#as you can see I still don’t know who to tag in these things

[charles-leclerizz]

driver diaries : collection #4 when you ask them to cum inside

models : CL16, CS55, MV1, LN4, OP81

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availability : dating ( all drivers )

designer's comments : so. you may wonder why I ask the masses for their opinion when I do my own thing anyway? Cause open defiance is my kink. My requests for this series AND generally are open. so stop by if you want ;)

Charles Leclerc 16 Tender. Breathless. Slightly stunned by how much he needs it.

Charles had you on the hotel couch, lights dim, hands all over you like he was afraid you’d disappear. 

You’d come straight from a sponsor event – he hadn’t bothered to even changed out of his black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, chest open at the collar. 

You were already half-undressed, knees over his thighs, his hands sliding under your top. He was supposed to be patient. Gentle. But that only lasted until you whispered, “You can fuck me, you know.” 

That’s when his restraint cracked. 

And now he was panting above you, hands gripping your hips like an anchor as he thrust into you slow and deep, voice broken, wrecked. 

“Tu me rends fou, bébé…”  You drive me crazy, baby. 

The couch cushions shifted beneath you with every push of his hips. He kept brushing your hair away from your face, as if he needed to see your eyes while he fucked you like this - no distractions. No walls. Just Charles looking like he’d never wanted anything more in his entire life. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, low and hoarse. “You feel so good.” 

He was buried raw inside you. Thick. Warm. So deep it made your legs twitch every time he rolled his hips just right. 

You could feel every part of him. Every desperate inch. 

And he couldn’t stop looking. 

Couldn’t stop groaning softly every time you clenched around him. 

He dipped his head, kissed your collarbone, breath trembling. 

“I don’t want to stop-” he whispered, voice cracking a little. “But I’m so close already.” 

You smiled, running your hand through his curls. “Then don’t stop.” 

He looked up - flushed, wide-eyed, like he hadn’t expected that. 

You kissed the corner of his mouth. 

“Finish inside me.” 

Charles froze. 

His breathing hitched. 

“You-” He blinked. “Quoi?” 

“I want you to come inside me,” you said again, soft but clear, brushing your lips against his. “Don’t pull out. Please.” 

The moan that left his throat was more like a whimper. 

Then he kissed you like he needed to feel every part of you at once. 

“Putain,” he swore into your mouth. “Tu vas me tuer…” 

His thrusts got faster. Sloppier. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, fingertips pressing into your skin, his entire body stuttering toward the edge. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “I want to feel it.” 

That’s when he broke. 

He buried himself fully, holding your hips in place, and let go with a guttural moan - so soft, so desperate, so intimate. 

You felt him pulse inside you, warm and thick, the heat flooding your body as he came. 

His voice was all breath, all praise.  “Oui oui oui… comme ça… oh mon dieu…” 

He collapsed against your chest, still inside you, shivering slightly. His nose brushed your neck; lips parted against your shoulder. 

He didn’t speak right away. 

Didn’t have to. 

His hands slid along your sides, slow, almost trembling. 

Then he kissed the centre of your chest. Your jaw. Your cheek. 

And finally, your lips. 

When he pulled back, eyes still half-lidded, voice gone low, he murmured: 

“Next time… let me say it first.” 

You tilted your head. “Say what?” 

He smiled. 

“That I want to be the only one who ever finishes in you.” 

Carlos Sainz 55 Possessive. Gritty. Emotional control slipping.

It started slow. 

You weren’t rushing. Neither of you ever did when you had the privacy, the time, the stillness. The kind of nights where Carlos kept the lights dim, fingers lazy as he kissed along the inside of your thigh. His voice low. His gaze intense. 

He’d already made you come once with his mouth - face buried in you, groaning every time your legs trembled around his shoulders. Then, fingers. Just two, fucking you open slow, making you gasp and buck until you were practically panting his name. 

And now he was above you - thick cock hard in his fist, tip flushed and already slick with precum as he stroked himself between your legs. 

"Estás tan jodidamente bonita,” he murmured. You're so fucking pretty. 

“Then stop teasing,” you whispered, breathless. 

He smirked, hand steady. “You want me inside?” 

You nodded, lips parted. He turned to rip open a condom, until you grabbed his bicep, squeezing. 

“Bare?” he asked, voice gone rough, eyes wide as he looked back at you. 

Your stomach flipped. You knew that tone. That edge. 

You nodded again. “Yes.” 

Carlos exhaled, nostrils flaring slightly. But he didn’t argue. He just pressed his tip against your entrance and slowly eased in - every inch stretching you open, heat blooming low in your belly as your nails gripped the sheets. 

The moan he let out when he bottomed out was low and ragged and real. 

“Fucking hell…” 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, needing more of him. He was thick, heavy, the stretch just this side of overwhelming. 

He didn’t move right away. 

Just leaned forward, kissed your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. 

“You always feel this good for me,” he said, voice almost reverent. 

You clenched around him. 

Carlos groaned. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.” 

"Maybe I don't want you to." 

That got his attention. 

His head lifted. Eyes locked with yours. 

"¿Qué?" he asked, voice lower. A little strained. 

You looked up at him, feeling the rush of heat rise to your cheeks-but you didn’t back down. 

“I want you to finish inside me.” 

Carlos didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. 

Just breathed. 

Then he swore under his breath-“Joder”-and started moving. 

Deep, slow thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs. Every roll of his hips filled you completely, thick and hot, the friction making your whole-body arch beneath him. 

“Say it again,” he growled, fucking you harder now. 

“I want you to come inside me, Carlos.” 

His head dropped to your shoulder. He bit down lightly, groaning into your skin. 

“Estás loca… You’re trying to kill me.” 

You moaned, wrapping your arms around his back, nails digging into muscle. His pace picked up - sharp now, relentless. The bed creaked beneath you. Your name left his lips like a curse. 

“You like knowing I’ll be the only one that’s ever done this to you?” he gasped. “That I’ll be the only one to come inside you like this?” 

“Yes-fuck-yes-” 

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, blooming outward in waves, your back arching, mouth open as you came around him with a sharp cry. 

Carlos wasn’t far behind. 

You felt his rhythm break, his thrusts stutter. 

He groaned low, rough, needy. 

Then buried himself deep one last time. 

And came inside you. 

You felt the warmth flood you. Felt his body shake from it, his arms locked tight around your waist like he needed to hold on while he poured every drop into you. 

“Dámelo…” he whispered, breath gone. “Dámelo todo, mi vida…” 

You didn’t let him go. 

Not even when he stilled inside you, panting against your neck. 

Not when he kissed your shoulder like an apology and a prayer all in one. 

Not when he finally pulled back just enough to watch it leak from you, that soft, sinful look on his face like he could see the moment burned into his memory forever. 

He pressed his fingers gently to your inner thigh, then your hips. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly, still inside you. Still pressed close. 

You nodded. 

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Because next time… I want you on top. And I want to feel you clench around me when I fill you again.” 

You were already smiling. 

Already wrecked. 

And already wondering how soon “next time” could be. 

Max Verstappen 1 Unhinged. Growling. Pure fucking instinct.

You knew the second you said it; Max was going to lose his mind. 

He already had you on your back, one of your thighs thrown over his shoulder, the other pinned down by his palm as he fucked into you deep and fast, growling your name like it was the only word he still remembered. 

His skin was slick with sweat, chain dangling over his throat. His eyes never left your face - locked on your fucked-out expression like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he grunted. “Look at you-already cockdrunk.” 

You whined, head falling back. “You fuck me like this and expect me not to be?” 

He smirked. Brief. Sharp. 

Then you said it, 

“Come inside me.” 

His whole body stopped. 

Like a full-body glitch. Breath caught. Muscles frozen mid-thrust. 

“…What?” 

You bit your lip, lifted your hips into his. 

“I want to feel it. Don’t pull out.” 

Max growled. 

There was no other word for it. Just a deep, animal sound torn from his chest. 

Then he dropped your thigh from his shoulder, shoved both your legs up, and folded your knees against your chest - locking you down, fucking deeper, pounding you into the mattress with a pace that made the headboard slam the wall. 

“Say it again,” he gritted through his teeth. 

“Finish inside me, Max.” 

His hand wrapped around your throat - not tight, just enough to feel it - and he stared down at you with wild eyes. 

“Fucking hell. You want me to come in you? Want me dripping out of you all night?” 

“Yes,” you gasped, nails clawing at his back. “Please-please, I need it-” 

“You’re not walking tomorrow.” 

He wrecked you after that. 

Not romantic. Not gentle. Just relentless, brutal thrusts and filthy muttering in your ear. 

“This pussy’s mine- fuck- look at you, begging for it-so desperate-” 

You were trembling, tears bubbling on your lashes from the overstimulation, the pressure, the stretch. 

He didn’t let up. You came first, screaming into his shoulder, clenching around him so tight he swore in Dutch, hips stuttering. 

And then he snapped. 

Max slammed in once, twice, and then let out a broken, breathless groan as he emptied himself inside you - cock twitching deep as he spilled into you with full-body shudders. 

“Fuck- fuck -yes -take it- take all of it-” 

He didn’t move right away. 

Just stayed there. Breathing hard. Forehead against yours. 

You felt him pulse with the aftershocks, felt the mess spreading between your legs already. 

And you whispered, dazed, “You really didn’t pull out.” 

Max chuckled-low, dangerous. 

“Too fucking late now.” 

A minute later, he pulled back slightly, spreading your legs with both hands to look. 

To watch it leak out of you. 

He stared at it, jaw tight. 

Then he used two fingers to push it back in, slow and possessive. 

“I meant what I said,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to yours. 

“You’re not walking tomorrow.” 

Lando Norris 4 Messy. Whiny. Loses his mind when you ask for it.

You were already close. So was he. 

It had been building from the second he got back from media duties - tension thick, eyes dark, voice low. He’d barely touched dinner. Barely touched you. Just kissed you once, slow and heavy, then pulled you into his lap and whispered, 

“Been thinking about this all day.” 

Now? You were underneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, hands fisted in his curls as he fucked you deep and slow - dragging every thrust out like he wanted to ruin you with it. 

Lando’s mouth was open against your throat, breath hot, his voice pure wreckage, 

“Feel so good-so tight-fuck, you take me so well, babe-” 

You were dizzy, aching, soaking wet - and he hadn’t even sped up yet. Just this perfect, devastating pressure. So deep you felt him in your stomach. 

“Lando-” you moaned. 

“I know, I know,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” 

His voice was high. Breathless. Full of need. 

You pulled him closer, your lips brushing his ear. 

And then you whispered, 

“Come inside me.” 

Lando froze. 

Dead still. Balls deep. 

You felt him twitch inside you, like your words short-circuited his entire brain. 

“Wait-what?” he said, voice cracked. 

“I want you to come inside me,” you repeated, slower. “Please.” 

He let out the most pathetic little groan. 

“Fuck-don’t say that. I’m not gonna last-” 

“You don’t have to.” 

That’s when he snapped. 

He buried his face in your neck and thrust hard - deep, fast, chasing it now, no rhythm, no patience. 

His hands gripped your hips like he was holding on for dear life. 

“Oh my god-fuck-I’m gonna- babe, I’m gonna-” 

“Do it,” you gasped. “Please, Lando-” 

He moaned your name, high and broken, and slammed into you one final time. 

Then he came inside you. 

Warm. Messy. Full-body shudder. 

His whole body tensed, mouth open, eyebrows scrunched in complete disbelief as he emptied himself deep inside you, panting like he’d just finished a 90-minute quali lap. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “Holy fuck- I came inside you-” 

You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing, smiling, kissing his flushed cheek. 

“I told you to,” you whispered. 

Lando pulled back just enough to look - saw the mess between your legs, the slick mix already starting to spill out, his cock still twitching from the aftershocks. 

He groaned again. 

Then grinned. 

“Jesus Christ… I’ve peaked.” 

Oscar Piastri 81 Silent. Intense. Ruined.

Oscar had always been good at holding back. 

Even when you were grinding against him on the couch, all breathy moans and slick skin, he was in control - one hand on your jaw, the other pressing down on your lower belly as he moved inside you with calculated precision. 

“Relax,” he whispered, voice low and quiet against your neck. “I’ve got you.” 

You loved that about him. The way he never raised his voice. The way he knew your body better than anyone. Every drag of his cock was deliberate. Controlled. He didn’t chase pleasure - he delivered it. 

And tonight? 

He was deep. 

So, so deep. 

Slow strokes that reached the end of you, hips slotted flush to yours, pelvis brushing your clit every time he rolled his hips forward. 

His hand was laced with yours behind your back. His other hand gripped your hip, keeping you open, grounded. 

“Oscar,” you whimpered. 

“Yeah?” 

“Faster.” 

He didn’t obey. Just chuckled, soft and cruel. 

“You sure?” he murmured. “You already look so close.” 

“I want it.” 

He tilted his head, brown eyes dark and steady. 

“You want me to fuck you properly?” 

You nodded, already breathless. 

He did. 

Harder. Deeper. Just enough to make the sofa springs creak once. 

Your thighs shook. 

“That’s it,” he whispered, eyes locked on your face. “So fucking tight around me, baby.” 

And just as your second orgasm built - tight and coiling - you gasped it, 

“Finish inside me.” 

Oscar stilled. 

Eyes narrowing. Chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Say that again.” 

You tangled your fingers into his curls, tugging. “I want you to come inside me.” 

He exhaled, shaky and hard. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re serious.” 

You nodded. 

He kissed you once. Then twice. Slow, like he was trying to memorize you. 

And then? 

He fucked you like he meant it. 

Oscar wasn’t loud. He didn’t groan or curse or talk you through it like the others might. He just moved - deep, sharp thrusts that left you gasping, thighs trembling. 

The only sound was skin slapping and you're whimpering. 

And then- 

He slammed in one final time and stayed there. 

Pressed deep. Eyes on you. And came. 

Hard. 

His entire body tensed - cock twitching as he emptied inside you, lips parting but no sound escaping, like he was too overwhelmed to even speak. 

Just quiet, heavy breathing as he filled you. 

Your legs shook around his waist. His hand came up to your cheek. 

Still inside. 

Still full. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, finally. “I’ve never done that before.” 

You smiled, dazed. “Me neither.” 

Oscar leaned in, kissed your cheekbone, your nose. 

“Hope you know,” he said, “I’m going to be thinking about this every time I see you walk tomorrow.” 

You laughed. 

But the way he looked at you knew that he meant every word. 

[silentcaps]

The most intimate thing in bed

tags: soft nsfw, emotional intimacy, demons in love, tenderness after sex

cast: huntrix, saja boys (abby, mystery, romance) × reader

Mira

Mira stretches lazily in bed. Her legs are tangled with yours. She doesn’t bother covering her bare body — no point hiding from you. After all these nights, you know every inch of her skin — from freckles to faded scars.

She’s so easy with you like this. No makeup, hair a mess, that hoarse morning voice. A sharp contrast to the version on stage — bold, fierce, fire in her eyes. And you lose it over her, either way.

You move, trying to get up. She’s got training early tomorrow. But Mira, like always, catches your wrist.

“Don’t be stupid. Stay.”

She wraps her legs around you, keeps you down. That smirk, like a dare: “Go ahead. Try.” She doesn’t say it out loud, but her eyes make it clear — you’re no longer just a secret fling. You’re closer than family.

And if that bond weren’t real — if for even a second she felt out of place — Mira wouldn’t ask you to stay.

Rumi

Rumi is sitting in your lap. Her fingers tremble slightly as she ties fabric over your eyes. You don’t ask why. You don’t press her for an explanation.

And when you can’t see anymore, she lets out a quiet breath — and starts taking off her clothes. For the first time, she reveals her tattoos in front of someone else.

You feel warm thighs tighten around yours. Hear her uneven breathing. You stay still.

And Rumi, raised in the flash of paparazzi from childhood, suddenly believes — without doubt — that you won’t try to peek. That the thought hasn’t even crossed your mind.

She’s not hiding anymore, because she knows: you don’t want to take anything from her by force. Not like the demons who stole beloved fans. Not like her foster mother, who simply told her she was now a hunter.

You let her choose. And she chooses to stay.

Zoey

Zoey is lying on top of you. Sweaty, sticky. Her hair’s a mess. Lips swollen from kissing.

Silence fills the room. Usually, this is when she asks, “Well? Am I still good?” Cracks a joke even if she’s tired, makes a cute face, laughs. Then grabs her phone to check socials, sees missed calls from her manager.

But right now — she just lies there, settling into your breath. Not performing, not dazzling. Not watching your face for approval.

You take her hand — she doesn’t pull away. Run your fingers through her hair, nuzzle into the top of her head, shift her to rest more comfortably on you. She melts completely.

Little by little, Zoey starts to believe that maybe there’s no need for questions. Because the answer’s always the same: you love her not for the performance, but simply for her.

Abs Saja

Abby is all muscle. Big, solid, with the kind of abs that drive his fans wild.

And you press into him softly, trustingly, like he’s not a dangerous demon who could break you with a single move. You breathe against his cold neck and hold onto his shoulders, trying to match his rhythm.

Abby freezes. He wants to be gentle with you. Not fuck — but protect. Even if it’s from himself, or the world he was born into. That feeling is completely foreign to him.

But now that he’s realized it, you can feel the shift. He holds, not squeezes. Pulls you close, but carefully. And when he whispers your name in your ear, it’s not to turn you on — it’s to calm you down.

To remind himself that with you, it has to be different. That you’re something precious.

Mystery Saja

Mystery told you right away he was a demon. First date, over cocktails, no buildup. You either accept it, or there’s no romance here.

You still can’t tell if he was trying to push you away like some obsessive fangirl — or genuinely chose to open up. Maybe he just needed to know you loved him, not some sugar-coated fantasy.

But really, it wasn’t a test. For him, trust is the only way to end up in bed with someone. Not just physical, but emotional nakedness too.

Mystery notices how at first you flinch when claws trace your spine — then start to enjoy it. You used to turn away from kisses, scared he’d suck out your soul through them. Now, after a few times, you chase his dry lips, demand tongue.

Mystery would never hurt you. And that slow-growing trust — in tiny, wordless ways — that realization that it’s truly safe with him? That means more to him than sex ever could.

Romance Saja

Romance flirts and teases. He reaches for attention like a gentle cat for a pair of hands. He poses with fans, waves into cameras, winks with a smile.

But in his demon form, he’s exhausted. Truly. So worn out he can’t even lift his hands to form a heart for the crowd.

And maybe that’s why he values — though he’ll never say it aloud — that with you, things can be slow and relaxed. Arching his back with a sigh, lazily brushing his hair aside.

And you know Romance isn’t human. He just said “I’m a demon” when he leaned over you. Wanted to see how you’d react. If you’d be scared he’d steal your soul, or maybe laugh it off. But your simple “I know” made him flinch — and then quietly smile.

Because people think if it’s a demon, it must be wild sex. Clothes torn off, thrown on the floor, shoved up against a wall before even making it to the bed.

But Romance never fit into those expectations. He likes it slow and deliberate, after a long, tired day, ideally with you on top. And the fact that you don’t expect anything else — that’s a gift to him.

[berryispunk]

Heatwave

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: porn with a little plot , no physical description of reader, tension, all the clichés, unprotected PinV, bad murder jokes, creampie, Frankie being a walking green flag, damsel in distress trope, sweat, stranger danger AU, vulnerable man, smut with feelings, cursing, kissing, soft! Frankie

summary: Stranded in the middle of a relentless heatwave, you take a chance on the quiet stranger who stops to help—and what begins with a broken-down car ends with you asking yourself: what could possibly go wrong getting into a stranger’s home?

notes Obviously, this goes without saying—but don’t go hopping into strangers’ trucks, no matter how hot the heatwave (or the man). This is fiction, babes. Stay safe, stay smart, and let the rest of us make the reckless choices in stories only.

word count: 6,4 k words

read on ao3

It was hot. Like skin-melting-off-your-bones hot. Like the air itself was trying to suffocate you in slow, sticky increments.

You swore the sun had taken it personally when your car stuttered, groaned, and then—just to be dramatic—died on the side of the endless stretch of road that cut through the middle of absolutely nowhere. Great, this was the last thing you needed. 

No service. no shade. No clue what you were supposed to do next.

So when the rumble of an old truck broke through the scorched silence and rolled into view like some dusty mirage, you tensed. Because what kind of story started like this and didn’t end up on a true crime podcast?

The truck slowed. The driver—dark shirt, cap, sunglasses, the whole ex-military drifter vibe—stuck his arm out the window. "You alright?"

You shaded your eyes with your hand, squinting up at him. "Not really. Car just… gave up on life."

He nodded once,didn’t push. “Mind if I take a look?”

You hesitated. His voice was calm, unhurried even. Something about it made you want to trust him, even though every safety podcast you’d ever listened to was screaming don’t.

But then again, the sun was still trying to kill you, and he was the first human being you’d seen in over an hour.

“Yeah, sure,” you said finally, stepping back. “I—I don’t know what happened. I was just driving and then…”

He climbed out of the truck, moving slow and deliberate like he knew you were still sizing him up. Hands where you could see them, keeping distance—polite in a way most men forgot how to be.

“Pop the hood?” he asked.

You did. He leaned in, wiped his brow, muttered something under his breath, which didn’t really sound like English.

“Damn,” he said finally, stepping back. “That thing’s cooked. Radiator’s bone dry and the belt’s shot. She’s not going anywhere.”

You stared at him. “So that’s bad, right?”

“Bad enough you’ll need a tow. And with no bars out here…” He glanced at his phone, confirming the zero-signal reality. “Well. My place is a couple miles down the road. Got AC, cold water, and a landline if you wanna call someone from there.”

You blinked, arms instinctively crossed. “Your place?”

“Yeah. I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Stranger. Truck. Middle of nowhere. Not the best setup. But I swear, I’m not a serial killer. I’m just Frankie.”

“…Frankie,” you echoed.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Yep. And you can ride in the front or the bed of the truck, your call. I won’t be offended.”

—

The interior of his truck was warm, but not boiling—which, at this point, felt like stepping into a luxury spa. The seat clung to the backs of your thighs, your jean shorts and tank top sticking to you in all the wrong places. You probably smelled even worse than you felt. The air conditioning sputtered, coughed once, then kicked in with a groaning hum that might’ve been the sweetest sound you’d heard all day.

Frankie slid behind the wheel, adjusted his cap, and gave you a quick glance. “Seatbelt?”

You clicked it into place. “Don’t wanna die in the truck of a stranger, got it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and pulled onto the road. “I swear, this is not a habit of mine.”

“What isn’t?”

“Picking up women stranded in the desert heat. Feels like a bad plot to a worse movie.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “And what, you’re the misunderstood loner with a heart of gold?”

He smirked. “Something like that. Just didn’t feel right driving past you. That sun was out for blood.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, fanning yourself with one hand. “I was starting to see dead relatives. One of them was offering me a lemonade.”

Frankie chuckled again—soft, almost surprised. “That bad?”

“That hot,” you said, then added, “But yeah. I mean, stranger danger and all, but I figured if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn’t be doing it in broad daylight in a truck that smells faintly like motor oil and McNuggets.”

He grinned at that, a quick flash of teeth. “You’re very trusting.”

“Not really. I took a gamble. Worst case, I jump out the window.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Better than melting into a cautionary tale on the side of the road.”

Frankie shook his head, amused. “Well, I’ll try not to disappoint.”

A few beats passed. Outside, the heat shimmered against the windshield in soft, warping waves. You stole a glance at him—sunglasses still on, one hand resting on the wheel, forearms strong and tanned, dusted with old freckles and faint scars. He was broad. Solid. Definitely too strong to fight off, even if you wanted to. His dark shirt clung to his shoulders and stretched thin over biceps that looked like they’d seen their fair share of work. A few damp curls peeked out from beneath his cap, sticking to his temple and the back of his neck. His skin glistened with sweat, a slow trail likely running down his spine just like it was down yours. You quickly looked away, though a different kind of heat curled up your back—one that had nothing to do with the sun.

“So… what do you do?” you asked, mostly just to break the silence and keep your thoughts from wandering somewhere dangerous.

“I’m a pilot,” he replied without missing a beat.

You raised a brow. “Like, commercial?”

He shook his head. “Choppers. Private mostly. Medical transport sometimes.”

“Well,” you said, blinking, “that’s… cooler than I expected.”

He glanced your way. “What were you expecting?”

You gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. A mechanic. Or like... someone who definitely owns a snake.”

That made him bark a real laugh. “No snakes. Not even a dog. Just a lot of dust and one sad little cactus I keep forgetting to water.”

“I respect that. The bar is low, but you’re clearing it.”

Frankie slowed the truck as a long gravel driveway came into view, flanked by dry grass and a crooked mailbox that had seen better days ‘Home sweet home’.

You studied it—modest, sun-bleached, the kind of place that said I live here quietly and don’t bother anyone. Safe, even. Or maybe that was just him. The way he hadn’t tried to charm you, hadn’t pressed,  just offered help and let you decide.

“You sure you’re not a serial killer?” you asked again, half-teasing as you shut the passenger door with a solid thud.

Frankie opened his own door, glancing at you over the roof of the truck. “Nah,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Those guys usually keep their trucks a lot cleaner.”

You stifled a laugh as you followed him down the narrow path to the weathered veranda, hesitating just slightly as he stepped ahead and pushed the front door open, holding it there with one hand.

“You can stay outside if you still don’t trust me,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, “but there’s no AC.”

You tilted your head, arching a skeptical brow. “I can scream loud.”

Frankie huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “You can try. Nearest neighbors are two miles in the opposite direction. Good luck with that.”

And somehow—maybe it was the heatstroke talking, maybe something else entirely—you stepped past him, brushing close as you crossed the threshold into his home. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just stood there, holding the door open and watching you with that calm, unreadable expression.

The blast of cool air hit you like a wave. You let out a shaky exhale you hadn’t realized you were holding.

It was a modest space—cool, dim, with mismatched furniture and the faint scent of cedar and dust. Lived-in. Quiet. The kind of place that shouldn’t have felt safe but somehow did.

You turned just enough to catch him watching you. Not in a creepy way—nothing leering or obvious. But his gaze flicked downward, slow, lingering for a breath too long before dragging back up. Your flushed cheeks, your throat, the way your damp tank top clung to your skin. You caught the flicker of something in his eyes before he cleared his throat and glanced away, the back of his hand brushing over his jaw.

“I’ve got a landline in the kitchen,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. “You can use it to call a tow. Water’s cold, if you need that first.”

You nodded, unsure if the heat curling in your stomach was from the weather or the way he’d looked at you—like he was trying not to. Like he wasn’t sure if he should.

And maybe you weren’t sure either.

—

The kitchen was simple—faded tile, humming fridge, a fan turning slow in the corner. It smelled faintly like coffee grounds and the ghost of something fried days ago. You leaned against the counter, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe, while Frankie crossed the room, opening a cabinet with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to stare at the way his shoulders moved under that dark shirt.

He grabbed a glass, filled it from the filter jug in the fridge, and turned toward you. And then—because of course—your fingers brushed as he handed it over.

It was nothing. A blink of a moment but it hit like lightning.

You flinched just slightly, not from fear—no, worse—from the jolt of heat that zipped up your spine like your nerve endings had been rewired just for him.

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying not to look at his mouth. Or his hands. Or the tiny bead of sweat trailing down the side of his neck like it had a personal vendetta against your willpower.

“No problem,” he said, but his voice was different now—softer, rougher, like he felt it too. His gaze lingered for half a second too long on your lips before he looked away, scratching at the stubble on his jaw like he was grounding himself.

You gulped the water even though you weren’t really thirsty. Just needed something to do. Something to cool down the low, traitorous ache curling in your belly.

You were in the middle of nowhere. In a stranger’s house. You should be thinking pepper spray, exits, license plate. You should be thinking about true crime documentaries and every warning your mother ever gave you. But all you could think about was how good his voice sounded in that heat-slow drawl. How big his hands were. How close he’d been when you walked past him at the door—and how much closer you suddenly wanted him to be now.

God, where the hell was your survival instinct? What was actually wrong with you?

You set the glass down with more force than necessary, stepping back like that would fix the wild electricity crackling between your bodies.

Frankie’s eyes flicked to yours. “You good?”

No,not even close.

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. “Just... dizzy. Heat, probably.”

He nodded slowly, but the way his jaw ticked said he didn’t quite believe you.

“Phone’s right there,” he said, nodding toward the corner of the kitchen where an old beige landline sat on a small table, next to a pile of unopened mail.

You moved toward it like it was salvation. Like you hadn’t just had a full-blown hormonal short-circuit in front of a stranger who somehow smelled like sweat and soap and the worst idea you’ve ever had.

And you already kind of hated how much you wanted more.

—

You dialed the number slowly, each button click loud in the quiet kitchen. The landline cord curled like a snake between your fingers as you pressed the receiver to your ear, listening to the endless ringing on the other end.

Finally—finally—a crackly voice answered. You gave them your location, your best guess at the mile marker, and explained, as patiently as possible, that your car had chosen the worst time and place to die.

There was a pause. Then: “Yeah, we can send someone, but it’s gonna be a few hours. Maybe three, maybe more. We’ve got another pickup ahead of you and a guy out sick today.”

You blinked. “A few—?”

“I mean, you can wait in the heat if you want, but…”

You glanced toward the hallway, where you could hear the low hum of the fan and the distant squeak of floorboards as Frankie moved. You were still warm, still too aware of your skin and the way the air felt against it, but you weren’t dying anymore. Not of heatstroke, anyway.

“Right,” you said, sighing into the phone. “No, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”

You hung up slower than you meant to. The quiet returned, thick and a little heavy. You stood there for a second, staring at the phone like maybe it would ring again and let you off the hook.

It didn’t.

Footsteps padded back into the kitchen, and Frankie leaned against the doorframe with a bottle of water in his hand. He looked casual, but not quite relaxed—like he was waiting for the verdict.

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “Guess I’ll be around for a while.”

His eyebrows shot up under the visor of his cap. “Yeah?”

But it wasn’t just surprise. There was something else—something quicker and warmer that flickered across his face before he could stop it. Relief, maybe. Or excitement. Whatever it was, it passed too fast to name, but it hit.

He took a slow sip from his water bottle and nodded, trying to play it cool. “Well. Got snacks. Cold drinks. Fan’s got two settings, and I make a mean grilled cheese if you’re hungry.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to murder me and bury me in the backyard?”

He smirked. “Nah. I don’t even have a shovel.”

“Good to know,” you said, but your voice came out lighter than before. Easier. Against your better judgment, you started to relax.

Still, some part of your brain—the logical one, the one that hadn’t short-circuited in the kitchen a minute ago—kept whispering: what the hell are you doing? You don’t know this man.

But god help you, you were starting to want to.

—

The grilled cheese sizzled in the pan, golden edges crisping just right as the scent of butter filled the kitchen. Frankie worked quietly, a butter knife in one hand and a casual, easy grace in the way he moved.

You sat on a barstool, watching him from across the counter, occasionally sipping the water he’d refreshed for you. Outside, the heat still pulsed like a warning—but inside, things had cooled. The hum of the fan, the faint clatter of pans, his low chuckle at something you'd said—it all folded into something that felt weirdly good. Too good definitely given the circumstances. 

“So, you do this for all your stranded victims?” you asked, chin propped on your hand. “Cook them grilled cheese, turn the AC on high, lull them into a false sense of security?”

He shot you a sideways glance. “Only the ones who look like they’ll fight back if I try anything.”

You snorted. “You’re damn right.”

He plated the sandwiches and handed you yours, brushing your fingers again, whether on purpose or not, you couldn’t tell. You pretended not to notice the warmth it left behind.

You took a bite—and damn. Buttery. Perfectly crisp. Just the right amount of cheese. You groaned in delight. Groaned.

Frankie laughed, that low rumble again, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You okay over there?” he asked, eyes bright.

“This is stupidly good,” you said with your mouth half full. “If you were trying to win me over with grilled cheese, congratulations you succeeded.”

“Not my worst plan,” he said with a smirk.

And just like that, the conversation slipped into something softer. You talked about the heat, your cursed road trip, his work, how different it must be to fly helicopters compared to being grounded out here. At some point, you mentioned a movie you liked and he lit up—had seen it too, quoted a line that made you laugh until your stomach hurt.

And in that moment, it all felt so light. So easy. You forgot how awful the day had started. Forgot how ridiculous it was to feel this calm in a stranger’s kitchen—and almost forgot that you weren’t supposed to want to stay.

Which is probably why it slipped out, without filter, without warning.

“So… when’s the woman of the house coming home?”

The question hung there for a beat too long.

Frankie didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. But his gaze dropped, mouth twitching slightly like he was thinking of something that still lived behind his ribs.

“There’s none,” he said quietly. “Not anymore at least.”

You didn’t say anything, not right away.

He reached for his glass, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace.

“Too much work being in a relationship with me. Or maybe just… too much of me, period. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Some people are easier to love than others. I don’t think I’m one of them.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. The way he said it—so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t up for debate.

You leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening around your glass.

“I don’t know much about you,” you said, voice quieter now, softer, “but from what I’ve seen so far? You showed up when someone needed help. You kept your distance, asked permission, didn’t push. You made grilled cheese and didn’t even poison it.”

That earned the faintest smile.

You met his eyes. “That doesn’t sound like ‘too much’ to me.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the unexpected kindness. Then he nodded, slowly, and said, “Thanks.”

You both went quiet after that. Not awkward—just still. Like the air between you had shifted somehow and this strange little bubble you’d landed in wasn’t just a passing thing.

—

The sun was setting, bleeding orange and gold across the sky, washing the porch in that soft, late-hour light that made everything look gentler than it really was. The heat had broken, but it still clung in the corners, thick in the air between you.

You sat beside Frankie on the porch steps, a glass of water sweating in your hand, his knee just barely brushing yours every now and then. The cicadas had started their song, the air was still, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

It should’ve felt peaceful, but it didn’t. It felt like waiting.

Frankie leaned back on his palms, head tilted toward the fading light. “Always quiet out here,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Too quiet, sometimes.”

You glanced over at him. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than his muscles—like someone who didn’t get touched much, didn’t get looked at much, not really. Not the kind of looking that made you feel seen.

“Do you like it?” you asked.

He took a moment before answering. “Some days, yeah. Others…” He shrugged. “Gets lonely.”

Your heart did something stupid at that. The kind of twist that made you shift closer without thinking. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that the weight between you had changed again—heavier now. Magnetic.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His eyes slow and dark and searching, lingering too long on your mouth before he caught himself and looked away. But it was too late. The current had shifted.

You swallowed hard. “Frankie...”

He turned back to you, and something cracked open behind his eyes. Something that looked like hunger. Not the casual kind. The aching kind. And then—like the tension finally snapped—he leaned in to you.

The kiss wasn’t soft, it wasn’t careful.

It was heat and need and the crash of everything you both had been holding back all day. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. And then his mouth was on yours—urgent, desperate, tasting of heat and faint salt and the kind of longing that digs under your ribs and doesn’t let go.

He kissed you like he’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. Like he didn’t believe it until this moment.

And god, you matched it. Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. His other hand slid to your hip, grounding you, holding you like he needed the contact to stay present.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, foreheads brushing, Frankie didn’t say anything for a long moment.

But the look on his face was enough, like he hadn’t expected this. Like maybe, deep down, he’d needed it more than he realized.

“Shit,” he whispered, more to himself than you, his lip twitching into a disbelieving smile.

And all you could do was nod, because same.

You were both breathless, the kind of quiet that only comes after something irreversible.

Frankie’s hand was still on your face, his thumb just barely brushing your cheekbone. His forehead rested against yours, but he didn’t move to kiss you again. Not yet.

Instead, his voice came low. Careful, still catching his breath.

“You okay?”

Those two words—so simple—hit you harder than the kiss. Not because you weren’t. But because in the middle of all this heat, this pull, this insane, reckless moment he still made room for you. Still needed to know you wanted this, too.

And something in you cracked right open.

You didn’t answer with words, you just moved.

One knee between his thighs, then the other, climbing into his lap like gravity had stopped bothering to work. Your glass of water tipped over somewhere in the motion, rolling across the porch with a dull clatter, long forgotten.

Frankie stiffened—just for a second—like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like maybe you’d disappear if he moved too fast. He looked up at you, wide-eyed beneath the shadow of his cap, his hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you again.

But you were already there, thighs bracketing his hips, fingers curled in the soft fabric of his shirt, heart pounding in a rhythm that matched his own. And when his hands finally settled on your waist, it felt less like a choice and more like coming home.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice wrecked.

You nodded, mouth brushing his. “I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His grip tightened—just a little—as he pulled you in, kissed you again like he was falling apart at the seams and you were the only thing holding him together. There was no finesse to it, no practiced rhythm. Just pure, hungry need, all tongue and teeth and quiet groans swallowed between lips.

His hands slid up your sides, fingers dragging slowly along the hem of your top like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. You could feel him breathing harder, his chest rising against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

This wasn’t careful anymore. It was a damn breaking.

But even in the chaos of it—his lips, your fingers in his hair, your hips rocking forward without meaning to—there was that thing about Frankie. That steadiness. That unspoken promise in every kiss and every touch.

His hands gripped your waist like he was still afraid you might vanish—like maybe you were a dream the heat conjured, and any sudden movement would wake him up.

You didn’t stop him.

His lips were rough in the best way, scraping against yours, a scrape that softened when his nose bumped yours, when he paused to kiss your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, the edge of your jaw like he was tracing a map back to something he thought he’d forgotten.

The air had cooled, finally, but your skin was flushed, burning. Goosebumps prickled down your arms and legs, not from cold but from the contrast—his warmth against you, the breeze licking at damp skin.

His fingers slid beneath your top. Just a little. Just enough to touch bare skin, to rest against the dip of your back like he needed to feel you. His hands weren’t greedy, weren’t rushed. They moved slowly and reverently.

And god, that wrecked you.

Because it had been too long since someone touched you like this. Like you were wanted, not just convenient, like you were something to savor.

Frankie kissed you again, slower now, more careful—as if the first round had burned through his restraint and left only truth behind. And that truth was this: he needed this as badly as you did. Maybe more.

You rocked forward in his lap, the friction sending a gasp tumbling from your lips. His head dropped against your shoulder, hands tightening on your hips.

“Jesus,” he breathed, voice wrecked, “you feel so fuckin’ good…”

You arched into him, your hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin—his ribs, his chest, the fine trail of hair leading downward. Every inch of him was solid, trembling under your touch, like this was all unraveling too fast for him to keep up.

“I shouldn’t want this,” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “We barely know each other…”

His breath hitched. “Doesn’t change how it feels.”

And god—he was right. This wasn’t about logic. This was about need. Two people left out in the heat too long, blistered raw from life, finding something in each other that soothed. That satisfied ,that ached in all the right ways.

You reached for the hem of your top, and he caught your wrists gently, eyes searching yours, checking in.

“Are you really sure?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I want this, want you.”

His restraint shattered at that—something behind his eyes giving way completely. He helped you pull your top over your head, his fingers brushing the curves of your sides as more of you was bared to the open air.

You shivered, and his hands moved instantly—up your arms, across your back—until the pads of his thumbs traced the soft curve beneath your breasts. His eyes followed his hands with a kind of reverent hunger, like he couldn’t decide where to look first, until he dipped his head and began pressing soft, wet kisses across your chest.

First one breast, then the other—slow and unhurried.

His tongue swirled around your nipple before his mouth closed around it, sucking gently, then biting just hard enough to make your breath hitch and your fingers tighten in his curls. His cap was gone now, tossed somewhere across the floorboards, forgotten in the heat of it all.

You let out a sound—obscene, desperate—as he released your nipple with a slick pop, only to move to the other side and give it the same treatment. His mouth worshipped you, his hands grounding you, and the air between you thickened with every ragged breath and needy sound.

More clothes were peeled away in rushed, uneven pulls—breathless and awkward, laughter slipping out when something caught or tangled—until you both were bare. You should’ve felt vulnerable. Embarrassed, maybe. Letting a man you’d only just met see you like this, but you didn’t. Not when his eyes were on you like that.

His mouth was still on you, moving between slow kisses and gentle sucks, like he wasn’t in any rush—like this part, this worship, meant something. You writhed beneath the weight of it, thighs tightening around his hips, your body instinctively pressing down against the growing strain of his arousal beneath you.

Then his lips slowed again. Just for a moment.

He kissed the underside of your breast. The center of your sternum. Up, up, until his mouth was at your throat, his breath fanning over your flushed skin.

And then he whispered it, right there against your pulse, as if the words were too big to look you in the eye while saying them.

"So fuckin’ beautiful..."

It wasn’t flirty or performative; it was real. Like the words had clawed their way up from somewhere deep in his chest and spilled out before he could catch them.

Your breath caught. Not because of his touch—but because of how he said it. Like maybe he hadn’t said it to anyone in a long time, like maybe he hadn’t felt it in a long time.

You pulled his face up to yours, thumb brushing his cheek, your heart clanging in your chest. His pupils were blown wide, his lips kiss-bruised, and you swore he looked almost overwhelmed.

“Frankie,” you whispered, and his name tasted like want and wonder and everything you weren’t supposed to be feeling this fast.

He kissed you again—slower this time. Less frantic. His hands sliding down your body, anchoring at your hips as if grounding himself in the fact that you were really here. That this was really happening.

And god, the way he touched you—like you weren’t just someone he wanted to fuck. You were someone he wanted to remember.  Every sweep of his palms down your thighs, every graze of his knuckles along your waist, felt like it came from someone starved for tenderness. Someone who hadn’t been looked at like this in a long time. Someone who wasn’t used to being touched like he was safe to want.

You rocked your hips against him, and he groaned deep like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good, like he’d been holding back so hard it was physically hurting him.

His head dropped against your shoulder again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, raw and low. “I’ve missed this... being wanted like this. Feeling like this.”

You didn’t have words—not really—so you kissed him instead. Hard and deep. Your hands threading back through his hair, pulling him closer, and he went willingly. Eager, starving.

And when you finally sank down onto him, slow and deep, his body meeting yours like they’d been made to fit—made for this—a curse tumbled from his lips as his eyes squeezed shut.

“Dios… you feel perfect.”

You moaned, unable to hold it back. Your whole body lit up with sensation—his hands, his hips, his lips at your jaw and shoulder, the way he moved inside you like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

This wasn’t just sex. It was something aching and needed and a little terrifying in how fast it settled under your skin.

And through it all, he kept holding you like he meant it. Like he was letting you back into some quiet, hidden part of himself that he thought no one wanted anymore.

You moved with him, slow at first, savoring every stretch, every inch of heat and friction that built between you like a rising tide. Your hands roamed his shoulders, his chest, clinging to the solid strength of him beneath your fingertips. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, guiding your hips, grounding you even as the pleasure started to blur the edges of the world.

Every shift of your body, every rock of your hips, sent sparks racing up your spine. He filled you so perfectly, so deeply, it almost hurt—and yet you never wanted it to stop. The porch creaked beneath you, the air clung to your skin, and somewhere in the distance, the last of the daylight slipped away. But all you could feel was him. The heat of his breath against your throat. The way he whispered your name like a prayer. The desperate restraint in every trembling muscle.

You clenched around him without meaning to, overwhelmed, close—so fucking close.

He groaned low in his chest, jaw tightening as his hands dug into your hips helplessly. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “I can’t—you gotta come first—”

But you were already there.

Your release crashed over you in waves, shattering and radiant, pulling a moan from your lips that was all heat and relief and want. You clung to him as you came, fingers digging into his shoulders, your body shaking as you fluttered around him. 

And that was what broke him.

He let out a guttural sound, deep and raw, his hips stuttering beneath yours as he fought it—fought it like it mattered, like holding out meant something even if it hurt.

“Frankie,” you whispered, pressing your chest to his, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other smoothing over the tense line of his spine. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let go.”

He buried his face against your shoulder with a choked breath, and then he did—his whole body trembling as he came hard inside you, deep and pulsing, his hands holding you tight like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You felt every twitch, every wave of release, his moan muffled in the crook of your neck as he spilled into you, full and warm and real.

You held him through it, breasts pressed against his chest and your mouth brushing his temple as he finally went still.

“…Shit,” he whispered finally, lips curving faintly. 

You laughed—breathless, stunned, heart racing fast. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

The porch was quiet again. The cicadas still hummed. The air still hung heavy around both of you but the silence that followed was warm. Heavy with afterglow and something neither of you had words for yet. You were still tangled together, chest to chest, when Frankie lifted his head, brushing a damp curl from your forehead.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, lips twitching into a soft, tired smile. “Better than okay.”

He let out a small, breathless laugh and pressed a kiss to your temple. “There’s a shower inside, if you want it. I’ll get you a shirt.”

The idea of warm water and clean clothes sounded like heaven.

You followed him inside, still barefoot, still sore in all the best ways. In the bathroom, he handed you a soft, worn t-shirt—faded gray, sleeves a little too long, collar stretched. You swore you could smell him in the fabric: cedar, sweat, and something that felt dangerously close like home.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp and skin warm, he was leaning against the kitchen counter with two bottles of water and his cap back on, like the man who had just undone you on his porch hadn’t ruined you completely an hour ago.

—

He drove you back to the car without saying much. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was full of glances and half-smiles and the hum of something still very alive between you.

When you pulled up, the tow truck was already there—and the driver looked like a walking red flag. Greasy smile, mirrored sunglasses even though the sun was almost gone, and a tone that set your teeth on edge. He barely acknowledged you, speaking only to Frankie as he started hooking up the car.

You stayed close to him, instinctively, and he didn’t move away. His presence alone was enough to keep the guy from saying anything sleazy, though he still looked like someone who probably had zip ties in his glove box.

You nudged Frankie with your elbow, turning to him with a mischievous grin. “Thanks for not murdering me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, one side of his mouth tugging up into the most boyish, crooked smile you’d seen all day—the kind that undid you a little more, even now.

“Anytime,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But just for the record, I think I came out more vulnerable here.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t still steal your truck,” you teased.

He laughed again, and god, the sound of it stuck to your ribs.

You hesitated. Then reached into your bag, pulled out your phone, and handed it to him silently. No question, no explanation.

Frankie raised an eyebrow, but took it without a word. His fingers tapped against the screen, slow and sure. When he handed it back, he smirked. “Gonna text soon, yeah? Just to make sure you didn’t end up dead.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you slipped the phone into your bag. “If I don’t text, check the backyard for shallow graves.”

He grinned wide, dimples flashing. “Deal.”

The tow truck started pulling away, your car finally in tow. You turned back toward him, unsure what to say, unsure how to say it.

But he just gave you a nod, a little wave, and climbed into his truck. One last glance through the open window.

“Talk soon?” he asked, voice a little softer this time, hopeful.

“Yeah,” you said, holding his gaze. “Talk soon.”

And then he was gone.

—

It wasn’t even an hour later. You were back in a motel, hair still damp from the shower, phone resting on the nightstand. The quiet pressed in around you—cooler now, but lonelier than it had any right to feel after a day like that.

You stared at your phone for a beat too long, debating. Then your fingers moved, and before you could overthink it, you hit send.

You: Sorry, can’t text. Currently busy plotting your murder. Turns out I am the serial killer.

Read.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Frankie: You planning to disappear on me now, or do I get another shot at surviving you?

You smiled, fingers already moving.

You: Depends. You always this charming with strange women who hijack your porch?

Frankie: Only the ones who ruin me a little in the best way. Maybe next time, we can meet somewhere else—if you’re up to it? I can be a gentleman if I want to.

That made you huff a laugh, the sound easing out of you like breath after holding it too long.

You sat with it for a second. Not the question. Not even the suggestion. But the invitation. The hope tucked inside it.

You: Don’t be a gentleman. Just be you. I’ll text you when I get home.

Frankie: Looking forward to it already.

And maybe you were already in too deep. But you didn’t mind, not one bit.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @sxnnimoon @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[beritybaker]

Itsy Bitsy

This one is for @steddiesongfics June 2025 prompt: summer songs.

Rating: T | WC: 2,105 | Tags: Public Pool, Speedo, Flirting, POV Eddie, Pre-Steddie, Gareth is a Little Shit | ao3 Song: "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini," by Brian Hyland

I’m gonna kill him.

It’s not that Eddie is ashamed of his body. He’s also not that worried about getting weird looks, because he’s used to those. The problem is more the indignity of it all; he’s supposed to be dark and mysterious, but as he stares at himself in the locker room mirror, he sees anything but mystery. The swimsuit Gareth is making him wear leaves very little to the imagination.

Still, the thing is a consequence of his own actions. He’s been well and truly hoisted by his own petard. Normally, Jeff would’ve jumped in to defend him and be the voice of reason, but the fact that they’d been betting on his love life had earned them the cold shoulder for the time being. The result is Eddie being forced to confront the crowd at Hawkins Community Pool on the hottest day of the summer, wearing nothing but a goddamn banana hammock.

Gareth couldn’t have picked out something understated and black, or even red. Of course not—that would be too easy for Eddie to play off. He’d just had to pick out some neon green thing that’s bound to burn the other pool-goers’ retinas as much as his pasty skin. He also couldn’t have warned Eddie that this was his punishment, so that he would have time to tame the jungle he’s got below the belt.

I’m gonna wrap my hands around his neck and—

“Eds? You ready?” Gareth’s voice from the next shower stall sounds positively giddy. For the love of Christ, he couldn’t even be a little bit sympathetic.

“Yeah,” Eddie grumbles, and he steps into view.

As soon as he sees him, Gareth’s eyes light up with enough mischief to power all of downtown. “Oh, it’s even better than I expected.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means—and don’t take this the wrong way, man—I can see like, everything. Your whole cock and balls are just…out there.”

“And?” Eddie demands, rolling his eyes. He’s well aware of how visible his junk is in this ridiculous piece of nylon. Despite his best efforts to adjust to a less obscene position, the outline of his dick is impossible to hide.

“It’s funny?” Gareth says. His tone implies the duh. “God, you’re hot, too. If you weren’t hot, I would just feel mean making you wear that.”

“You are mean,” Eddie shoots back, refusing to acknowledge the compliment. He snatches his towel from Gareth’s grasp and mutters, “Now let’s get this over with.”

“Get it over with? I’m doing you a favor, dude.”

“A favor? That’s what this is?”

Gareth shrugs again. “Sure. I mean, there’s a lot of people out there. There’s bound to be somebody who picks up what you’re laying down.”

Eddie rolls his eyes again and leads him out of the locker room without another word. He tries to subtly position the towel in his hand to block himself from most people’s view, counting on Gareth being too chickenshit to call him out on it in front of strangers. Still, he gets a couple odd looks, and he does his best to tell himself the heat in his face is just from the sun beating down on him as he walks faster and faster.

By the time he reaches the grassy, blessedly empty corner of the pool area, he’s almost jogging. Almost, of course, because he’s not used to being so close to naked in public. If he actually did run, he worries his dick might bounce around enough to slip free of its tiny restraint, so the most he’s willing to do is power-walk over to the fence. There, he spreads out his towel and sits, thankful for a moment of peace as he curls his knees to his chest before Gareth can pointedly suggest a little sunbathing.

Sure enough, the kid raises an eyebrow as he spreads out his own towel and remarks, “You gonna sit there like a roly-poly all day? You’re never gonna get a tan like that.”

“You know I only burn,” Eddie scoffs, but he straightens out his knees a bit. His legs still hide his crotch from the view of passersby, but in this position he can lean back on his hands and shoot Gareth what has to be the most transparently false look of indifference known to man. “But I see your point. I guess I should show off, since I’m apparently so hot.”

Gareth laughs, seeing right through his attempt to tease. “Dude, there’s no point trying to make me self-conscious. I’m not the one wearing a bikini bottom.”

Eddie narrows his eyes in question.

“No, it’s not actually a bikini. I was exaggerating, asshole.”

He shrugs, adopting another aloof expression. It feels a tad more successful than the first. “Hm. That’s too bad. I still would’ve worn it.”

“Sure you would,” Gareth replies, disbelieving.

“I would!”

“Then prove it. Stretch out those legs and show off,” he dares.

“Okay, then. Fine!” Eddie slides his feet out in front of him until the backs of his thighs hit the towel. It puts him on display, in all his indecent glory. “Happy?”

“Hm. Not yet.”

“Gare, I’m sitting here with my bush out for all the world to see. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“Just wait,” Gareth says.

“Jesus, that’s not cryptic at all,” Eddie mumbles.

“It really is a scorcher today, huh?” Without any other warning, Gareth rocks to his feet. “I’m gonna go for a dip. You wanna come with?”

Eddie glares at his shit-eating grin. “Uh, no. I think I’ll hold off on that.”

“Suit yourself,” Gareth says, but the subtext is something more like, Eventually it’s gonna get too hot for you to stay out of the water, you know.

Eddie thinks his friend might be severely underestimating the determination of a man trying to keep from accidentally flashing everybody and their mother. He watches Gareth prance off to wait in line for the diving board, then flops backward across his towel and squeezes his eyes shut against the blazing sun. Christ. I never should’ve taken that bet.

He could just…leave. He could use this moment of Gareth’s absence to go back to the locker room, put his clothes back on, and leave the kid and his smug mug stranded without a ride. Gareth knows all that, though. More importantly, he knows Eddie would never actually do it; that’s the only reason he left him alone in the first place. Plus, if Eddie did chicken out, he would never hear the end of it.

It’s something to fantasize about, though, to take his mind off the feeling of a stale breeze ruffling leg hair it wouldn’t usually reach. The thought works well enough as a distraction. It’s almost like he’s at home in his bed, where he’s not so conscious of being nearly nude.

The thing that pops his bubble is a sudden change in temperature. It reminds him that he’s been lying in the sun, and when he opens his eyes, there’s a shadow cast across his torso, moving like a person. Because it is a person, he realizes, and he looks up to see a fucking Adonis dropping into a lounge chair that wasn’t there a minute ago.

He blinks up at him. That’s not just any Adonis.

Before he can stop himself, Eddie blurts, “You’re blocking my sun, Harrington.”

Steve Harrington glances his way and says, “You can thank me later, Casper.” Which, ouch. But then he does a double-take, and Eddie sees his eyes flit from the swimsuit, up to his face, and back again, where they linger far longer than they should.

Not that Eddie blames him. It’s not every day you see the town freak sitting around in what amounts to a pair of fluorescent, low-rise briefs.

Still, it’s probably best to draw Harrington’s attention away from his bulge. It’s not like Eddie’s suit is gonna do him any favors once his body starts to fully process King Steve sitting next to him with his tits out and his own itty-bitty swim shorts hugging the curve of his thigh. So, by way of an explanation, he says, “Lost a bet.”

Steve’s gaze snaps up to Eddie’s face, so he puts on his best sly grin to disguise his nerves. There must be some kind of eye-magnet on his crotch, though—Of course there is, it’s called a fucking speedo—because that gaze starts to drift again, sliding back to it.

In a slight panic, Eddie adds, “Plus it’s hot out, you know?”

Steve meets his eye. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah. Sure is,” he murmurs. Then he bites his lip, and this time the way his eyes rake down Eddie’s body feels a bit more deliberate.

Oh.

Does that mean what Eddie thinks it means? Is Harrington…checking him out?

One way to find out.

Eddie purses his lips, pushing them out a little to subtly emphasize their natural fullness. It’s a move he mastered as a kid, when he realized it could get him just about anything he wanted from his uncle. Once he got older, he realized it worked the same way with others, and in far less innocent situations than begging to stay up an extra half-hour. He arches his back a little, too, then he uses the most provocative tone he can muster to quip, “I can move somewhere else if you need to cool down a little.”

That gets Steve’s attention. He looks at Eddie’s face again as a flush spreads from his cheeks and all the way down his neck. He raises his eyebrows.

“Would you like me to move, big boy?” Eddie asks, fluttering his lashes.

Steve chews on his lip a little bit longer before he clears his throat and mumbles, “No. I, uh…I think I like you just where you are.”

“Mm. Good.” Eddie settles his head back on his towel, making sure his hair fans out around his head. He juts his chin toward the sky to put his neck on display. “I like the view from here.” He draws his gaze up the length of Steve’s form, knowing he’s gotten his point across when Steve clears his throat again. When that happens, Eddie pantomimes getting caught with a playful gasp.

With a hint of a smirk playing at his lips, Steve says, “You two come here often?”

Eddie furrows his brow.

In answer to his unspoken question, Steve points right at his dick.

A little disarmed by his cheek, Eddie barks a laugh. “Well, like I said, it’s hot out. But what about you, Your Majesty? Don’t you have a pool in your backyard?”

Steve scoffs. “Hardly matters when your best friend drags you to the public pool, anyway.”

“Hm. Well, I’ll have to thank him, then.”

“Her.”

Eddie arches an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re sensitive,” he teases.

“Very.” And by god, does Steve Harrington know what he’s doing. He pairs the single, growled word with a hand smoothed across his own chest. The movement is just understated enough to look innocent from a distance, but from where Eddie is lying a couple feet away, he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s fingertips dig into his golden skin and his palm rubs one of his nipples. His voice drops into a sultriness of its own. “Love the suit, by the way.”

“You know, I could wear it over to yours sometime,” Eddie replies. “Have a private little pool party. Or…”

When he trails off, Steve gives him a vaguely puzzled look.

Eddie lets him sweat for a second. He wants every bit of anticipation to sink all the way in before he finishes his thought. It’s not until Steve starts to actually look a bit distressed that he goes on, “Or not. I could also not wear it.” He wrinkles his nose playfully. “If you catch my drift.”

Steve’s look of worry smooths over, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward in a crooked smile. “Well, my folks did put in a fence last summer.” Eddie gets a whiff of sunblock and musky cologne as he leans in and whispers, “A tall one.”

Eddie’s smile widens. “Good to know.”

Later, when Eddie notices the top of Gareth’s head peeking over the edge of the pool with gloating eyes, Eddie will flip him the bird, which will prompt Steve to chuckle and ask, “What was that about?”

And Eddie will reply, “Nothing. He’s just a dick.” A dick who’s managed to live another day.

[theywereafairy]

party 4 u

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Wordcount: 6.1k Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (you’re here!) Had to give these two a happy ending, didn’t I? Inspired by “party 4 u” by Charli XCX, always and forever

⋆˚࿔ Summary: You knew the garden party was risky. Sunshine, wine, your dad, and the man you've been secretly seeing for weeks all in one backyard. But what you didn’t expect was to get caught. Now, with everything out in the open, it’s been weeks since you last saw your father. You’ve been staying with Joel, wrapped in quiet intimacy that almost feels like a real life together. But family isn’t that easy to walk away from. And love, the kind that sticks, doesn’t stay hidden forever.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings: Age gap (reader mid-late 20s / Joel late 40s) • established relationship (finally!) • secret relationship fallout • dad gets angry and punches Joel • emotional vulnerability • reconciliation themes • possessive/protective!Joel • sexual tension • suggestive + explicit sexual content: shower sex, soft dom/sub dynamics, light dirty talk, creampie mention• fluff + healing • “I love you” tenderness • full-circle ending 😭

⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note: Okay. Okay. I just really wanted them to be happy 🥹 So this one’s softer, a little more quite and little less spicy. Thank you for following this messy, chaotic little fic series from beginning to end. I didn’t expect it to become a full story, but now I don’t want to let them go. Your tags, comments, reblogs, and messages mean more than I can say. Hope this ending gives you all the feels. Love u. 💕🧚‍♀️ (Btw. I'm already writing some stories with more spice again haha, so be prepared)

It hadn’t really ever occurred to you to be called someone’s girlfriend.

Not that you were against the idea,  it just never felt close enough to touch. Growing up, you’d watched other girls fold into the role like it was stitched into them: picture-perfect dates, forehead kisses, flowers from gas stations. You didn’t know how to be that. Didn’t know if you wanted to. And still, here you were.

Lying on your bed the next morning, sun crawling up your sheets, your fingers tangled in the necklace Joel made for you, the one he fastened around your throat before he kissed you like he’d waited a lifetime to. The stone still rested warm against your skin, like it hadn’t cooled since his hands last touched it.

Girlfriend.

You had screamed into your pillow after he asked. Not that he really asked, per se,  just stumbled through it in that shy, rugged way of his, rubbing the back of his neck and calling you his girl like it was the only name you ever had.

There wasn’t a manual on how to do this part. How to go from stolen glances and backseat moans to real. Were you supposed to bring him snacks when he came over? Feed him? Give him a back rub? Ask him if he liked dogs, kids, if you can have a drawer at his place?

The only thing you did know: You loved the way it felt to be wanted like this. Not hidden. Not denied. Claimed.

And now it was real. You had a boyfriend. And your boyfriend just happened to be… Joel Miller. Your dad’s friend. The man whose hands had been on your body not twelve hours ago, and who now,  at your father’s invitation, would be attending the garden party happening in exactly two hours.

You exhaled into your pillow. “Fuck.”

—-

The sun had come early and bold, the first real scorcher of summer. A sheen of heat clung to everything: the edges of the house, the baked wooden deck, your flushed chest under the soft dress you threw on. 

The backyard was half-set by the time you stepped out to help, your dad knee-deep in folding chairs and tablecloths. You took your place in the kitchen, prepping snacks and fiddling with the old lemonade dispenser. It wasn’t lost on you that this was the counter. The one he’d had you on, just last night. That memory buzzed under your skin, warm and dizzying.

“You seem chipper today,” your dad said, wiping his brow. “You meet someone or something?”

The question knocked your heart a little sideways. You looked up, unsure what to do with your face.

Your fingers reached for the necklace at your throat before you could stop them, thumb rubbing over the smooth silver curve. “Sort of.”

Your dad raised a brow, amused. “Sort of? That ain’t an answer.”

You shrugged, lips tugging at the corners. “It’s new.”

There was a pause. He leaned against the counter, grabbed a piece of fruit from the bowl. “Well. If he’s smart, he’ll know what he’s got. And if he doesn’t treat you right, well, you let me know.”

You laughed, swallowing the emotion in your throat. “You’ll beat him up?”

“Damn right I will.”

He gave you a wink and reached for the cooler. “Alright. I’m headed out to grab more beer. You good here?”

“Yup. All good.”

You watched him walk out, screen door swinging, truck groaning as it rolled away.

Which left just you. And the lingering question you didn’t dare speak: What if he doesn’t approve? What if he never will?

—-

The party started slow. A slow trickle of neighbors, extended family, coworkers of your dad’s. You floated, passing out drinks, setting things up, dodging polite aunts asking when you were finally bringing a boy around. If only they knew.

The first time you saw Joel, your pulse tripped. He wore a dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up and the top few undone, chest glinting slightly in the sun, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed but still unruly. He carried a pie dish and looked wholly unbothered by the thousand things you suddenly felt in your bloodstream. You walked past him toward the drinks table and he brushed a hand against your waist, just enough to know it was on purpose. Not enough for anyone to see.

“Afternoon, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Afternoon,” you breathed, not even looking back.

You knew the game. And he knew you were playing it better.

—-

You were deep in conversation with your neighbour Lisa, letting the buzz of white wine smooth your nerves, when someone came up behind you.

Tyler. Of fucking course.

An old summer fling, from the year you had just moved here. The kind of guy who always thought he had another shot. Tan and grinning and just drunk enough to be overconfident.

“Didn’t expect to see you back in town,” he said, giving you a once-over. “You look…well. I’d say better than ever but I think that would be underselling it.”

You blinked, mouth twitching. “Hey, Tyler.”

He leaned in closer than he should’ve. “So…you seeing anyone these days?”

You didn’t answer, not with words at least. Just a smile.  From the corner of your eye, you saw Joel watching. Standing with a glass in his hand, unmoving.

Tyler kept talking, clearly thinking he still had your attention. “We should catch up sometime. Like… properly.”

That was when Joel stepped in. Silently. Stood right beside you, broad shoulders a wall of authority. Tyler looked between you, confused.

Joel spoke evenly. “Everything alright here?”

You smiled up at him. “Peachy.”

Tyler laughed nervously. “Didn’t realize you were…friends.”

“We’re friends,” you said coolly, “and I actually have some catching up with him to do.”

Tyler’s face soured slightly. “Right. Of course.”

Then, smugness returning: “Isn’t he a little too old for you though? Can he even keep up?”

Joel’s jaw ticked. He stepped forward.

“Listen, kid…”

You caught his arm before he could say more, tugged him toward the house, hand firm at his wrist. “We’re not doing this here.”

Inside, the air was cooler. You turned on him the second the door clicked shut.

“What were you gonna do, Joel? Break his nose in front of everyone?”

His brow was still furrowed, chest rising. “He was all over you.”

“I had it handled.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“I could tell,” you shot back, stepping closer. “Didn’t realize you were the jealous type.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to your mouth.

You smirked. “Bet you liked it, though. Me being yours. Didn’t say it, but you liked him knowing.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You took another step, hands grazing his belt, your voice dipped to a whisper. “You’re mine too, you know. You might not say it out loud, but I see it every time you look at me.”

Your hand grazed even lower. He shuddered.

“Do you want me to remind you?”

You kissed his neck once, soft, then pulled back just enough to see the glassiness in his eyes. He nodded eagerly, a slight moan escaping his throat.

“Good,” you whispered. “Then behave.”

You turned and walked out, your dress swinging, leaving him behind.

—-

The garden was glowing in the kind of soft, breathless way that only came after too much wine and too much sun. Fairy lights blinked like stars strung across the hedges, laughter rising and falling in lazy waves as neighbors and old friends melted into their seats around the bonfire. Smoke curled into the dusky air, scented faintly with mesquite and charred sausages, mixing with the low hum of music slipping from someone’s old Bluetooth speaker.

You had been doing so well. Spending the whole damn evening not staring. Not drifting toward him like a moth with no self-respect. He had been doing the same, smiling politely, laughing at your dad’s jokes, talking baseball with someone’s uncle, playing the part of a man who wasn’t staring at the curve of your legs every time you crossed them.

But now you were circling back from the kitchen with two drinks in your hands, and your eyes snagged on him like a hook. Half-sprawled in a low chair, legs spread, beer bottle loose in one hand. Face flushed from the heat. That same goddamn flannel from last week. The one you always wanted to unbutton. His eyes caught yours like he’d been waiting.

There were no seats left.  Your steps slowed. You pretended to scan the fire pit for another option, but you already knew, there wasn’t one.

He didn’t gesture. Didn’t say a word. Just held your gaze and raised an eyebrow. Barely a shift in his expression, but it sent heat down your spine. You stood there, heart pounding in your throat, heat licking behind your ears.

Your dad, sitting a few spots over, saw your hesitation and nodded toward Joel without blinking.

“There’s room there,” he said casually, voice thick with beer and smoke. “We used to pile on top of each other all the time at parties. You’re fine.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t look at your dad. Just kept his eyes on you, unreadable. You took the empty space slowly, carefully, easing yourself down on his thigh, balancing your drink as if the act was casual. As if you weren’t climbing onto the lap of the man who had his mouth between your legs just last night.

He barely shifted, just enough to make room. His arm slid around the small of your back, hidden beneath the hem of your sundress. It was subtle. Innocent-looking. To anyone else, it could’ve been nothing.

But his thumb brushed slow, lazy circles against your hip. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The fire crackled. Someone passed around a fresh round of s’mores. Conversations rose and blurred. You stayed quiet. Sipped your drink. Felt the hard line of his thigh between yours.

His mouth lowered to your ear. Barely there. A breath, not a whisper.

“You’ve been makin’ me crazy all night,” he murmured.

You shifted on his lap, just slightly. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel it. The tension in his legs. The heat coiled low between your own.

“I’ve been good,” you said, voice steady. “So good. You should give me a fucking medal.”

He huffed, quiet and dark. “I’d give you more than a medal, baby. If you’d let me.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Your knuckles tightened around your glass.

“Don’t start this here.”

“Too late,” he murmured, fingers tracing the seam of your dress, just where your thigh met the edge of his jeans.

And still, no one noticed. No one blinked. Just two people, sharing a seat, laughing softly with the rest of the crowd.

But you were burning. And he was going to pay for this. Later. 

—-

You’d been circling the thought all evening, how you could possibly get him alone.

Your body was humming, overstimulated from sitting on his lap for what felt like hours, his hand drawing invisible circles against your back like he didn’t know what he was doing. The way he’d looked at you over the rim of his glass, lazy and knowing, like you were already undone under him, like he didn’t need to touch you to wreck you. Not again. Not tonight.

You were going to combust.

So when your dad strolled by, beer in hand, and muttered something about the broken chair in your room, the one you’d been meaning to ask Joel to look at for weeks—something inside you clicked.

“I’ll get Joel to look at it,” you said casually, too casually, turning toward where he was leaning against the fence, sun casting gold into the lines on his face.

Your dad waved you off. “Don’t bug him now, honey, he’s off duty.”

Joel, of course, had already straightened. “It’s no trouble,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Happy to help.”

And just like that, the spark caught flame. You led the way up the stairs, trying not to move too fast, but you could feel him behind you, close, too close. His eyes on your legs. The hem of your dress. 

Your bedroom door clicked shut behind you.  The second it latched, he was on you. Mouth on yours, hands rough and searching. You gasped against his lips, dropping the act of composure you’d clung to all evening. He lifted you slightly, hands gripping your waist, spinning you until your back met the edge of your dresser.

“This what you meant by broken chair?” he murmured, voice gravel-soft, lips brushing your cheek.

You laughed breathlessly, tugging at his shirt. “I meant an excuse.”

He paused just long enough to glance around the room, your books stacked on the nightstand, photos pinned with tape to the wall, a sweatshirt draped over your chair like you’d tossed it this morning. He was quiet, just for a second.

His eyes softened. “This is yours,” he said. Not a question. Just quiet wonder. “Your space.”

You nodded, suddenly flushed for a different reason. The room had barely settled around you before his hands were back on your waist.

Joel had you pressed to him, lips trailing from your jaw to the corner of your mouth like he was memorizing your face with each kiss. The way you smiled against him, the quiet little sigh you gave when his fingertips slid up your spine , it was dangerous, heady. Your back hit the edge of the bed and he followed, pinning you there gently, his mouth hungry but slow. You were still breathless from the hallway, flushed from the secret thrill of sneaking him up the stairs like some lovesick teenager.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he’d said, somewhere between kisses, like it had just occurred to him,  like he couldn’t believe it was true until he said it out loud.

And maybe that was the moment your heart nearly gave out. The kiss that followed was all yes. All I’m yours.

So you didn’t hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. You didn’t hear the soft shuffle of your dad walking toward the room with a screwdriver in hand, still intending to fix the damn chair you’d mentioned earlier.

What you did hear? The sharp click of the doorknob. The hollow sound of it opening.

And then… silence.

Not the silence of pause. Not even the silence of being caught. This was the kind of silence that shattered something. Your spine went stiff. Joel froze above you, one hand still braced on your leg, the other curled around your hip. Your father stood in the doorway. Tools in hand. Eyes not quite meeting yours. Like his brain was still buffering.

Joel jolted back like he’d touched fire, immediately trying to give you space, but it was already too late. His hand slipped from your thigh and landed in his lap, where it absolutely did not help matters. He grunted, shifting, face flushed with something between shame and sheer physical discomfort.

Your dad’s gaze moved between you both. No words came. Not a sound. Not even a breath.

Then, slowly, carefully, he turned. Walked away.

Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t yell. Just… walked off. And somehow that was worse.

You scrambled upright, heart galloping, yanking your dress down with one hand and shoving your hair behind your ears with the other. “Dad—wait, please—Dad—!”

You bolted down the hall, chasing him, forgetting your shoes, forgetting the ache in your throat. The house felt unbearably still, even with the distant hum of music from outside.

Upstairs, Joel sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed. His palms dragged down his thighs like he could erase the mortification clinging to him.

“Fuck me,” he muttered to the floor, voice thick. “Fuck. Me.”

He leaned back on his hands, exhaled hard through his nose, and very pointedly did not stand up. Because right now? There was no way in hell he was walking down those stairs with this hard-on from hell.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the sun bleeding through the curtains downstairs. The muffled clinking of glasses and quiet laughter from the garden felt a hundred miles away now, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Your father had stopped halfway down the hall, spine rigid, hands clenched at his sides.

He didn’t turn.

“Dad.” You barely breathed it.

He didn’t move.

You reached for his shoulder. “We were going to tell you…”

His voice cracked the air like a whip. “Tell me what?”

He turned then. Slowly. Controlled. Like the weight of his anger was holding every bone in his body steady. His face was unreadable, lips drawn tight, jaw set, eyes hard and glassy. You’d never seen him look at you like that.

Your throat closed. “We didn’t mean for it to happen…”

“Didn’t mean what?” he hissed. “Didn’t mean for my daughter to end up in her bedroom with my friend on top of her?”

You flinched.

“I saw you,” he said, voice low now, quieter, somehow worse. “Jesus Christ. I saw the way he…” He cut himself off, shaking his head like it might rattle the image loose. “I trusted that man.”

You tried to breathe, tried to pull the words from the wreckage of your chest. “It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?” He barked a laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “Not like he’s almost twice your goddamn age?”

“He didn’t pursue me,” you shot back, voice shaking now too. “It wasn’t like that. I—I kissed him first. I started it.”

“Do you think that makes it better?” he snapped, eyes glinting. “You think that makes him less responsible?”

“No,” you whispered. “But I love him.”

He blinked. Just once. Like the words physically hit him.

“You what?”

“I love him,” you repeated, steadier now, even as your heart kicked wildly in your chest. “And he loves me. We’ve tried to stay away, we really did. But we…” You swallowed hard. “We’re good together. I’m happy.”

“You’re twenty-something,” he growled. “You don’t know what the fuck you want.”

“I know I’ve never felt this way before.”

Silence.

A long, jagged silence that stretched until it snapped.

He looked away from you then, like it was too much, like it hurt his chest to even look at you. His jaw flexed again. “He knew better. He should have known better.”

“He does know better,” you said softly. “But he still chose me.”

“And I’m supposed to what, be okay with that?”

“No,” you said. “Not right away. I get it. I do. But I’m asking you to try.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a long, slow breath. “He’s my friend.”

“And I’m your daughter,” you whispered. “And this is the first time in years I’ve felt like someone sees me. Really sees me.”

He looked at you again.

And there it was, that flicker of something beneath the anger. Not forgiveness, but heartbreak. Grief. Like he was mourning the image of you he’d held in his head all these years. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your father was still staring at you like he didn’t recognize you at all, breathing hard, fists clenched like he had to keep them at his sides just to stop himself from shaking. 

Joel’s boots creaked on the floorboards behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know he was there. You felt it, the heat of him, the tension, the way the air changed. And so did your father.

His eyes slid past your shoulder and locked onto Joel like he’d been waiting for this, like this was the final nail in the coffin, and now it was time to bury someone.

“Get out.”

The words were quiet. Dangerous.

Joel stood still. “Can we tal-”

“I said get the fuck out.” Your dad’s voice broke at the edges, raw and furious, barely human. “You knew. You knew she was my daughter and you still…”

Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t defend himself. Just stood there like a man already sentenced. Your dad surged forward. The punch came so fast it made a sound, flesh on bone, a crack of violence that echoed through the hallway. Joel’s head snapped to the side, and you gasped, hand flying to your mouth.

“Dad—”

Joel didn’t fall. He staggered, jaw clenched, cheek already blooming red, but he didn’t lift a hand to fight back.

He just looked up at him. Blood on his lip. Eyes soft.

“I deserved that,” he said, breathless. “I know I do.”

Your father was breathing like he’d just run ten miles. His eyes glassed over, fury mixing with disbelief. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?” he choked out. “She’s a kid.”

“She’s not a kid,” Joel said quietly. “She’s a woman. The best woman I’ve ever known.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

Your dad pushed at him again, harder this time. Joel stumbled back a step but didn’t break eye contact.

“You think this is love?” your father growled. “This is sick. This is…this is betrayal.”

Joel nodded slowly. His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t get enough air.

“I know,” he said. “I know it’s selfish. I know how it looks. But I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m not bout to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your dad stared at him like he wanted to hit him again. Maybe he still would.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Joel added, voice lower now, but firmer. “But I love her. And I don’t wanna hide it anymore.”

The hallway went quiet. Only the sound of breathing, their breathing, yours. Everything else had fallen away.

Your dad’s mouth opened, closed. Like he wanted to scream, like he didn’t even know where to aim the rest of his rage. And then, wordless, he stormed past you both, shoulder slamming into Joel’s as he passed.

You caught a glimpse of his face before he disappeared into the stairwell, wet-eyed and red, broken with grief.

Joel just stood there, lip bleeding, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides.

—-

It had been four weeks since that night.

Four weeks since the hallway. Since the shouting. Since the punch. Since your dad turned around and didn’t look back. He hadn’t texted. Not once. No missed calls. No checking in. Not even a forwarded meme or an accidental pocket dial. Silence. And still, every morning, you opened your messages just to be sure. Still, every time your phone buzzed, your breath caught in your throat for a second. Just a second. Just long enough to hope.

You stared at the cracked ceiling above Joel’s bed, warm morning light slipping through the half-closed blinds. Joel’s chest rose and fell under your cheek, the steady rhythm of his breath grounding you, even as your thoughts refused to settle.

His hand came up, slow and sure, and he began to stroke your back, fingers splayed, palm warm. He knew the signs by now. When your body stiffened ever so slightly. When you blinked too long at the light. When you went quiet in your head before your voice even caught up.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and guilt. “I brought you into this.”

You blinked. Swallowed.

Then sat up slightly, pressing your palm to the side of his face, his stubble coarse beneath your fingers. “No,” you said, firmly, gently. “You didn’t bring me anywhere. I ran into this.”

Joel’s eyes found yours. Something unspoken flickered in the quiet space between you.

“I chose you,” you continued, voice shaking just slightly. “And I’d choose you again. And again. Even if it broke my heart. Even if I lost everything else. I’d still pick you.”

His throat worked around your words, the way they hit him like a warm knife. He grabbed your wrist, kissed your palm like it was a prayer.

You’d had sex in nearly every room of this place by now, feral, clingy, joyful. On the couch, in the kitchen, even in the cramped laundry room where Joel had you up against the wall and whispered that he wanted to make you his wife one day, like he didn’t even mean to say it out loud.

You curled into his chest, and he held you tighter than usual, like he could shield you from the ache. Like he knew what it was like to be unwanted by the one person who was supposed to love you the most. His chin rested on your head, his hand carded through your hair, and neither of you said anything else.

—-

It started with a knock.

Not the hesitant kind, not someone timid or unsure. A knock that belonged to someone who didn’t care if they were welcome, only that they had something to say. You froze, hand still damp from washing the breakfast dishes. Joel looked up from the sink, coffee halfway to his lips.

You opened the door a crack, just enough to confirm what you already knew. Your father.

Then, instinctively, stupidly, you slammed it shut again.

Leaned your back against the wood like you could somehow hold the memory of that hallway at bay with just your body weight. Joel raised an eyebrow from the kitchen.

“He’s here?”

You nodded, still staring at the door. Then inhaled sharply and opened it again.

Your dad stood exactly where you’d left him, raking a hand over his face. He looked older than he had a month ago. More tired. Unshaven. Like the anger had finally burned itself out and left nothing but the smoke. Neither of you said anything at first.

Then, haltingly, he muttered, “I—I wanted to come by. To apologize.”

Your brows rose. Your hands stayed tight around the doorknob. He cleared his throat.

“To you,” he added quickly, pointing past you like he had to clarify. “Not him.”

You opened the door wider. Joel was in the kitchen, back straightening the second he saw him. The tension in his shoulders returned like a reflex. He stood immediately, stepping forward as if to put himself in front of you.

“Don’t,” your dad said flatly, lifting a hand. “I came to talk to my daughter.”

Joel didn’t move. You gently laid your hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

The three of you sat at the kitchen table. You at the head. Your dad on one side. Joel on the other. It felt like the setup to a bad joke. No one quite knew what to say.

Finally, your dad let out a long breath. “I was… wrong. About a lot of things. That night, I was angry. I felt blindsided. Betrayed.”

You nodded.

He stared at the table. “But at the end of the day, none of that matters. If you’re happy…” He shook his head. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Your throat tightened.

“I love you, kiddo. Even when I’m the world’s biggest idiot.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s great. But you’re not done.”

He blinked. “I’m not?”

You nodded toward Joel. “You also owe him an apology.”

Two heads turned to you in unison, identical expressions of confusion and disbelief.

“Are you serious?” they said at the same time.

You just looked at them. Unmoving. Judgmental. Patient.

Your dad groaned. “Fine. I’m sorry. For punching you. Even if you deserved it.”

Joel smirked. “You don’t have to mean it.”

“I don’t.”

A pause. Then Joel lifted his mug. “You know I could’ve knocked you out, right?”

Your dad didn’t laugh. But he did huff. “Yeah, well. I was running hot. I’d have broken your nose first.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Just please, for the love of god,” your dad muttered, pushing up from the chair, “don’t procreate with this brainless man.”

“Ew, gross!” you yelped.

Joel tilted his head, pretending to look wounded. “What do you mean gross? You sure like tryin’ sweetheart.”

“Fucking hell. Please wait until I’m out the driveway,” your dad barked, already halfway to the door.

He stopped in the frame, turned over his shoulder. “You’re invited to dinner tomorrow. Seven sharp.”

Then he left. Door swinging shut behind him.

Joel waited two beats before saying, under his breath, “Think he’ll have wine? Or just a side of awkward tension?”

You snorted. Then let your head fall onto his shoulder with a relieved exhale.

—-

The moment he stepped into the shower behind you, you knew he was already hard.

The heat of his body, the weight of his gaze, the slow way he dragged his palms over your waist like he was still convincing himself you were real.

“You gonna keep starin’,” you teased, water cascading down your back, “or actually do something about it?”

Joel’s laugh was quiet, dark. He stepped closer, chest brushing your back, hand slipping around your front to cup your breast with a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve done plenty,” he murmured, voice low and slow like syrup, lips grazing your neck. “Still ain’t even scratched the surface.”

You turned around in his arms, hands resting on his chest. He was already soaked, hair curling around his ears, beard glistening. You looked down. Yeah. Very ready.

“You’re insatiable,” you smirked.

His hand slid between your legs without hesitation. “Says the girl who came twice last night and still had her hand on my zipper this morning.”

You gasped, more from his fingers than his mouth. “That’s because you’re…”

“What, baby?” His voice was velvet, pupils blown, mouth at your jaw. “Say it.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Because you’re so fucking good to me.”

That earned a low growl from his throat. He pressed you against the tiled wall, one large hand braced beside your head while the other teased, circled, stroked between your legs.

“God, I love it when you talk like that,” he said. “Love how you feel. Always so soft, always so ready for me.”

He kissed you hard then, open-mouthed, wet, tongue deep and possessive. You moaned into him, hips grinding into his palm.

He pulled back just long enough to say, “Tell me what you want.”

“You. Now.”

That made him smile. He lined himself up and teased, rubbing the tip against you, watching your face the whole time.

“Use your words, baby.”

You whimpered. “Please.”

He kissed your cheek, then your temple. “Say it right.”

“Please, Daddy.”

He groaned like you’d just knocked the breath out of him. “That’s my girl.”

He slid into you slow, inch by inch, eyes locked on yours like he was memorizing the way you fell apart around him. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck—Joel—”

“You take me so good,” he panted, moving deeper, grinding against your sweet spot. “Every time. Can’t get enough of you. Don’t ever want to.”

His hands grabbed your ass, lifting you easily, pressing you harder into the wall as he fucked up into you, deep and rough and slow. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist, letting him carry the rhythm, letting him wreck you.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “So fucked out already. My perfect girl.”

You clenched around him and he nearly lost it. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

You nodded helplessly. “Only for you. Only ever you.”

That did it. He held you tighter, drove into you faster, grunting through his teeth as your climax rolled through you, head thrown back, walls pulsing around him. He followed moments later, stuttering into your neck with a curse, hands gripping so tight it almost hurt. Then everything was still. The water. The steam. His body wrapped around yours like armor.

He nuzzled into your hair.

“Goddamn,” he whispered.

You smiled, dazed. “We still going to dinner tonight?” He chuckled, pulling you impossibly closer.

“If I can still walk.” You huffed back.

—-

The knock on your father’s door came with a knot in your stomach so tight it might’ve held up a suspension bridge.

Joel looked… good. Better than good. Crisp shirt, freshly trimmed beard, a calmness about him that was clearly manufactured just for tonight. Like he’d carefully put on his good-guy mask, ironed every edge of it, and smoothed it down with a breathless prayer. He even wore the belt you once said made him look “distressingly responsible.” Which, for Joel Miller, was about the highest level of effort he could achieve.

You, on the other hand, had dragged a couple reinforcements along, Riley and Nico already waiting inside, giggling as they peeked out the window and waved like excited children.

“Oh my god,” Riley whispered as she opened the door, hugging you first, then Joel. “You look so… boyfriend-coded.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Joel said, awkwardly hugging her back.

“You should.” Nico nodded, pulling him into a quick side-hug. “We’re here to protect your girl from weird questions, dry meatloaf, and emotional damage.”

“Appreciated,” Joel muttered, but he smiled. He really smiled.

Your dad entered the room like a storm cloud trying to pretend it was just passing through. He stopped when he saw everyone standing there, eyes flicking from your face to Joel’s. For a moment, you could almost see the conflict written across his shoulders, stiff, uncertain, still a little hurt. Then he stepped forward and wrapped you in a hug. A long one.

“I missed you, kid,” he said roughly, clearing his throat right after like it had betrayed him. You didn’t answer, just held him tighter, let your eyes water, then stepped back.

He looked Joel up and down, expression unreadable. Then, with a grunt, he lifted one hand and slapped it once, firmly,  on Joel’s shoulder.

“You look like an idiot,” he said flatly.

Joel coughed, half a laugh, half a confused sound.

The dinner table was set. Nothing fancy, your dad still used the same plates you grew up with, but there was real effort in the roast and potatoes, in the salad your dad probably got from the store and pretended to chop himself.

Everyone settled in. Riley and Nico helped serve. The tension started butter-knife thick,  but softened slowly, melted around the edges with each glass of wine, each shared story, each sarcastic comment from your dad that didn’t quite bite like it used to.

Joel pulled your chair out. Touched the small of your back as you passed. Got up to refill your glass when he saw it empty. And somewhere between your dad talking about the time Joel broke his toe fixing a sink and him dramatically reenacting it, the room started to hum again. Laughter, small talk and soft smiles.

Joel reached for your hand under the table, threading his fingers through yours, squeezing gently like a pulse. You squeezed back. The roast was good. The wine better. And Joel’s leg was warm beside yours, touching from thigh to knee, grounding you.

At some point, your dad started asking about work. About life. Not about your relationship, not directly, but the wall had cracked. His eyes flicked toward Joel when you said you were doing great.

After a lull in the conversation, Joel leaned in close, so close you felt his breath on your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You turned toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Your heart flipped like a coin in midair.

You smiled. Pressed your lips to his cheek, soft, secret, and said, “I know.”

Riley saw it. Nico smirked. Your dad looked down at his plate, but didn’t comment.

Later, after dessert, your dad stood from the table with a stretch and muttered, “I guess he’s not that much of an asshole.”

You grinned. Joel just blinked, speechless for once in his life. And as everyone stood to leave, your dad paused in the doorway, hand resting on the frame.

“Dinner again next week. You’re both invited. Don’t be late.”

Joel nodded laughing. “Yes, sir” with a theatrical salute, that made you laugh, before your dad shut the door, shaking his head. 

Joel turned to you, eyebrows raised. “You think he likes me again?”

You laughed. “Let’s just say… you’ve been upgraded from mortal enemy to mild nuisance.”

He pulled you into his arms, lips brushing your forehead.

“I can live with that.”

Taglist: @fallout-girl219 @glitterspark @thegirlthatsfalling @ashleyfilm @diagonazguly

[lvl109]

raison d'être

a caleb xia summer fic. terms of agreement: legally bound. (kind of.)

summary.ᐟ university au. all the lis are friends. no evol au. featuring some npcs (ex: tara, yvonne, etc.) fake dating at a beach house to get over an ex that isn't even yours? much more likely than you think. don't forget your sunscreen and sandals.

tee says.ᐟ and we're finally kickstarting the beach fic! happy reading <3

content ahead: non!mc reader, negotiations in front of elle woods, usual caleb puppyisms, and a begrudging change of summer plans. wc: ~700.

“you want me to what?”

he looks pained. disconcerted, even, but you decide your expansive vocabulary isn’t needed for this particular moment. your heartbeat rises unreasonably, but it’s outweighed by the utter audacity of your—previously unwelcomed, but that detail wasn't necessary anymore—companion pulling hellish favors out his ass. on movie night no less. and in front of elle woods.

“don’t make me repeat myself…”

“oh, im sorry,” you fake a sympathetic look, to which he quickly scowls and fidgets with his fingers. “i’m not the one who interrupted my legally blonde marathon to ask for the most unserious favor i’ve ever heard!”

“so you did hear me then?” you begin to open your mouth to tell him off, but he quickly waves his hands to avoid it. “okay! okay. sorry. i just need you to do this for me. please.”

i know sylus invited you to his beach house for the summer and emcee’s going to be there with her… boyfriend. so i kind of need a favor? 

you couldn’t. it was a terrible idea and you didn’t even know him that well. you only began to hang out towards the end of the semester when your friend group merged with sylus’—and even then, you hadn’t gotten close to a lot of his friends. it was just sheer coincidence sylus liked him enough to let him tag along, and as his closest friend, it's not like you could tell him who he could and couldn’t hang out with. 

“i’m not being used because you can’t get over a relationship that was doomed from the start,” you frown, and hold your ground when his head snaps up in offense. “oh, come on. don’t look at me like that—you had to have known she wasn’t into you like that.”

“what the hell does that even mean—”

this time, the sympathetic look on your face is somewhat tinged with actual empathy. you recall a late-night conversation you’d had with sylus as he revealed his offhand concerns about caleb being hung up on a girl who didn’t see him in that way any longer—childhood friends, missed opportunities, that kind of thing—and sigh with a furrow in your brow. 

“it means it’s time for you to move on.” you direct your gaze back to the screen, just in time to see elle arrive at the party in her pretty bunny costume. it makes the corner of your lips tug down as you watch her get made fun of, and you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your face. “you know that’s not a healthy way to cope with… whatever you had.” if they even had anything, you continue mentally, and internally wince.

he’s quiet, still boring holes into the side of your face, and you wonder if that’s what made you cave. you’ve always prided yourself in being strong willed and not easily swayed, but maybe it was watching such an iconic character get played that made you soft. when you turn to look at him again his eyes are still pleading, and a pout graces his lips as he reaches over to take your hands in his.

“please,” he mumbles, and squeezes your hands gently. his hands are warm. “it’ll just be for show, i promise. i’ll be forever in your debt if you do this for me. i don't want her to feel bad for me.”

when you still don’t budge, he moves to get on his knees to grovel, and your facade cracks. 

“alright!” you yelp, drawing your legs up to your chest when he kneels in front of you. your eyes widen at the display, and you slowly unravel your limbs when a tiny smile appears on your lips. “back up! and get off the floor, goodness—”

“so you’ll do it?” he looks too hopeful. his similarity to a certain bob wearing ball of energy softens your heart once again. you can hear yvonne telling you how much this was a terrible idea.

“fine,” you concede, and hold your hands up when he moves to envelope you in a hug. “but we need to set up some rules.”

when sylus texts you later that night about how caleb’s impromptu visit went, you toss your phone somewhere after sending back a myriad of middle finger emojis.

previous: teaser 𑁍 up next: rule one 𑁍 full masterlist.

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

“You’re a goddess, You’re my rockstar”

Synopsis: You met her on a tram in Hong Kong. She never asked you to stay, but you did. Now she’s gone, and the city remembers her better than you do. You wander through neon and noise, still waiting on the moon.

Word Count: 1,264

Kim Minjeong X M!Reader

tags: fluff? angst.

You meet her on a tram.

Upper deck. Cold night. She’s curled against the window, earphones in, mouthing lyrics. You’re across from her, pretending not to look, until she looks back—like she felt you looking.

“You always stare at strangers like that?”

Her voice is calm, flat, a bit amused.

“Only the ones who seem like they don’t want to be here,” you say.

She scoffs. “That’s everyone on this tram.”

But she doesn’t stop looking at you.

That’s the first time.

She gets off at the next stop.

You think that’s it.

It isn’t.

You run into her again.

A week later. Same tram stop in Wan Chai. She sees you first this time.

“You stalking me?”

“I was here first.”

“Mm. That’s what they all say.”

But she stays. She sits next to you this time.

You learn her name is Minjeong.

She likes quiet things—old bookstores, vinyl stores, fishballs from carts no one trusts.

She tells you she’s not from here, but the city feels right when she’s lost in it.

“Hong Kong’s loud enough to drown my thoughts,” she says.

“But soft enough to let me feel them when I want to.”

You remember the second time you met her better than the first.

It was unplanned—at least, you thought it was. She never told you if it was a coincidence or not.

You were on your usual route home, cutting through Temple Street Market even though it was out of the way. The air was thick with roasted chestnuts and engine smoke. Someone was playing a saxophone nearby—off-key, but bold. You liked that.

And there she was.

Hair pulled back. White hoodie. One hand wrapped around a can of lemon tea, the other holding a plastic bag of cut mango with chili powder.

“You again?” she said, like you had crashed into her.

“You sure you’re not following me?”

“If I was, you’d never know.”

She bit into the mango and winced.

“God, I hate that it stings.”

You laughed. “Then why eat it?”

“Because I like the pain more than I like the fruit.”

You didn’t know it then, but that sentence would explain a lot about her.

You remember Mong Kok. A chaotic Saturday. You wandered through tangled neon streets that pulsed like veins, her hand barely brushing yours in the crowd.

She dragged you into every store that sold things you didn’t need—plastic sunglasses, LED lights shaped like clouds, tiny capsule machines with anime figurines. She insisted on spending HKD 60 just to get a keychain that looked like a cat wearing sunglasses.

She bought matching socks with embroidered whales.

“These are for when you feel like the world’s swallowing you,” she said.

“Whales are good luck?”

“No. But they’re big, and they don’t let the ocean break them.”

You still have them. They don’t even match anymore. But you can’t throw them away.

There was a café in Sheung Wan that she loved. It played soft jazz and always had one booth with a broken lamp above it—the one she called “our cursed seat.” You didn’t even drink coffee, but you went with her anyway.

She liked her milk tea strong, no sugar. She drank it like medicine, like it grounded her.

One night, she sipped her drink and said,

“If I told you I was leaving… would you stop talking to me?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “No. I’d just talk faster.”

She laughed so hard she had to set her cup down.

You think that was the first time you truly saw her.

Not just the Minjeong the city swallowed, but the Minjeong who wanted someone to stay.

You remember the harbor. Victoria Peak glowing in the distance like a crown. It was close to midnight. Cold wind bit at your ears. She sat beside you on the stone ledge with her knees tucked to her chest, jacket zipped up to her mouth.

“I feel like I’m always half-here,” she murmured.

“Where’s the other half?”

“Still trying to figure that out.”

You stayed quiet. You offered your shoulder.

She rested against it like it wasn’t the first time.

You never said anything more that night. You didn’t need to.

She tried to teach you Korean once. Just the basics. She wrote “괜찮아” on a napkin and made you repeat it until you got the tone right.

In return, you taught her how to say “faan nei” in Cantonese. Return to you.

“Say it again,” she whispered, folding the napkin in half.

You didn’t know if she was talking about the phrase, or something else.

She fell asleep on an MTR ride once. You were headed back from Tsim Sha Tsui, the train gently rocking, lights humming above. Her head tilted onto your shoulder, a bag of pineapple buns half-open on her lap.

She didn’t flinch when you adjusted her scarf.

You watched her chest rise and fall with the rhythm of the rails.

In that moment, you imagined a future you’d never get.

She scribbled her name on your arm with a pen while you waited for a street performer to start. It smudged halfway through the evening, but you didn’t wipe it off.

“Temporary tattoo,” she said.

“How long does it last?”

“Depends if you shower.”

You didn’t wash your arm that night.

In Sham Shui Po, she forced you to buy fake jade bracelets.

“To ward off weird exes,” she claimed.

“You’re my weird ex,” you said.

“I’m not your anything,” she replied. But she didn’t give the bracelet back

All of it—the fruit stalls, the overhead tram wires, the scent of her shampoo on your jacket, the sound of her voice beneath the ferry horns—

All of it became her.

A Week Later.

It’s raining hard. You’re both caught under a narrow awning near Temple Street. She’s fiddling with her umbrella, but you can tell—she’s restless.

“I don’t want to stay here much longer,” she says.

“You mean tonight?”

She shakes her head.

“No. I mean… in general.”

You don’t ask what that means.

You just walk her home.

In silence.

The sun dips just beneath the skyline, casting the city in gold before letting it go.

You wait for her at your usual cafe. Two drinks. One with sugar, one without.

She never shows up.

You wait an hour.

Then two.

Then every Friday after that.

Eventually, the barista stops asking if she’s coming.

He just hands you her usual order with a pitiful smile.

You search the city for her.

Every tram. Every corner.

Every skyline.

But she’s gone.

You don’t know where.

You don’t know why.

And now:

You’re back.

Same city. Same silence.

You walk the places where her laughter used to echo.

You ride the Star Ferry with no destination.

You sit on rooftop steps she used to hum songs on.

You check your phone sometimes—not because she texts.

But because you’re afraid she never will again.

Then one day, the bookstore clerk hands you a note.

Says she left it “just in case.”

It reads:

“You didn’t make me stay. But you made me wish I could—

That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

You stare at it for a long time.

Then fold it.

And leave it behind.

You’re still in Hong Kong.

But maybe this time, you won’t stay waiting.

The city doesn’t pause for heartbreak.

And maybe… neither should you

All of it is gone now.

But that’s the problem with memory, isn’t it?

You don’t get to choose what lingers.

You just keep living in a city where she’s already gone.

[solarstranger]

CHAPTER 2 | I HOPE YOU SEE (RIGHT THROUGH ME)

w.c. 1.7k

tags. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (23), some cussing (it's not a bakugou fic if there aren't any), suicide-related deaths (see series synopsis for more details), discussions of suicide, mentions of heaven and hell (common interpretations of the afterlife in general), definitely not me projecting my own issues onto reader lmfaooo

a/n. here we go again with me not being able to write everything that needs to happen in the chapter lol. i tried imagining a longer version of this jam-packed with said events, but i felt like i already reached a nice spot to end the chapter, so i'll leave it to future eeya to figure out how to insert the succeeding events :> as always, i'd love to know what you think! please talk to me in the replies, tags, or drop an ask!

links. masterlist, ao3

Click.

At the vaguely familiar sound of a lock coming undone, your eyes snap open.

Or, at least, you think they were closed; the pitch-black darkness filling your vision—unchanging despite the swift motion—suggesting otherwise.

You blink a couple more times—perhaps a little too rapidly for your own good—breath unknowingly held in tense anticipation, and only then do your eyes adjust to the darkness, the almost imperceptible moonlight illuminating through the closed windows to your left what could only be someone’s living room.

Not just someone’s, you think to yourself. A stranger’s.

How the fu—

Whatever profanity-riddled question you were about to ask yourself halts to a stop when the telltale creak of a door opening reaches your ears, your frame immediately and involuntarily freezing as you watch the dim light from what looks like a hallway flood the area not even a beat later, standing smackdab at the center of which is a silhouette of a man.

A silhouette that almost instantly morphs into the real thing with a single press of a switch, your jaw all but dropping to the floor when the identity of the person standing in front of you finally registers—the sudden, blinding white light be damned.

And for a moment, you don’t move.

Just—stare, shell-shocked, at the awfully familiar yet foreign-looking ash-blonde as he stumbles gracelessly into the foyer, exhaustion practically radiating off his muscled—not to mention intimidating—form.

But then he’s straightening up after toeing off his shoes and dropping his bag, and something finally clicks within you.

You immediately move to stand up, ready to make a break for it—or, in this case, hide until you can inconspicuously escape what has to be his home—but that’s when he abruptly stiffens, and despite yourself, you freeze—butt suspended in the air a few inches away from where you were just sitting.

Fuck.

He couldn’t have just caught you, could he?

Whatever delusions you had for an answer to that question instantly die right in front of you, however, when—to your horror—Bakugou turns slowly, almost cautiously, the color draining from his face the second you lock eyes.

Shit.

You scramble for something to say.

And what you end up going for is—

“…I can explain?”

At that, Bakugou blinks at you, completely still.

Then, blinks again.

And when you’re pretty much convinced you just killed the guy with an instantaneous heart attack that he took standing, Bakugou finally unfreezes.

“What the…fuck.”

“I swear,” you quickly say, unfreezing yourself and straightening up, “I have no idea how I got here.”

“Yeah, no,” Bakugou mutters more to himself than you, his gaze never leaving your face.

…Almost as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“I promise I’m not a robber,” you add pathetically, hoping he’ll take a stranger’s word for it. “I don’t—” you falter, looking around the modestly-sized living room, before huffing in defeat, “I don’t understand what’s going on myself.”

“That makes the two of us,” is the only thing Bakugou says in response. You whip to look at him, surprised at his total lack of alarm just now.

If it were you who came home to a total stranger lounging on your sofa—

You shake your head at the thought. Now wasn’t the time to think of hypothetical scenarios. You needed to flee—ideally before the pro-hero could call the police on you.

Although you suppose he could just make the arrest himself.

“Well,” you cough awkwardly, eyeing the door behind him not so subtly, “I probably should get going. Don’t wanna impose on you, or something.”

“Again,” you continue when he doesn’t say anything, taking a few steps towards the man—he was still blocking your only way out of here unless, of course, you decide to jump off the window, “I’m sorry about all this. I promise not to cause you any more trouble.”

You don’t wait for a reply after that—sidestepping the ash-blonde with a quiet ‘excuse me’ and quickly making your way to the door, before finally reaching out for the knob with your dominant hand.

You don’t even get to touch the handle, however, when you see it.

Your—

Your hand.

It’s—

What the fuck.

Translucent.

You immediately look down at the remaining length of your arm, then at the rest of your body, and that’s when the last bit of your foggy memories finally comes rushing back to you, like a raging storm surge that nobody—let alone yourself—saw coming from a thousand miles away.

You let out a choked sound—one that you barely recognize as yours—just as Bakugou says something behind you that you couldn’t quite catch, nor bring yourself to give a single fuck about.

Because it can’t be.

Did you actually…succeed?

“Hey.”

Your head snaps to look at Bakugou, who’s now staring at you with an expression on his face that you can’t quite make out.

Right.

He was still here.

“I—” you start, eyes drifting back again to your body, “I know this is gonna sound crazy,” you gulp, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say next, “But I think I just…died.”

To your surprise, Bakugou doesn’t even falter at your supposition. Instead, he only continues staring at you, the metaphorical gears in his head visibly turning as he does so.

You decide to try again. “I jumped—”

“I know,” he grits out unexpectedly, cutting you off.

You pause, gawking at him. “Y-you do?”

Bakugou nods once—curtly. “I saw you. Jumped after you, actually. But…”

He huffs, averting his gaze. “I was too late.”

“Oh,” is the only thing you manage to reply.

And when he doesn’t say anything for a beat: “That’s—that’s okay.”

Whatever was considered okay as a response to his statement, it apparently—definitely—wasn’t that, because Bakugou whips to glare at you so fast, you instinctively take a step back. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” you croak, taking another step to add more distance between the two of you. “I—I just said that it’s okay.”

“That I was too late,” he finishes—more like spits—and you have to tamp down the urge to shrink into yourself at his tone.

“Yeah,” you manage to rasp anyway, wanting nothing but to bolt out of here now more than ever.

But to where, exactly?

Heaven?

Hell?

You figured you’d be at either by now, and not at some random pro-hero’s bachelor pad.

Except if what he’s telling you is the truth, then you guess he’s not exactly random…

“Your name,” he says instead—a beat later—the topic shift catching you slightly off guard, “It’s Y/N, right?”

At that, you nod, albeit somewhat hesitantly. “How—how’d you know?”

“I told you,” he retorts bitterly, “I saw you jump. I was the one who called emergency services.”

You shouldn’t have, your brain immediately supplies in retaliation, although something tells you he won’t exactly take well to that. You bite your lip and nod instead.

You both stand there—neither uttering a word—for what feels like an eternity, letting the absurd reality of the situation sink in.

It’s you, though, who ultimately breaks the silence.

“I-uh-should probably get going,” you begin, glancing at the increasingly tantalizing exit behind you. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

“Yeah?” he scoffs—much to your chagrin—his tone making you frown despite yourself. “And where might you be going?

Oh.

You didn’t really think about that, nor that far.

Death didn’t exactly come with a detailed starting manual, as you’ve so brutally been not told.

You don’t voice these apprehensions, however, opting to press your lips in a thin line instead.

Had you known the afterlife was going to be like this…

No.

It’s not like you had a choice.

You shrug your shoulders, then, hoping your unease isn’t scrawled all over your features. “My apartment,” you confidently answer, suddenly thankful you have your own place to retreat to at this time.

A grunt. “You have your keys?”

“Well, no—”

“Then how the hell are you gonna get there?” he spews, before giving you an excruciatingly slow once-over, “Looking like that?”

As if on cue, you look down at your body, only to be met with the clear reminder that you’re not exactly human anymore.

You frown. “I—”

“You can sleep on the couch for tonight,” Bakugou suddenly declares, turning on his heel and not bothering to look at you. “Just figure it out tomorrow.”

“But—”

“You have a better idea?” the ash-blonde asks over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in begrudging question.

At that, you splutter. “Well, no, but—”

“Then just take the goddamn offer and sleep,” Bakugou snaps—almost—before looking away.

Then, under his breath, you barely catch it: “Maybe then you’d disappear.”

In your defense, you really tried.

Sleeping, that is.

After you reluctantly agreed with Bakugou and took his offer to camp out for the night, he headed to his room without sparing you another word or glance, leaving you in the quiet of his apartment’s living space, not knowing what to do with yourself.

You probably stood there for a couple of minutes—unmoving—reeling over what just transpired, before you decided that there wasn’t much you could do about your situation but to wait it out until you could get out of here and—you don’t know—maybe look for other departed souls and ask for directions to heaven?

Ha.

More like hell, but there wasn’t any harm in trying to enter your first choice, now is there?

Which reminds you.

You actually did it.

You managed to kill yourself.

So much has happened in so little time since you snapped awake at Bakugou’s arrival that you haven’t had the chance to let the fact sink in, or to marvel at how your plan actually worked.

And that you didn’t survive and end up being worse off than you were already before, or that you didn’t get interrupted by someone else mid-attempt.

You almost did, you corrected yourself.

But that’s the thing.

You didn’t.

And you’re here now, although you’re not where you thought you’d end up—but this was a start.

Now, only that’s left is to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ

[flibbertigibbety-jibber-jabber]

okay so i’m very curious about graysteds parents bc there’s obviously something that happened that lead him into the GDA

ALSO i want to know more about like eve, william (if he’s included in this au, which im assuming he is?) and amber in this au like what’s graysteds relationship with them and stuff

oughhh i love ur au so much its so awesome

THANK YOU!! Sorry for taking too long I kept being Busy then Very Overinvested <//3

Honestly these would probably be better off as two separate posts? And would be a little easier to do them that way lol,,, I’ll do Mark’s parents (AKA the Grayson Incident) first cos I have that outlined the clearest, (+ tag you and link the posts when I get to the others ^_^) This kinda fell into a rambly story on accident but idk how else to explain… I can do stories better than this trust 🙏🙏🙏

Nothing’s truly different about Nolan or Debbie—it’s all in Mark himself.

Mark is clumsy, and gets tired quick, hurt more, dizzy and nauseous, is weak. The doctors say he’s fine, just different, and Debbie scowls at the ones who call him dramatic. She tells him she’ll love him no matter what, with or without his problems, that they’ll figure something out so he can be happy. Nolan… sometimes makes Mark feel weak. He doesn’t say it, but he feels like he disappoints him.

Mark is 7 years old when Nolan tells Mark about his heritage as a Viltrumite. Mark is excited, both to have powers and an answer. Maybe he’s different because he’s part alien, and when his powers come in it’ll all go away! There’s an undertone of expectation that makes him nervous, but he’ll live up to it. He’s sure of it.

I guess the moment the timeline diverges the most is when he trips over himself and loses the baseball game three years later.

About a month after the game, there was a half-day at school. William’s mom dropped him off at his house, where the front door had been left unlocked. Mark didn’t see or hear anything at first, just an empty, still house. He heard a thud, and when he came around the corner to investigate… well. He found Debbie’s bloody body and an open back door.

The GDA appeared not a minute later, taking them both back to the Pentagon with them—mostly because Mark wouldn’t let go of Debbie, still crying and sobbing, but then also because Cecil told them to. When they have to separate them to operate on her, do what they can to see if she’ll make it, he throws a fit but relents to sitting on the floor outside her room, still crying.

Cecil had to make a decision, one that both the fate of a 9-year-old boy and their entire planet rested on: What the hell do we do with Mark?

They don’t even know anything about Viltrumites other than data collected on Nolan from a distance, the “story” they told him, and that nobody—and no group—on the fucking planet could fight one and win. When Mark gets his powers, he’ll take up the mantle for strongest superpowered person on the planet, no matter how old he is. He couldn’t go to a normal family. Being raised outside was a risk, every little factor twisting their fate.

Cecil didn’t know. So, he found Mark, hoping to find an answer there and fast, because Debbie’s outlook was bleak and Nolan wasn’t in the solar system anymore. Pretty soon this kid would have nobody. Mark was still sitting against the door, clothes bloody and tear-soaked, staring at his shoes and sniffling. Cecil sat down on the chairs across from him, and before Cecil could say anything, Mark looked up at him and asked him if they’d found the bad guy yet.

Mark believed his father’s story. He believed that Viltrumites were altruistic saviors, and that his father was a white knight here to protect Earth. The one time he’d seen Mark before this—a complete accident—the thing he remembered the most was his starry eyed ambition, full of naïve trust and awe, so curious about everything involving superhero-ing and hanging onto every vague answer given as Cecil waited for Nolan to show up. So sure that, some day, he was going to save the world.

Cecil could work with that.

Debbie flat-lined after a few hours. Mark was taken in, brought to a room they used when people needed to stay overnight by Donald, who broke the news to him. He told him they were going to keep him safe from the attacker, and train him to be the best hero he could be.

Mark believed him.

[lowrisemiller]

ʟᴇꜱᴛᴀᴛ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ — ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴇʀᴀꜱ

i tried to keep reader as gender neutral as possible so forgive me

comment if you’d like to be on my lestat tag list!!

masterlist | 1.2 k words | lowkey ooc lestat I made him a softie in the beginning SORRY NOT SORRY | some are smutty but nothing too explicit | lots of flirting & banter 😏 | allusions to oral | obviously blood warning he is a vampire but there's nothing graphic | sorry not rlly proofread either |

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

1800s/1900s New Orleans

♱ he loves to dress you like a painting. velvets, lace, gloves, and jewelry he “borrowed” from noble corpses or lovers long past. you don’t ask, but you always accept.

♱ he has a thing for pressing his cold lips to your palm, dragging fangs along the delicate skin there without biting, teasing, promising.

♱ he murmurs in French, sometimes it’s something dirty, or it’s poetic, but it’s always intense. the room usually increases in temperature.

♱ he tells you you’re the only real thing left in a world that decays too quickly. his need to immortalize you wars with his fear of condemning you to the same curse.

♱ you become lestat’s muse. his obsession. a reason to write, sing, stay.

♱ he keeps a lock of your hair in a glass locket, wears it beneath his shirt.

♱ and when he leaves for days at a time (as he sometimes must), you always find a new book on your nightstand, annotated in his spidery handwriting: “this reminded me of you.”

♱ lestat’s touch is delicate and devastating. he worships your body, revering every inch like it deserves to be painted.

♱ he can be greedy, but only after he’s memorized your breath, your pulse, the way your voice catches when he’s just hovering, lips ghosting your neck.

♱ he loves control, (shocker) but he’s not cruel. he’s theatrical in bed—slow at first, making a show of undressing you, calling you “darling,” “mon chérie,” “my angel” as if your very existence is an indulgence he’s not allowed to taste.

♱ he feeds from you before intimacy but not during—he says it’s too much, your time together is too sacred.

♱ sometimes you wake up with his bite already healing on your thigh or collarbone, and he just smirks from across the room in candlelight like he’s proud of his restraint.

♱ you share a townhouse in the french quarter. lestat insists on keeping a piano in every room with a hearth. he plays at twilight while you sleep, melancholic sonatas drifting through the halls like smoke.

♱ he’s jealous. (another shocker) not violently, (hmm) but visibly. anyone who looks at you too long will find themselves unnerved by a sudden drop in temperature or lestat’s hand gently, threateningly, resting at your waist.

♱ if you ever offer your blood to him willingly, it undoes him. lestat sees that as trust in its purest form. his bite is slow, intimate, almost like a kiss—he moans into it, as if the taste of you makes him dizzy, drunk, helpless.

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

Théâtre des Vampires Era

♱ this is more of a fwb relationship

♱ it’s not “love,” not really. not aloud.

♱ but he comes to you after every performance—still in costume, paint smudged, shirt half-buttoned, voice hoarse from monologues and mock-death scenes. and he needs you. desperately. like the applause isn’t enough.

♱ you're his little secret.

♱ in public he’s dramatic and aloof, kissing your hand like you're nothing but a muse. behind closed doors? he's on his knees for you, whispering in French about how your cum tastes better than blood.

♱ you don’t live together, but he leaves clothes at your place. his shirts are too big, too silken, and smell faintly of old roses and stone crypts. you sleep in them anyway.

♱ lestat is a performer: he makes sex a performance, too. he strips like it’s a scene from a play, slowly, confidently, like he knows the exact moment your breath will hitch. he holds eye contact the entire time.

♱ he loves to tease.

♱ he won’t touch you at first. just watches, sprawled in your bed or his, one arm behind his head, make up still on. he murmurs instructions, or worse, praises: “that’s it, mon cœur… show me how much you want me.”

♱ biting and blood-sharing are foreplay more often than not.

♱ not full feeding. just enough to make your head spin. he’ll sink his teeth in and press his mouth to yours before you can even breathe, tasting himself and you on your tongue.

♱ he likes to fuck you on rich surfaces.

♱ velvet curtains, costume tables, fainting couches, marble floors, against mirrors, still half-dressed in his stage clothes.

♱ once, he took you in the opera box after the crowd has left, still panting from the rush of performance.

♱ you read to him when he’s too wired after a show to sleep.

♱ sometimes he pretends to fall asleep against your thigh while you speak, but you’ll catch his lashes fluttering, that small smirk tugging at his mouth.

♱ it’s “just physical” but when you sleep in his bed, he watches you like he’s memorizing the shape of your spine, your mouth, the sound of your breathing.

♱ you once found a sketch of you in one of his journals. not of you naked, not posing, just asleep, with his coat draped over you and your hand curled near your mouth. in the corner he’d written: “heaven has gained another angel.”

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

rockstar era

♱ you were hired to keep lestat from burning the world down. but of course from day one he makes it impossible.

♱ he calls you “boss” just to see you twitch, kisses your cheek during interviews, and flashes his fangs at you before going on stage.

♱ he ignores your emails and reminders but shows up to meetings shirtless and wet from the shower. says, “you wanted me on time, didn’t say dressed.”

♱ everyone assumes you’re sleeping together. You aren’t. 

♱ but you both start to think about it.

♱ you constantly catch him looking at your mouth when you talk. he lingers too long when handing you a water bottle after a show, his fingers brushing yours like you're made of fire

♱ he starts singing your name onstage during soundcheck.

♱ “this one’s for the boss,” he purrs before launching into a filthy, growling ballad about obsession and surrender.

♱ after one particularly brutal show, you corner him backstage, yelling about his set running late and flipping off the press.

♱ he crowds you against a wall, grinning, soaked in sweat and fake blood, voice rough. “you like it when I misbehave. admit it.”

♱ the first time you fuck, it’s backstage.

♱ some green room or soundproof booth. he’s just come off stage, breathless and wild, pupils blown wide. you’re arguing, again, and then he kisses you hard, mouth tasting like blood and champagne. you claw at his leather jacket, and he groans like he’s waited centuries.

♱ he worships your neck. duh.

♱ that’s where he bites you first, slow and deliberate, asking permission with his eyes but not his mouth. he says you taste like want and lust.

♱ his hands are everywhere, greedy but reverent. he grips your hips like he’s trying to memorize your rhythm, your heat, the arch of your back when he thrusts just right.

♱ he’s a vocal lover—filthy, poetic, and a little desperate.

♱ he calls you things like “divine,” “mine,” “my sweetest addiction.” but it’s the way he moans your name, half-whimper, that makes your knees give out.

♱ after? he pulls you onto his chest, licking blood off his bottom lip, looking smug and ruined. he says, “so, boss... any notes on tonights performance?"

♱ you try to be professional again.

♱ he ruins it by texting you selfies in bed, wearing your shirt. “miss you already.” you saw him two hours ago.

♱ he starts writing songs about you. some are sexy. some are heartbreaking.

♱ one makes you cry in the middle of a tour bus ride. he kisses your hand after and says, “I meant every word.”

♱ sometimes, when the band’s asleep and it’s 3am, he wraps himself around you in the dark and whispers, “you make me feel human again.”

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

hehe if you made it this far ty for reading!! this was my first time writing him! and ik there aren't many lestat x reader things on tumblr so I rlly appreciate the likes, reflags, & comments :)

🏷️ @lestatsinstrument @notsostrangerthing @theprettiesthead @beatricetudor-blog @goblinbabyy @vampireloverboys40 @annafromao3 @mobygoose @thegrungebarbie @grapejuicrry @zomqiez

[iloveanokyai]

my sotr rant :D

unlike a lot of ppl in this tag i actually really liked this book to a degree. i don’t think it’s as bad as people make it seem and noticed the ppl that are most angry are movie shippers. however there were several things that felt iffy to me abt the writing in sotr.

#1) it definitely felt like this book was specifically made to be adapted to film (not in a “omg it’s so good it’s needs to be a movie way” but a “wtf is even happening in any of the action scenes, i can’t comprehend this without visuals” way). which isn’t necessarily bad but kinda sucks if you just want to enjoy a book.

#2) i feel like there was in fact fan service which felt lazy and almost cringe. ppl make the excuse that it’s “a small district” so everyone knows everyone but like… really mags AND wiress just happen to be your mentors. mags makes sense but wiress was pushing it and was unnecessary. should’ve been someone unknown and even more ridiculous when you realize chaff (his victor best friend is missing entirely from the book). but ofc effie walks into the story because *checks notes* her sister is in haymitch’s prep team and conveniently something goes wrong. i feel like she just included effie so her fans wouldn’t riot.

#3) also even though effie was always nice what happened to her morally gray remarks like calling the tributes savages seen in the first book—instead she just defends the capitol after the games (which is still and but like) i feel like sc made her more like the movie effie rather than the book accurate one. (kinda felt like she tried to make her more likable which actually made me like her less).

#4) i love haydove idgaf what yall sheep say. however my main critique is that sc portrays haymitch as someone who can’t think for himself at times (specifically with maysilee). “what can i say? i can’t let you see my necklace becuz my gf hates you” what happened to thinking for yourself ? but also why do i feel like lenore dove wouldn’t give af if maysilee sees it ? other than that they’re cute to me idk and their height difference & kisses will eat on screen

#5) rly… the big secret maysilee has on lenore dove is that she grafitees walls in twelve ??? the girl who was arrested 2x by the age of 12 because she hated the games regardless of who it targeted and would do anything to stand up against them ? the one who does a whole speech abt keeping the sun from rising? i’d rather her just have maysilee say that she was secretly cheating on haymitch with her (#maydove #lesbianrealness) atleast it’d be more believable. like that was so anticlimactic ??? she’s a known rebel that’s why the peacekeepers harass her-

#6) sorry most of the side characters fell flat to me. i didn’t see enough of wellie to care i was just like damn silka beat the shit out of her and she was too young ( the movie will destroy me but i didn’t care in the book if im being real). wyatt also seemed like a waste, like sc didn’t know what to do with him (even silka & panache were more interesting). only main tributes i cared abt were haymitch, ampert, maysilee, louella, and those two.

[azure-trash]

I haven’t done one of these in a good while but hey, I like music so why not, let’s go! In no particular order!

1. Transcendental Cha Cha Cha by Tom Cardy

I didn’t like this song at first but it’s very quickly grown on me these past few days and now I can’t get enough. I just KEEP listening to it. It’s so fun and silly and I love the music video and the stupid little story it’s telling. It’s just. It’s great fun!! It’s a fun song!!

2. New Type Of Hero by Chatterbox

I recently watched To Be Hero X and this is one of the songs from the show. I’m actually so fucking obsessed with this song, it’s insane. I love it so much. It’s not even that good, I just love it A LOT. It has very quickly become one of my most listened songs ever. Like. Legitimately. I have looked at my listening stats on Spotify. It’s up there. Already.

3. The New Flesh by Red Vox

New Red Vox song?? OF COURSE IT’S A RECENT FAVOURITE!!!!!! I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!! The atmosphere!!! The vibes!!! The lyrics!!! The guitar!!! The synth!!! EVERYTHING!!!! RAAAAAHHH I LOVE RED VOX!!!!!!! I LOVE THIS SONG!!!

4. TV World by Toby Fox

Yeah, I played the new Deltarune chapter(s) and this is probably my favourite from chapter 3. It’s so fun and bouncy and just super enjoyable. I’m gonna limit myself and only pick one Toby Fox song so this is it

5. Live! From The Kitchen Table by McKinley Dixon Feat. Ghais Guevara

A friend recently introduced me to this album and oh my god it’s GLORIOUS. It’s absolutely beautiful. I’m a big fan. This is probably my favourite from the album, but I a thousand percent recommend listening to the full thing

6. Interrupt (mms01) by Fraserwave

This is a song a youtuber made so he could have background music for a video but holy shit does it bang, especially for what it is. When the ost for a YouTube video about smash bros melee starts to go a bit crazy. That’s what this song is.

7. Inte Bra I Gruup by Veronica Maggio

A recent Veronica Maggio drop!!! And it’s a banger!! Like usual!! Queen!! I love how it’s a bit different from her usual stuff! It’s not super different at all, it’s still very much her sound, but it’s a different direction and I love it!

8. POP SONG by Zay Dante

Like Transcendental Cha Cha Cha, this song took a bit to grow on me. I didn’t initially like it but WOW. It’s crazy how a song can grow on you, I love this song. It’s a parody of generic pop songs so it sounds like a generic pop song but like? It’s good? It works? I don’t know man, it’s a generic pop song but it’s good and I love it

9. Hr. Ingenting by PATINA Feat. Peter AG

9. Yet another recent release from a band I like!! These guys are a Danish indie rock band with a real fun sound and this song in particular is AMAZING. It has a part just over halfway through that makes me fucking ascend, it’s so… AUGH. It’s really fucking good oh my god

10. Suikinkutsu by Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra Feat. Hiromi

10. And lastly!!! I discovered this song from Psynwav’s most recent album, Musical Transients, which is a mashup album! This song was used as the backing track for the final song, aptly named Finale, and I loved how it sounded in Finale so I sought out the original and GOD DAMN does it fucking slap HARD. It goes fucking crazy. Shout Psynwav for introducing me, I’m now a fan of Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra! I leave with this

Tagging uuuuuhhhh @giraffeyla10 @cru5h-cascades @mxxdwrckr @chemol-2 @millionsofplayers @pixies--dust @gillion-fagstrider and anyone else who wants to do this if you see it!!!

Tagged by @carcarrot to share 10 pieces of music that I've been enjoying lately!!! Thank you!!!!!

This got slightly long so I'm putting my choices under a read more XD Meanwhile I'm tagging @jellojellyroll @parts-of-me-unravelling @delicious-crab-meat @glampacked @laserlem0n (if you want to ofc!! or anyone who feels like doing this too and sharing some tunes they've been into!!)

The MAD!ness continues and never stops

SO EXCITED that there's a new Guerilla Toss album coming out, I've been waiting for this. The last album (from 2022, when I started getting into them) didn't speak to me at all (altough at this point maybe I should just give it another chance... it's been 3 years after all), but the two new singles from the upcoming album are both really great and remind me a lot of their older stuff that I loved, WE'RE SO BACK!! This september will be a treat musically (new David Byrne album coming too...)

Fuck yesssss, they released a live version of this song with Master Peace, just like I hoped!!! A real rave banger, seeing this live was one of the best moments of the year for me, what a show that was

One of my favourite songs that I've heard this year so far. Or, honestly, ever. I'm genuinely so impressed by it

Cibo Matto are very cool

Found them through their connection with Ambar Navarro (director of the Do Things My Own Way and Drowned In A Sea Of Tears music videos who did a music video for this band too). Very fun song and hey, that's another new album coming out in september!! Ahhhh so cool

Another banging recent album!!!! And song!!!

This song comes back to me in phases and it's been one of those months when it really hits again. Hard to think of another song that captures this specific mood quite as well, a "reflecting on life and how full of things to explore and all different sort of experiences it is" kind of mood

Meanwhile my mission to listen to more King Crimson (along with more prog in general) continues... And this is the newest entry on the "holy shit dude, wow" type of songs list from this category

And now something a bit more local. First heard about this band as this sort of, friend of a friend's friend's, kind of underground band from Warsaw about two years ago, so I was quite shocked to discover sometime last month that they are now going to be playing at a major polish alternative music festival! Really enjoying this slightly different new direction they seem to be taking and I'm excited to hear more

[asexualjedi]

Still so iconic of Matt fraction to start his run like anyways off screen Clint and Kate who have met a few times before this run have become besties and are fundamentally now intertwined characters. Like and that’s just canon now. I think more comic writers should be willing to kinda just decide a new status quo like that especially with characters that have been under utilized

[toddtakefive]

thinking about todd and his resolve toward… not quite isolation, but being alone in a room full of people again. he goes along to the study room to sit on his own and do his homework, he sits at the poets table and follows along with what’s being said while keeping quiet, he goes to the meetings at all but doesn’t necessarily contribute (in fact, if you watch him when cameron is telling the story ‘from camp in sixth grade’, you can see that he recognizes it before any of the other poets but doesn’t voice it until they all have). he’s not alone, necessarily, if you want to get technical about it, he’s just lonely, and he’s generally okay with that. he doesn’t have friends and that’s fine, he doesn’t participate in class and that’s fine, he doesn’t have a relationship with his family and that’s fine—he could live without any real connection and he’d have been, more or less, fine.

the thing about when he says “i can take care of myself just fine!” is that he isn’t really wrong, you can infer that he’s been doing it his entire life anyway, it’s that ‘taking care of yourself’ isn’t the same thing as really living or being happy. todd’s an introvert, certainly, and even as he gets closer to the group he defaults to sitting quietly in the background, but he’s also denying himself community out of fear not introversion. todd isn’t friendless because he’s an introvert, although that definitely plays a part, he’s friendless because he pushes anyone that might want his company away. if anyone has every wanted for his attention in the first place. (neil’s unwavering interest in him is unique (even when it comes to the rest of the poets, who are fine with todd coming along and joining the group, but aren’t really hellbent on him being there in the beginning) and his refusal to accept it is a direct result of being so lonely growing up.)

there’s obviously something to be said about the implications of his parents neglect, and the more than likely fact that he grew up friendless, and how those both play a part in in him being so skilled at dodging social interaction/being so avoidant of it, but by the time we see him in the movie he’s all but accepted his fate as being alone his entire life. he’s already accepted being the family disappointment, and he’s already accepted he’ll never amount to anything, and he obviously doesn’t like it, but he’d have managed living with that knowledge without the confirmation that it was all wrong. would he have been miserable? almost certainly. but he’d have managed. he’d done it for that long already, anyhow.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The whole discourse about the privacy/secrecy/support thing has been sitting with me for a few days (I mean other than it always does to a certain degree) thanks to all the excellent discussion happening and I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but I think what we're seeing and what we're going to learn (e.g. from TTPD) is that it wasn't just the support issue, but how it was shown/handled.

We've all gone out of our way to show that introversion =/= lack of support. Someone can be shy, reserved, etc. and still show up for their partner, whether in public or at home. To chalk any of the differences up to the clash between introversion and extroversion is unfair to folks who count themselves among either tbh.

@thisisctrying said something the other day that hit the nail on the head about how if that support had been offered in private, there very well may not have been a Joever to begin with, or at least not at this point in time. (Sorry for loosely paraphrasing, and for namedropping you! Long time listener, first time poster.)

If this were a case where the "shy" partner said, "I am really uncomfortable with the spotlight personally and do not want to court it, but I will support you in your ambitions and offer you whatever you need to make them happen and make the glare bearable," I suspect that would have gone a long way to making Taylor feel seen and comfortable in pursuing her goals in the way that she now has. Again, that might have been more akin to the balance that seemed to have been struck around 2019 from what we can see, but even speaking in a general sense, there are lots of couples out there, celebrity or not, that have similar approaches where there are highly driven people and busy careers involved.

(A famous example being Dolly Parton's marriage. Tbh I know next to nothing about her and Carl, but she's always heralded as an example in this regard, because her husband is famously uncomfortable with the spotlight and hasn't accompanied her to public events in decades, but she's said that she never minded that because that was always work to her, and what was important was that he supported her in pursuing all her career goals and basically ensured she had a place to call home to return to at the end of the day.)

We're kind of in a brave new world with her current relationship because it felt like, at least at the start, we were maybe watching her figure out her boundaries in real time as to what she was comfortable with or not and adjust accordingly. Like so many have said, I fully believe the extreme privacy thing was initially driven by herself and her experiences in 2016, and she needed that quiet time to recover from all of the things and figure out how to exist in the world again.

Stating the obvious, it seemed like eventually privacy was equated with secrecy, turning the relationship and the celebrity into the elephant in the room and something to never be spoken of to the outside world. People are free to choose whatever works best for themselves and their relationships, and for some the separate public lives might work, but the “kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” theme is all over her work and it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for her, because she’s been made to feel shame just for the life she leads so many times in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s pretty obvious something Not Great was happening behind the scenes, which didn’t just amount to “she wanted to be a public celebrity and he wanted to be a private hermit.” (Also, in case anyone forgot, this is a person who also chose a public-facing career who also has to engage in press for it, but I digress.) As her career reached new heights post-folklore, if she had the support at home to do all the things without judgment and with encouragement, and in turn offer the same support to her partner, she may have very well lived just fine with that, not unlike Dolly Parton’s case.

By reading between the lines in all the press since, as well as comments on tour and general ~vibes~ with TTPD teasers, it seems like one of the issues was that that was likely not the case. There was all the stuff that we saw — the reticence to acknowledge each other in the media (particularly on one side), the lack of public support even at events at which they were both in attendance for their respective jobs, the great lengths they went to not to be photographed together at events they attended yet no problem taking pictures with other friends and coworkers, the jobs that separated them, the withdrawing from the public even for work accomplishments, etc. Which could all be manageable if a couple chooses to do so together and are not inherently a sign of trouble in themselves.

But what we’re seeing now I think is a reflection of the things we weren’t seeing then, and it seems to indicate some very deep hurt. (I know, call me Captain Obvious.) And like so many have been saying, it feels likely that that part of that hurt is rooted in that very lack of private support where a person would expect it from their partner. Obviously as a Taylor fan blog I’m going to be more inclined to understand her side of a story, but tbh, it’s also because… this is sooooooo common, and something I’ve experienced in my friend group. (@taylortruther is right when she says most breakups are the same one way or another lol.)

One partner is resentful of the other’s success, or resentful that the other’s priorities begin to evolve as new experiences unlock new goals, or feels the other’s ambitions are not worthy of pursuit, and coupled with perhaps their own struggles in the same domain, it’s easy to see where that can chip away at the other partner’s morale and faith in the relationship. I know I’m just speculating here, but I also don’t think it’s totally unfounded. (Again, because a) I’m picking up what she’s putting down and b) it happens to sooooooo many women even among us dull normals.)

With all the pointed mentions about how much Taylor feels supported in her current relationship and how she in turn loves to offer the same show of support to not only her partner but other loved ones, how she’s stepped out more in the last year to a whole host of events, how she’s mentioned feeling like she locked herself away for years and she’s just proud of her partner and happy she can show up for him even if the chaos around it is unsettling, it paints a picture of what perhaps was happening before last year.

To feel like you’re all alone in carrying the weight of the relationship (or burden of it), of twisting yourself into knots to accommodate the other person’s boundaries (or insecurities) but not feeling reciprocity for your own has to be so painful. (The idea that it may have been even darker and to have a partner not only be unreceptive to your own needs but even perhaps resentful/dismissive/belittling of them is even more painful to think of. I guess we’ll find out when TTPD comes out if that was the case, too.)

At a certain point, that lack of acknowledgement will force your hand to be able to reclaim yourself. And it feels like the further removed Taylor in particular is from it, the more she moves from being sad about the life she felt she gave up by leaving, to angry at the life she felt she was giving up by staying. Especially being in a relationship now where it seems like everything comes much easier, where she can be open about the person she’s with and show up for them, all the stuff that seemed as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in her past is nothing more than a molehill at best in her current life.

TL;DR: I don’t think it’s privacy that inherently spells doom for a celebrity relationship like this; it’s the mutual support and respect that does. If Taylor had felt that in the later years of her previous relationship, I think we could be seeing a different, though not necessarily unfulfilled, person right now in 2024, who’d be happy on tour but whose personal life would look a little different. But it seems like by losing that support she lost parts of herself, and we’ve seen her reclaim that in spades in the last year, and perhaps to degrees she didn’t even realize she could from before all the Bad Stuff started happening in her young adulthood.

I know this was extremely long-winded and unnecessary, especially about total strangers we only know through scraps fed through the media, but I just always bristle at this idea that issues like these boil down to “personality differences,” as though one person wants to live in a city and the other on a remote island, or some shit like that. The whole support (and gender tbh) issue is one that’s just very close to my heart because again, I have seen it play out with so many of my friends in long term relationships and marriages and I just think people in relationships (and women in particular in some circles) deserve better than to feel like they’re being, well, tolerated.

[itspileofgoodthings]

one of the funniest things I did in my early teaching days was, when I was calling out a class for bad/rowdy behavior, I also paused to call out the quiet kids who took advantage of the bad/rowdy behavior to do whatever they wanted.