#cars are horrible things to draw

[metastatiic]

it's all washing over me, i'm angry again

[potatobugz]

i ❤️ drawing bakarath as a fucked up newborn mammal. some sort of fetal cat thing. god of rage baby!!!

[emily-mooon]

Jonathan in my Itakiss AU:

[joelscurls]

I wanna show you off

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 4.1k

summary: The women who live in your building aren't subtle in their hatred for you — or their affection for your boyfriend, Joel. You decide to set them straight.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, porn with plot, no outbreak, established relationship, implied age gap, horrible neighbors, general cattiness, all the ladies want Joel, alcohol consumption, fluff, explicit smut, possessive!reader, exhibitionism, dirty talk, oral (m receiving), facefucking, unprotected piv, creampie, one (1) spank, use of pet names (baby, angel, darlin', etc.), I think that's all? lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: idk what happened. I saw one too many tiktok edits set to the song agora hills by doja cat and blacked out. anyway, enjoy!

If it weren’t for your rent-controlled apartment with a perfect view of the downtown skyline, you would’ve moved out of your building by now.

Your neighbors don’t like you. You’re certain of it. You can tell by the way the ladies stick their noses up at you in the elevator and whisper to each other the second they think you’re out of earshot.

It had started, you suspect, because of your age. You’re a lot younger than all of the other residents here, your apartment left to you by your grandmother after she passed away.

The building is prime real estate, situated in the heart of one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods. Most of the people who live here have done so for ten, twenty, even thirty years. And it seems that time has festered a sort of social hierarchy: one which places you at the very bottom.

You shouldn’t care. And you hadn’t, for a while. But their eyes have started to feel like daggers, pointed directly at you at all times, and you feel as if you can’t even enter the building without judgment.

You’re not a bad neighbor. You’re not. You’d learned through living in a dormitory in college how thin shared walls can be, and, as a result, the proper volume at which to keep your music; how you should always be cautious to not let your door slam closed on the way in; that you should never vacuum after eight pm or before eight am.

You never leave trash in the hallway, and you park your car only in your allotted spot, despite the fact that it’s the farthest away from the building.

Even so, the lack of weathering in your face makes them look at you like you’re less, like you’re a greedy little thing who has taken something she isn’t worthy of.

It’s the same way they look at you when they see you with your boyfriend, Joel, for the first time.

They leer when you walk into the foyer, hand-in-hand with an older man. He’s handsome, rugged, something out of Nicholas Sparks novel. And you’re you.

Joel thinks you’re being paranoid at first, says they couldn’t possibly hate such a sweet, friendly girl. The girl he loves so damn much. But it doesn’t take long for him to notice it too: the glares, the scoffs, the misplaced judgment — never set in his direction, only ever yours.

One Sunday afternoon, as he sits on your couch watching the Cowboys game with a sweating bottle of beer in his hand, you step out to grab your mail. You’re close to tears when you return, flinging the door open, envelopes slipping from your trembling fingers. 

He leaps up as soon as he catches sight of your face. Your expression is stuck somewhere between sadness and rage, bottom lip tucked between your teeth so firmly he worries you’ll draw blood.

“I hate them,” you sob as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his broad chest. You’re wetting his shirt, the one he just bought the other day. But he won’t let you lift your head. If anything, he holds you tighter.

“Wanna tell me what happened, darlin?” he asks, leading you toward the couch. You sit down together, your body still wrapped in his, and you groan.

“It’s stupid.” Your voice is muffled by cotton. He loosens his grip on you only enough to let you turn your face. “I was getting my mail, and they were down in the lobby,” you sniff. “The woman who lives right next door – the one with the outdated perm, and the one across the hall with the yippy little dog.”

“Mhm,” Joel soothes, running his thumb gently along the tense line of your jaw. “Did they say somethin’ to you?”

You huff. “No, not to me. They didn’t see me there.”

Their hushed voices still ring in your head like a fire alarm in need of new batteries: relentless, infuriating.

Don’t know what in the world a handsome gentleman like that is doing with a little girl like her. You’re tellin’ me. What a shame. Such a young thing – she can’t possibly know how to handle a man like that. He needs a woman his own age!

“They said I’m not good for you,” you weep. “That I’m too young. That I — I c-can’t be what you need.”

“Darlin,” Joel drawls. He fishes the tv remote off of the coffee table and flicks the screen off. Drops it somewhere next to him on the cushion. The apartment is noticeably quiet now, apart from your shaky breaths and the dull drone of an idling truck engine from the street below.

“You know I love you, right?” 

You sniff again. Nod. 

“I don’t give a shit if people think you’re too young for me,” he huffs. “You’re a grown woman. You give me everything I could possibly need and then some.”

“Yeah?” you squeak. You know deep down that Joel wouldn’t stay with you if he had any reservations about any aspect of your relationship. But after months of no reprieve from stinging glares and brash insults, you feel as if you’ve been broken down, reduced to an anxious, overwrought version of yourself. 

Joel repositions himself, sprawling back on the couch and pulling you with him so that you’re laying against him. “Yeah,” he repeats, stroking your hair. He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, away from your glassy eyes. “Those ladies can get their asses in line.” 

You laugh, then — a real, genuine laugh — the kind that Joel can somehow always pull out of you, even in the most inopportune of times.

You’re so grateful for him, for his innate ability to calm you down when it feels like the world is crumbling below your feet. Grateful that he’s yours.

You lift your head. Prop yourself up by the elbow on Joel’s thigh. Wipe away the lingering wet on your cheeks with a deep, settling breath. 

“Does it stroke your ego, having a fan club of women who wanna fuck you?”

He smirks. Pulls you closer to him with a hand cradling your face. 

“Maybe a little,” he whispers, his lips ghosting yours. “Does it stroke your ego, bein’ the only one who gets to fuck me?” 

And in truth, it does. You’re the only one who knows where he likes to be kissed, how he likes his cock stroked, how to make him cum embarrassingly quick with just your mouth.

You’ve learned him intimately, every inch of him.  Ruined him for any other woman.

So in a fucked up kind of way — it does.

“Yeah,” you admit. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, silently reveling in the way he immediately moans, the way he bends to you.

“These all mine?” You bring a finger to his lips, sputter on a shaky exhale when he unexpectedly parts them and sucks the digit into his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hums around you, takes your free hand in his and guides it down his body, across the expanse of his torso, the plush of his belly, pausing when you reach his crotch. 

Your pulse quickens, then, a dull throb forming at the base of your neck. You extricate your finger from his mouth with a gentle pop.

“This too,” he whispers, canting his hips up toward the flat of your palm.

He’s half-hard, his clothed bulge pleading for attention. But he pulls your hand away quickly, not letting himself get carried away at the feeling of your fingers grazing him through denim. 

Instead, he re-situates it against his chest so that you can feel his heartbeat where it hammers under skin, against flesh and bone. “This is all yours too,” he says, voice so low it reverberates in your skull. 

“All of it — all of me. Don’t gotta worry your pretty little head with anythin’ anyone else has to say about the matter. Got it?”

His words are spoken with so much conviction that you have no choice but to believe them, to let them stick in your brain like anchors in sand: deep and immovable.

Yours, yours, yours. 

And nobody else’s.

“Yeah,” you smile into the column of his neck, inhaling his scent: mostly him, but with notes of you. 

“Got it.”

It’s two weeks later when she makes a move on him: the woman with the perm. Joel is taken aback by her boldness, with you just a few feet away, digging your key into the lock of your mailbox. 

“You must work with your hands,” she purrs, grabbing one of his wrists and examining his calloused fingers with such little integrity, his mouth actually slips open at the unabashedness of it all. 

“Uh-”

“I’m Sheila,” she hums, raking her fingers through tight, blonde curls. “And you are?”

“Joel,” he grunts noncommittally. Wrenches his arm back. He doesn’t miss the way her eyebrows twitch in offense. 

But she’s insatiable, this woman. She bounces back like a rubber band, not-so-subtly pushing her breasts together, the zip of her sweatshirt slipping down an inch and her mouth curving into a salacious grin.

You just about stop dead in your tracks when you round the corner to the lobby, junk mail in hand, and see her, her body turned towards Joel’s, chest pushed out and hip popped. She has a bedazzled tote bag full of groceries slung over her shoulder, a head of leafy greens poking out the top.

“Hi neighbor!” she smiles mockingly at you, all lipstick-stained teeth, when you sidle up to Joel. “I was just telling your friend here what nice, strong arms he has.” She’s not looking at you, eyes locked firmly on Joel’s biceps, nearly drooling at the sight of him. 

Heat spools behind your ears, red-hot.

“Not her friend,” Joel corrects before you can. “‘M her boyfriend.”

“Oh,” she says. “Boyfriend.” Her lips wrap loosely around the word, like it’s some fanciful thing. “You’re too old to be someone’s boyfriend.” 

Joel takes a step away from her, closer to you, and splays a steadying hand across your back. “Man-friend, then.” 

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because this entire conversation is fucking awkward. 

Sheila pays you no attention.

“Well,” she sighs, overtly staring at the exposed skin of Joel’s chest, where the top two buttons of his flannel are undone, “Joel, if you’re ever lookin’ for a good meal, I’m just next door.” She flits her eyes up to his and smirks. “Know a big man like you has gotta eat.”

Your vision blurs scarlet. 

Joel is equally as infuriated. The disrespect of this woman, to so openly flirt with him in front of you. His fists ball tightly at his sides. 

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he gruffs. “Anyway, nice to meet ya ma’am-“

“Sheila,” she reminds him. 

“Sheila,” he repeats, only to appease her. He turns to you, squeezing your waist affectionately. “We should probably get goin’, right sweetheart?”

You’re still fuming, barely able to register Joel’s voice next to you through the thick haze of pure fury clouding your mind, but you manage to nod, spit out a hurried yeah.

And with that, Joel is turning on his heels, pulling you with him toward the elevators. You don’t dare look back at her, but you can feel her eyes boring a hole in the back of your head. 

Her footfall fades into the mailroom and you breathe a minuscule sigh of relief. At least she’s out of your sight.

“Please just move in with me,” Joel begs when you’re finally behind closed metal doors, the inspection plaque situated above the buttons suddenly extremely interesting as you try to focus on not thinking about setting this woman’s apartment on fire.

You’ve talked about living together a few times. It’s just — you’ve never considered it so seriously until right now. 

“I can’t let them win,” you mutter, agitated. 

You hate how they’ve made you feel, like you’re some helpless animal tucked in the corner, hiding from them. Just waiting for the next ambush. 

With the passing of each floor, your anger simmers, bubbles into a silent rage in your stomach, one which threatens to boil over at the next underestimation of Joel’s devotion to you. You need to make it known, once and for all, that he’s yours. 

Words from your grandmother play on a loop in your head, ones she repeated to you often when you were a child: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. 

And then you have a thought — a devious thought — maybe you don’t have to say anything to get your point across. Not to them, anyway.

Your mouth is on Joel the second you’re back inside the four walls of your own apartment, slotting against his pulse point and sucking a desperate bruise there.

He’s not expecting it — why would he be? You’ve just been seething the entire elevator ride up to your floor, the entire walk down the long, winding hallway to your unit. He’d practically been able to see the steam billowing from your ears. 

So the switch-up is more than a bit dizzying, to say the least.

“Whoa, darlin’,” he pants, his large hands draping over your shoulders. “What are you-”

“Joel.” Your voice is stern; it demands his attention. “Do you trust me?” 

Your hand trails down his body languidly, in a straight line to the waistband of his jeans. And fuck, of course he trusts you — more than anyone. But this is wrong, fucked up, for you to make him feel good when you’ve been made to feel so small these past few minutes. 

Still, his cock doesn’t get the memo, twitching in his jeans as you place another open-mouthed kiss on the underside of his jaw, your fingers beginning to fiddle with his belt buckle. 

You give him no choice with the way you’re touching him, the way you’re looking at him when you pull back, all pleading eyes and parted mouth, but to resign all protest. He’ll give you the world, and if right now you want to use his body to blow off some steam, who is he to complain about it?

“Yeah baby, of course,” he breathes. “What do you need?”

You smirk at him audaciously, tongue smoothing over your teeth. “Need you to be loud,” you purr. Your voice is so innocent in juxtaposition to the words you spew. It sends a chill down the column of his spine. “Let them know who makes you feel good.” 

He nearly cums in his pants untouched, grasps at the fabric of your shirt with clumsy hands and nods. “Fuck, okay.”

His belt falls to the floor with a clang.

He lets you take control, then. Lets you mark him with your tongue and your teeth, lets you back him to the door with deft fingers working his shirt buttons open before sinking to your knees in front of him, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his jeans and boxers.

It’s already weeping for you when you pull it out, precum beading at the tip. He’s so big, growing heavier in your hand with each passing second, and you lose yourself for a moment, hypnotized by him.

“Always so eager to please me, aren’t you, pretty girl?” Joel’s voice pulls you back to earth, soft and adoring.

“Louder,” you remind him. Plant a kiss right over top of his leaking slit.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. One of his hands flies to the crown of your head, anchoring himself with fingers in your hair. “Dirty fucking girl.” 

His voice fills the entranceway, confident and filthy. 

“Mmm,” you hum approvingly.

“Yeah? You want me to tell ‘em? Tell ‘em you’re making my cock drool for you? That nobody — shit-” You enclose your lips around his tip, suckling on it as your fingers wrap around the base of his length and you begin to stroke him lazily. “-that nobody has ever made me feel this good?” 

Footsteps echo down the hallway and the sound makes you reflexively pause, your hand stiling on Joel’s cock. It’s followed by the jingling of metal, the click of a key in a lock, the opening and closing of a door — all close enough that you can pinpoint the source, can tell where exactly it’s coming from. 

Sheila is home. 

Perfect.

It’s probably worrying how excited it makes you, the prospect of her hearing, of her sitting alone in her apartment, at her empty dining table, and listening to Joel fall apart at your hands. Maybe they’ve driven you to and over the edge of sanity with their words, her most of all. Regardless, you can’t help the way it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. 

You lick a slow stripe up the underside of Joel’s cock, starting just above his balls and dragging the flat of your tongue up, up, up to his tip. His breath shudders, his grip on your hair tightening, and the subtle sting at the center of your scalp gives you another idea. 

“Do you wanna fuck my face, Joel?” 

“Do I wanna — fuck — you’re gonna kill me, angel.” 

“Go ahead,” you encourage, unhinging your jaw as wide as it can go, letting your tongue droop over your bottom lip. 

Saliva pools in your waiting mouth and Joel groans at the sight of you, so malleable for him, begging to be used. 

“You sure?” 

It’s not that he doesn’t think you can handle it. He knows you can. You’ve taken him down your throat more times than he can count. Always so fucking eager to please him, you are — just one of the many reasons he feels so goddamn lucky, so infuriated that anyone would think otherwise. 

But still, he can’t help but worry that he’ll hurt you. 

You nod, eyes locked on him, confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that you want this. He nods back, beginning to feed his cock into your mouth, easing it in slowly and halting when his head hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag.

You don’t pull away, don’t show any indication of displeasure. In fact, you dig your fingers into the meat of his thighs, bearing down on him as you push forward. Mascara tears stain your cheeks as you choke on him, laser-focused on relaxing your throat so that you can accommodate more of his length. 

Joel pulls back, retreating entirely before pushing in again. He slowly increases his pace, your eyes hooded, so doelike and innocent, as his cockhead bruises your larynx. 

The sounds he’s pulling from your mouth are absurdly lewd: muffled gags and frantic inhales of breath. And then there’s him, moaning wildly, not sure if he’d be able to shut up even if he needed to be quiet. Your mouth is good, too fucking good and he’s going to — fuck, he’s going to cum if you don’t stop. 

He pulls out abruptly, a string of drool and precum tethering the tip of his cock to your swollen bottom lip. You’re panting, coughing, still bracing yourself against his legs when you fucking smile up at him. 

“Christ,” he says. “Fuckin’ angel, you are. Mouth feels like goddamn heaven.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I need to cum in that perfect little cunt,” he breathes, pulling a strangled moan from the back of your rawed throat. 

He helps you up, spins you around to face the door. You brace both hands on the wood, humming as he pulls your pants down to your knees. His breath is on the back of your neck, trailing up to the shell of your ear with one whisper just for you, because he can’t help it. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?” 

You shiver, responding with a tilt of your head, inviting him in with a needy little mewl. He cradles your face in one of his large hands, the other rubbing over the curve of your ass as he kisses you passionately, tasting himself on your tongue.

The hand on your ass trails lower as he deepens the kiss, two fingers pressing against your clothed seam. You’ve all but soaked through the fabric, wet cotton molding to his knuckles as he caresses them along your pussy before pulling your panties down in one swift motion.

You whine into the kiss, desperate and dripping for him. “Please,” you breathe against his lips. “I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”

“Know you will,” he coos, mouth parting from yours as he straightens out and lines himself up with your entrance. You arch your back, rocking onto the balls of your feet as he teases you with the tip.

His cock is so thick when it finally notches into you. It’s always so devastatingly thick, no matter how wet you are for him. The stretch stings, a jolt of warm pain coursing through your walls as he stills halfway in. 

“You okay?” he asks, one hand resting at the small of your back, the other on your hip, fingers gripping to you only tight enough to hold you in place.

“Yes, fuck — yes,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me, Joel.”

“I’m goin’ to baby, don’t worry,” 'he promises, pushing in another splitting inch. “Pussy’s so goddamn tight, ‘ts suckin’ me right in.”

It feels like hours pass with Joel’s cock motionless inside your aching cunt, his warm breath fanning across your back as he focuses on not cumming. You’re whimpering, begging under the weight of his body, to please just fucking move.

When he finally obliges you, pulling all the way out and then bottoming out in one deep thrust, it nearly punches the air out of your chest. You scrabble for purchase on the door, fingernails scraping against chipped paint. “F-uucckk,” you moan, eyes rolling back in your head as he sets a dizzying pace.

The sound of his balls slapping against the back of your thighs is enough to attract attention on its own, the loud smacksmacksmack going straight to your cunt. Joel growls behind you, driving into you even harder, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot. 

“Oh, shit,” you cry. Your pussy inadvertently squeezes him and he curses at your back, low and deep. 

“Not going to last if you keep doin’ that,” he warns. “Cunt is too fuckin’ good. Best I’ve ever — uuuhh — had.”

He’s not just saying it for show. It’s true. You know it is, too. He’s told you before, both under the influence of your pussy and not. Waited too many goddamn years to feel like this, he’d said once.

“It’s — fuck, it’s fine Joel,” you mutter. “I’m close too, just keep going, right there.”

A door across the hall creaks open. A pair of footsteps patter across tile. 

Do you hear that?  Yeah; what is that noise?

Joel laughs darkly behind you, snaps his hips up, forcing a guttural moan out of you. 

“Think they caught us, darlin’,” he says. “Caught you takin’ my cock like you’re fuckin’ made to.”

Oh my word!

Joel is unrelenting, pounding into you despite the voices right outside your apartment, and you fear for a moment that you’ve created a monster. One of his hands leaves its place on your waist, cracks down on the center of your asscheek with a slap, the flesh recoiling under his palm and you gasp. 

The feeling travels between your legs, straight to your neglected clit. It pulsates under the hood with every pass of Joel’s cock over your g-spot, and you feel yourself hurtling toward the edge dangerously fast. 

If these people don’t leave, they’re going to hear you cum. Do you want them to hear you cum? Yeah, you think, clit jumping again at the thought, I think I fucking do.

“Joel, fuck-”

“You gonna cum?” he goads. “Yeah, can feel you squeezin’ me — you’re gonna cum, aren’t ya?”

This is vulgar!  We should file a noise complaint. C’mon.

His hand snakes around your front then, finds your throbbing bud, and with a few passes of his calloused fingertips, you’re gone, vision whiting out and all noise around you muted. 

Joel keeps you upright between him and the door, his grip on you tightening as your muscles slacken. He follows closely behind, cumming inside you with a carnal noise from the back of his throat, rope after rope of his spend filling your cunt. 

He pulls out with a grunt, immediately collapsing on the floor. Without his support, you topple over too, falling onto his lap with a satiated giggle. 

A banging comes from the other side of the wall then, shaking your kitchen cabinets a few feet away, the clanging of glassware jolting you.

Keep it down next time! I don’t need to hear that!

And then you’re laughing like teenagers, Joel pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, all tongues and teeth. 

“Think they’re really gonna make a noise complaint?” Joel asks when you finally come up for air. 

“I dunno,” you smile. “Does your offer still stand — for me to move in with you?” 

“Always,” he vows, forehead resting against yours.

end notes: ty for reading! pls consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed <3

[1425fivefive]

what if i briefly lost my mind due to this photo and wrote a 1.5k landoscar strip poker drabble. what if (landoscar, 1.5k words, nsfw)

Sometimes, Oscar wonders if Lando does things purely to torture him.

They’re on the private jet McLaren’s chartered for them back from the FIA Awards. Zak and Andrea are somewhere up in the front of the plane, probably sleeping off their hangovers. Andrea looked like he might puke at any second when they got into the car that morning to head to the airport. Oscar and Lando are at the back, sitting across from Sam Bird, one of McLaren’s drivers in Formula E.

Oscar likes Sam well enough, but he can’t help but wish Sam was literally anywhere else. Oscar feels like he’s going insane with Lando sitting right beside him, buried in an oversized hoodie, his curls still sleep-mussed. Lando keeps shooting Oscar these cheeky little grins, like he knows exactly how crazy Oscar’s felt all weekend.

Their rooms at the hotel were right next to Zak and Andrea and they couldn’t do anything without risking being overheard.

But it didn’t stop Lando from sending Oscar a mirror selfie after his shower, Lando’s towel slung ruinously low around his hips, water dripping down his torso. It didn’t stop Lando from following Oscar into a single-use toilet at the awards ceremony and palming Oscar’s dick through his tuxedo, kissing him hard and wet and filthy, before leaving Oscar panting against the sink, desperately trying to calm down. It didn’t stop Lando from sending Oscar a text in the middle of the ceremony that just read, can’t wait for u to fuck me tmrw 😇. Oscar had to work very, very hard to keep a neutral expression on his face.

At this point, Oscar sort of feels like he might die. He knows you can’t literally die from blue balls, but he also can’t help but feel like Lando’s trying his hardest to test that theory.

Two hours into the flight, Lando announces, “I’m bored.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. He’s not feeling particularly sympathetic at the moment, not when he’s half-hard and trying desperately not to go get himself off in the plane toilet while his bosses are on the flight. 

“Play your Switch or something,” Oscar says shortly. “Don’t you have, like, a million films on your iPad?”

“Yeah, but I’ve already watched all of them,” Lando says, pouting. “I want to do something fun.”

Oscar’s about to snap that he reckons Lando’s had more than enough fun these past few days.

But Sams interjects before Oscar can, saying, “I have a poker set?”

“Brilliant,” Lando says, face lighting up. “I love poker.”

“Why do you have a poker set?” Oscar asks. It seems like a bit of a random thing to just have on you in case the opportunity arises.

But Sam just laughs. “Love of the game, mate. Love of the game.”

Lando tips his head toward Oscar, grinning. “Only real poker heads would understand.”

“Oh my god,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “You only got into poker, like, a month ago—”

“Two months!” Lando says, holding up two fingers.

Oscar has to look away. The sight of Lando’s massive fingers has Oscar feeling things he really, really shouldn’t only two hours into a nine-hour flight.

“Oh, well then,” Oscar says, voice only slightly choked.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar sees Lando grin, like Lando knows exactly what Oscar’s thinking.

“You know how to play, right?” Sam asks Oscar.

Oscar shrugs. “Well enough.”

In truth, Oscar’s pretty shit at poker. But not as shit, apparently, as Lando.

Within three rounds, Lando’s down to a measly pile of chips. He keeps playing horrible hands, betting huge on hands that even Oscar knows almost never win. Hands like queen-high or a flush draw when Lando only has one card from that suit in his hand and there’s only one matching card on the board after the flop. Like, Oscar’s not good at poker, but he knows enough to know that Lando’s playing so poorly it almost seems like Lando’s trying to lose on purpose. 

That theory’s confirmed when Lando finally runs out of chips and says, “Shit.” He looks over at Oscar, his expression all wide-eyed innocence. “Reckon I’ll just have to start betting clothes, then.”

Oscar almost chokes. He briefly fantasizes about jumping out of the plane. It’d stop Lando from fucking torturing him at least. 

Instead, Oscar says, “I’m not playing strip poker.”

Oscar expects Sam to back him up, to realize what an absurd idea it is to play strip poker on a plane with their coworkers.

But Sam starts banging his fists on the table chanting, “Strip poker, strip poker, strip poker.”

Lando cackles and immediately joins in, and soon enough the two of them are making such a racket that Oscar’s worried they’ll wake up Zak and Andrea. Oscar has no interest in being on the receiving end of one of Zak’s tirades after being woken up in the middle of a nap.

“Fucking fine,” Oscar grits out. “Fine, we’ll play stupid strip poker.”

The thing is, though, Lando’s the only one out of chips. Which means Lando’s the only one actually having to bet any of his clothing.

Oscar prays Lando will start small. Maybe bet a bracelet or a shoe or something.

Instead, Lando says, “Hoodie.”

So that’s how it’s going to be.

Lando, predictably, loses, playing fucking eight-two offsuit when Oscar has a set.

“Rats,” Lando says gleefully, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto a seat across the aisle. He knocks his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Shit luck, eh?”

“Yeah,” Oscar grits out, studiously ignoring looking over at Lando. He sort of hopes that if Lando doesn’t get the attention he clearly desperately craves, he’ll stop.

But on the next hand, Lando says, “Shirt.”

“Fucking hell,” Oscar groans, under his breath.

Lando giggles. “What was that, Osc?”

“Nothing,” Oscar says, staring dejectedly at his hand. He wishes it were something awful, something he could just lose with to keep Lando from ripping off his shirt, but it’s a fucking pair of kings. Oscar feels like the universe is conspiring against him.

The only blessing is that Sam seems oblivious to whatever sexual psychodrama is playing out on the other side of the table, whistling happily as he looks at his cards.

Lando loses again, peeling off his shirt and settling back in his seat.

Oscar really, really doesn’t want to look, but he can’t help but glance over at Lando, his dark nipples tight in the cool air of the plane, lean muscles on full display. Lando’s eyes spark, lower lip pulled between his teeth, grinning like the cat who got the cream. While Sam’s still looking down at his cards, Lando brings a hand up to his chest, running it over his skin before dragging it up to his neck, fingers wrapping suggestively over the thick muscle. Almost like he’s imagining Oscar’s hand there.

“Oh my god,” Oscar groans.

Sam glances up. “All good?”

“Yep,” Oscar says, voice tight, forcing himself to stare at his cards. “Everything’s really, really good.”

Next to him, Lando lets out a delighted little giggle.

As they go around placing their opening bets, Oscar pleads silently with Lando to fold. Just once.

But Lando doesn’t fold. Instead, he announces, “Sweatpants.”

Oscar stumbles to his feet, praying his hoodie’s hiding his boner. He chokes out, “I have to—” and pushes his way past Lando, beelining for the toilet.

He’s furious as he pulls his sweatpants down. Angry as he wraps a hand around his cock. Pissed off as he starts to stroke himself. 

Fucking Lando. Always fucking teasing. Knowing exactly how to get Oscar riled up, how to make him feel like he wants to say fuck it and drag Lando into the plane toilet in front of their coworker and bosses. Even though Oscar feels like he’s losing his mind, he can’t deny that it’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. That he knows he’ll put up with it every fucking time if it gets him off this hard.

But he sort of wants to torture Lando back.

Oscar pulls out his phone, opens his camera, and hits record. He tries to put on a show, thumbing over the head, zooming in on the wet tip, twisting his wrist the way Lando always likes when Oscar does it to him. But Oscar's so on edge that he’s coming before he’s even really gotten started, spilling over his fingers to the image of Lando on top of him, Oscar’s fingers on his nipples, Oscar’s hand around his throat as Lando fucks himself on Oscar’s cock. Reminding Lando who’s in control.

But as much as Oscar likes to pretend, he knows it’s not him.

Still, Oscar feels a surge of power as he opens his texts with Lando, sends him the video of him getting off, and writes, Don’t touch yourself until we’re home.

When Oscar comes out of the toilet, he’s pleased to see Lando squirming in his seat, glancing up at Oscar with flushed cheeks, eyes desperate. Sam’s not paying any attention, headphones on, watching something on his phone.

“Having fun?” Oscar asks, blissfully relaxed after his orgasm.

Lando squirms a bit, tugging his hoodie over his crotch. But he grins up at Oscar, the gap between his front teeth on full display, and says, “Loads.”

[i-love-you-just-the-same]

road trip with the 141??

they all take turns driving. it's a long haul, almost two days worth of sitting in the car. lucky the group has little trips planned (things they each think you'll enjoy) on the way to the real destination.

price takes the first shift. they all insist on letting you have the passenger seat, even if simon is squished in the back middle. john lets you pick the music, rests his hand on your thigh, drawing pictures with his thumb on the inside. he asks you to amble on about whatever and interjects with questions or comment when he's intrigued. john is a good driver, even when he's not fully paying attention to the road. he doesn't rage externally when he's cut off or when someone starts to tailgate him (he's memorizing their plate to have someone steal their identity later), just listens to your pretty voice ask him about future plans. he holds you hand when you all stop at a botanical garden around lunch. raises an eyebrow to soap when you pull him around to show him another flower, conveying that johnny was wrong and you do like this kind of thing. kisses your forehead when he moves to the backseat.

johnny takes up the next shift. he yaps and changes the radio station every five minutes. makes simon (who gaz is napping on) mad every time he misses a turn. johnny moves his hand scandalously low on your thigh every time he thinks you won't notice before you move it back to the wheel. asks you to change the air conditionings temperature every time he gets slightly uncomfortable. he grins when you feed him bits of his granola bar. overall, johnny is not an awesome driver and doesn't really pay attention to the road, so it's not a big surprise when he's kicked out of the big seat. johnny's delighted with how you like the waterfall trail he suggested. the group gets loads of pictures that will eventually get compiled into a photo album.

gaz climbs in the driver's seat and places a little kiss on your cheek. he's the forever gentleman and a little overindulgent. he lets you put your feet on the dash and would let you paint your nails if you had any polish, even if he hates the smell. kyle enjoys idle conversation with his darling, about that random bird or why would someone paint their barn that ugly orange? he strokes your thigh with his hand or holds your hand on the gearshift. that evening when you all go for dinner, he diverts for a quick trip to the local art show and farmers market. kyle follows you around for the evening like a lost puppy, offering to buy anything that catches your interest and carrying your bag. pleased when you buy a postcard of your favorite piece from the evening, just wants to take his doll out and let them have a good time.

simon offers to drive the last hundred or so miles to the motel you all planned to stay in for the night. he opens your door and kisses your fingertips before putting the vehicle in reverse. the other three are asleep by the time you pull back out, but you and him enjoy the time looking at the stars. simon tells you all the constellations he knows, and tries to help map them best he can while driving. simon's a horrible driver, but the road is pretty empty by the time he gets on. spontaneously, he pulls to the side of the road where there's a wide open field. grabs your hand and locks the boys in. simon takes you in the field and wraps his arms around you. you both sway in the moonlight, humming along to some long forgotten tune. he mumbles that he loves you and kisses your mouth softly. you two don't stay out there long because of the boys in the car and how late it is, but he still picks you a bouquet of flowers from the field.

the motel bed is small, but you all make yourselves fit. technically there's two, but no one is figuring out the logistics of that at this hour. soap has a hand in yours, gaz's leg is wrapped around your lower half, simon's heart beats steadily under your ear, and price has his front to your back. you all are tangled up together and couldn't be happier.

[captain-hawks]

"mom, are you gonna go hang out with olive when grandma picks me up?"

olive.

you sigh from across the kitchen at your daughter and her nickname for the situationship that she shouldn't even know exists.

she grins, turning her attention back to the crayons clutched in her little hands and the piece of paper sitting on the table in front of her.

—

you enjoy spending time with oliver.

albeit, it's typically a horizontal, minimally-clothed affair found somewhere within the vicinity of his lavish apartment.

but things are easy with him.

(and nothing's been easy since the divorce.)

oliver's funny. he's sweet. he's straightforward with his desires and upfront with his intentions. he's mature in a way that often makes you forget he's younger than you.

he's a gentleman, he's charming, and he could probably break your heart ten ways to sunday if you let him.

(you've told him as much between pillows and sheets, when you're both tired and sated. when he's smiling at you softly and stroking the backs of his knuckles against your hair like he's on the verge of saying something horribly fond.)

he's a generous lover (it's the best sex of your life, you'd be a liar to deny it).

but this is all it is and all it ever will be with oliver aiku—you're under no preconceived notions that say otherwise. you know his reputation, after all.

which is why you had no intention of introducing him to your daughter—until you received a call from her school requesting an early pick up while you and oliver were in your car grabbing lunch. she was apparently feeling sick, so you didn’t have much leeway to avoid the situation.

"mommy, who's that?" she'd asked, peering at the man sitting in the passenger seat, equal parts giggly and mystified.

she hadn't seen you with another man since—

"you can call me oliver," he'd grinned right back at her.

"nice to meet you, olive!" she'd chirped.

olive, olive, olive.

it haunts you, just a little. what an impression he happened to make on her in the span of a thirty-minute car ride as you cut your rendezvous short and dropped him back off at his apartment.

how he answered every outlandish question she asked—she's nosy by nature.

how he asked her questions about school and her favorite shows and her favorite animals in turn.

the way he grabbed your phone when she started belting out song requests and obediently complied, even when you told him "you really don't want to listen to that."

the way he sang along with her.

now it's always olive this, olive that.

you don't have the heart to tell her that olive doesn't date.

--

it's an unsuspecting tuesday night when everything changes.

"oliver?' you call out from where you're standing in the kitchen, a glass of water clenched in your slightly trembling hands as you stare at his fridge.

as you stare, and you stare. and what you're seeing still doesn't make any sense.

"hmm?" he comes up behind you suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist.

you lift a hand to point at the fridge, where a piece of paper hangs by a magnet, adorned with a crudely drawn green oval with stick figure arms and legs. the words OLIVE are written above it, punctuated by a little pink heart.

you'd hastily told oliver that he didn't have to keep the drawing when you opened your purse to find that she had stuffed it in there last week.

"i feel like having a child's drawing on your fridge might give your hookups the wrong idea," you say, throat beginning to feel tight.

oliver's arms tense around you slightly. you can feel him looking at the side of your face, but you can't tear your eyes away from the picture.

"i told you, you didn't have to keep it," you add, biting the inside of your cheek.

he turns you toward him then, an oddly serious expression on his face. he looks almost—hurt.

"nobody else is coming here to see this but you."

the room sways, just a bit, as your knees threaten to give out beneath you.

[vampsired]

Random things about JJK characters

cast ᯓ✦: gojo, geto, shoko, nanami, haibara, utahime. BOLD = favs

GOJO SATORU

1. Will interrupt you with the loudest ‘WHAT?’ if he couldn’t hear the start of whatever you were saying.

2. Chokes on food and drink too many times to count

3. Has a violent pollen and dust allergy but still loves flowers and is the first to go headfirst into old dusty places (twin)

4. His jokes almost always fail… horribly

5. Sun burns easily

6. Doesn’t know how sit like a normal human being and hates sitting still for too long; just asks to go to the bathroom to get a lil stroll in

7. Addicted to sweet stuff

8. Gets everyone sick when he’s sick, but always denies it

9. Hates silence, he’s mr yapper #1 - (haibara is #2)

10. Whenever he gets a crush or a slight interest in anyone, it’s everyone’s problem and everyone has to hear about it

11. Violently extroverted and the biggest hypocrite you have ever met

GETO SUGURU

1. Tackles people as a form of bonding and he loves poking people bc he knows it hurts

2. Laughs a little too hard at jokes Gojo makes which were not funny at all so he doesn’t feel bad

3. Smacks his hair into peoples faces whenever he goes to redo his bun

4. Thinks different hair textures and types are so cool

5. Owns an electric guitar (rockstar geto🥴)

6. Defo wants to own a motorcycle or alr has one

7. Obsessed with horror movies that it’s almost borderline worrying

8. Loves breakfast foods

9. Can sleep anywhere, no matter the surface or what going on around him

10. Gives the stankest side eye whenever someone comments on his bangs

11. Has a very good spice tolerance ~ puts hot sauce on everything

SHOKO IEIRI

1. Notorious for eye-rolling

2. Loves medical shows and cackles whenever someone (namely gojo) gets disgusted by the portrayal of organs

3. Hates cooking

4. Complains about having a dry throat worried she might’ve contracted a cold while smoking right infront you

5. Can’t nap unless she’s extremely tired, like she can’t nap until her body is borderline shutting down (same)

6. Always says she’s going to stop smoking, stop eating junk food, stop having energy drinks, stop ordering out - but never sticks to it

7. Trips over stuff constantly and stubbed her toe alot

8. Has a obsession with minture stuff

9. If she wears makeup, she always removes it off her mole and quite likes even tho she was told to remove it when she got older (she never did <3)

10. Yells at the TV whenever something she’s watching annoys her

11. Giggles at the nude medical diagrams in textbooks

NANAMI KENTO

1. Absolutely loves the smell of books

2. Has prescribed glasses for reading and writing but doesn’t wear them unless he’s by himself

3. Knows cool random facts

4. Hates when people touch his face

5. Doesn’t particularly like hugs unless it’s from someone he likes

6. Loves cats

7. Very peculiar about shoes

8. Enjoys poetry and horror mangas (exchanges mangas with suguru)

9. Very talented at drawing, haibara always asks him for help to draw little stuff on cards or to show him how draw small things on his book in class when it’s boring

10. Absolutely hates liars. When people drag on jokes with lies for a little longer than needed; he hates that too

11. Hums sometimes and gets v embarrassed when he’s caught + he tells no one his music taste, haibara probs noticed it tho

HAIBARA YU

1. Very passionate about Spider-Man (me too bro) - loves Miles

2. Cuddles with a stuffy or pillow whenever sleeping/napping

3. Hates long car rides because he feels cramped

4. Day dreams with his eyes wideee open

5. Whenever he wears socks on wooden floors he’ll slip atleast once

6. His eyebrows furrow whenever he’s thinking

7. He’s such a bad liar, it’s acc so funny bc he can’t contain smirking

8. Accidentally wears mismatched socks and some teachers sanctioned him for it

9. Quotes well known saying wrong

10. Always is dropping his pens trying to spin them in his fingers like nanami can, but can’t rlly get the hang of it

11. Loves juice, his favourite is mango and apple juice. He doesn’t really care for orange juice.

UTAHIME IORI

1. Plays with the ends of her hair a lot of the time

2. Always cold

3. The worst person to send notes to because she makes it so obvious

4. Has beautiful handwriting

5. Is very bad at understanding sarcasm and also gets very mad when sarcasm is used to point out a stupid question

6. Scared of dogs IRL but loves watching cute dog videos

7. Violently dances to girly songs

8. Loves hugging her girl friends for a long time, find it awkward to hug guy friends in general but doesn’t mind it

9. Jumps up and down and air punches when describing a situation which annoyed her. (realll)

10. Dress to Impress fiend alongside Gojo and Haibara, (Suguru helps Gojo, and Nanami helps Haibara ~ however they both dont like the game but have good opinions)

11. Is the type to get irrationally mad at that one friend who purposely gets them mad (Gojo)

© vampsired on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

🔗 divider link (credits) masterlist send requests ᡣ𐭩

reblogs are heavily appreciated ᡣ𐭩

AN: the support I’ve been getting recently has actually surprised me, thankyou so much everyone <3

[phossiii]

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter six

synopsis: you and mahalat come to an impasse during battle. and phosphorus saves your ass.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, violence, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, reader has a bit of a psychotic break, mahalat is horrible.

"Da?" Alexi raised a brow, keeping a hand on the wheel as he picked up the phone.

He paused a moment, expression darkening slightly as he glanced at the Bride, who was sitting in the passenger.

"Da."

He paused again, brows dropping sternly.

"Da."

With a quick snap, he hung up, plastering on his usual happy expression and turning to everyone, as if you didn't notice the huge change in atmosphere.

"He says there is unfortunate traffic on the way to the castle, so we should take alternative route."

With a small rev, he cut a corner, turning into a random side street with a completely straight face.

After arriving at the Pokolistan airport once again, you were greeted by Alexi, he, as well as the other guards, completely oblivious to the true objective of your mission.

Kill the princess.

You almost felt bad, seeing as these people had been nothing but nice to you.

But orders were orders, and the quicker you got this out of the way, the quicker you could go back home.

Discreetly, you glanced at Phosphorus, him doing the same, the two of you silently noting the odd behavior before going back to your usual shenanigans.

"Quit man-spreading. Your leg's takin' up most of my room," you ordered, lowly, using your knee to push his closer to the door.

"It's a cramped car, sweetheart, you barely had any room to begin with," he shrugged you off, widening his spread to fight back against your assault before patting his thigh. "But I got a space right here for you. Free parking. No handicap."

"And feel your disco stick stab me every time we drive over a pothole? No thanks," you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"Sounds delightful to me."

"To you," you emphasized.

"Could use my arm as a seat belt."

"Don't think I can file a sexual harassment complaint against a seat belt."

"Sexual harassment? Where?" he asked, sarcastically, whipping his head around as if he was looking for something.

"Half the shit that falls out your mouth is sexual. And you haven't stopped harassing me since this whole thing started."

"Last I checked, Belle Reve didn't have HR."

"And last I checked, skeletons didn't have dicks. But here you are."

Glancing into the side mirror, the Bride raised a brow, noticing that the palace was behind them, and getting farther and farther

"What's up, Alexi?" she asked, turning to him. "This isn't—We're leaving the city. The castle is that way."

"Oh! It seems roundabout, but it's good shortcut," the captain assured, flashing the woman a smile before focusing his sights back on the road.

Out the corner of her eye, the Bride took a quick glance at the back seat, sharing a suspicious look with you and Phosphorus.

The two of you nodded, turning to look out the window, finally noticing that you all were in the abandoned part of town, dilapidated buildings and trash galore.

'Aw, fuck...'

You knew exactly what was happening here.

Suddenly, the car pulled to a stop, the Bride's patience running thin.

"What the hell?" she asked, sharply, turning to the captain.

"Engine was making funny noise. Did you hear that?" Alexi excused, suddenly sputtering like an engine. "Did you, huh?"

"No," your brows furrowed, arms crossing over your chest as you sized him up with a suspicious look.

"I am afraid I am screwing up. How do you say? The... The suedinitel? How do you—?"

"I think how we say it is Keep moving, Alexi!" Phosphorus exclaimed, leaning forward in his seat.

"You want me to permanently damage vehicle?"

"Yes!"

Just then, two other armored trucks pulled up in front of yours, the men inside hopping out instantly and drawing their very high-powered guns, training them on the car.

And on perfect cue, the cavalry arrived, a few flying knights and a helicopters swooping in to cut off any form of aerial escape.

'For fuck's sake...'

"Damn it!" the Bride exclaimed, brows cinching at the sight.

"My men have fought and died for the Princess. We are not going to let you kill her now," Alexi stated, firmly, eyes deadly serious.

Leaning over the skeleton next to you, you tried the door, quietly cursing to yourself when it wouldn't budge.

'Bastard locked us in.'

Suddenly, he drew his pistol, pressing it into the Bride's temple.

"Stand down, Bride. You—"

Without hesitation, Phosphorus sent his radiated fist flying through the head rest, punching a hole right through it as well as completely demolishing the top half of Alexi's head, splattering blood, brains, and teeth all over the dash.

"Jesus, fuck, Phos," you grimaced, watching the remains of the poor man's jaw, as well as the rest of his body, flop forward against the steering wheel.

"What a shame. I liked that guy," he sighed.

But before you all could even get a moment to breathe, the guards opened fire, littering the truck with bullets.

Quickly, you all ducked down, the Bride unlocking and opening all the doors, allowing everyone to roll out and duck for cover.

Instantly, you all scattered, forcing the men to break off into smaller groups and fight you off.

"I smell blood, o' pityful flesh..." Mahalat's voice boomed within your mind, teasingly, sending a cold shock down your spine as you ran down an alley, bullets whizzing past. "Have you more for me to feast upon?"

'Jesus Christ...'

The wave of dread that washed over you was uncanny, your legs wanting nothing more than to buckle and drop you to the ground.

"Leave me the fuck alone!" you exclaimed, fed up, as you jumped onto the wall, bounding off of the other and back-flipping in mid-air to tackle the flying knight in the sky. "I'm busy! I don't need a peanut gallery!"

As he attempted to buck you off, you wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him in place as your sharpened tail stabbed him right in the neck.

Twisting his arm, you used his gauntlet to shoot down the soldiers below, managing to take out three before you began to plummet toward the ground.

Loosening your hold and flipping yourself around, you used the poor man as a landing pad, crushing his ribs as you collided with the ground, fully upright.

But another armored truck was quick to swerve a few feet in front of you, soldiers jumping out an opening fire.

'Shit!'

Quickly, you dropped into a split, using your acrobatic prowess to flip and maneuver around them.

"On the contrary, it looks to me that you seem to be struggling against these peons."

"Shut up!" you spat, performing a front handspring into a handstand, propelling yourself into the air to scissor kick two men at once, before your tail wrapped around another's neck and swung you back for seconds. "I don't need your help! I'm doing just fine on my own."

"You know as well as I, (y/n), that our power could be so much greater, so much more potent... humans crawl over this rock like maggots, we alone could rule them all."

"Skip over this part! You've had the same pitch for years and my answer hasn't changed!" you groaned, landing on the shoulders of another soldier before snapping his neck. "Never! Gonna! Happen!

"Your humanity holds you back! You're weak! Pathetic!"

"Fuck you!"

"SUNUK ZETAM MA—" "NO!"

Quickly, you whipped your tail around, its pointed tip stabbing you in the thigh and forcing you to let out a howl of pain.

But it distracted you, preventing you from switching over.

"I am in charge!" you barked, scrambling to your feet and sprinting toward the alley wall, "This is my body! You listen to me!"

Without hesitation, you smashed your face into the bricks, breaking your nose on impact and splattering blood everywhere.

Disoriented, you fell backward, smacking your head on the ground with a sick thud.

Everything in your mind was coming to a head, bursting violently from every pore.

Your captivity.

Your self-loathing.

Your fear.

Being so desperate—and so off your anti-psychotics—you were grasping for anything to stop the torture, anything to stop her from winning.

Even if that meant maiming yourself.

Swiftly, your tail snatched up a large shard of broken glass, quickly moving and stabbing you in the stomach.

"I HATE YOU!" you screamed at the top of your lungs, tears welling in your eyes as you pulled the glass out, only to stab it right back in.

Repeatedly.

"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YO—"

"SUNUK ZETAM MA'AK KULA BAA NAT SU DA MAHALAT!"

Instantly, your body stopped, your limbs and tail falling limply to your sides as your eyes rolled over white, and you slowly began to float into the air.

Unable to hold them back, your tears floated with you as well, disappearing into nothing as you burst into hellflame, destroying any evidence of your humanity.

Slowly, but surely, the demon employed her magic, using fire to arduously heal all of your wounds.

Blood returning.

Vessels sealing.

Muscles fusing.

Flesh mending.

Until, eventually, there was no trace of you ever hurting yourself at all, rendering your pain and your actions ultimately meaningless.

'Why... Why couldn't I have never been born...?'

When Mahalat emerged—wings, fangs, horns, and all—she let out a howling, maniacal laugh, zooming into the air in search of meat.

"Enough of this rebellion, (y/n)!" Mahalat laughed, her voice, once again, dubbed over yours. "You have lost! You lost the moment your wretched mother shoved you out of her revolting womb!"

Soaring through the air, she set her sights on a flying soldier, who opened fire after catching her in his periphery.

But she swiped her hand through the air, sending an effortless blade of fire to cut him in half.

Bisected, he let out a blood-curdling scream, quickly losing consciousness as Mahalat caught his top half, using his torso as a shield from the bullets below while she ripped off his helmet and took a huge bite out of his cheek.

"I am the one that is in charge! I am the one who dictates life or death! You belong to me!"

She relished the flavor, eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head as she savored the taste of human meat.

The maggots at Arkham fed her nothing but lettuce and cabbage, as if she were some plow-horse to docile and tame.

But this... there was no heaven like it.

"You are nothing but a satchel of blood and bones in a flesh-drawn sack! A pitiful husk of meat! With me, you will survive for eons! Countless lifetimes! And we will rule this grievous hunk of rock, and all the maggots that fester on its surface!"

Glancing down at the ground, a sadistic smirk stretched across her lips, more trucks pulling up to attack.

"Like lambs to the slaughter..."

Large flames burst from Mahalat's palms, her eyes glowing bright red as she charged, allowing herself to heat up hotter and hotter and hotter, until finally...

She burst.

A tidal wave of hellflame erupted from her every direction, completely incinerating everything within a ten block radius.

The men below didn't even have a chance to scream before they were turned to ash, along with the countless other surrounding buildings.

Right then and there, Mahalat could've cried with joy.

It had been so long since she'd seen a scene like this, the smell of singed rubble and burning flesh like a goddamn Yankee candle to her.

But, in her happiness, she let her guard down, allowing you to take control just long enough to recite the incantation.

"KUNUS MATEZ KA'AM ALUK BAA NAT SU DA (Y/N)!"

"NO!" the demon roared, furious.

In her last moment of control, she grabbed her own wrist, using her strength to quickly swirl herself around before throwing your body clear across the city.

When you landed, you would be in for a world of hurt.

Pupils dilating, you snapped out of it with an aggressive gasp, eyes shooting wide as you suddenly collided with the wall of a building

Turning away from the man melting under his foot, Phosphorus raised a brow, eyes quickly scanning over the area at the sudden noise.

'The hell was that?'

Looking closer, he slowly began to make it out, the dust settling to reveal a naked, red woman, who was lying unconscious on the sidewalk.

You.

"(y/n)," he muttered under his breath, quickly snatching up his lab coat and jogging toward you

From what he could see, you were banged up pretty bad, but the little fires burning on your skin seemed to be patching you up—snapping your bones back in place, sucking up your bruises.

'Whoa... didn't know she could do that...'

You were such a mystery; there was still so much he didn't know about you.

But, on the contrary, there was a hell of a lot more you didn't know about him—a fact he was hoping to maintain.

Whatever reason you had for being incarcerated, he could already tell it had nothing to do with you being evil or malevolent in any way.

You hid behind swears and sharp looks, but behind your prickly exterior was a genuinely kind, caring, and beautiful person—of course, with a great rack, nice ass, smoking hot bod, heart-stopping smile, and delicious pussy.

...

But all of those were just bonuses.

Guys like him didn't associate with women like you.

Guys like him shouldn't associate with women like you.

He knew that, thoroughly, yet for some reason...

He just couldn't seem to stay away.

Suddenly, the siren of a cop car echoed throughout the streets, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Looking out to the streets, he could see the swirling red and blue drawing neared, the sirens getting exponentially louder along with them.

'Shit.'

Not wasting a second, Phosphorus scooped his arm under your waist, sitting you up and haphazardly tugging his coat on your naked body before tossing you over his shoulder.

"C'mon, doll face," he sighed, ducking into the shadows as he started off in the direction of the castle.

Once again, it looked like you both would be in it for the long haul.

"We gotta lay low for a bit..."

[delphi-shield]

SAY IT BACK ↪ letting them leave without an ily

finishing up some smaller things from my wip folder before i buckle down and work on the big stuff again. here's this doofy little fluff piece.

characters included: chris redfield, leon kennedy, jill valentine, ada wong

content: fluff. just fluff. established relationship. mildly ooc behavior for the sake of fluff (also known as being in a relationship and acting stupid)

You found it on TikTok - or maybe it was Instagram, or Facebook - doesn't matter. One of the media conglomerates had given you a horrible idea about how to tease your loving, devoted partner.

It's simple - when they said 'I love you' before they left for work, you just wouldn't say it back. What could go wrong?

Chris Redfield ↪

Did not notice. Secure. In his lane. Unbothered. Probably not moisturized. (Get him a nice oil, fragrance free. He'll like it more if you massage it into his muscles for him, spend a little extra time smoothing along the curve of his spine, up and over the tightness of his shoulders.)

If you're at the point with Chris where he's saying “I love you” in place of a goodbye, he doesn't need to hear you say it back. He's confident in your relationship. Hearing it is just a nice bonus.

You're going to get your own feelings hurt here. Sent yourself into a spiral. Like, damn, does he not listen? Does he not care? What the fuck is his deal?

Chris is legitimately confused when you bring it up to him later. Doesn't get the point of the whole thing. “Why wouldn't you just say you love me?” Head cocked to the side, so puppy-like you can practically see the velvety ears flopping over.

Really doesn't do the whole social media thing. Even when you show him videos as an example, he's just shrugging. "I'm pretty sure those are skits, honey. No one really reacts like that."

If only he knew. Hey - at least now you know that Chris is perfectly content in your relationship and won't let anything silly like this bother him. It's just a sign to ramp up the pranks - more practical jokes, less subtle, harmless emotional manipulation.

That's what you thought, at least, but when Chris flips the light off that night and sidles up behind you in bed, strong arms slipping around your middle and tugging you back to him, his voice rumbles in your ear - "You gonna tell me you love me, or is this gonna be a problem?"

And Chris is really good at extracting confessions. How badly do you actually want to get some sleep tonight?

Jill Valentine ↪

Doesn't seem to have noticed that you ignored her. Walked right out the door without missing a step, didn't even glance back. Her car pulls out of the garage, her sunglasses on - she seems entirely unbothered.

Oh, she’s bothered.

Jill Valentine is Not Petty™️. And she does not pout when her partner doesn't say ‘I love you’ back. She's in a pissy mood at work for a completely unrelated reason. She's not returning your texts because she's busy at work, not because she's trying (and failing) to give you a taste of your own medicine.

She definitely doesn't carry that storm cloud all the way home with her, doesn't rain on your parade when you cheerfully announce that dinner's ready and on the table.

You're trying everything you can think of to cheer her up. Asking about work got you a noncommittal shrug. You'd offered to draw a bath for her - or (preferably) for the both of you, but she'd dismissed the idea, talking about how it would take up too much time.

She didn't have the heart to shrug you off when you started massaging her shoulders. Despite your silence in the morning, you were clearly intent on taking care of her. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe you just hadn't heard her.

Her palm presses against your cheek, turns you to face her. She searches your eyes for a moment, her gaze unreadable. "Thanks for dinner. I love you."

Nothing. Fucking nothing. "You're welcome."

Jill knows that look on your face, that shit-eating grin that you're trying to cover up by glancing down, by pretending to be flustered. Her hands grip your hips. She manhandles you into her lap, chair scraping against the floor to make room for the both of you.

"Okay - spill. What's up with you?"

Once you explain, she's not mad about the whole thing, not really. But you can't help but notice that she's been withholding kisses lately, and-- wait.

Fuck. Now she's turned the tables on you.

Leon Kennedy ↪

Keeps finding new and inventive ways to double back inside the house. He's not going to outright ask you what's up - that would make him look desperate, which he’s totally not. He’s definitely not concerned at all that you didn’t complete your morning ritual and send him out the door with an ‘I love you’. He’s a big boy - this isn’t high school, this is his very mature, very adult relationship.

Excuse number one: “Sorry, forgot my keys,” as he makes a show of dropping his keys out of his pocket, onto the living room floor. His eyes are on you when he reaches to grab them. Leon tosses them in his hand, making as much noise as he possibly can. “All right, love you.”

You hold strong. Still no ‘love you’ back. He’s gone for all of 60 seconds when he comes back with excuse number two: “Ah, damn, forgot my badge. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached.”

His badge is attached to his belt. You can literally see it. When you point that out to him, he makes a show of being relieved, goes so far as to press a kiss to your temple, and says, “God, what would I do without you? Love ya. Have a good day.”

But you hold strong. Until excuse number three:

“Babe, have you seen my gun?”

You laugh, which only makes him laugh - and then he hits you with ‘no, seriously’ while he leans against the doorway, hip cocked. He’s got you figured out by now, knows that if he can make you laugh then you’re not doing this because you’re mad at him or anything. He can't even be mad when you explain it to him. He can only warn you:

"I'm gonna get you for this. Now, c'mon - say it."

Ada Wong ↪

I don't know why you would do this to her to be honest. She just said ‘I love you’. You should be marking your calendar and turning this into a holiday.

She doesn't say it often, at least not while you're conscious. Whether she presses her sentiments into your hair while you sleep against her, drooling against her collar bone, is up for debate. You have no hard evidence and she'll deny the allegations.

It simultaneously is and is not a big deal. She didn't say it because she craved the validation of having you repeat it to her. She said it because she meant it. There's so few concrete truths about herself that she can share with you, but that was one of them. Does it sting a little not to have it returned? Maybe.

She turns the moment over and over in her head, letting it haunt her. You had given her time, she thinks, why can't she give you yours? But your silence is a specter that tinges every moment. It creeps at the edges of every thought, it–

“Hey, you forgot your coffee.”

She turns to see you in the door of your apartment, hanging from the frame with one hand, her cup extended to her in the other. She clicks back to you in her stilettos, and your press a kiss to her cheek when she claims her drink. The guilt of it all ate at you before you could let her leave your sight. “Love you. Be safe.”

She'd spiraled before she even got down to the parking lot. Total loser in love.

[nvuy]

hey gorjous im just curious will you ever write for aventurine?by the way loveeee your works

rose-tinted glasses & the scent of you — aventurine

summary. you’re offered a chance to win close to a million credits. only issue is, you suck at poker. luckily, some blond man with the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen comes to your aid.

notes. who is aventurine and no i will never write for him. it is 3:30am and i am now going to sleep goodnight!!!!

warnings. the dude your playing poker with is an asshole and says some strange things, i guess a bit of power imbalance, gn reader but referred to as ‘beautiful’ or ‘gorgeous,’ light cussing, i don’t know how to play poker and i fight the gods trying to write aventurine.

“So… tell me… what made you think you could win?” 

The older man stares you down with those awful brown eyes. They flicker even darker than black itself in the low lights of the VIP room he’s dragged you into. 

You glance up from your deck of cards. Your fingers are trembling. You swallow and tell the man, “I never even agreed to play this game with you.” 

The man leans back in his chair. He merely rolls his eyes. The woman over his shoulder—and she’s a gorgeous woman. She looks much too young for him—giggles at his antics. She looks more like a prize than anything. 

Your eyes snap to the man’s again. “And I don’t want to be your arm candy.” 

“Oh, but that’s what you were made for.” The man yawns as if he could be doing anything else with his time. And he could have; he was rich. Filthy rich. He paid for women, cars, and every high end restaurant in this district that was under his name one way or another. All his. He could have been off on his yacht somewhere in the ocean for all you cared, sipping a nice martini. 

But, no. 

He’s here. And he wants you. 

Some lowly office worker. You knew the gut feeling when you stepped into this casino, and you had ignored it. Now, you were kicking yourself repeatedly for it.

“Play.”

You almost consider throwing your cards down onto the table and storming out, but the room is closed off by two big burly men standing on either side of it.

And if you give up, he wins.

But he’s already winning, anyway. 

“Play the game,” he repeats, this time firmer. 

“I’m folding,” you said with just as much vitriol. You drop your cards onto the green velvet and swallow your pride. 

The man hums with triumph, drops his deck—of course, a royal flush glimmers back at you on his pristine customised playing cards—and collects the chips in the middle of the table. 

“That’s another round for me,” the man whispers across the table. “Another drink?” 

You shake your head. The thought of him making you down even more liquor with him made you feel sick. “Can I leave?” 

“‘Leave?’ It’s only round four.” The dealer takes the cards silently. Another woman. Her name badge reads ‘Jewel,’ though you’re sure that’s not her real name. “You said it was best of five.” 

You look down at your hands.

They’re still trembling. 

“This isn’t fair.” You try not to tear up, but your voice shakes, and it’s difficult to mask. Your hands continue to quake and your legs can’t remain still. You were sure he could feel the floor vibrating with how you bounced in your seat. “I can’t even play with these cards–” 

“I hope you’re not suggesting I’m taking advantage of you, beautiful.” 

Your face screws up at that. 

He’s not cheating. How can he possibly cheat? You had elected the dealer yourself, per his request, and had been watching him like a hawk for the better half of an hour. 

Your hands were awful every time. Not even a simple pair. Just random useless low valued cards thrown together, while the man opposite you seemed to have an endless amount of tricks up his sleeve. 

Poker was luck based. Mostly. There was skill and strategy, but it was like detective work. You’re no professional, but the dealer has no idea what they draw for each player, and the chances of you being drawn a horrible hand twice in a row now was creeping up on you.

It’s all guesswork and mind games. Being a sleaze is this dude’s lifestyle. You work in an office answering phone calls all day.

You glance at the dealer again. She’s still shuffling the cards by hand, and she’s not looking at them either. There’s no possible way she could know what she is handing out. 

You sigh shakily. “No.” 

The man leans back in his chair. 

Then, he glances up when the door opens behind you. The woman over his arm gets up and leaves. 

At first you presume the man has called in another woman by the way his eyes light up.

His grin is wicked. “Mister Aventurine, you son of a bitch.”

He gestures to you and says, “you’re in luck. Maybe this’ll be your turn around. You’re going to need it.” The man leans back in his chair, suddenly smug.

You feel a hand brush along the back of your shoulder.

There’s a strong scent of clove oil and chestnut as the newcomer, Mister Aventurine, glides past your chair and over to the man’s shoulder. 

You notice flicks of water on his coat.

“Evening, Keres.” His voice is just as smooth. “It’s raining hard out there.” 

“Is it? I ain’t been out since this mornin’.”

When you take a proper look at him, he’s wearing clothing more expensive than all of your bills combined. That was real fur around his collar; you could tell from the organic coarseness of it, and the way the pattern was inconsistent and natural. The watch around his wrist was most definitely real gold with an emerald green face. 

And hair is perfect, laid down flat, but with pieces fluffed out intentionally. Everything is done with purpose. He carries an air of confidence to him, and it only falters for a moment when he adjusts the black gloves on his hands. 

He’s wearing rose-coloured glasses.

“Harassing the locals again?” Mister Aventurine asks playfully. 

He’s talking about you.

You bristle in your seat.

“Hardly.” The man, whom you now know as Keres, leans over the table with an arm on the velvet. “This one’s gotten a little too excited at the prize money.” 

“And how much is that?” Mister Aventurine finishes fixing his gloves before he stands up straight. 

“A good seven-hundred and fifty thousand. Enough to pay the bills for the year and get yourself something nice, right sweetheart?” He raises a silver credit card he pulls from his pocket and waves it side to side. “All right here on this shiny, pretty card.”

You feel like a fish staring down a hook with worm bait stuck to the end.

He’s speaking to you again, but the question  remains unanswered. Keres raises an eyebrow—and you would have considered him handsome if didn’t make you feel nauseous every time he spoke to you—and waits.

You say nothing. 

Mister Aventurine is looking at you now.

You feel as though you’re being hypnotised. Though the colour of his eyes are left muffled by the rosy tint he wears over them, they’re so bright. There’s two colours you can barely decipher: some sort of light green and a deep purple.

And they’re beautiful. 

“I take it you’re winning?” 

Keres picks up his deck of cards for the dealer as she lays them out on the table.

You swallow as she deals out your hand next. You don’t even want to flip the cards. You already know it’s over.

By some miracle, you have to win this round.

Keres had gone easy on you the first round, calling your bluff and being wrong, since you told him you weren’t sure how to play, and he felt only the slightest bit bad he roped you into the game in the first place.

Now, he didn’t care. 

“‘Course I’m winnin’.” 

Your teeth grit behind your lips.

Dickhead.

You swallow and peek at your cards. 

Huh. They’re actually not so bad this time around. Your hands had been awful for the last hour. 

Mister Aventurine is still looking at you.

You try not to return his gaze. You keep your eyes glued to the table. 

Mister Aventurine hums curiously.

You can still smell his perfume, and the delicious bottom note of vanilla musk, even as he stands on the other side of the playing table. If you weren’t in the position you were in, you would have asked him what he was wearing. 

He clears his throat. 

You glance up at him.

Then, he nods subtly at you, seemingly pleased. “Great hand, Keres, don’t you think?” 

“The secret to winning is to remain humble, Mister Aventurine,” Keres reminds him. 

You almost scoff. 

Mister Aventurine’s lips tick up into a grin. “Is that so?” 

Then, he tilts his head slightly towards you. It’s not enough to look awkward or out of place, but it’s just enough for you to notice the very small, and nervous tick of one of his gloved fingers by his sides. 

He’s still staring at you. 

And there, slightly warped from his curved lenses, is a rosy and mirrored reflection of the man’s cards. 

For a moment, you look away, glancing at the security guards situated behind you standing in front of the door. Though you still could never make a run for it because both of them were triple your size, one of them was tapping away on his phone, and the other was leaning against the wall and staring off into space. 

You turn back around. 

Mister Aventurine merely raises a brow. 

Keres notices that. “Taking an interest in my opponent, Aventurine?”

Aventurine does not move to address the man, too afraid he won’t garner the correct angle on his glasses again, but his eyes do flit in his direction. “Maybe.”

“Don’t use that charm just yet, sir. I’ve got a game to win.” 

“Of course.” It’s a mere send off of his tone, as if he’s just carelessly thrown the words in to keep the man satisfied. 

He’s doing this on purpose. 

You glance down at your cards again. 

Keres’ hand is good. It’s not amazing, but it’s good. It’s almost an even match, though the game is tilted slightly in his favour. 

But, he doesn’t know your cards. 

Neither does Aventurine. You think. Unless those freaky eyes grant him a sixth sense, and he can see through the card backs like an x-ray. That wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest. 

You exhale as steadily as you can, trying to slow your racing heart. 

Then, you whisper, “if this is the final round, I’m going all in.” 

Aventurine’s face does not shift. His lenses flicker in the lights, and for a moment you panic, convinced that the reflection is lost.

It returns a moment later. 

Keres grins. “As you wish.” He slides all of his own chips into the centre of the table. 

ೃ༄

You’ve confused Keres, that’s for sure. The round has been lasting a lot longer than he liked, and as he grew more and more impatient, he grew sloppier. 

You’re not any good at this game. You’re not a genius strategist, that was for sure, but judging by the slight flinch in Aventurine’s face when Keres slammed his hands on the table, you could tell he was being run around the very table he sat at. 

He’d first accused you of cheating halfway through the round, so much so that the security guards were ordered to pat you down for extra cards, and the dealer was escorted out of the room. 

Then, Aventurine had rested a gloved hand to the man’s shoulder and reminded him, “calmness is the cradle of power, my friend.” 

That barely calmed him down, but it was enough to seat the man again. 

Now, Aventurine was not showing you his hand anymore, but you didn’t need it. 

“I’m raising,” Keres whispers. 

Aventurine’s eyes narrow suspiciously at his deck. 

You swallow. 

“Then I’m calling your bluff,” you mumble. You won’t fold. Not here. Not when you know you’ve won. 

Your heart is racing.

There’s a small voice in the back of your head telling you that you may have overstepped. You may have grown too big in your own head. 

Aventurine is staring at you, completely expressionless. He’s casually leaning against the back of Keres’ chair. 

Come on. Come on, come on–

You grip your cards for dear life.  

Keres drops his cards. “Fuck you.” 

You sigh in relief and drop your own cards.

You bury your face in your hands and lean against the table on your elbows. You could cry. Oh, you could get on the floor and weep to the Aeons. You could give Aventurine a giant kiss on the lips. 

Oh, thank the Aeons for blond men. 

You didn’t have to worry about waking up in this man’s bed tomorrow morning. 

Keres gets up, and as he does, Aventurine adjusts his posture and clears his throat. He says nothing when Keres passes him. 

There’s a nasty whisper of a, “some lucky charm you are,” before the credit card is thrown into his chest. 

Keres hits you in the shoulder on his way out. The security guards allow him through first before they both file out. They close the door to the VIP room behind them. 

You contemplate leaving as well. You just desperately want to go home. It’s getting late, you think. You had caught a glance of Aventurine’s watch before, and the large hand was ticking towards nine o’clock. 

“Congratulations.” It’s warm. It’s genuine. When you turn, Aventurine is holding out the credit card in front of him. “Don’t forget the ‘shiny, pretty card.’” 

Your chest warms, and you feel this is the first time you’ve smiled properly in a long time. 

You move closer to the man. “You…” You hesitate before the credit card, but Aventurine makes no move to pocket it for himself and leave. “I- I don’t know how I can thank you enough for this.” 

You take the card and stare at it for a moment. 

Then, you place it safely in your coat pocket. 

Aventurine tilts his head, confusion scrawled onto his face as saunters past you easily to hold open the door for you. “Thank me for what?”

As he waits, he pulls off those rosy glasses and folds them neatly. He holds onto them.

Oh. 

His eyes are beautiful. A light blue ring surrounds his slightly slitted pupils. A gorgeous rich royal purple wraps at the edges of his iris, bordered by a thick black ring. 

You stop for a moment before you step towards the door, looking equally as confused. “The reflection? With your glasses?” 

Aventurine looks down at the said pair in his hands. He then smiles, but it seems more to be polite and to entertain you. “Sure.” He shuts the door behind you when he follows you out. 

You knit your brows together. 

Then, it wasn’t intentional.

Or, he’s just really good at playing dumb.

You can’t exactly tell.

His grin spells mischief, however. “Would you like a drink?” 

Your eyes flit towards the bar. It’s always fully stocked, and the bartenders are always lovely, but the idea of liquor in your already churning stomach makes you feel sick. “Oh, no. But thank you. I’m probably just going to go home.” 

“Of course. It’s late.” Aventurine glances down at his watch. “I’d be more than happy to walk you to your car, if you’d like.” 

You blink at him, only slightly dazed. 

You felt as if you had just swallowed three shots of straight vodka. 

Your legs feel unsteady for a moment, and you’re afraid you’ll teeter and fall flat on your face. You can smell his perfume again. It’s stronger now since he’s standing so close to you.

It’s almost humiliating how easily he sends blood rushing up your neck. 

“I don’t- uh… I don’t have a car,” you murmur. 

Aventurine blinks and takes out his phone. “Then I’ll call you a cab.” 

“Thanks.” You clear your throat when his lips stretch into a smile again. Embarrassingly, you add, “you smell so nice.” 

He laughs then, and you like the sound. He narrows his eyes playfully. “Thank you.” 

As if it couldn’t get any worse, blondie then offers you his arm. You could’ve melted on the spot into a puddle of goo all over the plush red carpets of the casino. 

The sound of slot machines, loud chattering, and drinks clacking together in toasts, drowns out the sound of your stuttered breathing and the roar of blood in your ears. 

Aventurine greets one of the staff members on his way out. His arm linked with yours is gentle, more of a persistent comforting anchor than a leash to drag you around in.

He smells really, really nice. 

Your face grows hot.

This is so bad. 

It’s raining outside. The entrance to the casino is large enough to provide enough relief to city goers seeking shelter from the rain. The press of the heating from inside dissipate as soon as you step through the doors.

It’s freezing. The wind whips and sounds as though one thousand ghosts float through the air, lost to time. 

You’re relieved the exterior roof keeps you mostly dry. 

You shiver. 

“They’ll be a cab for you in five minutes,” Aventurine says softly. He lets go of your arm. You ignore the disappointment you feel in your chest. 

“Thanks.” You cross your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the cold as best you could. “You don’t have to wait out here with me.” 

Aventurine looks at you strangely. “Well, it’s not like I’m doing much else.” He gives you a once over before you hear his clothes shifting. 

This is so awkward. 

You feel the foreign tickle of expensive and real fur on your neck. 

You glance at him suspiciously before your shoulders are swamped in his jacket. It’s warm, warmer than anything you’ve ever worn from the velvety insides and his own body heat, and heavy with luxury. 

Your heart stops when Aventurine hums, pleased. 

Your hands shoot to the white fur on the collar to shuck it off and hand it back to him. “I’m fine, really–” 

“Oh, please.” He waves you off gently. “You’re clearly freezing.” 

“I’m really okay–” 

“And would you look at that.” Aventurine straightens up and pushes his rosy glasses back onto his nose bridge. “Your cab’s early.” 

You shrug off his jacket, careful with the expensive material. “Thank you so much, but–” He pushes it back onto your shoulders, following you to the car door. “Mister Aventurine–” 

“I insist.” He opens the door for you. “You’ll freeze.” 

You can’t imagine him standing around in a suit vest and a shirt is warm, either.

You say nothing about it. You practically fall into the back of the cab, shocked. 

“Take it home.” 

“‘Take it–‘” You shake your head. You feel like you’re dreaming. “I can’t take this home. This thing is worth more than the money I just won.” 

But it’s warm, and it’s weighted in the most comforting way.

It calms your nerves. 

“It’s nothing fancy. It was only around one-hundred thousand credits.”  

“Are you serious–” 

“Take it.” And he is serious. You can see your reflection in his glasses. “Please.“ 

His eyes are really, really beautiful. 

You find yourself lost in them for a moment. 

His back is slightly soaked from the rain. He barely notices it. His hand rests on your knee when you swing your feet into the cab. 

You nod once, more to reassure yourself than anything. “Okay.” You look up at him. “Thank you so much.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He offers you a gentle wave before he shuts the door and the car drives off. 

He is cold. Frightfully so as you watch him shiver through the rear view mirror before he steps back into the casino. 

As the cab moves, you relay your address to the driver and sit back in the seat. You feel like you can finally breathe, but when you do breathe, you only smell chestnut and vanilla, and it blurs and muddies your senses nicely. 

You bury your icy fingers into the pockets of Aventurine’s coat, sinking into the neckline until the fur tickles your ears. 

Your fingers come into contact with something smooth and cool, like glass.

You fish it out. 

It’s a small perfume bottle. You pull the clear lid off of the tip of it and curiously smell the top. It smells exactly like him, the same perfume that’s drowned you for the last hour.

You don’t think you can get enough of it. 

You feel only slightly guilty for digging around in this man’s pockets—and, unsurprisingly, you don’t find a wallet—before you fish out a pair of fancy looking golden dice with light green dots on the faces. 

The dice, the perfume, and a small card. Not the credit card you won. That one is tucked away safely in your bag. 

It’s a business card. His business card. His name, what you recognise as the IPC’s logo, and his phone number are written in gold lettering on the laminated white card. 

You hum curiously.

Then, you fish out your phone and slowly type his number onto the screen. 

You: thank u 4 winning 2night for me. & the coat. the coat is nice. x

Sent 9:56pm

Aventurine: You found my gifts! :0 Did you like them?

You: maybe. i did like ur vest btw.

Aventurine: You can have it next time ;)

You find yourself smiling. Your fingers tremble with excitement over the keyboard on your screen.

You: i’ll give u a kiss 4 it :*

Aventurine: Done, deal. Pleasure doing business with you, gorgeous.

You have a feeling your wardrobe will be full of his clothes in the not so distant future. 

[yunniverse]

You’re My Dream

౨ৎ PAIRING— rockstar!jeong yunho x reader

౨ৎ GENRE— fluff, ended relationship, fem!reader

౨ৎ WARNINGS— angst, fluff

౨ৎ WORD COUNT— 1.4k

౨ৎ SUMMARY— you broke up because he was too focused on his music dream, but maybe you and love were the real dream all along.

౨ৎ A/N— i saw a lot of people saying they wanted a oneshot with the concept photos from the 2025 seasons greetings, so i made one! i hope you like it, even though it isn’t quite as angsty as you probably wanted :( still, feedback is appreciated and thanks for reading, lovelies! <3 (i’ll tag a few people who said they were interested if someone wrote one: @beabatiny, @goldendynastys, @kibs-and-bits)

Staring at the fire crackling, you try to hold back the tears that threaten to escape. When had it all gone so wrong?

Just last year, you had been enjoying your boyfriend’s Christmas show with his rock band, and now you’re sitting alone, the night before Christmas.

The crackling of the fire adds to your melancholy, the harsh cold winds blowing outside creating a gloomy atmosphere. You know you should forget like he has, but you can’t throw away two years of your life that easily.

The memories of last Christmas come flooding back to you, even as you try to suppress them. Memories of sitting beside the fire with Yunho, cuddling as you watched a cheesy Christmas movie. Or baking Christmas cookies together at his apartment, laughing as you threw flour at each other.

Turning to the remote controller, you press the power button, not expecting to see him on the screen. His band is playing, and you immediately feel a pang in your chest at the sight of him, his fingers dashing across the keyboard.

Even though he’s the keyboard player and not the lead singer, he has an air about him that draws you in, making it unable to look away, even as you know you should. Why is he still having this effect on you?

The song is one you recognize. “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call,” by Bleachers.

It’s a song he’d introduced to you last Christmas, and, even though it’s sad, it had been a source of joy for you in a way last year, because you remember dancing to the song with him, smiling and laughing.

Now, it really is sad.

When he gets up at the end of the song, leaning into the microphone, you furrow your eyebrows, listening.

“That song goes out to someone I lost a year ago today.” He looks right at the camera, his brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, baby. I wish it had been different, but know that I never really stopped loving you.”

You gasp, only momentarily questioning if he’s really talking to you, before you jump up, now determined to make things right for some reason. You know it’ll probably end in more heartache, but you have to try.

Grabbing your keys and coat, you hurry out the door into the winter storm, unlocking your car before hopping in.

Even though the roads are horrible tonight, you know the way to his apartment like the back of your hand, only slowing because of the snow.

About twenty minutes later, you arrive at his apartment complex, hurrying out of the car, through the blinding snow, and into the lobby of the building.

You try to calm yourself down, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button to the fourth floor.

When you get to the floor, you walk down the hall, slowing to a stop in front of his door. Taking a deep breath, you knock.

It takes about two minutes, but the door opens, revealing a messy-haired Yunho, a few locks of his dark blue hair having fallen in front of his brown eyes, which widen at the sight of you.

“Y/N?” he whispers, his hand clutching the doorknob so tight you think he might break it. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw the program.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, you rub your arm, biting your lip, really starting to wonder what you’re really doing here yourself. “H-How have you been?”

“Is that really what you’re going to ask?” Yunho asks, giving you a half-smile.

“What else would I say?” you question softly, suddenly feeling stupid for coming to see him. “I can’t just say Merry Christmas or something stupid like I’ve missed you—”

“Can’t you?” he asks, his dark eyes searching yours. “Because I’ve missed you.”

Sighing, you frown slightly, “This can’t be happening. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let me just—“

He grabs your wrist as you turn to leave, making your gaze snap back to his. “Every day without you has been torture. You came to see me for a reason. Do you feel the same?”

“Yunho, it doesn’t matter how we feel. It can’t work now anymore than it did then. We have different goals.”

“We don’t have to!” he exclaims, almost desperately. “I can give up the band if that’s what you want. You were upset it took up so much of my time? I’ll quit.”

Your eyes widen as you shake your head, “Yunho, the reason you couldn’t give it up for me before is because it’s what you love to do. I can’t take that away from you. I can’t make you live without it.”

“Well, I can’t live without you.”

His words hang heavy in the air, making you suck in a sharp breath, “Yunho…”

“Don’t say anything,” Yunho tells you, taking a single step closer. “Just tell me…”

“Tell you what?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“What do you feel?” he asks, just before he leans in, his face inches from yours. Your heartbeat quickens as his warm breath fans across your lips. “If you feel nothing, I’ll leave you alone.”

You’re torn between wanting to close the distance and knowing you shouldn’t.

You don’t have to wait for long.

It feels like the world stops when his soft lips brush against yours for the first time in months. It isn’t like an electric shock, with fireworks exploding, rather it’s like coming home after a long time away. Like warmth and softness and… love.

It only takes a few seconds for you to melt into him, the kiss deepening as he lifts his hands to cup your face, your hands finding his chest, his heartbeat quickens beneath yours fingertips.

After a few moments, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours as he pants softly, waiting for you to respond.

“I wish I could say I felt nothing,” you whisper, feeling a little helpless against your emotions. “But I can’t. I’ve never been able to.”

“Then give us another chance,” Yunho pleads, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. “I meant what I said during the program. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“But what about the band? What about all the reasons we broke up months ago?”

“You and I both know we were being petty then. And I can quit the band, like I said,” Yunho replies, his tone serious.

“I don’t want you to,” you respond quietly, making him furrow his eyebrows.

“What?” he asks slowly, confusion etched into his features.

“I don’t want you to quit what you love,” you clarify. “That’s what ended things between us before. We quit on our love, and I won’t let you quit on the band now. I was stupid to think you loved me any less because of your passion for music. Please don’t stop playing, Yun.”

“Are you sure?” he asks slowly. “It’ll still take up as much time as it did before, maybe more, since we’ve grown a little more popular now.”

“I don’t care,” you smile softly. “All I care about is being with you again. And I won’t let my jealousy over your time get in the way again… as long as you let me come to your shows.”

“Every single one.”

With a small laugh, you lean forward, pressing another soft kiss to his lips before burying your face in his neck, inhaling his calming scent you’ve missed so much.

“Maybe we should get out of the hallway?” Yunho chuckles, tugging your hand, guiding you into his apartment. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

You smile shyly, nodding, as you let him close the door behind you both.

Three months later, you’re cheering for Yunho and his band as he performs, smiling widely when he finally comes backstage, his arms open as you laugh, throwing yourself into his arms for a hug. “You did so well, Yunnie,” you whisper in his ear.

He grins, nuzzling his nose into your hair, “Thank you, baby. You’re always the best cheerleader.”

“Can’t say I don’t like the fake tattoos on your hands either,” you tell him wryly, tracing the markings with your finger.

“Oh?” he asks, chuckling softly, his eyes sparking with mischief. “Maybe I’ll leave them on for a little while. And I’ll be sure to tell the stylist you like them.”

“Good,” you grin. “I’m good with anything now as long as you never tell me ‘please don’t call’ like you did last winter ever again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[x-aefx]

Hihi !! 🩵

I have a little request and I was hoping you could to it ! So I was thinking you could do a little blurb of F!Reader having like really bad cramps and Billie just comforting them that’s just pure fluff bc I’m having like horrible cramps rn and I need smth like that ☹️

This is so cute🤍 i hope you like it and i hope you get over your cramps soon🫶

𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

SWEET - BILLIE X FEM!READER

𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

You had your day planned. You were supposed to organize your closet, practice guitar and do some cleaning. it was supposed to be a productive day, yet you lay on your bed in pain.

Out of all the things you had planned for today, getting your period was not one of them. Your eyes squeezed shut as you felt the sharp pain from your cramps, the hot water bottle you clutched doing little to soothe you.

"fuck." You muttered in discomfort.

"y/n!" A voice called from downstairs. Billie closed the front door behind her as she invited herself into your home. She looked around not finding any sign of you. She frowned in confusion.

"up here." You tired to call out as loud as you could, but the pain you were feeling made it hard to do. You turned on your side to try find some relief.

Billie didn't hear your response, but she walked upstairs anyway, not thinking of any other place you could be, and she knew you were home since your car was here and the house was left unlocked.

She smiled excitedly as she walked to your bedroom, figuring you were cleaning or working and thats why you hadn't heard her. She was excited to see you. You two had made plans to hang out, which Billie always looked forward to. You were her favorite person.

Opening the bedroom door her smile faded slightly, her brows drawing together in concern as she seen you curled up in your bed, a hot water bottle clutched against your stomach. She knew immediately what was wrong, she had seen you many times like this, and you with her.

"y/n?" She called out your name again, this time sympatheticly, feeling the urge to take care and comfort you. She walked over to your bed.

You exhaled the air you had been holding, growing frustrated with the cramps you suffer from every month. You turned your head to face her, a pained expression on your face. Billie frowned down at you, she hated to see you in any kind of pain, it broke her heart seeing that expression on your face.

Billie put her phone and car keys on your bedside table, she shrugged off her jacket and shoes, and gently climbed into the bed beside you.

She wanted to do everything in her power to ease your pain.

She lay on her side, sitting up with her weight on her elbows as she leaned down to rest her face in the space between your shoulder and face. You leaned into her embrace, her touch welcoming and needed.

Billie wrapped an arm around your waist, the pads of her cold fingers tracing up and down your warm skin, leaving goosebumps after them. She tilted her face so that she was facing you. She smiled lovingly down at you, her lips placed small gentle kisses on your cheeks down to your jaw. Her fingers met the hem of your shirt and moved under it, dancing slowly up the skin of your stomach.

You smiled lazily up at her causing Billie to smile too.

"how's my sweet girl?" She mumbled. Her free hand moved up to comb her fingers through your hair, her fingers weaving gently through the strands.

You shook your head slowly. "Not good." You mumbled. Billie's smile softened. She leaned down and placed a small, sweet, kiss on your lips before moving down further in the bed. With her fingers she slowly pulled up your shirt slightly to expose the lower part of your stomach, where you had been clutching the hot water bottle.

You watched her curiously, but with the up most trust and love.

Billie began placing small, sincere kisses along your stomach, not neglecting a single place. She took her time, being gentle and making each kiss as loving as the last.

A small smile tugged at your lips, you sighed in content as your eyes threatened to close.

Billie smiled against your skin. Your shirt raised higher as she made her way up your stomach, leaving a soft and delicate trail of kisses with her.

Somehow you had manged to get distracted from your period cramps, feeling nothing but the love Billie was showering you with. You felt completely at peace in that moment.

Billie lifted her face to meet yours. She grinned up at you happily, making you chuckle at how adorable she looked. Billie leaned in to kiss you again, a soft and tender one, you both smiled against each other's lips.

"thank you." You whispered.

Billie softly shook her head. "You don't need to thank me, im here to take care of you, always."

You smiled back at her, thinking 'how did i get so lucky?'

Billie placed another tender kiss on your forehead.

As she lay back on the bed you climbed on top of her, resting your body flush against her front, as her arms wrapped securely around your body in a loving embrace, showing you she wasn't going anywhere.

You hid your face in the crook of her neck, relaxing as her fingers traced small circles onto your skin. You smiled when Billie began softly humming the tune of a song, the noise calming you.

You didn't know if Billie somehow soothed your pains, or if her love overpowered the pain you felt, all you knew was you felt happier and better in her arms.

"i love you." Billie whispered.

"i love you too." You whispered back, your smile audible in your voice.

Billie placed another tender kiss against your head, sighing in content as she smiled fondly down at her girl.

𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

[nhlclover]

𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 | 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐘𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐋𝐄

summary: attempting long distance makes it clear to you and jamie that you need each other

warnings: loneliness, sad jamie, kissing, tiny bit of cursing

word count: 1.19k

Jamie was sprawled out on his bed in his cramped apartment in Philadelphia, staring blankly at the empty walls. He hadn’t decorated yet, let alone had the proper furniture. His bed was simply a mattress on the floor, his coffee table doubling as a kitchen table.

Jamie had been in Philly for about a month now. You’d think a month was enough to adjust to a new city, and while he had settled into a routine and gotten comfortable with all of the city’s quirks, something still felt off.

It was you. He missed you deeply. Your laughter, your presence, your comfort. You were his anchor. But you were tied to your job over 2,000 miles away in Anaheim. You guys had discussed this before he left, that 3 months wasn’t that long and you could withstand it. Then, at the season's end, you’d talk about your future together.

However, here you both were, on opposite sides of the country, distance putting a strain on the both of you.

Jamie did his normal pre-game routine with you on his mind. He thought of the fact that you were probably at work right now, wrapping up final tasks, before heading home and putting on the Flyers game. It was a miracle he found someone as supportive as you, willing to put up with the long days and stress that being a professional athlete could bring.

Each game he played knowing that when he got home he wouldn’t be coming home to you made them harder and harder. The facetimes and calls were not enough anymore and the strain on Jamie was starting to show in his gameplay. Today’s game was horrible. Jamie was benched for almost the entire third after he gave up 3 separate turnovers. Amidst the rowdy Philadelphia crowd, upset that their team was losing, his mind wandered to you. It was always you.

Jamie kept to himself while getting changed and showering, truly wanting to go home just to call you. After an unbearable 5 minutes with the media, Jamie trudged out of the locker room, shoulders slumped and spirits in the basement. Walking down the hall, Jamie feels an arm hook around his shoulders.

“Why the long face?” Cam asks.

Jamie shrugs off Cam's arm, his mind still reeling. "Just had a rough game, man. Ready to get out of here."

Cam flashes him a sly, knowing grin. “It’ll pick up soon, bud.” He says.

Jamie ignores his teammates' words, continuing down the halls of the Wells Fargo Centre. As he turned the bend, greeted by a myriad of voices, there you were.

Jamie could’ve sworn he was seeing things, maybe reaching a point of delusion. But there you were, standing with his teammates' girlfriends. Jamie’s heart lifted upon seeing you, the weight of a thousand worlds falling behind him as he headed straight for you. When he reached you, his arms enveloped you in a tight embrace.

The world around him fades away leaving only you two suspended in this moment. His touch is firm yet gentle, a silent declaration of his need for your presence, your comfort.

“Hi, James.” You say softly into his chest. Your delicate tone nearly sends Jamie over the edge, the reality of everything catching up to him, tears threatening to prick at his eyes.

“Hi, baby.” He says softly. You guys stay there for a few more moments before you force Jamie to walk to his car with you.

Deciding you had so much to talk about, Jamie drove you to a park to walk around while you guys spoke. You intertwined your fingers with Jamie's, drawing strength from the reassuring warmth of his touch. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, a tangible reminder of the struggles you had endured during your time apart.

“So, what are you doing here?” Jamie asks, his grin having still not faded since first seeing you.

“I had to see you…” You tell him. “So I took two weeks off.”

“You did what?” Jamie asked.

“Jamie, I missed you so much, it was almost unbearable.” You confessed, your voice conveying the pain it had truly caused you. “With the time difference and our weird, conflicting schedules… I had to come and see you.”

Jamie's expression softened, his gaze filled with empathy as he listened to your words. He understood all too well the pain of separation, the relentless tug of loneliness that pulled at his heart with every passing day.

“Y/n, I missed you too. I’ve been fucking miserable.” Jamie said, a small chuckle escaping as he recounts the past couple of days. “It's like… no matter how many times we talk on the phone or text each other, it's never enough. I need you here with me, physically, emotionally… I just…”

Jamie suddenly stops walking, turning to face you.

“Marry me.”

The words were out of Jamie’s mouth before he knew it, the both of you sharing the same shocked reaction to his words. The unexpected proposal makes you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. Despite them being blurted out, Jamie knew that they were real feelings.

“W-what?” You ask. It felt as though time stood still as you processed his words. Jamie takes both of your hands in his, his eyes glimmering.

“I’m serious. Marry me.” He says again. “These last couple of months have been…fucking hell on earth. I’ve been miserable. And for a while, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. At first, I thought it was the lack of sun… or maybe it was taking me a little longer than I thought to adjust to a new city. But it was you. I couldn’t bear not having you with me.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, jaw open slack as you were processing his words.

“I want you here in Philly, with me. And whatever it takes.” Jamie says. “You can get another job here, in Philly, I’m sure the guys of their wives have connections here and they could help. Or don’t work! I can support you, I don’t care. What I’m trying to say is-”

You cut off Jamie’s rambling, pressing your lips to his, effectively shutting him up. Your lips melded together, picking up as if you had never been separated. As you parted, a small smile graced your lips. Jamie’s eyes scanned your face, desperate to read what you were thinking.

"Yes," you said, your voice steady with resolve. "Yes, I will marry you. And yes, I will come live with you in Philadelphia. We can figure everything else out later.”

Jamie let out a huff of relief before scooping you up in his arms and spinning you above the ground. You squeal, your laughter ringing like a melody in Jamie’s ears.

“Oh my god, I have a wife!” Jamie cheered loudly.

He leans down pressing a kiss to your lips, holding you close once again. As you held each other close, the weight of loneliness lifted from Jamie's heart, replaced by the comforting certainty of your presence.

“I love you so much.” Jamie whispers against your lips.

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; hitchhiker au | Simon Riley x Reader gore. graphic descriptions of decomposition. implied noncon.

“You’re not real,” she whimpers, words a rough scrape out of her raw, torn throat. “You can't be real.”

He doesn't answer tonight. Silent in his appraisal, his hatred; the bloodlust rolls off of him in waves, a suffocating deluge that tangles in her chest. Heart pulsing at the base of her throat, clogging her airways. She can't breathe. Can't move. Can only watch as the man cocks his head slowly to the side in a mutated parody of consideration. Confusion. Taking her in as he stands in her doorway, massive body filling the frame in an outline of black, making him more shadow than man. An apparition that haunts her at devil's hour. Always.

The moon's glow casts a line through the open window. A pale meridian between them. 

Childishly, she thinks of hiding under her blanket. Bad things can't touch you under the covers. Curling into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers plugging her ears. Wishing for her mother. Howling for her dad. Waiting until morning when the thing haunting her finally leaves.

But he doesn't. Not tonight. 

And she knows if she tries to hide, he'll just crawl into the bed next to her—

“Fix your bumper yet?” He asks, measured in his mockery. The weight of his words makes her stomach churn. Nausea a cold, familiar comfort that tethers itself to her ribcage. “Better get that fixed before someone comes askin’ questions, pet. Clean the blood off it, too. Caused quite the nasty spill.”

His directive makes her want to curl into a ball. “I–I didn't mean to, I didn't—”

“What'd you tell everyone? Hit a deer? Left ‘im in the bushes to die? And now he's got maggots crawlin’ all around ‘is ‘ead. Eatin’ his brains clean outta ‘is skull—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—you’re not real! You're not real—”

The man—Simon Riley, her mind supplies bitterly, brokenly; tinged full of regret and sorrow and hatred—lashes out in an instant, moves like water, like shadows on the wall, the too bright flicker of a moving car, until he's in her face, looming over her. A massive, unclimbable wall. And she hates it. Hates when he's this close to her. Close enough to smell the stench of rotten blood that dries on his chest, the side of his head. A brown stain that sinks into the too-large frame of his chest. 

He smells of death. Sickening. Tainted with a noisome sweetness that glues in her nostrils, leaks down her throat. She can taste him there, right on her tongue. Him. Simon Riley. 

Missing, the newspapers say. But only she knows the truth. Stowed away in a facsimile of a grave by the swamps, left to rot. Here, in her bedroom. Waiting for her whenever she tries for a modicum of sleep. A veteran. A drifter. Homeless, they write, and he barked out an ugly laugh as he read over your shoulder, but said nothing else as you scrolled. Tense. Shivering in your seat, waiting for the day the police show up and arrest you. You did a terrible thing. A horrible thing. Pay for what you've done—

His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the delicate arch of her throat. The width spans the entirety of it until the bone china, the vulnerable slope, is clenched tight in his slick, slippery palm. Moss, she knows; it grows over his hands and feet now. The earth reclaiming the body she threw into the swamp—

“Not real?” He mocks, wrenching her closer by her throat. Pulse thudding like the wings of a hummingbird against his thumb. “Oh, pet. M’very real—”

He leans in, too, until his horrid face is lit by the sliver of pale blue moonlight. Scraps of tissue slough off of his head, skin purpling beneath the balaclava that peels off in patches. Animals, he'd told her idly, like talking about his body being eaten away by creatures was piecemeal. The jaundiced bone of his cheek pokes out from raspberry skin. It shifts when he speaks, and draws her eye to the devastation of his mouth. Jawbone visible; muscle blackened, clinging by a strip of thin tissue to his lower mandible. His teeth gleam in the light. Yellow and crooked. The rest of his face is covered under the blood soaked fabric of his mask. A small mercy, she thinks.

But the worst is his eyes. 

Once black, midnight grey, is now filmed over. Milky. And the other—

Something moves in the cherryred chasm. A long, thin black line slinks out of the gaping hole. Another. Another. From the rotten socket, a large spider emerges, crawling over the craggy pieces of his broken nose, making his decomposing body her home. 

She whimpers as the bile surges up, swallowing it down when the blue skin of his mouth peel back in a horrifying grin—

Something white falls from the corner of his eye, rolling down the slick, damp skin of his oily face in a mockery of a teardrop, the image glueing to the bone deep remorse that coils like a noose around her neck. Tighter, tighter. 

His tongue lulls out. Cold, slimy, when it flickers over the trembling ridge of her jaw. Fingers digging into her skin, stealing the warmth from her flesh. The air from her lungs. 

He'll have her like this, she knows. Always does when he gets in these moods—the kind that makes him touch her more, sink boney fingers beneath the hem of her pants, and cooing in her ear about how much he wants to eat her alive. Buzzing with some strange, electric energy. She can't run. Can't scream. 

Going to the police isn't an option when she buried a body under loose rocks and sticks. Hit and run. Vehicular manslaughter. Life over in a blink—

No. No—

She just has to wait, she thinks, her eyes slipping shut as his rancid breath curdled over the tears on her cheeks. Wait until his body rots all the way. 

Until he's nothing but bones—

Only then will this ghost finally leave her alone. 

[libraryofloveletters]

Stuff It

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Warnings: cheesy boyfriend charles, horrible artistic skills, pascale knows you two are just idiots in love, first christmases together.

Word Count: 661

Author's Note: charles seems like the type of guy to go to his mom when he's stuck on what to give as a gift so here we are lmao

--

Charles goes a bit over board seeing that it’s your first Christmas with him, as his girlfriend that is. He revives an old tradition you two had as children.

The thing about lifelong friendships, they often leave a little to no room for a surprise.

So on you and Charles, your lifelong best friend, finally being to date, there isn't much he could do to surprise you.

It's your first Christmas together as a couple officially, and Charles just wants to do something to make it special for you. He's tried to do everything he could think of, from googling to Pinterest to asking his brothers, who let's be real, weren't much help. He finally turned to the one person he knows would have an answer for him.

"Maman, je ne sais pas quoi faire." (Mom, I don't know what to do.) Charles's chin rests on the palm of his hand, watching as his mom cuts the fruit at the kitchen counter

Pascale hums, as if in thought for a moment before she speaks. "Why don't you stuff a stocking for her?"

"I'm not 6 years old, maman." He huffs, his brows furrowed and she smiles - he looked exactly like he did when he was 6 years old right now.

"I know that Charles, but when you guys were little you used to exchange stockings, remember? You draw her a picture and we put sweets and little toys in for her."

Charles tries to think, it sounded familiar and he nods. "Yeah, okay."

"Are you staying for lunch ?" The woman asks and he shakes his head, kissing her cheek after he gets up. "I'll be back tomorrow, love you!" He shouts to her as he heads out the door.

He has the shops with one thing in mind, find you a stocking that suited you best. He searches and searches and with no luck does he find one with a picture that suits you. Finally in a last ditch effort, he ends up in some random shop that sold random odds and ends for Christmas.

There's a blue stocking with snowflakes, and printed along the side of it with your initials on the top; Charles thinks what is his luck to find this.

He pays the man at the counter and heads home with the stocking shoved into the bag. He had picked up a few things he thought you'd like while he was at the other store.

The stocking sits on the coffee table, filled with all your favourite beauty products, sweets, and a few other odds and ends that Charles thinks that you might need or like.

He was working on the last thing that he wanted to put in, a drawing of you and him in front of his race car, which was, in his words, rather poorly drawn.

He folds the paper carefully, slipping it into the side of the stocking before picking it up to put it away before you come home.

It was as if he summoned you, the front door opened and in you came with a bag in hand. "Hi love," you smiled.

Charles's hands are behind his back and he's a bit shifty. You look at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. "You okay?"

"I have something for you," he says, pulling the stocking out from behind his back.

You can't help but laugh, a big smile on your face as you reach into the bag that you brought in with you. You pull out a red stocking with Christmas trees on it and show Charles.

"Did you talk to my mom?" He asks, as you two switch stockings. You nod, smiling, "I guess you did too."

It was no surprise that you and Charles found your way to each other, you are identical in almost every way. The stockings contain a few of the same things, the same sweets, the same drawings.

To be fair, your drawing was a bit better than Charles' but it's the thought that counts.

Your hand rests on his jaw, giving him a kiss. "thank you baby, this is the sweetest thing you could have done."