#On Wednesday I can start writing more again

[newtness532]

6.500 words and if you add all the labels from the images and tables that has to be at least 7000 which is nearly half so if you really think about it we're basically done 🤡

[orcelito]

genuinely tho me jumping right into reading volume 9 of trimax and then volume 10 (and then most of the rest of the manga) on the night before i had a presentation at 9:30 am (that was entirely not prepared) was literally one of the most unhinged decisions ive ever made

this is what a hyperfixation does to a person

[hanllucination]

keep me. bang chan (18+)

Chan comes back like clockwork, like muscle memory, like something inevitable. But routine doesn’t mean permanence. And you’re starting to wonder if he only ever stays long enough to remember what it feels like to leave.

PAIRING. bang chan / f! reader GENRE. smut, angst, break up fic WORD COUNT. 8.8k WARNINGS. strong language, subtly toxic relationships, explicit sexual content: emotional sex, light d/s dynamics, fingering, oral sex (m! receiving), a little face fucking, unprotected sex (it’s a long established relationship), a little bit of manhandling, use of petnames (baby, love), dirty talk & praise (good girl), shower sex, color system

NOTES. i’m very excited to share this with you all, it’s the first i’ve written after a very long time ♡ writing this was an emotional rollercoaster lol let me know if i missed any tags or warnings! happy reading ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ

READ ON AO3. / MASTERLIST.

It’s three knocks on your door that finally sink the heartbreak into the pit of your stomach.

Only Chan would do that—knock on your door softly, wait for you to let him in despite being told that the door is unlocked. Despite you leaving it unlocked for him, every time.

I’m free today, he had written in the text. Can I call you? But you had invited him to your apartment instead, and you shouldn’t even have to ask him to come over. Wednesdays were always for you and him.

Silly, you don’t even have to ask, you had told him, a half-empty laugh following after.

You had heard the sound of his breathing for a moment, and with the silence just a hitch away becoming too uncomfortable, too tense, he had said on the other side of the line, right. I know that.

“It’s me,” he knocks on the other side of the door twice more. “Can I come in?”

You stare at the coat hanging on one of the hooks by the door for a moment, feeling a sigh in your chest. You try to hold it in, reaching for the knob instead.

“Of course it’s you,” you tease when the door opens. “Of course you can.”

Chan seems worn out and tired, but he offers you a smile anyway. It’s warm and familiar and… and something else you recognize but can’t begin to think about. He holds his hand up by your ear and tucks your hair behind it.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You nuzzle into his hand, subconsciously stepping forward, further, responding in the same manner, “Hi. I’m cooking dinner for us.”

It’s so easy to fall into step with him. He finds his way into the middle of your apartment, immediately setting down everything in his hands down the old coffee table. You glance at the paper bag (“That’s just some leftover snacks, if you want it!” he says without you needing to ask), crumpled at the top where Chan had held it, his phone beside it. His small pouch rests at the corner of your small couch.

(He sets them down gently, carefully, methodically, in the same way he set down his heart, some years ago, in the middle of the street after a few drinks at a small, snobbish club. I love you. You held onto his arm, seeking warmth. I love you.)

“It smells good,” he sniffs exaggeratedly, walking towards the stove. “What are you cooking?” he asks as he lifts the glass lid, steam wafting through the air and the aroma of the food becoming stronger.

“Just some veggie soup. The temperature’s starting to drop, don’t you think?” you tell him, chuckling to yourself a little. “Are you hungry? It’ll be ready in around ten minutes. Could you wait a little longer? I have some snacks in the fridge, if you want.”

His lips break into a grin, and you think it’s beginning to form a small laugh on his tongue. You rambled again, and years ago you would’ve been embarrassed, covering your mouth in shame. I love the way you talk, he had told you. You don’t have to hold anything back. I hope you can be comfortable with me.

“It’s fine,” he shakes his head, cheeky and teasing. You sigh jokingly, and he puts the lid back onto the pot before turning back to you. “I’m actually less hungry and more—icky? I need to wash up, I mean. S’been a long day.”

“By all means,” you nod, gesturing to the bathroom. It says a lot more than, yes, you can do that. It also says, your clothes have been in the same place they’ve always been. Your toothbrush, the soap you specifically use because your skin is a lot more sensitive than mine, your towels, everything… they’re still here. “Food’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

Chan scratches the back of his head, looking down at his feet before he looks back at you, sheepish. He takes a few steps towards you until his hands reach your shoulders—he does just that, rubbing his thumbs on the exposed skin of your collarbone before tilting his head.

“Help me wash up?”

Your face immediately burns up, lips tensing at the suggestion. He knows you weren’t one to like showering together; it’s cramped, a waste of water, and overall impractical. You’d sometimes join him, sure, but the majority of the time you’d politely decline. Chan respects that. He always does.

There’s something about this suggestion now. Something different, something… greedy. A plea, almost. You think he starts to breathe a little heavier with each passing second of your silence, and his hooded eyes wait for the answer on your face.

You think you need this, too.

You nod at him, quickly closing in the gap and placing a small, brief kiss on his lips. He immediately gets his arms around you, but before he could make anything out of it, you pull away. You don’t know if he realizes it but you feel the way his lips chase yours when you move back. Your chest swells at your realization.

“Ten minutes, Chan,” you tease, placing another kiss on his cheek. “Don’t wanna burn the apartment down.”

“I don’t like the veggies too cooked, though,” he clicks his tongue. “Here.”

He suddenly squats down, pulling you by the back of your thighs before carrying you in his arms. A small squeal leaves you before you could even process a reaction, and you had immediately grabbed onto his shoulders in fear of falling. He buries his nose into the skin of your neck and places his warm lips on it.

“Bang Chan! What the hell,” you scold him, hitting his shoulder with furrowed brows. “Impatient.”

Wriggling your way out of his hold proves no use. He holds onto you so firmly that you could only wrap your arms and legs around him tighter. You slap his back weakly, still startled from him carrying you without warning. He laughs onto your skin and you feel its tickle down your spine, flinching slightly with a laugh of your own. You feel his arms pull you tighter.

“We can do all that we need to do later,” he mumbles. “It can wait.”

There it is again. You hear it. A plea, but only subtle. Smooth in his voice, soft and supple. Like the thumbs that rub the skin on the sides of your thighs. He hikes you higher up his torso, and another breath leaves at the sudden little movement. You’re so tempted to give in.

“No. We eat first, then we wash up,” you insist, words leaving no room for argument. You hear a soft whine so you steady yourself with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. “Okay?”

He presses his lips on yours in response, deep and heavy. Its plushness moves against yours, and suddenly you’re down in your worn out barstool, back in the kitchen. The metal of the old seat creaks and Chan pulls away from you, breathless.

“Stay there, I’ll take care of this,” he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know,” Chan starts, as if you just know. “Cooking for me. You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t turn to you when he says it. The clicks of the stove struggling to reignite its flames resound and deep within your chest you think you also hear the same. Click click click. He grabs the wooden spoon just beside the sink and he stirs the soup, lifting it up once just to let the liquid dribble back down into the pot. You rest your cheek against your hand, elbow propped on the countertop.

You stare at his back and wonder how much of its dips and curves you’ve already memorized—how much of it you need to get to know more, the way they move and twitch and tremble under your touch. Beneath his black, slightly tight-fitting shirt, his shoulders visibly loosen up. He grabs two bowls from the cabinets above him and carefully spoons a hearty amount of soup into each.

It doesn’t take long before he sets up your dinner and finds himself on the stool beside yours. Neither of you say a word, tension still warm in the air, comforting—but toeing the line of awkward. The skin of his thigh brushes against yours sometimes, and you’re almost tempted to ask if it’s intentional. If he means it.

Contrary to his earlier impatience, Chan takes his time eating. He smiles when he catches you looking, and you laugh when he hums in satisfaction of a pleasant, albeit simple, dinner. The anticipation is prickling the skin on your shoulders, but you can’t seem to say a word. Chan finishes with a kiss on your cheek and a quiet mumble of another ‘thank you’ before he gathers the dishes to clean up.

It’s awful, thinking about this. You have no idea what’s on his mind right now, and you’re so close to breaking. This won’t do. You have to say something, or he has to say something. What was that all about earlier? What happened? Is he mad? Is he disappointed? What should you—

“Baby,” he calls gently, snapping you out of it—whatever it was. A detachment from the moment, from reality? A fear, maybe. Overthinking.

You barely realize that he’s in front of you again, standing between your knees, dishes forgotten in the sink. He brings a hand to your head and rubs a finger between your brows.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” he clicks his tongue. Then he presses a firm kiss on where his touch lingered. “I’m sorry. We’re fine. You can get in the shower and I’ll be with you in a second, hm?”

No words come out of your mouth. You shudder at the implication, at the tone of his want.

Maybe you’re thinking too much about this. Maybe it’s just another Wednesday of yours, just another time he’s here. A sharing of each other’s company in the quiet routine you’ve fallen into, built over the years. So you nod at him before padding over to your bathroom.

One by one, you strip off your clothes. It doesn’t take long; you’re in your most comfortable, anyway, since your plans were to just stay home. You never needed to impress Chan either. Whenever your fingers brush against your skin, a shiver crawls beneath your bones. There is warmth pooling in your chest—a desire that would burn you if it boils over.

But something feels… different. Like it’s all building to something neither of you is ready to name. The shower opens with a stutter and it’s hot the moment it touches your skin. You don’t mind, though—but Chan will, and you know that. You twist the tap ever so slightly, knowing exactly where it should turn for it to be warm enough to his liking. The temperature should calm you, but it doesn’t.

The way the water thrums against your skin, the tiled floor, the glass door… it’s all too much. It irks you—feeling every drop, reminded of his touch: gentle, deliberate, lingering. Then, you hear your blood pulsating in your ears. You tilt your head back, letting the water cascade over your face. It should calm you, but it doesn’t.

The door creaks open and you feel a slight breeze of chill from behind you, like a wind passing, carrying with it an odd mix of anticipation and vulnerability. It’s not like Chan is trying to be quiet. He knows you’d expect him. He asked for you to be there. There’s a moment of stillness, save for the water pattering around you. Then, the faint rustling of clothes, a slow whistle of fabric sliding down the floor. Your pulse quickens.

It doesn’t take long before you feel him behind you, close enough to stir the air around but not yet touching you. You don’t turn to look at him—your breath catches as if doing so would make the moment too real, too raw, like everything would cease to exist with one wrong move. But you feel him. His warmth is unmistakable, radiating through the steam, undeniable and grounding, a stark contrast to the chill that had briefly brushed your spine. It couldn’t be anything or anyone else. It’s him, always him, cutting through the steam like sunlight through fog.

And maybe that’s how his presence has always been, how he really is: sun, sunlight, sunshine. A warmth you can’t help but lean into, even when it burns.

Chan is the first to break the silence. “Hi,” he simply says before he kisses the skin where your neck and shoulder meet. His hands soon follow, soothing the soreness of your muscles with a gentle massage. You whimper quietly.

“Hi,” you manage to respond moments after.

Chan rests his forehead on the back of your head, stopping you from turning around when you make that first little step. He pulls you closer to his body, your back flush against his chest and you feel it heave in along with his breathing. With every exhale through his nose the air grows heavier.

“Don’t,” he breathes. “Stay there. I’ll wash you.”

“I want to see you, though,” you try to complain, but the words fall weak on your tongue. “Chan?”

“Later.”

You feel him stretch his arm to the side, and your peripheral catches his hand reaching for the bottle of liquid on the small shelf mounted in the corner of the shower, just a bit of an arm away from your head. You lean innocently onto him but his breath hitches, taking you a bit by surprise.

As if that would stop you.

You continue to rub your behind onto him under the guise of needing warmth and seeking softness, and his breathing falters with each minute. He rubs his hands together, soapy and slippery, before rubbing it all along your body in seemingly random but nonetheless tender patterns. He starts with your arms, then he moves to your shoulders, your back, your legs, from back to front—leaning forward to reach further, then to your waist. His hand inches to your center, where you need it most, and you could almost feel the tease in his touch. He reaches for another pump of soap before he brushes his fingers onto the skin of your abdomen. It twitches with the gasp you couldn’t catch before it’s out of your mouth, and you suddenly jolt your hips back towards his, a movement you couldn’t control.

And Chan whimpers. It’s low and hushed, almost too quiet if his lips weren’t all up in your ear. The moment halts and the warmth that pooled in your chest moves down and you like it. So you do it again, pressing back into his body further. And again, wiggling until his cock catches against your lower back. And again, feeling him holding himself back.

Then he grips your arms to steady you. That doesn’t stop his hardness from pushing against the dip of your lower spine. Then you whimper. He still keeps you turned away from him.

“Stop moving,” he grits. “You’re so needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t even try to deny that. How could you, when he moves his right forearm to wrap around your chest, his left hand just below your abdomen. Close, but not enough. He toys with the skin that it frustrates you. It’s so close. You try to stand on your tiptoes, moving yourself closer to where you need his hand to be but he holds you with his arm firmly enough to keep you in place. His hand leaves your abdomen to catch the water from the shower, washing off the soap.

“I said,” he whispers into your ear, tone rough, “stop moving.”

Then he finally, finally touches you. His finger traces your slit lightly, the stroke almost too subtle to feel. Your legs immediately draw close together, and Chan supports you when you almost lose balance. He sighs in your ear, a short, small laugh following the prod of his finger into your core.

In a desperate attempt to stop his teasing, you could only cry out his name. “Chan,” your voice shakes, and you hold onto the arm around your chest in an attempt to ground yourself, to keep yourself together. “Please.”

“Just a little more, my love,” he starts, still moving a single finger—God fucking damn it, only a single one—up and down your folds. “And I’ll give you what you want.”

Your chest quivers with deep, uneven breaths. You hold out as best as you can, keeping your desire from bursting and it burns you. Please. There is only a word in your head, clouded and hazy. Like a mantra, a chant. Please. Please.

“So good,” Chan praises, and you swear you could hear the smile in his voice which only sharpens the greed clawing at your core. Desperate to feel more, to take more.

But between you and him, it’s not your job to take more. That’s Chan’s. That’s him, since the beginning.

So he takes.

He pushes a finger into you and right then and there you feel that you could just give everything you could ever offer for his taking. It feels as if he belongs there, as if you are shaped for nothing but his touch. He pulls his finger out a bit before pushing it back deeper, into a place you’ve never reached for the past month on your own, or the past year, or ever.

Chan finds a steady pace, slow and deliberate strokes exploring your wetness. Still only a single finger, and you are so tempted to curse him out, to demand more—but you know how patience drives pleasure. There is no choice but to wait. He recognizes it and he whispers another praise in your ear, “You are doing so good, baby.”

You feel another finger teasing your sensitive bud, and not long after there are two fingers parting your slick folds with practiced ease. Your knees buckle in surrender to the pleasure. It feels so hot, as if each movement fans the flames in your core and with every touch Chan leaves trails of pleasure. You’re almost gasping, like you’re running out of breath.

It’s not your job to take more, but this is something only Chan could give. He is giving it to you right now. What else are you supposed to do but take it?

You move your hand from his forearm around your chest to the nape of his neck clumsily. He shifts slightly, letting go of your torso and gripping your thigh to hold it up and oh. Your grasp falters and his fingers remain relentless in giving you the rhythm your body demands. He curls them inside you and you almost choke.

Despite still having your back flushed to his chest, you crane your neck to at least feel his lips against your cheeks. Soft moans are hovering at the edge of your mouth, cries on the verge of slipping out. You struggle to find your voice, lost among the steam, but you try nonetheless.

“Chan–ah,” your voice wavers with a moan. “Please, Chan… I– kiss. Please, kiss.”

You feels Chan’s body tremble behind you, hips bucking that his cock brushes against the curve of your ass. You whimper, and you let it out freely this time.

“Fuck, you’re so…” Chan falters, fingers erratic in your heat. “How sweet you sound, begging like that.” He presses himself against your back, again and again, a desperate attempt to chase his own pleasure too. His breath is hot against your skin, hovering your jaw. The water from the shower does nothing to regulate the temperature of your body. “I just can’t get enough of you.”

Then he kisses you. It’s a little awkward, with your lips not fully slotting or fitting, your necks turned as much as you comfortably can but none of that matters. It’s all teeth and spit and some water gets into your mouth and none of that matters. He kisses you and he curls his fingers in you and you’re almost at your limit. A moan vibrates in your chest, wanton and needy, then Chan pulls away to let you breathe. As if that helps, as if his lips and tongue moving to your jaw doesn’t leave you breathless and writhing in want.

He pulls your thigh closer to him, opening you up further. A guttural sound leaves you and you would be embarrassed at how dirty it sounds but you’re reaching the highest peak of your desire—the roar of the flames in your core now at its full.

“Chan,” you cry out. “Chan, I’m near—ah… please. I’m cumming, please.”

The air is filled with steam and the sound of water, his skin on your skin, his fingers not stopping. Your hips buck against his hand and it drives deeper. He holds it there and you tremble in his arms. You whimper, again and again and again.

“Good,” he coaxes. “You’re almost there, my love. Come on.”

His voice is heavy and rough. He licks the shell of your ear and it sends you over to the edge. His fingers twist inside you and he just takes, drinking up your cries with his lips just hovering yours.

There is a gradual, methodic way in which he slows his fingers, letting you ride out your high until your lungs find a steadier pace, each breath more controlled. He kisses the top of your head before he gently holds your chin—with the very same hand he used to bring you pleasure—turning your face to his.

How filthy, him rubbing your slickness on you. So filthy, and it’s arousing you. It’s surprising because you just got fingered out of your damn mind and you still want more. You’re still willing to give more.

Chan captures your lips in a soft kiss, biting your lower lip lightly before he pulls away just enough to speak, “You did so well.”

He reaches upward to cup water in his hands, using it to wash your chin and your neck. Then again to wash your abdomen and center. You gasp at the touch, and he whispers an apology immediately.

“I know, I’m sorry. Sensitive, hm? Let me just wash you, okay?”

You nod at him, closing your eyes and choosing to rest your forehead on his shoulder as he rubs you clean. When he finishes with a soft pat to your thigh, your eyes open only to be greeted by the sight of his cock, rock hard and almost flushed red. God. Fuck. You pull back, searching his face for something—anything, whatever it is, and he just offers you a lopsided smile.

“Hmm?” he hums in question, curious about the way your brows furrow. “What is it?”

“You,” you simply say. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He brushes it off like it’s nothing. He has given you pleasure and he has taken your pleasure. You want to do the same to him. He shakes his head, “I swear. It’s fine.”

But he doesn’t stop you when you go down on your knees, facing his cock with a hunger you couldn’t fathom. He caresses your hair, whatever he could reach, but he doesn’t even pull you away. “You don’t have to. We can take this to bed,” he still says.

There’s uncertainty in his voice. A crack, an opening he doesn’t intend. He wants this, too. You know it. Anything you could give, he wants it.

“But I want to.”

And he will take it.

He places a finger under your chin to guide you and raise your head, looking you in the eye. You could almost see yourself in the depths of his gaze, a reflection of something shameless, almost jarring. You couldn’t believe you’re liking this—let alone getting intoxicated in arousal for this. It’s like something changed in him in a blink.

“You do?” Chan laughs, almost mockingly. A shiver runs across the expanse of your shoulders, the sound sending another spark of heat through you. Deeper this time, scorching. “You want my cock that badly, huh? Suck me off ‘til your lips grow tired?”

His finger moves, grazing your skin until it reaches your ear. He tucks your wet hair behind it, just like he did by the apartment door when he arrived earlier. His gaze holds you captive, and that feeling of being exposed, vulnerable, it surges again.

Your breath catches as you nod, unable to form any word. He’s always had that effect on you—making you forget your own control, like you’re just a thing for him to take. In the absence of words, you hold his length with a hand and he inhales sharply at your touch. It doesn’t take much to arouse him; with a few nimble strokes his shaft gets hard again. Perhaps even more so.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, firm but gentle, and pulls you closer.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise, laced with an almost indistinguishable amount of contempt, has you reeling. You lick a bit along his tip, testing the waters. His fingers weave through your hair with a slow sigh. “Show me how much you really want it. Give it to me.”

You press a kiss to the side of his cock, soft at first, as if tasting the moment before plunging in. His body shudders. The saltiness lingers on your tongue as you part your lips wider, slowly taking him into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word barely audible, more an exhale than speech. His hand slightly tightens in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself. You hollow your cheeks, sliding further forward, and the groan that rumbles in his chest sends a thrill through you.

The weight of him is heavy on your tongue, and you let yourself sink into a languid pace, drawing him in, inch by inch, savoring the way his body reacts. His hips jerk, just a little, involuntarily, and you can’t help the slight moan that leaves your throat. The sound and vibration seem to undo him.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Chan grunts, his voice rough around the edges, raw with need. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you—not forcing, but encouraging—as you take him deeper, working with a mix of tongue, lips, and a shit ton of spit.

Water slides down your cheeks and occasionally finds its way to your mouth. Not that you care. You glance up, catching his gaze. A carnal glint is in his stare, and he smiles. Fuck. The sight of him nearly takes your breath away. His jaw falls slack, his lips part, and his eyes lock on you—heavy-lidded and burning with something primal.

The tension in his thighs grow as you continue, a gradual acceleration in the way you take him in. The soft, wet sounds fill the air, almost louder than the water hitting the walls and floors, mingling with his labored breaths and low groans. His thumb brushes your cheek, a fleeting touch that feels oddly tender amidst the heat.

“Just like that,” Chan murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t stop. You’re—perfect.”

You give an experimental hum, letting it thrum in your mouth. Chan whimpers and it’s an absolutely beautiful thing to hear. You hum again, louder this time. Your chest heaves at the limited breathing but Chan is slowly losing his sense of control and it rouses you. There is another pool of warmth in your core, and you’re trying your best to rub your thighs together in your position, hoping to relieve a little bit of your need.

“You’re killing me,” Chan laughs to himself, head thrown back, words thorny with lust. His hands move to your shoulders, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fights the urge to thrust into your mouth. “I won’t last if you keep going like that.” His voice cracks, betraying the thin line of self-control he’s holding onto.

You pull back slightly, just enough to take a breath, and your lips glisten with the evidence of his pleasure. A mischievous smile tugs at your lips and you glance up again, locking eyes with him. The hunger and greed in his gaze sends your mind into a frenzy of heat, something deep and wild, as though you’re caught in the storm of his desire.

“Do you want me to stop then?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, teasing in its softness. There is a scratch in your words.

His lips curl into a grin, but it’s strained, the desperation clear in the way his eyes darken. “Hell no,” he clicks his tongue. “Just–don’t stop. You’re so fucking good at this, baby. You know what to do, right?”

There is no need for words. You nod at him, eager and wanting.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good.” His hand finds its way back to your hair, pulling just enough to keep you in place. His cock lingers on your lips, and you open your mouth wide, waiting for him to push it in. “Hold on tight.”

He waits for you to gain a steady grip on the back of his thighs before he thrusts forward. The tension in his body snaps as you give and give and give. The taste of him, the sound of his labored breaths, the way he tenses under your touch—your lips, your tongue, the wetness in your slit. You give and give and give and he takes and takes and takes.

Just like he did earlier, when he indulged you. Your pleasure laid out, vulnerable and he just takes. Or the past 3 years, with your heart out in the open, unguarded and he just takes.

It all becomes a blur, this moment. He fucks your face so lewdly, desperate to reach his own high. One hand of yours moves downward, to your own clit. You rub in frantic patterns, aroused out of your damn mind.

His movements begin to stutter, thrusts sloppier. You hum in pleasure, of yours and of his, as your fingers move faster on your wet skin. Chan doesn’t even try to stop the filthy sounds rolling off his tongue and you’re sure he is nearing his limit.

He thrusts a few more times before he pushes in deep—reaching farther than he ever had for the past ten minutes of his cock being in your mouth. His tip brushes against the back of your throat and he stays there for a moment. You couldn’t help the obscene moan and Chan’s whole body shudders. His cock throbs in your mouth before he pulls you away, letting his cum release all over your chest.

Your mouth remains open, breathless and trembling. The moment falls heavy between you, and Chan takes a second before he brushes his fingers through your hair and guides you to stand up. He doesn’t say a word, immediately beginning to wash his cum on you. He grabs another pump of soap, letting it bubble in his hands before cleaning you with it.

“Chan,” you begin, the silence getting to you.

“Hm?” he hums simply. He doesn’t stop his hands, but he raises his head to look at you, pupils still blown wide. His breathing is slowly coming down. He offers you a gentle smile before leaning forward to kiss your cheek. “You did so well. I’m sorry if I went a bit rough.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around his waist in an almost embrace. “It’s okay,” you assure him. “I like it.”

“You like it?”

His hands stop and his attention is now fully on you. He raises an eyebrow at your statement, confused. You feel a bit of shame but you continue. “I like it when you… when you just—take.”

Chan stays silent. He doesn’t react, or say a word. It’s hard to read his expression when it’s almost blank, and he continues washing your body until he just says, “Get on the bed and wait for me. Don’t bother putting anything on.”

Then it dawns on you. Whatever you just told him was dangerous. You’re not quite sure how, and to what extent, but something weighs on your chest when he turns the shower off and waits for you to step out. You don’t even need to be told twice.

You take your time drying yourself off with your towel, lingering for a minute on your slit. Still fucking wet. Heat creeps up your face at the realization and you immediately throw the towel into the basket of dirty clothes. There are extra towels, fortunately, stashed inside the small cabinet by your bathroom sink. You hang it up the shower door for Chan to use, not needing to inform him because you know he knows.

Stepping out of the bathroom bare naked lets you feel the temperature change in full. You realize how warm it was when you were in the bathroom with Chan. You shiver, feeling cold—the loss of a warm body, a presence, the slow decrease of arousal.

You walk your way to your bedroom, making sure to keep your feet light. The shower opens and you hear the water pattering again, then suddenly your arousal comes back in full force. Your bed is cool and unmade and you have half the mind to start toying with your pussy again, to feel at least half of what Chan had made you feel with his fingers. But that’s not what you were told to do.

The sound of the shower persists, steady and hushed, a stark contrast to the chaos in your chest. You spend the next minutes staring at the ceiling, waiting. It feels excruciatingly slow. Time doesn’t feel real, when the bathroom is right next door and you still hear Chan in there. You bite your lip, trying to focus on anything but the ache between your legs or the growing weight in your chest. It feels like he’s taking forever, like the space between you is widening with every drop of water hitting the floor.

Your mind betrays you, replaying the way his hands had felt on you, the way his voice dipped when he whispered praises in your ear. You wonder if he’s thinking about this. Thinking about you. You wonder if he regrets it. Or worse—if he doesn’t.

You close your eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grow louder. What does this mean? What are you supposed to feel? The heat of desire clashes violently with the icy grip of doubt, and suddenly you’re not sure which will win.

When the water finally stops, you sit up abruptly, heart pounding as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong. The sound of the door creaking open makes you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You hear his footsteps, soft but deliberate, and then he’s there, standing by the doorway of your bedroom.

Chan doesn’t say anything first, just looks at you, his gaze unreadable. He’s towel-drying his hair, the damp strands sticking to his forehead, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. You can’t look away, even though every part of you feels like you should.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” he says finally, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something in it—something wavering, like he’s waiting for you to tip the balance, unsure if he should pull back or push further.

You manage a weak laugh, though it feels hollow. “Not exactly.”

He steps closer, the tension in the room thickening with every movement. “You okay?” he asks, his tone softer now, almost gentle.

The question lingers in the air and for a moment, you think about lying, about brushing it off like you always do. About giving what he wants to take. But the words are stuck in your throat, you feel. You lean back on the pillows, enough to be comfortable but not fully lying down.

“I don’t know,” you admit, palms up on your thighs. The answer comes out frail and delicate.

Something shifts in his expression—concern, maybe, or guilt. He sets the towel aside, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and sits beside you on the bed. His hand hovers for a moment before he places it on your knee, his touch warm and grounding.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you hate how earnest he sounds, how much you want to believe that he cares.

You don’t doubt that he cares a little bit. Not as much as you do about him, though. Not as much as he thinks he does, nor as much as he did before, in the middle of the street. I love you, he said then.

“This isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

Such weight hanging heavy in the air feels suffocating. It feels like you have to grasp for air. For a moment, he looks like he might say something, but he closes his mouth, jaw tightening, and you choke.

It’s unbelievable, really. After all that, he just kisses you. His lips are on yours without warning and you melt into his arms. The kiss is careful at first, tentative, like he’s trying to find the words he can’t say in the press of his lips. But it’s not enough—not for you, not for what’s bubbling up inside you. Your hands grip his shoulders, turning your torso to him for a more comfortable position. You pull him closer, as if proximity could mend this. His hands move up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

He guides you to sit on his lap, and you feel his hardness on your bum again. You swallow a sob back and Chan pulls away in surprise.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss but keeping his forehead pressed to yours. His voice is shaky, not like the teasing confidence from before. “Talk to me. Please.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper. “Not without…” Your voice trails off, but he seems to understand.

He presses, though. “Without what?” His tone is urgent yet gentle, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“Without losing you.”

Your body betrays you as you feel the heat back in your abdomen. It’s a filthy mix of hunger and misery. It boils down into something you’re all too familiar with: desperation. You roll your hips onto him and he whines. You harshly wipe away your tears with the back of your hands before pushing Chan’s chest down onto the bed. He seems taken aback, hesitant with the way he pulls his hands away. You had to grab it yourself, place it on your hips for him to hold onto.

“Make me feel good, Chan,” you plead. Another roll of your hips has you keening, his tip catching just by your entrance. “Please. Take me. Take everything that I am, I will give it to you.”

His eyes meet yours, searching, as if he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. You lean forward to let your hands touch his back, taking your time to go over every dip and curve. Then he nods, his hands moving to slide under your thighs and pulling you closer before flipping you over. He lays you down on the bed, and his gaze roams every bit of your face before he dips to kiss you again, until there is no more space left between you.

What follows isn’t rushed or frantic. It’s deliberate, every touch, every kiss, every movement laden with meaning. It’s like he’s trying to piece together what’s been fractured, even if it’s just for a fleeting moment. A hand slips between your bodies until it reaches your pussy once again. He feels your slick, not needing to prod as much as he did earlier.

Then he leans away, stroking his cock a few times, his head thrown back with the contact. It doesn’t take long before he lines it up on your entrance, and he moves down, almost putting his whole weight on you.

It’s raw, it’s tender, it’s everything you’ve been longing for and everything you know will never last. Not anymore. Funny it took you three long years to feel this. Funny it would be the first and last you’ll ever get this from him.

There is no resistance when he thrusts inside you, deep and slow and whole. He stays put for a minute before you tap his back, letting him know you want him to move—you need him to move. He doesn’t deny you of that, so he pulls back until only the tip lingers inside you before pushing in again heavily.

A visceral sound leaves your lips as your jaw slackens. Chan continues his pace, growing faster with each passing minute and he keeps whimpering in your ear that it sends your mind into haywire. You’re not quite sure how to handle the crashing wave of lust your body is being washed over so the best you could do is hold onto him, fingers gripping the flesh of his back tight enough to feel hot. He moans louder.

Whether it takes thirteen minutes or three years doesn’t matter. It all comes down to the warm tears you feel on your jaw, and you’re not even sure if it’s still yours or if it’s already his. Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, pulling him back to your lips. This time, the kiss isn’t soft or tentative—it’s consuming. It’s every unsaid word, every broken promise, every ounce of love that lingers between you.

He withdraws, lips finding your ear instead before placing a chaste kiss on it. You’re sure now, his tears dropping onto your skin, burning and heavy. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. It comes quickly. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. He whispers it in your ear, like a prayer. What you once had with him felt sacred, untouchable, and yet here you are, unraveling it thread by thread. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.

A long, drawn out cry sounds in your ear as Chan comes undone. You feel every bit of him inside you, and you body twitches as you finish with him. You hear a choked out sob from the man on top of you, and your chest tightens impossibly. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Not now, not before, and never after he leaves.

He stays inside you, cock tucked in your warmth, twitching a little. His cries continue for an amount of time you can’t even comprehend. Your eyes have long dried out now, but the space between your neck and shoulder remains wet with his tears. Your hands try to comfort him by rubbing his back, drawing circles in patterns you hope he recognizes. Soon, he turns quiet.

You feel his chest heave with yours. He stays on top of you, putting his full weight but careful not to suffocate you. As if this whole thing wasn’t suffocating enough. It takes a moment for him to calm down completely, then he pulls out. He falls back away from you, sitting on the edge of the bed by your legs for a moment before you see him visibly relax.

He stands up to walk outside of the room. You don’t even dare to ask, to look at him and follow his movements. Chan comes back before you could even piece back your head with a towel in his hands. The bed dips where he sits before he leans forward to wipe the slick moisture on your folds. You hiss at the contact, realizing that the fabric is damp. He shushes you gently, continuing his ministrations with utmost care.

When he seems satisfied, he sets the towel away in the same place he did with his earlier. Silence lingers and you almost wish you were still in the shower, where at least the sound of water would fill in the empty air.

Chan returns to the bed, but he remains seated, his back facing you. It feels like a wall—strong, unyielding, and unreachable. You think it’s ridiculous now, realizing that there is a wall. There has always been a wall, hasn’t it? There is no way to climb it, to move past it. Invisible that it might as well not exist, yet it stands, separating you. You bury yourself under the blankets, the chill in the room seeping into your bones. You feel so small and cold and fragile. You could only stare at the ceiling, his presence beside you frustratingly overwhelming, yet so distant.

You’ve grown so accustomed to seeing his back facing you. You’re always behind him, following him along, wherever he goes and whatever he does. Always in front of you, always leading, but never turning to face you unless he’s searching for reassurance. You realize now how much you’ve relied on those fleeting glances back. They were your only proof that he still cared, still saw you. He looks back to take and you give. Sometimes you wonder which part of you is yours anymore.

You stare at his back and wonder how much of its dips and curves you’ve already memorized—how much of it you need to get to know more, the way they move and twitch and tremble under your touch. You stare at his back and wish he would just turn to face you.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he says, very quietly, like almost to himself in realization.

You almost don’t realize he said something. You heard every word, but your mind refuses to process it until a second later. And when it did, the room stills.

His words hang dull in the air, filling the room with a bittersweet ache. It’s like every sweet moment this room witnessed for the past three years disappears and there is only grief and misery in it. You want to reach for him, to cross the divide and tell him something—anything. But his back remains turned, and all you can do is fixate on the outline of his shoulders, tense and unmoving.

You mustered a small, mocking laugh. It’s weaker than you intended, but you’re in utter disbelief regardless. “You just fucked me on this very bed, Chan. I came twice today. Is that the only thing you came here for? A quick fuck?”

There is no use in making sharp remarks, but there is nothing else you could say. You’re grasping at straws and you know that.

“No, I…” Chan starts, then he sighs. He roughly ruffles his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry.”

Then it goes quiet yet again. Your mind is scrambling for words, but then, after a minute, you could only really ask, “Do you mean it? Is that what you really want?”

“No,” he answers almost immediately, shoulders heaving. Then he slackens again, almost like he’s curling into his own body, making himself small. “I don’t know what I would do if I look back and you’re not there.”

His voice is withdrawn, as if he’s confessing something he hadn’t admitted even to himself.

“Then why?”

“You’re always behind me,” he continues, words strained. “You’ve always been the one thing I could count on.” There’s a pause, and it feels like the weight of the moment is crushing him. “But what if you’re gone one day? What if I look back and you’re not there anymore?”

His admission stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. The vulnerability in his tone should comfort you, but instead, it exposes a deep-rooted wound. He only looks back to make sure you’re still following, doesn’t he? Never to meet you halfway, never to let you stand beside him.

And as fucked up as it seems, you’re willing to let that be until you can no longer understand what distance means. You’re willing to do all that, over and over again, just so he could stay.

He takes and takes and takes. And you give.

“Then why are you pushing me away?” You couldn’t help the bite in your words, angry and confused. “If you’re so scared, why leave?”

You want to scream. You want to clench your fists and punch a wall and hurt. Yourself, him. But it doesn’t come. The exhaustion overcomes you, and an ache in your chest swells. You wonder if it’s already too late.

“Because you’re like this!” he raises his voice, now matching your exasperation. “I’m giving you a chance to save yourself from me and you’re not taking it!”

Chan’s words hit like a slap, sharp and final. Your chest tightens in a mix of emotions you’re far too dizzy to comprehend. Hatred? Grief? Love? It’s all warring within you. You sit up, the blanket sliding off your shoulders and exposing your vulnerability as much as his words have exposed his.

“Save myself?” you scoff, incredulous. “I think I am way beyond saving, Chan.”

He stiffens. You don’t even give him a chance to respond before you continue, “And what about you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “When do you save yourself, Chan? When do you stop running from everything? From me?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I’m not running,” he mutters, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than you.

“You’ve been running this entire time,” you counter, voice threatening to rise again. “From us. From what this could be. Three years. And now you want me to be the one to end it? To carry that burden so you don’t have to?”

His head drops, shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. For a moment, the silence between you stretches unbearably, like the final frayed thread of something you both know is about to snap.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he whispers, hoarse. “I thought… I thought letting you go would hurt less than holding on and breaking you completely.”

You let out a bitter laugh, louder this time. You meant for him to hear the distaste in it. Tears sting your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Chan. You don’t get to decide how much I’m willing to give.”

His head lifts slightly, and for the first time he turns to face you. His eyes are glassy, full of a pain you’ve rarely seen him allow himself to show. It breaks something inside you, seeing him like this. It breaks you even further, realizing he turns just like he always did: to see if you were still behind him, following.

“Then what do you want me to do?” His voice cracks when he asks.

You pause, your heart hammering. What do you want? The truth is, you don’t know anymore. You want him, but not like this—not as someone who sees you as a safety net, as a fallback. You know that now, regretting the thought of tolerating his bullshit just to keep him with you.

“I want you to want me the way I want you,” you say finally, voice soft but steady. Resolute. “Not as someone to hold you up when you’re falling. Not as someone to look back on when you’re scared. I want to stand beside you, Chan. I want to move forward with you, not be left behind.”

He shuts his eyes tightly, and your resolve almost falters when a tear slips down his cheek. “I don’t know if I can give you that,” he admits.

The words shatter the last bit of hope you were clinging to. You nod slowly, the realization settling over you like a cold, heavy blanket.

“Then maybe you’re right,” you say quietly. “Maybe I do need to save myself.”

And this time, you turn your back on him. You shift in your bed, lying on your side and staring at the clock by your bedside table. It’s hard, trying to pretend your legs aren’t shaking under the covers, trying to hide the quiver of your lips. Chan doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out to you, and that, more than anything, feels like the final nail in the coffin.

You pause, thinking of any words to say. For finality, for an end. All you could muster is, “I hope one day you stop running, Chan.”

If he leaves later that night or the next morning, you don’t even know. It’s not like you could feel past the weight of the whole ordeal to even feel anything else.

That’s for you to find out tomorrow.

[bluublu-blub]

yan! ex husband (pt. 2)

was supposed to write something on Wednesday but i was still sick. i think i have the worst luck since june came but i am feeling a lot better now. i was almost sent to the hospital but it's a good thing, i wasn't. here is the update for you guys, sorry for the long wait.

He's crazy. 

You looked as he gripped on the divorce papers with so much ferocity that you had ever seen him. He's diligently and quickly reading the fine print as his hands shake from gripping on it. It feels as though you are watching a man descend to madness.

It made you step back away from him.

Then, the paper falls from his grip.

You took one step back further.

"I..." He started. "No... Why?" Now, he is staring at you like you had wronged him when he is the one who left you hanging for years!

"Just sign it." 

"No!" He looked at you with pleading eyes. "I can still fix this. What do I need to do? Do I need to earn more? Spend money on you? What should I do?"

You took a deep breath before looking at him with cold eyes. "Nothing."

"Nothing...?" He repeated softly.

"I don't need anything from you." You stated. "Just sign it."

"But... I..." He looked down at the paper, tears slowly filling up in his eyes. 

You gave him a little push as you bent down in front of him, giving him the pen and pushing the divorce papers in his face. "C'mon, sign this as a last token of your appreciation for me." 

Holding his shaking hand towards the paper, you gave him a smile as he stared at you through his tears. "I..."

"If you still have love left inside your heart, sign the paper."

That was the last time you ever saw him. As soon as he signed his signature, you dropped your smile and left him. Not before telling him your parting words.

"We shouldn't have wasted our time together." You didn't turn back to look at him. "Especially when you only think for yourself."

It's over.

He repeated those words in his mind again and again as he was left hanging at your shared apartment. The pen that he used to sign your divorce paper was left forgotten in the ground. He could only stare emotionless at the wall as he slowly processed what had happened to him.

It's over.

He had arrived at home from his residency. Early for change and excited to rest and spend time with you. He's eager to try your cooking after years of hospital food. 

It's over.

He could hear his own breathing.

He could still feel the tears in his face.

He could barely move.

He could remember your face for the last time.

It's over.

Time must've passed by, the window no longer emitted the light from the sun but he still remain on his place as he thought back on how could he fucked up.

He didn't cheat.

He didn't do anything wrong.

He is always there for you.

There's no reason for divorce.

It's over.

He doesn't know what day it is. But, he had managed to find strength to move and go to work because you wouldn't want a useless husband, right? 

This… this will pass. 

You will be back and everything will be okay.

It's not over yet.

He doesn't really remember what actually happened. He looked at the spot next to his side of the bed, wondering when you would be home. He shrugged, laying on his side as he hugged your pillow to make up for your lack of presence. 

(He also doesn't remember when was the last time you two had a date.)

(He also doesn't remember when it was your birthday and your anniversary.)

(He also doesn't remember what your job is.)

(He also doesn't remember your favorite music as of late.)

(He doesn't remember if you bought a new book and a new plushie.)

(He doesn't remember what your current comfort food.)

He went to sleep, not remembering a thing.

It hits him that you weren't coming back when he saw you at a cafe in a different part of the country. He was at a seminar when caught wind of you and almost called your name when he saw you with another person.

So, he watched you in the distance as he greedily tried to memorize your current appearance. 

Then, he remembered. 

Suddenly, he felt he was in your shared apartment again —on the floor, crying for you. 

He remembered that you weren't coming back to him. 

That's fine. 

He continued to observe you. The lease for your shared apartment is expiring soon, he had already bought a house for the both of you. It will not trouble him trying to talk sense to you. He won't be an absent husband —he changed, he will take care of you now. He learned his lessons.

It's time for you to go back to him, please.

He followed you when you parted ways with your little friend. He will take care of that guy later but he needs to take care of you first.

Lovingly.

He slowly and cautiously walked towards you. Appearing harmless to you with a smile and a wave.

“Hey,” he greeted you. 

He soaked up all of your attention as your eyes widened in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” You glared at him.

He put his arms up as if to show you he means no harm. “I have a seminar in this area.” 

You glared more.

“I was surprised to see you so I figured I could go and say my greetings to you.”

“Well you already did,” you snapped back at him. “Leave.”

“Let’s catch up first, darling.” He purred. “I have words to say to you.”

“Leave.”

“Don't be heartless.” He quipped. “It reminded me of the time you forced me to sign out divorce papers.”

You are always smart, aren't you? He chuckled as he watched your expression drop into nervousness while still staring at him with such intense eyes.

But, he knows you.

You wouldn't dare cause a scene in public.

“Fine. I am picking where we are going.”

He smiled even wider when you scoffed at him.

So cute.

He would not let you go now.

i wished i have managed to captured the essence of the descend to insanity and mc's personality. mc isn't a good person and neither is yan! ex for that matter but that makes them human in a way —and i wanna try and capture that feeling. in a way, mc was passive during their relationship together and yan! ex was too complacent that he could fucked up and mc would accept him either way. but, that's not how it works out for him and he's in denial for that. one could argue that they could've talk and communicate with each other —it will work out but mc needed to leave in order to grow. yan! ex just didn't get that nor does he want that.

[formulawolff]

"my hero" - m.v.

pairing: social worker!reader x max verstappen

word count: idek tbh (i’m posting this on my lunch break hehe)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, max in bf mode, long distance couple, cursing here and there, mentions of mental health, mentions of mental health disorders, mentions of physical health, yada, yada, yada

a/n: i know i said i was working on requests but this idea would not leave my brain all day. i couldn't stop thinking about it so i had to write it. (it's def a little self-indulgent) i hope y'all enjoy!

"ah! there you are. i can see you now!""

a giggle bubbles up in your throat, your lips forming a wide smile, "hi baby, how are you?"

he shrugs, the image distorted for about a millisecond. he comes into frame once again, slightly pixelated. however, you can make out the sleepy grin plastered across his face, and the twinkle in his eye as he looks into the camera.

max verstappen, three time world driver’s champion, is on facetime with you, donned in nothing but a black cotton tee and his boxers. you can tell from the background that he’s in his motorhome, settled in his room.

his hair is a disheveled mess, sticking up haphazardly. he more than likely just got out of the shower, as the fabric of the tee clung to his toned frame. underneath his eyes were two faint circles, the skin slightly puffy.

yet, here he was, calling you at god knew what hour just to hear the sound of your voice.

"tired. very fucking tired."

"i can imagine so," you nod, typing along at your laptop, "what time is it there?"

he hums, leaning over his phone, "it's about eleven thirty?"

"max!" your eyes widen, "you need to get some sleep. it's qualifying tomorrow!"

"and?" he counters, arching a brow, "i wanted to hear how your day went. from your messages, it seemed like it was quite eventful."

"i'm just wrapping up my notes now," you exhale, your shoulders slumping slightly, "it was a long day."

"i can imagine my baby," he coos, settling underneath the covers, "tell me all about it."

"i can assure you being a case worker is not nearly as riveting as a formula one driver," you snort, shaking your head, "you go first."

"nope," he was not budging, his attention still fixated solely on you, "tell me about your day, and then i'll share about mine. it's only fair."

"well," you wrinkle your nose, glancing over the open document on your laptop screen, "my day started with one of my clients experiencing a small crisis. she was without food so she called me, asking if i could take her to the nearest pantry. while i was with her, another client of mine called asking if i could transport him to his appointment.

i probably could have, but he reached out to me only fifteen minutes before his appointment time. i received my new staffing form today. i have a couple of clients who are in need of housing so i had to make some calls to some local agencies."

"and how did that go?" you can't help but feel heat flourishing into your cheeks at the intrigue laced in his tone, "were you able to make some progress?"

"not really," you inhale sharply, "housing is really difficult to find right now. it's sort of like when your tires are giving out, but you need them to last a few more laps. you have to remain hopeful so that you can keep pushing."

“i like that analogy,” he fights a yawn, but continues regardless, “that’s a good one. i’m going to use that.”

“as long as you credit me,” you muse, clicking your mousepad as you finalize your note, “how was practice today?”

“so-so,” he chirps, “i missed you a lot today. thought about you nearly every second of the practice session. you’re flying out next week, right?”

you nod, shutting your laptop, “yes. i’ll be leaving wednesday evening and catching a late flight. hopefully when i land, there will be this insanely handsome dutch man waiting for me.”

“is that right?” max’s dimples appear, causing your heart to skip a beat, “i’m hoping that my good luck charm arrives safe and sound. i can’t wait to see her.”

“counting down the minutes are we?”

“you have no idea,” carefully, he plucks his phone from his makeshift stand, bringing you closer into the bed with him, “will you stay on till i fall asleep?”

at his request, there’s a tug at your heart. fuck, if only you were with him. then he would have been able to lay on you until he dozed off. his head would have been snuggled into uour collabone, your hands tangled in his hair, playing with it as his chest steadily rose and fell.

if only you were there. if only you were an influencer or a model. if only you could take work with you, dropping everything to fly all over the world. if only you weren’t separated by time zones, where you had to carefully coordinate facetime calls.

if only you weren’t long distance, then maybe you wouldn’t feel like this.

if only.

“hey,” max’s voice is merely a whisper, “are you okay?”

your lower lip trembles, tears welling up, threatening to spill over. there’s a choking sound, as you attempt to suppress a sob.

yet, it was too late. they were streaming down your cheeks now, your hands instinctively shielding your face.

“baby,” max murmurs, “what’s going on?”

“this shit sucks,” you shake your head, the words strained, “i hate that i’m not with you right now. i hate that we’re long distance. i hate that i have to stay here and—“

“but your clients need you,” his tone is delicate, “you’re the one person they can count on when everything else is going to shit. they need you like i need you. i can tell you had a long day baby, but i’m here. i’m here for you, no matter what.”

“i-i love you,” you manage to sputter out, wiping your cheeks, “i love you, max.”

“and i love you more than you’ll ever know,” in the frame, a pillow is held against his chest, “i’m even cuddling this pillow right now pretending that it’s you.”

“i can’t believe you fell in love with some plain girl from the states,” you sigh, resting your head against the couch cushion, “out of everyone in the world, you happened to fall in love with me.”

“you’re not just any girl from the states,” for a moment, you’re shocked at the firmness in his tone, “you’re my girl. it takes someone special to do what you do. you’re my hero baby. i aspire to be as strong as you.”

“i love you,” the corners of your lips curl into a quaint smile, ��am i really your hero?”

“of course,” it doesn’t even take him a second to respond, “like i said, you’re the strongest person i know. you inspire me.”

“i can’t wait to see you,” you murmur, taking note of the way his eyes were drooping, “i’ll stay on till you sleep, my love. it seems like you need it.”

“hey,” one eye opens, barely a slit, “i know this shit sucks right now, but we’ll make it. okay? one day you’ll get to come home to me and tell me all about your day rather than calling. it’ll be worth it. i promise.”

“i hope so. i love you, maxie. sleep well, my love. i’ll be there before you know it.”

“try to have a good evening,” you could barely make out the statement, as he was beginning to doze off, “just end the call when i’m asleep. i’ll message you in the morning.”

“i’ll be here,” opening your laptop, you prop it against the screen, “goodnight, maxie.”

“night, night, baby.”

as sleep takes a hold of the dutch driver, you remain on the call, opening youtube. cautiously, you click on one of your favorite videos. it’s a montage of all of max’s wins, starting from the 2016 spanish grand prix.

the video begins to play, the volume carefully adjusted so that it doesn’t wake him.

as your gaze shifts to your phone once again, you can’t help but hear his words ringing in your ears.

one day this would all be worth it.

and one day, max verstappen would be able to be with his hero.

every single day for the rest of his life.

[poisonlove]

Wednesday Addams x F!Reader

• Reader is about to leave for work. Wednesday asks her if she's forgotten anything, and Reader gives her a kiss. Wednesday turns red and opens her hand to reveal Reader's keys/wallet/etc., saying

'I meant this, but it's appreciated.' Or smt like that!

forgetting something ?

Pairing: Wednesday Addams X fem!reader

Words: 4k

Warning: fluffy

Author notes: I've received a lot of requests, I'll try to do them all!

Happy reading

"Love, what's the password for your phone?" I ask curiously as my eyes glance at the smartphone in my hand.

I found myself in Ophelia Hall in Wednesday's room with Enid, wanting to spend some time with my girlfriend. Enid was doing Things' manicure while sharing some gossip about some outcasts at school. Meanwhile, Wednesday Addams was making the most of her writing time.

Ignoring me.

The tapping of the keyboard abruptly ceases and Wednesday slowly turns towards me. Her brown eyes turn cold and dark as they meet Enid's, who visibly trembles in the face of that icy, penetrating intensity.

"Things, I'll finish later..." Enid whispers, her nervous smile betraying the fear inspired by Wednesday's gaze.

Without saying another word, Enid jumps up from her bed and hastily exits the room. The door slams behind her, resonating in the silent air as Wednesday watches her pass with an impassive expression, lips pressed in a subtle smile of satisfaction.

"How many times have I told you not to scare her?" I say with a small smile on my lips, and Wednesday looks at me without batting an eyelid.

"I didn't scare her," her voice is calm and controlled, without any hint of remorse or concern.

"You did," I sigh at her comment while absentmindedly playing with her phone.

"As you wish," Wednesday replies calmly, showing no particular emotion.

I smile shyly at her response.

"I told you not to use vulgar nicknames in front of others and you keep doing it," Wednesday justifies herself, looking at me curiously.

I raise an eyebrow in confusion.

"Vulgar?" I ask, feeling puzzled.

Wednesday nods timidly, without a hint of a smile on her lips.

I sigh loudly.

"Anyway... Could you tell me the password?" I ask again, wanting to change the subject to avoid ruining the atmosphere.

Wednesday tilts her head to the side and scrutinizes me with her gaze.

We've been together for a month, but I don't know if I'll ever get used to her quirks.

"My favorite plant" Wednesday replies in a monotone voice.

"Of course" I reply sarcastically as I type in 'Belladonna.' The phone unlocks, and I smile as I see the background: me and Wednesday embracing during the Poe Cup. The brunette had a stoic look while she look at me smile at the camera.

"Nice background," I say teasingly and Wednesday rolls her eyes at my comment.

"I know," she replies monotone.

I could see a small smile threatening to emerge at any moment.

"But don't you have any games?" I ask disappointedly, and Wednesday stares intensely at me.

"I barely use it to write to you," she justifies herself, and I nod understandably.

Wednesday and technology were two completely different things and couldn't fit in the same sentence.

"So you only have WhatsApp?" I ask curiously, looking at Wednesday.

"You're distracting me unnecessarily," Wednesday mutters annoyed by my questions. She turns her back on me and starts writing her story again.

"Thanks, Wed" I say sarcastically, and Wednesday continues to press the keys of the typewriter ignoring me.

"Why am I with her, I don't know," I mutter to myself, turning my gaze to her phone. I scroll through some pages and look at the apps.

I  choice YouTube.

"Because you love me," Wednesday replies loudly without looking at me "and anyway, I can hear you, be careful," she adds in a cold voice.

Was that a threat?

"Right" I reply aloud.

I start searching for what interests my girlfriend. Hundreds of horror stories and interviews of real murders, true photos, and thousands of hypotheses about monsters, unsolved murders, and much more.

Creepy but Wednesday's style.

"Y/n?" I raise my head from the phone and turn my attention to Wednesday who had once again interrupted her writing hour.

"Tell me, darling" I ask with a smile on my lips.

"Shouldn't you be going to work at the café?" Wednesday asks with curiosity.

My smile fades and I widen my eyes in realization: I had forgotten.

I quickly get up from the bed in a panic

"shit shit" I put on my shoes and look around the room in concern. "Where's the jacket?" I wonder, and I look around the room with worry. "You threw it on Enid's bed," Wednesday exclaims disapprovingly, and I smile hugely.

I internally thank Wednesday for her incredible memory.

I walk towards the door, but Wednesday's voice makes me stop.

"Forgetting something?" She asks seriously.

  I sigh at the unfortunate moment of being romantic. "You're right" I walk towards her and lean down towards her face to unite our lips in a sweet kiss.

As we separate, I notice that Wednesday's cheeks were completely flushed.

"You were forgetting the car keys, idiot," says Wednesday embarrassed, showing me the keys.

I had left them on her desk an hour ago when I arrived.

"Oh, thanks," I say embarrassed, and Wednesday smiles widely making my heart race a mile a minute.

"But I appreciated it" she confesses quickly and I smile back getting lost in her deep brown eyes.

Yes, definitely, now I remember why I'm with her.

[criminalamnesia]

ending 2 for tolerate it! this was my original idea for the ending!

I just wanted to clarify that I’m writing these two endings bc of the feedback I’ve received. The first ending is for those who wanted them to reconcile/make amends, and I wanted to give those readers some closure.

this ending is for those who want reader to be happy without him (which was my original idea lol). anyways I know a lot of people didn’t like ending 1 and that’s okay!! but here’s ending two, I hope you like it better :)

[ also, this takes place in between the time that reader leaves simon/price and the last line of part two! ]

part one here, part two here, ending 1 here

your friend graciously let you live with them for a few months while you got back on your feet.

you went to therapy. stopped crying whenever you thought of him or even his name. started taking care of yourself again.

you move out and find this cute little house. it’s small, cozy. you adore it, and your friend helps you move in.

you make it your own with colors and trinkets and pictures. there’s nothing in that house that serves as a reminder of your time with him. you’d gotten rid of all the pictures, all the gifts he’d bought you before things turned sour.

fuck him. he didn’t deserve to see your growth and your happiness. he didn’t deserve anything from you.

you get used to being on your own again. it’s nice. you don’t worry about a man who is halfway across the world. don’t worry about baking a cake for his return or setting up streamers. don’t worry about how damaged he’ll be when he walks through the door.

you’re happy. you love your job, your home, your friends. you treat yourself to coffee every wednesday afternoon, and that’s when you meet him.

you’ve ordered your coffee and are sitting at one of the cafe’s little tables, scrolling on your phone, when a man clears his throat.

you look up, and he’s got the kindest smile you’ve ever seen.

“hi,” he says, and you give a small smile as you click off your phone.

“um, hi?” you say, a little unsure of why he’s speaking to you.

“not to sound weird or anything,” he begins, and you give a small laugh.

“y’know, whenever someone says that, whatever they say next does tend to sound weird.”

he nods, that smile on his lips growing a smidge wider. “right. so, I guess this will be weird then, huh? but I’ve noticed you here every wednesday, and I just wanted to tell you you’re beautiful.”

you blush. you don’t think a man has ever been so straightforward with you, and although you do think it’s kind of weird, you try to just focus on the compliment.

but your guard is up. you don’t know him.

“oh, thank you. that’s sweet,” you reply, and he’s still looking down at you.

“can I sit?” he asks, which takes you by surprise.

“um, sure? I guess?” you say, and it sounds more like a question than a statement, but he’s sliding into the seat across from you.

he introduces himself, and you tell him your name. he says it’s pretty. you’re starting to think he’s coming on too strong.

but as the two of you begin to talk, you start to realize that’s just who he is. he’s a flirt, a flatterer, but it’s good natured.

it’s easy to talk to him. he keeps the conversation going, and he seems generally interested in what you have to say. it’s a stark difference from your last relationship.

but then he tells you he’s military, and your heart nearly stops.

“oh,” you say, a small frown on your lips.

“that an issue?” he says, and his tone is teasing. he doesn’t know— how could he? but your face says it all.

his brows furrow, and he gets serious for the first time since he’d sat across from you. he starts to reach for your hand, but decides against it. again, the two of you don’t know each other, and he’s aware of that.

“I don’t have a good track record with men in the military,” you tell him, trying to lighten the mood. he can tell something’s wrong, but he doesn’t push. he takes the bait, and you’re grateful. it makes you like him even more.

that’s why you end up talking until the place closes. the employees are practically shooing you out as you and the military man apologize profusely.

you’re on the sidewalk now, and he’s smiling at you. you find yourself smiling back.

“d’you mind if I get your number?” he asks.

as much as you enjoyed talking to him, you’re still unsure. you just recovered from everything that happened— are still recovering. you don’t want to rush into anything. so, you shake your head.

“if you’re serious,” you begin, looking up at him. “I’ll see you on another wednesday.”

he nods, a mischievous smile on his face. “im up to the challenge.”

you give a small laugh, then tell him goodnight. you turn and begin to walk towards your car, and you’re smiling like an idiot.

you don’t want to get you hopes up, but that little naive part of you— a part of you you’d thought was dead and gone— is making you. you try to stamp it back down.

next wednesday, you don’t see him, and you’re a little sad about it. you don’t see him the wednesday after that, either.

you don’t see him for a few months, actually. and after a few weeks, you’ve stopped thinking about him.

but then one wednesday, you’re sitting in that coffee shop, and there he is.

he’s wearing a short sleeve shirt, and you can see fresh cuts and scrapes along his arms. he asks if he can sit, and you oblige, gesturing to the seat across from you.

“sorry for disappearing on you,” he says, and you shake your head. he doesn’t owe you anything. you barely know each other.

“that day we talked, i ended up gettin’ deployed a few days later. didn’t have your number, so…” he trails off with a cheeky smile, and you grin as you roll your eyes.

“so im to blame, hm?” you say, and he nods.

“oh, absolutely.” he’s teasing, and you laugh.

“then let’s amend that.” you hand him your phone and he lights up. he taps his number in quickly before handing the phone back to you. you send him a quick ‘hi’ so your number will pop up in his phone.

“didn’t forget about you, though,” he says, and you blush. this man certainly has a way with words. “that’s why im here. glad to see you’re still a creature of habit.”

“is that a bad thing?” you ask, and he shakes his head.

“nah, I don’t think so.”

your phone chimes then. it’s one of your friends, asking you if you can come over. you type a quick reply and start to gather your things.

“leavin’ so soon?” he says, and you give a small nod.

“friend emergency.”

he nods. “understood. well, I’ll see you around then, yeah?” he smiling as he pushes himself out of his chair.

“you do have my number now,” you remind him. “we don’t have to wait on chance encounters.”

he hums in agreement. “that’s true, but I prefer face-to-face, y’know? especially since yours is so pretty.”

“you’re a flirt,” you tell him, but you’re blushing, and he chuckles.

“guilty.”

you bid him goodbye and walk towards the exit, your mind instantly shifting gears to your friend. you don’t think about the military man again until he texts you that night.

‘friend okay?’ he types.

‘all good.’ you respond.

he’s typing back for a good minute. the bubble disappears, then reappears.

‘if there are no more friend crises for the foreseeable future, and im not shipped off to fight bad guys, how about a proper date?’

you smile as you read the message.

‘sure.’ you respond, and he sends back a smiley face.

a first date turns into a second, then a third, then a fourth. they’re spread out over a year because of his job, but you don’t find yourself minding that much. he treats you so much differently than the last man did.

he eventually asks you to be his partner, and you say yes. of course you’re a little hesitant— things with your last military man started off good, too. but you feel like it’s different this time. he’s different.

you don’t know it, but every time he’s deployed, he talks his squad’s ear off about you. tells them you’re the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, and that you’re so funny. tells them he’s gonna ask you to move in with him.

but he never mentioned your name. maybe he forgot, or maybe he just didn’t want to share that piece of you with them.

“you never shut up about this lover of yours,” simon/price says one day while they’re eating in the mess hall. although they’re not in the same squad, they’re friends, and they happen to be on base at the same time. “no way they’re real.”

your man just grins and holds out his phone, showing off his lockscreen. it’s a picture of you with your head thrown back in laughter. he’d taken it on one of your dates.

simon/price’s face darkens almost imperceptibly before he masks it. that’s you. he hadn’t thought about you in ages, but he knows that’s you in that picture. now everything comes rushing back.

your lover doesn’t notice the other man’s expression shift. he doesn’t realize that the man across from him knows you.

you had told him more about the man who broke your heart, but you’d never mentioned his name. you didn’t want to risk him knowing him.

it’s a good thing you’d never mentioned the name, because if your lover knew, he’d punch him in the jaw.

the conversation eventually shifts away from you, and simon/price is grateful. your man is none the wiser.

when he gets back home, he asks you to move in. you tell him no at first. you’re still a little broken. he understands, and doesn’t hold it against you. he takes it in stride, and you’re grateful.

you don’t know how you got so lucky this time. you don’t know how this man, who was so understanding, so kind, so caring, had practically fallen into your lap. maybe it was karma from your last relationship.

the universe crushed you once, and to make up for it, they dropped this man into your life. whatever it was, you were thankful.

the second time he asks you to move in with him, you say yes. he helps you with everything, and the whole time he’s smiling like an idiot. even when you almost drop a shelf on his toe, or when you argue with him about where to hang a picture.

you two end the night eating take out on the couch and watching trashy tv. he decides right then that he’s going to marry you one day.

a few months after you move in, he tells you he wants you to meet his friends.

you’re nervous, but he reassures you it will all be fine. tells you that they’ll love you. so, you get yourself ready and then he’s helping you into his truck, and your leg is shaking the whole way to the bar.

he puts a comforting hand on your knee. gives you a dazzling smile.

“they’ll love you,” he tells you. you nod.

when you get to the crowded bar, he leads you by the hand inside. you’re towed along behind him, so you don’t see his friends until you’re standing right in front of the booth they occupy.

you scan their faces, and you don’t recognize any of them. you’re thankful— a huge weight has been lifted off your shoulders. he introduces you to them, and you fit in easily.

the night is going well until your man mentions simon/price’s name. he couldn’t know, you’d never told him. he was telling the story of how simon/price hadn’t believed him when he was talking about you.

the rest of his friends were laughing, but you were tense. he noticed immediately, shoulder nudging yours as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“you okay?” he murmured, and you nodded.

he could tell you were lying, but he didn’t push it. didn’t even bring it up again until the two of you were home.

“how do you know simon/price?” he asked you as you hung your coat up on the rack. you frowned as you turned to face him.

“he was the one I dated before you. the guy who broke my heart. the one I told you about, remember?”

your man goes silent. he’s looking at you, his fists clenched at his sides. he believes you. there’s not a doubt in his mind, even for a second, that you’re not telling the truth.

“I didn’t want to tell you his name,” you admit, taking a step towards him. “in case you knew him. didn’t want to make things complicated.”

he’s still silent, his eyes trained on you as you slowly approach. an expression you can’t name paints his face.

“I understand if you want to end things,” you tell him, and that gets him moving again. he’s shaking his head. “I don’t want to come between you and your friends.”

“fuck him,” he spits, and he reaches his arms out to you. you step into his embrace and take a shaky breath. “fuckin’ bastard. I showed him a picture of you, and he didn’t say anything. I was gonna invite him tonight, but he’s on assignment, and—” he inhales sharply as his hands rest on your back. “and now im gonna break his fucking jaw.”

you push yourself back, your eyes finding your lover’s. you shake your head. “it’s not worth it. besides, don’t make any enemies within your base. you’ve got enough of those already.”

you can tell he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. he nods after a moment. silence fills the room.

“we don’t run in the same circles, usually,” he tells you, his voice quiet. “known each other since enlistment. got assigned to different squads. kept running into each other, though. kept in touch.”

“you can still—” you begin, but he interrupts.

“no, fuck him. I can’t be his friend when he’s treated you like shit. fucker will be lucky if I don’t blacken his fuckin’ eye.”

you don’t say anything. you pull yourself back towards his chest, and he holds you tight.

you don’t say anything, but your heart swells. this man, the one in your arms, is everything that he wasn’t. he doesn’t tolerate you, he celebrates you. loves you unconditionally. communicates and compromises. doesn’t pull away.

that’s why, when he asks you to marry him a month later, you say yes without thinking. because you don’t need to think.

the ceremony is small. friends and family gather and celebrate the two of you. you laugh and dance and drink the night away with the love of your life by your side.

and you don’t think of the man that broke your heart anymore. don’t give him the time of day, because you’ve moved on to something far greater. you’ve moved on to what you deserve.

a few years down the road, when your husband has finally retired, you’re making your way down the road to meet him at the coffee shop that brought you together.

someone calls your name, and your blood runs cold. you know that voice, and although you haven’t thought about who it belongs to in years, you doubt you’ll ever truly forget it.

he’s calling your name from somewhere behind you. you don’t turn around.

instead, you pull open the door of the coffee shop, step inside, and smile when you see your husband sitting at the same table you’d met him at all those years ago.

——————————————————————

author’s note:

ending 2 is finally here! while writing this, I originally pictured the reader getting with Gaz/johnny; however, I wasn’t sure how that would turn out.

how would they still work with simon/price after knowing everything? how would you go so long without hearing about/meeting gaz/johnny’s squad mates?

I didn’t know, and that’s why I scrapped the idea. You can still picture them, though! but I thought it best to have the love interest someone kinda detached from the 141.

anyways, hope you enjoyed :)

[roosterforme]

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 1 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: After Bradley finally breaks things off with his girlfriend just days before the start of a deployment, he expects a few lonely months of nobody writing to him or waiting for his return. But the fateful arrival of a package from a class of fourth graders learning about aviation changes everything.

Warnings: Fluff, language, breakup angst

Length: 2200 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

Bradley had his duffle bag open on his bed, tidy stacks of his uniform components, flight suits, and underwear lined up next to it. He had his checklist in front of him. He liked to be as organized as possible.

"Are you even listening to me? I thought we were going out to dinner."

He looked up from his partially packed toiletry bag into the annoyed eyes of Vanessa where she stood on the other side of the bed. He was seven months into this relationship, and sometimes he wondered why either of them still bothered. She knew his routine by now. She knew what his deployments were like, but she had absolutely no patience for any of it.

"Ness, I'm leaving in four days. I just need to focus on this for a few minutes so I know what I need to buy before Wednesday, and then we can go out and eat."

"It's already seven o'clock. I thought you'd have finished packing by now," she replied with a pout and a glare. "Every nice restaurant is going to have a long wait now, because I'm just going to go ahead and assume that you didn't make a reservation anywhere."

He took a deep breath and let it out before pressing his lips together. What he really wanted was to order something for delivery, cuddle on the couch, watch a movie and have the first round of hot, goodbye sex. But she'd never go for it now. Apparently he'd already fucked up for the night. 

"No, I didn't make a reservation," he said calmly, and she rolled her eyes and reached for her phone. "I really don't even feel like going out. I'll be gone for months, stuck in a tiny bunk or a loud mess hall. I'd like to stay in tonight where it's quiet. Just me and you."

But she wasn't listening at all. "Let me see if Woodmere has any tables left," she muttered. "If not there, then I can try The Landmark." She looked as beautiful as she always did, but he couldn't even stand the sight of her right now.

"Ness. I want to stay in."

She groaned and looked him in the eye. "Of course you do. You always want to stay in. You always want to decompress or read a book. That's not healthy, you know that, right? I shouldn't have to force you out of your comfort zone all the time."

"Fuck," he grunted, running his fingers through his hair. His job was demanding, both mentally and physically. He usually preferred quiet over loud, because his own thoughts started to buzz when she dragged him out all over the place. And now she was glaring at him again. "Are you even going to miss me?" he asked softly, afraid of the answer. "You haven't said so one time since I told you about this deployment."

She heaved a deep and annoyed sigh. "You're deployed so frequently, Bradley, it's like you're the government's bitch. And if the Navy is going to insist upon eating up taxpayer money, the least they could do is pay you more."

His skin started to crawl as she went off about his career like always, but he'd honestly had enough. He raised his voice louder and asked once again, "Are you even going to miss me?"

Vanessa scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Of course I'm going to miss you. What kind of question is that? I'll be bored every weekend, waiting for you to get back, like usual. I almost never go out when you're deployed."

Bradley's heart started to pound in a way that made his palms sweat and his stomach turn. "Jesus, Vanessa. I asked if you're going to miss me. Not miss going out every weekend."

When she hesitated for a beat, he reached out to brace his hand on his headboard. "Yes, Bradley. I am going to miss you. Okay? Happy?"

"Fuck, no. I'm not happy Vanessa." And that was the bottom line right there. The absolute truth. And it didn't hurt to say it, rather he immediately felt better. He knew he would miss the sporadic emails and the phone calls and the dirty pictures and the reunion sex. The upcoming weeks would be harder without those things to look forward to, but at least he'd come home to his own place where he could do what he wanted instead of what he was told. He wouldn't have to listen to her negativity. "I think we need to break up."

Her eyes went wide with shock. "Excuse me?"

Bradley let go of the bed and ran his hand over his face. "You heard me, Ness. This isn't working. For either of us."

"Don't call me Ness," she snapped, immediately turning toward his bedroom door. "You're not my boyfriend anymore." She paused briefly, just long enough to say, "Fuck you," and then she was gone. 

He sat on the edge of his bed for a couple minutes, but it didn't take long to sort through his feelings. The immediate sense of calm that he felt had him convinced he'd done the right thing. There was no shared living space. There was no ring. There was no real commitment. Maybe he'd always known why that was the case. 

So he packed up his bag and made a shopping list, and when his stomach started to growl, he ordered dinner for himself from his favorite restaurant. He didn't cry, and he didn't worry about having to do anything he didn't want to do.

------------------------

The first few weeks of his deployment were great. He spent a lot of time in the air, and he flirted a bit with some of the women who approached him in the gym on the aircraft carrier. He jerked off while he thought about whomever he fucking wanted to. He didn't spend very much time reflecting on his relationship with Vanessa other than to acknowledge that it wasn't much of a relationship at all. In the moments where he thought maybe he missed her, he realized he just missed the idea of having someone who cared about him.

He was about a month in when he realized the attractive woman who always touched his arm in the gym was actually married, and he was not all about that. He was also maybe kind of getting tired of masturbating which was a depressing thought. He was bored, and he was lonely, and other than randomly hooking up with someone, he figured his best bet was finding a book or something to read. 

When he made his way to dinner, he heard everyone talking about the helicopter that had landed on deck less than an hour ago stacked full of containers of mail. There was a line of officers trailing down the hallway adjacent to the mess hall, everyone waiting patiently to pick up parcels from their loved ones. Since Bradley had basically nobody who would think to write to him, he made his way toward the food instead. 

His tray was piled high with everything he could get his hands on, and when he looked for somewhere to sit, he had to deftly avoid that stacked lieutenant who had a husband at home. He found a table off in the corner and devoured his dinner alone. When he stood to drop off his empty dishes and tray, some petty officers entered the cavernous room to drop off unclaimed mail. 

"Harper, Jonathan! Pauley, Vincent! Dixon, Jennifer! Sutter, Wesley! Bradshaw, Bradley!"

He was more than a little intrigued as he made his way up along with a handful of others, and then a white envelope and a small cardboard box were thrust into his hands. The envelope was addressed to him by name in familiar chicken scratch that made him smile. He shouldn't have counted Natasha out, especially when his birthday was in a few days. 

He tore into the envelope as he made his way back to his bunk. It contained a very short letter along with a coupon for buy one get one free steak dinners at her favorite restaurant with a post-it stuck to the back. 

This is your birthday present. Now when you take me out for my birthday when you get home, you only have to pay half as much. You're welcome.

He snorted as he unlocked his bunk door and tossed everything from Nat onto the small nightstand. And then he examined the box. It wasn't addressed to him. Not really. It was addressed to 'A Deployed US Naval Aviator' in tidy handwriting. Then he noticed the return address was from an elementary school in Mira Mesa, and his curiosity got the best of him.

Bradley sat on the edge of his bed and tore gently into the packaging to find the box was jam packed with items and overflowing with envelopes. He tipped the box, and everything went cascading out onto his narrow bed. There were a lot of snacks, and a pack of trail mix caught his eye, making his stomach growl.

"I just fed you," he muttered but ripped into the snack anyway, dumping half of it into his mouth in one go. He was eyeing the envelopes carefully, each one distinctly unique. Some had names written on them, and some had little doodles or pictures, but they definitely seemed to be from a class of kids who went to the school. He sifted through them until he found a slightly larger, more official looking envelope which once again said To: A Deployed US Naval Aviator.

He finished his snack, silently thanking the class of kids and their teacher, and then he opened the big envelope. He pulled out a typed up letter which was folded around a few photos that slid onto his lap. Then he started to read.

Dear United States Naval Aviator,

First of all, thank you for your service. Second, let us introduce ourselves. We are one of the fourth grade classes from Mira Mesa Elementary School, and we have been learning all about aviation for the last month or so. We have combined our science, math and social studies classes into one unit all about flying, and we have learned so much. We really wanted to share some of what we learned with you in the hopes that you might be able to help us learn even more!

Each student in the class has included a letter filled with information and some questions. If you have some free time and are inclined to do so, we would love to hear back from you. (No pressure!) There are plenty of thoughtful questions that my students would appreciate more information about. (Once again, only if you want to!) And I for one would love to give them the chance to show off what they learned to a professional. (I'm just a proud teacher!)

Thank you very much for indulging our curiosity thus far, and we hope to hear back from you. I'll include my email address just in case you have any questions or would prefer to reply that way. Otherwise you can send mail directly to the address for the school along with my name, and it will get to us. We hope we are about to dazzle you with our letters, and we wish you well on your deployment.

Sincerely,

The best fourth graders you will ever meet along with their teacher

Bradley was chuckling as he finished reading. Of course he would take the time to look at all of the notes from the kids and send back a response. It wasn't like he'd be tied up talking to Vanessa. This little project would keep him busy when he had nothing else to do, and besides, this was the kind of shit he would have thought was outlandishly cool when he was a fourth grader himself. 

He read and reread the name and accompanying email address at the bottom of the page. This teacher sounded charming, and he'd only read three paragraphs from her. He flipped the page over to double check that she hadn't written anything more, already wishing she had. Then he picked up the photos that had landed on his thigh and started to flip through them.

First he saw a group of kids outside in the bright San Diego sunlight, lined up and throwing paper airplanes. Then he flipped to one where some of the kids were sitting at their desks building more elaborate planes out of pieces of foam. There was another photo of the class on some sort of field trip, but it was the last photo in the stack that had him sitting up a little taller and taking a closer look.

"Damn."

The kids were all lined up once again, wearing a rainbow of colors, some making silly faces. But his eyes caught on their teacher. On you. Smiling back at him from the photo like you had an amusing secret. Like you wanted to share it with him.

"Fucking gorgeous."

----------------------

And, we're off. Oh, he thinks we are cute. Oh, he is about to be charmed even more. Thanks for pushing me out of my comfort zone a little bit with this one, and thank you @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 2

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@wintercap89

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@chaoticassidy

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@sylviebell

@wkndwlff

@horseslovers2016

@gennyanydots

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@magicalmorg

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@ughthisisntright

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

[speakergame]

Progress Report - 12/25/24

Hello and happy holidays!

It’s been a while, huh? 😅 my apologies for disappearing on you all. Long story short, I had a severe case of tendonitis in my shoulder, and have spent the last few months heavily restricted in my ability to type or do pretty much anything on the computer. And since I’m left-handed, and it was my left shoulder, writing the old fashioned way wasn’t much of an option either. It’s been absolute hell for me, to put it lightly.

I’ve finally recovered enough to be able to get back to work… slowly. More slowly than I’d like, honestly, but it is what it is. I’m trying my best not to overdo it and set my healing back. It’s easier said than done.

Besides the speed, however, work is actually going really well! Well enough that I have the next update very nearly ready to go. I have a really bad, game-breaking bug lurking somewhere in my code that I’m trying to unravel, but once I’ve found and squashed it, I’ll be able to roll the update out to patreon 😁

Beyond that, I also have a couple mini-stories planned (akin to the Spooktacular from a couple years back), the first of which is written and mostly-coded. I wanted to have it ready earlier this month, but again, work is slower than I want it to be. In addition, I want to roll out an updated version of the Idle Hands prologue/demo to my lovely and infinitely patient patrons, and I really hope to finally, finally release the first episode of Partially Stars.

Most of all, I hope to start being more active again on tumblr and to stop disappearing for months at a time. That’s my number 1 goal for 2025.

So that’s everything I’ve got for y’all for now! I’m gonna go back to fumigating my code so I can kill this bug, and with luck I’ll have something fun for you all very soon.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, happy Wednesday to those who don’t, and a Happy New Year to everyone. Enjoy the liminal week remaining until 2025, I love you all, and thank you as always for reading 💙💙💙

[astrcmoni]

ᯓ☆ star’s midnight caller ☆ᯓ

MASTERLIST

☆ series masterpost: I II III

pairing: billie eilish x sex-hotline-operator!fem!reader

genre: fluff, smut(kinda)

synopsis: in the quiet of the night, you answer a call that pulls you into a world of mystery and intrigue. what starts as a simple conversation with a stranger turns into a connection you never expected, leaving you craving more with each ring.

wc: 2.4k

warnings: light cussing here and there

authors note: let me know what you guys think, i really liked writing this and i want to make a part two. also there’s no smut in this part but the concept of the hotline is sexual (idk if that made sense) anyways imma stop rambling byeee ☆

phone call style story — reader is in bold italics, billie is in blue italics.

————

wednesday 12:43 am — incoming call from +1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC)

“thanks so much, babygirl,” richard says from the other side of the phone, his voice soft, tinged with something like gratitude. “you always know what i need.”

richard is one of your regulars, calling at least twice a week. he likes to imagine that you’re his long-lost girlfriend, reaching out from some parallel universe. you let him ramble, your voice smooth and coaxing, playing into his fantasy like a script you know by heart. a light laugh here, a soft hum there, the occasional breathy moan when it fits the moment.

“anytime, boo,” you reply, fingers already grazing the disconnect button. “take care of yourself, okay?”

the line clicks off, leaving a brief silence that feels heavier than it should. you exhale, stretching your arms above your head as you try to shake off the remnants of his voice. just another call. just another night.

soft light spills through the corners of your room, golden and warm against the pale lavender of your walls. the curtains billow lazily, carried by a breeze that whispers through the cracked window. outside, the city hums—a distant siren wailing, cars rolling down the street below, someone leaning on their horn too long, too loud.

at your desk, you lean forward, catching your reflection in the mirror perched precariously against a stack of books. sticky lip gloss catches the lamplight, glinting like glass. your lashes look decent—lifted enough to remind you of your own femininity. normally, you wouldn’t bother. no one can see you, after all. but it helps, this small ritual. it’s armor in a way, a mask you slip behind before stepping into this role.

“alright,” you mutter, rolling your neck to release the tension settling in your shoulders. “one more call and i’m done.”

the surface beneath your elbows is cluttered—textbooks splayed open, scribbled lab reports fighting for space with overdue bills. it’s not glamorous, but it pays. and it’s enough, for now.

you adjust your headset, letting the padded cups press comfortably against your ears, and clear your throat. the practiced warmth creeps back into your voice as the phone chimes again, flashing another number across the screen.

wednesday 12:49 am — incoming call from +1 (310) 807-3956 (los angeles, california)

“hello, and thank you for calling the pulse network. this is star speaking.” your voice drops an octave, soft and inviting, the words sliding out like honey. “who do i have the pleasure of speaking with tonight?”

there’s a pause on the other end—static filling the silence like a breath held too long. then, a voice cuts through, low, smooth, and distinctly feminine.

“uh…hi?” she sounds hesitant, her voice fraying at the edges like she’s second-guessing herself. “is this…is this a-uh…hotline for…you know?”

your brows knit for a moment before relaxing. most callers know exactly what they want, their voices heavy with intent. but her hesitation feels different. delicate, almost.

“that depends,” you say, leaning forward slightly, your tone light and playful. “what are you looking for, my love?”

she exhales sharply, and you can hear the faint sound of movement—like she’s pacing, the rhythm of her footsteps soft and uneven.

“honestly?” she says after a beat, her voice quieter now. “i don’t even know why i called. jus’ bored, i guess. curious. didn’t think this would even work.”

a smile tugs at your lips, though you bite it back. calls like these are rare, but you don’t mind them. there’s something refreshing about the uncertainty, the lack of pretense.

“well,” you murmur, letting your voice wrap around the words like a velvet ribbon, “we’re here now. go ahead, tell me whatever’s on your mind. no pressure.”

there’s a pause, long enough that you glance at the timer on the screen, wondering if she’s about to hang up. but then she sighs again, the sound softer this time, like she’s giving in.

“is it weird that i’m calling?” she asks, her voice dipping into the quiet like it’s unsure of its place.

“no judgment here, love. everyone has their reasons.” your response is soft, easy, laced with practiced charm. but something about her feels different.

“i don’t even know mine.”

the line falls into silence again, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of her breathing—steady, almost meditative. it’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s waiting for you to fill it, but instead, you let it linger, listening.

“what’s your name?”

you blink, caught off guard. most callers don’t ask that unless it’s part of the fantasy they’re crafting. most don’t care to know.

“well, what do you want it to be?” you counter, your voice tipping into something playful.

she laughs softly, the sound low and throaty, curling through the line like smoke. “no, that’s not what i asked. i wanna know your name.”

there’s a pause as you weigh her words, the sincerity behind them.

“star,” you say finally, keeping it professional, your tone steady. “you can call me star.”

“what’s your real name?”

her question lands heavier than it should. it’s not forceful, not even intrusive. just curious. like she’s asking for a story rather than a fact.

you hesitate, fingers tracing the edge of your desk absentmindedly. something about her voice makes you want to give in, but you push the temptation aside, slipping easily into deflection.

“you know, most people don’t ask me that,” you murmur. “they usually want to know what i look like, what i’m wearing. things like that.”

“guess i’m not most people, then.”

“come on, you’re telling me you’re not even a little curious?”

she chuckles, warm and low, the kind of laugh that sticks in your chest. “okay, i’ll bite. what are you wearing, star?”

you smirk, leaning back in your chair as the city hums faintly through the open window.

“blue and black pajamas” you reply, your tone light. “lace trim. very cute, if i do say so myself.”

“where’d you get it?”

“some victoria’s secret around my city. they were having a sale.”

“cute.” her voice dips, carrying a hint of a smile. “now, back to my question.”

you roll your eyes, though there’s no edge to it. she’s persistent, you’ll give her that.

“you’re just gonna have to call me star. can’t give you my name. not tonight, sorry sweetheart.”

“no, it’s okay.” she pauses, then repeats it, like she’s trying it on. “well, star.” there’s something deliberate about the way she says it, slow and careful, testing its weight. “i’m billie.”

her name sits soft and sure in the air, settling between you like it belongs.

“you seem like a billie.”

“do i?”

“mhm,” you hum, leaning forward against the desk. “so, billie. what do you want to talk about?”

“hmm.” she draws the sound out thoughtfully, the silence stretching just long enough to make you wonder if she’ll answer. “why do you do this?”

the question hits you in a way you don’t expect, cutting through the usual rhythm of calls. most people don’t ask—don’t even think to ask.

you consider lying, giving her something easy, but the weight of her question lingers, tugging at the edges of your honesty.

“it pays the bills,” you admit finally, your voice soft. “and it’s not as bad as people think. i meet some…very…interesting people.”

“like me?”

the corner of your mouth quirks up, her words pulling at something playful in you.

“you tell me. are you interesting?”

“guess that depends.” she pauses, her voice curling with quiet amusement. “you think i’m interesting so far?”

“so far? i’ll give you a solid maybe.”

her laughter spills through the line, warm and unexpected, and it lingers in your room long after it fades.

“oh really? how long have you been doing this?”

“for about…” you pause, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like the answer might be scrawled there. “for about a little over a year now.”

“damn. that’s a long ass time.”

you chuckle, the sound warm and easy. “it is, isn’t it? i don’t know, i don’t mind it though. all i do is answer the phone. sometimes i do schoolwork, cook—small things like that. not like i necessarily have to be fully present for it, as long as i’m paying attention, you know?”

“you’re in school? just exactly how old are you?”

“wait—before we continue, you’re aware it’s a dollar seventy-five per minute, right?”

“uhh, i wasn’t, but i don’t mind it.”

“ooh, so you’re rich then?”

she laughs, a low, honeyed sound that settles in your chest. “i wouldn’t say that. i’d say i’m… comfortable.”

“only rich people say they’re comfortable. but to answer your question, i’m twenty, in my junior year. babe, you?”

“okay, not bad. i’m twenty-three. though i did think you were much older.”

you snort, rolling your eyes even though she can’t see it. “not bad? we’re practically the same age.”

“mm, i got about three years on you, so… no,” she laughs, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. “what are you majoring in?”

“criminology. mainly forensics and things like that.”

“that’s so fucking cool. so you’re like those people on tv who examine bodies and shit?”

“yeah, but doing it in real life is way different than it looks on tv.” you close your eyes, the memory of your first dissection flashing briefly. “especially lab work. but you get used to it after a while.”

“still, that’s badass. you must be super smart.”

the compliment catches you off guard, heat crawling up your neck. “i guess you could say that,” you mutter, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

the conversation flows easier after that, like water finding its way downhill. you don’t even realize when you’ve moved to your bed, your headset cast aside as her voice fills your room through the speaker.

she asks you everything—your favorite movies, the hobbies that keep you up at night, the kind of music that makes your soul hum. the questions are simple but intimate, slipping past your usual defenses like she’s known you for years.

and you answer her. honestly, without hesitation. there’s something about her voice, warm and unhurried, that pulls the truth out of you.

you find yourself smiling, more than you have in days, fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair as you lean into the sound of her. it feels oddly intimate—like a late-night call with someone who’s already carved out a space in your life.

“so,” she asks after a lull, her voice soft but curious, “what’s your favorite movie?”

you grin, closing your eyes as you let the answer roll off your tongue. “pulp fiction. it’s a classic, don’t judge me.”

“no judgment. i respect it. but you gotta admit, it’s a little basic.”

“oh, and you’re not basic? let me guess—you’re gonna say something artsy like ‘a clockwork orange’ or whatever.”

“wrong. mine’s ‘the shining.’”

“oh, so you’re a horror girl. noted.”

she laughs, the sound warm and easy, and you realize you don’t want the conversation to end. not yet. not with her voice lingering in your room like this.

“what about you?” you murmur, breaking the soft rhythm of silence that had settled between you.

“hm? what about me?” her voice lilts, curious but guarded.

“what do you do? like for work?”

there’s a pause, long enough that you wonder if she’s going to sidestep the question entirely. but then she exhales, the sound quiet, like she’s carefully letting something go.

“i’m a musician,” she says finally, her words tentative, like they might break if handled too roughly. “or i guess i was… i teach music now.”

her admission catches you off guard, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through the connection. but you don’t press her, sensing that whatever she’s offering is enough for now. instead, you let the conversation drift, carried by the quiet ebb and flow of her voice.

the hours blur like watercolors, the world outside fading until there’s only her.

eventually, her tone softens, the edges of her words rounding with sleep. “it’s getting late. i should let you go,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

you glance at the alarm clock on the wall, the soft red digits blinking 3:35 a.m. back at you. exhaustion tugs at you, but the thought of ending the call feels heavier than it should.

“but…” her hesitation pulls you back to her. “can i call you again? i had a really good time.”

your heart stumbles over itself, a small hitch in your chest. “yeah, of course you can.” your voice dips into something softer, something closer to truth. “i had a good time too.”

“great. goodnight, star.” there’s a smile in her voice, light and unguarded, and it lingers in the air even after she’s gone.

“goodnight, billie.”

the line goes quiet, and for a moment, you sit there, the warmth of her voice still brushing against you like an afterglow.

you slip off your bed, padding into the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. the cool water shocks your skin, but it doesn’t chase away the heat curling low in your stomach.

when you return to your room, the lamp clicks off with a soft snap, plunging the space into shadows broken only by the shifting colors of your tv. you slide under the covers, the faint hum of a late-night rerun filling the silence. the images blur on the screen, but all you can think about is her voice, the way it clung to the edges of the night, soft and sure.

a ding pulls you from your thoughts. your phone glows faintly on the nightstand, and you reach for it, the sudden brightness making you blink.

new transactions — 4:03 a.m.

+1 (254) 783-0184 (dallas, TX) - $26.25

+1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC) - $43.75

+1 (310) 807-3956 (los angeles, CA) - $315.62

you smile, the corners of your lips twitching up involuntarily. it’s nothing unusual, but tonight it feels different, lighter somehow. you turn the screen off and set the phone back down, a quiet sense of contentment settling over you.

for the first time in a long time, you find yourself looking forward to your next call.

inspired by @whore-era

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[watchmegetobsessed]

OLD GRUDGES (part 1)

A/N: wooohoooo im bringing something new!!! i feel like it happens so rarely it's like a miracle lol anyway, this will be hopefully a couple of parts (probably about 3) and lets all pray i will actually finish it lol

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: Harry and Y/N go way back. Working together was like a dream when 1D was still going strong. Now, years later, when they end up working together again, things are very different. Mostly because Y/N seems to be hating Harry passionately. But he has not idea why.

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

Everyone loves Harry Styles. It’s a known fact, not just amongst the people who actually know him, but all around the world. He is known as one of the most unproblematic celebrities, someone who gives just as much if not even more respect as he gets, always kind and patient with others, rarely loses his temper. It’s hard to imagine that there is anyone walking this planet who doesn’t see him as a lovable, sweet man.

Well, it might be hard to imagine, but there is actually one person who has a very different opinion when it comes to the british popstar. 

And that person is music producer, Y/N. 

The interesting thing is that their history goes way back into his 1D days. Y/N was an up and coming name in the industry, just started working with bigger names when she got the chance to produce several songs on the band’s third studio album. Harry remembers her as a bubbly, funny girl who is passionate about her job and is also excellent in it. Working with her was easy and motivating, she was always eager to perfect songs to an extent Harry couldn’t even imagine and that’s why songs like Story Of My Life, You & I and Midnight Memories were such hits. Y/N put her heart and soul into them, which eventually earned all the recognition they deserved. 

Harry loved working with Y/N and she was in talks of working on their fourth album as well, but the deal ended up ditched and she went on to do other projects and they somehow had a fallout. It was a shame, but he hoped his path would cross hers again. 

Years and years went by and so much changed by the time their professional ways finally met again. Jeff brought her name up when Harry just started writing for his fourth solo album and Harry gave him the go to do whatever it takes to get her on the project. A few weeks passed and Harry didn’t get any confirmation about her and just when he was about to bring it up to Jeff, he hit him with the news.

“Y/N is in for five songs. Contract should be signed by Wednesday and you can start working next week.”

Harry wondered why it took so long to get her on board, but he brushed it off because he knew she was a big name now herself and had plenty of offers from which she could choose from. He was excited to work with her and simply see her again.

It was utter shock for him when she was the complete opposite of what he remembered. Okay, that might be an overstatement, but Harry could feel something was off instantly.

She was still bubbly and fun, but for some reason, she had a certain iciness and bitter attitude whenever her focus was on Harry. To anyone else it was unnoticable, Harry knows, because he asked Jeff about it.

“What are you talking about? She is awesome,” the manager said with a shrug and Harry tried to tell himself it was all in his head, because if Jeff doesn’t see it, it’s not real.

But it kept happening and it felt even stronger when it was just him and her in a room. Sometimes she even pretended like he wasn’t there, sometimes her snarky comments were all he got and they just strengthened him in his belief. 

He wanted to ask her about it, he tried, several times, but his attempts just bounced right off her icy behavior so eventually, he gave up and there was only one thing left for him to do.

Return what he was getting. 

Yes, it is childish, but he felt like he needed to deal with her unreasonable hatred towards him somehow and this was the easiest way. Was it a smart idea to practically become enemies when working together on his album? Of course not. But it just happened.

And going against each other became their thing. 

They were great in arguing, disagreeing even when they could easily compromise, riling each other up and lashing out on each other when the tension had been building up for hours. It got to the point where others started to notice that something was off between the two of them and when Jeff questioned Harry about it, he couldn’t give him a reasonable explanation.

“She started it,” he said and instantly felt like a kid, telling on his classmate at school. But this is all he could say, because he had no idea why she was acting this way. And he has to live with it while they work together.

Something is off. Harry knows it. Something about the melody… or the guitar… or is it the lyrics? He can’t tell, he has listened to the recording a million times so it all melts in his ears and he can’t identify what’s setting him off every time he hears it. 

“Why don’t we take a break?” Jack, the technician suggests, turning in his chair. “Y/N will be here in twenty, I’m sure she’ll–”

“Okay,” Harry snaps, just so he doesn’t finish. He knows what he wanted to say. 

She’ll know what’s wrong and will correct it in a second.

Y/N always knows what’s wrong and most of the time it’s a perk, of course it is, but today, Harry feels like it’s gonna make him want to crawl out of his body. Maybe it’s because he’s been in the studio for five hours and he got nowhere or maybe because Mitch will have his first ever solo gig tonight and Harry has been worried his fame or relation to him might ruin this experience for him. 

Either way, today he is just extra pissed by the fact that Y/N will be the one to solve this mystery. 

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he clears his throat, standing up from his seat. “Do you want one?” he offers, feeling a bit guilty he snapped at Jack.

“Uh, yeah, just an espresso is fine, thanks man.”

“Sure, I’ll be right back.”

Putting on his headphone, Harry jogs across the street to the tiny coffee shop he’s been a regular at. He likes the place because they are discreet and their coffee is just simply amazing, though they swear there’s nothing extra in it. 

He waits for the two coffees at the end of the counter and scrolls on his phone in the meantime. Emails, messages, there’s always something to answer to. He sends out a few replies before he ends up in his calendar. It’s neatly color coded and he takes pride in keeping it up-to-date all the time so he can always be on top of his game, no matter what. 

His eyes land on one particular date. Five weeks from now Y/N’s contract expires and if the five songs are done by then, she’ll be out of Harry’s life again. Seeing how the work is going, she’ll easily outdo that number so there won’t be any reason for talk about an extension. 

An unsettling feeling spreads in his stomach as he stares at the date but he doesn’t have time to figure it out because  he is snapped out of his thoughts when the two paper cups are placed in front of him. He is trying his best to keep a positive mindset as he returns to the studio’s building. With the two coffee cups in his hands he makes a right turn and then stops at the door, seeing Y/N sitting where he did previously, already listening to the recording with Jack with a critical expression on her face. 

Harry doesn’t interrupt them, just stays put and waits for her feedback. When she is done listening, she leans back in her seat.

“It’s the bass. Or more specifically the lack of it. Can you double it? Let’s see how it changes.”

Jack is quick to do as she asked and then he starts the song again and…

Harry wants to scream and laugh in bliss at the same time, because it’s perfect now. He’s mad he couldn’t spot such an obvious thing, but he is also happy it’s finally sorted out. It’s just a shame Y/N was the one to do it and not him. 

“Great, so this is done then,” he makes himself noticed as he walks into the studio and hands over one of the cups to Jack. 

When he looks at Y/N he can see that familiar, irritated look on her face that’s almost always there when he’s around. He hasn’t decided if he wants to physically wipe it off, or…

“Thanks for bringing one for me,” she comments in a bored tone, turning back towards the screen.

“You weren’t here when I went out.”

“But you knew I was coming.”

Harry opens his mouth, but then closes it, because this time she is kind of right. And it irks him even more today.

It’s gonna be a challenging session today, Harry thinks as he takes a seat.

It’s always exciting for Harry to be behind the stage when he’s not the star of the show. Kind of like a whole different world.

He hasn’t been here for long, but he’s been trying his best to stay as unnoticed as possible and let Mitch take the spotlight. Just a few minutes ago Sarah put him on Scout-duty which he gladly took up on, he’s always happy to spend time with the little guy. This time he is letting him explore freely and he’s just following him around to make sure he’s safe. Scout seemingly enjoys the adventure with uncle Harry, who doesn’t really pay attention where he is heading. 

That’s how they end up in the green room where Y/N is.

Y/N and Sarah have worked together a while ago, which is a random coincidence how they are connected outside of Harry. Because of their history, Y/N is often where they are, however she was never around when Sarah and Mitch were playing for Harry. 

Scout runs up to Y/N, arms in the air, asking to be picked up and Harry stops a few steps away from them when he realizes who he just found.

“Hey there, little guy! Are you all by yourself?” Y/N asks, settling the boy on her hip.

She’s changed since they parted ways in the studio. Harry has always admired her sense of style, which mostly consists of basic pieces, almost like a capsule wardrobe, but there’s always something extra, something vibrant on her that makes her sets interesting. Tonight she is wearing a simple black dress with a rather low back cut, simple heels, simple makeup, but she added a silky scarf with vivid colors and shapes around her neck that brings Harry’s attention to the curve of her neck and collarbones, almost as a cheeky invitation for his eyes to her naked skin. 

He has to fight the urge to touch her.

Despite the spiteful relationship they’ve been sporting lately, Harry had to deal with a rather unreasonable desire for Y/N in a physical way.

Unreasonable, because he never thought he could be attracted to someone who pisses him off so easily, yet there’s been plenty of occasions when Harry found himself imagining scenarios he could never admit to her, not when she hates him with such obvious passion.

Tonight it’s not just the outfit, but also the way she’s handling Scout. It’s not just women who find it incredibly hot when the opposite sex is great with kids, Harry can definitely feel something inside him moving as he watches Y/N sway from side to side with the little boy in his arms.

“Uncle Hazza is here!” Scout points at him, answering her previous question. Y/N looks up and because Harry was already looking at him, he catches a slipping moment where there’s no irritation on her face, but it returns quite fast when her gaze settles on him. 

“Ah, hi,” she says, lips pressed together as she nods, acknowledging his presence. 

“Hey. Long time no see.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets it. Who says that? Why did he even say anything else other than hi? He smacks himself in his mind. 

Part of him expects her to say something like ‘not long enough’ but she just keeps quiet and turns all her attention to Scout. Harry feels out of place, he is supposed to be babysitting, but Y/N is taking care of Scout, Harry knows he is in good hands but Sarah asked him to watch over him. Should he leave? Or just keep standing there awkwardly?

“You can go, I’ll watch him,” Y/N says, as if she could read his mind. 

“You sure?”

“I’m pretty sure I can take care of him until Sarah is back.” Her reply is not just dry, kind of offended, nothing Harry wouldn’t expect from her, but it’s still irking him.

“I didn’t say you’re not capable, I just–”

“I’m not in the mood for this,” she cuts him off with an icy look. Harry is too stunned to reply, just watches Y/N walk away with Scout. 

He almost finds it amusing how easily she can piss him off, not many people have been able to do that, in fact, Harry thinks she does it the best. 

Clenching his jaw he takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and then just lets it all go. 

The after party is always kind of Harry’s favorite. The stress is over, it’s just the relief and celebration that is left.

Mitch’s show went well, that’s what Harry expected, but it’s still great he was right. Seeing his friend be the star of the show was an experience he is glad he could be part of. Now that the core of the group has moved to a nearby bar, Harry has loosened up thanks to the couple of drinks he’s had. 

He’s been mostly sticking to the familiar faces he knows, rotating between the same few people  while enjoying how under the radar he is currently. 

The more drinks he has had, the less he’s been able to control where his gaze goes. To be exact, he’s been finding himself looking Y/N’s way the past hour or so. That damn dress and scarf, it’s like she’s put a spell on him that forces him to keep wanting to look at her. 

Harry is not experienced with feeling like this. Being attracted to someone who he hates, it’s such an ambivalent impulse, he can’t think straight. Or maybe it’s the amount of tequila he has drunk tonight, either way, it’s getting a rise out of him. 

From the corner of his eye he sees her slip out to the back where the smoking area is, he hesitates, shifts his weight from one leg to the other before making the leap and heading after her. He has no plan, no idea what he wants to ro will say to her, but he just feels like he has to talk to her.

Stepping out to the dimly lit back alley he is met with a few people scattered around, having a cigarette with drinks in hand, talking or scrolling on their phone and then he spots Y/N on the left, standing by the wall, cigarette in one hand, the remaining of her drink in the other as she stares ahead of her. 

She doesn’t smoke regularly, but she does enjoy one in certain social settings or when she’s had a few drinks. Harry knows it from years ago, because they shared a cigarette at a party, back then she seemed thrilled to spend time with him, he remembers all the conversations they had while working together, telling each other stories, sharing their plans, Harry truly thought they would remain good friends on this extraordinary journey, yet they ended up here.

As Harry walks towards her, she notices him and he sees her lips twitch in annoyance. 

“Care if I join?” he asks and she just shrugs without a word, avoiding to look at him. 

They stand there in silence for a while, she is lazily puffing the smoke out from time to time.

“Is it still just an occasional thing?” he tries to strike up a conversation.

“Mhm,” is all he gets as a reply.

“Have you tried to put it down fully?”

“Why are you doing this?” she snaps at him, finally looking his way. 

“What?”

“Why are you trying to chit-chat when we both know we don’t do that?”

“And why don’t we?” He challenges her. “Tell me why we are like this in the first place, because I have no idea.”

She stares at him for long moments and he awaits her answer like nothing before, but then she shakes her head and turns to the pin beside her, puts the cigarette out and flicks it into the bin. Then, without another word she is already heading back inside.

It takes a moment for Harry to start moving again, but he is quick to catch up with her in the hall that leads to the restrooms. 

“Y/N, give me a fucking answer!” he demands, grabbing her wrist to pull her back before she could escape, but she shakes his hand off as she comes to a stop, turning towards him.

“I owe you nothing!” she hisses at him. “I owe you no one, but especially you!”

“What the fuck does that suppose to mean?! I never thought you owe me anything!”

“I’m not doing this, Harry, leave me the fuck alone,” she growls and tries to leave, but Harry pulls her back again, determined to get an answer this time. 

“Don’t think I will just swallow everything down forever. I will get to the bottom of this, whether you like it or not. It’s your choice if you make it hard on both of us.”

She is looking back at him with wide eyes, this time his hand remains on her arm as they stare each other down in the empty hallway. Neither of them knows what will be their next move, the tension is so thick, it’s almost suffocating.

But then it all changes.

If someone asked who moved first, they wouldn’t know. One moment they are standing like stone statues, barely even breathing, then the next moment they are kissing like there’s no tomorrow.

It doesn’t take long until Harry has her pressed up against the wall, his hands roaming her body, feeling her up the way he fantasized about before, they are both rough and impatient, she is clawing at him, moaning into his mouth when his hips press against hers and she feels how hard he’s gotten already. 

Blindly, Harry pushes the closest door open which happens to be the staff’s bathroom that someone left unlocked, lucky for them. Still glued together they stumble inside, Y/N kicks the door open before Harry pushes her against it and he locks it before his hand returns to her tempting body. 

He has never acted like this when it comes to sex. He does like to spice things up sometimes, but the way he’s biting her lips or unbuttoning his pants or reaches under her dress to pull her underwear down is just so out of character for him, yet so freeing. 

Nothing is said, but when her hands pull his hard, leaking dick out of his pants, there’s a fleeting look they exchange that says it all, just how much they both want it. 

It’s the fastest pace he’s ever experienced, yet the most passionate too. They moan at the same time when Harry pushes into her and starts moving in a rush, desperate for relief. She’s panting and whining for more, the only form of speaking she is able to as she holds onto Harry who is focused on keeping up his quick and steady pace while holding her left leg up to ensure the perfect angle. 

The animalistic need is there for them both, making them act like this is what they must do to stay alive. It’s messy, fast and mind-blowing and they don’t need much time to reach the peak. As she comes her nails dig into her shoulder and she bites into his bottom lip so harshly it draws blood, but he doesn’t care, only follows her into bliss just a second later. With the last bit of his consciousness Harry pulls out right before he comes, covering her thigh with the white, sticky evidence of just how much he enjoyed the past minutes. 

They are breathing heavily and Harry feels like a thick haze is still lingering around his head, stopping him from realizing what just happened. Y/N however is ahead of him and when reality comes crashing down on her, her instinct to flee kicks right in. Harry is still trying to clear his mind when she grabs a paper towel and cleans herself up as fast as possible and Harry only snaps out of his trance when she is already unlocking the door.

“Y/N, what the— wait!” He can’t go after her as she slips out of the room because he is still pretty indecent, so he has to pull his pants up and can only rush out then, but by that time she is already gone.

He’s quite frantic as he tries to find her in the bar, but she is nowhere to be seen. Harry returns to the rest of their group, hoping to catch her somewhere but she has vanished into thin air. 

“Hey, have you seen Y/N?” he asks Mitch, his eyes still roaming the place.

“Nah, haven’t seen her since she went out to smoke.”

Harry groans and makes his way outside, maybe she’s there waiting for a car, but as he steps out to the street he sees no trace of her. Fishing his phone out of his pocket he doesn’t hesitate before dialing her number. The line rings once, twice and then… it goes to voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N. Do whatever you want after the beep.”

“Fuck!” Harry ends the call and he has to stop himself from throwing it against the nearest wall. 

This is not how he planned. Well, he didn’t plan any of it, especially not fucking Y/N like a horny teenager. He wanted to solve this whole issue between the two of them but instead he just created another one.

A stupid, giant one. 

NEXT PART

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[wendsky]

I just wanted to start off with saying how much I love your writing !! you do such a great job with showing what's happening and I'm never confused on what's happening or who's talking (I have the second issue often lol) anyways if you do requests I do have one !! Y/N transfers to Nevermore because of bullies and at some point comes in some sort of physical contact with Wednesday where she gets a vision of you being bullied. Wednesday becomes kinda protective over you the way she is with Eugene and Pugsley, but Y/N's relationship with Wednesday developes into something more. sorry for such a long message and again loving what you're doing !!

thank you for your kind words and of course!

protected

wednesday addams x !witch!fem!reader

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The swirling shadows of Nevermore Academy were a far cry from your previous school, where you had endured the relentless torment of bullies. You had hoped that the new environment would be a sanctuary, a place where you could finally breathe and be yourself. But the anxiety that gripped your chest told you that change didn’t come without its challenges.

As you walked through the stone archways of the academy, you took in the gothic architecture that surrounded you—towering spires, iron chandeliers, and dark wood accents. The students that roamed the halls were unlike any you’d encountered before, with their eclectic styles and unapologetic personalities. For the first time, you felt a flicker of hope. But that flicker quickly dimmed when you heard the whispers.

“Look at her,” one girl sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. “Another weirdo trying to fit in.”

You kept your head down, trying to ignore the cruel laughter that followed you as you made your way to your first class. You had thought you left the bullying behind, but the stares and whispered comments followed you like a shadow.

The first week passed in a blur of classes and isolation. You kept to yourself, determined not to give anyone a reason to target you further. That resolve was put to the test during lunch one day. As you sat at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, trying to enjoy your meal in peace, you felt a sharp shove from behind.

“Oops! Didn’t see you there, loser!” a girl with vibrant purple hair sneered as she walked past, causing you to spill your drink all over yourself. The laughter from her group echoed in your ears as they made their way to the main table, where the more popular students gathered.

Embarrassment flushed your cheeks, and you tried to clean yourself up with a napkin, your hands trembling. You hated feeling weak, hated that they still had power over you. Just as you thought you’d disappear into the floor, a shadow fell over you.

“What’s wrong, Y/N? Did you spill your drink? Or are you just that clumsy?” The voice was low and smooth, tinged with an unsettling calmness that sent a chill down your spine. You looked up to see Wednesday Addams standing there, her expression unreadable.

You blinked, startled by her sudden presence. “I—um, it was an accident,” you managed to stammer, avoiding her piercing gaze.

“Accidents happen, but that wasn’t an accident. It was intentional,” she said, her dark eyes narrowing. You couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply observing.

“I can handle it,” you replied, the instinct to defend yourself kicking in despite your embarrassment.

“Clearly,” she said dryly, and you could almost hear the sarcasm in her tone. “Are you always this brave, or is it just for show?”

“Whatever,” you muttered, your face hot. You hated that she saw you like this—weak and embarrassed.

“Don’t bother. They’re not worth your time,” she replied, her voice steady. She touched your shoulder and for a moment, went still. As if nothing happened, with a swift motion, she turned to leave, her raven-black hair swaying behind her as she walked away.

The next incident came unexpectedly. You were in the library, trying to focus on your studies when you overheard the same group of girls from lunch laughing and whispering nearby. You tried to block them out, but their words cut through the air like daggers.

“Have you seen her? She thinks she’s so special just because she’s here,” one girl said.

“Yeah, as if we need more freaks around here,” another chimed in.

You clenched your fists, your heart racing as you felt the familiar wave of panic wash over you. Why did they have to make everything so difficult? Just as you were about to storm out of the library, you felt a hand on your shoulder.

You turned to see Wednesday standing beside you, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “Stay,” she commanded softly, her voice laced with an urgency that surprised you.

“What?” you asked, bewildered.

“Stay. I want to see how they handle this,” she said, glancing toward the group with a predatory gaze. You hesitated but nodded, curiosity getting the better of you.

As you watched, Wednesday approached the girls, her presence commanding their attention. “Why don’t you say that to her face?” she asked, her tone calm yet filled with an underlying menace.

The girls froze, the laughter dying on their lips. They exchanged nervous glances, the bravado fading as they met Wednesday’s unwavering gaze.

“Uh, we were just joking,” one girl stammered, shifting uncomfortably.

“Jokes aren’t meant to hurt,” Wednesday replied, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “If you have something to say, be brave enough to say it to her.”

You felt your heart race as the girls shifted uneasily, their earlier confidence shattered under Wednesday’s intense scrutiny. They muttered something unintelligible before quickly gathering their things and leaving the library.

You turned to Wednesday, astonished. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Actually, I did,” she replied, her expression softening slightly. “You shouldn’t have to tolerate their cruelty.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the days passed, you noticed a shift in Wednesday’s behavior toward you. It was subtle but undeniable. She began to appear at random moments—sitting nearby in classes, leaning against the wall while you walked to lunch, or simply observing from a distance. At first, you found it unnerving. Why was she watching you? Did she pity you, or was she just curious?

But as the bullying incidents continued, you found solace in her presence. Wednesday’s protective nature began to emerge, mirroring the way she defended her friends, like Eugene and Pugsley. It made you feel… safe. You still faced harassment, but it was less frequent, and you began to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could find a place at Nevermore.

The third incident happened in the hallway. You were on your way to class when you overheard a group of students mocking you again. “Look at her, always alone. What a loser,” one of them laughed.

You took a deep breath, preparing to ignore them, but suddenly, a figure stepped in front of you. It was Wednesday, her dark dress billowing slightly as she stood her ground, her eyes cold and unforgiving.

“Is there a problem here?” she asked, her voice low, but the intensity in her gaze was unmistakable.

The students faltered, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. “We were just—” one of them started, but Wednesday interrupted.

“Just what? Making fun of someone who’s already struggling? How brave of you,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

With that, she turned to you, her eyes softening for the first time. “Ignore them. They’re insignificant.”

You blinked, your heart pounding in your chest as you took in her fierce protection. It was a feeling you hadn’t experienced in a long time, and it made your heart swell.

“Thank you,” you managed to whisper, and for a moment, you thought you saw the corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitch in a ghost of a smile.

The more time you spent together, the more your feelings began to shift. There was something intoxicating about Wednesday—the way she moved, the way she spoke with such conviction and intelligence. You found yourself looking forward to her presence, her shadow becoming a constant comfort amidst the chaos of Nevermore.

One day, while working on a school project in the library, you accidentally brushed your fingers against hers while reaching for a book. The contact was electric, sending a jolt of warmth through your body. You froze, meeting her gaze, your heart racing as you realized how close you had become.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Are you afraid of me?”

You shook your head, the words tumbling out before you could think. “No. I’m… intrigued. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She seemed to consider your words, her dark eyes searching yours. “I suppose I’m not.”

With a sudden confidence, you leaned closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “Why do you protect me?”

“Because you’re worth protecting,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, but the weight of her words hung in the air like a spell.

The moment stretched between you, filled with unspoken emotions and possibilities. You wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but the moment was fragile.

“Do you want to be friends?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

“Friends,” Wednesday repeated, her brow furrowing slightly as she considered the term. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”

As the weeks turned into months, your bond with Wednesday deepened. You shared secrets in the dark corners of the library, and her dry humor slowly chipped away at the walls you had built around your heart. There were moments when her fingers would brush against yours, lingering just a heartbeat longer, and you felt a thrill that was both exciting and terrifying.

But as your friendship grew, so did your feelings. You found yourself daydreaming about her—wondering what it would be like to hold her hand, to share whispered secrets late at night. You caught her watching you more often, and each time your eyes met, it felt like a silent understanding passed between you.

One afternoon, you found yourselves alone in the courtyard, the sun casting a warm glow over everything. You were sitting on a bench, reading, when Wednesday approached, her expression thoughtful.

“Y/N,” she said softly, her tone serious. “I need to talk to you.”

You looked up, meeting her intense gaze. “What is it?”

“Do you believe in destiny?” she asked, her voice almost hesitant.

You frowned, taken aback by her sudden vulnerability. “I suppose… it depends on what you mean.”

“I believe that certain people are meant to cross paths,” she continued, her dark eyes searching yours. “And I believe that you were meant to be here.”

Your heart raced as her words sank in. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath, “that I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You’re… different. You make me feel things I don’t understand.”

You felt your cheeks flush as you processed her words. “I feel the same way, Wednesday.”

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “Then let’s stop pretending. We can be more than friends, if you want.”

You nodded, unable to speak as you felt tears prick your eyes. In that moment, you realized how far you had come. You had gone from being a scared girl, bullied and alone, to standing here with someone who saw you for who you truly were.

And then she was there, her lips brushing against yours—a soft, tentative kiss that quickly turned into something more passionate. You melted against her, wrapping your arms around her waist as you kissed her back, your heart soaring with a mixture of joy and relief.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, Wednesday looked at you with an intensity that made your heart race. “This changes everything,” she said, her voice low and serious.

“Yes,” you agreed, smiling through your tears. “For the better.”

And as you stood there together, the shadows of Nevermore seemed a little less daunting, the future a little more promising. In Wednesday’s presence, you felt like you could finally be yourself, free from the burdens of the past. You were no longer alone, and that made all the difference.

[wands-natsthing]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

HEYYYY HIII HELLOOOO long time I KNOW IM SORRY LSKDKD AND I KNOW I SAID THE WEEKEND BUT I GOT SICK

buttt just to give a lil info, since it has been so long since I updated I put the last bit of chapter 2 at the beginning of this just as a refresher I guess!! And more overall story info (R=23) (W=30) (N=34)

I also wrote kinda like a Wanda’s POV of what happened in the janitors closet so let me know if you want that!!

Feedback is more than welcome!! I love reading all your comments they make me feel like my writing isn’t shit 🤓 and they make me smile :)) I also tried to make this as open as possible this is for everybody!! (I hope I worded that right) I mean as in there rlly no descriptions of r

Warnings: I really don’t think there are any besides maybe it starts to seem a little homewreckery BUT ITS NOT I PROMISE!!

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: You guys come out the closet and have lunch idk

"Who's the woman standing outside the door with you?" you asked.

You can tell Wanda hadn't been expecting your question by the way her eyes widened.

"Oh um, that's Natasha, After you graduated I started teaching a co-taught English class and well she's the co-teacher." She paused before confirming the suspicion you had earlier. 

"She's also my wife…" 

Your heart dropped. 

“Your- your wife…You got married? You ask with a tremble in your voice. 

“Yeah, I did um just a few years ago…” 

“Oh- that's uh, that's cool. Um, congratulations.” 

Wanda’s smile faltered slightly as she sensed the mix of emotions swirling inside you. The joy in her eyes seemed to dim ever so slightly, replaced by a hint of concern.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” she said quietly, her voice softening. "Maybe we could talk more about everything over Lunch?"

Your eyes snapped up at that. The thought of having lunch with her again all these years later was just too enticing to pass up, no matter how many messing feelings it brought again.

"Lunch? Are you- are you sure?" You asked with a hopeful smile on your face.

"Yes, I'm more than sure. I am positive." She reassured you with a gentle touch of her hand running up and down your forearm.

"Okay, then yes I would love to."

"great! What about this weekend at 1:00 at the cafe we saw each other last week? (a/n: Its Wednesday)

"That's perfect!"

"Okay good then it's a date." She said scrunching her nose up in a way that always made your heart melt.

Date.

"I am so sorry, but I better get back, can't leave Natasha by herself for too long with all those parents and kids out there, But I can't wait for our lunch date!"

Date. There goes that word again.

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry for keeping you for so long,” you replied, trying to shake off the rush of emotions swirling in your mind.

Wanda smiled warmly, as if she could sense the turmoil within you. “No need to apologize. It’s nice to catch up, I've missed you."

You both stood there for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. The bustling sounds from the school faded slightly as you locked eyes.

“Alright, I better get going,” she said after a pause, and you could hear the softer undertones of sadness in her voice. “But I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it,” you replied, offering her a genuine smile.

Wanda gave you one last look, her expression revealing a mix of excitement and a hint of uncertainty before she opened the door of the janitor's closet.

You took a deep breath, calming your racing heartbeat. You had so many thoughts swirling through your head but at the same time, you felt as if you couldn't think.

As you finally turned to head out back to your car, you felt a strange sense of hope take root inside you.

You couldn’t help but replay the moment in your mind, the surprise of learning she was married mixed with the thrill of the upcoming lunch. It was complicated, but one thing was clear: you wanted to explore this. No matter how much it might hurt in the end.

The rest of the week felt like an eternity. You replayed snippets of conversations you had shared over the years, moments of laughter, and even the unspoken feelings that had lingered in the air. Each thought made the anticipation for the weekend grow stronger.

Finally, Saturday arrived. You stood in front of your mirror, carefully selecting your outfit for lunch. The end of summer's warmth lingered in the air, but a hint of fall was beginning to whisper in the breeze. You chose a lightweight mustard-yellow sweater, perfect for the transition between seasons. Its soft knit hugged your figure comfortably.

For pants, you chose a pair of high-waisted, olive-green corduroy pants that offered both warmth and style. The slightly flared legs provided a retro vibe, making them an ideal choice for early autumn. On your feet, you wore your black Converse. Always a staple in your outfits.You topped everything off with a silver chain that went slightly past your collarbone and small gold hoops that reflected off the light.

Never understood the big deal about mixing silver and gold.

And a light spritz of your favorite fall-inspired perfume, with notes of vanilla and sandalwood, completed the look, a warm scent perfect for the season.

As the clock ticked closer to 1:00, doubts and anxiety started creeping in.

What if she doesn't show?

Is my outfit bad?

Does my breath smell? You make sure to brush your teeth one more time before leaving.

When you arrived at the cafe, a wave of shyness washed over you. You spotted Wanda almost immediately. She was sitting at a cozy table, her reddish auburn hair catching the sunlight, and you wondered how someone could look both familiar and new after all this time.

You exchanged hesitant glances. The soft murmur of conversations around you felt louder than usual, amplifying the butterflies in your stomach.

As you approached, her face lit up, the warmth of her smile easing your nerves.

 “You made it!” she exclaimed, standing up to greet you with an embrace that felt both comfortable and electrifying.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you replied, taking a seat across from her.

For a moment, the air was thick with unspoken words. Both of you are unsure what to say.

Fortunately, as if sensing the tension in the air, a waitress approached to take your order.

"I'll have a hot caramel latte and a turkey and cheese sandwich, please," Wanda said with a soft smile. You returned her smile, appreciating the familiarity of her order.

Both Wanda and the waitress turned to you, waiting to see what you'd chosen.

"I'll have the same, please. Thank you."

*****************************

You sipped your coffee, the warmth seeping into your hands, trying to ground yourself. Slowly but surely the conversation began to flow just like how it had all those years ago.

It was as if nothing had changed. 

As if neither had gone through drastic changes.

Yet, even as the conversation deepened, the thought of her marriage lingered at the back of your mind and the fact that they worked together. Soon within a day, they both would be your coworkers.

Curiosity nudged at you, and you found yourself leaning in.

“What’s it like? Teaching together, I mean? That must be… interesting.”

Just like in the janitor's closet, she was surprised by your sudden question.

Though she laughed softly, easing the tension. “It is, we balance each other out. She’s all about structure, while I tend to go with the flow. It makes for some creative lesson plans."

Though you were more so wondering if they shared any lunches like the two of you did; 

You'll take it.

Gathering up as much composure as possible you try to sound as "mature" as you possibly can. “Sounds like a great dynamic,” you replied, picturing the two of them in a classroom full of students, bouncing ideas off each other.

"Yeah it is, we make a great team." Wanda smiled, her eyes lighting up.

 "You know, I would love for the two of you to formally meet."

Your heart raced and your mind went blank.

What the fuck?

"Wait...I'm sorry, what?"

Wanda repeated herself slowly, not sure how to take your response.

“Oh, um, really? Your wife?” You stammered, shocked from the sudden/not so sudden twist in conversation. "I mean are you- are you sure that is a good idea? You know, me being me?"

Wanda smiled at you comfortingly. "Of course, it's a good idea, I mean besides you were gonna meet her soon anyway with school starting Monday-"

She stops mid-sentence playing with the necklace adorning her neck, a telltale sign 

She's nervous.

"Natasha also already knows exactly who you are to me." 

♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎

𝐨𝐨𝐩 🤓

𝐋𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯!!

@nebthetautora @esposadejoyhuerta @w4ndsversew0nder

@skz-xii

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ big gym energy (is this my fantasy?) | fushiguro toji

wc: 2.0k

summary: who would have thought the rippest DILF in all of Japan would get you to go to the gym everyday?

contains: gn!reader, non-curse au, college au, appearance of itafushikugi (mostly nobara), reader has a huge and lowkey delusional crush on toji, age gap

a/n: the gym toji fic! tone in this is a bit different from what i write, and it's lowkey a crack fic but i hope it's still enjoyable! listened to: big energy - latto & area codes - kaliii

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: going to the gym for yourself (and totally not for that cute guy who sometimes says hi)

“You’re going to the gym?” Nobara halts smack in the middle of the busy hallway. Groans huff behind her, the rest of your class filing out of the lecture hall. You bow your head apologetically as you pull her to the side. 

“Yes.” 

She squints, skeptical, “You.” 

You nod.

“The gym.” she says it slower this time, tilting her head down. 

You nod again. 

Nobara blinks, shifting her weight as she reaches one hand inside the pocket of her overalls. There’s a long pause, rushed footsteps amplifying the suspense, then—

“Okay, what’s the bet? How much did Maki put out? I want in.” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you loop your arm around hers and continue walking. 

There’s good reason for her to doubt you; she knows you best after all. In your little quad, you are the least likely to be found doing any physical activity or sport whatsoever—and that’s saying a lot, considering the other fourth of your group is Megumi. But at least he walks his dogs regularly. 

“Rude,” you scoff jokingly, “there’s no bet, just testing it out because they have a free trial promo.”

It shouldn’t hurt to check it out, you think. One of your resolutions this year is to finally get started on your fitness journey, whatever form it may be. 

“You should come.” 

Nobara snorts, “Wrong person,” you both turn at a corner, “ask Itadori.”

The gym is just a few blocks away from your campus, a good 18-minute walk if you’re counting—which is also part of what makes it so appealing. The ad you’d seen for the free trial is an early bird promo to attract new customers for the gym’s new branch launch. 

And it does make the most sense to ask him; he is the sports science major after all—

“No way,” you step out on the sidewalk, “telling him is practically committing to a membership.” 

—but Yuuji is a bit too eager when it comes to things like this. No doubt he’ll be at your heel, wagging his figurative golden retriever tail at the prospect of being your certified gym buddy. It’s endearing and you know he means well, but that’s way too much pressure for someone who’s just starting out. 

She laughs, readjusting her bag, “He’d know how to use the machines though.” 

“I watched some videos…” you mumble, because Nobara has a point, but if you’re being honest, you feel just a teensy bit embarrassed at the idea of anyone else knowing about your attempts at fitness this early on, lest it fail in the end. “I can probably ask someone there…” 

“Try the most jacked up person in the gym.” 

You shove her jokingly, her laughter echoing down the road. 

. 

The first person you meet at the gym is the lady at the front desk. Her ponytail sways as she greets you, a chirpy smile welcoming you in as she holds an iPad to her chest while touring you around—at the center, the main floor plan is decked out with machines; towards the back sit the squat racks, and to your sides are the private cycling rooms and multifunctional spaces. According to her, they also offer yoga classes every 6:00 p.m. on Wednesdays. 

You’d expected a lot more people to be in here at 7:00 p.m., but you suppose it makes sense others would prefer to spend their Friday nights elsewhere. 

Looking around, you spot a middle-aged lady you swear is Megumi’s English professor; on the treadmills, a couple your age share a laugh as they try to match pace. There are some machines you’ve never even seen in your life, Youtube videos included.

You take a deep breath. You can ask for help. 

After all, the crowd feels friendly enough, not too intimidating—

—until your eyes land on him, on the benches; an absolute tank of a man doing chest presses with what you think are probably the heaviest dumbbells on the rack. 

You try not to stare, catching only a glimpse of the way his biceps flex against the tight sleeves of his black compression shirt. 

Don’t be a creep, you tell yourself, walking towards the leg press machine. You may be new here, but you’ve learned that gym etiquette isn’t so far off from acting like a civilized human being. 

Thank god you never take Nobara seriously, because you can’t even imagine the stuttering mess you’d be if you had to ask him how to work any of these god forsaken machines. 

.

It’s a good thing, then, that help comes to you without you having to say a word. 

This is number four out of five sessions in your free trial promo, and you have no idea how to get the goddamn plates out of the barbell. You pull some out from the other side and the whole barbell comes along with it. When you attempt the other side, it does the same. Then when you finally do manage to get off the plates on one side, the whole barbell drops, clanging loudly against the metal foot of the squat rack set-up. 

(Now that you think about it, maybe it isn’t such a good thing that you’ve been offered help instead of you asking. There must be a reason someone thinks you could need it.)

Someone, who is also the last person you could ever possibly want to embarrass yourself in front of.

Someone, who just so happens to be the jacked up tank of a man you’ve admittedly glanced at a few times in your past few visits here. 

“To make it easier,” he crouches beside you, laying down a smaller plate and rolling the larger ones on the barbell over it. 

He unloads them like they weigh nothing—and with his physique, it isn’t hard to believe that they probably do. His biceps look to be the size of your head, chest popping out in ways you’ve only seen on those Tiktok thirst edits; his one hand is larger than a 2.5 kilogram plate, and his forearms look like they could ch—

Mind out of the gutter, you blink away, focusing instead on the metal bar in front of you. 

God, you don’t even know this man’s name. 

“T-thanks.” you stutter, embarrassed. 

He gives you a half-smile, lips turned on one side, “Sure.” then he walks away, the tightness of his black compression shirt hugging the ridges of his back muscles. 

You gulp. 

So begins your year-long gym membership.

(And maybe, just maybe, the kind-of-meet-cute of a lifetime. Who knows, really?) 

.

“Who would have thought the rippest DILF in all of Japan would get you to go to the gym everyday,” she snorts, fingers grazing over the curved edges of the heart-shaped watermelons in the fruit aisle.

You hush her, scanning the area around you for anyone who might have overhead. 

It’s 11:00 p.m. on a Thursday, so you doubt it, but you can never be too sure.

“He’s nice, you know.” you pout. 

“Yeah, what’s his name?” Nobara gives you a look. 

You glare, touché. 

Maybe you don’t know his name. Yet. 

But he’s always offered to stack on the heavy plates for you, and will oftentimes help in unloading them too. There are times when you aren’t quite sure how to work the machines and he swoops in like the gym buff version of prince charming, teaching you proper form just so you don’t get injured. He’ll wipe down a mat for you to use some days, because—

“Stretching is important,” he never fails to mention.

He’s nice. 

And you have an insanely delusional crush on him, but you don’t care, because why else would he be giving you this much attention if he wasn’t interested in you too? 

.

You find out many things about your gym crush, most of them completely unexpected. 

One: his hair is unusually soft for someone who looks so rough. Or, well, you think it looks soft, you can’t tell for sure; you haven’t actually touched it to be able to tell. The black mop on his head falls flat over his eyes on the few days you assume are right before his next scheduled haircut. It surprises you even more when he walks in the gym with a small hair tie holding his bangs up. 

Two: he does a considerable amount of bodyweight exercises for someone his size—Calisthenics, specifically. 

You watch him pull himself up the bar, biceps and back straining against the movement. The muscles ripple across the fabric of his tee, and it’s impressive how smoothly he’s able to go up and down; as if he isn’t exerting any effort at all. Then, the push-ups and dips. He can do them all, in every variation you never even thought existed, and it’s always done with so much ease. 

It gives you reason to believe that he could be gentle, controlled. In what? Well. You know. 

Three: he likes fruity things. You expected his go-to to be straight black, maybe a chocolate protein shake on other days too. But he shows up one day with a smoothie in the shade of vibrant magenta. Dragonfruit, you assume, from all the black specks floating in it. 

This also happens to be the first time you initiate the conversation with him.  

“Your smoothie looks good,” you mumble, a little hesitant. 

God, so awkward. 

He looks up from adjusting the plate stoppers on your bar. 

A hum rumbles from his throat before he flashes you the same half-smile he always does, “Strawberry, banana, and dragonfruit.” 

You don’t really know what to say after that other than, “Cool.” 

And you mentally facepalm yourself. 

. 

In your fourth month at the gym, you learn a few more unexpected things that change everything. 

You’ve just finished freshening up and you’re on the way out when you bump into— 

“Megumi?” 

He looks up from his phone, dark strands hitting the tips of his eyelashes as he pushes back one side of his headphones. He raises an eyebrow, confused and surprised.  

“You gym?” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

Pink dusts his cheeks as he ducks his head, motioning for you to go first. 

“Sorry,” you chuckle, adjusting the strap of your duffel bag, “I started going here a few months ago. You?” 

He looks a little surprised by it, probably more so at the fact that you’ve kept it a secret from him for so long, but he nods, “That’s good. You did mention wanting to work on your fitness more this year.” then, he shifts, adjusting his weight before hanging his headphones by his neck. 

“I’m waiting for my dad.” 

In the past few years you’ve known Megumi, he’s never mentioned his dad. You never bothered to ask because you suspected there was a good reason he never talked about him in the first place. 

And so comes number four, and maybe the last unexpected thing you find out about your gym crush— 

“Megumi!” 

You both turn around to the voice of none other than Nobara’s proclaimed rippest DILF in Japan; the most jacked up tank of a man who also happens to be the man you’ve crushed hard on for the past four months.  

Everything is snapping into place, information forming bridges you would rather not cross right now. 

He walks up to Megumi, duffel bag slung across his chest as he reaches for your friend.

Megumi looks like he wants to wither away, embarrassed at you seeing him tucked under his dad’s arm. But all your brain can really comprehend is that Megumi, your good friend, is currently squished between the bicep and chest you’ve been staring at since your first day at the gym.

You hold your breath, the realization creeping to the forefront of your mind. There had been signs that your gym crush was a dad; apart from being built like one, he’d offhandedly mention ‘son’ a few times. You didn’t think it would be—

“Oh, you two know each other?” your gym crush tilts his head, turning to you, “you didn’t tell me your friend signed up for this gym, Megumi.” 

“I didn’t know,” Megumi grumbles, and the look on his face can rival yours, for sure. Tough competition on ‘who looks like they want to die the most right now?’. 

But he can’t win. 

Because when Megumi begrudgingly introduces your gym crush to you as his dad, you’re pretty sure you’ve buried yourself twelve feet underground. 

(It doesn’t ease the embarrassment when you learn unexpected thing number five: he’s been a trainer at the gym this entire time.)

thank you notes: to @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for encouraging me all the way!! ily ari

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[letorip]

Can you do headcanons about meeting/first date with Jenna’s characters?

meetings & first dates

very funny to think about, i really did have quite good fun writing this one. thank you as always to the anon who requested, i was happy to oblige. also this isn’t what i originally planned to put out but casual [iii] should be out soon so maybe this’ll fill the void. i'm also on holiday at the moment, so that's why i'm posting at a weird hour (5 am) my ass had a plane to catch

i think i cooked on the lorraine one, would y'all want that one too

wednesday addams

you meet her in jericho, working behind the counter of the hardware store your parents own, when she stomps inside in her rain soaked boots and down a random aisle without a word at you

when she comes back with a shovel, some duct tape, a taser, and some rope, you have to awkwardly joke that it looks like she's trying to kill something

she doesn't laugh at your joke, instead staring right back at you, and you feel yourself gulp

that's your first interaction, and you don't see her again for a few days, until she comes back to buy a box of nails, and then a week later, a bucket, and a few days after that, a plunger

you won't know it until later, but she didn't actually need the nails or the bucket, she just needed an excuse to go back to the hardware store and buy some stuff so she could get up close to you

after four or five trips of her buying the most odd, random shit, she works up the courage to actually start talking to you a bit more. after a few more trips after that, you ask her what the stuff is all for, and she lets you in on the creature in the woods killing the locals, and that she claims to have seen it

for what it's worth, you believe her immediately, about rowan and the hyde and crackstone, and you listen to her theorise, leaning on the counter until someone else comes in and asks you where the plywood is, and you have to actually go do your job. wednesday stares down the intruder, trying to smite them with her eyes, but you always give her an apologetic smile before you leave

she tells you later when you're better friends and she's confessing, but she thinks of you as an odd comfort and home that she never realised she desired, and being in the hardware store and having you smile at her gave her a single fluttering of that warmth

eventually she brings you on her investigations and her cold, dead heart is running a million miles an hour the entire time, but you have to hide how close you are to wednesday from your father, because of his passionate dislike of outcasts

wednesday comes to your back window and chucks rocks at the glass to get your attention, romeo and juliet style, so that you can sneak out

when you actually ask her out, it's before you've even kissed, and wednesday wordlessly nods yes with her mouth hanging open, before she grabs the collar of your jacket and messily kisses you for the first time

your first date is to a movie, and to a horror movie, to be more specific. you take her to get food at a local diner that's open 24 hours, super late at night, and though she makes a remark about how these restaurants were unhealthy and an indicator of what's wrong with america, she thoroughly enjoys her waffle and you even manage to get her to wear one of those silly diner hates for a moment. she doesn't admit it, but she likes making you laugh

the movie is an incredibly rough experience. you despise horror movies, but wednesday is left smiling at the screen as a man is ripped to shreds in front of your eyes

that is until she realises your discomfort, and she realises you only did this because you knew she would like it. the realisation literally blows her mind, and she watches your face contort in disgust and fear, before gently reaching over and hastily grabbing your hand

she doesn't say another word, struggling to process the new emotions until you're both done with the movie and walking home. you're ranting about how gross it was and how you would be having nightmares for weeks because of it, and then she reaches up to the back of your neck and pulls you down into another fiery kiss, right as it starts to rain

tara carpenter

you've known tara for years, since you're also from woodsboro. you went to the same elementary school and she’s known of you for a long, long time since you chased her around the playground with a lizard in your hands

tara's always liked you, and you've both always had some attraction to each other and magical chemistry, but there's always been something to keep you apart

tara's involvement with amber and then chad, and then your own girlfriends, it was never the right time for you both to explore whatever electricity you could feel between you, so you didn't until you were both well into your year at blackmore

you only really get close until you take the same film class as tara. tara takes it because she's a film major and you take it because you need the credit and it's the only option of a class that takes place after 8 in the morning

you sit right next to each other and for the whole semester, you two slowly grow closer and closer, poking each other and whispering stuff while the professor prattles on

she's the de facto film buff of the group, only rivalled by mindy, and so you go to her whenever you're working on a project, because you're definitely the type to watch stupid shit, and not the high-brow film stuff the class requires

it means you end up hanging out a lot, at the library, at the coffee shop, on the couch of her apartment. you both set up the '1 for 1' rule, in which she gets to show you a movie for ever movie you get to show her

and she shows you really annoyingly good stuff, while you make her watch utter garbage. neither of you admit it, but you end up liking some of the high-brow art she pushes and she ends up having fun with the stupid movies you show her

when she makes you watch the babadook, you make her watch hot tub time machine, when she makes you watch citizen kane, you make her watch bridesmaids, and when she makes you watch la la land, you make her watch zoolander. it's a mutual exchange of interests, and you both lean against each other when you watch them on the couch or on her bed

paddington absolutely makes tara carpenter cry, there, i said it, and you show it to her and hug her when she does

things are genuinely just so easy and perfect with you, and it's so natural in a way that is unnatural for tara, but in a good way. you're unlike anyone she's ever been with, and it's refreshing and new in a way that's so exciting when you both kiss during the movie before sunrise

that's why it's so funny when your first date goes absolutely awfully

it rains on you, while you both walk to the restaurant and neither of you brought an umbrella because it wasn't projected to rain. then the sushi place you're bringing her to completely forgets your reservation and you're both waiting 30 minutes to get a table, and to top matters off, you end up being allergic to a fish you try for the first time, and need to get taken in hospital

you're not even choking really, just broken out into hives and feeling lightheaded, and tara's in the ambulance with you on the way there, and you're both talking casually, like "how was your day?"

you both get there and realise tara forgot her phone at the restaurant, and whereas anyone else would be pissed and call it a terrible date and give up, you both are fucking laughing your heads off at how cartoonishly awful the date went, even though it's a hospital, and that probably isn't the right place to be laughing in

when you're released super late that night, you both end up just wandering around new york until the late hours of the morning, just talking and occasionally holding hands. tara mentions that it reminds her of la la land, and you kiss, and what would've been a deal-breaking, awful date for anyone else just becomes something you shared with each other, and brings you even more in love

reminds me of the song ant pile by dominic fike

lorraine day

you meet lorraine as the kid of the new corn farmer in town, after your grandfather gets too old to be able to maintain his land by himself. your father has to come back and take over, due to his declining health, and you first see each other when lorraine and her daddy come to say hello and talk business for cow feed

she spots you in the back, leaning on the fence next to the field with your arms crossed and your hat pulled low, and you're just watching her and her dad talking to yours with a frown

she's set on edge by your presence, even though you're not really part of the conversation. she has to stop herself when she realises she keeps looking over at you every couple seconds, and you're still just staring at her and her father in a way that isn't exactly friendly

your dad is a generally nice guy, and he gives her your name in a passing mention and graciously accepts the pie lorraine's momma made to bring to the new partners, but it overall isn't a great first impression, and she decides right there in her daddy's truck on the ride home that she doesn't like you very much

when you're brought up again, it's by her father a week or so later. he's mentioning how helpful you are around your grandfather's farm over dinner, saying how your grandfather is blessed to have someone so good-hearted, and lorraine can’t help but remember the look of you glowering against the fence at them and doubt how true that is

she still doesn't like you, when you actually talk for the first time. RJ is bringing her home after an incredibly awkward date and gets a flat, and just as it starts to rain, guess who spots her and decides to pull over in their rusty ass pickup truck with a weird look on your face that lorraine can't help but assume is smugness

your truck bed is full of tools and supplies for your grandfather's farm and you haven't got a spare on you, but you know there's one in the shed on your farm. there's only one seat open in your truck, and even though lorraine heavily hints to RJ that she doesn't want to go, she's volunteered, as RJ doesn't want to leave his van on the side of the road, even though there's not many people who would touch the piece of junk

you snort when he insinuates that lorraine wouldn't be strong enough to fend off anyone who would take the van, and even though she's equally as miffed by RJ's assumption she's a bit annoyed by you defending her

the ride home is incredibly tense and neither of you say much until you're pulling into your yard and you say, "for the record, i highly doubt he'll be fending anyone off either." it's funny and it almost makes her laugh until she remembers she decided she didn't like you and she has to get serious again, and tells you not to talk about her boyfriend that way, and you don't say anything for the rest of the time you're helping her

she sits in the truck watching you from the wing mirror as you roll the spare out from your shed and then hoist it into the truck bed, looking sweaty and muscles tensing with effort. even though you're kind of annoying, you're tanned and you're fit, and it's something she can't help but notice whenever she goes to your farm in search of her father, who sometimes comes over to buy corn for his cattle

you both naturally start to grow into something resembling a friendship. you'll shoot the shit when you're not working, leaning on the handle of a shovel half in the ground, and lorraine will walk over and just kind of talk to you for a while. she doesn't even really realise the annoyance has melted away until it smacks her in the face that she was really wrong about you

your first date isn't actually a date until it's over. lorraine is at a lake day with her friends when one shows up with you in tow. she didn't even realise you had friends, but you're there with them and you look damn good in your swim suit, and you actually start talking a little bit about leaving the big city for your grandfather

you're all having fun, swimming around and talking, and she sees you're pretty funny when you want to be. it's kind of jarring to see just how wrong she was about you, and you both end up dancing around to your friend playing guitar and singing along

you end up being her ride home, and though there's still an underlying tension in the air, this time your truck is full of laughter and you're both actually talking. about halfway through, you accidentally let it slip that you asked your friend if lorraine was going to be there, and though the tips of your ears are red and you're apologising, lorraine can't help but reach right over and kiss you, and suddenly everything feels right in the world

cairo sweet

you meet her on the first day of creative writing, as the new student at your school, and mr. miller's seating chart places you directly next to her. she stares at you a bit, as if unimpressed by your existence, and you stare right back at her, equally as unimpressed

though you're new, you quickly skyrocket to incredible academic success, and cairo is enraged to find that with the transfer of credits, you're now really the valedictorian, sweeping it from underneath her feet at the very end of her senior year

with that, she absolutely despises you and everything you stand for

you have to trade papers for peer grading and while you calmly grade it at first, when you see that yours is covered in marks and cairo is being absolutely brutal beyond belief, nitpicking every little punctuation mark and symbol she can, you get a bit annoyed and start doing the exact same thing to her

it's a giant game of one-upping the other, and you guys repeatedly mess with each other like a chess match of fucking each other over. neither of you will admit you find the other annoyingly magnetic and captivating, you instead resort to messing with each other's standings

you both are duking it out over each little test grade, as cairo desperately tries to regain her spot at number one and you attempt to fend her off and keep your place. she'll brag about her perfect score on the calculus exam, and then you'll clap back with your extra credit. you absolutely dominate her in maths and sciences but she has you beat in creative writing and histories

winnie is greatly amused by the whole ordeal, and keeps insisting to cairo that you both should get it over with and fuck already but she scoffs and claims to resent the implication. doesn't mean she hasn't thought about it, though

her involvement with mr. miller is something she's only doing to maintain her spot as mr. miller's favourite student. cairo has the writing skill to back it up and is incredibly gifted with the pen, but you ooze a certain charisma that makes the teachers around you all giant fans, and she would be lying if she didn't say she was worried you would pull mr. miller's recommendation letter with it, and steal it right out from under her. it's entirely possible for a teacher to write more than one recommendation letter, she just wants the satisfaction of being the first one to get it

when you're partnered up on a group writing project that needs to be done in pairs, cairo sees it as the perfect opportunity to gather intel on you. another thing she hates is how mysterious you are, and how not many people actually know that much about you, other than how pleasant you are

she insists it has to happen at your house, and though you try to argue, she insists it has to be the case. it surprises her, when she puts your address into her phone and she sees it's a small one bedroom apartment in a bad part of town, without air conditioning and with terrible plumbing, and that your father works three jobs to support you

she doesn't know what she expected, but that's definitely not it, with your ability to dress and intelligence. suddenly her arch nemesis gains a third dimension, and she understands just how hard you work

though you're guarded at first, you both actually slowly discover that you don't exactly mind the other that much. you still want to keep your spot and she desperately wants it for her own, but you say something silly and it makes her laugh- really laugh- for what feels like the first time in a long time

you work together on the project more and more, and suddenly she's enjoying your company and wanting you around. she's definitely a little bit disgusted by that at first, but it's something she can't deny

she asks you on your first date to a poetry reading on a saturday, and you're a bit confused since the group project is already over, but you decide to go anyways and you have a great time. you say something profound after one of the poems, and cairo's eyes just drop to your lips in a weird amazement

she's dragging you to the bathroom immediately before the next poem can even start, and i don't think i have to say what happens next, but it's messy and there's lipstick everywhere

your father snorts when you get home that night, and there's dark red lipstick smudged all over your lips and a bit down your neck, and you roll your eyes at him with a smile

[poisonlove]

Strange couple | w.a

Pairing: Wednesday addams x reader

Warning: fluffy

"Hello, beauties!" I murmur with a smile plastered on my face as I walk into Wednesday and Enid's room.

I'd had a pleasant and intense morning.

Classes had been really fun and educational, I'd enjoyed the last chocolate pudding left at breakfast, found 5 dollars on the ground, scored the highest mark in Art surpassing my friend Xavier, and literally destroyed Bianca in fencing.

Despite everything, I missed my little and adorable deadly storm. I missed seeing her pitch-black eyes staring at me intensely, her sarcastic remarks, her obsession with being extremely tidy and punctual.

I missed kissing her and teasing her.

"Hi Y/N!" says Enid, full of life. "Someone's in a good mood, huh?" she adds, raising an eyebrow.

I look at my blonde friend lying on the bed with Thing and smile even more.

"Very much," I reply, chuckling.

My eyes shift to the figure on the other side of the room. Wednesday is typing her book with concentration on the typewriter. The sound of the keys furiously giving life to her thoughts fills me with pride.

She was extremely good at what she did.

"Don't you greet your girlfriend?" I ask with a small pout, trying to catch her attention.

Wednesday barely looks up from her typewriter, her face impassive and focused. "Hello, Y/N," she says in her usual calm, deep voice.

I raise an eyebrow, confused.

"Hello? Is that all you have to say?" I ask incredulously.

Meanwhile, I see Thing walk towards me and tug at the hem of my pants. "Hello, little one," I smile sweetly at Enid and Wednesday's friend, scratching his back as a greeting.

"So?" I ask Wednesday impatiently.

"Mmmh," Wednesday murmurs, still engrossed in her work. "Hi, baby," she adds automatically, probably trying to shorten the conversation as much as possible.

Thing starts gesticulating animatedly and I watch him attentively. "I know it's her writing time, but I wanted a proper greeting," I say, rolling my eyes at his comment.

Thing gestures even more quickly.

"I'm not being childish!" I mutter, offended.

I ignore Thing and see Enid barely holding back a laugh, the magazine she was reading abandoned beside her. Her expression tells me she finds the situation quite amusing.

Wednesday finally stops, lifts her gaze, and fixes me with those black eyes I adore so much. "You know my writing time is sacred, Y/N," she says calmly.

Her eyes soften, showing a glimpse of tenderness she usually hides so well. My heart skips a beat, struck by the rare expression of affection I can see behind her impassive mask. Even though her face remains serious, there's a hidden warmth in the way she looks at me.

"But I suppose I can make an exception for you," she adds, and I feel my heart swell with joy.

I smile with satisfaction, approaching her.

"That's better," I murmur as I lean down to give her a quick kiss on the lips. "Did you miss me?"Wednesday looks at me with her typical enigmatic expression.

"Maybe," she says cryptically, then returns to her typewriter.

Enid finally bursts out laughing. "You two are so cute together," she comments, shaking her head amused. "Too cute, even by Wednesday's standards," she adds with a playful singsong as she lies back on the bed and picks up the magazine again.

I approach and wrap my arms around Addams' shoulders, resting my chin on her collarbone.

Wednesday sighs loudly, visibly annoyed.

"You know, Y/N, there are better ways to spend your time," she says in a monotone voice.I chuckle softly.

"I know, but this is my favorite."

I start to annoy her romantically. I stroke her arm and leave open-mouthed kisses on her neck, feeling her skin quiver under my lips. Wednesday tries to stay focused, but I can see that my attentions are distracting her. The rhythm of the typewriter keys briefly pauses, and I notice a typo on the page.Wednesday stops, looking at the page with an annoyed expression.

"Y/N, stop," she says, trying to sound stern, but her tone betrays slight frustration mixed with resignation.

"You stop being so adorable," I whisper, continuing to kiss her neck. I feel a slight shiver run through her body, and this makes me smile even more.

Enid, from her spot on the bed, watches us with an amused smile. "You just won't let go, will you, Y/N?" she comments, shaking her head.

"You're a real nuisance," says Wednesday, trying to mask the amusement in her voice.

"But I'm your nuisance," I respond, playing with her braids.

Wednesday finally gives in, relaxing for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you are," she murmurs, barely turning her head to look at me with an expression that, despite everything, is full of affection. I smile shyly, and Wednesday leans in to give me a small kiss on the lips.

My knees go weak.

"Now leave me alone," she says in a calm and authoritative tone, fixing the mistake she had made.

I huff, but respect her request.

I start pacing back and forth along Wednesday's desk, carefully observing the objects that decorate it.

"Don't make noise," Wednesday mutters in a whisper.

My gaze lingers on a few photos of the two of us, moments captured that tell our story together. In one, we're hugging during a walk in the woods, in another, we're laughing at a school event. Next to them, there's a family photo with Gomez, Morticia, Pugsley, and Wednesday, all with their unmistakable stern looks.

Continuing to explore, I notice a necklace elegantly placed on the edge of the desk. I immediately recognize the pendant, a gift from Morticia to Wednesday, a symbol of protection and affection. The jewel reflects the light with a faint glow, emanating an aura of antiquity and mystery.

Finally, my attention is caught by a knife. The blade gleams in the light of the desk lamp, sharp and perfectly maintained. I can't help but reach out and trace the edge of the blade with my finger, feeling the cold metal against my skin. The knife is a piece of art, encrusted with intricate details on the handle, telling stories of tradition and danger.

"Careful," Wednesday's voice interrupts my thoughts. "That knife is extremely sharp."I turn to her with a mischievous smile.

"I know, but it's fascinating. Where's it from?"

"It was my grandmother's," Wednesday replies without taking her eyes off her work. "A family heirloom. She gave it to me when I turned thirteen."

"It's beautiful," I murmur, placing the knife back carefully.

Wednesday finally looks up from the typewriter, fixing me with slight curiosity. "Are you done exploring?"

"For now," I reply with a smirk.

Did I mention I love teasing her?

In a stealthy move, I grab the knife. Wednesday gives me a sideways glance as I toss it from one hand to the other with precision. She huffs, evidently irritated and gets up from her chair.

"Very funny, now give it back," she says, holding out her hand intensely.

I ignore her and smile even more.

Wednesday approached, determined to take the knife from my hands. I raised my arms, aware that my height gave me an advantage over her petite fury, and continued to provoke her. She pushed me, trying to grab the knife, but a misstep made us fall onto her bed.

“Hey,” I said with a sly smile as I looked at her straddling my legs.

An extremely compromising position.

Wednesday sighed heavily and brought her face closer to mine, making me smile even more. I closed my eyes, expecting a kiss, and sighed, feeling her hand on my cheek.

Our breaths mixed, the heat grew, but then everything faded like a dream.

I blinked in disbelief and saw Wednesday, with a satisfied expression, putting the knife back in its place.

"You two are a strange couple," Enid commented, amused.

“She played dirty,” I protested with a pout.

Wednesday returned to her seat at the typewriter.

“Soon you’ll learn all the tricks, Y/N Addams,” she said with icy calm.

“Aww,” exclaimed Enid with an adorable smile. Her eyes shone almost to the point of tears of joy at Wednesday’s words.

“Y/N Addams?” I asked, confused.

“Soon you will be, my dear,” Wednesday replied nonchalantly, returning to her writing.

For now, I chose not to ask further questions. However, deep down, I knew I couldn’t ignore this new turn in my life with Wednesday Addams at the center of it all.