#I’ve watched this dozens of times and laugh every time

[bitchinbarzal]

Hold onto me | C Keller

Summary: After months of distance and unresolved tension, divorce papers sit on the kitchen counter, threatening to end everything you built with Clayton.

-

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

You used to love the silence. Back when it meant comfortable mornings together, when Clayton would slide behind you in the kitchen, pressing lazy kisses to your neck while you sipped your coffee. Back when it meant lazy Sunday afternoons spent curled up on the couch, half-watching movies you’d seen a dozen times, his fingers tangled in yours.

Now, the silence is suffocating. It’s filled with every unspoken word, every fight that ended with one of you walking away instead of fixing what was broken.

And today, it all comes to a head.

The man you once thought you’d spend forever with stands across from you, hands braced on the kitchen island. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tension in his shoulders—the same tension that’s been there for months.

Between you, a thick envelope rests on the marble countertop, taunting you both. Divorce papers.

Your name is already signed at the bottom.

Clayton hasn’t picked up the pen yet. He hasn’t even moved.

“This is really it, then?” His voice is hoarse, rough like he’s been swallowing back words he’s too afraid to say.

You take a slow breath, trying to keep the shaking in your chest at bay. “I don’t know what else to do, Clay.”

His head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours with a desperation you haven’t seen in so long. “You don’t know what else to do? What does that mean?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “It means I can’t live like this anymore. We don’t talk. We don’t touch. We don’t even look at each other.” Your voice cracks, and you hate it, but it’s the truth.

Clayton flinches like you’ve physically struck him. “That’s not true.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “When was the last time we actually talked? Not about schedules or who’s picking up groceries—actually talked?”

He doesn’t answer, and the silence that follows is heavier than anything else.

Your eyes burn, but you refuse to cry. Not now. Not when you’ve already mourned this relationship over and over again.

“I know things have been bad,” Clayton finally says, his voice lower now, strained. “But I didn’t think it was this bad.”

“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You stopped seeing me. I stopped seeing you. We just… stopped.”

The words sit between you, stark and painful, and for a second, you think he might just pick up the papers and sign them, putting an end to the last five years of your life together.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he steps around the island, closing the distance between you. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to anymore.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he finally says, voice raw. “I know I’ve been—fuck, I know I’ve been distant. I just thought if I pushed through, if I focused on hockey, I could fix things without actually talking about it.” He shakes his head, laughing humorlessly. “Turns out that was the worst thing I could’ve done.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I didn’t help, either. I let the resentment build. I shut you out, too.”

His hands finally lift, hesitant as he cups your face. His touch is warm, familiar, and it breaks you.

“I love you,” he breathes. “And if there’s even the smallest chance you still love me too, then I don’t want to give up on this. On us.”

Tears spill over, and you grip his wrists, grounding yourself. “I don’t want to give up either.”

Clayton exhales sharply, relief flashing across his face. “Then let’s fix this. Together.”

The divorce papers sit forgotten on the counter.

That night, neither of you sleep.

You talk.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you talk.

At first, it’s hard. Every word feels heavy, every confession laced with regret. But as the hours pass, the tension begins to fade.

“I hated coming home after games,” Clayton admits quietly, lying beside you in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

You turn your head toward him, heart twisting. “Why?”

“Because you weren’t there,” he says simply. “I mean, you were physically there, but you weren’t there. And I knew it was my fault.”

Your breath catches. “Clay—”

“I’d walk through the door, and it felt like I was stepping into a stranger’s house.” He lets out a slow exhale. “I didn’t know how to fix it, so I buried myself in hockey. I thought if I just worked harder, if I just gave it time, it would go back to the way it was.”

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I felt like I was waiting for you to come back to me.”

Clayton turns then, shifting onto his side to face you. “I’m here now,” he murmurs. “I never stopped loving you. I just—” His voice falters. “I just forgot how to show it.”

Your chest tightens, emotions crashing over you all at once. You reach out, fingers tracing over his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. “I missed you,” you whisper.

His eyes darken with something raw and unguarded. “I missed you too.”

And then, he kisses you.

It’s not hurried or desperate—it’s slow, filled with every word you haven’t said. His hands slide into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. You press closer, melting into him, your fingers gripping his shirt like you need to anchor yourself.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he promises.

You don’t know if it’ll be easy. You don’t know if the cracks will ever fully disappear. But you do know one thing:

You’re willing to fight for this.

For him.

For you.

For the love that never really went away.

[scatter-the-stars]

Martin Short you comedic genius!

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

that old cliché.

you swore you’d never give in to the maid of honour and best man cliche. and then you met evan buckley.

evan buckley x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol. buck’s a filthy flirt.

word count - 6k

authors note - and so she returns!! thank you all so much for your loveliness on my post about my break - I appreciate it more than you know. this one was so much fun to write. i’ve not written any longer stuff for buck, but he’s a character I feel that I have a really good understanding of - I actually think we’re very alike - so this came so easy. hope you love it as much as I do. <3

masterlist. inbox.

Silvery melodies of laughter clink off the rim of the champagne flute you hold in your freshly manicured hand. As the gentle breeze whips through the material of your dress, you look around you, realising you’ve never seen so many people so happy at once.

The backyard of the Italian villa is packed, dozens of guests milling around - dancing, drinking, chatting and catching up. Family, friends, colleagues; people from every phase of the bride and grooms life, all celebrating together in one place.

A rocks glass is placed down onto the table in front of you with a thud. Looking up, you’re met with the sight of the best man towering over you expectantly with a drink in his hand.

“Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

You scoff, staring up at him through your lashes.

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yeah. But why?”

“It’s whiskey. I watched you grimace every time you had to drink the champagne, so I thought you’d want something different.”

You swirl the glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice against the sides.

“You were watching me, huh?”

“Of course I was. Can’t take my eyes off you in that dress.”

“Shut up,” you chide, fighting to keep the grin off your face. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“The whole best man and maid of honour thing. It’s just too cliched.”

He laughs all hearty and genuine, and you poignantly ignore the way the butterflies start fluttering in your stomach.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, shaking your head at him.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams, Evan.”

“Oh, you will be,” he winks, knocking his glass against yours in a quick cheers before walking off to the find the groom.

You watch him go, not completely oblivious to the way his suit fits him just right. Determined to stand your ground, you inhale a deep breath before taking a sip of your drink. The drink that definitely isn’t exactly what you needed. The drink that he’d practically read your mind to figure out. Effortlessly.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s been like this all day.

You met Evan Buckley for the first time last night, at the rehearsal dinner. The bride, your best friend in the world, kept telling you that you’d love the best man.

“He’s from California,” she’d said. “He’s Danny’s friend from when they were kids. He’s a firefighter, babe. He’s hot.”

You’d laughed it off, zipping up the back of her dress while she watched you in the mirror.

“Oh, come on. That’s so cliched. The whole maid of honour and best man thing is so old, Lucy.”

“You’re single, he’s single,” she’d protested. “It’d do you some good to get laid, relieve some stress. And people let their guards down at weddings. Now’s your chance.”

“If I wanted to get laid, I’d get laid,” you scoffed.

“All I’m saying is that Buck is completely your type. He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, he’s sweet. And you’re gonna have to spend a fair bit of time together tonight and tomorrow, so… just keep an open mind.”

“Fine,” you soothed, rolling your eyes. “Mind wide open. Alright?”

“You’re gonna love him.”

“You said that already.”

“Because I really believe it. You’re gonna love him.”

And the problem is… she was kind of right.

No, you don’t love him. You’ve known him for 48 hours. But… there’s something.

Lucy wasn’t lying. He is gorgeous, and funny, and sweet. And hot. So hot. He showed up to the rehearsal dinner in dress pants and a linen shirt, all sun kissed and muscled and tanned and stunning.

The two of you were seated next to each other, planned so carefully by the bride and groom. One minute you were making cautious introductions, shaking hands and smiling gently. The next minute you were crying with laughter, clutching at his bicep as he grabs your thigh, legs intertwined and chairs pulled together.

Lucy and Danny nudge each other occasionally, watching the both of you get along like two old friends that have known each other forever. A look passes between them that says I told you so clear as day.

But you’re stubborn. Too stubborn, some may say. You know you’ll never hear the end of it from your friends if you give into this very alluring temptation, and perhaps your pride means a bit more to you than it should. So you resist, you refuse to give in. Even if you really want to.

And that was just last night. Today has been even worse.

By worse, you mean the connection between you and Evan has grown even stronger. You walked down the aisle with him, arm linked with his, both dressed up to the nines. The maid of honour and the best man, a perfect picture.

You haven’t been able to keep your hands off each other all day. Little touches - his fingers on the small of your back, your grip on his bicep, shoulders brushing and thighs pressed together. Nothing crazy, but nothing meaningless, either. There’s an undeniable electricity buzzing between you, hot and alive.

You’re not sure how much longer you can deny it.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You’re dancing with Lucy and her little nieces when you hear yelling and commotion coming from the other side of the dance floor. Looking over, you see Danny, Evan and other groomsmen flailing around and fussing.

“What happened?” Lucy’s yelling, making her way over with you in tow.

“Just a drink spillage, Luce! But it’s red wine, and now Buck’s shirt is pink.”

You look at the man in question and can’t help but laugh. His crisp white dress shirt is now a pretty shade of pink across the front, his cheeks a rosy colour to match.

“Stop laughing,” he chides, but he’s grinning at you as he says it. “I need to go and change. I have a spare shirt in my suitcase upstairs.”

He starts to leave, but soon turns around and calls your name.

“I don’t have a key for that big door at the end of the hallway to get to our rooms. Do you?”

“Yeah, it’s in my purse. You want it?”

“Just come with me. It’ll be easier.”

Before you can argue, he’s taken off, big strides across the garden. You have to practically run in your heels to keep up with him, shaking your head in frustration.

“I could have just given you this,” you say when you reach the door, unlocking it for him.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The smirk he gives you is so cheeky, it’s a wonder you don’t smack it off his face. Cocky bastard.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, walking with purpose to his room.

“Come in with me? It’ll only take a minute, then we can walk back together.”

You know you should say no, tell him that you’ll meet him downstairs. But you don’t. Instead, you say,

“Fine. But hurry up. I don’t wanna miss the party.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes, unlocking the door to his room that’s conveniently directly across from yours.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid watching him undress. He shrugs off his now pink shirt, taking it with him into the bathroom.

You’re surprised at how tidy everything is. Not that you think Evan would be particularly messy, but he doesn’t strike you as a neat and clean type. His suitcase is unpacked into the closet, bed made, nothing on the floor. It only makes you like him more.

“Can you grab my other shirt from the closet please, gorgeous? The one I wore last night for the rehearsal dinner.”

You swing the two doors open and rifle around, failing to see the linen button up that he’s looking for. Suddenly, you feel a warmth behind you, Buck’s solid form caging you in. He reaches around you, arm brushing yours as he finds what he needs.

“Found it,” he murmurs into your ear, all low and honeyed.

Against your better judgment, you turn around, finding yourself face to face with him. He towers over you, watching your reactions carefully. Your hands reach out and rest on his bare chest, steadying yourself before you either fall over or pass out.

Buck gently traces your bottom lip with his thumb, eyes completely locked on yours. You have to resist every urge to either bite it or suck it into your mouth, reminding yourself that now isn’t the time. The noise from the garden floats up and through the window that’s cracked open slightly, tethering you to the reality that is slowly fading away the longer you hold Evan’s gaze.

He leans in, and to your surprise, doesn’t kiss you immediately. Pressing his forehead to yours, he inhales deeply, as if committing the moment to memory. His thumbs are now tracing gentle circles on your jaw, soft and callous at the same time. You inhale slowly, processing the scent of his cologne mixed with the evening breeze. If you could bottle it up, you think, you’d be a millionaire. This would cure everything.

Buck finally closes down the gap between you, inching towards your lips softly. You shut your eyes, waiting for him to finally kiss you - when there’s deafening knocking on the door. The two of you jump apart, hearts pounding and nerves on a live wire.

Evan strides over to the source of the noise, taking a deep breath to try and compose himself as he goes. You perch on the edge of the bed, smoothing down your dress and attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“Buck? Dude, it’s Jake. Hurry up, yeah? The guys wanna do our dance routine before everyone gets too drunk to remember it.”

He doesn’t bother opening the door, just yells back through the wood.

“Yeah, sure - I’ll be down in a minute!”

You hear Jake’s footsteps retreat, both of you exhaling the breaths you didn’t know you’d been holding. Buck looks at you, worried that the moment’s been ruined, to find you stifling a laugh behind your hand.

“There’s a dance routine?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, fighting to keep the grin off his face. “We created it years ago. The guys won’t let it die.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this.”

You’re cackling, reclining onto the duvet as you laugh.

“Stop,” he groans, jumping over to flop onto his back on the bed next to you. “I did a lot of regrettable things in college… and that routine is definitely the worst of it.”

“I hope you know that you’re never going to live this down, Buckley. I’ll be reminding you of this forever.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at you. “You really like me, huh?”

“What the hell gave you that impression?”

“You said forever. What’s next, honey? You gonna get down on one knee later?”

You’re suddenly aware of the warmth of the whiskey flowing through your veins, giving you a liquid confidence that stuns both you and the man lying next to you.

“Two knees, maybe. But not one.”

His eyes go wide as you smirk, pulling yourself off the bed and making your way over to the door. Buck watches you carefully, gaze steady and firm.

“You coming? I’m more than ready to see those moves of yours.”

He stands up, slipping on his shoes and shrugging the clean shirt onto his broad shoulders. You grab your purse, leaning against the doorframe as you wait.

Evan reaches past you for the door handle, nose purposely brushing yours as he does it.

“I’ll hold you to what you said before,” he murmurs, moving a strand of hair away from your face softly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

You look up at him with big doe eyes, like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Sure, Evan,” you reply lowly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Breaking away from him, you swing the door open, strutting down the hallway without looking back. Your confidence has sky rocketed, knowing that he wants this just as badly as you do. You walk back out to the garden and take your earlier seat, ready for the show you’ve been promised.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The dance routine is spectacular.

It’s cheesy and hilarious and very early 2000s inspired - it’s almost like watching a music video from a boy band you loved when you were a teenager. It should embarrass you, turn you off majorly, but… it doesn’t. It only does the opposite.

Everything Buck does makes you like him more.

You spend the rest of the evening dancing, laughing, and floating on cloud nine. In a garden in Italy, surrounded by your best friends - you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

As the evening dwindles to an end, everyone slowly begins making their way back to their rooms within the villa. You sit down, unbuckling your heels to finally give your feet a rest. It almost feels like deja vu when a rocks glass is placed down in front of you on the table.

“Hi, Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yes, but why?”

He pulls out the chair in front of you and sits down, looking at you intently.

“Thought we could have a nightcap before we go upstairs.”

You look around to find that mostly everyone has decided to call it a day. You can see Lucy and Danny walking off hand in hand, going for a stroll around the grounds before they let the wedding officially be over. It just leaves you and Buck, sat in your original places.

“Is this Baileys?”

“Yes ma’am. Do you like it? I figured you probably wouldn’t want another whiskey, seeing as you’ve had so many.”

You scoff, trying to fight the grin that threatens to take over your face.

“I’ve had, like, four, thank you very much.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, making you chuckle as you shake your head.

“Cheers, Evan,” you toast, clinking your glass against his matching one. “We did it. A wedding without a hitch. Mostly.”

“My shirt will never be white again, but besides that, we did a pretty good job.”

“We make a good team.”

He looks slightly taken aback by your honesty, trying to hide his smirk.

“Yes, we do. A super hot, super funny team.”

“A super hot, super funny team.”

You both laugh, heads thrown back with no cares in the world. Buck shuffles his chair forward so his legs are slotted on either side of you, warm skin radiating into yours. The moonlight is glinting off of his cheekbones, illuminating the light streaks in his hair. You’re a little tipsy and much too tired to fully fight your feelings anymore.

He’s beautiful, and you’re sick of denying it.

The two of you finish off your drinks, sat in a comfortable silence beneath the starry night sky. His hand has found its way onto your thigh, thumb rubbing gentle patterns into your bare skin. You’re sneaking glances at him when he looks away, admiring the way he’s glowing, buzzed off of the alcohol and the excitement of the day. He’s doing the same with you, soft smile etched onto his face as he watches you gaze up at the stars above your heads.

A yawn escapes you, making both of you chuckle.

“I’ll walk you to your room?”

“Well, you better. I’m the only one of us with a key for that big door.”

He laughs even harder, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I forgot about that. If you weren’t here, I’d have slept on the floor in the hallway or something.”

“Probably wouldn’t be the first time,” you mutter, standing up and tucking your chair under the table.

“Sorry, what was that? Say it again? Hmm? Hmm?” he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you so your feet are no longer on the floor.

“Okay, okay! Put me down before I throw up,” you shriek, giggling like a teenager.

He places you back down, hands on your hips to steady you. You look up at him, keeping your eyes fixed on his to steady yourself from the dizziness. When you feel ready to go, you clear your throat, willing yourself to walk away before you kiss him stupid.

“We should go to bed,” you whisper, afraid to ruin the moment.

“Yeah?”

“Separate beds,” you tell him sternly, chuckling when he cackles.

“Yes ma’am.”

Buck walks you back to your room in a gentlemanly fashion, looping your arm through his to keep you both upright. When you reach your door, your fingers linger on the handle, as if you’re not quite ready to go inside just yet.

Reaching out gently, he moves a strand of hair from your face, fingertips brushing your cheekbone as he does it. You sigh softly, eyes fluttering shut at the sweet contact.

“Goodnight, gorgeous,” he murmurs lowly. “Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight.”

He takes a step back towards his door when you speak again.

“Evan?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Everything, today. You’ve been a damn good best man.”

“Well, thank you. For being the best maid of honour.”

You nod, smiling like an idiot as you unlock your door and shut it behind you. You take a deep breath when you’re finally inside, throwing down your heels onto the floor and your purse onto the side table. Reaching behind you, your fingers tug at the zipper on your dress, attempting to pull it down.

It’s only now you realise your dilemma. The zipper is on an awkward place on your back, right where you can’t get to. You think quickly back to this morning - one of the bridesmaids doing the dress up for you, pulling the material taut as she fastened it. You’re not going to be able to get this off yourself.

Finding the purse that you discarded minutes earlier, you aim to find a hair clip. If you can loop a bobby pin into the zipper, you think, you might be able to pull it yourself. You root around in it for a second, before pulling out two phones.

Well, fuck.

You’d completely forgotten that Evan had given it to you earlier in the evening, worried that it was going to get broken if it stayed in his back pocket. You’d tucked it away and not thought about it again.

Until now.

Now, you’re realising that you’re going to have to go and give it back. He probably hasn’t remembered that you have it, otherwise you’re sure he’d be knocking on the door or yelling across the hallway.

You stand in the middle of your room, with two phones and a stuck zipper, wondering if the universe thinks this is funny.

You’re certainly not laughing.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“Evan?”

He swings the door open, facing you in his suit trousers with no shirt on.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I have your phone.”

Holding it out to him, his fingertips brush yours as he takes it from you, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, shit. I forgot about this. Thanks, pretty.”

“Of course.”

You stand and look at each other for a second, so much left unsaid.

“Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Anything.”

His instantly willingness has butterflies fluttering in your stomach, flitting and lightweight and undeniable.

“Can you help me get my dress off?”

When he smirks and goes to speak, you cut him off quickly.

“The zipper is stuck, Evan. Alice zipped me up this morning and I can’t undo it by myself.”

“This is a very long winded way of asking me to get you naked, gorgeous.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“If that’s what I wanted, I would just ask you, Buckley.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“Can you help me or not?”

He’s laughing, now, head thrown back with it. You hate the way it makes your heart sing.

“You coming in? Or you want me to undress you in the hallway?”

“You’re not undressing- fuck, you’re annoying.”

He’s still chuckling when he ushers you inside, shutting the door firmly behind you both.

“How do you wanna do this? Lights on, lights off? Curtains open or shut? Music? Candles?”

“Undo the damn zipper before I smack you.”

His laughter is rumbling through his chest, contagious in its nature. You want to be angry at him, but you just can’t seem to find it in you.

“Turn around, gorgeous.”

You spin to face the door, taking a deep breath as you anticipate his touch. You feel his warmth behind you, fingertips dancing over the skin of your shoulders before they reach your zipper. You can’t see him, but you can envisage the sight - his broad chest, thick neck, that beautiful sun kissed glow he’s developed over the past few days. Your lungs heave as the room suddenly feels like it’s a thousand degrees.

Buck slides the zipper down your back slowly, with intent and clarity. When it reaches your coccyx, he stops, resting his other hand on your hip to keep you steady.

You know you should step away, maybe throw him a quick thanks as you leave. But you do believe in fate, whether you like to admit it or not - and this entire night has felt like it’s been written in the stars.

Who are you to deny what the universe is so clearly gifting you?

You let your arms relax, sighing as the dress falls off of you and down to the floor. You step out of it, finally turning around to face Buck wearing nothing but your lacy white underwear. Surprisingly, there’s not an ounce of self consciousness in your body. The only thing you feel is desire.

For the first time since you’ve met him, Evan is completely speechless. His eyes rove over you, drinking in the sight in front of him, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in awe, fingers itching to reach out and touch you. “The minute I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were real.”

“Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“Touch me, please.”

He grins, surging forward to cup your cheek with one hand while the other finds its home on your waist.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

“Finally.”

Buck leans in and presses his lips to yours surprisingly gently, testing the waters. You tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him as close as possible. He gets the message, reeling you in and deepening the kiss until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

You’re being walked backwards and into the wall, pushed up against it for leverage. You hike a leg up over Bucks hip, groaning when the two of you grind forwards at the same time. His hands are everywhere - your face, tits, ass, waist - anywhere he can reach. It’s like he’s not quite sure where he wants them, as if he’s worried he’ll leave somewhere untouched.

“You’re all I’ve thought about for two days,” he’s muttering into your neck as he leaves open mouthed kisses on your skin. “Driving me crazy.”

“I got myself off last night,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut when he sucks at the spot under your ear. “Thinking about you.”

“Fuck,” he moans, sinking down to his knees in front of you. “Tell me more. Please.”

It’s almost biblical, the sight of him. On his knees, practically begging, looking up at you like you’re his saviour. You’re dizzy with the power, blood rushing straight to your head.

Buck presses kisses into your leg, starting at your calves and moving up. When he gets to your inner thigh, he gazes up at you, pleading with his eyes for you to continue.

“Tell me more or I’ll stop,” he says sternly, hooking his fingers into your underwear to pull them down and off.

“Okay, okay,” you pant, dropping your head back against the wall. “I, I- I couldn’t stop thinking about your arms in that shirt. The, the, the-”

You’re stuttering as he licks a stripe up your core, diving in with no hesitation. His fingers are gripping your thighs so hard you know it’ll bruise, and you can’t wait to feel the imprints in the morning.

“The?”

He’s pulled away to look at you with his brow quirked, dirty smirk etched across his face.

“Keep going, gorgeous. You haven’t even got to the good part. Neither of us have.”

You scoff at him in defiance, but slide your fingers into his hair to tug him back to where you want him.

“You looked so strong,” you continue, sighing when his tongue finds your core again. “Kept thinking about how easily you could throw me around. Pick me up, sit me on your face…”

Buck groans, all deep and rumbled, and the vibrations have your legs going weak. He doubles down on his efforts, slipping his tongue inside as his nose nudges your clit. He’s a fast learner, taking mental note of the spots and pressures that make your knees buckle.

“Keep going,” he mumbles into your core.

“You keep going,” you retort, pulling at his hair.

He chuckles but obliges your request, sucking your clit into his mouth with purpose. You’re shaking, holding onto him for dear life as you reach your climax. The moan you let out is borderline pornographic, and it has Buck palming himself over his suit trousers with a groan.

“Fuck, Evan,” you pant, chest heaving as you slump into the wall. “You need to grab me before I collapse. My legs are jelly.”

Laughing as he does it, he stands up and wraps his arms around your middle, holding you against him as tightly as he can.

“You okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Better than ever.”

He rests his lips on your forehead, both of you breathing each other in for a moment.

“Can’t believe you were right across the hallway from me, trying to be quiet while you were getting yourself off,” he murmurs, fingers running up and down your back. “You should have come over here. I would have helped you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you tease, cupping his face in your hands. “I was still acting like I didn’t wanna rip your clothes off back then.”

“Knew you’d crack eventually,” he winks, grinning when you laugh.

You pull him into you for a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, clearly telling him exactly what you want.

“You gonna fuck me, Evan? Or are we just gonna stand here all night?”

He shakes his head with a smirk before throwing you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce back off. As he starts to crawl over to you, you stop him with a foot on his chest.

“Nuh uh. You’re wearing too many clothes. Strip, Buckley.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He’s standing up immediately, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them off in one fell swoop. His boxers are next, leaving him stood bare and beautiful in front of you.

“Fuck. You’re not real,” you breathe out, eyes dancing over him.

“Oh I am so real,” he’s reassuring, situating himself on top of you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down so you can grind your hips into his.

“I’ve been waiting two days for this,” you murmur into his lips. “Make it worth my while, please.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he teases, kissing you again with such a force that you’re dizzy.

Buck sucks a bruise into your collarbone, licking a stripe up your sternum and tasting the salt that sits on your skin. Your patience is wearing thinner and thinner, anticipation bubbling up in your veins.

“How’d you want it?” he whispers into your ear.

“Just- deep. Wanna feel you for the rest of the weekend.”

He groans, a breathless chuckle leaving his lips.

“Anything you want, gorgeous. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything in the world.”

His lust drunk rambling makes you giggle, wiggling your hips into his to hopefully hurry him up. You tug at his hair, pulling his face so it’s level with yours.

“Now, Evan. Can’t wait any longer. Please.”

“Fuck. You’re so pretty when you beg.”

He lines himself up, pressing his forehead to yours as the two of you connect. He’s big and he’s stretching you out just right and you think you might have died and gone to heaven. You both groan, panting into each others mouths.

“Fuck, baby. It’s like you were made for me.”

The baby sends warmth running through both your core and your heart, all the signals setting your nervous system on fire.

“Please,” you whimper, kissing him with desperation as you tangle your fingers in his curls and pull. “Please, Evan.”

“I’ve got you,” he’s mumbling, pulling his hips back and sliding them forwards with clear intent.

Reaching up beside your head, Buck pulls a pillow down and situates it under your hips, putting you where he wants you.

“Want you to feel me as deep as possible,” he murmurs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “Won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

You can only moan at the promise, praying he delivers. There’s a shiny sheen of sweat covering his sun kissed skin, making him glow in the moonlight like some sort of angel. Sent just for you.

Buck sets a steady rhythm, not too fast but just fast enough. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and you ignore the pang of jealousy in your chest at the idea of him with another woman, even in the past.

Now that you’ve had a taste of this, you don’t want to let it go.

He’s pressing kisses onto whatever skin he can reach - your neck, your collarbone, underneath your ear. His hips never cease, determined to get you both to where you need to be. When he hitches one of your legs over his waist, you can’t help but drop your head back, eyes fluttering shut at the new angle.

He tilts his hips upwards, and hits a spot that has you keening. Speech has left you, and all you can do now is take it like you were made for it.

“Right there? Yeah? That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod frantically, sucking in a shuddering breath like you’ve been under water. Your legs have started to shake, and Buck’s grinning when he thinks about how far he can push you before you’re at your limit.

“Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me.”

You’re so close you can taste it, desperate to find this release that’s been building for the last forty eight hours. When Buck moves his hand from your hip to your throat and squeezes just slightly, you snap.

You’re coming with a breathless moan, back arching into him to plaster your fronts together.

“Shit, you look so beautiful when you come. Jesus.”

You manage a soft smile, looking up at him to see those bright eyes staring into yours. He looks entranced, as if he’s staring at a piece in an art gallery. You swipe his hair back from his sweaty forehead, teasing your thumb across his bottom lip. When he sucks it into his mouth, your jaw drops open, mind foggy with arousal.

“Think you can give me another one? Let me see you come all pretty again?” he asks around your digit, tongue laving over your skin.

“Mhmm,” you’re agreeing before you can even process it, eager to please.

“That’s my girl.”

He moves your fingers from his mouth back into his hair as his find your throat once more, applying a little pressure. His hips pick up their pace, faster and harder than before. He’s fucking you into the mattress, strong arms keeping you from sliding off the bed.

He looks breathtaking, on top of you like this. He’s so broad, towering over you like he’ll shield you from the entire world if he has to. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the whole universe, unbothered by anything or anyone else.

“Buck- I… I-”

“I know, baby. Can feel it. Atta girl.”

You pull him down to kiss you as you reach your third climax of the night, arms wrapping around his neck so every inch of you is pressed together.

“There we go, good girl. That’s it, yeah. It’s yours, baby. It’s all yours.”

Buck finally finds his release, triggered by yours. His head drops into your neck, his frantic breath tickling your skin. You murmur sweet nothings into his ear, talking him through it as he shudders and shakes. Eventually, he collapses completely onto you, body weight pinning you down.

You’re both heaving for air, lungs burning as you try to regain an ounce of composure.

He murmurs something into your shoulder, the vibrations of it rumbling through your bones.

“Hmm?”

“You called me Buck.”

A breathless laugh escapes you, silvery and melodic.

“I’ve been trying not to for two days.”

“I know. You thought you were making a point.”

“I was making a point.”

“Sure, honey. Sure.”

“I hate you,” you grumble, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face. “I also hate that we’ve just made Lucy and Danny the happiest people ever.”

“Oh, shit. I hate it when they’re right.”

He pulls his head from your neck to look at you, resting his cheek against your chest so he can gaze up and into your eyes.

“I’m sure we can keep this a secret for a little while.”

“Yeah… we can’t.”

You quirk your brow at him in a silent question.

“I told Danny I was gonna marry you the minute you walked into the rehearsal dinner in that red dress. Can’t hide how I feel about you, gorgeous. It’s physically impossible.”

You can’t help but laugh, running your fingers through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“Take me on a date first. Then we’ll talk about marriage, okay?”

“You did say forever, earlier.”

“That I did. Maybe my heart knew something my brain didn’t.”

Buck grins up at you, all blinding and giddy.

“The best man and the maid of honour, huh?”

“That old cliche,” you chuckle. “We weren’t the first, and we won’t be the last.”

“You’ll be my last, gorgeous.”

“Real smooth, Buck. Real smooth.”

“Buck,” he whispers, half in amusement, half in awe.

He could get used to this. You both could.

as always, reblogs are like gold to writers. if you enjoyed this, please reblog!! it’s invaluable <3

@peachysink @jjamjamie @alipap3 @spookyysinsanity @sophiah2253 @annaaaaanguyenn

[lemonsdietcoke]

A Pearl - Player!230

Dark!Choi Su-bong/Thanos x Fem!Reader

Warnings: emotional and physical abuse, NONCON/DUBCON,substance abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic relationships, childhood trauma

Summary: “I fell in love with a war, and nobody told me it ended.” You thought love was supposed to hurt. That it meant holding on when everything burned. Inspired by ‘A Pearl’-Mitski

MINORS DNI

A/n: this story is super heavy so just be prepared going into this. This is probably the darkest thing I’ve written. Also the bold means it’s a flashback. Lmk if yall fw. I love feedback. Lmk what you think!!

……………..

The house is too quiet.

Not the quiet that lulls you to sleep, the kind that hums with the soft rhythm of peace. No. This quiet is suffocating. It weighs down on your chest, fills your throat until you can’t swallow properly, and presses against your ears until every little sound feels magnified. The ticking of the clock is too loud. The hum of the refrigerator rattles through the walls like a warning. And the silence, that awful silence, screams louder than anything else.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under your weight as though the house itself is protesting your stillness. Your fingers move without thinking, the chain of your necklace twisted between them. You tug it forward, letting the locket fall into your palm. The cool metal feels heavier tonight, like it knows something you don’t. You trace the shape of the rose etched into the surface—a small, intricate carving, its petals curling toward the center where the gold is worn smooth from years of touch.

When you were a child, you’d thought the rose was magic. Your parents had given it to you for your twelfth birthday, saving for months to afford something so fine. Your father had clasped it around your neck with careful fingers, your mother watching with teary eyes, saying it was for the little lady you were becoming. You’d carried it with you everywhere, opening the locket a dozen times a day just to see the tiny, faded photo inside—a family portrait taken before everything went wrong. The three of you, smiling despite the faded edges of your clothes, despite the peeling wallpaper behind you. Your father’s arm was wrapped tightly around your mother, and she was holding you on her lap, her hand tucked over yours. You remember the way her hair smelled like rosemary, the way your father’s laugh used to make your chest flutter.

You hadn’t worn the locket in years, not until him. Not until Su-bong had found it in your drawer, tucked away like a secret. “What’s this?” he’d asked, holding it up in the air between two fingers, his expression teasing but curious. When you’d hesitated, he’d snapped the clasp open before you could stop him, his brows raising slightly at the photo.

“Wow,” he’d said with a lopsided grin, tossing it back into your lap like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t know you were the sentimental type.”

You’d put it on that night, your chest burning with embarrassment. You’ve worn it every day since, the metal resting against your skin like armor.

Now, it feels like a lifeline. You wrap your hand around it tightly, letting the edges dig into your palm. The chain pulls against your neck, but you don’t loosen your grip. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded as your thoughts spiral. He left hours ago—another night, another excuse. He hadn’t even stopped to look at you when you asked him to stay.

“Do you really need to go? It’s already late.”

He’d barely paused to shove his shoes on, his hair falling into his face as he fumbled with the laces. His jacket had hung off one shoulder, sloppily thrown on in his hurry to leave. “Don’t start,” he’d muttered, voice low and clipped.

“I just—Su-bong, please.” Your voice had cracked, small and unsure, the way it always did when you tried to hold him back.

That was when he’d stopped. Just for a moment. He’d looked up at you then, a flash of irritation cutting through the haze in his eyes. “I won’t be long,” he’d said, his tone sharp enough to make you flinch. Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the picture frames rattle against the walls.

He hasn’t come back. You’re not sure if he will.

You glance at the clock on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. The seconds tick by, loud and relentless. You press the locket against your lips, as though the cool metal might soothe the heat rising in your throat. The ache in your chest twists tighter, suffocating and raw, and you force yourself to stand.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the faint yellow glow of the streetlamp outside. The shadow of the blinds cuts across the walls like a cage. You make your way to the window, each step slow and deliberate. Your legs feel heavy, your bare feet brushing against the cold floor. The night outside is still, the air thick with fog. You half expect to see him stumbling down the street, his head tilted to one side, his steps uneven. But there’s nothing. Just the empty road stretching out into the dark, a void that swallows everything in its path.

Your stomach churns. You don’t even know why you bother looking for him anymore. He never answers your texts when he’s out. He never picks up his phone. He always comes back when he wants to, not a moment before, and when he does, it’s like you’re supposed to forget he ever left. “What are you so worried about?” he always says, brushing you off like you’re a child. “I’m fine. Just let it go, babe.”

He never understands why you can’t let it go.

Your fingers shake as you unlock your phone, scrolling through your empty messages. The last text you’d sent hours ago—“Let me know when you’re on your way home.”—sits unread, untouched. You’d stared at the screen for so long that your eyes had blurred, waiting for the little dots to appear. They never did.

You close the app and toss the phone onto the bed, breathing out shakily. Your chest tightens as you imagine him laughing somewhere, his hand wrapped around a bottle, surrounded by people who don’t care that he’s tearing you apart piece by piece. He’ll come home eventually, his breath hot and sour against your skin, his hands rough and insistent. You’ll let him touch you, because it’s easier than saying no. Because it hurts too much to fight him when he’s like that. Because at least when he’s touching you, you know where he is.

The thought makes your stomach turn. You press your hand to your mouth, your breath shaking against your palm. The metal of the locket digs into your skin again, grounding you, keeping you here, when all you want to do is disappear.

The house is too quiet. The clock ticks louder.

And he’s still not here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The light in the hallway buzzes faintly, flickering every so often. You’re leaning against the bathroom door, your back pressed flat against the wood, knees curled up tight to your chest. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, too fast, too loud, until it feels like your whole body is vibrating with it. You can hear him on the other side—his voice rising, slurring, vibrating with that sharp, manic edge that always makes your stomach churn.

“Open the door!” His fist collides with the wood, hard enough to make the frame rattle. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”

The sound sends a jolt through your body. Your hands grip the locket around your neck so tightly the edges press into your palm, the thin gold chain pulling taut against your skin. You don’t even notice the sting. You’re not thinking about anything except how close he sounds. How loud. How angry.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breathing shallow, uneven. You tell yourself to be quiet—don’t make a sound, don’t move—but your body isn’t listening. Your knees are shaking so badly they knock against the door, the vibration rattling the hinges.

“I’m not gonna fucking ask again!” The next hit is harder, a sharp, jarring kick that makes the whole door shudder. You gasp before you can stop yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late.

“Oh, so now you’re scared?” he sneers, his voice dropping low and venomous. You can picture the way his lips curl when he says it, that smug, mocking smile that always makes your stomach turn. “What, you think this door is gonna save you? You think I won’t fucking break it down?”

The door shudders again—another kick, harder this time, and you flinch so violently that your head knocks back against the wood. A crack splinters through the frame, faint but audible, and you can feel the panic crawling up your throat.

You press the locket tighter against your chest, the rose etched into its surface digging into your skin. You focus on the weight of it, the coldness of the gold, the soft click of the clasp when it used to open. Anything to keep your mind from spiraling too far. But it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Earlier That Night~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night had started quietly, the house dimly lit as you waited for him to come home. He’d promised you that morning, “I’m staying in tonight, alright? No bullshit.” You hadn’t believed him—not really—but some part of you had wanted to. Some part of you had clung to that tiny, fragile hope like it meant something.

When the door slammed open hours later, you knew.

You’d smelled the whiskey first. It clung to him like a second skin, sharp and sour, mixing with the faint scent of cigarettes that always seemed to follow him. His steps were uneven, his hand gripping the doorframe for balance before he stumbled further inside. He didn’t look at you, didn’t say anything. He just went straight for the kitchen.

You’d stood in the doorway, your chest tightening as you watched him dig through the drawers, muttering under his breath. When he pulled out the pill bottle, your heart dropped.

“Seriously, Su-bong?” you said, your voice sharp before you could stop yourself. “You’re already drunk.”

He didn’t even look at you. He popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb, dumping two pills into his palm and swallowing them dry. “Relax,” he muttered, like you were the one being unreasonable. “I’m fine.”

Something in you snapped. You crossed the room, grabbing the bottle from his hand and slamming it onto the counter. The sound was loud, jarring, but it didn’t make him flinch. If anything, he looked bored.

“Fine?” you snapped. “You can barely fucking stand, and you think you’re fine?”

That got his attention. He turned to you, his gaze narrowing, sharp and calculating even through the haze. A slow, bitter grin spread across his face.

“Oh, so now you’re the expert, huh?” he said, his voice low and mocking. He stepped closer, the smell of alcohol making your stomach churn. “Since when do you give a shit what I do?”

The casual cruelty of it made your throat tighten, your anger dissolving into something smaller, something more fragile. You tried again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice quiet, careful. “Just… stay home tonight. Please.”

For a second, you thought he might listen. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening. He looked tired. Worn out. You could almost see the man you used to know beneath the haze.

But then he shook his head, huffing out a bitter laugh. “I can’t stay here all night listening to your shit.”

You stepped in front of the door before you could stop yourself, your chest tight with something between panic and determination.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you said, your hands trembling as you tried to sound steady.

His head snapped up, his gaze locking on yours. His face twisted into something colder, sharper, and for the first time that night, you felt the first flicker of fear.

“Move,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

You shook your head. “No. I’m serious, Su-bong—”

It happened too fast. One second he was standing there, and the next his hand was wrapped around your arm, gripping so tightly you gasped.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snarled, dragging you to the side like you weighed nothing.

Your other hand shot out instinctively, pushing against his chest as hard as you could. He barely stumbled, but the movement seemed to snap something in him. His hand jerked, his grip tightening until you felt the sharp pinch of his nails digging into your skin.

“You fucking bitch,” he spat, and that’s when you ran.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your breath is coming too fast, too shallow, making your head spin. The pounding on the door has stopped, but you don’t feel any relief. Not yet.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less venomous. “Hiding in there like a fucking child. You think I need this shit? You think anyone else would put up with you?”

The words hit harder than his fists ever could. Your hands tighten around the locket until the rose leaves an imprint in your palm, the edges sharp and unforgiving.

You don’t respond. You don’t move. You just sit there, shaking, waiting for him to leave.

Eventually, he does. The front door slams behind him, and the silence that follows is heavier than the noise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clock’s ticking feels slower now, like it’s dragging time with it. The minutes stretch and warp until they don’t feel like minutes anymore. Just this endless, dragging ache that lives in the pit of your stomach and refuses to leave.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table now, your phone lying in front of you, facedown like it’s mocking you. There’s a mug of tea in your hands, untouched. It’s lukewarm now, the steam long gone, but you don’t put it down. You hold it tightly, your fingers wrapped around the ceramic, because at least it’s something to hold. At least it gives your hands something to do besides tremble.

The house is dark except for the faint glow of the light over the stove. It casts long shadows across the counters, over the piles of unopened mail and empty bottles that have been gathering there for weeks. You keep meaning to clean, but every time you think about it, your body refuses to move. It’s hard enough to get out of bed most days, let alone scrub the smell of him out of the walls.

You glance at your phone again, your chest tightening as though it might vibrate, might light up with his name. It doesn’t. It never does, not when you’re waiting like this. You should be used to it by now, but the sting of it never dulls.

The worst part is, you don’t know if you want him to come home.

You close your eyes, letting your head drop forward, the heel of your hand pressing against the locket that hangs around your neck. The edges of the rose dig into your skin, sharp enough to leave marks. It grounds you, keeps your thoughts from spinning too far out of control.

But the memories are harder to stop. They come rushing in like they always do, filling the silence with the sound of his voice, his laugh, the way he used to look at you like you were something soft, something beautiful, something breakable. He doesn’t look at you like that anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can still see the first time he smiled at you—really smiled, that kind of stupid grin that made your chest feel too full. You’d been sitting across from him at some shitty little diner, your fork pushing around a plate of cold fries while he talked about some dream he’d had, something ridiculous about a casino and a dog wearing sunglasses. It wasn’t even funny, but the way he told it made you laugh so hard your face hurt. You’d leaned forward, your elbows on the table, and he’d just stopped. Mid-sentence, he’d stopped, like he couldn’t believe you were there.

“You’re cute,” he’d said, simple and easy, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You open your eyes and the memory dissolves, slipping away into the dark like it never happened. You feel stupid for thinking about it, for still holding onto those pieces of him like they mean something. Like they haven’t been buried under all the yelling and the slammed doors and the nights you spent wondering if he’d ever come home.

You set the mug down on the table, your hands shaking slightly as you fold them in your lap. The quiet feels heavier now, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

What if he doesn’t come back this time? The thought creeps in before you can stop it, wrapping itself around your throat like a noose. It’s not the first time you’ve wondered, but it’s the first time it’s felt real. Like a possibility instead of a threat.

You try to tell yourself that you’d be fine if he didn’t. You’d figure it out. You’d get up tomorrow, make coffee, go to work, clean the house, move on. But the thought of it—of him not being here, of him leaving without even a word—makes your chest feel like it’s caving in. You clutch the necklace tighter, the chain pulling taut against the back of your neck.

He always comes back. He always does.

But what if this time is different?

The clock ticks louder. The house is too quiet.

And you’re still waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams hard enough to shake the walls. You feel it in your chest, a dull, rattling thud that echoes through the quiet house. Your stomach twists, the dread rising so fast it feels like a sickness. You already know how this night is going to end.

You’re still sitting at the kitchen table, the cold mug of tea in front of you. It’s been hours since he left, and you’d given up hope of him coming home sober somewhere around midnight. But now that he’s here, a part of you wishes he’d stayed gone.

You hear his footsteps before you see him, the uneven shuffle of his boots dragging against the floor. When he stumbles into view, it’s like you’ve summoned him with your thoughts. His hair is messy, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his jacket is hanging off one shoulder. He looks at you, his eyes glassy, his mouth curling into a sloppy grin that makes your chest ache.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. He sounds almost affectionate, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it, the kind that makes your throat tighten.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your hands are clenched in your lap, your nails digging into your palms. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to keep your breathing even, but your heart is already pounding.

He doesn’t seem to notice. He walks toward you, his movements slow and unsteady, and leans against the table with one hand. The other hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from your face.

“Why are you sitting here all alone?” he murmurs, his tone soft now, almost sweet. The contrast makes you want to scream.

You pull back slightly, your jaw tightening. “Where were you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You hate how small you sound, but it’s all you can manage.

His grin falters, and for a second, something colder flickers across his face. “Don’t start,” he mutters, standing up straight. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”

“I’ve been waiting for hours, Su-bong.” You can hear the edge creeping into your voice now, but you can’t stop it. The anger is bubbling up, sharp and bitter, mixing with the fear in your chest. “You said you’d be home—”

“I said, don’t start,” he snaps, cutting you off. His voice is louder now, the sharpness in it making you flinch. He takes a step closer, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath, heavy and sour. “What’s your problem, huh? Why do you always have to make a big fucking deal out of everything?”

Your throat tightens, the words you want to say choking on the way up. You look away, your gaze dropping to the table. You can’t do this tonight. You can’t fight him when he’s like this.

But he doesn’t let it go.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less demanding. He reaches for your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Why are you so mad, huh? You missed me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t move. You just stare at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger and something that feels too much like fear.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, and his mouth curls into that lopsided grin again. “Come on, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. “Don’t be like that.”

The kiss is sudden, his lips pressing against yours hard enough to make you pull back instinctively. You turn your head, breaking the contact, but his hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place.

“Su-bong, stop,” you say, your voice shaking. You try to push him back, but he doesn’t budge. His grip tightens, his other hand sliding down to your waist.

“You’re so tense,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. “Relax.”

You push harder this time, your hands pressing against his chest, but it only seems to annoy him. His movements become rougher, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you to your feet.

“Stop it!” you cry, your voice rising in panic. “I don’t want to—”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snaps, his voice low and sharp. He spins you around, pressing you against the edge of the table, his body trapping yours in place.

Your heart is pounding now, the fear clawing its way up your throat. You keep trying to push him away, but he’s stronger, and he’s not listening.

The locket around your neck catches on the edge of the table, the chain pulling tight against your skin. Your hand shoots up instinctively, clutching it, your fingers trembling as you press it against your chest.

“Su-bong, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

He doesn’t answer. His hands are on your hips now, his grip bruising as he pulls you closer. The tears sting at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You don’t move. You don’t fight. You just stare at the wall, your breathing shallow, your fingers clutching the locket like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You can hear him murmuring something under his breath—something about how good you feel, how much he missed you—but the words blur together, lost in the haze of your thoughts. You’re not here anymore. You’re somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is still. The only sound is his breathing, slow and heavy as he lies beside you, one arm draped carelessly over your waist. You don’t move. You don’t even blink.

The locket is still in your hand, the imprint of the rose etched into your palm. You stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and try to ignore the ache between your legs.

The tears come later, after he’s asleep. You press your face into the pillow, your shoulders shaking as you cry silently into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car engine rumbles beneath you, a low, uneven growl that vibrates through the seat and into your chest. Su-bong’s hand is loose on the wheel, his other arm resting on the open window as the wind whips through the car. He’s not driving fast, but the way he keeps drifting too close to the curb, jerking the wheel at the last second, makes your stomach twist.

You press your hand against your thigh, trying to keep it from shaking, and force your gaze to stay on the road. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to see the glassy, unfocused look in his eyes or the faint grin that keeps twitching at the corner of his mouth. He hasn’t said much since you left the bar—just a few muttered curses under his breath, his jaw tight and his grip on the wheel tightening every time he takes a turn too sharply.

You want to tell him to stop. To pull over. To let you drive. But the words stick in your throat, thick and heavy, like a stone weighing you down. You know how that conversation will end. He’ll snap at you, tell you to relax, accuse you of trying to control him. And you’re too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything except sit there and hope the car doesn’t drift too far into the wrong lane.

The silence feels heavier than the rumble of the engine.

“You embarrassed me,” he mutters suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet like a crack of thunder.

You flinch, your hands tightening in your lap. “I wasn’t trying to,” you say quietly, your gaze still fixed on the road ahead.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Really? Because, You had to make a fucking scene, didn’t you? In front of everyone.”

The heat rises in your chest, sharp and stifling, but you press it down. You’ve gotten good at that—at swallowing your anger, letting it fester somewhere deep inside where it can’t escape. “I wasn’t trying to make a scene,” you say again, your voice quieter this time. “I just… I didn’t want you to drink anymore.”

“Why do you care?” he snaps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. His grin is gone now, replaced by that sharp, mocking sneer that makes your stomach churn. “What’s it to you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust yourself to.

The car jerks suddenly as he swerves to avoid a parked car, and your heart leaps into your throat. He laughs—a short, bitter sound that makes your skin crawl—and slams his palm against the steering wheel. “Relax,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “Jesus, you’re so fucking tense all the time. It’s not that serious.”

It feels serious. Everything about this feels serious—the car, the road, the weight of his anger pressing down on you like a hand around your throat.

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. You just stare out the window, watching the dark streets blur together, and press your hand against the locket around your neck, the edges of the rose digging into your skin.

~~~~~~~~~

The house looks worse than the last time you saw it, though you’re not sure how that’s even possible. It’s his friend’s place. The place they all went to drink themselves into oblivion, and share drugs.

The porch sags under its own weight, the roof dotted with holes that make it look like it’s caving in. The windows are either boarded up or covered with newspaper, and the light above the door flickers weakly, casting the entire place in a sickly yellow glow.

Su-bong doesn’t wait for you to follow. He slams the car door shut behind him and walks up the steps, his boots heavy against the rotting wood. You hesitate for a moment, your hand still resting on the car door, and try to swallow the lump in your throat. You don’t want to go in there. You don’t want to see his friends, to feel their eyes on you, to sit in that awful, stifling air and pretend you’re okay.

But you don’t have a choice. Not really.

The inside of the house smells worse than you remember—like sweat, beer, and something sharp and chemical that makes your nose burn. The walls are yellowed with smoke, the carpet littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. There’s a coffee table in the middle of the room, its surface covered in ashtrays, empty pill bottles, and the faint glitter of crushed powder.

Su-bong’s friends are sprawled across the couches and chairs, their laughter filling the room like static. One of them glances up as you walk in, his bloodshot eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

Su-bong shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair, and grabs a beer off the table without a word.

“You’re late,” one of the guys Nam-gyu mutters, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He’d been friends with Su-bong for a long time. Before you even met him.

“Yeah, well,” Su-bong mutters, twisting the cap off the bottle with his teeth. “Got caught up.”

Nam-gyu glances at you, his gaze lingering a little too long, and something tightens in your chest. Su-bong notices, too. He sets the beer down and shoots the guy a look, his voice sharp as he says, “What the fuck are you staring at?”

Nam-gyu laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. His sweaty hair falling around his face, framing it.“Nothing, man. Relax.”

Su-bong doesn’t say anything else. He just takes another sip of his beer, his eyes flicking toward you briefly before turning back to the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hallway feels narrower than it should. The light from the main room barely reaches back here, leaving everything steeped in shadow, the air growing thicker and harder to breathe the farther you go. You can hear the faint hum of the television from the living room, the muffled sound of laughter and the clinking of bottles. The floor beneath you creaks with every step, the uneven boards sticky against your shoes.

The door to the back room is half-open, the dim yellow light spilling into the hallway. Su-bong pulls you inside without a word, his grip firm around your wrist. The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, sealing the two of you into the suffocating darkness.

Your first instinct is to stop breathing. The smell hits you like a wall—stale sweat, mildew, and the sour, chemical tang of old beer. There’s a mattress on the floor, sagging in the middle, its surface stained with patches of something dark and unrecognizable. The fabric is dotted with cigarette burns, the edges curling up like it’s been sitting here for years.

A single roach skitters across the corner of the mattress, vanishing into a crack in the wall before you can even process what you’ve seen.

Your stomach churns, your body screaming at you to leave, leave, leave, but Su-bong is already pulling you toward the mattress, his hands clumsy and insistent as they find your waist.

“Su-bong,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Stop.”

He doesn’t listen.

His breath is hot and sour against your neck, reeking of alcohol and something sharp and metallic. His hands slide up your sides, rough and impatient, tugging at the fabric of your shirt. You push against him weakly, your palms flat against his chest, but he’s too strong, too stubborn, and you’re too tired to fight.

“Relax,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse. His fingers grip your shirt harder, pulling it up over your head before you can stop him. “You’re always so fucking tense.”

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in on you as the smell of sweat and mildew grows thicker, coating the back of your throat. You tilt your head away from him, your gaze darting to the ceiling, to the cracks in the plaster and the faint shimmer of cobwebs in the corner.

The locket presses against your chest, its familiar weight grounding you in a way that feels almost cruel. Your fingers brush against it, trembling as you press it harder into your skin.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, barely audible.

He pauses for a second, his head tilting slightly, and you think—for just a moment—that he might stop. That he might actually hear you. But then he sighs, annoyed, and grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from your chest.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, his grip tightening as he pushes you down onto the mattress. The fabric feels damp beneath you, sticky and rough against your skin, and you can feel something small and hard digging into your back—a piece of broken glass, maybe, or a shard of plastic.

You want to cry. You want to scream. But the lump in your throat won’t let you make a sound.

His hands are on you again, rougher this time, tugging at your waistband and pulling you closer. The mattress groans under his weight, the springs creaking loudly enough to drown out the sound of your shaky breathing.

You stop fighting. It’s always easier that way.

The smell of him overwhelms you—sweat, cigarettes, whiskey—and the sound of his voice blurs into static as your mind starts to drift. You stare at the wall, at the faint shadows moving across its surface, and try to focus on anything else.

Your fingers close around the locket again, the edges of the rose pressing into your palm. You focus on the feel of it, the coolness of the metal, the way it feels against your skin. You roll it between your fingers, clutching it tightly, and let your mind go quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing—heavy and uneven as he collapses beside you, his arm draped carelessly over your waist. The mattress shifts under his weight, the springs creaking one last time before the quiet settles over you like a blanket.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, your fingers still curled around the locket.

There’s a roach on the wall above you, its legs moving slowly as it crawls toward the corner of the room. You watch it for a moment, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, before closing your eyes.

The smell lingers—on your skin, in your hair, in the back of your throat. You know you won’t be able to wash it off, not entirely. It’ll stay with you, just like everything else.

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears start to slip down your temples, soaking into the filthy mattress beneath you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The car ride home is silent.

Not the kind of silence that settles naturally, soft and comfortable. This silence is jagged, sharp enough to cut, stretching tight between the two of you like a rubber band about to snap. The sound of the engine hums beneath you, broken only by the occasional crunch of gravel as Su-bong drifts too close to the shoulder.

His hands grip the wheel loosely, his knuckles brushing against the cracked leather as he leans back in the seat. His head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, and you can smell the whiskey on him even from here.

You press your hand against the locket around your neck, your fingers curling around the metal as your chest tightens. You don’t dare look at him.

The tension in the car is suffocating, pressing against your chest like a weight. Your throat feels tight, your pulse thudding in your ears. You want to say something, anything, to break the silence—but the words stick in your throat, thick and heavy, refusing to come out.

When the house finally comes into view, you feel a flicker of relief. But it’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the hollow ache that’s been sitting in your chest all night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams behind you as Su-bong stumbles into the living room, tossing his jacket onto the couch without a second glance. You linger near the doorway, your hand still gripping the locket tightly, as though it might anchor you to something real.

The house is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. Shadows stretch across the walls, long and jagged, and the air feels heavy, stagnant, like it’s holding its breath.

Su-bong doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at you. He just collapses onto the couch, his head tilting back against the cushion, his eyes closed.

For a moment, you think he might pass out.

But then he sighs—a long, low sound that seems to echo in the silence—and drags a hand down his face. His fingers rub against his temples, slow and deliberate, and his leg bounces restlessly against the floor.

“You’re mad,” he mutters, his voice slurred but steady.

You don’t respond.

He opens his eyes, tilting his head to look at you. There’s something in his gaze—something searching, something almost vulnerable—that makes your stomach twist.

“Say something,” he says, his voice quieter now.

You stare at him, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force. Your chest aches, the words you want to say bubbling up inside you, but you swallow them down. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His leg stops bouncing. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together as he looks at the floor.

“I know I fucked up,” he says quietly. “I know that.”

The words hang in the air, brittle and heavy, and you feel your fingers tighten around the locket.

“I shouldn’t have taken you there,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done any of it.”

He looks up at you then, his eyes glassy and rimmed with exhaustion. “I don’t even know why you put up with me,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m such a fucking mess.”

He stands up slowly, unsteady on his feet, and takes a step toward you. His hands reach for yours, warm and trembling slightly as they close around your wrists.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice low and desperate. “You’re all I have. You’re the only thing that keeps me together.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your chest tightening as you stare at him. You want to pull away, to put distance between you, but his grip is firm, almost pleading.

“I’ll do better,” he says, his words spilling out in a rush. “I’ll stop drinking, I’ll stop everything. I’ll get clean. I swear to God, I’ll do it for you.”

You close your eyes, the tears stinging at the corners as you shake your head. “You’ve said that before,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I mean it this time,” he insists, his grip tightening slightly. His voice cracks on the last word, and you can feel the tremor in his hands. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… please don’t give up on me. Please.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You think anyone else is gonna love you like I do?” he asks, his tone soft but cutting. “You think anyone else is gonna put up with you?”

Your breath hitches, the words cutting deeper than they should.

“Your family doesn’t want you,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, like he’s holding back tears. “They’ve never wanted you. But me? I love you. I need you. You’re the only good thing I’ve got.”

The locket feels heavy in your hand, the edges of the rose digging into your palm. You want to scream, to push him away, to tell him to stop—but the lump in your throat won’t let you speak.

“What if you can’t?” you whisper, your voice breaking. “What if you don’t stop? What if it’s always going to be like this?”

He shakes his head, his expression tightening with something that almost looks like panic. “It won’t be,” he says quickly. “I swear, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”

The tears slip down your cheeks, hot and relentless, and you press your free hand to your face, trying to stifle the quiet sob that escapes your lips.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice breaking. He pulls you into his arms, his grip almost crushing as he presses his face against your hair. “Just give me another chance. That’s all I need. One more chance.”

You don’t hug him back.

But you don’t pull away, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He falls asleep hours later, curled up beside you on the bed, his breathing slow and even. You sit there in the dark, staring at the wall, the locket clutched tightly in your hand.

You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

But deep down, you already know this isn’t the last time he’ll make this promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first sign is the smell.

It hits you when you walk into the living room one evening, faint at first, like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface. You pause in the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame as you try to place it. It’s familiar. Sharp and acrid, clinging to the air like a ghost.

Cigarettes.

He’d thrown out the pack weeks ago. You’d watched him do it—watched the way his jaw tightened as he flicked the lighter one last time, muttering under his breath about how he didn’t need it, how it was “just a habit” and “no big deal.”

“I’m serious this time, baby,” he’d said, his voice almost convincing. “No more of this shit. I’m done.”

But now, the smell is here again, seeping into the walls, curling in the back of your throat like smoke.

You don’t see him at first. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the TV, the sound muted to a soft hum. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the fading daylight, and the air feels heavier than it should.

He’s on the couch, slouched low with one leg thrown over the armrest, the other foot flat on the floor. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, the ash building up dangerously close to the filter, and there’s a bottle of something dark and half-empty on the coffee table.

Your stomach twists.

“Su-bong?”

He doesn’t look up. His eyes are fixed on the TV, the flickering images reflecting in his glassy gaze. The smoke curls up from the cigarette, disappearing into the stale air, and you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he exhales slowly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like it takes effort to process the sound of your voice. When he finally turns to you, his lips curl into a lazy, lopsided grin that makes your chest ache.

“What’s it look like?” he mutters, holding up the cigarette like it’s some kind of joke.

You take a step closer, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I thought you quit.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. “Yeah, well.” He takes a drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the dim room, and exhales the smoke through his nose. “Didn’t stick, I guess.”

Your chest tightens. You can feel the anger bubbling up inside you, sharp and hot, but it’s tangled with something else—something smaller, something that feels too much like disappointment.

“You said you’d stop,” you say, your voice breaking slightly.

He laughs—low and bitter—and takes another drag, the smoke curling around his lips as he exhales. “Yeah, and you said you’d stop nagging me. Guess we’re both full of shit, huh?”

The words hit harder than they should, knocking the air out of your lungs. For a moment, all you can do is stand there, staring at him, the lump in your throat growing tighter with every second that passes.

It doesn’t stop with the cigarettes.

The next day, it’s the pills. You find the bottle on the kitchen counter, the cap loose, a few of the tablets scattered across the surface like they’d been spilled in a rush.

Your heart sinks as you pick it up, the plastic cool against your palm. You stare at the label, your chest tightening as you recognize the name—one you haven’t seen in weeks, not since the last time he swore he was done.

You don’t even notice him standing behind you until his voice cuts through the silence.

“You going through my shit now?”

You spin around, the bottle clutched tightly in your hand. “I found it on the counter,” you say, your voice sharp. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you can smell the faint tang of alcohol on his breath. “What’s your problem?” he mutters, snatching the bottle from your hand. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Your voice rises, trembling with anger and something closer to panic. “You promised me, Su-bong. You said you were done with this.”

He laughs again—that same bitter, careless sound that makes your chest ache—and shoves the bottle into his pocket. “Yeah, well, promises can be broken.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all comes to a head one night when he stumbles in late, his steps uneven and his voice loud enough to wake the neighbors.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, the locket clutched tightly in your hand, when you hear the front door slam. The sound reverberates through the house, rattling the picture frames on the walls, and you feel your chest tighten as the familiar dread settles over you like a weight.

The footsteps are uneven, shuffling, and you can hear the faint clink of glass as he moves through the house. By the time he reaches the bedroom, your hands are trembling, the metal of the locket cool and sharp against your skin.

The door swings open, and he’s there, leaning heavily against the frame. His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his jacket is hanging off one shoulder. There’s a bottle in his hand, nearly empty, and his grin is wide and lopsided, his eyes glassy.

“Hey, baby,” he slurs, his voice low and hoarse.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You just sit there, staring at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger, sadness, and something that feels too much like fear.

He stumbles into the room, dropping the bottle onto the floor with a dull thud. The smell of whiskey clings to him, heavy and sour, and when he sits down beside you, the mattress dips under his weight.

“Why’re you sitting in here all alone?” he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost affectionate. The contrast makes your stomach turn.

You pull back slightly, your jaw tightening. “Where were you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “Out.”

“You were supposed to be getting clean,” you say, your voice trembling.

He laughs—soft and breathy—and shakes his head. “Clean’s overrated.”

It’s different this time, though. The relapse isn’t just about him anymore. It’s about you—how much you can take, how much you can survive before the cracks in your foundation become too wide to repair.

You sit there in the dark, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, the weight of his relapse pressing down on you like a hand around your throat. The locket is still in your hand, the rose etched into its surface digging into your palm, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

It never feels like enough.

He’s laughing softly now, his voice slurring as he mutters something you can’t quite hear. His head tilts back, his eyes fluttering shut, and you know he won’t remember any of this in the morning.

But you will.

You always do.

The next day, he’ll act like nothing happened. He’ll grin at you over a mug of coffee, his hair still messy from sleep, and he’ll say something stupid, something that would’ve made you laugh once. And you’ll smile back, the same way you always do, because it’s easier than saying what you’re really thinking.

But deep down, you’ll know: this is how it always goes.

This is how it always ends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is too quiet.

Not the quiet that lulls you to sleep, the kind that hums with the soft rhythm of peace. No. This quiet is suffocating. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world.

You’re lying in bed when you notice it. The sun is just starting to rise, the pale light slipping through the blinds and stretching across the room in thin, fractured lines. You’ve been awake for hours, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, the locket clutched tightly in your hand.

It takes you a moment to realize what’s different. The absence is subtle at first, just a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you can’t quite place. The blankets beside you are crumpled but empty, the faint imprint of his body still visible in the mattress.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your chest twisting tighter as your gaze darts around the room. His boots aren’t by the door. His jacket isn’t hanging on the chair.

Your stomach drops.

No. He wouldn’t. Not like this.

You stand quickly, the blood rushing to your head as you make your way to the living room. The floor creaks beneath your feet, the sound echoing in the stillness, and you feel your chest tighten with every step.

The living room is empty.

The couch is still rumpled from the night before, the faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air. The ashtray on the coffee table is full, the edges of the glass stained yellow from use. But he’s not here.

You check the kitchen next, your hands shaking as you push open the door. The counters are cluttered with empty bottles and crumpled receipts, the remnants of another night that you’ve already lost track of. His mug is still on the table, the coffee inside gone cold, but there’s no sign of him.

The panic starts to set in now, creeping up your throat like a sickness. You check the bathroom, the hallway, the spare room that neither of you use, but it’s all the same.

Empty.

You make your way back to the bedroom, your chest heaving with shallow breaths, and grab your phone from the nightstand. Your fingers tremble as you unlock the screen, scrolling through your messages with a growing sense of dread.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. No explanations.

You press the phone to your chest, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs.

He always comes back.

You tell yourself this over and over, like a mantra. Like a prayer. He always comes back. No matter how far he goes, no matter how bad the fight, he always comes back.

But deep down, you know this time is different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You find the letter hours later, tucked underneath the ashtray on the coffee table.

It’s written on the back of an old receipt, the ink smudged in places where he’d pressed too hard. The handwriting is rushed, uneven, but you’d recognize it anywhere.

“Sorry.”

That’s all it says.

Just one word, scrawled across the paper in shaky, uneven letters. No explanation. No apology. No promise to come back.

You read it over and over again, your fingers gripping the edge of the receipt so tightly that it crumples under your touch. The word blurs as the tears spill down your cheeks, hot and relentless, but you don’t stop reading it.

It’s the only thing he left behind.

The house feels bigger now, emptier. You wander through the rooms like a ghost, your feet dragging against the floor, your hands brushing against the walls as though you’re trying to anchor yourself to something.

His things are gone. Not everything—just the essentials. His jacket, his boots, the backpack he keeps in the closet. The rest is still here, scattered across the house like he’s planning to come back for it.

But you know he won’t.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the letter still clutched in your hand, and stare at the locket around your neck. The rose etched into its surface feels sharper today, the edges digging into your palm like a warning.

You think about the last time he smiled at you—the kind of smile that made your chest ache, that made you forget, just for a moment, how much he hurt you. You think about the way his hands felt on your skin, the way his voice sounded when he said your name, the way he used to make you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But that man is gone. Or maybe he was never real to begin with.

You don’t cry at first.

The tears come later, in the middle of the night, when the weight of the silence becomes too much to bear. You lie on the floor of the living room, the receipt still clutched in your hand, and sob into the empty space where he used to be.

The locket feels heavy against your chest, the chain pulling tight against the back of your neck as you curl into yourself.

You think about calling him. About texting him. About driving to every shitty bar and trap house in the city just to find him. But you don’t.

Because deep down, you know it won’t change anything.

He’s gone.

And he’s not coming back this time.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Viktor with 98, 71 (public), 17 (breasts, ass and thighs) and 44 please

What happens underwater... - Viktor x Reader

Summary: There’s nothing quite as relaxing as a nice, quiet morning at the spa; but Viktor really enjoys making things more challenging for you.

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 2.6K

Warning: Explicit (PwP)

Tags: Cockwarming, Exhibitionism, Public Sex, Jacuzzi Sex, Lap Sex, Dom/Sub dynamics, Viktor Has a Big Cock, Curvy!Reader

Collection: ❤️🌹Peach’s Arcane Valentine's Day 2025❤️🌹

Notes: First work of my personal Arcane Valentine's Day Event for 2025! I definitely went way overboard for a one-shot that was supposed to be around 1K max (and it will absolutely happen again 🤡), but I’ve been dreaming of writing a jacuzzi fic for Viktor for SO long, I knew exactly what I wanted to write for this. Anyway, enjoy, sweethearts 💕!!

“Ahh…” you moan wantonly when your legs enter the warm water, feeling the tension in your muscles vanish with the clouds of steam.

“Careful,” Viktor smirks, already seated in the large whirlpool. He's settled in quite comfortably, lithe arms resting on the cool, faux marble edge. “We would not want other visitors to think we are doing anything… inappropriate here.”

You throw him a mocking glare, making it a point to let out an even louder moan of satisfaction once your body is fully submerged in water, closing your eyes. It's heavenly: the closed room is equipped with low, dim lights, creating the illusion of being surrounded by dozens of candles. The smell of eucalyptus in the air is calming and familiar, filling your nostrils with a comforting herbal scent. Even the gentle wiring sound of the bubbling water jets is pleasant—a low, rhythmic rumble that echoes through you, dissolving the tension in every muscle.

“And that's why I booked a Tuesday morning spot,” you reply with a deep inhale, letting the perfume of the essential oils tickle your nose. Your eyes flutter open slowly, a lazy grin spreading across your lips as you glance over at him “There’s no one else here. Just us.”

The way his amber eyes twinkle with amusement leaves no doubt; he understands the implication very clearly.

Neither quite walking nor swimming, you drift towards him, the water guiding your movements until your legs brush softly against his. Leaning forward, you kiss him softly, leisurely, and he responds in kind, without any urge or signs of hurry. Had you known that a simple visit to the spa was all it took to dissolve his relentless need to be productive, you would have brought him here the day you met.

You pull away, just enough to let your breath ghost over his face, cocking your head impishly.

“Is there any space left for me to sit?” you wonder out loud with a playful grin.

He hums, pretending to be deep in thought as he looks around the completely empty room.

“I am not quite sure we can accommodate you. I will discuss with the rest of my large group of hydrotherapy enthusiasts, and we will come back to you with an answer in…” he pauses to look at an imaginary watch on his wrist, glancing up mockingly, “… five to ten business days.”

You snort, splashing him with some water to retaliate, and he laughs as he raises an arm to protect his face. It’s a contagious sound, that laugh—the kind that makes you feel light and bubbly, and that leaves you with a craving for more. You can't help kissing him again, this time messier, your tongues caught in a languid and drowsy battle of dominance.

Viktor always tastes sweet, the usual, intimate flavour of his morning sweet milk and jam toast lingering in his mouth. He’s addictive, and you’re insatiable. The thought that you want to indulge in him like dessert, to devour him, is roaring in the back of your mind persistently; but the warmth surrounding both of your bodies is making you too lethargic to quicken the pace. Instead, you opt for making the kiss more wet, pressing your chest against his.

He sighs in approval against your lips. Few things can weaken Viktor's steely focus, especially when he’s working, but your breasts are certainly one of them. He’s coy about it, but he never misses an opportunity to touch them, to rest his head on them after a hard day, to knead them with his fingers to feel their weight and hear you cry for him. The curves of your body never fail to unravel him.

He's slightly breathless when you pull away, his face tinted a pretty shade of red, highlighting just a hint of pale freckles on his cheeks. You'd make a sly remark about it, and the adorable boyish look they give him, but he'd blame it on the heat—prideful as he is.

“Would you look at that,” he comments, voice almost a sigh, eyes sparkling with hypnotic wit. “It would appear a special spot has opened up for you, right here.”

He nods casually to his lap, abandoning any pretence of innocence, and you don't hesitate for a second. You settle onto his thighs, your legs tucking snugly behind his back, locking you in place with effortless intimacy. Viktor has always revelled in the weightlessness of water, in how effortlessly his limbs move in its embrace. More than that, he loves how it lets him hold you in ways he never could on solid ground—the full weight of your body resting on his, your ass seated comfortably against his crotch.

“Lucky me,” you smile as you wrap your arms around him, the tip of your fingers tracing the sharp shapes of his back expertly. The valleys of faded scars, the slight hint of pedicle screws underneath his skin, the star-like clusters of moles—it’s all so familiar to you, a work of art you’ve studied with your touch dozens, no, hundreds of times. His hands find your waist with the same practiced ease, beckoning you closer.

It's so rare to have him like this, so wholly yours, without the weight of looming deadlines and the relentless pressure for success he places on himself. You want to enjoy this moment to its full extent, savour each second, sink into him like the notion of time itself has dissolved in these temperate waters.

But the need to enjoy him and his body to their full extent is greater; you start lightly grinding against him, letting the tidal motion of the jets bring you back and fort.

“I… am beginning to feel like you may not have brought me here out of the purest of intentions,” he smirks, voice low, his hands smoothly gliding under the fabric of your swimsuit. He squeezes the fat of your ass almost punishingly, sinking into your skin. “I thought this was meant to help my joint pain.”

“You're one to talk,” you raise an eyebrow challengingly. You grind down against him once, hard—and he immediately curses under his breath.

He loves to pretend that nothing ever gets to him, that he’s untouchable beneath his carefully crafted composure. But you know better. You know him. And right now, his body can’t keep up with the pretense that he’s unaffected: his already half-hard cock is poking you insistently under his swim trunks, and he’s not petty enough to try and deny it.

“And since when can't you multi-task?” you grin with satisfaction.

He scoffs, like he’s almost insulted, but the smile tugging on his lips sings a different tune.

“You are incorrigible,” he reprimands you, his fingers digging assertively into your supple flesh; you can tell you’ll find dark bruises there in the shapes of his digits tomorrow. A familiar pull, deep in your lower stomach, begins to make itself known, and you whine pitifully to encourage him to press harder.

“But…” he adds nonchalantly, “I did come here to relax, and I intend to do just that.”

He releases his grip on your cheeks, and you let out an indignant moan of protest. Yes, it's pathetic and shameless, but no one else is here to hear how easily you’re always ready to beg for him. And Viktor loves hearing you beg.

He tuts at your eagerness, one hand coming up to hold your chin, touch gentle, but firm, dominant, golden stare burning into you.

“I have never said you could not help me relax.”

Thank fucking God—because if the heat of the scalding vapour hadn’t made you implode soon, the cruel lack of his length inside you would have finished the job. Could anyone blame you? There’s hardly any other place in the world more steeped in romance and sensuality than a jacuzzi, the air thick with warmth and electricity. And with how Viktor's sharp gaze never draws far from your generously revealing bikini top, you know he wants you just as much as you want him.

The cherry on top? There's no one else here to prevent him from fucking you utterly stupid right inside the whirlpool.

You slide the bottom of your swimsuit to the side with little ceremony, giving his roaming hand easier access under the water. The first finger feels intimate and cozy as it pushes in, and you'd hump it with abandon if it wasn't for Viktor's other hand holding your thigh down decidedly. He seems to find your squirming amusing, toying with your walls as he observes every little tremor that goes through your body.

“Viktor…c'mon on…” you complain. You know he can feel the oily texture of lube inside you, that he can easily tell you've prepared yourself specifically for this, but the teasing has always been his favourite part, and he doesn't seem willing to part ways with it now.

“Why the hurry? Are we not allowed to stay here for another two hours?” he asks, irony laced in his voice as the long finger curves inside you with precision, and hits a peculiarly sensitive spot. You pressed your lips closed, refusing to give him more ammunition.

“So you can fuck me for the next two hours, that’s why,” you argue, biting, and he raises his free hand in surrender, the cockiness evident in his features.

“Well, who am I to deny you?

His finger vanishes almost instantly, leaving you with a vague, aching emptiness, but the promise of what you truly want coming next. His expectant gaze and deliberate stillness make it clear—he’s waiting for you to do all the heavy lifting while he simply enjoys the moment, in total control, without ever moving a muscle.

And you do just that, without a word of protest, because there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him when he looks at you with those honeyed eyes and that syrupy smile. Maneuvering quickly, you lower your thong with one hand and bring his cock out of his swimming shorts with the other, stroking his length with a firm grip as you align it with your warmth. He hums, pleased, his eyes fluttering close, and you take it as a sign to forgo any additional foreplay.

You moan in unison when he finally enters you, the stretch pleasantly different underwater than above, like the warmth makes you looser and easier to penetrate. When he’s fully inside you, the thickness of your ass flushed against his bony hips, there isn’t a single doubt in your mind this is a place you were always meant to be. In this city, in this spa, in this whirlpool, sitting on this man’s lap and filled with his cock.

Fuck, you want him. You really, really want him.

With a shaky breath, you place your hands on the solid edge behind him, ready to start bouncing up and down his length with abandon, when suddenly the sharp sound of knocking echoes through the room.

The both of you freeze, Viktor’s eyes shooting open.

A second knock. A third.

“Hello?” comes a man’s voice from the other side of the door. You gape at the thankfully still-closed entrance, your breath caught in your throat. Panic spikes through you as you whip your gaze to Viktor—only to find him utterly unfazed, his expression unreadable, as if the thought of being caught like this is of no concern to him at all.

Before you get a chance to move off him, Viktor’s hands grip your thighs, pointedly holding them down against him. You look at him with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, but his eyes hold yours challengingly, dark and lustful.

“Stay on my lap,” he whispers, voice deep.

“Viktor-” you begin, but he kisses the rest of the sentence away.

“Relax,” he shushes you, the word comforting, but his tone nothing short of a clear order. A steady hand guides your head into the crook of his neck, shielding your face from view. His voice dips lower, quiet but firm. “Don't move until I say you can.”

There’s no time left for debate; you close your eyes and bury your face deep against Viktor as you hear the door to the room slide open.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” resonates the loud voice of an older man from the entryway, the raspiness of cigarette smoke audible in his speech. “I didn’t think there’d be anyone this early, I can come back later.”

Viktor must sense how you've stiffened against him at the mere sound of the man’s voice, his fingers massaging the fat of your thighs reassuringly. You're paralyzed with fear, but you exactly deny the electric feeling that’s coursing through your body as you clench tightly around Viktor's cock, and chances are, he’s very aware of it. You can hear the smirk in his tone when he speaks up.

“No, no, there is no need for that,” Viktor replies smoothly, his tone as effortlessly composed as ever. “My jacuzzi partner has fallen quite deeply asleep. I would enjoy some light conversation.”

Oh, you piece of shit. You curse him mentally, your heart pounding in your throat. He’s effectively cut off any chance of escape, trapping you in this cruel, maddening game. The dim lighting, the bubbling jets, the shifting water—there’s almost no way the stranger could see anything beneath the surface. Almost. And that’s exactly the thrill Viktor is playing with.

It’s not about certainty; it’s about the maybe—the razor-thin chance that you could get caught if you so much as shift, if you make even the faintest sound. And that knowledge, the unbearable tension of it, is exactly what he’s savouring. You feel him throb against your walls, clearly pleased with the way the situation is unfolding as you hear the stranger’s footsteps draw closer to the whirlpool. You hear the faint splash of movement, then feel it—the ripple of the water shifting around you as the man steps in. Your breath stills, every nerve in your body on high alert, yet Viktor stays maddeningly still, as if he’s about to engage in a friendly little chat and not balls deep inside you right underneath the surface.

He's effortlessly turned you into a glorified cockwarmer, a pretty cocksleeve who can do nothing, but take him silently as he begins casually chatting with the older man. He’s a fucking evil genius.

“Nothin’ better to relax than this, that’s what I always say,” the stranger boasts. “I can stay hours without moving a muscle.”

Viktor hums, thoughtful, his grip just a little firmer, as if you needed any more reminders that he’s completely in control of you right now. “Actually, that sounds like a nice idea,” he muses, his voice smooth, lazy. “I think I will try doing that myself.”

You can’t see the expression on his face, but really you don’t need to. You can feel the amusement radiating from him, the twitching of his rock-hard cock deeply nestled into you. And as the stranger settles in, oblivious, you realize that Viktor has absolutely no intention of letting you move anytime soon.

🌸 Taglist Darlings 🌸: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway , @just1cefor4ll , @lovebugintardis

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[rafecameronssl4t]

Eyes on The Field || nfl player!Rafe Cameron x dcc!reader

Summary: Just Rafe not being able to keep his eyes off of you during the entire game.

Warnings: noneee

Word count: 1,194

A/n: its been waaayyy too long since I've written a dcc!reader fic

MASTERLIST (nfl!rafe x dcc!reader au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

Thunderstruck reverberated through every corner of AT&T Stadium, the iconic riff sending a jolt of energy that seemed to pulse in sync with the heartbeat of the crowd. The stadium was alive but it was you and the rest of the DCC who commanded the attention of every eye in the stands. You all moved across the field with a confidence that could only come from countless hours of practice.

The energy was palpable, the air thick with anticipation as you fell into formation, perfectly poised in your pristine blue and white uniform. A practiced smile curved your lips, every muscle in your body was tuned in. The routine was etched into your memory, each move precise, every step instinctive.

You’d performed this dance over a dozen times, and yet the adrenaline coursing through your veins made it feel brand new. The sound of the music thumped in your chest, and the cheers from the crowd seemed to amplify every movement you made.

And I was shakin' at the knees. Could I come again please?

On the sideline, Rafe jogged onto the field with his teammates, his helmet tucked under one arm. Amid the chaos of the game preparation, his eyes instinctively found you in the centre of the squad, your presence commanding his full attention. “Eyes off the cheerleaders, Cameron,” Chris teased, delivering a playful smack to his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Rafe muttered, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. He didn’t even try to deny it. His gaze then moved onto the big screen where you were the focus, captivated by the way you moved with such confidence and poise. As the routine neared its climax, the crowd roared in anticipation.

Then, the iconic jump split. Your body soared effortlessly through the air before landing flawlessly, and the stadium erupted in thunderous applause. As you gathered your pom-poms, you allowed yourself one fleeting moment to catch Rafe’s gaze from across the field. His eyes locked with yours, intense and searching. Still, ever the professional, you maintained your poised demeanor.

With a flick of your hair and a perfectly timed spin, you held your smile, turned, and strode off the field and onto the sidelines with your group as if nothing had happened, leaving Rafe watching after you, captivated as ever.

~

Rafe jogged off the field, his helmet tucked under one arm, sweat glistening on his face. The game was going well—they were up by two touchdowns—but his focus wasn’t entirely on the scoreboard. As he reached the sideline, his eyes instinctively found you again. You had just finished a routine and were taking a quick water break, trying to catch your breath.

When you noticed Rafe staring, you raised an eyebrow, silently questioning him. He didn’t look away. Typical. Shaking your head, you turned back to chat with the others, refusing to feed his ego any more than necessary. A few minutes later, you spotted him again. This time, he was walking over with a group of his teammates toward the water station.

They were laughing and jostling each other, but Rafe veered slightly to the side, positioning himself furthest from the group—right next to where you stood. You didn’t look at him at first, your gaze fixed on the field as you absentmindedly adjusted your uniform. You felt him stop beside you, the air between you charged, his presence impossible to ignore.

"You know, there’s a game happening," you teased without turning to him, keeping your tone light but teasing. You didn’t dare make eye contact, aware of the curious glances from both his teammates and your squad. Rafe didn’t seem to care. “Is there?” he replied smoothly, his tone playful but his gaze piercing as it trailed over you. “Because all I’ve been watching is you.”

You let out a small snort, finally glancing at him, unable to help yourself. His bluntness was infuriating and, admittedly, a little thrilling. “You’re going to get in trouble if Coach sees you over here flirting,” you said, your voice quieter now, but there was a teasing lilt in your words. Rafe smirked, crossing his arms as if the idea amused him.

“Let him. You’ve got me so distracted, I’m surprised I haven’t dropped a pass yet.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. Turning your attention back to the field, you checked the clock, noting how little time you had left before the next routine. “Maybe I should stop performing,” you said casually. “Can’t have the star receiver losing focus.”

Rafe chuckled softly, his voice dipping just enough for only you to hear. “Don’t you dare. Best part of game day.” His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you let yourself look at him. Really look at him. The teasing glint in his eyes, the way his grin softened just for you—it was hard not to feel flustered under his gaze.

But before you could respond, the music started up again, signaling it was time for you to return to the field. You turned away, a small smile playing on your lips as you joined the formation. As the cheerleaders moved into position, you could still feel his eyes on you.

“Focus, Cameron,” you heard one of his teammates shout from a distance. You hid a smirk as you got into formation. If Rafe was distracted, that was his problem. You had a routine to nail, and he’d just have to wait.

[starfruitii]

cws & notes. reader is kind of insecure. akaashi keiji x gn!reader. established relationship. slight angst. 600+ words. idk where this came from but enjoy?

“Do you think you’ll get sick of me, one day?”

You regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. In your head, it sounded like a perfectly sound question, but with the way Keiji is looking at you, it’s clear he doesn’t agree. 

“I beg your pardon, dear?” His voice is painfully soft, brows furrowing in concern as he places his book down on the coffee table. Under his gentle gaze, you feel stripped bare, exposed in all your insecurity. You should have swallowed the question down, as sharp as it felt in your throat, anything to avoid the way he’s staring at you now.

“Nevermind,” You say quickly, snatching the TV remote from the table, and busying yourself with choosing a show. The screen flicks between channels, flashing brightly coloured lights across your faces. “That was a dumb question. I’m sorry, just forget it.”

“My love,” Keiji reached out a hand, lightly brushing the side of your face. With a gentle, but firm grip, he grasped your chin and tilted your head to the side to face him. “[Name]. Why are you asking me that?” 

“No reason. Don’t worry about it.” You try to laugh it off, but you can only choke out a quiet sob. Somehow, somewhere between asking the question and now, your eyes started burning, glazing over with unshed tears.

Damn. He’s looking even more concerned now. Why couldn’t you have just kept it to yourself, tucking those doubts far into the dusty corners of your head, where his ears would never reach them?

“Hey,” Keiji brushed his thumb under your eyes, wiping away a stray tear that falls. “You’re getting me worried now. Are you okay? What happened?”

There was a long pause, and something inside you cracks. You let out a sniffle, then a gasp, then the last piece of your self-control breaks, in a mess of tears and snot. Keiji’s face crumples, and he tugs you forward into his chest, rubbing your back soothingly as you continue to cry. 

“Did I do something?” He presses. “Am I not treating you the way you want to be treated? I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but please tell me what I did–”

“No!” You quickly say, regaining your composure slightly. He’s never done anything, never hurt you, intentionally, or unintentionally, never said the wrong words, never made you feel unloved. That was the problem. Because nothing gold shines forever, and every good thing comes to an end. You were just waiting for the end, the moment he decides he is done with your self-consciousness, your bad habits, your looks. 

There is always a reason for someone to leave; you’ve learnt that the hard way. 

“I-I don’t know,” You mumble, tracing your nail against the couch. “I just–I guess, most people do. Get sick of me, that is. And I d-don’t wanna lose you too.”

Keiji was silent for a moment, and for a moment you worry that you've ruined things. The thought lingers in your mind for only a second, because a second later there are half-a-dozen kisses being pressed to the top of your head.

“I love you,” Keiji whispers between each peck. “I love you, so, so much. I love you, and I love you, and I will say it as many times as it takes you to believe it.”

The feeling of his breath tickles your skin, making you laugh weakly.

“I'm never going to get sick of you,” He continues. “I adore you, and every part of you. No matter what happens, I'm never leaving. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper back.

Keiji kisses your cheek. “Good. Now, why don't you put on a movie for us to watch?”

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Nightmare ships  

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“Most terrifying ship I ever seen?”

Mordray repeated the question as he took a thoughtful bite of his xala and pondered the question.

“I’d have to say a Hive Node ship.”

Lithinio scoffed. “When the seven hells have you ever seen a Node ship?”

“I watched a documentary on it just last rotation.” Mordray countered rather defensively. “And having watched it I have to say I’m glad I never saw one in person since they eat entire ships whole.”

Ninten sighed and rubbed the ridges of his face. “Let me change the question then to “What is the most terrifying ship you have ever seen IN PERSON.””

Mordary took another bite as he took in the updated question while Lithinio stepped in with their own answer.

“I once saw a Dru Hunter Class while part of a convoy escort mission.” He took a sip of his drink and ran his hands through the air as if tracing the vessel.

“From bow to stern it was covered in spikes and upon each spike was a corpse. It was like a ship of the dead come to collect its toll of the living.”

“I heard the stories about those.” Ninten nodded. “Doesn’t matter if you were a victim, an enemy, or just some bad luck bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time; they’d spike you just the same. Where’d you see it?”

“The Dinar Campaign,” Lithinio replied, “they couldn’t beat our warriors on the ground so they’d send out small raiding space parties to hammer the transports and supply ships before ever reaching their worlds.”

“Lost a lot of good lads that war.”

The trio of crewmen turned to see the speaker at the table opposite them had turned around. They wore the uniform of an engineer but had several markings of honorary navy marine, honorary gunner, and even one for honorary helmsman. This could be none other than the legendary Midar Nus, the most famous crewman on the ship.

“Apologies for intruding,” Midar said sheepishly, “I was overhearing your conversation and it drew up some memories.”

‘You are more than welcome to join us sir.” Ninten said as his two comrades nodded and made room at their table for Midar to join. He smiled and took the offer, changing tables and nestling himself down in the now free space.

“No need for that protocol with me lad,” Midar spoke with a wintery grin as he eyed Ninten, “especially since you technically outrank me.”

“Experience counts for more than bars, sir.” Ninten replied without thinking.

Midar was taken aback by the boldness and for a moment Ninten thought he had overstepped himself. Instead, Midar let out a deep booming laugh and patted him on the back as Lithinio and Mordray let out a sigh of relief.

“We could have used a dozen more of you during that scuffle with the Dru; would have saved a lot of my friends.”

Ninten took the compliment and tried to redirect the conversation before he said something to ruin his now good standing with a living legend.

“What about you then? What’s the scariest ship you’ve ever seen?”

The trio listened in half expecting him to say something heroic like “I’ve never seen a ship worth being afraid of” or “I once thought I saw one, but it was really my mate’s in-law”. Instead, the old sailor replied without even pausing to think.

“The ones who piloted them don’t have a name for it officially; only a name they had given to them by a creature of their dark past.”

“Whose they?” Mordray asked as Lithinio smacked him for interrupting the answer.

“Humans crewed the things, though it’s been a thankful many years since I last encountered one of those damnable vessels.”

He leaned in close and slowly cast a frightful gaze across the three of his listeners.

“They called them “Frankenstein” ships.”

None of the three said a thing, partly because none of the three had any idea what that word meant. Midar saw this and further explained.

“There’s a story amongst humans about a human named “Dr. Victor Frankenstein”, and they were so focused on circumventing death itself that they began performing horrific experiments on the living and the dead.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ninten asked “How can you perform horrific experiments if the subject is dead?”

Midar shrugged. “Story goes the mad doctor took the chopped up pieces of several dead humans, sewed them together, and then brought the creature to life.” 

“Putting aside the continued depraved and discouraging nature of humanity,” Lithinio chimed in, “what does this have to do with their ship design?”

“Because,” Midar continued, “like their mad doctor humans have an infuriating habit carving up the parts from other ships and adding those parts to their own.”

He leaned back into his chair as he recounted his first experience. “The first time I found myself up against one of those ships was in the Delta Cluster. We just fought of a border incursion and were tasked with protecting the wreckage while we sifted for survivors.”

“We just finish a patrol when we got a strange energy signature return near the edge of the wreckage. So we went to investigate it and there we found a human ship the size of a frigate slowly drifting through the debris field using a variety of arms to grab bits and pieces of ships.”

“The captain ordered a scan of the ship and the returns were a confusing mishmash of technological parts.”

“A Thorian engine block, a Juriet power core, a Nexium stabilizer…” he said listing out a surprisingly long list of ship parts from different species.

“None of those parts are designed to work with other tech.” Mordray commented. He would know as he was part of the engineering crew and well trained in ship maintenance. “The Juriet power core alone would generate far too much power for a ship that size; dangerously so much that using it could trigger a system overload.”

Midar nodded at the crewman’s insight. “Indeed, were it not for the majority of that power also going towards a Feren Gel class shield system. We found that out when we tried to disable their engines and our volley bounced off the thing like oil on water.”

Lithinio let out a whistle in awe while Midar continued.

“After that the thing began to slowly turn to make a run out of system so we drove in hard ready to grab it with our tractor beams. We were just about to make it when a panel at the rear of the ship opened up and a turret protruded out of it.”

“One shot.” Midar remarked as he held up a single taloned finger. “It took one shot at us and shattered our shield, blew out our engines, and triggered a cascading system overload that left us dead in space as they plowed out of system and made a jump.”

Ninten grumbled as he pondered Midar’s words. “Must’ve been a Telkar railgun. It’d run the entire length of a frigate ship, but it’d pack enough of a punch to deal that kinda damage; but the recoil alone would’ve split a ship that size in half.”

“Which we later found out was counter acted by a Wu’l gravity displacement field. They jacked it to max just as the railgun would fire and the counter action would cancel out the recoil.”

“I’m still confused why these things are so scary to you?” Mordray asked with a hint of a mocking tone. “They sound like garbage barges held together with scraps.”

Midar took on an offended expression and straightened up. “They’re terrifying because you never know what you are going up against. Frigate size packing battleship class weaponry, a patrol craft that can launch mini black holes, a cruiser that interwove nanomachine and organic materials that could repair any damage; every and anything was on the table!”

The ships seemed beyond reason and logic but the enthusiasm with which he spoke there was some truth to each description.

Ninten took a sip from his drink and nodded in appreciation. “Only fitting for the species that defies existence to have ships that actively defy the laws of technology.”  

[bearforcecaptions]

It started, like it always did, with the flicker of the lights and a low hum that seemed to come from deep within the walls. I’d been here long enough to know that sound—the pulse that heralded the arrival of fresh faces. I wasn’t sure how many I’d seen come and go by now, but I’d learned to recognize that shifting vibration in the air, the way the gym seemed to breathe in new people, new victims, and eventually, exhale them as someone else entirely.

I was sitting by the dumbbells, idly polishing off another set of curls I didn’t really need to be doing anymore, when the door swung open, and in they came. Two of them, both looking like they’d walked through the wrong door at the wrong time.

The first guy was scrawny, mousy even—brown hair, glasses slipping down his nose, a baggy sweater that swallowed his frame. He looked like he should be sitting in front of a computer, not stepping into a gym full of iron and sweat. The other guy was taller but equally unimpressive—shoulders hunched, face pale, with a thin mustache that seemed like an afterthought. They couldn’t have been more out of place if they’d tried.

And they looked as bewildered as I’d felt the first time I’d walked in here.

“Uh… hello?” The shorter one’s voice wobbled, and he gave the tall guy a nervous glance. They were strangers, that much was obvious. They didn’t even acknowledge each other beyond the initial glance, both of them clearly too preoccupied with their surroundings to question why they’d ended up here together.

I watched them, letting the silence stretch, because I knew what would happen. It was always the same.

“Hey, are you—do you work here?” the tall one asked, finally noticing me. His voice was a little steadier, though he was doing a terrible job hiding his panic.

I shook my head. “Nope. Just been here a while.” I gave them a once-over, smirking a little. “Let me guess… you two didn’t mean to end up here, did you?”

The short guy swallowed, eyes darting to the mirrors that stretched endlessly around us. “N-no, I was just, uh, walking out of the library and… then I was here. I didn’t—” He cut off, glancing at his companion.

“Same,” the tall guy muttered, his voice tinged with an edge of irritation. “I was leaving my apartment, and then… this.” He gestured at the gym, clearly baffled.

“Names?” I asked, leaning back and crossing my arms, the familiar weight of my own bulk a comfort.

“Ben,” the short one said, his voice a little squeaky. “I, uh, I don’t belong here. I don’t even like gyms.”

“Kyle,” the other one said shortly, fidgeting with his phone. “This place has gotta have a way out. Right?”

I almost laughed. “Good luck with that. You can try every door, every window—it all leads right back here. I’ve seen dozens try, but…” I shrugged. “You get used to it. Or you work out. It’s about all there is to do.”

Kyle’s mouth twisted, annoyed. “What do you mean, ‘get used to it’? We’re stuck here?”

“Looks that way,” I said. “But hey, I’m sure you’ll find your way out if you keep at it.” It was always the same—let them struggle, watch them slowly surrender to the gym’s rhythm, see them lose themselves, inch by inch.

And, as expected, they did. They tried every door, every possible exit, each attempt leading them back to the gym. They tried using their phones, but of course, the batteries died quickly, and there was no signal anyway. Hours passed—though time was slippery here, never quite settling. They wandered and fumed until, finally, I saw them gravitate back toward the equipment, eyeing it like a last resort.

“Nothing else to do,” I said, smirking. “Might as well use what’s here.”

Kyle glared at me but sat down on a bench press, placing his hands on the bar with the unsure grip of someone who’d never really lifted before. Ben was more hesitant, looking around with a lost, almost pleading expression before finally moving over to the dumbbells.

At first, their workouts were awkward, tentative. Neither of them had any real technique, and I could tell from their shaky form that they hadn’t set foot in a gym in years, if ever. But slowly, they fell into a rhythm, each rep easing the tension from their faces, each lift dulling the spark of panic in their eyes.

The changes started small, as they always did. After some time—hours, days, who could tell—Ben’s clothes began to shift. His baggy sweater started clinging to his frame, as though the fabric itself had decided to tighten. His arms, once scrawny, began to fill out, biceps firming, shoulders rounding under the now-stretched material. His glasses slipped off his nose one day, forgotten entirely, his vision sharper, clearer than it had ever been.

Kyle, meanwhile, seemed to grow taller, his posture shifting. His thin arms started to bulk up, each curl thickening his biceps, veins beginning to rise to the surface. I could see his hands flexing around the weights with more confidence, a focus that was edging into something else, something more intense.

One day, Ben was in the middle of a particularly heavy set of deadlifts when he paused, shirtless, sweat rolling down his now-muscular frame. I blinked, realizing that his baggy clothes were gone entirely, replaced by striped workout pants that clung to his legs, each squat revealing powerful thighs straining against the fabric. Around his neck, a thick silver chain gleamed, catching the light. He hadn’t had it before, I was sure of it, but it was there now, heavy and solid against his chest, as if it had always been.

Their voices had started changing too. Ben’s soft, slightly nasal tone had dropped an octave, his speech slower, more deliberate. And Kyle—Kyle’s words had taken on a thicker edge, a hint of something foreign, like he was translating from a language he couldn’t remember ever learning.

They still didn’t talk much to me, but when they did, it was strained, their English slipping. “Bro, give… give weight,” Ben would say, frowning as he searched for the words. I watched, a strange feeling twisting in my chest, as he began to look less and less like Ben, and more like someone else entirely. His face was fuller, his jaw sharper, a shadow of stubble darkening his cheeks. The softness of his expression was gone, replaced by something hard, a smirk that looked alien on his once-innocent face.

And Kyle… his posture was different, arrogant almost, his shoulders broad, his chest thick and powerful. His thin mustache had grown into a rugged stubble, framing his mouth with a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. His hair was shorter now, neater, and there was a glint in his eye, a confidence that hadn’t been there when he’d first walked in.

Their workouts became more intense, their bodies transforming faster. The new clothes clung to them, hugging every inch of their muscular frames. Ben’s bare chest gleamed with sweat, his thick arms flexing as he adjusted the bar, his lips moving as he muttered something low, almost guttural. “Bassem… weight…” he called, voice deep, accented. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d stopped calling himself Ben.

Kyle—now calling himself Kareem—grinned, nodding as he handed over the barbell, a sense of brotherhood, of shared purpose in his eyes. They had become each other’s world, barely noticing anyone else in the gym, certainly not me.

I tried to talk to them one day, hoping to catch some glimpse of the men they’d once been. “Kyle—Ben,” I said, using their old names. “You don’t… remember anything, do you?”

They looked at me, confusion flickering across their faces. I tried again. “Ben? Kyle?”

But they only glanced at each other, murmuring in Arabic, the syllables sharp and fluid, familiar to them but incomprehensible to me. “Bassem, shouf…” Kareem said, grinning as he motioned to the weights, a cocky glint in his eye. They both laughed, low and rough, as if they shared some private joke. Whatever English they’d once known was gone, slipping away like sand through fingers. They were different now—men who owned the space around them, who looked at the gym like it was their kingdom.

Their arrogance grew too, an alpha confidence that radiated from them. They strutted through the gym like they owned it, chests out, heads high, each step powerful and self-assured. The last traces of who they’d once been were gone, replaced by the men they’d become—Bassem and Kareem, powerful, proud, and utterly transformed.

The day the lights flickered in that familiar rhythm, they paused, exchanging a glance. Their bodies tensed, and without a word, they strode to the door, side by side, muscles rippling, their stubbled faces set in matching smirks. Bassem slapped a hand on Kareem’s back, muttering something in Arabic that made them both laugh, the sound low and rough, filled with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

They walked out, swaggering, their steps heavy with purpose, never once looking back.

I watched them go, feeling that familiar pang of loss, of frustration. It was always the same—they came in, fought, transformed, and left, and I was left behind, the only one who remembered who they used to be. The gym’s hum settled back into silence, satisfied, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before it found someone else. Someone else to mold, to reshape, to consume.

And I would be here to watch it all over again.

[they-call-me-whiskey]

All the grand gestures

pairing: Sirius Black x fem!reader

summary: every grand gesture feels like a lie.

warnings: angst; reader is Muggle-born and has hair; English is not my first language.

author's note: Valentine's Day, and here I am writing angst. great job Whiskey. here's the link to the next chapter.

“Sirius!”

you weave through the crowded corridor, dodging students as you chase after him. he’s quick, always managing to slip away just before you catch up—but this time, he must hear you calling, because he stops, turning around with an easy grin. his friends halt beside him, watching with amused expressions as you finally reach him, slightly breathless.

“well, hello, darling,” Sirius drawls, his stormy grey eyes lighting up the moment they meet yours.

before you can reply, he steps closer, sliding his hands onto your waist and pulling you in for a kiss—completely ignoring the fact that you’re still catching your breath. his lips are warm, teasing, and for a second, the noise of the corridor fades into nothing.

then—

“oooohhh!”

James and Peter’s exaggerated reactions echo around you, while Remus just sighs like he’s had to witness this far too many times. you feel Sirius smirk against your lips before he pulls away, though he doesn’t let go of you just yet.

“honestly, mate,” James teases, nudging Sirius’s shoulder, “do you have to snog her in the middle of the corridor? some of us are still single, you know.”

“tragic, really,” Sirius replies smoothly, shooting him a mocking look before turning his attention back to you. “what brings you running through the halls for me, love? not that I’m complaining.”

you roll your eyes at his dramatics but smile anyway. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“miss me that much?” he teases, but before you can shove him playfully, Peter grins and chimes in, “so, big day tomorrow, huh?”

it takes you a second to realise what he means.

Valentine’s Day.

Sirius makes a thoughtful hum, as if just remembering. then, his grin sharpens. “oh, yes, I’m very excited.”

your heart flutters at the confirmation. you’d been planning everything for weeks now—choosing the perfect spots, thinking of little surprises—because for once, you wanted to be the one who set up something special. Sirius had a habit of sweeping you away on unexpected adventures, and while you loved it, you wanted to give him that feeling this time.

he already knew, of course. you had mentioned it at least a dozen times, and while he pretended to be mysterious about what he expected, you could tell he was genuinely curious.

“oh, you should be,” you say, grinning up at him. “I’ve got something really special planned.”

“do I get a hint?”

“nope,” you reply smugly.

Sirius pouts dramatically, but there’s undeniable excitement in his eyes.

James groans. “Merlin, you two are disgustingly adorable.”

“jealous, Potter?” Sirius quips, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “come, love, let’s leave the lonely ones to sulk.”

with a wink to his friends, he steers you down the corridor, and a warmth spreads through you. tomorrow was going to be perfect.

the morning of Valentine’s Day starts just as you imagined.

you wake up feeling a mix of excitement and nerves, barely able to sit still as you get ready. you take your time, choosing an outfit you know Sirius will love, fixing your hair just right. he was always the one planning these things—whisking you off on wild, spontaneous dates, making every moment feel like an adventure. but today was different. today was yours to plan, and you wanted it to be special.

you glance at the clock. 11:15 a.m. still plenty of time before you meet Sirius at noon.

you’re just about to put on your shoes when the conversation reaches your ears.

it’s coming from the other side of the dormitory door—muffled voices of a few students chatting in the corridor. you don’t think much of it at first, until you hear his name.

“honestly, it’s just so Sirius,” one girl says with a laugh.

“I know, right?” another chimes in. “imagine dating someone just to piss off your family. classic rebellion move.”

your hands freeze mid-motion.

“I still can’t believe he actually went through with it,” the first voice continues. “dating a Muggle-born just to make a statement—like, that poor girl probably thinks he’s serious about her.”

the laugh that follows makes your stomach twist.

they’re not talking about you. they can’t be.

right?

your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you force yourself to move, stepping towards the door and slowly pulling it open. the corridor is already clearing, but you catch sight of two girls disappearing around the corner, still talking.

you don’t chase after them. you don’t even know what you’d say.

because suddenly, memories start rushing back.

Sirius was always so public about your relationship. the way he’d sling an arm around you in the Great Hall, kiss you in the middle of the corridor without a care, loudly declare how much he adored you in front of anyone who’d listen. It never seemed strange before—it was just him. bold. reckless. Infatuated.

but what if it was something else?

what if, in the beginning, you were never anything more than a way to get under his family's skin?

the thought makes your stomach churn.

you want to believe that it’s not true, that you’re overthinking, but the seed of doubt has already been planted. because now, every grand gesture, every public display of affection feels like something you have to question.

is he still using you?

you don’t know what to do.

all you know is that in forty-five minutes, you’re supposed to meet Sirius for what was supposed to be the perfect date.

and you have no idea how you’re going to get through it.

Sirius is already waiting for you when you reach the meeting spot near the castle gates.

the moment he sees you, his face lights up. “there’s my gorgeous girl,” he says smoothly, pulling you into his arms before you can react. he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, murmuring, “happy Valentine’s Day, darling.”

you force a smile, hoping he doesn’t feel how stiff you are. “happy Valentine’s Day.”

his brows furrow slightly, like he notices something’s off, but then he grins again. “come on, I can’t wait to see what you’ve planned.”

you nod, trying to shake the uneasy feeling.

the first part of the date goes mostly as planned. you walk through Hogsmeade, stopping by Honeydukes for sweets, sharing a Butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks. Sirius makes jokes, teases you, does all the little things that normally make you melt. and you try—you really try—to enjoy it.

but your mind won’t stop replaying the conversation from earlier.

at some point, Sirius notices.

“alright, what’s going on?” he asks suddenly as you walk down the street.

your stomach clenches. “what do you mean?”

he gives you a look. “you’re quiet. you keep spacing out. and, frankly, love, you look like you’re trying very hard to pretend everything’s fine.”

you should have known you couldn’t fool him.

you take a breath, suddenly feeling like your heart is in your throat. “Sirius, can I ask you something?”

his expression turns more serious. “of course.”

you hesitate, and he notices—his hand squeezing yours gently in reassurance.

that only makes it worse.

you take the plunge. “did you… did you ask me out just to piss off your family?”

the second the words leave your mouth, you feel him stiffen beside you.

he doesn’t answer straight away.

and that silence alone tells you everything.

your stomach twists. “so it’s true.”

Sirius’s grip on your hand tightens. “no—well, technically—” he stops himself, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly struggling for words. “love, listen—yeah, maybe in the very beginning it was like that, but—”

you close your eyes. “I knew it.”

“wait, no—you don’t understand. that’s not what this is anymore—”

you pull your hand from his. “how am I supposed to believe that?”

Sirius looks frustrated—desperate, even. “because it’s the truth!”

but you’re tired. tired of wondering if the love he showers you with is just another form of rebellion.

you take a shaky breath. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Sirius goes still. “what?”

your throat burns, but you step back. “I just… I can’t do this, Sirius.”

then you turn, walking away before he can say anything else.

you hear him call your name, but you don’t stop.

you don’t look back.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Neva Play - Lewis Hamilton

Part of 1K Jukebox Event

song: Neva Play - Meghan Thee Stallion

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

genre: fluff with hints of angst - and a lot of sass (thanks anon who requested this one, it was perfect)

wordcount: +1k

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

I expected the usual whispers when I stepped into the media pen. I’ve been around long enough to know how it goes when things don’t go Lewis’s way.

But this time, the way they were talking, like the man hadn’t just won races less than six months ago—it had got to me.

“Maybe he’s lost it. Can’t keep up with the young ones anymore.”

One journalist snorted behind me, speaking loud enough that it was clearly meant to be overheard. I pretended not to listen, but I couldn’t help the way my jaw clenched.

He’d barely made it two laps today before the car gave out, but they were acting like it was all on him. As if it wasn’t obvious that the supposed updates were off—especially considering his teammate had spun out in the same damn place in quali.

These people knew the car was at fault, knew the team had struggled all weekend, hell the past 5 races at least, but still, they chose to spin the narrative.

Then there were the Ferrari fans—louder than ever, celebrating their 1-2 finish as if that somehow proved Lewis wouldn’t be good enough for a seat anymore.

One of the older reporters made some comment about “when it’s time to hang up the helmet,” and I had to physically restrain myself from whipping around to confront him. It was all I could do honestly to keep a straight face through my interviews, nodding politely, smiling like I didn’t want to snap back at every smug comment.

By the time I wrapped up for the day, I had enough frustration boiling under the surface to fuel a dozen Instagram stories. But I kept it to one. Just enough to remind people who they were talking about.

And as I walked into Lewis’s hotel suite, the laughter hit me before anything else in the hall. I could hear the guys in the living area, probably already half a bottle deep into their pre-party drinks.

I took a second to breathe, let the tension roll off my shoulders. I didn’t need to bring that frustration in here.

When I finally stepped inside, I saw Miles perched on the arm of a chair, waving a drink around as he gestured wildly in conversation with the others. He caught sight of me the moment I entered, and that mischievous grin immediately spread across his face.

“Look who finally showed up!” he called, dramatically waving his arms as if I’d been missing for hours. “Your man’s honor here needs some more defending. That Instagram story? Had me weirded out.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched up in a grin. “Just correcting a few people.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” He laughed, standing up to give me a little side hug as I tossed my jacket onto the nearest chair. “I could’ve sworn you were about to hunt some of these journalists down in that paddock. Had me thinking you were ready to throw hands.”

“Who says I wasn’t?” I teased, shaking my head as I stepped further into the room.

Miles’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Everyone hear that? She doesn’t play about her man.”

The room erupted into playful “ooohs” and knowing glances, but I barely paid them any mind. I was too focused on Lewis, who had been standing by the window, adjusting his watch.

He glanced up, catching my eye, and I could tell by the way his mouth twitched that he was holding back a smile. He shook his head, clearly amused.

“You really don’t have to do that” he said, his voice calm, but there was a warmth in there. “I’m used to that bs.”

Of course he was. Lewis was the king of shrugging off comments that would crush lesser men.

But me? I wasn’t about to let people drag his name without at least saying something.

I tilted my head, my arms crossing in front of me. “I’mma keep doing it” I said, shrugging like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Before anyone could chime in with another quip, I gave the room a little wave. “Alright, I’m going to get ready. Try not to burn the place down in the meanwhile.”

As I headed for the bedroom, I could still hear Miles behind me. “If I were you Lewis, I’d be feeling pretty damn lucky. You’ve got yourself a personal bodyguard.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help but chuckle under my breath. Miles’s brand of teasing always hit just the right note. And I wasn’t mad about it. Hell, it felt good to have someone see how much I cared, even if they were poking fun at me for it.

Once in the bedroom, I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, letting the quiet wrap around me. The adrenaline from earlier was starting to fade, and I could feel the edges of fatigue creeping in

I had just unzipped my jeans when I heard the door creak open behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I could feel his presence fill the room before he even spoke.

Lewis stepped in, closing the door softly behind him, and I caught his reflection in the mirror as he approached. His eyes were on me, intense as ever, no matter how many times I’d seen them.

I started to turn around, but before I could, his hands found my waist, pulling me gently but firmly against him. His breath was warm against my neck, and his lips brushed the skin there.

“Protectiveness looks good on you” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard.

I tilted my head, catching his eyes in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at my lips. “Someone’s got to keep those idiots in line” I teased, my voice light despite the tension in the air between us.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my skin. “And that someone has to be you?”

I turned in his arms, resting my hands against his chest, my fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. “Duh” I said, my tone soft but teasing. “You’ve got enough to deal with that thing you call a car. Let me handle these poor excuses of journalists.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You don’t have to fight these battles for me, you know. That is also your workplace.”

I sighed, leaning into him slightly, my head resting against his shoulder. “I want to” I admitted. “I’m not going to sit back and let people talk. Not when it comes to you.”

He pulled back just enough to tilt my chin up, making me meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, but there was a warmth in them that made my heart melt a little. “They’re lucky you’re not exclusive to f1”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking up at him. “Oh, I know. But you are lucky I’m around enough to set people straight.”

He laughed then; a deep, genuine laugh that made me smile in return. “Lucky, huh?”

“Very” I said, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “Now, are you going to let me finish getting ready, or are you planning to keep me here?”

He smirked, his hands still resting on my waist. “Now that you mention it…”

I gave him a playful shove, rolling my eyes. “Out. You’re distracting me.”

He stepped back, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright. I’ll go. But don’t take too long, okay?”

“I’ll be out in fifteen, just need a shower.” I promised, watching him as he backed toward the door, still grinning at me like he had some secret he wasn’t telling me.

Just before he slipped out of the room, he paused, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “For the record” he said, his voice soft but serious, “I appreciate what you did today.”

I met his eyes, my heart swelling just a little at the sincerity in his voice. And just as Lewis lingered there in the doorway, Miles’s voice carried through the suite, loud and as ever.

“Hey, Lewis! Let her go get ready, man. She’s not running away, you know?”

I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face as Lewis rolled his eyes. He gave a little shake of his head before turning back to me, his hand still resting on the doorframe.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” he said, his voice playful.

I stepped closer, smirking up at him. “Surely not if you keep stalling me.”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss my lips. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you go... for now.”

I laughed softly, giving him a gentle nudge. “Good idea.”

Lewis flashed me one last grin as he finally stepped back. As he disappeared down the hall, Miles’s voice echoed again, this time with a laugh. “See? Told you, she’s not going anywhere.”

I smiled to myself, shaking my head as I went back to finish getting ready, my heart feeling lighter than it had all day.

No matter what anyone said, I knew exactly who I was. And so did he.

______________________________________________________________

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[cece693]

hi! loved your pjo first they're amazing. I was wondering if I can request a headcannon of percy x son of aphrodite male reader? probably about how percy wants to ask them out and then them dating. thank you!

Fountain of Love (Percy Jackson x Son of Aphrodite)

Thanks for the request :) It's a little short, but I hope you enjoy it!

tags: nervous Percy, asking out, dating, son of Aphrodite is not only a pretty face but good with a sword, oblivious reader, puppy love

From the first moment Percy stepped foot into Camp Half-Blood, he knew your name—M/N, son of Aphrodite. You were somewhat of a legend at camp, not just for being devastatingly handsome, but also for your skill with a sword.

But you were oblivious as fuck. Even more so than Percy himself, which said a lot. No matter how many heads you turned as you passed by, or how many gifts appeared outside your cabin, you remained unaware of the effect you had on others. For you, the attention never seemed more than friendly admiration, nothing deeper.

Percy, however, was different. From the moment he first spent time with you, sitting by the lake, talking about sword techniques, and exchanging stories of battle until the dinner horn blew, he knew one thing—you were the one. It wasn’t just about how incredible you looked, it was how easy it felt to be around you, the way your smile softened his nerves.

But Percy wasn’t alone in his feelings. Dozens of campers—some Apollo kids, others from various cabins—were also vying for your attention, and Percy knew he wasn’t the only one wanting to ask you out.

Over time, he noticed the competition intensify. A couple of campers, Ares kids, constantly tried to one-up him during sword training, cracking jokes about him in your presence, trying to win your favor. Even the children of Hermes, known for their mischievous pranks, tried to outshine Percy in their own crafty ways. It was like everyone was fighting for their chance to stand out, hoping to catch your eye.

Percy fought through the jealousy and frustration, determined to find the perfect moment to finally ask you out. But every time he gathered his courage, something interrupted him—a monster drill, a sparring match, or another camper cutting him off.

One day, as Percy finally approached you by the campfire, an Ares kid—who clearly had the same idea—stepped in and asked you if you wanted to hang out. Percy clenched his jaw, stepping back in defeat, watching the moment slip away again.

Little did he know, you liked him back. You always had. His easy smile, his sense of humor, the way he seemed so sincere around you—it all made you fall for him in ways you hadn’t expected. But since Percy hadn’t made a move, you assumed maybe he wasn’t interested.

Days passed, and finally, Percy couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t wait for the perfect moment because every moment with you was already perfect. So, after a long training session, where the two of you fought side by side during a particularly difficult capture-the-flag game, Percy found the nerve.

The two of you were covered in dirt and sweat, but it didn’t matter. As you both sat by the lake, cooling off, Percy finally turned to you and blurted it out, “I like you. A lot. And, um, would you maybe want to go out with me? Like, officially?”

You blinked, a bit stunned by his sudden confession, but then you laughed, a soft sound that sent Percy’s heart racing. “I like you too, Percy. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he was speechless. You? Liked him back? He couldn’t believe it.

From that day forward, the two of you were inseparable, and when you became boyfriends, everyone in camp knew it. Percy’s friends teased him relentlessly, but nothing would wipe the dopey grin off his face whenver your name was mentioned.

You and Percy balanced each other perfectly—his brave heart and your calm confidence were an unbeatable pair.

But dating at Camp Half-Blood wasn’t without its challenges. There were moments when Percy’s duties as a hero pulled him away, leaving you to worry. You’d send messages through Iris, waiting anxiously for his return, and there were times when he came back battered from battles that left your heart aching. The other demigods, those who had once vied for your attention, sometimes stirred up trouble out of jealousy, testing the strength of your relationship with snide remarks and rumors.

Still, the two of you always found ways to push through. When Percy felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, you were there to remind him he didn’t have to carry it alone. You comforted him when nightmares from the Titan War resurfaced, holding his hand and promising that, together, you could face anything.

And when your own insecurities came up—doubts about whether Percy could love someone like you, despite the constant attention you received—he reassured you that you were more than enough.

“I chose you,” Percy would say, with that earnest smile that made everything feel okay. “And I’d choose you over and over again.”

No matter what challenges arose—whether it was monsters, the gods’ interference, or the complications of being demigods—the bond you shared only grew stronger. And eventually, when the Great War ended, Percy would drop on one knee and ask you to marry him :)

[thollandsgirl2013]

Hi again! Could you possibly do a tom fic where the reader is Tom's gf but she's not famous or anything and ehe he's on the Jimmy Fallon show promoting bero she's there backstage. Jimmy kindly asks Tom if it would be ok to bring her out for the rest of the interview so tom goes backstage to escort the reader by the hand and Jimmy includes her in the interview

I tried my best. I literally wrote three drafts for this one. Then combined it. Still not so happy with the outcome but it is what it is.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° . •°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . °

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐧

Parings → Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings → none

Summary → Tom taking you on the stage of Jimmy Fallon show.

The backstage green room was cozy and buzzing with quiet activity as you sipped on a cup of tea. The hum of the Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon echoed faintly through the walls, and you couldn’t help but smile watching Tom on the monitor.

He was in his element—charming, quick-witted, and completely at ease. Promoting BERO, his non-alcoholic beer, was something he was clearly passionate about, and it showed in every word he spoke.

“And there he goes,” you murmured to yourself, watching as Tom made the audience laugh again. You’d been with him long enough to know how natural this all was for him, and honestly, it was something you’d grown used to, too.

You adjusted the hem of your simple but elegant outfit, making sure everything was in place. Even though you weren’t famous, you’d walked enough red carpets with Tom to feel comfortable in the spotlight when the occasion called for it.

On the screen, Jimmy grinned at Tom. “Tom, congratulations on BERO! I’ve tried it, and I have to say, it’s really good.”

“Thanks, mate,” Tom said, flashing that boyish smile that made your heart flutter. “It’s been a labor of love. I wanted to create something for everyone to enjoy, and the feedback has been amazing so far.”

Jimmy leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now, I heard from a little birdie that your girlfriend is here backstage tonight?”

Tom’s face lit up at the mention of you. “She is, yeah. She’s been my biggest supporter. She’s been with me every step of the way.”

Jimmy’s grin widened. “Do you think she’d be okay with joining us out here for the rest of the interview?”

Tom laughed, glancing off-camera toward the backstage area, as if he could see you. “Let me go ask her. She’s used to this sort of thing, but I always like to check.”

The audience chuckled as Tom stood and walked offstage. Moments later, the door to the green room opened, and there he was, grinning like a kid at Christmas.

“Hey, darling,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Jimmy wants to bring you out. Feel up to it?”

You tilted your head, amused by the way he asked like you hadn’t done this a dozen times before. “Do I have a choice, or will you just drag me into it like always?”

Tom smirked. “I’d never force you… but I do think the audience would love you. And I’d love to have you out there with me.”

You sighed dramatically but smiled, standing up. “Fine. But only because I don’t trust you to keep any secrets without me.”

He laughed, reaching for your hand. “Fair enough.”

As he led you toward the stage, you squeezed his hand reassuringly. “You really don’t have to check with me every time, you know. I’ve got this.”

“I know,” he said, glancing back at you with a warm smile. “But I like to make sure. Besides, you keep me in line.”

The stage lights were blinding as Tom guided you out, and the audience erupted into cheers. You smiled confidently, giving a small wave as Jimmy stood to greet you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Y/n Y/l/n!” Jimmy announced, shaking your hand. “Welcome! Thanks for joining us.”

“Thanks for having me,” you said, settling onto the couch next to Tom. “He didn’t really give me much of a choice, though.”

The audience laughed, and Jimmy chuckled. “Tom’s persuasive, huh?”

“Very,” you replied, shooting Tom a playful look.

“Oi,” Tom said, feigning indignation. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

Jimmy leaned back with a grin. “So, tell me—what’s it like dating one of the biggest stars in Hollywood? And don’t hold back. We want all the juicy details.”

You laughed, glancing at Tom, who gave you an encouraging nod. “Honestly, it’s not as crazy as people think. Sure, there are red carpets and press tours, but at the end of the day, he’s just Tom. He still leaves his socks everywhere and forgets to replace the toilet paper.”

Jimmy beamed at you. “So, you and Tom have been dating for two years now, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” you confirmed, glancing at Tom, who smiled proudly.

“And you’ve known each other since childhood?”

Tom jumped in, eager to share. “We grew up in the same neighborhood. She used to boss me around when we were kids.”

You shot him a playful look. “Only because you deserved it.”

The audience laughed, and Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Bossing Spider-Man around? That’s impressive.”

The audience roared with laughter, and Tom groaned, running a hand down his face. “Why do I feel like this is going to turn into a roast?”

“Because it probably will,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

Jimmy laughed, clearly enjoying the dynamic. “You two are adorable. So, Tom, does she ever help with your projects? I feel like she’d be the perfect taste tester for BERO.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Tom said, turning to you. “She has better taste than I do, so I always run things by her first. She’s brutally honest, though.”

You shrugged. “I’m just not going to let you release something that isn’t perfect.”

“And that,” Tom said, gesturing to you, “is why I keep her around.”

The rest of the interview was filled with laughter, lighthearted banter, and a few endearing moments that left the audience swooning. By the time it was over, you realized just how much fun you’d had.

As you walked offstage hand-in-hand with Tom, he leaned down to whisper in your ear, “You were amazing, as always.”

You smirked. “Told you I’ve got this.”

Tom chuckled, pulling you close as the noise of the audience faded behind you. “Remind me to bring you to every interview from now on.”

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•

[lovecla]

IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

00.2. how did you and jack meet?

➴ warnings: none!!

➴ word count: 1k

➴ author’s note: mostly sophia’s first nhl concert and how she and jackie boy met. i spent the entire morning working on that Nonsense outro and i am gonna say that im very proud of it lmfao. hope u enjoy!

—♡

THE room looked full.

On the stage, you could feel dozens, hell, hundreds of eyes on you. Shanon had warned you that at least two hundred people were expected but damn.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our most expected guest for tonight, Sophia Montenegro!” A man’s theatrical voice was heard just before the first notes of Nonsense.

You and your team worked really hard to make this happen, because April flew by, really. Coachella was a hit and you got so many jobs out of it, it was crazy. But this was what you were looking forward to the most.

You sat on top of a piano, black dress shining with the lights directed at you. You smiled, feeling anxious and excited and maybe just a little bit nauseous too. There were men, women and children sitting in round tables in front of you, but what really caught your attention was the group of men sitting on the table right in front of the stage, all of them wearing shirts with your face in it. And they were screaming the loudest too.

“‘Think I only want one number in my phone, I might change your contact to ‘don’t leave me alone’.”

Singing for you meant living. It was a necessity, a need. Every time you stepped on a stage, you felt alive, you felt fulfilled. You felt like maybe you were on this planet for a reason, and that reason presented itself whenever the words came out of your mouth during a song.

So you enjoyed yourself, and watched as the other people did the same. Everyone seemed to enjoy the acoustic version of Nonsense— which you had never sung before, by the way— and it was so funny to see grown ass men singing the lyrics like their life depended on it.

“Lookin’ at you got me thinkin’ nonsense. Cartwheels in my stomach when you walk in…”

“Please do the outro!” Someone shouted before the end verse and you giggled. You were already planning on doing it, but you gave the man a thumbs up either way.

“Shanon said I should keep it PG.

So, Father, I might need to be set free.

Because I really want a Devils in me.”

Loud cheers were heard and you smiled, biting your lip.

The rest of the little concert went well, and when you noticed it, you were dancing on the stage with another five players, who had two left feet and were probably a bit drunk too, but it was so much fun. One of them even asked for the mic so he could sing for a while too. You had the time of your life and you really hoped everyone else did too.

When the last song— Espresso— ended, you received a standing ovation. You felt yourself tearing up just a bit, and you closed your eyes, bowing your head.

“Thank you so much, everyone, I had so much fun tonight,” you started, voice wobbly and tired. “I didn’t know you guys were my biggest fans…”

“Nico here went to your concert!” Some guy shouted, pointing at the man— Nico, you suppose— beside him. You laughed, blowing him a kiss. The Nico guy looked like a tomato, face all red and cute, but he was wearing your merch too.

“Well, now I need to change and from what I’ve heard, we’ll have some delicious food and more amazing singers tonight, so please don’t leave!” You said, leaving the stage after another round of applause.

You found Grace in your dressing room, and you both hugged each other, yelling with excitement. “Can you believe this is our life, baby?!” Grace yelled, and you shook your head no. “I can’t either. Anyways. You have to change into a jersey and I have to take pictures of you with it.”

You looked at the jerseys hanging on the wall in front of you and smiled. “Can I have a Nico one, please?”

—♡

AFTER taking pictures with the players and their families— some of them had daughters who loved you as well—, you found yourself near the food table. You were deadass starving and you needed to get your hands on a hot dog before you passed out. Oh, and a drink as well. It was hot there.

“You got the wrong number on your back.”

You heard a playful voice behind you and you would’ve cursed, if you hadn’t had your mouth full of bread. You tried to swallow it all before you actually turned around.

What you saw was… interesting. It was probably one of the youngest guys in there, perhaps even the same age as you, and he had beautiful, blue eyes. He was wearing a white jacket and a Devils cap, so he was definitely one of the players on the team.

“Wrong number?” You asked, looking at your jersey again, the #13 plastered on your arms and back.

“Yeah. Should be wearing an eighty-six jersey instead.” He smirked.

“Let me guess. That’s your number?”

“That’s the best number. A girl like you shouldn’t be wearing anything less.”

You ignored the compliment (was it even a compliment?) and plastered a smirk on your face, too.

“I think I’m fine with Nico’s number on me. Since he’s the captain and all,” you shrugged. “He also went to my concert so that proves he is the best.”

“Sweetheart, you seriously need someone to show you what best means,” he stepped closer and suddenly your heart was racing all over again. “I happen to be the right person for it.”

“Right person?” You chuckled. “Got your hopes way too high, don’t you, lover boy?”

He shrugged, the confident smirk never leaving his face.

“Just an offer. You did say you wanted a Devils inside you.”

You audibly scoffed. This handsome ass man, with the tiniest bit of an accent and a huge lot of an attitude had some balls.

But then again. Last time you had sex with someone was a year ago, with your ridiculous ex-boyfriend, Harris. You were feeling pretty needy, but with all the work and energy you had to put into your performances, you just didn’t find the time to deal with other dipshits.

At least this one looks like he knows here your clit is.

You stepped closer, noticing how you tilted your head up so you could look into his eyes.

“Is the offer still up?”

He smiled, cocking his head to the side.

“For you, doll? It will always be.”

[evanpeterswhoresblog]

A Different Kind of High

Tate Langdon x f!reader

warnings: use of marijuana, smut, p in v, unprotected, slight fingering, lose of virginity, slight innocence kink? lmk if there’s any others!!!

summary: you died a virgin, but that doesn’t mean you need to be one as a ghost…

word count: 1.9k

~~~

“I stole some weed from the newbies, you want some?” Tate asks as he hops up on what used to be your bed.

You’ve been dead for only a few months, living in the imfamous Murder House for a year prior. It was strange being dead, seeing people pass by on the street everyday knowing that’ll never be you again. You suppose this was what you deserved, after all you committed suicide. But never during your life did you think this was what being dead would be like. Trapped in a house with a dozen other ghosts for eternity.

Tate has been your friend since before you died, of course you didn’t know he was a ghost until you joined him on the other side. He’s charming, very down to Earth. You really don’t know much about him, even now. You’ve heard whispers about him being crazy, and you believe it. Sometimes through the night you hear his screams, his murderous laughter. It doesn’t bother you though. You’re already dead, what’s the worst he could do?

“I’ve never smoked before,” you reply.

He chuckles. “Are you serious?”

You turn red. “You saw my parents, they never let me do anything. When I used to go out they’d make me be back by nine. Even on weekends. I always figured they’d know so I didn’t bother.”

“At least tell me you’ve drank.” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping at the face Tate makes. “Have you done anything?”

“I kissed a boy when I was twelve,” you answer honestly.

“Was that your only kiss?”

“Yeah…” You mumble.

“Wow, I can’t believe you’re this innocent, I always thought girls with strict parents did the dirtiest things,” he replies. He grabs the baggie of weed out of his pocket and holds it up. “You’re going to try this, and you’re going to love it.”

You don’t object, and instead watch as Tate begins to role a joint. He does it effortlessly, he’s done it many times before. You know from previous conversations that he’s done drugs much stronger than weed, the main one being cocaine. You had asked him how it felt to do it, to be alive and on a drug so strong. He told you it felt like he needed to run a mile while he was high. He also made you promise to do it with him one day.

When he finishes rolling the joint he offers it to you. “You want the first hit?”

“Fuck it, yeah,” you say.

He gives you a smile that makes butterflies swirl in your stomach. Though the two of you are only friends, you can’t deny how attractive Tate is. Even though everythings only been platonic, sometimes with certain looks and phrases, he makes you feel some special type of way.

You take the joint inbetween your lips, your eyes locked on Tate. He grabs a lighter and lifts it to the other end of the joint.

“I’d usually say take a small hit, but usually it takes a little more to get us high so take as much as you think is necessary,” he explains before lighting the end.

You inhale deeply, the smoke it hot and you know if you were alive it would burn your lungs completely. Thankfully though, it only stings a little. After a few seconds Tate takes it from your lips and you exhale slowly, watching as he repeats your actions. You lean back against the pillows, you feel a little something.

“How long does it usually take to get high?” You ask.

“I dunno a few minutes I guess, why? Do you feel it?”

Your head feels light and the room looks brighter. “I think so, I feel… lighter.”

“Oh yeah, you’re high,” he replies with a laugh.

He lays beside you on the bed, both of you staring at the ceiling in silence. You hear him take a few more puffs of the joint, wondering how he does’t feel anything yet. Your whole body feels electrified, every muscle alive and thriving. You almost feel like how you did before you died, almost. It makes you smile.

“Why did I never try this before…” you mumble, a small laugh leaving your lips. “Fuck I feel good.”

“I know right, it’s pretty great.”

You turn your head and stare at him. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He meets your gaze. “Of course.”

You don’t know where the sudden burst of honesty comes from. Usually, you’re embarrassed to talk about anything you did or more specifically didn’t do in your life. However, as you stare into Tate’s dark eyes you feel the urge to tell him every little detail about you.

“I died a virgin,” you whisper. “Like I never even got fingered or anything.”

You stare at each other for another few seconds before you both burst out into laughter. You don’t know why it’s so funny, but it is. You feel amazing, like you’re on top of the world. But you also feel like every word that comes out of your mouth is hilarious.

“I shouldn’t have said that I’m sorry,” you say as the laughter dies down. “I’m so stupid.”

“Hey, you aren’t stupid. I know a few other ghosts died virgins, like the nurses,” he replies, that stupid smirk on his face.

“God don’t say that!” You exclaim. “At least they chose to die virgins, I tried to hard to be fucked before I died but every time I started to become interested in someone my stupid parents ruined it.”

Tate props his head up on his hand so he’s now looking down at you. “Well on the brightside your parents are gone now so you can fuck anyone you want.”

“Yeah but the options aren’t exactly ideal. There’s really only Travis, but he’d definitely not be the best option for a first time,” you laugh.

“I’m here too you know.”

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“You know what I mean,” Tate answers, his voice quieter than before.

Your laughter stops at his words, and you meet his eyes once again. This time, you can sense something lingering behind his eyes, something you haven’t ever noticed before. You smile, trying to ease the tension that’s filled the room. He’s probably just messing with you. However, he doesn’t smile back at you, his expression stays the same.

You’re in disbelief. Is this real? Is your best friend really telling you he’d take your virginity? This can’t be real, you think. Maybe it’s just because of the weed, maybe it’s doing something to your head. You can’t deny the butterflies that form in your stomach at the thought of it though. Tate would be a good first. He’s experienced, but not with too many people. You find yourself suddenly imaging it, how it would feel, sharing that experience with someone you truly enjoy being around. It wouldn’t be so bad, you decide.

“All right,” You say. You kick your shoes off without breaking eye contact. “Is it going to hurt?”

He smirks and follows your actions. “It usually does the first time.”

You smile and start undoing the buttons on your jeans. You know if you hadn’t taken that puff of the joint you’d be selfconcious getting undressed in front of Tate. He watches you carefully as you remove your pants, your shirt, even your bra. It’s silent, but not an awkward silence, more of a comforting silence. You only look away from him as you slowly pull your panties off and throw them into the newly formed pile of your clothes.

It’s your turn to watch now. Your eyes trail up and down Tate’s body as he slowly undresses. He’s so beautiful, his body is perfect. You can’t stop yourself from reaching over and running your fingertips over the toned muscles of his abdomen. Your eyes meet once again and you almost shiver at how full his eyes have become with lust.

Quickly, he leans his head down and connects your lips to his. The kiss is slow at first, like you’re treading the water. But as you start to understand how it works, you move your lips against his, following his motions. The soft gentle kiss becomes full of passion. You twirl your fingers in his soft blond curls, loving the way his breathing gets heavier as you do so.

He moves on top of you, hit body fitting between your legs swiftly. Your body feels like it’s on fire, your skin feels like it needs to be touched. Tate rests one of his hands beside your head and the other begins to slide down your chest, your stomach, till it reaches the place it was searching for. You feel him smile into the kiss.

“So excited already…” he mumbles.

His fingers run between your folds, collecting the wetness that’s already begun to drip out of you. He circles them on your clit for a few minutes, making you moan from the new but amazing feeling. After that he slides his pointer finger down to your entrance.

“Is this okay?” He asks.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you?” He chuckles. He begins to slowly push his finger inside you and you grab his free arm.

“Thank you for doing this,” you clarify.

“I like how innocent you are, but I can’t lie I’ve always dreamt of being the one to rip that innocence away,” he whispers.

Before you can reply he lowers his head to your neck and begins to leave sloppy kisses along your skin. You can’t believe this is really happening. Once his finger is fully inside you, he starts to thrust it in and out at a slow pace. You moan, your back arching off the matress. He continues this for a few minutes before adding a second, preparing you perfectly for what’s going to come next.

He kisses down your chest until he’s at your breasts. He sucks and licks your nipples, it feels amazing. You can’t take it any longer, you need him. You grab his chin and connect your lips. He kisses you harder than before, biting and sucking your tongue into his mouth. You love it. You can’t get enough of it.

“I’m ready Tate,” you say breathlessly as your lips part. “I want to do it.”

“All right.” He pulls his fingers out of you and you watch him position his hard dick on your entrance. He looks down at you, brushing a piece of hair away from your face. “If it hurts to bad just tell me and I’ll stop okay?”

You nod, and before you can say anything else he starts to move. It hurts, but not too bad. Tate kisses you as he does this, it makes the pain more bearable. You wrap one of your hands around his back, your nails slowly dragging across the skin of Tate’s back. He only kisses you harder. His thrusts are slow, but your thighs still clench around his hips.

After a few minutes he asks if he can go faster, you tell him yes. The pain slowly morphed into a small pleasure that you enjoy. You continue to claw at his back, even more as his pace inscreases. You’re out of breath, the only sounds in the room being your moans along with Tate’s heavy breathing. It’s pure bliss.

The end comes faster than you want, but you don’t mind. You love the way Tate whispers your name as he cums, and how strongly his dick pulses inside you. You hold him close after it’s over, his skin against yours makes you feel alive again.

“Was it okay?” he asks as he lays on you.

“It was perfect,” you answer.

And so it was.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Little witch||lance stroll x fem!reader

Word count 895

A/n — this was one of my first requests on my old blog I doubt the OG requester is around anymore but it holds a special place in my heart.

If you were to ask Lance Stroll what he thought of his girlfriend, he’d say the usual things any man deeply in love would say. He’d describe how kind, funny, and beautiful you were. How you made every bad day better with just a smile or a hug. But if you pressed him, he might admit there was something different about you, something almost otherworldly.

Take, for instance, how you always seemed to know things before they happened. You’d casually predict the weather—right down to the minute the rain would start—or tell him, “Be careful today,” with that knowing look in your eyes, moments before he’d trip on a curb or bang his elbow in the garage. One time, you’d even warned him, “Watch out for your wrist, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to that, would we?” Two weeks later, during a bike ride, he’d broken it.

He didn’t think much of it at first. Maybe you were just really observant. But when he mentioned it to Mick Schumacher, Mick had raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Maybe she’s a witch, Lance. Who knows?”

Lance had laughed it off at the time, brushing aside the comment. There was no way you could be a witch… right?

Still, certain things kept nagging at the back of his mind. Like how your black cat, Midnight, never left your side, trailing you from room to room like a shadow. Or how, every full moon, you’d gather up your crystals, arrange them meticulously on the windowsill, and let them soak in the moonlight. Then there was the jar of water you’d set out alongside them.

“What’s all this for, again?” Lance had asked one night, leaning against the counter as he watched you work.

“It’s for cleansing and protection,” you’d explained, holding up a chunk of amethyst with a proud smile. “You charge the crystals under the moonlight, and the water absorbs the moon’s energy. It’s called moon water—it’s useful for rituals or just for good vibes.”

He’d nodded, pretending to understand, though half of it went over his head. You were so passionate about it, and he loved the way your face lit up when you talked about these things. At the time, he chalked it up to a quirky hobby. But there was always a voice in the back of his mind whispering that there was something more to it.

That voice got louder when he discovered you could read and speak archaic Latin.

“When did you even learn Latin?” he’d asked, staring at you in disbelief after you effortlessly translated an inscription on a random plaque during a museum visit.

You’d shrugged. “I learned it when I was younger. It’s fascinating, really.”

Things started clicking into place a few weeks later when you visited your parents’ house. Over tea, your mom mentioned your family’s Celtic roots—Scottish on her side, Irish on your dad’s—and casually brought up how the women in your family were known for their “gifts.”

“Special abilities,” your mom had said with a wink.

That night, while lying in bed, Lance couldn’t shake the feeling that Mick’s joke hadn’t been a joke after all. Could you actually be a witch?

A week later, the question finally burst out of him during a cozy night in. You were both snuggled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between you, half-watching a rom-com you’d seen a dozen times before.

“Are you a witch?” Lance asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

You sat up, startled, and turned to face him. “What?”

“I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admitted, looking at you intently. “You do things that… normal people can’t. You know things before they happen. Midnight follows you like he’s your furry little bodyguard. And you have all those crystals and jars of moon water. So… are you a witch? You can tell me, you know.”

For a moment, you stared at him, your lips twitching as if trying to hold back a smile. Then you laughed. “Wow. Took you long enough to figure it out.”

“What?” Lance sat up straighter, frowning. “Wait, you mean… you are a witch?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, leaning back against the cushions.

“Seriously?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Hang on, how long have I been dating a witch and didn’t know?”

You glanced over your shoulder with a teasing smile. “Lance, I once dropped my spell book, and you picked it up. You even handed it back to me, saying, ‘Cool book,’ before walking off.”

He blinked. “Oh.” You burst out laughing at his stunned expression.

“Well, now I feel stupid,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, patting his leg reassuringly.

“Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have a wand?”

“Yeah, I have a wand,” you replied offhandedly.

“Wait, really? Like, a real magic wand?”

“No, Lance,” you said, laughing again. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh. Right.” He paused, still processing everything. “So… are you going to hex me if I annoy you?”

You gave him a sly smile. “Guess you’ll have to behave and find out.” For the rest of the evening, Lance couldn’t stop staring at you, equal parts amazed and amused. Dating a witch wasn’t something he’d ever expected—but then again, you’d always been full of surprises. And, truthfully, he wouldn’t have it any other way.