of your elbow, and, well, she doesn't have much of a choice left in the matter, does she?
If Parker caught wind of this—
"Hey." She shuffles over, nudging the meat of your shoulder with her knuckle. It's a gentle touch—moreso than she expected it to be. You don't stir.
Her eyes rove over the lax lines of your face. You look unusually peaceful, no frown pulling your brows, no tightness tugging around your mouth. It must be a crime, somewhere, to wake you when you look like this, but the bigger crime is to leave you sleeping in this fluorescent-lighted hellhole.
Emery sighs and slips her phone into her pocket. She bends down closer, tap tapping your shoulder. "Hey. Sleeping beauty."
You mumble a protest, a faint sound humming from your throat. It tinkers strangely with Emery's pulse. She gives your shoulder a heavier shake, her thumb brushing the warm skin beneath your collar, and your eyes flutter open. They're bloodshot, bleary, and they widen when they see her. You shoot up in your seat, blinking.
"What?" You mumble, touching your cheek. "Was I paged?" You frown, fumbling with your pockets.
Emery doesn't need to look to know that your pager is lying just behind the monitor on your desk.
"I should think not, all your patients are conked out." She says, leaning over to grab it. You rear back at her movement, flustering, eyes downcast as she hands it to you. Her fingers itch to smooth the sleep-lines imprinted onto your skin. They itch to do a lot of things to you—beautiful, skittish you.
Sleepy you.
"Thanks," you rub at your eye, slipping the pager into your pocket. "I didn't expect to just drift off like that."
Your voice pitches even lower in your exhaustion, your words slurring the faintest bit. It does something to her that she doesn't care to rationalize. She adjusts her grip on her bag, ignoring the voice in her head telling her that maybe she should escort you to your locker—make sure you don't hit your head in your daze, or whatever—when you look down to check your watch and wince with the movement, your hand shooting up, fingers gingerly finding the base of your neck.
"Sore?" Emery guesses. You nod, and she's shifting behind you, her hands moving before she can stop them, flanking the warm curve of your throat without her explicit permission.
What in gods name is she—
"Jesus, your neck is riddled." Her brows pull together. You're stiff under her fingers, knots buried just under your skin. "What the hell do you sleep in? A coffin?"
"Um." You squeak. Your hand rises up to the side of your neck, almost like you're about to touch her, or shove her off, or both.
You do neither and let it fall back into your lap. "I guess my pillow's a bit stiff." You say meekly.
"Well, I'm no masseuse," she begins to say—but, there's a but there—then forgets the rest of her sentence when your head tilts, shoulders rising up as she works a knot loose, a small breath of a sigh winding out of you.
Her hands go still. Your skin is blazing hot under them, and you roll your neck to test the movement, your small, satisfied hum reverberating right through her fingers.
Emery, for the first time in a while, forgets what it is that she was going to say.
Yo! Congrats on 2k!! Your writing is fucking fire and you absolutely deserve it. I have a little question about the event. I looked and saw who you write for and I’m wondering would you be open to crossovers? Because I’m a little intrigued by the idea of being in a relationship with Baran and Emily
Tysm!! :D truly!! And yes, I would be, for the wild berry infusion category! Having both baran and Emily as my gfs is honestly the main reason why I made it😭 I’ve also thought of Alex and Emily quite often so I was like hell let’s add a poly option in there too. You can mix and match any of the four women regardless of the fandom! (Let’s keep it limited to just throuples though lol). I’m so excited to see what comes out of this particular category hehe
Song of the Day: Celebration Bitches (Ft. Eb2K) - Marquis Tyrone Iggy
Song of the Day: Celebration Bitches (Ft. Eb2K) – Marquis Tyrone Iggy
Today’s song is the super smooth Celebration Bitches by MARQUIS TYRONE IGGY.
This Miami-based hop-hop artist dropped his mixtape, Welcome to the Gardens in January (available on SoundCloud). Since the release of his 8-track production, the new kid on the hip-hop block has been back in the studio, churning out tracks…and Celebration Bitchesis one them. With that 70′s-inspired after hours beat and…
