4ngelrealm

[4ngelrealm]

How I felt coming out of the theater just to go home and read fics of them

[4ngelrealm]

While I’m cooking on the love island au (I want to have a few chapters done before publishing), please send in some requests so I can keep the creativity flowing!!!

[4ngelrealm]

okay!! who do we want for the love island AU love interest?

[4ngelrealm]

Okokok I’ve been cooking up a little something but I need helppp

I want to write a love island AU so badddd. I haven’t been able to write anything because I been so hyper fixated on this idea, but I can’t figure out exactly how to do it.

Do I do it with formula 1 or the UKYT boys? Do I make up a bunch of female ocs + male ocs when it comes to the rest of the cast? How would I decide the love interest?

If anyone has any ideas/thoughts/opinions about it I would love to hear them!!

[4ngelrealm]

I want to write a love island AU so badddd. I haven’t been able to write anything because I been so hyper fixated on this idea, but I can’t figure out exactly how to do it.

Do I do it with formula 1 or the UKYT boys? Do I make up a bunch of female ocs + male ocs when it comes to the rest of the cast? How would I decide the love interest?

If anyone has any ideas/thoughts/opinions about it I would love to hear them!!

[4ngelrealm]

i need 1000 fics from you, immediately!!

your writing is wonderful <3

this is so sweet!! Thank you so much <33 it means a lot 🥹

[4ngelrealm]

𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘁

george clarke x reader 𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗟 𝗠𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗠𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡 𝗜𝗧, g. clarke: description of the fic. (angst; hurt/comfort; groveling; established relationship; couple argument; trust issues; struggling with the word 'love')

The locks were changed by the time he got back. George sighed, resting his forehead against the door as his key to your apartment jerked and got stuck in the mismatched lock. He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting, you hadn't answered his texts for days and with every day he felt you disappear more deeply.

George knew he fucked up. Royally. He knew you, deeply and wholly. He knew of your tendencies to pull away. For you, there was stability in self-destruction. It was easier for you to pull away when you felt shaky foundations because that way, you could watch it all crumble from afar and get out without any scars.

You convinced yourself that it was necessary. That this was the only way to survive, to grow stronger than the people who've hurt you.

George could barely fathom how quickly it had fallen apart. It was with startling ease that you pulled away and he ached in your absence. An accidental brush of bodies in a crowded room and a poorly timed photo had been the catalyst, enough to spook you. He longed to fix it, his tired voice calling for you through the door. George rests his palm against the doorknob, hoping.

"Darling, please." He says, tired and pleading.

You pretend you feel nothing as you always have and pray that you'll begin to believe it. His voice━usually vibrant and giggly━is now frayed at the edges, tearing with each word he speaks and you have to clench every muscle in your body to stop the pang in your chest. George sounds even more exhausted than he did in the voicemails he left, the ones you'd started but hadn't had the heart to finish.

You curl your fists, balling up the fabric of what you were sure was one of George's hoodies, and shut your eyes tight. You shake your head as if he can see you.

"I know how bad it looked, but I promise it wasn't what it looked like." He keeps speaking and your heart clenches. George has always been good at that━being the voice to your quiet. "I need you to believe me, sweet girl, I would never do anything to hurt you. I couldn't sleep those last few nights in Monaco, or on the plane ride back. All I could think about was how I hurt you, even though I didn't mean to. You can ask Bach, I didn't stop talking about you the entire trip. Please don't shut me out before you've even given me a chance to explain. I know you've been hurt and I hate that I've made you feel the same way they made you feel. You don't even have to talk, just please let me in and we can just sit."

The silence is deafening. You feel yourself tense beneath the weight of his words, your mind wrestling with itself. You crave so badly to be able to believe him, to hear him tell you he loves you and believe it. You tiptoe over to the door, resting your palm against the wood, wishing you could feel him on the other side. Your attention is caught when something nudges your foot.

"I got this in Monaco." You bend down and pick it up, gingerly turning it over in your hands. "I know how much you love photobooths and I wanted you there with me so badly."

The pictures are goofy. There's a succession of George posing with different goofy faces, holding up a picture of you on his phone next to his face so that, technically, you're in the pictures too. You swallow, willing the tears to go away.

"The place was crowded. I was only that close to her walking by, but the timing of that picture made it look so much worse." His voice is desperate now, whining and breathy.

Before you can second guess yourself you reach for the door handle and pull it open, meeting the baby blue shine of George's eyes for the first time in what felt like years. His tawny curls were messy, as if he'd been running his hands through his hair over and over, and his eyes were rimmed red.

"You don't know who that girl was?" You ask, forcing the words out. You taste the insecurity on your tongue and want to choke.

George steps closer, unsure and easy, as if he was approaching a wounded animal.

"No fucking clue."

You throw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder. George wraps an arm securely around you waist, leading you back into your flat and dropping his bags by the door. He sits the two of you down and lets you collapse into him. George cradles you face as if you are the most precious thing to exist, like he's known nothing kinder than the feel of your skin beneath his.

He lets you fall apart, wiping away the tears. He saw the tenderness beneath your anger. George knew how the pain was consuming you and held you anyways.

He thumbed away the tears and whispered, "I love you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Please stop leaving. Please let me take care of you."

You pull back, not startled, but careful.

"I'm tough." You say.

He nods. "I know that."

George's hands don't leave you.

"I can take care of myself."

"You have," George agrees easily, pressing a kiss to your hair. "You always will. But now, I will too. I only want anything you're willing to give me."

i acc hate this

taglist: @phantomveb @Ilikewaytoomanythingz

[4ngelrealm]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝘀

franco colapinto x indycar!reader 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗨𝗦, f. colapinto: description of the fic. (secret relationship/going public; fluff; smut??; misogony in sports)

Being a woman in a male dominated sport is hard. Being the youngest and a woman is even harder. You’d grown up around cars your entire life; your father had a hobby of buying and repairing vintage sports cars and your uncle owned a car repair shop. When you were younger, it seemed like it was in your DNA—something carved into the deepest parts of you, etched into your bones and flowing through your veins. When you’d gotten a seat in IndyNXT at only seventeen, your life seemed to click into place. You lived for the rush of adrenaline that accompanied you every time you got behind the wheel. 

It was an undeniable fact that you were good. Five polls and four wins in your rookie year left little room for criticism, but people found room anyways. People called it luck. They said that it was easy, handed to you because the boys in the sport were too afraid to hurt a girl. When you were twenty and got a seat with Arrow McLaren and scored twice as well as the boys on the team, the criticism only grew louder. 

When you’d met Franco, it was the first time in your life that everything had slowed down. There was an instant pull between the two of you despite the ebb and flow of clashing race weekends and schedules. You shared phone calls with hushed, sleepy voices from thousands of miles away in uncomfortable hotel beds and even when your tired eyes begged for rest you watched each other's races. Being with Franco felt easy. He became your person, the only one who had the faintest idea of what you meant when you spoke—he understood you on a deeper level. He comforted you through bad races and celebrated your wins, never undermining your success, only making it all feel sweeter.

The only problem was how badly you craved to hold him, to attend his races and support him loudly. You knew what people would say: that Franco pulled strings to get you to where you are, using the influence that the new hotshot F1 driver must have in the racing world. It didn’t matter that you’d gotten the seat before you even met him, it only mattered that people would see what they wanted and spin the narrative that made the most headlines. 

It was a very rare moment for the two of you, curled in a hotel bed together in a country halfway between where each of you would be racing next. Franco shifted beside you, his breathing even as he held you tighter even in his sleep. He looked so peaceful beneath the gaze of the moonlight, his features softened by sleep. You lean back into his touch, feeling the steady beat of his heart against the naked skin of your back. You feel the warmth of his skin and something curls inside you: self-affection. Franco had the ability to make you feel wholly like yourself, smoothing out the rough edges of self-doubt and heavy feelings of loss. You felt at ease, peaceful. It seemed so natural to talk to him about odd things and to sit with him in the quiet. The trust the two of you had built, so natural and sudden, yet so complete, and the intimacy of shared takeaway and split bottles of wine frightened you when you thought too long.. but then you could only think of the love you held for him and the love he gave you in return. 

Franco shifts again, his breath fanning against your neck. He slides his hands down your hips and drags his fingers slowly across your thigh.

”I can hear you thinking.” He says, low and gravelly, but not mean. 

His hands don’t stop moving. It’s something you learned early on about the Argentinian boy, he loved to touch you. The way his palms smooth over your skin trails goosebumps in their wake and makes you feel like you're being carved by the hands of an artist, worshipped by his touch. You roll in his arms to face him and he adjusts easily. His brown eyes sparkle in the silver of the moonlight that filters through the sheer curtains. 

“Sorry.” You whisper, cringing at the hoarse edges of your voice. You reach up brushing the hair off his forehead and leaning in to press a short kiss to his cheek. “Go back to sleep, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Franco’s eyes flutter, his long lashes kissing the crest of his cheekbone. “Too late.” He grins, boyish and disarming. “I wanna know what you were thinking about.”

“This. Us.” You say softly, distracting yourself with the feel of his pulse beneath your fingertips tracing his chest. “I’ve missed you.”

His grin softens then into something reserved for you. The kind of smile that curves like a cat stretching out for the sun. Easy. Soft. Franco grabs your hand, kissing your palm and the tip of each finger and down to your wrist, lingering against your pulse point.

“I’ve been losing my mind.” He whispers, leaning in to kiss your neck. “For three weeks I haven’t held you in my arms. Kissed your neck—“ Franco kisses down your chest “—seen you in more clarity than my phone screen gives. You’ve driven me crazy, mi vida.”

You place your hands on both sides of his face and the room falls away. The two of you get lost in the kiss. You have kissed before, but it’s never felt like this and when you think of love you can no longer conjure up any image that isn’t Franco. He pulls you in, palms pressing against your hips, your thighs, and silently you wish that it’ll leave a mark. He rolls so you're beneath him, hips pressing into yours gentle as rain and you meet him halfway, heat blooming across your skin like a field of wildflowers.

Franco kisses across your skin and sows his fingers through your hair like roots into damp soil, touching you like you’re sacred. His scent fills your mind, you taste lust and skin, and Franco says your name like there is nothing more tender. You tense and relax beneath him, feeling every inch of him and every breath shared in the limited space between the two of you. The sheets pool around Franco’s waist as he pushes himself up, enough to see you and feel you all at once. His eyes, like honey beneath the sunlight, found yours with each rock of his hips into yours. You curl your legs around his waist and whisper his name, and he feels each syllable.

He knows what it means: stay, love me, please. He kisses you, deep and slow and whispers your own name into your mouth. You taste it: I will, I love you, always.

Your heart thrummed in your ears, dulling the sounds surrounding you. Your body was on fire, every muscle aching as you slowed your car down. You’d won. Even after you’d done it countless times, the rush of adrenaline and pride never lessened. You felt alive, heard your heartbeat rushing in your ears and felt the blood beneath your skin. Something between a sob and a laugh escapes you and it feels perfect. You slam your hand against the wheel as you pull into the pit lane, unstrapping and pulling yourself out of the car. Your team meets you with open arms and celebratory cheers that make you feel like you're on top of the world, but as you’re wrapped in unfamiliar arms you find yourself craving Franco’s touch.

The celebration blurs between interviews and congratulations until finally, you’re stood atop the podium. The crowd roars below you, the colors of different teams all flashing together. Suddenly, all at once, it hits you. The sun beats down against your skin, catching on the trophy as you hoist it up above your head. The champagne spray hits you like a jet, pulling you back into the moment. It drips, sticky against your skin and tangling within your hair. Confetti rains down against you, clinging to your damp hair and race suit. 

Everything slows when you gaze out into the crowd, taking in the moment. The adrenaline pumps in your veins and you feel on top of the world. You brush your wet hair back off your forehead, the champagne still dripping into your eyes and tracing your features. There’s an intense ache that accompanies moments like this—the kind where you feel intensely happy and a profound sense that nothing will ever top this feeling. You breathe in, letting the summer air settle in your lungs, and as your haze sweeps the crowd, you meet a pair of unmistakable honey eyes.

Franco stood amongst the crowd, sporting a Mclaren papaya hat and you couldn’t help but laugh. It was a silent moment between the two of you when your eyes met—a moment that no one else could be a part of, one reserved just for the two of you. He didn’t need to touch you to make you feel caressed, Franco’s eyes did enough.

You didn’t realize your feet were moving until you found yourself by the barrier, hands reaching out to touch you, but there was only one pair you cared about. You put your hands on him, sliding easily against his shoulders. Touching him had always been important to you, though, you weren’t sure why. You couldn’t explain it, but you needed it—craved it. Franco leaned in pressing his forehead against yours and the roar of the crowd dulled until all you could focus on was the shared breaths between you.

“I’m so proud of you.” He whispers, and the sweetness is stickier than the champagne still clinging to your skin.

“You’re here.” You whisper, not giving him a chance to respond before you’re kissing him.

Your stomach presses into the barrier as your hands tangle with the fabric of his shirt, pulling him as close as possible. You kissed him—despite the cameras and the eyes, and the rumors you were sure were already circulating. You kissed him because you loved him. Franco’s touch grounds you, his palms sliding against your hips and you think you can still feel the heat of his touch through your race suit. He feels as if his hands cannot bring you close enough and his heart skips a beat as he tastes the champagne on your lips. 

Franco touches you as if he could live in the moment forever; the moment of your fingers brushing his skin, tracing his jawline, and the smile you share as you pull away. It’s simple, but it’s everything.

don't know much about indycar so hopefully this is good!!

[4ngelrealm]

𝗰𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀

will lenney x reader 𝗖𝗔𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦, w. lenney: you can tell that will has wanted a cat for a while, but he's never made the leap to get one. you find a stray cat on a night out and in your tipsy mind you think it must be fate. (established relationship; fluff; humor)

You and Becky cling to one another as you stumble down the street, giggling and slurring inside jokes from the night that neither one of you will remember in the morning. Your mind is hazy and running on dopamine. The two of you stop on the corner of the street as you wait for your uber.

A nudge against your ankle catches your attention and when you look down, your heart squeezes. A small brown kitten curls around your boot, nudging its head against you. A coo immediately falls from your lips and you crouch down, losing your balance and falling to a sitting position next to the cat.

It startles and you hold your hand out, letting the kitten smell your palm before stepping into your touch. It looks up at you with soft chocolate eyes matching its brown fur with a small patch of white on its chest.

"Careful." Becky warns, slightly sobered up with a bottle of water in her hands and watching you sitting on the pavement.

"It's so cute!" You squeal, letting your hands run across the brown, slightly matted fur and checking for a collar.

The uber pulls up and you make the split decision to scoop the cat up into your arms, the kitten curling into your chest. You sit down, making sure the cat is comfortable in your lap before pulling out your phone to text Will.

▌you: on my way home ▌you: and i'm bringing a surprise!!

You balance the cat on one arm as you shove your key into the lock, your footing off and your feet aching.

"Hey, darling." Will greets you, squeezing your waist affectionately.

He reaches for your jacket to help slip it off you, but when you still and turn into his chest he's greeted with a delightful purring. Will's eyes soften at the small bundle of brown fur curled peacefully in your arms.

"Is this the surprise?"

You smile wide, with alcohol flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. You bob your head up and down, humming softly as you look down at the kitten.

"He found me." You smile, saccharine and soft. "Or she... I'm not totally sure."

Will laughs softly, reaching out to pet the cat.

"We can call him Max Vercatppen or Sebastian Cattel." You giggle, slipping onto the floor. You place the cat down, watching its legs stretch as it begins to explore. "Micat Schumacher."

Will grins fondly as the cat nudges his ankle and you rattle off the names of f1 drivers turned cat puns. He feels the love he has for you like waves lapping at the shore, an easy pull, consistent and inevitable.

He reaches for you, his touch delicate as he hoists you up. "Come on, darling, you should wash your hands."

Will is careful about the way he guides you to the bathroom, helping you through the motions. He runs your hands beneath the warm water, rubbing the soap into your skin even though you can do it yourself. The suds run off your hands and swirl into the drain.

Right as you're about to pull your hands from the basin, the kitten jumps up to the counter and slips beneath the water. It doesn't startle like you would think, instead spinning its small body around the sink.

"We should probably give him a bath too." Will drops a kiss to your shoulder. "I'll grab the Dawn."

You smile as Will leaves, returning quickly with your bottle of Dawn dish soap and a small cup. The two of you work together, running sudsy hands across its fur and carefully rinsing the soap off using the water cup.

The flat is quiet besides the sounds of the tap running and the kitten's soft purrs. It's blissful and domestic and Will doesn't think he's ever been happier. He turns his gaze to you, your face bathed in the dim warmth of the bathroom lights. He traces the bridge of your nose and the curve of your lips.

The moment feels like a distant dream. The kind of dream that slips away too quickly, even when you press your head to the pillow, desperate to reclaim it. If someone asked Will to describe home, he'd describe this━the color of your hair, the sound of your voice, the softness of your hands, the kindness of your heart, and the taste of your lips.

Will leans down suddenly, bold and quick. It's messy, the press of his lips to your own that are parted in concentration. It tastes like lingering alcohol and the tea he'd been drinking. His hands, wet and soapy, pull you in by your waist and he cradles you like you're the most precious thing in existence.

A soft meow pulls the two of you apart. Sweet, chocolate eyes stare up at you and you smile, despite your drunken haze and wet clothes.

"I love you so much." Will presses his forehead to your shoulder, trailing chaste kisses up to the shell of your ear.

You lean in again, twisting in his hold and pressing your wet palms against the sides of his face. A splash of water pushes you into him, tucking your head into his chest as you try to dodge the water. A surprised laugh bubbles up from your chest and Will joins in.

Will kisses you through his laugh and your smile, both of your clothes wet and a dripping cat nudging your ankles. 

someone get this man a cat!!🐈

taglist: @phantomveb @Ilikewaytoomanythingz

[4ngelrealm]

𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀𝘆

arthur frederick x reader 𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗦𝗬, a. frederick: italian men are handsy. when you mix it with the adrenaline of watching an f1 race, the monaco sun, and alcohol, your boyfriend gets a little jealous. (slight insecurity; jealousy; protective!arthur; handsy man; fluff; established relationship; fem!reader)

It's a surreal feeling, staring out at the ocean that glitters beneath the Monaco sun from atop the deck of a yacht. If someone had told you years ago that you'd be attending the Monaco Grand Prix all because of a few silly videos you'd started posting years ago, you would never had believed it.

A saltwater breeze cools your skin as you tip your head back, elbows leaned onto the railing, enjoying the sun. You can still taste the grapefruit from the paloma you'd had mixing with the coconut-vanilla of your chapstick. It feels, smells, and tastes like summer, and you drink it in completely━the sky, the cool metal of the railing, the cotton of your shirt, the smell of the ocean.

A pair of arms wrap around your middle and you lean back instinctively. You'd know Arthur deprived of any of your senses. He felt safe and solid. Warm and familiar. Your skin thrums at his touch, thumbs smoothing circles against the exposed sliver of your skin between your shirt and skirt. He presses a kiss to your shoulder and you have to refrain from clinging to his shirt and bury your face into the warm curve of his neck.

"How are you?" Arthur says softly.

You rest your hands against his wrists, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms.

"Good." You smile absentmindedly, pressing your thumb against his pulse. "Really good. It all just feels so surreal. I want to be able to take it all in."

He hums low by your ear. "I get that."

Arthur steps back, his hands still on your hip. He leads you into the shaded area, turning you so your chest to chest with him. Affection blooms in your chest at the simple action, the quiet care. You smile, reaching up to brush a hand through the hair falling against his forehead.

"Have you eaten yet?" Arthur pushes your hair off your shoulder. "You should reapply your suncream, too, so you don't burn."

"Are you flirting with me?" You smile cheekily, pinching his bicep.

"So, you've finally noticed." He jokes back, dropping a kiss to your forehead as you giggle. "I'll go grab us something to eat. Stay in the shade and I'll see if Becky brought suncream."

You nod, holding onto his hand until he's too far to reach. Conversations whirs around you, but you've exhausted your social battery and as the morning fades into early afternoon you find a corner with less people to take a seat. You kick off your sandals, curling your feet up beneath you as you settle into the white couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone.

A hand against your knee pulls your attention and you shift, pulling back from the unfamiliar touch. The man is smiling down at you, easy going and suave with a chiseled jaw and tanned skin.

"Forgive me if I'm being too forward," he says, his accent thick and hand touching your arm, "but you are the most beautiful woman I've had the pleasure of meeting."

"That's sweet." You deflect by moving your arm, brushing your hand through your hair. "And I'm sure my boyfriend agrees."

The man laughs, charming and unbothered. "Ah, so you're saying I don't have any chances with you."

You shake your head with a shy smile. "Nope, sorry."

His hand slides against your knee once more and you get the impression he's a naturally touchy person.

"Well he's a very lucky guy."

"I'm a lucky girl." You respond with a content smile as the man stands and leaves, most likely to try his lines on another girl.

Arthur slides into the open spot a second later, pulling your legs onto his lap. He grabs a small pillow from next to him, tucking it between your lap and the cold porcelain of the bowl. It's a collection of your favorite fruits, the colors vivid against the white bowl.

A silence drifts between the two of you, but it's not soft and comfortable like your used to. It lingers, thick and heavy━the kind of silence that puts a distance between the two of you even when you can feel his warmth.

"Who was that guy?" Arthur asks, his voice tight.

"Hmm?" You hum around a bite of watermelon.

"He was touching you."

You finished chewing and swallowing, wiping the leftover juice on a napkin that Arthur had tucked between the pillow and the bowl.

You shrug, looking absentmindedly in the direction of where the man was flirting with another girl.

"Just some guy. Probably looking for a quick lay."

Arthur nods, but you can tell he's not fully listening. He follows your gaze, jaw ticking at the sight of the guy laughing with a woman and running his fingers up and down her arm.

"He was really touchy." Arthur reiterates. "You didn't push him off."

You lean forward, tapping your fingers against his temple.

"For a guy who loves logic you're not being very logical right now." You say sweetly, tucking his chin between your fingers to bring his eyes back towards you. "You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of."

Arthur shakes his head, straightening out his back. "I wasn't jealous."

You smile, fond and honey-sweet. "You're cute." You giggle, reaching forward to pinch his cheek and brush your hand across his cheekbone.

Despite himself, he leans into your touch. "It isn't funny."

You grab the fruit bowl and set it on the table, tossing the pillow off to the side. Twisting━the way a sunflower twists toward the sun━you tuck yourself into Arthur's side and he curls his arm around you with easy muscle memory.

"Did I ever tell you when I realized I loved you?" You start. "We were sitting on the floor after our fourth date━super soon, I know━and we were splitting a bottle of wine and you wouldn't stop touching me."

Arthur laughs, tossing his head back and you press your cheek to his shoulder.

"I'm serious! You kept moving my hair off my face and touching my hand and caressing my thigh. And you spilled wine all down your shirt and onto your rug because you got excited while explaining some chess match to me. That night I fell in love with you. Despite your wine stained shirt, and messy hair, and rambles about things I could never begin to understand... I love you, Arthur." You press a lingering kiss to his lips. "Even when you're being a big dummy."

He smiles against your lips and you kiss him again. Again. Again. You press against him like how you press flowers between the pages of a book. Arthur laughs and you kiss him through it and you think that there is nothing nicer, no taste sweeter than his laugh in your mouth.

this is ass </3

taglist: @phantomveb @Ilikewaytoomanythingz

[4ngelrealm]

the motivation is flowing rn!! Plz send some requests <33

[4ngelrealm]

𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝟰 𝘂

chris dixon x reader 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗬 𝟰 𝗨, c. dixon: four months is not enough time to get over someone you love, especially when they show up at your best mate's party. (hurt/comfort; exes to ???; mentions of a previous breakup; angst to fluff)

There is an excruciating tenderness to the way Chris thinks about the past. A softness to the way he looks at a sunset and remembers the way the gold used to thread through your hair. It's a reverent fondness that flickers into a somber sadness. The gold sets with the sun and leaves him within the deep blue shadows of the late night.

The past four months seemed to be stuck in the deep indigo of melancholy, the kind that usually only creeps up on you in the dead of night, walking the line between memory and haunting. Video shoots were a little less energetic, he didn't go out as much, he left halfway through while watching football with Arthur and George. In a sick way, he wished you'd parted ways like skin from leather in the summer. He wished it ended with a sharp sting rather than a quiet, almost imperceptible closing of a door.

Chris scrubbed a hand down his face, the scent of his aftershave lingering. He looked cleaner than he had in a while, the edges of his beard sharp and his skin freshly washed, but he didn't feel clean. The memories that clung to the most obscure parts of his life━your toothbrush still in the holder, finding a t-shirt of yours between loads of laundry, a lip gloss and hair tie of yours that he'd held onto for you on a night out still tucked into his hoodie pocket.

He met his own eyes in the mirror, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair. Chris ran his hands down his shirt, listening to the muted sounds of his friends pregaming in the other room. He's found excuse after excuse to skip out on going to the bar or the club to the point of being 'sick' six times in the past four months, but there's no excuse under the sun that'd allow him to skip Arthur's birthday.

When Chris finally makes it out of the bathroom he's greeted with cheers and a shot being pushed into his hand. It's a fruitless effort to wave off a tipsy Becky and he downs the shot, letting the warmth of the alcohol wash over him.

The kitchen is a mess of chatter, empty bottles, condensation rings, and bumping shoulders. The birthday boy is glowing, his cheeks pink from the alcohol and a wide smile splitting his face. Arthur bounds over, tripping on the cuffs of his jeans, and slips an arm around Chris' shoulder.

"I invited her." The words are slurred and slightly incomprehensible, but when Arthur says your name something between a flutter and a break happens in Chris' chest. "And it's my birthday so you can't be mad."

The next few moments blur; a text and Becky's squeal of delight, a few people stumbling to the door, and you being dragged into the kitchen. There's a sickening feeling of familiarity that washes over Chris when you walk in. All the moments of you walking into his apartment dressed to go out or holding a bottle of wine and your favorite movie for a date night. All the times you'd made yourself at home in his space and melded with his world so perfectly that he thought it meant forever.

You look lovely, but Chris thinks the word is too soft, too insufficient to describe you. You've always been beautiful, but after he'd been tucked into the space between your ribs and your soul for so long, he found himself admiring more than your looks. Just looking at you Chris knows the intimate curve of your smile and the intensity of your happiness and the softness of your soul. He knows you, instinctively and wholly.

A passing thought tears Chris from his reverie. Maybe he only used to know you and you've changed yourself, erasing the parts he knew so well. It makes him sick and he finds himself reaching for another beer.

Once the group is significantly buzzed, you less so than the rest of them, you split between two ubers and head to the club. By some miracle━or maybe some sick fate━you end up next to Chris in the way back seat, your thigh pressing to his. He tenses almost instantly, trying to shrink in on himself. You guys broke up. He has no right to occupy your space the way he used to.

Between Chris stuck in his own head performing autopsies on every conversation and doing his best not to touch you, barely notices you nudging his shoulder with yours.

He turns. Entirely quick and all too slow. His heart hammers in his chest and he can't tell if it's eased by your smile or if it hurts worse.

"I'm really glad you're here." You say softly and he sees the double-take in your eyes. "I mean━not that you wouldn't be, but... I'm glad I came and you're here."

Chris blinks and he can tell his moment of silence makes you think you've completely fucked it.

He flips between twelve things he could say to you and stutters beneath his breath. "I'm glad you're here, too."

"I think I only came to see you."

The words slip out before you can manage them. When it's late and you're dissecting the events of the night, you'll blame the shots. The air seems to go still and the chatter in front of you goes mute.

The moment cuts as the uber pulls up to the venue and the group spills out of the car. The night air fills your lungs, cold and full. You're gone before Chris can blink, your arm tucked into Becky's as you're dragged into the bar and onto the dancefloor.

You have no idea how many songs pass and drinks are finished before you find a quiet moment━quiet, meaning music blaring and loud partygoers, but you're no longer in the thick of it. You slip off the dance floor with a deep breath that smells like sweat and musky perfumes and booze. Elbows propped on the sticky wooden bartop you order a water, wanting the haze of the night to clear.

The water is cool as you swallow, calming the buzzing that's thrummed under your skin since you'd been at the boys' flat.

"Hey." It's hesitant in a way you've never known Chris to be.

His hand slides against the small of your back, fingers lingering by your hip. Five months ago, it would've anchored there and he would've pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his body slotting against yours. But time has passed and his hands slip away like a whisper.

"Hey." You say back, your voice already aching━though you don't know if it's from scream-singing the songs or being face-to-face with Chris. "Having fun?"

On the outside, the words are sweet. A simple check in. To Chris they are shattering, a hollow imitation of the love and care the two of you held together.

"I found your sweater the other day." He settles on and cringes. His voice feels too loud, too full, too stumbling.

You smile anyways. "The white one? I've been looking for it."

"Well, you left pretty quickly. Guess it was hard to grab everything."

You sink, stomach churning with embarrassment and regret. You press into him, arm to arm, trying to catch his eye beneath the neon lights. You rest your hand on his forearm, his skin warm just like you remember.

"I regret everything." You say earnestly, voice soft in his ear. "Can we please talk? I understand if you hate me and never want to see me again, but━Fuck, Chris. I need you to know how sorry I am."

He nods and for a second you don't know what it means, but then he's holding on. Chris' hand holds yours softly, loose and barely there but you can feel every point of connection. He pulls you through the crowd and out onto a back patio.

The music seems to mute as the door shuts, the patio bathed in a mix of moonlight and neon lights spilling out through the glass doors. You knew it was cruel to be so optimistic, but the past few months you'd find Chris creeping into your every day even when he wasn't there. You'd play your music, peel an orange, drink your coffee, and call a friend and he was there.

You don't talk. You don't know how to do this and you let the silence lead the conversation until you can calm your racing heart.

"Why didn't you say goodbye?"

Oh. Any thread of sense fell away, the sound of his voice aching like a deft finger pressing into a bruise.

You still and grasp the bannister for balance.

"If I had tried to say goodbye... I wouldn't have been able to leave." You breathe out, stowing your head and letting your hair fall around you like a curtain. "I don't want you to think I left because of you. I left despite you, because I needed to."

Your chest tightens, the ocean ebbing and flowing as Chris presses into your space once more.

"You needed to?" It's slow, testing. Not understanding, but trying. "Needed to get away from me? To what?"

"The last thing I wanted was to be away from you." You let the tears well up and your voice rises in desperation. "You've never left my mind, but it all got too much. The fans, the constant nitpicking of my life, the assumptions... I couldn't do it anymore. I got scared."

"Scared of what?"

You're both desperate now, both grasping at straws trying to find where it all fell apart.

"Scared that I wasn't the one for you, Chris. I saw what people were saying and I got in my head. I thought maybe you'd see it too and they'd convince you it was true."

Chris' hands move to cup your face, holding you like you're something holy and wiping his thumbs across your cheeks like he was tracing the words of his favorite poem.

"You could've talked to me."

"I know, but I freaked. I had already walked out and by then... I just figured you hated me━"

He pulls you in and you melt. You become pliable beneath his palms, and even as you kiss him, you wish you were kissing him. It's soft, but desperate all the same. The kiss is months of mornings without each other and thumbs hovering over each others' contact, but never calling.

"I could never hate you. Darling, I adore you."

You laugh, halfway between relief and disbelief. It's wet and thankful and his favorite sound. He smiles and you know he's telling the truth. He adores you. So you kiss him, and his arms slide to your hips, pulling you in, and you keep kissing him.

a/n: anyways :)

taglist: @phantomveb @Ilikewaytoomanythingz

[4ngelrealm]

𝘂𝗸𝘆𝘁 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗳𝘀

𝗴𝗲𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗲 lipstick prints. summer pop. white dresses. bedazzled microphone. yellow and baby blue. iconic blondie. tanned skin. love letters. lace. raunchy lyrics. block heels. cursive writing. victoria secret collab. electric guitar. cherries and lipgloss. bedazzled platform boots. pearl necklaces. coachella headliner. silk dresses.

𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗸 late nights. comfy slippers. princess aesthetic. piano. white confetti. ballerina flats and leg warmers. bows. half-up, half-down hair. cinnamon buns. bambi eyes. dark pink lip combo. casual streaming. pearl chrome nails. soft girl. comfy recording studio. layered necklaces. tulip flowers. pink and white. lollipops. glasses.

𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗲𝘆 sports jerseys. gold jewelery. iconic hair. dance pop. cheetah print. big f1 fan. waist chain. dancer first. flirty and sexy. bright lights. city girl. light freckles. smiley. paparazzi. tanned skin. star studded. caramel highlights. late night drives. silhouettes. sunglasses. flexibility. camera flashes. tangled headphones. nude lipstick. lace bras.

𝗰𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘅𝗼𝗻 lyricist. black and white. hair bows. light feminine. smiley. acoustic guitar. vintage photobooth. long dresses. journaling. minimalism. floral. long sleeves. mirrorball. silver jewelery. curtain bangs. believes in fate and soulmates. candid photos. hazy mornings. brown paper wrapped flowers. blue jeans. t-swifts daughter. baby tees.

𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗹 rockstar girlfriend. red lipstick. red and purple. digital camera. leather bodysuits. layered necklaces. winged eyeliner. chunky rings. vienna. combat boots. edgy. lipstick on mirrors. teen angst icon. hair clips. ripped fishnets. chipped nail polish. electric guitar. lovergirl. smudged makeup. empty streets. sparkly eyeshadow.

𝗮𝗹𝗳𝗶𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 alt-popstar. lace dress. tattoos. fallen angel. silver jewelery. white microphone. sexy stage prescence. jet black hair. aesthetic music videos. nirvanna fan. long, sharp nails. sad girl. natural brunette. black outfit, white details. running mascara. melancholy. smudged lipstick. leather car seats. pretty poison. babydoll dresses.

just something simple while I try to get motivated for other things.

[4ngelrealm]

maybe one day i'll put ad much effort into school as i do my silly little tumblr posts, but until then... i have so many half-baked drafts and don't know which to actually write/publish 🥀

[4ngelrealm]

welcome to my blog𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ 'can't remember how to say your name'

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀:¨ ·.· ¨: ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . 𐙚

౨ৎ angel. aquarius. pink & green truther. taglist. 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧౨ৎ

before you request: things such as mlm/male!reader, trans!reader, etc. are things I will not write.

This is not because I intend to shame or exclude these people, but rather because I am uncomfortable to write about experiences that do not align with mine for fear of misrepresenting real experiences.

boundaries: 'dark' romance, ddlg and similar dynamics, degradation, threesomes, noncon, bondage/bdsm, daddy/mommy kinks, etc... are all things I choose not to write.

[4ngelrealm]

𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧౨ৎ

UKYT

playing dangerous, g.clarke it's our trope, g.clarke (coming soon) cat parents, w.lenney party 4 u, c.dixon handsy, a.frederick tell me you love me and mean it, g. clarke

NHL

karma, n.hischier

F1

look at my girl, l.norris (coming soon)

OTHERS...

favorite game, d.matthews (coming soon)

*feel free to request any that are coming soon

[4ngelrealm]

Playing Dangerous

george clarke x reader 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗗𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗦, g. clarke: you and your boyfriend getting ready with matching costumes for the halloween party. ( fluff; established relationship; dirty jokes; suggestive/vulgar language )

The faint sound of Lana Del Rey hums from your phone, creating the perfect getting ready atmosphere. You smile at yourself in the mirror as you press your lips together, spreading the gloss around. You tried a new lip combo for tonight; darker than usual, a mauve color, and became promptly obsessed. You could hear George shuffling around in the bathroom and since you were dressed and finished with your makeup, you decided to join him.

Knocking twice, you pushed the door open, leaning against the doorframe for a moment. George stood in front of the mirror, his hands tangled in his curls, wearing nothing but a white tank-top tucked into his dark cargo trousers. He looked amazing and you took your time admiring your lovely boyfriend━the way his biceps flexed with each movement, the way his fingers moved deftly through his curls.

"Wow, officer." You practically purr, stepping into the bathroom.

George turns to you, meeting you eyes in the mirror with his familiar, easy-going smile.

"See something you like?" He teases, arms gesturing to himself as he twists his hips, mimicking a dance.

You step further into his space, dragging your nails up his arm. He turns into you, angling his chin downwards to look at you. You look up, catching his eye with a sly smirk.

You let your hand trail up his arm, your other hand moves down, pulling him in by the belt loop of his trousers.

"Oh absolutely." You grin, pressing your body to his. "Your ass looks fantastic in those cargos."

His face lights up a soft pink as his hands move to rest on your waist, still not used to your brazen flirting. George brings one hand up, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. His soft-blue eyes search your face━for what, you're not sure. It's a habit he's had since even before the two of you got together, his eyes always seemed to be looking into the softest, least-noticeable parts of you, always searching for what you don't show most people.

"You are so gorgeous."

He says it with a tone that makes you believe him. His voice is smooth and soft, saying it like it's the easiest thing ever. As if it's some undeniable truth. It makes you melt.

You smile, tilting your head back to hide your blush. You force out a groan, meeting his eyes with a cheeky smile.

"You make me sound like a perv." You complain, no real bite behind your words. "You call me gorgeous and I compliment your ass."

"It's why we work." He grins, his thumbs tracing circles into your waist. "Besides," he relents, moving his hands down to palm your ass, "yours is pretty fantastic as well."

You laugh, instinctively leaning into George moving your arms to wind around his neck. He leans down, softly pressing his lips to yours. His hand comes up to cup your face, tilting your chin up with his thumb, deepening the kiss. The kiss tastes like a mix of your lipgloss, George's mint toothpaste, and sweet chapstick that you know he stole from you at one point or another.

Your eyes flutter open as you pull back, your breath still mingling together as neither of you want to pull too far. George's lips shine with residue from your gloss, the mauve color painting his own lips and skin. You bite your lip to hide your giggle, using one hand to try and wipe it off.

George doesn't seem to mind, swerving your hand and leaning down to press his lips to your neck. His touch is warm and steadying, one hand on your waist and the other tilting your head to get as much access as possible. 

"George..." You whisper, your hands pushing lightly against his chest. "You have to finish getting ready."

He doesn't seem to find the same urgency as you, twisting the two of you so that you're pressed against the counter. George pulls back, his blue eyes clouded by ardor. He presses his forehead to yours with a cheeky smile.

"I can think of some things that I'd much rather enjoy than going to that party." His voice is low, hands palming your waist in an attempt to persuade you.

"We'll have plenty of time after..." You grin, jumping up onto the counter.

Sitting on the counter you reach back behind you, grabbing the curl styling product you'd somehow forced into his hair routine. George leans easily into your touch as you go about styling his mullet, his hands resting on the counter by your hips.

He lets the moment settle between the two of you, the soft hum of your phone playing music in the other room and the soft warm lights of the bathroom bathing the two of you in an aureate glow. George loves moments like this. The comfortable quiet. It allows him to notice everything about you; the concentrated furrow of your brow, the freckles dotting your nose, the curve of your lips. His hands begin to subconsciously trace patterns against your thighs, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thick fabric of your trousers.

 Your mouth twitches into a small smile as he leans forward━slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“What are you doing?” 

“Just admiring my girl.” He accentuates his sentence with a squeeze of your thigh.

George continues to lean in slowly, painfully slow. You can feel every breath you take, every beat of your heart, practically buzzing with anticipation. His lips connect to your neck and you can almost sigh in relief. You hum as his teeth graze your neck, easily finding that spot that makes you squirm. 

Soft sighs fell from your lips as one of George’s hands trailed up to your inner thigh, his other hand sliding up your side and cupping the underside of your breast. Your hands curl into his hair, tugging softly to pull him impossibly closer.

“Maybe… fuck…” Your voice fell into a moan. “Nobody will miss us in the first hour, right?”

George pulled away, meeting your eyes with an excited grin. His hands slide under your thighs, hoisting you up and carrying you into the bedroom.

taglist: @phantomveb @Ilikewaytoomanythingz