#he lost his eyelines in some of them

[treepan0]

so uhhh you know that one dying dragon ball game no one likes, that had that one release recently? may or may not have went ham with the trailer and teaser image screenshots....

thanks I hate how Bulla looks. also the only place I know of with larval cell on screen. Baby vegeta looks a little off, but I'm trying to ignore it, at least super baby 2 looks fine

he did not deserve being the last resort, to keep dragon ball: the breakers alive that was very cruel of them, he was robbed of all the fun he could have

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 7

(Rafe Cameron x Reader series, 6.7k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

additional chapter cw! non-descriptive mentions of vomit

A swing and a miss, again.

Rafe’s game was all over the place, he hadn’t been able to focus in batting practice all week, and now it was the bottom of the ninth in Academy’s rivalry match against Kildare County. He was down in the count when he asked the ump for a timeout.

He had resisted the urge to look in the stands the whole game, afraid he knew what he would find, or rather, what he wouldn’t.

You usually sat behind the dugout, wearing his old jersey that he’d given you after his record-breaking freshman season, and his number in black eyeliner on either cheek. Sometimes, it would take a few days for it to wash off, and you’d show up to school with the hint of his number still faded on your skin. 

No one - not his coaches, not his teammates, certainly not his father - could read him like you could. Sometimes he’d pop his head out of the dugout between innings so you could tell him his swing was a few seconds too early for the pitcher’s fastball, or that he needed to stop chasing the backdoor slider. You were never wrong.

They’d tease him in the dugout, tossing sunflower seeds at him and taunting, “what is she, your hitting coach or your wife?” Then he’d ignore you for a few innings, though he almost never got on base without checking in with you first.

Your absence from this game was glaring, one of those same teammates taunting, “can someone please get Cameron’s hitting coach on the phone for fuck’s sake?” after his third strikeout.

He’d brushed it off, but now the game was on the line, and he realized he’d endure any amount of teasing if it meant looking up and seeing you in the stands.

He stepped out of the batter’s box, took a deep breath, and craned his neck to your usual seat, hands gripping the bat tighter when his fear was confirmed - it was empty.

He struck out, and they lost the game.

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It’s actually about to happen, the moment you’d wished for on every star, every eyelash, every birthday candle since you were six years old. The moment you never thought would actually come. You’ve played this scene in your mind a million times, what your first kiss with Rafe would be like. None of the many versions took place in an alley behind a Florida nightclub, but none of them were real either, so now was not the time to be picky. 

Rafe’s thumb was still lingering on your bottom lip, the rest of his long fingers caressing your jaw. 

“Can I? Please?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, dimples creasing his cheeks so handsomely, and leaned in. You realized you were holding your breath as you awaited the first brush of his lips against yours.

It never came. The door to the club slammed open, making you both jump. Your already thumping heart flew to your throat as Kelce stumbled out the large metal door.

“Woah, sorry,” he jumped back, smirking at the sight of you and Rafe pulling away from each other quickly.

“What could you possibly need from me right now?” Rafe said, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed in warning.

“I came out here to find her,” Kelce pointed at you. “So calm your ass down.”

“What is it, Kelce?” You asked gently, hand on Rafe’s arm to hold him back as he started stepping menacingly toward his friend.

“Something’s wrong with Carter,” Kelce said.

“What?!” Your face flooded with concern, you started toward the club, and Rafe didn’t stop you, knowing the sound of your sister’s name dashed any hope he had of keeping you in this alleyway.

“What happened?” You asked Kelce as you brushed past him back into the crowded club, Rafe following behind the two of you.

“I don’t know, she got into an argument with Top and then she stormed off,” Kelce shouted over the thundering music as he struggled to keep up with you.

You scanned the whole club, but couldn’t find her, just Topper ranting emphatically to Tom in the corner, and Sabrina and Maddie on either side of the bathroom door, trying to talk to someone on the other side.

Kelce and Rafe were lost to the crowd as you beelined toward the bathroom, forcefully pushing angry clubbers out of the way to get there. You didn’t care, you were locked-in on finding your sister.

“Is she in there?” You asked as you approached the bathroom.

“Yeah,” Maddie confirmed, looking worried, and a little queasy. “But she won’t let anyone in.”

“She’s so wasted it’s crazy,” Sabrina added with a hiccuping giggle.

You ignored her lack of concern for your sister and banged loudly on the door.

“Car? It’s me,” you shouted, “you gotta let me in, alright? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

After a moment, and the thought that you’d break this fucking door down if that’s what it took, the handle finally turned. She opened the door just a crack to let you slip through, and closed it back firmly behind you.

Sabrina wasn’t wrong, Carter’s intoxication was written all over her face. Flushed, clammy skin and bloodshot eyes. She threw her arms around you, squeezing tight enough to knock the wind out of you.

“What happened? Are you okay?” You asked nervously.

Before you got an answer, she was on her knees in front of the toilet bowl. You rushed to grab her hair and hold it back, getting it all out of the way with just seconds to spare before she got sick.

Thinking through the day's events, you realized no one had eaten much before you left the house, and you knew this group well enough to know it didn’t take much for them to get hammered. What you didn’t know was that while you were distracted with Rafe, the rest of your group was in the club throwing back drinks and racking up tabs like the world was ending.

Rafe was having a similar realization out on the floor, trying to wrangle everyone to the front door where he had a pair of cabs waiting. He physically dragged Topper away from the bar as he demanded another drink, the bartender shouting that he was cutoff. He led Maddie and Sabrina away from some sketchy looking guys who were inviting them back to their house boat, which they proudly advertised held gallons of their homemade moonshine. He stopped Tom from sucker punching a guy who booed when the DJ played a Drake song. He lost Kelce twice.

Once he had finally corralled everyone into the cars, he convinced the drivers to hold up so he could come back and find you. He stood by the bathroom door until you appeared behind it, jumping at the sight of him standing so close.

“I got cabs waiting,” he yelled over the music, eyeing Carter sprawled out on the dirty bathroom floor behind you.

“I can’t get her up,” you told him defeatedly, eyebrows knit together with worry. “She’s not doing good.”

Rafe brushed past you without a word or a second thought, and leaned down to scoop Carter up with ease, fireman carrying her out of the club like your own personal Superman. You followed closely on his heel, feeling guilty that you were thinking about how strong his shoulders looked and not how concerned you were for your sister. 

You opened the door so he could lower her into the first cab, which only had enough seats left for you and her. Once you slid in behind her, leaning her head against Maddie, who was already dozing off with her forehead pressed on the window, Rafe made sure you were settled before closing the door.

He motioned for you to roll down the window, ducking down so he could lean on it.

“Yo Rafe let’s go man!” Topper yelled from the cab behind you before Rafe could speak.

“Give me a fucking second!” He yelled back.

Forearms against the window sill, he leaned in close enough so only you could hear.

“Just, um, don’t stop thinking what you were thinking in the alley.”

Your lips twisted into a smirk, “couldn’t if I tried.”

He gave you a wink before hurrying back to the other cab.

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You didn’t stop thinking about it. You didn’t stop when the cab driver took the wrong turn and made the trip twice as long as it should’ve been. You didn’t stop when Carter asked the driver to pull over every five minutes so she could hurl on the side of the interstate. You didn’t stop when you finally got Carter up to her room, ranting incoherently about her argument with Topper. You didn’t stop as she kneeled in front of the toilet bowl again and you held her hair back, attempting to soothe her with gentle shushes.

You should’ve been focused on your sister and the awful night she was having, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the shape of Rafe’s mouth.

The thing that finally pulled you from your thoughts of him was a sight you hadn’t seen in almost a decade; Carter started to cry. 

Carter never cried, she was your rock, the shoulder for you and all her friends to cry on. She didn’t cry when she fell off the monkey bars in third grade and broke her arm, or when she was rejected from her dream school, or even when your parents got divorced. But here she was, on the cold tile of the Airbnb bathroom floor, bawling.

“Hey, hey, woah,” you said, alarm ringing in your mind as you rushed to sit beside her on the cold tile floor. “What’s going on?”

“I’m such a mess,” she gasped between sobs.

“Well, for starters we need to get you a makeup wipe,” you countered.

“No I mean, like, emotionally,” she wiped her tears with the backs of her hands, only for a new round of drops to fall and further streak her mascara down her skin.

Your sister spent her life running from difficult emotions. It was something you tried to gently point out to her many times, but she’d typically push it away with a sarcastic joke or just ignore you altogether. 

You started therapy about a month after you got to college, taking the university health center up on its free psych eval offerings for freshmen. You’d shown up to your therapist’s office every Wednesday at 2:30 since then, religious about not missing a session. 

You recommended Carter do the same, but she’d just brush you off with a teasing, “nah I don’t need all that, I’m supposed to be the normal one, remember?”

Taking the hint, you stopped bringing it up after a few months. But now, with Carter’s tears pooling on the floor of this Airbnb, you wished more than ever that she’d listened to you.

“Well, that’s okay,” you gently brushed the hair from her shoulder. “It’s okay not to be okay.”

Carter laid her head on your criss-crossed lap and let the tears fall harder. You rubbed her back and continued to reassure her all was going to be okay, waiting until the tears began to slow and her breathing steadied to broach the subject again.

“Do you want to…” you swallowed, preparing for her to brush you off again, “do you want to talk about it?”

She was quiet for a long moment, you sighed in acceptance that she would pick the ignoring you route this time. 

Then, in a small, feeble voice, she whispered, “it’s too scary.”

“What is?” You whispered back, hand resting on her arm for comfort, praying she wouldn’t get spooked and would keep talking. 

“Loving him,” she confessed.

Your heart nearly burst. You didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.

“Topper, you mean?” you responded.

She nodded slowly, “it was easier when I didn’t love him. I’m supposed to be leaving in a week. I’m supposed to be on to my next big thing, and all I can think about is what the best time to facetime him is if I’m six hours ahead. I should be thinking about me, but all I want is him, and that’s fucking terrifying.”

The thought sent her into another round of sobs, tears soaking the skirt of your dress. 

“I know it feels scary, and new,” you tiptoed to your point, “but…have you ever really not loved him?”

She thought over your words, but the alcohol and drama of the evening was starting to pull her into a restless sleep.

“I’m gonna miss you,” she mumbled, half-asleep already. “So much.”

“Let’s just get you into bed, yeah?” You said, pulling her up off the floor. “We can talk tomorrow.”

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In the darkness of Carter’s room, your phone lit up on the nightstand.

You pulled your arm from under her slowly, praying not to wake her up now that she was finally snoozing peacefully, though her deep snores were occasionally interrupted by shaky breaths, the aftershocks of her sobs. You’d gotten both of you changed and into bed with some difficulty, a strategically placed trash can next to her side of the bed just in case. You reached over to check your phone, turning the brightness down so as not to disturb her.

You had a text from a number that wasn’t saved in your phone, starting with the same 252 area code as yours. You didn’t need to ask “who’s this?” because you’d know that seven digit combination on your deathbed. Deleting his contact from your phone had really been more of a cathartic exercise than anything else.

‘She asleep yet?’ 

‘I think so but it’s been rough, what about Top?’

‘Same, but he’s out like a light now…and snoring like a jet engine.’

You stifled your laugh so Carter wouldn’t hear, keeping your movements slow as you climbed out of her bed and padded towards the door. Wincing at the squeak of the door hinge, you pulled it slowly closed until the handle clicked. 

Down the hall, the same click sounded from Topper’s door. Rafe stood with his hand on the doorknob, listening for any signs that his exit woke the sleeper inside.

His eyes flashed up to meet yours, and you shared a knowing, nervous smile. You each walked a few steps towards the other, Rafe immediately picking up on the water pooling in your eyes. You’d held it together up until now for Carter’s sake, wanting to be strong for her like she’d always been for you, but now the heartbreak of seeing her so upset was finally settling in.

“Hey, hey,” Rafe whispered, lengthening his strides to close the gap between you faster. “What’s wrong?” 

He ducked to search your face for a second, your small sniffles breaking his heart. When a tear slipped from the corner of your eye, he pulled you in by your shoulders, wrapping his arms around you in a hug. You let your arms circle his waist, not taking the time to worry if this was strange or if you were okay being this vulnerable with him, just reveling in the comforting smell of him and the rise and fall of his sturdy chest under his t-shirt.

A few more tears slipped out, but with his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back while you breathed him in, your sadness faded slowly into a calm reassurance.

“You good?” He whispered, his chin resting on the top of your head.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, arms still wrapped around his torso.

“I just didn’t know she was so sad,” you explained, your lip trembling slightly at the thought of your sister, with all her strength and tenacity, slumped over on the bathroom floor. “I should’ve been paying closer attention. I came on this trip for her and all I’ve been doing is thinking about myself. I’m so selfish.”

That thought caused more tears to roll down your cheeks. Rafe placed a palm on either side of your face, his thumbs reaching out to swipe away the salty drops.

“You,” he said firmly, his voice just above a whisper now, more concerned with making sure you heard what he had to say than making sure not to wake anyone, “are not selfish.”

Once your tears were dried, he lifted your face towards him so he could look in your eyes. You ever-so-slightly nuzzled your head into his palm, wondering if he could even feel the gentle way you were surrendering to him. His soft grin told you he could.

“He’s a mess, too,” he nodded back toward Topper’s door.

“I love them, but those two are exhausting,” you chuckled softly. 

Even as the conversation lightened up, his hands didn’t fall from your face, and your arms stayed firmly in place around him, just holding each other as you whisper-laughed about the antics of the whole group this evening.

“Sabrina said you had to chase Kelce half a block,” you giggled, and he’d never felt so relieved to see someone’s tears give way to laughter. “Your dad instincts really kicked in there, huh?”

“I don’t know,” he smiled, his eyes creasing with the upward tick of his lips, “the way you basically parted the crowd to get to Carter? Topper might have competition for house mother. Maybe we’re the real mom and dad.”

You snorted at that.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you blinked back, “just funny that you’re already talking about being parents when you haven’t even kissed me yet.”

Rafe nodded, tongue darting out to lick his lips, feigning seriousness, “you’re so right. We should probably do something about that.”

“You should probably do something about that,” you taunted.

His persona cracked and he laughed, eyebrows raised.

“Oh yeah? Should I?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling at him as he leaned forward, eager to recapture the moment that had been so unceremoniously stolen from you a few hours ago.

Just before your lips touched, a vile retching noise came echoing down the hall from Topper’s room. He was vomiting again, and the romance was zapped from the air.

Your head fell back in frustration, groaning.

“You wanna go for a drive?” Rafe offered, hand sliding down your arm to find yours, fingers lacing together like they belonged there.

You nodded quickly, a smile replacing your annoyed frown. He led you down the stairs fast and you padded behind excitedly, giggling at his speed and urgency. 

“Shit,” he paused before reaching into the bowl on the kitchen counter where everyone was keeping their keys. “I forgot Sabrina blocked me in.”

“We’ll take Carter’s jeep,” you offered, fishing around the bowl until you found her fuzzy pink keychain. “She parked on the road.”

“She won’t mind?” He asked.

“I have a feeling she’s gonna be out for a long time,” you pointed out. “I’m driving though.”

“Just like old times,” he grinned, your heart doing cartwheels at the memory.

Fingers intertwined, you let him pull you away from the house, and the risk of any more interruptions.

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The sky glowed with that pre-sunrise blue fog, turning the world around you into a collection of navy silhouettes. The only shape you cared about seeing was the faded profile of the man in the passenger seat next to you.

Though the air still held the chilly nip of dawn, it was warm enough to roll the windows down, which was always your preference. Your hair whipped around you in a frenzy of wind. You could feel his eyes on you as you drove, but you didn’t look back, suddenly filled with nerves, butterflies crowding your stomach and doubt flooding your mind. You just kept driving, suddenly terrified of what would happen when you stopped.

After a few minutes of unreturned eye contact, Rafe finally tore his gaze away from you, poking around Carter’s car to have something to do with his hands. He opened the glove box, and the middle console, fidgeting with every little button and knick-knack he could find.

You smirked at his restlessness and kept driving straight, not entirely sure where you were going. Rafe opened the sun visor above him, gasping at what he found.

“No fucking way,” he laughed with a disbelieving shake of his head, “Carter has CDs? Still?”

He pulled the sleeve of CDs from the visor’s clip, inspecting them closer. 

“Wait,” a slow smile bloomed on his face as he observed knowingly, “these are yours.”

“How’d you know?”

“Because they’re the same ones you had in your car in high school.”

“Didn’t think you’d remember,” you scoffed.

“I remember everything about you,” he said, like it was the most obvious and casual admission anyone had ever made.

Even with the cool morning air blowing in through the window, the car suddenly felt too hot. Too hot and too small. Your chest and neck bloomed with a nervous blush as your breath quickened. How were you supposed to respond to that? 

Rafe kept sorting through the CDs, nodding at each one in recognition, leaning back in his seat as if he hadn’t just dropped an atomic bomb into the conversation.

You needed to fill the silence before he noticed the tornado of anxious thoughts tearing through your mind. 

“You gonna pick one?” You urged him, eager for the sound of familiar music to erase his words that hung in the air between you.

He finally made it to the back of the plastic sleeve, to a familiar silver disc decorated in sharpie in your handwriting; your favorite homemade mix that you’d played every single day from ages fifteen to seventeen.

You’d titled it “car mix,” though a more accurate title would be “Rafe’s mix.”

Sometime during your freshman year, you’d spent a whole day sitting in front of your computer, meticulously sorting through songs that made you think of him, or that you wanted him to listen to, hoping he would hear them and finally understand you somehow. It was a love letter without words, and he’d heard it a thousand times, but you doubted he ever really listened. Par for the course.

“I think that one got scratched,” you tried to discourage him from playing it, the flashback to your desperate, lovestruck younger self a little too much to handle at five a.m.

Rafe turned it over in his hands, inspecting it for those so-called scratches, finding nothing satisfying.

“Looks good to me,” he disagreed, popping it into the CD player and beaming bright as the first song began to play through the speakers.

“Oh my god,” he laughed, “it’s like we’re in a time machine.”

You agreed, the familiar opening notes of the first song you’d picked for him sent you flying back in time, to a girl you thought was long dead, and the boy next to her, whom she’d loved to her grave.

Chills shot up your spine, a warning shot before the tears that were beginning to gather on your lash line. You pulled the car quickly to the side of the road, sand flying up with the screech of the tires. You realized then that you’d somehow found your way to the public beach, the parking lot empty and sandy shore free of any sunbathers or surfers.

Rafe turned the music down, looking at you quizzically as your foot slammed on the break. Before he could ask what was going on, you were pulling the keys from the ignition and throwing off your seatbelt, hopping down from the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind you. He scrambled for his door handle as you started walking quickly toward the water and away from him.

The salty air was so thick you could taste droplets of seawater on your lips before you were even halfway to the shore. The waves crashed violently, remnants of the week’s storms throwing the water back and forth until it was foaming and angry.

Angry. You were as angry as the sea, sand kicking up with each stomp of your foot as you hurried as far away from him as you could possibly get. His long legs were already catching him up to you as he chased you down, calling your name.

Despite your efforts to outpace him, you could feel him gaining on you, nearly at your heel by the time your toes touched the water’s edge. Flight would not be an option, it was time for a fight.

“You remember everything?” You whipped toward him, nearly knocking him over with the force of the glare that met him. You stalked toward him, catching the way he backed up just a step before squaring his shoulders and planting himself until you were nearly chest to chest. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that, Rafe?”

“What are you talking about?” He asked desperately, scrambling from the whiplash of your sudden outburst. “What the hell just happened?”

He was genuinely so clueless as to the reason for your sudden shift in mood, reeling like he was mentally still back in the car listening to music, eyes scanning your face as he tried desperately to catch up. You almost took pity on him. Almost.

“I can’t,” a lump lodged itself into your throat and you bit your lip for a second to hold it down, “I don’t think I can do this.”

“What? Can’t do what?” He begged for clarity.

You just shook your head, a final plea to your own tears not to fall in front of him, but they betrayed you, one single drop slipping down your face. You turned from him quickly as a final ditch ending to hide them from him, and stepped away further down the beach.

“No, no wait, please wait,” with two easy strides he was close enough to touch you, wrapping his hand around your wrist to turn you toward him. “Don’t do this to me. You said you’d remember the alleyway, we were so close. We are so close.”

“Are we?” You challenged him. “If we’re so close then why can’t I even ride in the car with you without feeling like I can’t breathe? You don’t get it, Rafe. You don’t understand that every memory feels like a fucking sucker punch.”

“Then let’s not focus on the memories,” he suggested, “I just want to be with you right now.”

“Why now?” You burst out, another tear breaking through the barricade and sliding traitorously down your cheek. “Why not then?”

They were the two questions that plagued you since you saw him on the beach. You felt you knew the reason. You looked different, he was attracted to this version of you. Even though it would hurt like a bitch, you really wished he would just admit it, that he only wanted you because of how you look now, so you could finally just hate him and move on.

Instead, he continued his time honored tradition of giving you the exact opposite of what you wanted.

He looked straight at you, no waiver in his voice as he said, “because I wasn’t ready for you. I wasn’t good enough.”

It was the perfect answer, and your worst case scenario. Heartfelt, honest, a hot knife to the wall of ice you’d worked so hard to build between you and him. As he’d done so many times before, Rafe melted you.

Soft eyes, you tilted your head as you studied him, “and you are now?”

“No,” his laugh surprised you, scoffing as if it was the most ridiculous question in the world. “But I’m smarter. Smart enough to know that I’ll never be good enough for you. Who could be?”

The last chips of ice melted away entirely at those words, the image of his sweet smile when he said them etched itself on your heart in a way you knew was completely permanent. 

As so often happened when you were at a crossroads with your own mind, you heard Carter’s voice ringing through your thoughts. Though this time, it wasn’t a quippy comment about Rafe, or a catchy mantra to encourage you to hold your head high. Instead, you heard her weak, cracked voice as she cried on the bathroom floor just hours ago; “it’s too scary.” 

Suddenly, you knew exactly what she meant.

Your every instinct was to pull away from him, hide away the vulnerable thought to avoid any risk of him making it worse. But as he looked down at you, the first traces of sunrise streaking across the horizon, casting a gold-pink glow on his cheekbones, something in the back of your mind was saying you could trust him.

“I’m scared,” you all but whispered.

Rafe lifted his hand slowly, as if you were an elusive, wild thing that would run off at any sudden movement. When you didn’t flee, he took the chance to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, voice dropping low as he said, “I know.”

“How am I supposed to know you won’t hurt me?” 

Your deepest fears continued to flow out of you, into his waiting hands, praying he wouldn’t let you slip through his fingers.

“I don’t think you will until you give me a chance to prove it to you,” he countered.

You knew he was right. Holding him at arm’s length would never get you the answers you needed from him. You’d never know if he had really changed unless you got close enough to relearn him, and you’d never know how he really felt about you unless you gave him a second chance to show you. You aren’t generally opposed to second chances, more likely to give them out then, say, your sister is.

“You know what Carter would say?” You chuckled darkly, unable to detangle your sister’s voice from your own conscience even if you wanted to. “That you don’t deserve any more chances.”

“That might be the first thing I’ve ever agreed with her on,” Rafe was quick to acknowledge. “But you know what else she’d say?”

“What?” You asked with raised brows, skeptical that he had any clue what Carter would actually say, and knowing she would hate that he was claiming to.

“That you deserve a chance.”

Funny thing is, that’s exactly what Carter would say. She didn’t really know how badly you wanted him, that you were starting to suspect you might just be happiest when you’re with him, but she always encouraged you to do what made you happy, even when it was something she didn’t understand.

“And if I’m what you want then I just happen to be the luckiest idiot in the world, because I want you too. You have no idea how badly.”

The tide was coming in, the very edge of each wave nipping at your toes before being pulled back out to sea. Rafe’s confession made you feel so unsteady, you wondered if you’d crumble and get pulled out right with it. Your mind reached for anything to ground you before you drowned in him completely.

“Why?” You asked him, needing his answer like a port in the storm.

“Why?” He repeated, either confused by the question or by the need for it. Somehow, both possibilities annoyed you.

“Yeah, tell me why you want me,” you placed your hands on your hips, shoulders squaring up with him in challenge. “And you’re not allowed to use the word beautiful, or cute, or call me baby.”

“This kinda feels like a test,” he laughed, scratching the back of his head.

“Yeah? Maybe it is,” you huffed. “And this time there’s no cheating, no open book. And no me to slip you the answers.”

“Can I get a few minutes to review my notes?” His cheeky pout was so cute you worried you were about to fold right there on the spot.

“Fine,” you allowed, “you get one minute to think about it.”

He feigned worry, faked stress, biting his thumbnail and looking out over the waves as if he actually had to think it over.

In reality, he was more prepared for this test than any he’d ever taken in his life. He’d spent years thinking about this moment, about what he would say, what he could say that would possibly be enough. 

While you waited for him to speak, you mirrored his stance, facing the water with your hands wrapped around you.

Rafe turned his head slightly to take in your profile, the sliver of daylight creeping over the horizon making your features glow so romantically.

You could feel his eyes on you, but you tried to focus on the count in your head, dutifully keeping track of the seconds until his allotted prep time was up.

Evidently, he didn’t need a timer, his voice broke the silence before you had even gotten to forty-five.

“Y’know, I got a walk-on tryout invite for baseball at Chapel Hill,” he started. 

You resisted the urge to look at him or respond, despite your mind racing to connect the dots between that statement and the challenge of explaining why he wants you.

“I was…so shitty,” he laughed at the memory, “I mean just awful. Striking out in the cage, my fielding was all over the place, I dropped a fucking pop fly. I’ve made that play a thousand times and the one time it counted, I dropped it. I mean, you wouldn’t have even recognized me out there. And the best part was that my dad came to watch. He bribed an old alum buddy to get him into closed tryouts just to watch me absolutely shit the bed.”

His smile faded.

“It was the worst day of my life. The coaches didn’t even call me themselves, they sent me an automated email to tell me I didn’t make the team. They were nice enough to send me some film from the tryout, though. I must’ve watched it a hundred times. I was spiraling like a bitch, just full on meltdown. I watched that film over and over, like some kind of torture. When I watched it, I just kept wondering how that guy could’ve ever been considered good.”

He turned to you, looking down at you intensely, hesitating for the first time since he started talking.

“I know I fumbled you. I knew it from the second it happened. And,” he swallowed hard, struggling with the next part. “I knew you were in love with me.”

Your head snapped to the side to look at him, face beat red.

“I was an idiot, but I wasn’t blind,” he continued before you could interject a defense. “The problem was never that I didn’t know, it was that I didn’t know why. But the way you looked at me, I don’t know, it made me feel like I must be like, somewhat good. Why else would you care about me if I wasn’t? But then when I was fucking rotting in my dorm watching that film over and over it dawned on me…you didn’t love me because I was good. I was good because you loved me.” 

Breath escaped you, eyes glossy as you let those beautiful words sink in, but he wasn’t done.

“I thought it was just a lucky break that I got you for four years. And of course I fucked it up, I fuck everything up. After those tryouts, I had nothing, no one. I failed my classes, dropped out of rushing a frat, I stopped talking to everyone. Shit, even my sisters were calling me to see if I was okay. I got it together eventually, kind of, but it’s never been the same. I have never been the same…since you. But then I saw you on the beach the other day, and it kind of hit me. The biggest loss wasn’t your love for me, or my fielding skills, or the bullshit frat parties. It was my best friend. You were my best friend. You were - you are - my favorite fucking person. When all that shit happened, you were the only one I wanted to talk to, and I couldn’t, I didn’t deserve to. But god, I’d give anything, anything, to have my best friend back. You don’t have to…be with me. I understand if you don’t want to. But please, can we just be friends again?”

You blinked up at him as he finished his monologue, all his words swirling around your head like cartoon birds, dizzying and all consuming. You wished it really was a test, cause then you’d have a printed copy that you could study and analyze and go over and over with different colored highlighters.

But it wasn’t a test. It wasn’t a metaphor. It was just you and the boy you love standing on the beach at sunrise, looking at each other like you were the only two people on earth.

“No.” You said, shaking your head.

His eyes blinked rapidly, trying and failing to hold back his emotion. Before he could spiral any further, you added,

“I don’t wanna be friends.”

His eyes flicked over yours for just a second, double checking, asking you silently if that meant what he thought it did. You gave him the slightest nod, as if to finally say “yes, Rafe.”

Rafe’s hands landed firm but gentle on either side of your face, pulling you towards him. Your lips met in a symphony of passion and affection and need and a mutual sigh of fucking finally.

He tasted better than you’d ever imagined, a sweet rush to your head as his tongue parted your lips slightly. He pulled back just an inch to let his uncontrollable smile break against yours, laughing into each other’s mouths in disbelief and pure, unadulterated joy. Once he was satisfied that you understood how happy he was, he pulled you back in. 

If the first kiss was a spark, the second kiss was a goddamn explosion. He kissed you like the tide kisses the shore in a hurricane, his tsunami waves crashing into you over and over again. His tongue took over, claiming you, taking up space in your mouth like he never planned to leave. His hands drifted, one to the back of your head, laced in your hair, the other on the small of your back, holding you against himself. Your hands snaked up his arms, savoring every inch of him until you reached his shoulders. You linked your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you as you stood on your tiptoes to meet him, finding middle ground for the first time in your lives.

After a while, your lips parted, both of you desperate for breath, the lack of oxygen dizzying.

“So,” he smiled, hand still cradling your head and his thumb sweeping over your bottom lip, “did I pass?”

“Hmm,” you pretended to consider it, “A minus.”

“What? You must be grading on a curve,” he shook his head.

“Maybe you could do some extra credit,” you flirted.

With a sly smile at that, he returned his lips to yours, and you forgot a time when you didn’t know what it was like to kiss him.

Time passed, the sun rose, night bloomed into morning, and Rafe kissed you for what could’ve been a lifetime. With each minute that passed with his lips on yours, you felt all the bad memories fade to gray, the past washing away with the crash of the waves, leaving only him. 

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

Carter’s Jeep sat parked on the side of the road, the interior dark in the early morning light, except for the phones buzzing uncontrollably on each seat.

On the passenger's side, Rafe’s phone blew up with texts from Topper. The most recent reading ‘dude, we’ve got trouble at the house…’

On the driver’s seat, yours lit up with twelve missed calls and a single text from Carter,

‘Don’t come back.’

(chapter 8: part one)

a/n: please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

[hairmetal666]

Eddie survived the Upside Down. The bats. Vecna. And after the hospital, the town recovery, the shady government agencies clearing his name, after all of that, he has the best year and a half of his life. A lot of it is due to Steve and Robin. Well. The whole group of them, really, but Harrington and Buckley specifically.

Except that, you know, he survived extra-dimensional horrors and now he's going to die anyway, brought down in his prime by his devastating crush on Steve Harrington.

It's a stupid way to meet his end. Even worse than going at the hands of a demented telepathic wizard named after a DnD monster. Though...it's not like he didn't see the crush coming a mile away. Eddie may not have any practical experience in matters of the heart, but he knows he likes a pretty boy and Steve is the prettiest of them all.

There is no dimension where his feelings are requited, so he flirts and he pines, and knows it means nothing when Steve matches him quip for quip, touch for touch. He keeps getting himself in these situations where he thinks--maybe--but Steve is straight, constantly goes out with pretty, bubbly girls.

The pining may kill him, but he's determined to leave this world with a little bit of grace.

Until Steve's Halloween party.

It's a whole thing. All the kids, the rest of their own group of young adults, plus the Hellfire Boys, and the actual adults. It's a weird mix, but Eddie figures that, well. It's a family thing.

Halloween is his favorite holiday, one he plans for all year, but this year he decides to take it easy, electing to do a take on the vampire gang from The Lost Boys. The party is in full swing when they walk in, Wayne quickly spotting Hopper and making his way to the kitchen, but Eddie doesn't see Steve in the chaos of kids and Jonathan and Argyle's dual Frankensteins.

He grabs a beer from Robin who keeps giving him this look all knowing and sparkling and he doesn't understand it, not until he hears delighted laughter and shouts in the main room.

Buckley squeezes past him, and he takes the moment alone to close his eyes, brace for whatever fresh, unwitting, torture Steve has in store for him tonight.

He steps into the living room and time freezes.

Steve's in the shortest shorts Eddie's ever seen, thick, muscular, bitable thighs on full display. He's wearing a pink sweatshirt, neon fingerless gloves that very distantly Eddie recognizes as belonging to El, and gold hoop earrings in both ears.

Eddie has to sit down.

Wham! Isn't his kind of music, and he finds George Michael grating because of it, but--he's seen men dressed like that in magazines he steals from bookstores in Indianapolis, had wondered if George Michael was gay too. And now here Steve is, looking like a fantasy ripped direct from Eddie's brain.

Before he can make an escape, someone turns on the Monster Mash. The two Frankenstein's lurch into the room and start dancing. The rest of them are quick to follow, even Wayne and Hopper, after some light cajoling from Joyce, Max, and El.

It's silly fun, the perfect way for Eddie to forget about Steve and the way his ass looked in those shorts. They dance and goof around, and Thriller comes on, so they all try to do the dance, him and Nancy laughing until their stomachs hurt with their stiff-limbed moves.

The song switches to Material Girl, making El and Max screech, and the next thing he knows, Steve is in front of him, shimmying along. It's the closest they've been all night and now Eddie can see the faint eyeliner smudged along Steve's lash line. Something low and hot tightens in his core.

Steve grabs his shoulders, pulls Eddie closer. "C'mon, Munson, even you have to dance to Madonna!"

He laughs through his breathlessness, can't believe he and Steve are dancing together, not with Steve looking like that, somehow innocent, sexy, and ripe all at once.

Their eyes meet and Steve smiles all slow and dangerous, knotting up Eddie's stomach with a wild kind of anticipation. He doesn't have time to stop himself feeling it, can only give himself over to the shrinking distance between their bodies, the way Steve is warm and muscular against him.

Eddie's not hearing the music anymore, unaware of all their friends dancing close by. He's hypnotized by the dark heat in Steve's hazel eyes, lets himself clutch at Steve's hip, drag their bodies together. He feels Steve's breath escape in a quick burst, and it's a crash of cold water.

He disentangles himself, rushes out the patio doors. The night air is bracing as it chills his heated skin, his burning lungs. He takes a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, lighting it with a shaking hand.

That was too much. He let himself feel too much; want too much. Got swept away by Steve in makeup and earrings and tiny shorts. On the street, he hears children laughing, music thumping from a passing car, tries to get lost in that instead of his embarrassment. It makes him miss the slide of the patio door opening again. Doesn't realize he's not alone until he hears Steve say, "Eddie? You okay?"

He nods, but doesn't turn. "Just needed some air." He lifts the smoldering embers of his cigarette before dropping it and stomping it out.

Steve stands close enough that their shoulders bump. Eddie forces himself not to flinch away. "What are you doing out here? You'll freeze." It's not all a deflection.

"I'm fine," Steve says. "Sweatshirt." He wiggles the sleeve in Eddie's face.

"Yeah, but your legs, man. C'mon." He pulls his jacket off his shoulders. "At least cover them up a little."

Steve gives him an annoyed smile, but takes the jacket, trying to settle the leather around his legs. It's kind of a losing battle, but it makes them both laugh.

"I'm sorry," Steve says. "For back there. I shouldn't have pushed."

"Pushed?" Eddie feels like he missed a couple of stairs on his way down. "You didn't--"

Steve runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I did, Eddie. And Robin said," he sighs. "Robin said to just talk to you but I'm shit with words, so."

"So?" He faces Steve now, completely perplexed about where this is going. "I'm the one who pushed too far."

"Of course you didn't." Steve laughs a little. "I wanted to dance with you. I wanted to be close to you."

Eddie takes a step back, nervous smile on his face. "Is this some kind of weird joke?"

"What? No! Why would it be? I'm trying to say that I like you, man."

"Wha--But you're--"

"Don't--don't say popular or a jock or any of that. I'm--you know who I am, Eddie, better than most people."

"I was going to say straight."

Steve stills, blinking. "I told you I was bisexual."

"You did not!" Eddie yelps.

"I did! After went to see The Lost Boys!" He grabs Eddie's leather jacket. "I said I thought Kiefer Sutherland was sexy!"

"I thought you were being hyperbolic!"

"I wore this for you!" Steve wiggles his naked calf in Eddie's face.

"I don't like even like Wham!"

"You stared at a picture of George Michael in this outfit in one of El's Teen Beats for fifteen minutes!"

"I did NOT!" Except now that Steve's said it, Eddie has a pretty good memory of doing that very thing. "Wait. You were trying to seduce me by dressing as George Michael?"

"Like you weren't doing the same with the whole hot vampire biker thing?"

"I didn't expect it to work!"

He doesn't--will never--know who closes the distance first, but they crash together in a clash of mouths and teeth and noses. Steve's hands fist into Eddie's t-shirt, Eddie yanking at Steve's belt loops, until nothing separates them.

The kiss breaks as Steve mouths along his jaw, down his neck, and Eddie's fucking helpless at the turn of events. Never in his wildest fantasies--

"Stay tonight?" Steve asks, voice muffled against Eddie's skin.

"Are you kidding, sweetheart? I'm going to tear these shorts off with my teeth."

[r3ynah]

To be with you three

The justice league was in critical condition, a unknown entity had breached the universe's protection, and was now creating havoc everywhere.

He called himself, Skulker. he already had captured half of the justice league. and was only interested in fighting Red hood. Something about being a Halfa or something.

Red hood was not having fun, nor was Batman. Everything was in shambles. Even the most powerful cannot defeat the floating entity. the JLD was trying the best they could but to no avail they couldn't contain it, The entity aimed his weapon at Red hood and took fire.

When all hope seemed lost, Vines sprouted up the ground and saved Red hood in the last minute. The other vines also grabbed the other heroes and made a protective barrier between the entity and the JL.

confused the heroes looked at the rogue who was floating, his expression was now with fear and nervousness, he frantically looked at his surrounding seemingly expecting something.

"Are you all alright?" A voice asked, making all heads turn towards to a woman that looked like she's in early adulthood, with long black hair cascading down to hair waists, she looked like someone that can fit into Gotham's aesthetic with her thick eyeliner and her gothic style and a couple of vines that wrapped around her body.

"Who are you?" Batman asked his guard not wavering a single bit.

"My name is Foliahàrà, And we're here to take care of that Ghost." Sam pointed towards Skulker who was looking at her nervously.

"We're?" Superman asked

"Me and my partners. speaking of them here they are right now." Sam said in a tone that no one could specify if she's bored or it's just her personality.

A loud bang shook the city, when they looked back were the entity named Skulker was now gone, In his place was a man? woman? with white hair and green eyes, he had a cloak that shrieks royalty and a black pointy crown floating above their head, Skulker was now on the ground, a crater was formed below him, he was down. he was down. and all it took was a punch from the person

Another man came to the scene he was holding a thermos of some sort. he looked normal, normal clothes and all to the very least if you ignored all the gadgets and sand that followed him, he walked up to Skulker who was most likely knocked out, he opened the thermos and it turned the entity into a liquid before trapping it inside.

"Well that's taken care of." Foliahàrà said, as she retracted her vines that was protecting everyone, she froze then turned her surprised gaze towards Red Hood and eyed him making him uncomfortable, she floated to his direction making the man take a step back, Batman tried to hit her with his batarang keyword:tried, it just went through her.

for the first time she arrived she smiled at hood then with the outmost gentle voice she said. "you're a baby ghost." She cooed as she placed both of her hands at the side of Red hood's head, which he stared at her confused more confused when the pits became quiet all the sudden.

"I've got to tell Phantom and Codelith." she stated and took flight with the crime lord in her arms, she carried him towards her partners in the sky like a newborn baby, protests from the heroes below was ignored by Sam, as she continued to fly up, when superman tried to get her, she shot out a few of her vines that successfully trapped the hero, he tried to escape but her vines was stronger, and why was this power making him weak? like it doesn't hurt but it makes him really tired .

Red hood stayed quiet, trying to comprehend what happened did he get kidnapped or something? holy shit he did get kidnapped.

"Phantom, Codelith! I got a baby!" Sam stated as she finally catched up to them.

"Holy shit, Foliahàrà you can't just kidnap someone else's child" The one with glasses exclaimed with panicked hands, as he teleported near them.

"Cool new kid, More members for our cult" Phantom said as he floated towards red hood who still held onto the Photalis, because when i tell you he was afraid to fall 30 meters from the ground is an understatement.

[corkinavoid]

For @ladydoptera, to 'Pomegranate Lips' by Derivakat,

DPxDC Get a Taste

"Password?"

Tim swallows. The eyes in the narrow window of the metal door are plenty familiar, dark violet with black makeup. But knowing who is on the other side doesn't help him in the slightest.

"Going ghost," he says, keeping his voice low. The window slides back shut with a snap - metal over metal, Tim's ears hurt - and then, there's a click, a snap, and the door opens.

A girl in a creatively ruined but still somehow stylish gothic lolita dress is standing in front of him. She looks taller than usual, and when Tim looks down, he knows why - those platforms must be at least four inches, how does she even walk in those?

"Welcome, McFly," Sam's dark red lips curve in a smirk that looks just a bit too smug on her. Also, to this day, Tim has no idea why she picked that nickname for him.

He steps inside, and the heavy door slams shut behind him, leaving them both in complete darkness. Or, Tim thought so until he looks a little closer and notices how Sam's violet eyes are faintly glowing - not enough to light the way, but enough to raise a few questions.

Questions that Tim is not going to ask.

Yet.

"Follow me," the girl says, her voice on the brink between annoyed and amused, and starts walking away through the narrow hall. Tim does his best to follow; his eyes are adjusting to the darkness, albeit slowly.

However, the walk doesn't last long - ten or so steps later Sam pushes another door, and-

The closest thing Tim can describe it as is a rave, of all things. Loud, rhythmic music that thrums through his whole body, strobes and bright green lights everywhere, and people, hundreds of them, dressed in all kinds of things. Tim freezes in the doorway, struggling to take in the sight.

A woman in a Victorian dress is dancing with what looks to be a werewolf in prison robes. A child just threw a one-eyed parrot at a man in a black tie suit. A knight of plated armor is waving a sword around, seemingly arguing with-

"Keep your mouth closed," Sam's finger taps his chin from below, and Tim shuts it back closed with a snap. Right, he's got no time to gawk, he is here on a mission. But, when he looks back to Sam, his mind comes to a screeching halt yet again.

"How'd you-" he starts, looking at how the girl's skin, usually pale and almost white, is glittering with small lines of blood red runes. They are not tattoos, or at least Tim doesn't think so because they move, like tiny snakes or vines over her skin.

"Nope, not answering," Sam clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, her perfectly sharp eyeliner getting a deep, dark red hint as well, "I don't owe you shit."

With that, she turns around and starts weaving through the crowd, leaving Tim no choice but to follow.

The music is nearly crushing his eardrums. The crowd should feel suffocating - Tim knows it usually does in places like these - but somehow it doesn't. What's more, it feels cold. So cold, in fact, that goosebumps run over Tim's skin.

However, just as he feels like they are completely lost in this freezing, neverending sea of faces and figures, Sam stops. Tim almost runs into her back, actually, but, just as he is about to ask her why, she steps to the side and gestures for Tim to go ahead.

And Tim... Tim can't move a muscle.

There's a corner booth in front of him, with red velvet seats and more than a few dozen drinks, empty and full, on the table in the middle. Some of the liquids are glowing toxic, unnatural colors, and in the back corner of his mind, Tim still remembers why he's here. He is investigating, right. Which includes meeting the owner of 'Afterlife' face to face, yeah. Something about a new drug on the streets of Gotham, probably.

Tim can't concentrate.

The guy lazily sitting at the table, with hair so white that it's nearly glowing and his pale skin shimmering with highlighter on his cheekbones, causes Tim's mind to completely bluescreen. Because the unbuttoned black suit with embroidered stars and an open white shirt underneath, the neon blue, faintly glowing cold eyes, and blood red lips stretched in a dangerous smile - that's thankfully is not directed at him - are all... Too much.

Not blood red, actually. It's a different color, but Tim can't remember the name.

He can barely remember his own name, to be honest.

"Oi, Danny," Sam snaps her fingers in the air, and the ethereal being blinks, tearing his unblinking gaze away from the man in a white suit sitting across from him to look at her. Then, his eyes slide to Tim, and, okay, he thought he was well past the gay panic stage of his life, but apparently not.

The guy - the god? because only divine fucking things have the right to look so otherworldly pretty, in Tim's opinion - tilts his head to the side slightly, a curious edge to him. And then he smiles, nice and a little sly, but Tim can't shake off the feeling of sharp danger that runs through his spine.

Pomegranate, that's the color.

Bite it once, and you will never leave the Underworld.

"Can I help you, little bird of crimson color?" The ethereal owner of the most mysterious place in Gotham asks without raising his voice, and yet Tim can hear him despite the loud music around.

...Maybe he doesn't mind never leaving, if he can get a taste.

~•~•~•~

When I put that song on for the first time, I was like, that's Sam. That's so Sam. But then I started writing, and things got weird, so it's both Sam and Danny now.

Tim is so gone, I'm sorry, RIP Tim. Funny thing is, he barely said a single word throughout the whole piece.

[inkdrinkerworld]

Fake I.D

synopsis: cowboy!james is infatuated with you and your flirting, so you take him line dancing to get him to make a love

cw: suggestive content, 18+ only, grinding, flirting, use of the word pervert, James and reader are kind of idiots in love

Your hot pink and white boots will be the death of James and he knows you know that.

He can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you out of them and the total number of times is one- every other time, it’s been those godforsaken hot pink and white boots with a thick heel that makes your legs look like something out of his teenage wet dreams.

You’re not new in town, you and James have known each other since primary school but it was in secondary school that you really plagued his every waking thought. You were pretty, and kind, but also confident and didn’t take shit from anyone. James found it wildly attractive.

You and James hadn’t been close friends, but you’d always been friendly. His friend Sirius had introduced you both at a party, and you’d been friendly since that.

The turning point in you and James’ friendship had come not too long after you’d started working at a salon.

James’ parents own the biggest horse farm in town, and you’d rescued a tiny colt that had been trapped up in some bushes while you were on a hike, and drove it to James’ family ranch in the back of your pickup with tears in your eyes because of the cuts on its legs.

James had never seen you, loud, confident you, in tears like that and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest as you hiccuped through your words to tell him about the colt. He and his dad had taken it out of your tray and everyday the colt was on the ranch, you went over to check on him.

Eventually, James was able to nurse the poor thing to perfect health and then asked you if you wanted to name it after his dad told him they’d keep it.

James wasn’t shy himself, but sometimes when you looked right into his eyes, lashes framing your eyes, it made his heart stutter.

“You really think I should?” You had asked, eyes wide with excitement but also a bit of apprehension.

“Yeah, ‘course. It’d only be right.” and as you had stroked the near blood coloured mane, the face of the horse in your other hand, the name came to you easily.

“Copper.”

You and that horse and James had been inseparable after that and James nearly lost his breath every time you went to the ranch after that- cutoff shorts, hot pink and white boots and shirts James swore made him feel like a pervert.

Now, you’re at James’ ranch, a brush in Copper’s mane as you look at James tending to his own filly- Moondancer.

“Please Jamie? It’s fun and you never stay for the dancing.”

He knows he’s fighting a losing battle. You’re doing those puppy dog eyes and you’ve got red eyeliner on to match your shirt and James feels a little overwhelmed with his attraction to you.

“I’ll be your partner all night, Jamie. Won’t leave you to be eaten up by the ladies- save that luxury just for me.”

You giggle when he sputters and his cheeks flush. “Alright, angel. What time do I meet you at the Boneyard?”

You gasp, all faux aghast. “You won’t pick me up at my house? Where’s your southern hospitality?”

James rolls his eyes, “I can do that too. Say eight?”

You pop your hip as Copper nuzzles into your hand. “Will you be all done by then? I don’t want you to cut into your chores and stuff Jamie?”

You’re so earnest, and the flirting has been put to a pause making James turn to goo.

“I’ll be all done, angel. Don’t worry.”

At seven thirty, you’re all finished with your makeup, nothing too extreme, just a smokey eye with glitter on your lids and the heavy black eyeliner you noticed James likes.

Your hair is out and ripples down your back in loose curls, your most recent haircut making them look even better than usual.

You’re not trying to impress him, but you have a plan for how tonight is going to end and you want James to finally take all your flirting as seriously as you mean it.

So you dress up and pull out all the stops that you know he likes- the hot pink boots a must, your low rise jeans, and your skirt that says, ‘save a horse.’

When James knocks, you squeal, boots clacking as you race to the door.

“Hey Jamie,” you sing-song as you pull the door open, James taking in a deep breath as his eyes rake over you.

“You look stunning.” There’s a little husk to his voice that you love.

As he gives you a once over, you do the same. He’s dressed in his most relaxed pair of jeans, a blue wash that makes his already thick thighs look ever thicker, a black t-shirt that clings to his arms and nearly makes you drool and his hat. God you love and hate his hat- you love it because he looks stunning in it; but you hate it because it hides away his pretty curls. God you love those curls.

“So do you, Jamie. I like your shirt, it makes your arms look nice.”

He smirks, a little emboldened. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping out of your door, “Ready to go?”

James nods and holds his arm out to you, smiling to himself when your hand wraps around his bicep and not his forearm.

The Boneyard is packed as it usually is, most of the patrons are already more than a little drunk, but you spot some of the girls at your salon, some of James’ friends and some tourists who’re no doubt in tonight for the line dancing.

“A cherry vodka angel?” James asks, wanting a drink to dispel some of his nerves.

“Yes please, James. I’ll go see what songs they have for tonight.”

James nods, watching you walk off first before going over to the bar. Sirius is working tonight, a smirk on his face as he spots James and then spots where he’s looking.

“Finally doing something about all her flirting, Potter?” he asks and James flushes a little as Sirius passes him a beer and then makes your drink without James saying a word.

It takes him a little by surprise that Sirius knows it, but then it dawns on James that he talks about you a lot to his best friend. A lot.

“Trying, but she makes me so fucking nervous, Pads.”

Sirius laughs, patting James on the arm.

“Doesn’t sound so bad, Jamie. You’d be a fool not to be nervous about that girl. She’s trouble all over in the best way.”

James is very inclined to agree.

“Hey Siri, you being nice to James?” You take your drink gratefully and take a sip.

“I was about to ask you the same thing, trouble.” You shrug with a pretty devious smile on your face- James’ heart rate picks up. “Saw you looking at the setlist, you and Potter planning on dancing?”

You nod, smiling when you look up and find James looking at you with fondness written boldly on his face. He’s easy to read, never one to guard his feelings, James.

“Yeah, they’re finally doing Fake I.D again so I figured I’d take James’ virginity in that regard.”

James, bless him, doesn’t sputter, which he’s eternally grateful for. Sirius shares a wicked grin just like yours.

“Don’t make it too vulgar, Remus’ll run you off the dance floor.”

You put your hands up, “I make no promises.”

James is saved from any more teasing from either of you when the song starts playing.

“C��mon Jamie, it’s starting.” He lets you pull him after he downs the last of his drink.

“What if I mess it up?” He whispers as you tug him along. Your hair whips at his chest as you turn to look back at him and he can smell your vanilla shampoo and shuts his eyes for a brief moment.

“You won’t, just follow my lead. You’ll be perfect.”

It takes him a couple steps to get into the song, but seeing you smiling and giggling makes James fall deeper into the music.

The floor rumbles with everyone’s steps, but all you can think about is James behind you as you dance in a circle.

“James!” you squeal when you feel his hands hold onto your hips, James smiling wide as you lean into him a little.

As the guitar solo riff continues you know you have to stay close to James for this part. It isn’t hard because it seems like you’ve both magnetized to each other more than before. As the beat drops, you feel like time has slowed, the words filter into your ears all muffled and soft as you pull James close by his shirt, your chests pressed together. “Hey mister, won’t you sell me a fake i.d.”

You see his breath hitch more than you feel it. You’re both grinding on each other on the dance floor, and it’s way more erotic than anything else either of you could’ve been doing.

“Fuck,” you feel the whisper as James’ hand cements itself to your hip and one of yours buries in his hair.

You tip his hat onto your own head and you swear James’ chest rumbles. “Angel.”

You’re breathless as you and James dance, you feel like you’re the only people on the dance floor.

He dips you backward and you bite back a moan when one of his hands travels up your back to keep his hat on your head. As he picks you up, his fingers knot in your hair and your lips just barely meet.

“James.” You breathe his name and he groans.

“You really are trouble.” his lips meet yours, tentatively at first, and then his mouth consumes yours the moment you kiss him back.

You pull apart and smile, “Took you long enough, James.”

He shakes his head, his dimple poking out as he chases your lips. “You look so good in my hat.”

His stare turns you a little shy and you duck to hide your face in his chest; James laughs at the action.

“Come outta there, sweetheart. Can’t hide those eyes from me now.”

You groan, but look up at him. “Have you always been this smooth?”

James nods, tipping your chin up just a bit higher to kiss your lips again. “Just for you,” you beam at that. “My heart’s thumping.”

“Mine too,” You kiss his jaw, teeth scraping a second path. “Wanna get out of here?”

James slips his hand in your back pocket eliciting a keen he wants to hear more of. “Get your cute butt in my truck, angel.”

You giggle as James squeezes before releasing you, holding your hand with his hat sitting proudly on your head as you stomp your feet out of the bar to his truck. He really does love those hot pink boots.

[literaryavenger]

Thoughtful

Summary: You find something of Bucky's.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Reader

Warnings: My poor attempts at being funny. No use of Y/N. Bucky being a bit of a tease. Just a whole lot of fluff.

Word Count: 1.1K

A/N: This is a dream I had and I couldn't get it out of my head so I decided to write it down. Hope somebody enjoys it!

Masterlist

“Good morning.” you say casually to Bucky sitting at the island as you enter the kitchen.

He merely nods back to acknowledge your presence while sipping his coffee. It’s not like Bucky doesn’t like you, he’s just not a morning person. But the whole team is used to his morning grumpiness.

Also, you and the brunette supersoldier aren’t particularly close, so you don’t really expect bells and whistles when he sees you.

You pour some coffee for yourself and then sit on the kitchen island in front of Bucky. A light jingle coming from under your shirt gets Bucky’s attention and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“What was that?” He asks you, his curiosity getting the better of him.

You frown at his question before following his eyeline and seeing him looking at your chest. But he’s not staring at your boobs through your admittedly thin tank top, he’s looking under them where he can see something resting between the fabric and your skin.

You’re honestly confused at what that is for a moment before you remember and your eyes widen a little as your cheeks start reddening in embarrassment.

Bucky’s confused at your reaction as he watches you take the chain around your neck to bring out the set of dog tags around your neck and Bucky frowns even more.

“I didn’t know you were in the military…” He comments while looking at the tags and then at you, unclear as to why you’d be embarrassed about it.

“I wasn’t…” You say quietly while glancing down at the tags. “They’re kinda… yours.”

Bucky’s even more dumbfounded by your answer. But, after letting your words sink in and deciding he indeed heard you correctly, he couldn’t help the grin that started to grow on his face, much to your surprise.

You thought maybe he’d be mad, although it’s not like you stole them, you simply found them. But still, you were worried what he might think about you wearing them.

“Oh good, I thought I lost them!” He says relieved. “I looked for them everywhere.”

“Well, can I have them back now?” He asks you after a moment of silence and you realize you haven’t even taken them off yet this whole time.

So you quickly do, leaning over the kitchen island and setting them down carefully on his outstretched hand. You watch him put them on, your eyes lingering on the metal on his chest a minute longer than necessary before going back up to his. 

“And why exactly are you wearing my dog tags?” He asks, and right now you wish he’d get mad at you instead. Anything is better than the amusement that’s all over his face at watching you squirm in your seat.

“I found them at the gym… But it’s not like I was planning to keep them.” You quickly justify yourself, your tone entirely too defensive even to your own ears as you blush more. “But you had just left for your mission with Steve and I thought I would just keep them safe until you came back, so I put them on… But I had every intention to give them back, I swear!”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, doll...” He says, his grin turning into a full grown smirk as he points out the obvious. “But I’ve been back for a week, and you were still wearing them.”

“Yeah, I-I guess I got so used to them that I forgot to give them back…” You say quietly, your face turning impossibly red as Bucky seems to be having the time of his life right now.

You groan internally when you see his smirk still going strong at your embarrassment and you decide to cut your losses and not give him more fuel to add to the fire before 9am.

You get up and put your empty cup in the sink. As you turn around you’re startled to find the Sergeant much closer to you than he was before, the kitchen island no longer between you. He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything or even pull away before he’s talking.

“On the other hand…” He takes his dog tags off and reaches out to put them around your neck, making sure to keep his eyes on the metal and not glance at your boobs no matter how much he wants to. “Maybe you could hold onto them for me.”

He looks at the tags on your chest then up to your face before he pulls away completely with a quiet “Beautiful.” and takes a step back, leaving you a flustered mess.

After a minute you remember how to breathe and you glance down at the tags. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. We wouldn’t want me to lose them again now, would we?” He says with a smile, reaching out to lift your chin gently and making you look at him. “But you’ll keep them safe for me, right doll?”

You nod almost without thinking about it, his eyes putting you in a trance. You’re sure you’d agree to anything right about now, all you can really hear is your own heart pounding anyway.

“Plus, now I can do this…” He lets go of your chin and wraps his hand around the chain of the dog tags. 

He uses his hold on them to pull you closer and your heart skips a beat as he leaves you a soft kiss on your lips. You barely realize what’s happening before he’s pulling away again and you merely look at him with your mouth agape in shock.

Before you can say anything, though, you hear snickers from the door of the kitchen and you both turn towards it just to see the whole team there. All of them have smirks, grins and smiles, everyone delighted at the situation as your face starts getting redder than Tony’s Iron-man suit.

You look back at Bucky and the cheeky bastard is also smirking, clearly much more amused than you at being caught like this.

“Okay, well,” You say while clearing your throat awkwardly and stepping away from Bucky to escape from this situation altogether. “I’m gonna go research the tallest building in New York so I can throw myself off of it.”

Your deadpan reaction leaves everyone laughing as they get away from the door so you can pass.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart, it wasn’t that bad!” Tony yells after you between laughs, obviously sarcastic and you roll your eyes.

“Bite me, Stark!” you yell back, not even tempted to look back as you try to hide a smile of your own while hearing the team’s amusement in the kitchen.

You’re still a little in shock that Bucky kissed you but, once the embarrassment at the team having witnessed it washes away, you can’t wait to follow up on this with Sergeant Grumpy.

Part 2

[ashlinxsloves]

-AARON HOTCHNER HEADCANONS-

The promised hcs for our favourite hot dilf Aaron Hotchner 🤭 I hope you guys like them, it's gonna be a little lengthy and I've divided them between Basic, SFW Dating and NSFW.. Minors please don't interact with the nsfw content.

–Basic–

Hotch would be the type of guy who listens to classical music around the team, but once he's alone in his personal car, he has a whole collection of CDs in his glove box of his favourite bands and albums (The Beatles, etc.)

He'd also listen to audiobooks during long drives home. The genre can vary between the classics or just a light novel.

A huge overpacker. He packs the essentials during cases, but if the trip is personal, he packs almost everything – sunscreen, mosquito repellent, a map, extra batteries, a flashlight, etc. You'll never know if it might come in handy

Dad instincts are strong af, will know something is wrong before it happens

Wakes up at the crack of dawn. Became a habit after working so long in the BAU

Hotch is overall a light sleeper. Mostly because of emergencies or sudden calls from the BAU

The king of overworking. Before Haley died, he used to work so much that he got nosebleeds. He does it less now and spends more time with Jack than with paperwork.

Likes his coffee black with two teaspoons of sugar. He doesn't like it too sweet but isn't bitter either.

He most probably had a secret rockstar phase in his teens. Crazy shoulder-length hair, studded belts, band tees and EYELINER. Stopped after he became a junior in high school though.

Used to blame himself for failing to save the victims during his early years in the field. He tries to remember every person he failed to save in the past and compensate by saving more while being calm and tactful.

Spends a lot of time with Jack during the weekends. He's trying to make up for lost time after being so busy with his job than being a father. They would go on road trips, and theme parks and would do a whole lot just to see his son smile.

Hotch would unironically start drinking apple or pineapple juice after Jack just asked him to. Just for no reason at all.

He gets horrible migraines because of staying up late and not getting enough rest.

-SFW Dating-

When the two of you just started dating, he wasn't 100% sure of it because 1. your age gap (reader would be in her mid-20s) and 2. The fraternization rule in the Bureau.

The both of you kept the whole thing a secret for about four months until the team figured it out on a random Tuesday.

"I- I mean it was pretty obvious from how Hotch was hovering over you all the time and the ways his stoic face softens when he addresses you. Not to forget the way his pupils dilate-" "That's enough Reid."

When you were gonna meet Jack for the first time, you were quite nervous about it, but Aaron reassured you that he'd love you (and the little dude did).

Hotch would try to take you on dates, but it was kind of hard with your hectic schedules.

So it would usually be movie nights at his place along with some takeout dinner after putting Jack to bed.

It took Hotch a while to open up to you, but you were there to support him and he was worth the wait.

Picks you up for work and drives you home even if you told him that it was okay and you had your own car, he insisted on driving you home and seeing you get there safely.

Brings you coffee and something sweet from the cafe. It's his way of telling you he cares about you without the team teasing you after he goes into his office.

He would start to think irrationally after finding out you got hurt during a case. He wouldn't be able to think straight on the way to the hospital and blurted a mumbled 'I love you' while putting pressure onto your wound.

When you sleep over at his place, he loves seeing you wear his old college T-shirts.

Hotch thinks about Haley a lot and feels guilty for it, but you understand that she was his first love and he peppers you with soft kisses to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart... I know I shouldn't be thinking about what could have been and focus on what is.. I'll do better, I promise.."

Calls you to his office sternly as if you were in trouble but in reality, he just wants you for himself in the office for a little while.

His heart clenched yet light when Jack asked him if you were going to be his new mommy.

Pet names would be rare when it comes to him. What really matters is when he calls you by your name. But the occasional 'Sweetheart' and 'Darling' might slip out.

He shows you his unserious side. It was a whole 180 for you and it made you fall for him even more. He's an adorable dork.

Even if the two of you are dating, there's a fine line between being together behind closed doors and pure professionalism. Hotch is still your superior and there wouldn't be any special treatment even if you were his significant other.

But when he realizes he gets too rough with you he will apologize in private after the case.

His love language is quality time, so he tries to be around you and Jack as much as he can.

Cheesy pickup lines to try and make you laugh during a hard day. Only in private though.

Knows what to do when you're on your period. He'll bring a heating pad, warm fuzzy blankets, your favourite snacks and painkillers.

NSFW UNDER THE CUT MINORS DNI!!!

-NSFW Dating-

• The sex is incredible. Hotch knows all the right places to hit and how to give you a godly amount of orgasms.

• He starts out slow, letting you get used to the stretch and how much he's filling you up. You can practically feel his cock in your throat from how full you feel.

• Gentle feather-like kisses on your forehead, telling you how good you feel around him while starting to move his hips at a quicker pace.

• From slow, gentle thrusts, it changes into something more primal and rough. As if he were lashing out all his frustrations from work into your tight, little pussy, trying to fuck you into next week.

• And he does it well. He fucks you senseless until you're coming on his cock multiple times before he finishes and spills his cum into the condom he's wearing.

• He just loves fucking you in the missionary position, because he sees how your face contorts in pleasure.

• The first time the two of you slept together was at your place after a really stressful case and the two of you had a drink too many.

• Obviously, Hotch was still a bit sober but you were out of it. He wouldn't do anything without your consent, but you had dragged him into your bedroom and things got heated.

• Bruised your cervix one too many times. The two of you rarely have any sex but if you do, you go all out. He apologises with an amazing bath and breakfast in bed.

• Amazing aftercare. He'll take care of you after the both of you are done, even if he's tired. He'd always clean you up, get you a glass of water and press soft kisses on your shoulders. Cuddling and whispered confessions under messy sheets.

• Not a big fan of having sex in public spaces. He needs privacy when he's trying to fuck and pleasure you.

• But he does know about the dirty fantasies you have about getting fucked on his desk. He's seen the books read and articles you look up. Not like you could've hidden it from him anyway.

• He fulfills those fantasies to the best of his capabilities when no one's left in the office and it's just the two of you. He looks through the last of his files, calls you to his office and closes the door.

• His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearms. His hair was slightly dishevelled as if he ran his fingers through them multiple times.

• Hotch makes you suck his cock until you're gagging, being a little rougher on you. Then he got you splayed on his desk, pushing your pencil skirt up and ripping your stockings by the crotch area.

• When he noticed how wet you got, he smirked, moving the gussets of your panties to the side. He then flicked your sensitive clit, making you whimper as slick gushed out your weeping hole.

• “You like this, don't you, sweetheart? Lying on my desk, messing up my paperwork with your slutty pussy?”

• He's not the type to degrade you, but if you really wanted to he would. But he wouldn't go too far with the insults.

• He's a switch. Since he's usually dominant in most of his everyday life, Hotch lets you take over once in a while.

• Loves going down on you. He likes loosening your tight hole with his mouth and savours the taste of your essence on his tongue.

• Hotch goes weak when you go down on him even if he doesn't ask you to. Praises and soft grunts.

• Isn't the type to be loud. Mostly pants and let's out soft groans when your pussy convulses around his shaft.

• Loves hearing you whine his name and complain how deep he is.

• Once he saw you looking at a site involving different positions, but the one that piqued his interest the most was the mating press.

• Was curious and wanted to try it with you. Hotch was too riled up to put on a condom that night and filled you up to the brim, having you pressed into the mattress, your calves over his shoulders as he buried himself deeper, hitting so many new places that it made you see white.

That's all for now, I hope you liked it 🤭🤭🤭

[lovebugism]

"we’re arguing when the ball drops on new year’s eve, and decide to kiss and shit i don’t think i hate you anymore"

with eddie and grumpy!r pls

ty for requesting! :D — your new years kiss ends up being the loudmouth, metalhead, wild-haired boy you can't stand (enemies to lovers, grumpy!reader, 1.5k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Another year passes in a blink, and suddenly everyone around you is chanting “new year, new me” like it’s not just some overdone mantra destined to be forgotten by mid-February. 

It’s not surprising that you and Eddie are the only two not participating in the holiday theatrics. It’s also not surprising that the two of you are spending the entirety Steve’s New Years party bickering like a married couple on the couch.

You both got dragged here — you by Robin, and him by Dustin — and the two of you are acting like total grumps about it accordingly. And even though you can’t stand being in the same room as each other, you’ve been shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room all night.

You’re sitting pretty in a black dress beside him, scowling like a storm cloud while Eddie scoops a handful of pretzels in his mouth. Seemingly noticing your side-eyed glare, he starts to chew more audibly because he knows how much you hate it. The slow and rhythmic smack smack smack makes the chatter around you sound more distant as your skin begins to crawl.

Eddie smiles when you tense — wider when you glare at him.

“Sometimes I wonder why I hate you, and then you do stuff like that, and I think to myself, “oh yeah, that’s why.”

He grins with all his teeth, pretzels crumbs and all. “The feeling’s mutual, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you grumble with a roll of your eyes.

You shake your crossed leg to the music playing softly overhead and try to focus on the television in front of you. The staticky film of Times Square isn’t quite as distracting as the boy beside you — and not just because he’s purposefully trying to annoy you. 

He has no right to be this pretty, with his wild hair and black button-up and smudged eyeliner. It’s hardly fair.

“Don’t act like one, and I won’t,” he retorts, muffled through the food in his cheek.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful. It’s disgusting.”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you the widest smile he’s ever looked at you with. The bits of chewed-up pretzel in his teeth make you grimace.

“You’re a child,” you deadpan.

Eddie laughs — a pretty little sound in a scoffed-out breath. 

He sits the half-empty bowl on the coffee table, then pushes his sleeves to his elbows. His arms are pale, lanky, and tattooed. Some of the ink is faded and messy, obviously not done by professionals. You think those intrigue you the most. You’d ask about the stories behind them if you even cared.

Eddie rests his elbows on his knees and looks at you over his shoulder. His smile is pink and made of honey — his eyes dark and made of fire. 

“You can act like you hate me all you want, but everyone here knows you’re obsessed with me,” he teases with a scrunched nose, motioning to the room with his pointer finger. 

No one’s paying either of you any mind. They’re too focused on their own conversations to care about the ones you and Eddie have had a thousand times over. You try to act as disinterested as they do. You think you’re playing the part pretty well, honestly, but Eddie’s looking at you with a twinkle in his eye like he can see right through it.

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Munson.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” he huffs and leans back again, spreading his arms across the back of the couch. 

The sudden proximity isn’t lost in you. Neither is the smell of nicotine and sandalwood radiating off of him. It stirs a velvety feeling in the pit of your stomach that you try hopelessly to shove down.

“You must be completely and utterly blind, then.”

“Uh-uh,” he hums with a shake of his wild head. “Twenty-twenty vision, baby.” He leans in close to croon the words in your ear, and your heart lurches into your throat. You shove him off with a half-hearted hand anyway. 

“Get off me!” you groan, face scrunched in a childlike annoyance. “And don’t call me baby.”

Eddie settles back beside you with a subtle pout between his brows. “If I can’t call you princess and I can’t call you baby, then what am I supposed to call you?”

“Nothing!” you shout, like being called baby hadn’t stirred something foreignly pleasant behind your ribcage. “Don’t call me anything! Don’t call me at all—”

“Guys! Come here! The ball’s about to drop!” Dustin shouts over the chatter to get everyone’s attention, a bit too loudly. He stands in front of the television along with the rest of the small crowd, ogling at the bad reception of the Times Square Ball and a flashing countdown.

“Sounds like me in middle school,” Eddie jokes, making Steve snort out a laugh when he walks in from the kitchen. You shoot the wild-haired boy a squinted look of disgust and he chuckles. “Oh, c’mon! That was funny, and you know it.”

“Ten!” the crowd begins to chorus.

“You’re an idiot,” you grumble.

“And you’re the one who’s obsessed with the idiot, so… Who’s the real weirdo?”

“Nine!”

“Still you.”

“Ooh,” Eddie lilts, plush lips softly pouted. “So you are obsessed with me?”

“Eight!”

You scoff a bitter laugh. “You love putting words in my mouth, don’t you?”

“Like I said,” the boy hums with a smug smile. “Just calling it like I see it, honey.”

“Seven!”

The dumb name shouldn’t make you melt like it does. You turn into a puddle before you can come up with another comeback. You forget how to form words and get lost in how soft his lips look, pink and delicate like a flower. God, he’s so pretty, you hate him.

“Six!” your friends continue to chant, the only sound in the expansive living room. “Five!”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, honestly,” the boy assures with an absentminded shrug, tilting his flushed cheek to his shoulder and flashing you an unkissed grin.

“Four!”

“You’re not the first girl to fall head over heels for me, and you won’t be the last.”

The corner of your lip curls into a quiet smirk. You squint at him, eyes twinkling with mischief and a sudden longing for him to eat his words. “Is that so?” you croon lowly.

“Three!”

He leans in like he’s about to tell you a secret. The nicotine-whiskey concoction on his breath brushes your cheek. Screw the alcohol in your abandoned cup — you’d sooner get drunk on him. 

“I’ll make sure to let you down easy, alright? I promise,” Eddie hums with a feigned seriousness.

“Yeah?”

“Two!”

He nods, bushy brows pinching softly together and petaled mouth gently pouting. “Yeah. I’m not in the heartbreaking business, you know? I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, princess, but you should there’s no way in hell that I’m ever gonna—”

“One!” the house chants together, louder this time as they shout, “Happy New Year!”

You blink, and suddenly everyone’s grabbing onto somebody. 

Robin and Vickie share a quiet peck you don’t miss in the corner of the room. Mike and El smack a more obvious kiss in the very center of it. A newly grown-up Dustin tries his chances with Nancy, glancing at her with a silent smile she shakes her head at — “Not a chance, kiddo,” she says with a soft pink grin. Even Max leans over to brush a kiss to Lucas’ cheek, right before scowling at him, “This doesn’t mean we’re back together, Sinclair.” 

So you feel it’s only right, that in a room of kissed mouths, you get kissed, too.

Eddie is the perfect victim. Mostly because he hasn’t stopped yapping since he sat down beside you, some hours ago now. You reach for him, splaying your hand across his warm jaw (that grows somehow hotter beneath your touch), and pressing a kiss to his blabbering mouth. 

You swallow all the half-hearted insults he spews at you because he thinks you really hate him. In Eddie’s mind, if being mean is how he gets closer to you, then when you go low, he’ll go all the way to hell. 

You don’t kiss him like you hate him, though. You kiss him like you can taste stars in his mouth. Like the rest of your whole life is sitting on his tongue.

Your mouth locks with his for a moment, kissing the breath from his lungs, only to pull away a second later.

Eddie’s totally frozen when you’re gone. The loudmouth boy — who you decided to hate if you couldn’t love — is left so suddenly speechless. He blinks at you with heavy, velvet eyes and grieves a thing he didn’t even know he could have.

A grin pulls at your freshly kissed mouth. It feels good to have the upper hand again.

“You’re never gonna what?” you tease, tilting your head like you’re innocent.

His mouth parts for an answer. Nothing comes out.

Your smile widens. “That’s what I thought. Honey.”

[tossawary]

The visible camp and sleeping setups in Baldur's Gate 3 make no sense for many reasons, but the one I'm focused on now is... where did all of this stuff COME from?

Presumably there's some in-universe explanation about fully furnished tents that you can summon or a magical bag or whatever, but I don't particularly care, honestly. Handwaving the exact mechanics in favor of fun fic ideas.

It doesn't make much sense for all of the characters to have even magical camping gear at the ready, especially at the beginning of the game: Lae'zel was part of a larger force and may not have been in charge of supplies in any fashion, and Astarion is a city boy. As far as I can remember and understand it, Gale and Shadowheart are the magical ones, and Shadowheart is the only one between them who was actually intentionally traveling on a quest. Wyll and Karlach having camping gear, yes, I buy that (although it easily could have been wrecked by or lost during all the shit that they've been through), but you also meet them both a little later than the others.

It is FAR funnier to me to imagine the party, post-crash at the beginning, being absolutely WRECKED. Everyone is covered in mind flayer ship slime, blood, and ash. Shadowheart's eyeliner is dripping down her face and there are guts in her hair. Astarion when you first meet him is a MESS who tried to fix himself up after tripping into a river. Lae'zel is missing half her clothes, perhaps, due to the fighting on the ship earlier, and she's making the awkwardness everyone else's problem.

They have no food (Lae'zel suggested cannibalism as a joke, but no one could tell that it was a joke) and one water skin. Their armor and weapons are damaged or stolen. Everyone is resigned to sleeping in the dirt, because the only other option is sharing Shadowheart's ONE single-person tent and bedroll between them all. A cuddle pile seems like a potentially deadly option.

And then they all meet Gale. And I know that he's Mr. Stay In My House For A Year Post-Break-Up, so he doesn't really seem like a camping guy, but it's really funny to me to imagine everyone being Not Very Happy to have Gale joining them (his robes are actually cleanish somehow, what the fuck, that's not fair, fucking wizards), until he starts summoning plush furniture and cooking pots out of some pocket dimension and heating water for people so they can wash their hair. And he COOKS. Holy shit. Everyone's favorite party member immediately.

Yes, it is revealed later on all of the (possibly dubiously real) tents and luxurious cushions and blankets and mirrors and atmospheric magical torches that Gale is summoning WERE all part of former magical romantic fuck-pads from his days with Mystra, so there is a non-zero chance that Gale fucked or got fucked by a goddess on every single piece of furniture in the camp. ("They're CLEAN!" Gale insists. "I WASHED THEM.") But at that point no one is willing to give up their throw pillows or sexy furs or the bathtub that could fit two people, so they all just live with it.

[lovelivision]

SLEEP OVER PT.2

ʚ⁺˖⤷ part one

pairing: fushiguro toji/reader

wc: 4.8k

summary: the night carries on but you can't forget what toji promised... you're hoping he plans on following through tonight, you just need to try and not make a fool of yourself first

a/n; i finished it... sorry it took me so long to upload it, i'm completely read up on the manga now and i want to end it all but we carry on i guess

warnings: 18+ only, smut, pwp, swearing, dirty talk, cunnilingus, dacryphilia, light pussy slapping, tease!toji, possessive!toji, fingering, cum play, big dick!toji, p in v sex, cockwarming but not really, afab!reader, no use of y/n or pronouns, nicknames used: doll, honey

MDNI | SMUT UNDER CUT

The shower water runs down your body, cleaning you of the mess made, relaxing your muscles. As you wash yourself, you can’t help but wonder when ‘later’ is, what did he mean by it? Did he mean later tonight? Or later as in… a later date? You wish he had been more specific, though he was kind of preoccupied at the time so you can understand the lack of details on his part.

Before you had gotten up to shower, Toji had offered his help but you felt embarrassed accepting the offer and had told him you’d be fine on your own. Now, you kind of regret it, imagining his hard body pressed up against yours has your body getting hot, the thoughts less than innocent.

Hopping out the shower and drying yourself off, you tug on the fresh clothes, mainly the bottoms needed replacing, you feel bad for ruining his clothes and then borrowing more but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, based on his reaction to you in his clothes, you have a feeling he prefers it this way.

Walking back out into the main area you announce to Toji, “The shower’s free.”

“Ah, good, I feel gross,” his face scrunches slightly.

Smiling to yourself, you hum, “Take your time.”

He shuffles off down the hall to the bathroom, wanting to be in fresh clothes as soon as possible… maybe you should’ve let him go first… or at least let him shower with you. You feel a little bad now, in hindsight, he might’ve needed the shower more.

Pushing the thought to the back of your mind, you continue your journey into the kitchen. The brownies were too hot before so you let them cool a bit, you’re looking forward to them. It’s been a while since you made some, that’s still kind of true though, since Toji mostly made them.

You can’t help but snicker at the crispy edges, they’re honestly not that burnt. While Toji is in the shower, you cut them up and stack them onto a plate. Obviously, you have one, leaning against the bench and indulging, still yummy. Maybe you’d be a little more bothered by the toughness of them but knowing Toji made them just because of a light-hearted comment from you makes them even better.

Off in the clouds, you think about how much you adore him and his kindness to you, as well as his patience. Eyes slipping closed for a moment, you find yourself thinking about him, under you, moaning, how he spoke to you, how he gave you one of the best orgasms of your life through your clothes. It was honestly quite impressive of him.

Breath against your neck, he asks, “What you thinking about?”

His sudden closeness and low voice makes you jump and gasp, “Toji! Jesus… you scared me…”

He smiles at you, amused, “So?”

“So?” You repeat, not sure what he’s asking and getting even more lost when you notice that he’s only in a towel. It sits low on his hips, water trailing down his abs and beneath the towel. He’s completely distracting, is he talking? He might be talking…

One of his hands grabs your face, your cheeks squishing slightly with how he’s holding you and bringing your eyeline back up to look him in the eyes, “You back?”

You nod wordlessly at him.

“I asked what you were thinking about,” he asks his previous question again.

“Uhmm…” you’re feeling warm, how are you meant to tell him you were thinking about him moaning while you humped against him, “I was thinking about the brownies… they turned out good…”

His eyes watch you in a way that tells you he knows you’re lying… and poorly at that, “Are you sure?”

You try cementing your answer, sticking to your lie, but it sadly comes out more like a question, “Yes?”

Humming, he teases, “You sure you’re not having perverted thoughts ‘bout me?”

Oh god, you might pass out, “I would never… I mean I would… obviously but not just… now…”

As you stumble stupidly, he only lights up more, enjoying your obvious struggle, “You sure? You’re looking awful guilty right now, doll.” His hand lets go of your face but he’s moved in closer, eyes glinting with mischief as he watches you.

Trying to change the subject, you reach for the small bit of brownie you had left, “Try this.” You say, shoving it into his mouth.

He eats the brownie, his brows pulled up in a way that tells you he’s trying not to laugh at how flustered he got you, “You’re cute.”

“And you’re persistent,” you grumble, moving your finger to your mouth, going to lick the rest of the brownie off.

Toji’s hand reaches for you wrist stopping you, before you can process what he’s doing, he’s leaning down and sucking your fingers into his mouth. Tongue licking lightly at you, his eyes dark but playful as he watches how you turn into a sputtering mess in front of him.

He pulls back and comments, “It was good.”

“You are an unbearable–”

“–But you know, it occurs to me…” His body moves closer to yours and his hands reach for either side of your head, “…There is something else I would much rather taste right now.”

Opening your mouth, you go to call his name, tell him he’s an unbearable tease, that he embarrasses you so easily but it’s all lost on you when his mouth is crashing down onto yours. His tongue in your mouth immediately, his lips insistent, fervent, hot. He kisses you dirty and wet, it’s dizzying, he kisses you like you’re a whore and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

His body crowds you in against the bench, leaning into you, your only choice to grab at his shoulders and try and kiss him back as passionately as he’s kissing you. He gives you a minor reprieve, his lips pulling back, both of you breathing heavy into each other’s mouths. You feel dizzy and stupid, thinking about how large and firm he is pressed up against you.

Breathlessly, you ask, “Is it later yet?”

And fuck, how can Toji possibly say no when you’re looking at him with those big, wet eyes. His kiss pulling you apart like this just makes him want to see how much more he could possibly ruin you. He curses as he tugs you down the hall after him, he’s going to give you what you both need.

In his room, he grabs the pants and boxers of his you’re wearing and tugs them off in one swift motion, “Toji!” You gasp, not expecting his speed.

“Sorry, doll but I need to hurry this along or I’m gonna lose my fucking mind,” he pushes you back until you fall onto his bed, bouncing lightly with the force. Body in the centre of his large bed, you hold your knees together as you jostle. He’s crawling onto the bed after you and resting on his knees, his hands on yours.

Any response you want to or could give dies on your tongue because he’s pulling your legs apart, putting you on obscene display. Eyes staring shamelessly at your wet pussy, you feel red hot and extremely embarrassed. Your hands reach for your shirt and pull it down, covering yourself, trying to retain some of your decency.

Toji growls at you, not approving of your choice, one of his own hands moving off your knees to pull your hand away, “Come on…” he groans, not moving your hand by force even though he definitely could, “Your boyfriend wants to see your pretty, little cunt.”

You whinge, “Toji… it’s embarrassing…”

“No, the fuck it isn’t…it’s fuckin hot,” he sounds pained, desperate, “Please doll…”

Slipping your hand away, you let him do as he pleases. Other hand coming off your knee, he uses both of them to bunch your shirt up your torso. His palms move along your skin, raising goose bumps in their wake, he slowly trails them back to your knees. Then he’s pulling your legs apart again, biting his lower lip as he watches your pussy, eyes stuck on you, on how your cunt twitches for him, how your arousal drools from your cunt.

“I’m putting my mouth on you,” his voice is deep, so effected by you, pussy whipped and he’s not even had you yet.

God, you feel so timid, he makes you feel inexperienced, “…Okay.”

He’s quick to lean down at your acknowledgement, he’s wet, sloppy, licking at you with no particular rhythm. He’s just desperate to taste you, he’s got you arching your back and gasping, fingers digging into the mattress. You’re biting your lip to hold back, not wanting to bother his neighbours but it’s hard when he’s making out with your cunt in such a diabolical way, almost like he’s attempting to get you to scream.

His lips wrap around your clit and suck, a gasped whine resulting from the pressure, a sound that Toji deeply appreciates, the groan he releases at the needy sound sending delicious vibrations through you. Your hips twitch, your thighs going to lock around his head, his hands hold you open. They hold you so open that if he hadn’t just switched from sucking on your clit to fucking his tongue inside your cunt, you might have cared about how lewd the display was.  

Vaguely, you’re aware of the mess he’s making, his saliva and your pussy leaking onto his bed in an absolutely debauched display, “Toji– ah– it’s messy,” you manage to force out.

He grunts into you, his nose rubbing against your clit, he’s not at all concerned with the mess, in fact, he’s fucking in love with it. Pulling back for a moment, he nips your thigh, “Mhmm let’s see just how fuckin messy you can get, doll.”

His words make your insides twist in such a filthy way, his words have an effect on you that you wish you didn’t find so delicious but unfortunately your body is a traitor and you can’t help the way your hole clenches around nothing. Something that Toji takes note of because of fucking course he does, he doesn’t say anything but he hums thoughtfully.

Grabbing higher on your thighs, he puts his mouth back on you, drinking down your slick, relishing in the taste of you. Fuck the goddamn brownies he thinks, this is what a real good sleepover needs.

Blunt nails bite into your skin, the feeling has you buzzing, your hips jerking against his face. Unaware of how you’re desperately rutting into him, seeking more friction, movements needy and so unrestrained. Pleasure addled brain not feeling shame, only Toji’s mouth, his tongue.

The sloppy sounds of him making out with your cunt filling the room, a sound that burns through you, sounding so wet, so ruined, how are you meant to make it out alive when he’s licking at you like a man on the brink of death seeking salvation. Small moans and grunts leaving him at the way you twitch and gush into his mouth, his own pleasure from this immense.

He forces your legs up and apart even wider, something you didn’t think possible, you don’t even know how you’re bending like this. Your fingers are tugging at his bed sheets, your brain fuzzy, your feet feel hot as your orgasm approaches. Gasping out to Toji as your high starts in the tips of your toes and travels up.

Your undoing is the way Toji shakes his head between your legs, his nose rubbing against your clit. Your pussy seizing around his tongue, as he realises you’re cumming, he’s pulling his tongue out of you and latching his mouth onto you instead, drinking you down as you cum into his mouth.

The moan you let out is pornographic and a sound you don’t even really register as something you’re able to do. The way he’s ruined you with his mouth delights him, feeling like he’s on cloud nine at the way you sound so pathetic for him, fucked out from just this much.

He fears he’s going to want to push you so much farther, just how do you look after he’s given you so many orgasms you cry? But fuck as he looks at you in the eyes now, he thinks it wouldn’t take much to make you cry for him at all, your eyes already so so wet for him.

Suddenly he’s struck with the memory of how placid and dazed you looked after he kissed you, he’ll have to remember this for the future too. Now having plans for kissing you until you cry for him, he thinks it might be possible…yeah, looking in your eyes, he definitely feels it possible.

Leaning down over you, he kisses you deeply, just so you can taste yourself on him. Your hazy brain reciprocates, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him down into you, wanting his weight on you. Kissing him makes your heart soar, never sick of his lips, never sick of him.

Trailing kisses from your mouth to your cheek and down your jaw, he speaks into your ear, “Still want it? Or was this enough for you?”

“Never enough, Toji… always want more of you,” the words are murmured back to him, still slightly absent, floating after your orgasm.

“Greedy huh?” He teases, though he has a feeling you might actually be a needy little thing, not that he minds.

Your head tucks into his chest, “Don’t be mean…”

“Why? Don’t you like it?”

You shake your head against him, telling him no, you don’t like it.

He knows it’s a lie though, “You sure? You could’ve had me fooled…” He pulls up and back, looking down at you, his fingers sliding through your folds, collecting your wetness and spreading it all over your cunt, “…Making an awful big mess for this mean man.”

Your hips wiggle against him, “Hah– Toji~”

He’s still playing with your pussy, never touching you exactly how you need him to, his fingers just grazing your clit before circling your hole and then back up, “Hmm? Need something?”

You’re reluctant but you don’t have the strength to fight him, choosing instead to give in quickly and hope he shows mercy, “You…please…”

“Me? But I’m so mean to you…” he’s smiling, frankly, too large, enjoying teasing you like this.

“That’s –hah–  true…” your words are spoken through choked gasps, Toji’s still teasing you evilly, “S-should I find ah– someone nicerrr?”

“Oh?” oh, he did not like that, “Should you find someone nicer?”

You don’t know how to reply, “I… uhm…”

“Maybe you should…” his hand slaps against your cunt lightly, the sound of your wet pussy loud in the otherwise quiet room, “But would they make you this fuckin wet? Doll, you really should be more honest with yourself.”

Through your immense embarrassment, you mutter out, “I’m sorry.”

His fingers switch to stroking at you, fingers circling your pussy hole, “I know you are, now say how horny your boyfriend makes you…”

You start off strong, “Toji, you make me…”

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch it all,” one of his fingers probes at you, pushing in slightly, he seems to have gotten distracted, “Look at the way your pussy sucks my finger in, needy fuckin thing.”

Forcing yourself, you rush out, “You make ah– mehorny, Toji~”

“Don’t I fuckin know it,” he laughs wistfully, eyes on your cunt and how his finger is gently fucking into you.

You’re getting frustrated, you want to feel full, you want him inside you, you want him to do something more. You want him to show mercy or pity or something, anything that will have him shoving his cock inside you.

“I want–”

He cuts you off, voice curt, “–Why should I care what you want? I’m mean, remember?

“No nononono, you’re so –ah nice to me, Toji. Always treating me so nicely, make me so happy,” you’re desperate but you’re also not lying.

“That so?”

Nodding your head, you add, “Mhm, yeah, make me feel so cared for.”

He sounds amused, “Changed your mind pretty quick there, doll.”

“I want you inside me,” you all but sob out.

He coos at you, “I am inside you.” His finger pumps, curling upwards, stroking your inner walls in a way that makes your stomach seize with pleasure.

Shaking your head, you whinge, “Want your –mmph.”

He’s smiling too large for someone who’s feigning ignorance, “Want my what?”

“Please fuck me, Toji,” you look at him with wet eyes, pleading with him, “please pleasepleaseplease.”

The sight of you begging for him to fuck you has him folding embarrassingly quickly but you look like you could cry and he’s suddenly not got the strength to tease you anymore. “Alright, doll,” he hushes you; you’re still pleading quietly with him.

He eases his finger out of you, his hands tugging your shirt off quickly before pulling his towel off. Leaning down, he presses soft kisses to your head, trying to make up for how worked up he got you, maybe he should’ve been nicer to you for your first official time together.

“I’m okay… I’m fine.”

He moves back to look you in the eye, “You sure?”

Nodding, “Mhm, yeah, promise,” you smile up at him and he thinks you look beautiful right now.

“Alright… Remember to breathe through it.”

And at the time that comment had seemed incredibly egotistical of him but as he’s pressing the tip of his cock into you, you understand his advice a little bit more. It wasn’t his ego talking, it was his experience and concern and you find your lungs stuttering as you struggle to intake breath as he stretches you open.

“Breathe, doll, relax,” he reminds, his thumb circling your clit, trying to get you to relax for him.

You’re practically choking his dick, your cunt fluttering around him, he can’t move the tiniest bit forward without the grip you have on him increasing. Your small moans and gasps making it difficult for him to maintain focus, he’s trying to be so careful, he knows how big he is and as much as he jokes about being mean, the absolute last thing he’d want to do is hurt you.

“Honey, you need to relax,” he’s trying to keep his tone even and soothing but he sounds strained, his focus continually drawing back to your pussy and how you’re trying so hard to take him, “Taking me so well, just breathe for me.”

His voice praising you and being so kind makes your heart ache, his free hand strokes up and down your thigh, calming. Finally, you ease up slightly and he slips deeper, the sounds you both let out are ones of relieved pleasure, the pain ebbing away. You want him deeper; your legs wrap around his waist and you tug him down into you.

You don’t get to pull him in that far, his hand moving to your pelvis and holding himself back, “Doll,” it comes out through gritted teeth, his restraint wavering, “I know it feels good –holy fuck– I know but you’re going to hurt yourself if you force it.”

You sigh out, “Wan it.”

“You think I don’t?” He snipes back.

“Wanna feel full, Toji.”

His eyes look dark, full of promise, “You will.”

It’s a process, taking all of him, he pulls his hips back and fucks you carefully on just about half his cock, taking it slow. He’s already getting lost in pleasure, it runs up his spine and into his limbs. Slowly but surely, he opens you up on his dick, eventually fucking you full of him.

The moment he bottoms out and can fully press up against you has you keening into him, your nails on his back and your legs hugging him close. Before he picks a pace, he holds steady for a moment, enjoying your skin on his, the feeling of your snug cunt wrapped around him sinfully tight. Quite frankly, he can’t move too soon, he might blow his load deep inside you before he can manage to get you to cream on his cock and that would be an awful shame.

You don’t know what he’s waiting on, he’s so fucking big inside you, tip kissing your cervix, he’s pressing up against all the most perfect spots but he’s just laying on top of you. He’s kissing your cheek and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. He’s being so tender with you and if you weren’t so desperate and dazed, you’d find it more endearing but right about now, you just want him to fuck you within an inch of your life.

Sick of the wait, you rut up into him, grinding pitifully against him, “Move…” you huff out before tacking on a pretty “please,” for good measure.

“Just a moment more, honey,” he hums, nosing at the side of your face, “Be patient.”

He’s twitching inside you and he feels so fucking hot and heavy and you’re not able to think straight. You want it so bad and he’s not giving it to you, he’s been so mean. You’re gushing around him so obscenely, your cunt drooling on him and the bed, the mess you’re making getting worse by the second but all you can think about is how good just the weight of him inside you is and if he doesn’t move you’re going to fucking cry.

Regretfully, you choke on a small sob, “I’ve been so patient though.”

Oh, and the sound of you so pathetic makes Toji nearly dump all his cum inside your tight cunt in that same second and when he pulls back to look at you the sight is no better. You’ve actually begun shedding a couple tears over him not fucking you and if he were a better man he would be ashamed over just how turned on he gets from it. But he’s not a better man, and he’s mean.

“Aw honey,” he coos at you, cruelly, “Crying over my dick?”

“Please, be nice to me?”

He kisses you hotly, tongue in your mouth, his kiss devouring and full. He nips you a little as he pulls back, “And how do I do that?”

You frown at him, somewhat exasperated and on the brink of sobbing, “Fuck. Me.”

“Anything for you, doll,” he smiles at you in an unkind way.

He says that but he’s been such a bastard and a tease tonight, you want to say something in reply about how he’s not made it feel like that but the heavy drag of his cock pulling from you and slamming back in very suddenly has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, choked moans forcing themselves from you.

The pace he sets is brutal and the sight of you going so stupid so soon has a dark chuckle leaving him, extremely pleased with himself and the state of you. Your cunt seems to love him a lot, sucking him right back in the second he leaves, he wasn’t lying earlier, you really do take him so well.

So responsive and so fucking wet, walls soft and gooey and soaked. A part of him thinks he may have died and gone to heaven because there’s no way a feeling like this exists on the awful planet he’s currently living on but then he looks down at you and hears the way you sigh and moan for him and he remembers that you are very real and he is very much alive.

Every time he pulls his dick from you and shoves it back inside, more of your slick gushes from you and onto the bed and of course he’s going to tease you for it, “Got such ah– messy pussy, doll.”

You whinge at him, not enjoying his observation but that also makes him chuckle because he didn’t mean it in a bad way. There isn’t anything about fucking you that is bad to him, you’re divine, thighs twitching and cunt fluttering on him deliciously. He’d say he could die a happy man right now but he thinks before that can happen he needs to have the sinful sight of you creaming on his cock burned into his memory.

His pace is dizzying, are you even still present? He’s in so deep it almost hurts, your head moves to the side, tears slipping from your eyes again but for completely different reasons. The pleasure you’re feeling overwhelming in more ways than just one. Is sex meant to feel like this? If it is, you’ve been doing it wrong.

Toji’s hand pulls your face back to him, “Keep your –hnng– eyes on me.”

“I ha– can’t, it’s toooo much,” you whimper to him, the sound of it making his dick twitch.

He shakes his head at you, “Be good and just do as I say.”

You’ll try, you will but keeping your eyes from rolling back is so hard and his eye contact is so intense and you’re already so fucking close to cumming like this. You see the moment Toji realises this, his eyes lighting up and his pace quickening.

“Fuck,” he curses at the way you tighten around him, it slows his pace slightly, making it harder for him to fuck you through it, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck.”

“Toji, I hah–”

“I know,” he grunts, “Go on, doll, soak me.”

God he sounds wrecked, his words send you over the edge and you cum all over his dick, your cunt seizing on him. Slick coating his cock, white, creamy ring forming at the base of him. His eyes lock onto the sight, enjoying the obscene display, relishing in it. It was everything he fucking wanted and more. He could make you cum on his dick for hours, just to see how sticky and messy you could make him.

The pitiful little whimpers of his name that you let out and the tears staining your cheeks have him almost cumming inside you. At the last second he pulls out and furiously jacks himself off, his dick twitching as he releases all over your pussy, aiming at your lower stomach and cunt, next time he’s going to remember to ask if he can cum inside because that’s the only thing that could’ve made this better for him. Distantly, he thinks it might not be too late to ask.

“Hey, honey…” you hum out at him and he continues, “You on birth control?”

It takes you a second, like your brain is buffering, “Mhm.”

At your answer, he begins scooping his cum up with two fingers and gently pushing it inside your perfect pussy. His attention completely and fully on the way you twitch and try to push out what he stuffs inside you. It makes you whine; you’re feeling incredibly sensitive, your legs try to close but he keeps them open, not done watching yet.

“So fuckin messy,” he comments.

You sulk out at him, “Stop.”

He laughs at your objection, “Sorry, doll.” He leans down and kisses your cheek softly; a stark contrast to how he fucks.

You’re not completely present still, fighting the urge to sleep, Toji’s bed is soft but you notice that his warmth isn’t nearby and you try to push yourself up, only half succeeding. Toji walks back into the room, sweats low on his hips and a cup of water in his hand. He helps you into a full sitting position.

“Drink this,” he hands you the cup and you take it with two hands, feeling weak and shaky. He’s smiling so fondly at you.

Quickly, he goes to the bathroom to find and dampen a washcloth. Once he’s back in the room, he cleans you up carefully, first he wipes your tear-stained cheeks, trying so hard to be gentle. Then he moves to wipe your skin of his and your own cum.

You’re still holding the now empty cup as you sit and sway slightly. He plucks it from your grasp and places it on the nightstand before discarding the washcloth. On his way back to you he finds the shirt of his you had on previously, slipping it back on you. You’re completely pliant like this, eyes barely open, he gets into bed behind you, his front to your back.

“Did such a good job,” he whispers into your ear, kissing you there.

“I think…” you lean back into him more, snuggling in, “You nearly killed me.”

“I went easy on you,” he murmurs back. It’d be funny if you thought he was joking but you have a nagging feeling that he is not.

PLAGIARISM NOT CONDONED | REPOSTS NOT AUTHORISED

[doki-doki-imagines]

tw: smut and fluff, use of safe word, breakdown (Michael), afab!reader.

author note: inspired by his current situation in the manga. And the fact that I miss him. "I miss my wife, Tails. I miss her a lot."

This wasn’t the first time Michael acted like this. Mouth biting into your neck, and hands furiously groping into your fat. Not even a hello before barging into your house, not a single care about what you were doing a second prior; he wants and takes.

You don’t mind that much, a rough fuck is a nice change and it’s not like he ever wants to hurt you, he just needs to release healthily some pent-up anger, and helping him out brings a lot of pleasure to you too. You don’t lose any time in the living room, your legs steady around his hips while he brings you to the bedroom, while his teeth mark the soft flesh of your neck.

The bed creaks under Michael’s thrusts, his strong fingers leaving indents on your skin, moans reverberating in the room. The blonde blue eyes never search for yours, his red eyeliner smudged in the corners. Michael bites his lips until he draws blood to not let any sound escape, something unusual since you tease him for how loud he usually is.

“Michael, red.” But more than that particular is different this time, something hurts and you need to take a break.

But he doesn’t stop, mind lost somewhere else, not with you. Thankfully you are in a position where you can easily move. You sit up, hand gripping his chin to finally be able to see him straight into his eyes. Michael doesn’t stop, if anything his trust only gets deeper, making you wince in pain.

“Stop Michael, you are hurting me.” There is no real anxiety in your voice, you trust him, but there is a hint of anger mixed with pain for obvious reasons.

It’s not the first time you used the safe word, but this time Michael cracks, hips finally stopping. His mouth falls into a deep frown, irises twitching and you can see a sea of anxiety into them, so deep and hurtful that soon fat tears roll down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry-“ He gasps out, hand covering his face, head down in shame. “I can’t make anything-I’m a fucking mess.”  Shivers run down his spine, muscles all over his body twitching and not of pleasure.

“Michael-“ You sit up on your knees after pulling him out. “Look at me.” You softly ask.  Michael refuses, face covered by his hand and soft strands of blonde and blue hair.  “Michael, don’t worry.” You coo, kissing the top of his head while hugging him, drawing small circles on his naked back. He keeps gasping in your arms, face still hidden, but this time in the nook of your neck.

“C’mon look at me, baby” Your voice is saccharine, trying to make him feel as at ease as possible. He doesn’t listen to you, blabbering excuses on your skin, tears now rolling down your back for how copious they are. “Shhh Michael.” You lift his face, your hands cupping his cheek to make sure he has to look at you. His eyes are red, and the pout hits you harder than a stab at your heart.

“It’s not about the safe word, right?” Michael shakes his head in your hand, eyes squeezed close, long blonde lashes sticking together due to the tears. You kiss his eyelid, as fast and as delicate as a butterfly, before asking your boyfriend to open his eyes.

“I think I may know a way to make you feel better? Wanna try?” Michael nods, one hand intertwining with yours before kissing between your palm and wrist.

You take it slow, your lips drifting from his cheek to his jaw, following an invisible path that will lead to his tranquility. Your hands push to his chest “Lay down baby, relax I’m here.” You whisper and it’s enough to convince him, relinquishing the control he so likes to have.

Your lips meet his, and you can taste the salt of his tears on them. It’s a slow dance, no hurry behind your movements, not in your kisses nor in the sweet caresses of your hands. You stroke his dick, grown soft due to the breakdown, making Michael mewl into your mouth, arching his back cutely under your movements.

You lower your core on his dick, making a soft whimper escapes both your throats. It feels so deep, filling you so perfectly you almost think you were crafted for each other. Your hips slowly grind into him, your hands finding purchase on his muscular thighs, immediately flexing under your soft fingers.

“Michael, you feel wonderful-“ You gasp, mouth shaped in a cute ‘o’. The blonde under you bites his lower lip, before looking away, not being able to hold your love-filled gaze.

“No, no baby.” Your hips stop moving while you crouch down a little, hands again on his face, turning it to you “Look at me, look at how happy you make me.”  Your lips are again on his, sucking on his tongue with no finesse, the calm of before brushed away from the passion blossoming into your heart. Your hands wander to his, still gripping into the white cotton covers, afraid to touch you.  

You pull his lower lips with your teeth before breaking the kiss “I wanna feel your hands on me.” It’s an order and Michael doesn’t have the strength to refuse, your softer hands on his rough ones, guiding them towards your waist.

“Only you-“ A gasp breaks your voice “Can make me feel like this” You start to raise your hips up and down his length, thighs already burning, not used to doing the hard work, your partner too used to be in control in any position.

Michael looks like a work of art under you, blue eyes a shade deeper thanks to bliss and lips a delicious shade of red. His abs twitch at your every moan and you can’t resist the temptation to caress them, feeling them under your hands before going to his chest and squeezing his pecs, and playing with his erect nipples that were just screaming for your attention.

You can’t go on for much more, your thighs burn and your apex is approaching, and not just yours.

“Michael, I-I love you.” It’s nothing earth-shattering, words that you both told to each other on various occasions, but a gear clicks in the blonde mind, his fingers gripping tightly onto your skin, for sure leaving signs that will be evident the next day.

He sits up, manhandling your legs around his hips, his forehead knocking against yours.

“Say it again.” He orders, voice hoarse. His hands gripping your middle again, his words sending a shiver down your back.

“I love you, Michael.” You whine, but the sound is broken by his lips on yours. His hands now forcefully pushing you up and down his length, giving you the possibility to fully enjoy him, for your mind to just be filled in pleasure. 

“You are so good-“ Your foreheads brushing against each other, sweat mixing and eyes tearing in pleasure, making it hard to open them up. He pushes you even more towards his body, making you feel every curve and twitch of his body against your softer one.

“I-I’m near-“ You blabber out, but you don’t need to add anything, his tattoed hand moving towards your clit, massaging it with a calm that doesn’t suit the actual situation.

“I love you too.” Michael mewls into your ear, licking the shell.

It's the straw that breaks the camel's back, you slump in his arms, the moans that leave your mouth a telltale sign that you reached your apex.

“Baby, hold on a little longer-“ Your boyfriend gasps, finally looking at you, with no trace of the previous shame.

You feel him twitch inside you, but you don’t feel as overstimulated as you should, your walls still gripping his thick length. Your eyes roll at each of his thrusts, now arhythmic and harsh, desperate for pleasure.

“Look at me.” You have no strength left in you, so Michael takes the matter into his own hands, holding your cheek, almost squeezing your face, not being able to perfectly control his strength.

“You are beautiful-“ He is able to whine one last time, before cumming, tension leaving his body, head turned back showing you his Adam’s apple bobbing.

He lays on his back, eyes closed, pushing you on top of him. His breath is frantic, still recovering from the orgasm.

“Wait-How are you?” His eyes snap open, looking at you remembering how he overstimulated you.

“No, Micha, don’t worry.” You caress his face, brushing away some blonde hair glued on his face due to the sweat. You pull yourself off from him, making you both groan a bit.

“I’m taking a bath, you wanna come?” You ask, smooching Michael on the cheek, your hand caressing his biceps, a gesture he seems to enjoy since he relaxes under your touch.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” Michael brushes his eyes, red from the tears and the eyeliner being irremediably smudged.

“You want to talk about what happened before?”

“I don’t want to bother you with my shit.” Michael snaps back.

“It’s not shit, and I want to help you. When you are sad it’s like I get stabbed in the chest, you know?”  You reply your chin on his chest, pulling the best puppy eyes you can muster.

He looks down on you, thinking for a minute about it while brushing your hair, making you purr under his touch.

“Okay then, let’s talk about it while we bathe.” Michael accepts, kissing the top of your head.

You kiss him, a big smooch full of cheer. It’s always so hard to make him open up, but you hope the soft atmosphere will make him melt and finally open up to you.

[weird-is-life]

Rockstar!tasm! Peter meeting Shy!reader on one of his shows? Invites her backstage to meet the band and he's just real flirty w her? Please

Hii, lovely!🫶 thank u so much for this request. This was fun to write. If you have anymore rockstar!Peter requests send them my way!!!! Hope this is okay. Warnings: fluff, use of y/n and pet names, mentions of alcohol, concert, flirting, mentions of big crowd, (2k)

Your best friends drag you to a concert of some upcoming band they love. Honestly, you don't know a thing about them only that they are allegedly pretty good, and that your friends are paying for your drinks tonight.

The whole place is packed with people, because it's not just one band playing, there are multiple bands playing throughout the whole night. The pretty big venue, but it still does nothing to make it more spacey. There's barely any place to move.

You thought you didn't mind so many people at one place, but as you try to get to the bar through the sea of sweaty bodies, you don't feel very happy that you're there.

You've lost your friends on the way to the bar as well, so you're on your own to get through the crowd. You hope that you'll meet your friends there.

You're almost at the bar when suddenly there's something cold and very very wet going down the front of your t-shirt. And by the smell of it, you can tell it's alcohol.

"Shit. I'm so sorry," the person panics in front of you," I didn't see you, like at all."

You slowly look up from your cold, wet t-shirt to the person speaking. It's a extremely handsome guy. Like 'your breath gets knocked out' handsome type. And no, you aren't even being dramatic.

He's dressed in all black, sleeveless t-shirt, black baggy jeans and black eyeliner. You don't think you've ever seen such abpretty and cute guy. He seems a bit familiar too, but you can't pinpoint where you've seen him before.

But you're t-shirt is still very much wet as you respond," it's-it's okay. There's just too many people, i know you didn't mean to."

You don't know what to do next. You don't have anything else to wear but this t-shirt. And your friends are still nowhere to be seen.

"Still, I'm very sorry," he apologetically looks at you, soft smile on his face. "Do you have anything else to wear?"

"I don't," you reply with a sigh.

"Shit," he curses looking around frantically. He looks like he has places to be, so you honestly don't want to keep him more than you've already had.

"It's whatever, I'll survive the few more hours, I guess. I'm sorry about your drinks tho," you give him a small, sheepish smile, and start going towards the bar again to find your friends.

You don't get far because he gently catches your hand, "as much as I think some guys would enjoy the wet t-shirt contest look, I would be an asshole to let you stay like this. Please let me get you a new t-shirt?"

Your cheeks go red at his words.

"It's really not that big deal-" you start.

"It is to me." He tells you. "Please, let me get you a t-shirt that doesn't reek of beer and vodka," he offers again with a chuckle.

You think it over for a few seconds as he looks hopefully at you, there's something else in the way he looks at you, but you can't quite name what it is.

"Okay, yeah," you say, and he smiles big at you," but where can you find a shirt here. There's nothing here."

He gives you the cheekiest smirk as he says, " don't worry about that. I'll get one for you. Just come with me."

He points to the doors you know lead to the backstage. You shake your head in disagreement, "we can't go there."

"We can, I know the people, so let's go," he starts to head thar way, but you don't budge. Overthinking it too much.

"Am I getting kidnapped?" you worry lightly. Even if you have a strong feeling, that you can trust this guy,

He laughs at your question,"no, definitely not. But if you want to wait here, it's okay, too. I'll bring it to you."

You think it over, and decide that you'd rather not stay in the middle of this pit of sweaty people. And also because you've never been backstage before, so you're curious.

"No, no, it's alright. I'll come with you."

He nods happily, "great. I'm Peter by the way."

"I'm y/n."

He starts to walk again, and this time you follow him. You have a hard time keeping up with him. With his long legs it's not easy to get through the crowd as he does.

Peter notices it, he stops, and suddenly there's his big, warm hand around yours.

Calloused fingers like guitarist's holding onto yours tightly, so he doesn't loose you. It makes the butterflies in your stomach go crazy.

He tugs you after him with an ease, and in no time you're in the backstage area.

Peter doesn't drop your hand, though, and he leads you even farther to some dressing room. He walks inside it so casually, and to your horror he pulls you inside with him.

There are 3 more guys in that room, all of them similarly dressed to Peter, looking very much like some rockstars. Peter finally drops your head, "give me a second, I'll find some clean t-shirt in my bag for you."

He leaves you standing in the middle of the room with your cheeks very rosy at the attention of the three other boys.

"I'm s-sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I'll...I'll go wait outside," you point at the door.

"You're not intruding," Peter says softly, " these are my boys..." he names all of them, and each of them gives you a warm smile and a nod.

Fuck. You suddenly realise. They must be some kind of band playing tonight.

"It's nice to meet you. Do...Are you playing on the stage tonight?" You question curiously.

"Yeah," Peter finally finds you a t-shirt, and walks back towards you. "We are the last band playing tonight," Peter hands you the clothing, and you thank him. Still very shy at the thought that you are currently standing in the middle of some band's dressing room.

"There's a bathroom right here, you can go change, yeah?" Peter suggests carefully, he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable or anything.

He thinks you are really, really pretty, and that it must be fate that you bumped into each other tonight. Peter only knows your name, and he knows he's fucked already. Like full on crush.

You only take a few seconds to clean yourself up, and change into Peter's t-shirt. When you come out of the bathroom, the guys are all standing, readying for the stage already.

"Hey, look at you, my t-shirt looks great on you, even if it's a little big," he compliments you with an easy smile, and you, once again, blush at his flirty tone.

"Thank you," you tell him," and thank you for the t-shirt, I really appreciate. I'm gonna go now though, i don't want to bother you anymore. I'll see you around. And thanks again."

You give him a wave with the intend to dissappear quickly out of there. Your friends are definitely wondering where you are by now. And also because your legs would probably give out if you had to endure one more flirty smile from Peter.

"Hey, hey, hey, wait up," Peter runs after you," I-I was wondering, if you would want to come listen from the side of the stage?

He looks unsurely at you. He has some kind of paper in his fidgeting hands.

"I can't, I'm sorry. I'm here with two of my best friends, so I can't even if I'd love to." You look regretfully at him.

"Then they should come, too! Please, it's the least I can do for spilling my drinks all over you." Peter blurts it all out way too quickly then he means to. Not keeping his cool composure near you like at all.

"Are you sure? We wouldn't want to bother," you ask quietly. Even if you'd really, really love seeing the band from the backstage. Because you don't want to go back into the messy crowd of people.

"You definitely won't bother anybody. It would be my pleasure actually to have you there. I can at least have some pretty girl like you there to dedicate our songs to," he winks at you. Flirting without much thought about it with you.

You can't say you don't like it. You do. Way too much than you probably should. So you say, "okay, yes. I'll text them right now."

"Great," he says with a big beam," and here, take this before I leave. Dave will escort you to the side of the stage." Peter pushes the paper from his hands to yours, and points at the bodyguard.

"Wait, Peter, what's this?"

"It's an address. If you could mail me the t-shirt back, it's my favourite," Peter tells you carefully, not wanting to sound like a dick.

"Oh, of course. That won't be any problem," you immediately assure him.

He nods at you, and leans in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. Don't worry, he gives you the time to push him away, but you don't. You would never. He just couldn't say goodbye to you without ever kissing your pink cheek in his lifetime.

"I'm so glad i bumped into you," he tells you breathlessly, "I'll see you on the stage," and with that he's off. Leaving you a blushing mess as you scramble to text your friends to come to the backstage.

When they finally arrive, you follow Dave to the side of the stage as your friends stare around them in huge awe.

It's even worse when you finally get to the stage. "How the fuck did you manage to get us in here?" Your friends question.

"It's a long story, I'll tell it to you later." They just shake their heads at you, not able to believe where they are.

They eyes, and yours, go impossibly wider once the band shows up, and they start playing.

Peter immediately looks your way, grins at you and sends you a wink. You just smile bashfully at him.

Your friends eyes are instantly on you, "um excuse me, why is Peter Parker unabashedly flirting across the stage with you?" They squeal as they ask that.

Your face goes white. You didn't realise that Peter was Peter freaking Parker. Lead singer of that upcoming band your friends dragged you here to see. You almost pass out at the realisation.

You can't believe that the future rockstar is openly flirting with you across the stage, and your friends can't either.

Your friends demand to know what exactly happened, so you tell them. They go even more crazy after that.

When the concert is eventually over, you and your friends get escorted away from there by Dave, so you don't even get the chance to say goodbye to Peter or even be bold enough to ask for his number.

It's later after you spend a few days moping about your wasted chance with Peter that you finally get the strength to send him his t-shirt back.

You find the crumpled paper that Peter gave you, and only then you realise what's really written on it. Your mouth goes wide open.

Dear y/n,

I lied it's not my favourite t-shirt. You can keep it. I wanted to ask for your number, but I didn't want to pressure you into thinking that you had to give it to me just because I got you backstage (or just because I'm a handsome rockstar). So here's my number +xxxx xxx xxx, I liked you, like a lot, so please feel free to text me or you can ignore me, both is totally fine. Even if I may end up heartbroken, and write sad songs about you if you do decide to ignore me. Just kidding......maybe

With love,

Peter P.

You squeal so loudly that probably the whole neighbourhood hears you. You make a few laps around your apartment as you try to calm yourself down. You can't really believe it. You even read it a few more times just to make it real.

Once you do calm your racing heart, you call your best friends over to help you figure out what to text Peter. They very gladly agree to come.

And let's just say Peter is just as enthusiasticly waiting for the text from you as you are to write it to him.

[darksturnz]

COMFORT IN THE CHAOS

CONTENTS:・emotional distress-heavy plot ・star!reader ・mild language ・sleeping in the same bed・artist!chris ・piercing discussion (self-piercing mentioned) ・fluff/found family vibes :3 + more WC: 11.5k masterlist: here

You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the trailer park playground, a cigarette dangling between your fingers, watching the sky bleed into a bruise of purples and greys. The swings creak in the breeze, empty but moving like ghosts are riding them. It’s the kind of silence that makes you feel like you’re the only one alive here.

Then you see her.

She’s small—probably no more than six—and she’s making a beeline straight for you. Loose curls of brown hair bounce against her shoulders, the kind that’s already starting to frizz in the sticky air, and her greenish-brown eyes look determined. You recognize her before she’s even close: Chris’s sister. Lila.

She’s clutching something to her chest, tiny fingers wrapped tight around it. As she stops in front of you, she presses her lips together, like she’s sizing you up.

“Uh… hey,” you say, because what else do you say to a kid who comes up to you unprompted? “You lost or something?”

She shakes her head solemnly. “You’re Star.”

It’s not a question.

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Satisfied, she drops her hands, holding her stuffed bunny up for you to see. You notice the torn ear right away, the uneven stitching like someone—probably Chris—tried to fix it but gave up halfway through. The poor thing’s been through hell.

“This is Bunny,” Lila says. “He’s tired.”

You tilt your head, amusement flickering across your face. “Same.”

Lila’s smile is shy but pleased, like you’ve passed some secret test. Without waiting for an invitation, she plops down next to you on the gravel, the stuffed rabbit settling into her lap like a living thing.

For a second, you just watch her, mildly bewildered. You don’t exactly scream kid-friendly, not with the cigarette stubs and piercings and eyeliner smeared under your eyes. But she seems unbothered, picking at a loose thread on Bunny’s paw as she leans back like she’s been planning to hang out with you all day.

“You’re not supposed to talk to strangers, you know,” you tell her, nudging a pebble with your boot.

“You’re not a stranger,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

“Chris.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, surprised. Chris talks about me?

You’re about to ask what he said when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of someone calling her name. Sharp. Frantic. You glance up just in time to see Chris stalking toward the playground, panic written all over his face, his hood pushed back and his dark hair a mess like he ran all the way here.

“Lila,” he calls again, his voice edged with something rougher than worry, and she perks up like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Over here!” she chirps, waving one small arm above her head.

Chris’s gaze snaps to her—and then to you. He freezes mid-step, his shoulders stiffening as he takes in the scene: Lila sitting cross-legged beside you like you’re old friends, her bunny nestled in her lap, and you sitting there with your half-smoked cigarette and black nails tapping idly against your knee.

His face goes a shade darker, embarrassment settling in as he swipes a hand over his jaw.

“Lila,” he mutters, striding over and crouching down in front of her. “You can’t just run off like that. I told you to stay inside.”

“I wasn’t far,” she insists, all innocence. “You were sleeping.”

Chris shoots you a look like this is somehow your fault. You hold up your hands in surrender, amused. “Hey, don’t look at me. She found me.”

He doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he says quietly to Lila, his voice softer now. “Let’s go.”

Lila pouts, clinging to Bunny. “But I like Star.”

Chris’s ears go pink, and he shoots you a glare like you’re going to make this worse somehow. You smirk, leaning back against your palms. “I didn’t kidnap her, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still smoking around her,” he mutters, standing up and brushing gravel off his jeans.

You roll your eyes but drop the cigarette, grinding it into the dirt with your heel. “Happy?”

He doesn’t answer, just mumbles something under his breath as he grabs Lila’s hand. She stares up at him, unimpressed. “Chris, you’re being weird.”

“You’re being weird,” he mutters back, then freezes, realizing how stupid that sounds. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes flicking to you like he’s hoping the ground will swallow him whole.

You grin. “You guys make a good team.”

Chris glares, but it doesn’t hold much weight. He just looks tired, embarrassed, and maybe a little grateful that you didn’t make this into a thing. “Let’s go, Lila,” he mutters again, tugging her hand gently.

“Bye, Star!” Lila calls as they turn away, her curls bouncing again. “Say bye, Chris.”

Chris doesn’t say anything—he just shoves his hands in his pockets, his face turned down. But as they walk off, you think you see him glance back once, just for a second.

You don’t wave. You don’t say anything. You just smile to yourself and lean back into the silence, watching the empty swings sway in the wind.

The trailer feels smaller than usual tonight. The kind of small that presses against your ribs, suffocating you even when there’s no one in the room. But there is someone in the room—him. Sitting in his stained recliner with a half-empty beer can on the armrest, his voice a low, slurred hum of irritation that’s been building for the last ten minutes.

“Where the hell were you all day?” he spits, his words slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to corner you with each one.

You stand by the counter, jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest. “Around.”

“Around?” He laughs—short and humorless—and smacks the arm of the chair with his palm. “What’s that mean, huh? You think you can just disappear whenever you feel like it?”

“It means it’s none of your business,” you fire back, the edge in your voice sharper than you intended. You regret it as soon as his head snaps up.

His face darkens, brows pulling together as he points a finger at you. “Don’t start with me, Y/N. Not tonight. I work my assoff to keep a roof over your head, and you—”

“You sit around drinking all day,” you interrupt, your voice cracking slightly. “That’s not working your ass off, and we both know it.”

The silence that follows is loud. Too loud. He stares at you for a moment, his eyes cold and mean in the lamplight. Then he stands—slow and deliberate—and you feel your heart slam against your ribs.

“You’re lucky you’ve got a roof at all,” he growls, the words low but thick with anger. “You think anyone else would put up with you? Huh? Look at yourself. You’re a goddamn mess.”

The words hit you harder than they should, and you can’t stand to hear another one. “Screw this,” you mutter, grabbing your jacket off the back of a chair and shoving your feet into your boots.

“Where are you going?” he barks, but you’re already at the door.

“Out.”

“You come back in this house when I say—”

The door slams behind you before he can finish, the sound shaking through the frame. The cool night air hits you like a shock, sharp and sobering. You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs, trying to push his words out with it.

The trailer park is quiet at this hour, most of the lights turned off, the gravel beneath your boots crunching as you head toward the road. Your hands are shaking. You jam them into your jacket pockets and keep walking, letting the dark swallow you whole. You don’t know where you’re going—just that anywhere is better than here.

The gravel crunches under your boots as you storm across the trailer park, the sharp chill of the night air biting at your cheeks. Your ears are still ringing with the last echoes of your father’s voice—mess, lucky, roof—words you didn’t want to hear but couldn’t shut out.

You don’t stop walking until you see the faint orange glow of a joint flickering in the darkness.

At first, you think it’s nothing—just another shadow against the trailers—but then the low creak of metal catches your attention. A figure bends over the open hood of a car, lit faintly by the weak yellow light of the porch bulb. Chris.

His once-white wife beater is smeared with grease and oil, clinging to his skin in places where sweat’s soaked through. A red bandana—darkened with its own share of stains—hangs from the back pocket of his jeans, forgotten as he works. His dark curls are matted against his forehead, slick with sweat, and his jaw tenses slightly around the joint wedged between his lips.

You slow down without meaning to, your anger cooling just a little as you take him in. He doesn’t look up, not at first—too focused on whatever’s under the hood. But there’s something in the set of his shoulders, the way his movements seem heavy, like even this takes more energy than he has.

You clear your throat, just enough to let him know you’re there. He straightens up immediately, turning toward you, brows pulling together in that guarded way of his.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The glow of the joint brightens as he takes a drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before muttering, “You lost or something?”

His voice is rough, gruff in the way it always is, but tonight there’s a softness under it—like he doesn’t have the energy to put up too much of a front.

“No,” you answer, shoving your hands deeper into your jacket pockets. “Just… walking.”

He eyes you for a moment, his dark blue gaze lingering on the way your shoulders are hunched, the tension still obvious in your frame. He doesn’t ask any questions, though. Chris doesn’t ask questions.

“You look like shit,” he says finally, blunt as ever, but there’s no malice in it.

“So do you,” you shoot back, motioning to his grease-streaked shirt and the curls sticking to his forehead.

That earns you a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. He shakes his head slightly, pulling the joint from his lips and tapping the ash onto the ground. “Fair enough.”

The two of you fall quiet again, the only sounds the faint hum of crickets and the soft ticking of the car’s engine as it cools. Chris turns back toward the hood, wiping his hands on the bandana before tucking it into his pocket again.

“Your car broken?” you ask after a moment, just to fill the silence.

“Always is,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. His eyes still hold that tired, distant look, like he hasn’t really slept in days. “Gotta keep it running somehow.”

You nod, even though you don’t really know what else to say. He seems fine with the silence, though. Chris always does.

“Where’s Lila?” you ask softly, surprising yourself with the question.

“Inside,” he says, his voice losing some of its edge. “Sleeping.”

“She’s cute,” you offer. “She told me about Bunny.”

That earns you something—a short, rough chuckle as he runs a hand through his hair, smearing a little grease into the curls. “Yeah, she would.”

You watch him for a moment longer, his silhouette outlined against the dim light. He doesn’t look at you again, but you can tell he knows you’re still there, lingering like you’re not ready to go back yet.

“You’re out late,” he says suddenly, though his tone is careful, like he’s not trying to pry.

“So are you.”

He snorts, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a kind of resignation that makes your chest feel heavy. You look at him then, really look, and for a second it feels like neither of you have a choice. Like you’re both stuck here in this trailer park, leaning on broken cars and broken homes just to make it through the night.

“You want me to go?” you ask, though you don’t really want him to say yes.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He takes another slow drag from his joint, staring at something in the distance before finally shaking his head. “Nah. You’re good.”

You nod, sinking down to sit on the edge of the gravel, your knees pulled up to your chest. You don’t talk. He doesn’t either. But the silence feels different now—not suffocating, not angry. Just quiet.

The quiet settles in, not quite comfortable, but not suffocating either. Chris keeps his focus on the open hood, the occasional clink of metal and soft murmur of frustration breaking the silence. You sit perched on the gravel a few feet away, elbows on your knees, your boots scuffing against the dirt. From where you are, you can see the way his arms flex as he works—lean, tense muscles moving under skin smudged with oil and sweat.

“Pass me the—” he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Shit. The socket wrench. Small one.”

You blink, staring at the scattered mess of tools in the box next to you like they’re written in another language. “Uh… sure.”

Grabbing the first thing that seems like it might work, you hold it up for inspection. Chris barely glances before shaking his head. “No. Not that. The other one. Looks like a ratchet.”

“A ratchet?” you echo, scowling at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

He sighs, muttering something under his breath before jerking his chin at the toolbox. “Silver handle. Little head. Spins.”

You frown down at the tools again, narrowing your eyes as if that’ll help. After a few seconds of trial and error, you grab one and hold it up like you’ve won a prize. “This?”

Chris finally looks up, his dark blue gaze sweeping over it before nodding once. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

You toss it to him underhand, and he catches it without breaking stride, sliding back under the hood like the conversation never happened.

“That was a total guess,” you admit, smirking a little to yourself. “I’m basically a mechanic now.”

“You’d be a shitty mechanic,” he mutters, but there’s the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

You rest your chin on your knees, watching as he works. There’s something about the way he moves—steady, deliberate—that makes you feel calmer just sitting there. It’s like every motion has a purpose, every clink of the tools against the metal a reminder that he knows what he’s doing. You don’t see much of that in Pine View—people who actually dosomething instead of just saying they will.

After a while, he asks again. “Need the pliers.”

You hand him the needle-nose pliers without hesitation this time, earning you a glance from under his sweat-damp curls. “Quicker that time.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

He keeps going, a low hum of focus settling around him as the minutes stretch on. You lose track of time out there, the night growing darker, the trailer park falling into a heavy kind of quiet. Every now and then, Chris adjusts his joint between his lips, inhaling slow before letting the smoke curl up into the humid air. The smell of it mixes with the sharp scent of oil and metal—something oddly familiar and grounding.

“Why’d you start working on cars?” you ask eventually, your voice low enough not to break the stillness.

Chris pauses just long enough to swipe his bandana over his forehead, leaving a darker streak across the fabric. “Didn’t have a choice,” he says simply, leaning back to check something under the hood. “Car broke, no money to fix it. You figure it out or you walk everywhere.”

“You get good at it?”

“Good enough.”

You nod like that makes perfect sense. Because it does. Pine View is full of people who have to figure it out—or don’t.

“Star.”

You blink at the sound of your name, glancing up. Chris’s hand is out, palm open. “Flathead screwdriver.”

You reach into the box again, grabbing what you think is right and handing it over. This time, Chris doesn’t even look—just takes it like he trusts you to get it right. For some reason, that makes your chest feel a little less tight.

He works for another few minutes before standing up fully, stretching out his back with a low groan. The joint’s burned down to almost nothing now, barely a flicker between his fingers. He tilts his head back, staring at the dark sky as he exhales the last drag, the smoke catching the faint glow of the porch light.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” you say quietly, your voice cutting through the silence.

Chris glances down at you, dark blue eyes still holding that perpetual tiredness, though there’s something else too—something less sharp. “No.”

“That’s okay,” you reply, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “I talk enough for both of us.”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at you for a beat longer than he needs to, then shakes his head slightly and goes back to wiping his hands on the stained bandana.

“You should get inside,” he says eventually, his voice softer than before. “It’s late.”

“Yeah.” You don’t move.

Chris doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He just tosses the wrench back into the toolbox with a clatter and leans against the car, his arms crossed as he stares out at the empty stretch of trailers beyond you both. You don’t know how long you sit there, quiet but not alone. Long enough for the night air to feel a little less cold. Long enough for the knots in your chest to loosen, just a little.

Chris exhales, long and slow, like he’s been thinking about something for a while before finally deciding to say it. He pushes away from the car, flicking the remains of his joint into the gravel where it smolders out. “You wanna come inside?”

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your gaze as he wipes his hands down the front of his oil-streaked shirt. “It’s not much, but I need to check on Lila, and you shouldn’t be out here alone. Place gets sketchy this time of night.”

That makes you laugh, a sharp sound that echoes a little too loudly in the quiet. “I grew up here, Chris. I think I can handle it.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, jaw tightening, “I don’t like it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, something flickering through you—annoyance, curiosity, maybe a bit of both. “Why do you care?”

He pauses for a beat, shoving the stained bandana back into his pocket. “I just do.”

It’s simple. Final. Like he doesn’t need to explain himself further. He glances toward the shadows stretching across the trailer park, the kind that swallow up anything just out of sight. His voice softens a little. “You don’t gotta stay out here.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward your trailer—toward him—and suddenly, being out here alone doesn’t feel so great. You hate that Chris might be right.

“It’s not that bad,” you mumble, half-hearted, because you’ve said it so many times before that it’s practically a reflex.

Chris just stares at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes steady. There’s something about him that makes you feel like you can’t lie to yourself tonight—not with him standing there, oil-slicked and sweaty, watching you like he’s already decided you’re coming inside whether you argue or not.

“Fine,” you say finally, pushing yourself to your feet. “But if your place smells like feet and motor oil, I’m leaving.”

Chris’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smirk. “I’ll survive.”

He turns without another word, leading the way toward his trailer. You follow a few steps behind, your boots crunching in the gravel. It feels weird, letting someone look out for you—especially him. But you don’t hate it. Not tonight.

Chris doesn’t look back as he walks, but he doesn’t need to. You follow him up the short set of steps to his trailer, where the porch light flickers dimly, barely enough to cast shadows. He unlocks the door with a quiet clink, nudging it open with his shoulder.

“Watch your step,” he mutters, stepping aside to let you in first.

You hesitate for just a second before walking past him, the inside of the trailer warmer than you expected. It smells faintly of something familiar—laundry detergent, maybe—and something else beneath it: motor oil and faint smoke, a scent you’re starting to associate with him. It’s not a mess, exactly, but it’s not neat either. A stack of Lila’s drawings is scattered across the coffee table, along with an empty cereal bowl and a few crumpled fast-food napkins. On the couch sits one of Lila’s small sneakers, abandoned like she kicked it off mid-run.

Chris steps in behind you, pulling the door shut softly. “Like I said, it’s not much.”

“It’s fine,” you say, brushing off the comment as you glance around. The place feels… lived in. Not cold. Not empty. Just a little worn, like him.

Chris drops his keys on the counter, the faint clink loud in the quiet. He pulls the bandana from his pocket again and wipes the sweat from his neck before tossing it into a laundry basket near the door. Then he jerks his chin toward the couch. “Sit if you want. I’ll be quick.”

You hover awkwardly for a second before perching on the edge of the couch cushion. It’s softer than it looks. You glance down at the drawings scattered across the coffee table—crayon sketches of flowers, some wonky-looking animals, and a big house with stick figures holding hands in front of it. You feel something in your chest pull a little.

Chris disappears down the narrow hall toward the back room, where the soft sound of a door creaking open reaches your ears. You hear him moving, his voice low and quiet—gentler than you’d expect.

“Lila?” A beat. “You good?”

There’s no response that you can hear, but after a moment, his footsteps return, slower this time. He reappears in the doorway, running a hand through his damp curls, leaving behind a streak of oil he doesn’t seem to notice.

“She’s still out,” he says, like he needs to explain himself. “Sleeps through anything.”

You nod, not sure what to say. Chris lingers for a second, his dark blue eyes flicking to you as he crosses the room and drops into the recliner across from you. He leans back, stretching one arm along the armrest as he exhales through his nose.

“Sorry,” he mutters, though you’re not sure what for. “About earlier. I didn’t mean to—” He stops himself, frowning slightly before shaking his head. “Forget it.”

You look at him, watching the way he slouches into the chair like he’s just done. Done with the day, done with the car, done with everything. You shrug, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s fine. You didn’t do anything.”

Chris glances at you, his tired gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he looks away, staring somewhere past you. The porch light outside casts shadows across his face, making the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones stand out even more. He looks like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t.

Instead, the two of you just sit there, the silence stretching out again—but it’s not the heavy, tense kind that makes you want to bolt. It’s different. Quieter. Settled. You find yourself relaxing into the couch without realizing it, the weight of the night finally easing off your shoulders.

“Why were you out there?” he asks eventually, his voice low but even.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Earlier,” he says, not looking at you. “In the dark, walking around by yourself.”

Your stomach twists slightly, the fight with your dad flashing through your mind like a bruise you’re not ready to touch. You pick at the loose threads in the cushion beneath your hand. “Just… needed air.”

Chris doesn’t push. He just nods slowly, like he gets it—like he’s been there before. “Yeah.”

You glance over at him, at the tired set of his shoulders and the dark circles beneath his eyes. The small house Lila drew on the table catches your eye again, and you wonder how often he feels like this—like the walls are closing in, like there’s nowhere to go but out.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Chris looks at you, brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

You shrug, looking down at your hands. “Not letting me sit out there.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you can feel his gaze linger on you. “Yeah. Sure.”

You look up, and for a second, you swear he’s about to smile—but then he blinks, the moment slipping away, and he stands up abruptly. “I’ll get you something to drink. You want water or…?”

“Water’s fine.”

Chris nods and disappears into the small kitchen. You listen to the sound of cabinets opening, the faint clang of glass against the counter. You exhale slowly, letting yourself sink deeper into the couch. The soft clink of glass fills the space as Chris moves around the kitchen, his footsteps heavy against the trailer floor. You lean back further into the couch, the quiet hum of the place settling over you like a blanket. It feels strange to be here, strange in the way that something too normal feels after a fight. Like you’ve slipped sideways into someone else’s night, someone else’s life.

When Chris returns, he hands you a glass of water without a word, his fingers brushing yours briefly before he drops back into his chair. He sits forward this time, elbows on his knees, his oil-streaked hands hanging loosely between them. He looks like he’s about to say something, but instead, he just sighs and drags a hand through his curls again—only smearing more grease into them.

“You’ve got…” You motion vaguely to your head. “Oil. Everywhere.”

Chris snorts under his breath and wipes at it with his wrist, only making it worse. “Yeah, well. Comes with the job.” He tilts his head slightly, shooting you a dry look. “You offerin’ t’fix it?”

You grin faintly. “Nah. Not much of a stylist.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Silence stretches again, but it’s different this time—less heavy, less awkward. Chris leans back again, his head tipping against the back of the chair, eyes flickering shut for a second. His chest rises and falls steadily, like he’s trying to take one decent breath after a long day.

“Lila likes you,” he says suddenly, eyes still closed.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“She said so,” he mutters, cracking one eye open to glance at you. “Said you were ‘cool.’ And that Bunny likes you too.”

That makes you smile. You think about Lila earlier, her little face so serious as she introduced you to her torn-eared rabbit, and you can’t help but feel a flicker of warmth in your chest. “Well, Bunny’s got good taste.”

Chris huffs a quiet laugh, though it’s more air than sound. “Yeah, don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t.” You sip from the glass, watching him carefully. There’s something about the way he talks about Lila—soft, careful, like he knows how fragile she is. “You take care of her a lot?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He stares at a spot on the floor like he’s deciding what to say. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta.”

It’s simple, but there’s so much weight behind it—like those three words carry everything he doesn’t say. Because Mom can’t. Because it’s just us. Because no one else will. You don’t press, though. You don’t need to.

“I get it,” you say softly, though you’re not sure if you’re talking about him or yourself.

Chris looks at you then, really looks, like he’s seeing you in a different light. His blue eyes are darker in the dim room, but there’s something softer in them too, something quieter. He doesn’t say anything, just nods faintly before pushing himself to his feet.

“Lila’ll freak if you wake her up,” he mutters, moving toward the hallway. “I’ll grab you a blanket or something.”

You sit up straighter, blinking. “Wait—what?”

He pauses, turning back with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not walking back. Not this late.”

“I can handle it,” you argue, though the idea of going back to your trailer, to him, makes your stomach twist.

Chris doesn’t budge. “It’s fine. Couch isn’t great, but it’s better than walking through this dump alone.” He hesitates, frowning slightly before adding, “It’s just a couch. Don’t get weird about it.”

You don’t know why that makes you feel so seen—like he already knew you’d argue, like he already knew you wouldn’t want to ask for this. You glance at the coffee table again, at the crayon drawings of flowers and houses, at the empty sneaker, at the life that’s been built here in pieces.

“Fine,” you mumble, leaning back into the cushions like you’re totally unaffected. “But if you snore, I’m out.”

Chris rolls his eyes as he turns toward the back room. “You won’t hear me.”

You don’t argue with him this time. Instead, you let yourself settle in, the glass of water still cool in your hand. The hum of the trailer settles back over you, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels… still.

And you think maybe, just maybe, you won’t hear anything tonight except the quiet.

Chris disappears down the narrow hallway, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of the trailer. You sit there, awkwardly at first, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion while the faint creak of a door opening echoes down the hall. A minute later, he reappears, holding a crumpled blanket that looks like it’s been shoved into a closet for months. He tosses it onto the couch beside you with a quick, almost sheepish motion.

“Here,” he mutters. “Best I’ve got.”

You grab it before it slides onto the floor, and as soon as you do, you catch the smell—familiar in a way you can’t quite place. Faint cigarette smoke. A hint of motor oil. That sharp scent of clean laundry that only barely cuts through it. Your fingers sink into the worn fabric, and for some reason, it makes your chest feel tight. Like you’re holding something you shouldn’t, something that feels too close.

“You good?” Chris asks, pausing halfway to the hallway.

You look up quickly, masking whatever you were feeling. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Chris doesn’t press. He just nods, running a hand through his curls again and grimacing when his fingers catch on something sticky—probably more oil. “I’m gonna shower. Don’t break anything.”

“I’ll try not to,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.

He disappears again, the sound of the bathroom door closing behind him followed by the hiss of old pipes groaning to life. You hear the water turn on a moment later, a dull rush that fills the silence in the trailer.

For a moment, you just sit there, fingers still curled around the blanket, your thoughts drifting to the fight you left behind. To your dad’s voice, sharp and cutting. To the slamming door and the way your own breathing felt too loud as you stepped outside. Now, wrapped up in the dim light of Chris’s space, it all feels distant—like the anger’s been stripped from it, leaving only exhaustion behind.

Your eyes drift to the coffee table again—Lila’s crayon drawings spread out in a messy stack, one page overlapping the next. You see the house again, the one she drew with thick brown walls and a triangle roof, stick figures holding hands out front. The tallest one has curls. Chris. The little one has bunny ears sticking out of her head. Lila.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, chewing the inside of your cheek as curiosity tugs at the edge of your mind. The water’s still running—Chris is still in the shower—and the rest of the trailer feels so still, so there.

You stand, moving quietly toward the small kitchen area. A couple of dishes sit in the sink, one of them holding a soggy cereal spoon. There’s an unopened box of crackers on the counter next to a stack of overdue bills, their edges curled and frayed. Your gaze drifts up to a corkboard tacked to the wall, cluttered with half-pinned papers and reminders scrawled in Chris’s sharp, blocky handwriting. Some of them are grocery lists.

Milk, cereal, ramen. Lila likes those gummy worms.

You don’t realize you’re smiling until you catch yourself, your lips twitching faintly as you step back. Something about it feels real—this life he’s patching together out of lists and leftovers and old blankets shoved into corners.

You glance back toward the hall, listening to the faint trickle of the shower. He’s still in there.

Your curiosity pulls you to the corner of the living room, where a few of Chris’s sketches are piled on a small, dented table. You hover for a second, your fingers twitching at your sides. Then, slowly, you reach out and pick up the top sheet.

It’s a charcoal drawing—a skull, its shadows so deep and detailed it almost looks three-dimensional. Around it, faint flowers bloom from cracks in the bone, the petals shaded with the kind of precision that makes your breath catch. You flip to the next one, another skull—this time paired with thorny vines, curling around its hollow eye sockets. There’s something beautiful and haunting about it, something that feels him.

You hear the pipes groan again, the water pressure shifting slightly, and you freeze. Carefully, you place the sketches back where you found them and return to the couch, sinking down quickly with the blanket still bunched in your lap.

The shower cuts off, and for a moment, the only sound is the faint drip of water before the pipes settle again. You lean back into the cushions, forcing your gaze on the ceiling as you try to ignore the way your chest feels—like you’ve seen something you weren’t supposed to. Like you’ve been let in, just a little, to a world Chris doesn’t show anyone.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Chris’s footsteps shuffle back down the hallway. You glance over to see him in a clean shirt—this one black and loose—his curls still damp and sticking to his forehead. He pauses when he sees you sitting exactly where he left you, the blanket tucked around your shoulders.

“You didn’t snoop, did you?” he asks, but there’s no real bite to it—just the same dry, tired Chris.

“Nope,” you say quickly, looking at the TV like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

He eyes you for a moment, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but then he shakes his head and drops back into his chair with a groan. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You don’t answer. You just tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and let your gaze flicker toward the window, where the night outside feels a little less lonely than it did an hour ago.

Chris doesn’t say anything for a while, settling deeper into the recliner with that same tired look he always seems to carry. You hear the springs creak faintly under his weight, the sound filling the space where conversation might go. You don’t mind. The quiet feels easier now, softer somehow.

You adjust the blanket in your lap, the familiar smell still lingering. It’s strange—almost comforting—but it makes your chest ache a little, like it knows something about you that you don’t want to admit.

Chris catches you staring at the window. “What, you scared of the dark now?”

You glance at him, rolling your eyes. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You open your mouth to fire something back, but when you see him leaning back like that, his arms hanging loosely over the chair’s sides, you lose your edge. There’s no malice in his words—just something dry and unbothered, like he’s filling the silence out of habit.

“What’s your deal with this place anyway?” you ask suddenly, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “You hate it or what?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He tips his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like the answer’s written somewhere in the shadows there. “What do you think?”

“I think you don’t say much of anything,” you shoot back, though there’s no bite to it.

He huffs softly through his nose, his mouth twitching like he might smirk. “What’s there to say? It’s a dump. Same as everywhere else.”

You watch him carefully, the way his gaze stays fixed on a crack in the ceiling, the way his fingers twitch faintly where they rest. “Does Lila know that?”

Chris’s jaw tenses slightly, but he doesn’t look at you. “No.”

“Good,” you say simply, leaning back into the couch. “Because she seems pretty happy here.”

That gets him to glance at you, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. For a moment, he just stares, his gaze heavy but unreadable, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re saying any of this. Then he shakes his head, muttering, “You’re weird.”

“Thanks,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Chris snorts quietly, the sound barely there, before running a hand through his damp curls. “Don’t make it sound like some big secret, alright? Lila thinks it’s good here because I want her to think that. That’s all.”

You don’t respond right away. The weight behind his words settles between you both, and you realize there’s nothing easy about what he’s carrying—not the trailer, not Lila, not the quiet resentment that simmers behind everything he does.

“Doesn’t mean you’re wrong,” you say finally, surprising even yourself.

Chris looks at you again, brow furrowing slightly. “About what?”

“That it’s a dump,” you say simply, shrugging. “But sometimes dumps are all you’ve got.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he wants to argue, like he wants to say something, but the words never come. Instead, he just shifts in his chair, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah.”

The clock ticks faintly on the far wall, the sound almost loud in the quiet. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself again, letting its familiar scent wrap around you. Chris doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. But you don’t leave, either.

Instead, you sit there in the dim light, the shadows stretching longer, the quiet settling deep into your bones. For the first time all night, you don’t feel like you need to go anywhere.

The stillness stretches, not heavy, but weighted—like it knows it belongs there. Chris leans further into the recliner, his head tipped back and his breathing even, almost like he’s teetering on the edge of sleep. You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, only that the world outside feels far away. Even the sound of your father’s voice, still echoing faintly in the back of your mind, has been drowned out by the faint hum of the trailer and the way the room seems to hold its breath.

Your gaze drifts over to Chris again, your eyes catching on the rise and fall of his chest. For once, the tension in his shoulders seems to have let go, his face softer without its usual guarded edge. He’s got that same kind of tired look he always carries, like sleep doesn’t come easy, but here, in the quiet of his own space, it doesn’t seem to bother him as much.

And you don’t know why, but something about it makes your chest ache.

You pull the blanket closer around you, sinking further into the couch, the worn fabric soft against your hands. It’s not just the smell that’s familiar anymore—it’s the feeling. A kind of warmth that comes from something lived in, something that’s been through its share of wear and tear but hasn’t fallen apart yet. It makes you feel strangely safe, even if you don’t want to admit it. Even if you haven’t felt that way in a long time.

From across the room, Chris’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and slightly groggy. “You’re staring.”

You blink, jolted back to the moment. Chris doesn’t move much—his head still leans against the back of the recliner—but one blue eye cracks open, catching you in the act.

“Was not,” you mutter, defensive but not sharp.

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, that familiar hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a shitty liar.”

“You’ve said that already,” you fire back, but there’s no real heat in it.

Chris just snorts softly, letting his eyes slip shut again. For a moment, you think he’s going to drift off completely, the slow rhythm of his breathing filling the silence. Then he speaks again, quieter this time.

“You don’t have to stay, you know.”

You glance at him, frowning slightly. “Hm?”

His voice stays even, but there’s something softer underneath. “Here. I’m not… I didn’t mean to keep you or anything.”

“M’fine,” you say quickly, because you are. Or maybe you just don’t want to leave. “It’s better than…” You stop yourself, biting back the words better than home.

Chris doesn’t press you. He never does. Instead, he shifts slightly in the recliner, turning his head toward you without opening his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

Another beat of quiet settles, and you let your eyes drift back to the coffee table, where one of Lila’s crayon drawings peeks out from the pile. It’s not much—just a bright yellow sun with wobbly beams stretching out from the center—but it feels important somehow. Like it’s holding something together.

“You take care of her,” you say softly, surprising yourself.

Chris hums faintly, like he’s not sure if it’s a question or not. “Yeah.”

“You’re good at it,” you add, even softer.

Chris doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, his voice is quieter than you’ve heard it all night. “Not really.”

You don’t argue, but you don’t agree either. Because you see it—the way Lila lights up when she’s around him, the way her drawings seem to fill the space he doesn’t talk about. It’s the kind of care you don’t see in most people, the kind that doesn’t get shown off but sits there, constant and steady.

Chris doesn’t say anything else, and you don’t push. Instead, you sink back into the couch again, the blanket pulled up to your chin, and let the quiet return. The hum of the trailer wraps around both of you, its walls creaking faintly with the settling night.

The quiet stretches out again, and for the first time all night, it feels like you can actually breathe. Chris’s breathing evens out too, slower now, like he’s on the verge of slipping into sleep. His head tilts to one side, his curls damp and messy against his forehead, and his arms hang loosely over the sides of the recliner.

For a moment, you think he’s finally out—but then he jerks awake slightly, his eyes flickering open as he shifts in his seat. He sits up straighter, blinking at you like he’s trying to shake off the drowsiness.

“You good?” he mutters, his voice rougher now, thicker with sleep.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, adjusting the blanket over your lap. “I’m fine.”

He studies you for a second, his blue eyes narrowed slightly like he doesn’t quite believe you. You glance away, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t help. You know what he’s looking at—your face, the way it’s probably giving you away, showing everything you don’t want to admit.

Chris leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That couch isn’t great,” he says quietly, nodding toward the lumpy cushions beneath you. “You’re not used to it.”

“It’s fine,” you say again, sharper this time, even though the ache in your chest isn’t from the couch at all. It’s from everything else—the fight, the words, the way your own home feels like a warzone every time you walk through the door. But you can’t say that. Not to him.

Chris doesn’t look convinced. His brows furrow slightly, his hand raking through his curls again as he thinks. Finally, he stands, stretching his arms over his head before motioning toward the back of the trailer.

“Take the bed,” he says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You blink up at him, startled. “What?”

“The bed,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. “It’s better than this. You’ll sleep better.”

“I’m not taking your bed,” you shoot back, frowning at him. “You’re already letting me crash here. I’m not—”

“Star,” he cuts you off, his voice calm but firm. “S’fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” you argue, but the look he gives you stops you mid-sentence. It’s not harsh or annoyed—it’s steady, like he’s already decided and there’s no point in fighting him.

“I’m not doing it for me,” he says quietly, his blue eyes holding yours. “You’re not fine, and we both know it.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, and for a second, you can’t look at him. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, you can tell, but hearing it out loud makes it harder to keep the walls up. You glance down at the blanket, your fingers curling into the fabric.

“It’s not the couch,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Chris exhales slowly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I know.”

You look up at him, surprised. He shrugs, leaning back against the edge of the recliner. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just saying… if it helps, take the bed. I’ll stay out here.”

His words hang in the air, heavy but not suffocating. You know he means it—there’s no pity in his voice, no expectation, just an offering. A way to let you breathe, even if it’s only for a night.

After a long pause, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Chris nods too, his expression unreadable but softer somehow. He gestures toward the hallway again. “Door on the right. Sheets are clean.”

You stand, still clutching the blanket around your shoulders, and glance back at him before heading toward the hall. He’s already moving back toward the couch, grabbing another blanket off the back of the recliner as he settles in.

“Chris,” you say softly, pausing in the doorway.

He looks up, his gaze steady but tired. “What?”

“Thanks,” you say, your voice cracking just enough for him to notice.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just nods once before leaning back into the couch. “Yeah. Get some sleep.”

You step into the room, the door clicking softly behind you. The bed is small but neatly made, the faint smell of his cologne lingering on the sheets. You climb in slowly, sinking into the mattress as the weight of the night finally starts to lift.

You lie on the bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling. The mattress is soft, and the faint scent of Chris—cologne, smoke, and something earthy you can’t quite place—lingers on the sheets. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s enough to make you feel a little… uneasy. Not in a bad way, just in a way that makes your chest feel too tight, like you don’t quite deserve the comfort of it.

Your eyes wander around the room, taking it in. It’s simple, like the rest of the trailer—just a dresser against the far wall, a few scattered shirts peeking out from an open drawer. There’s a sketchbook on the bedside table, its edges worn, with a pencil lying haphazardly across it. The walls are bare, except for a single framed photo on the dresser. You squint, barely making out the image of a younger Chris with Lila perched on his shoulders, her wide grin almost overshadowing his reluctant one.

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket tighter around you, but the guilt creeps in anyway. The bed feels too warm, too good, too… his. You stare at the faint light seeping in through the cracks of the door, imagining him out there on the couch, probably just as tired as you but too stubborn to admit it.

You sigh, sitting up and rubbing a hand over your face. The thought of him trying to sleep in that lumpy old recliner makes your stomach twist, and before you can overthink it, you push the blanket off and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The trailer is quiet when you open the door. The faint light from the kitchen spills into the living room, casting shadows over the couch where Chris is stretched out, one arm thrown over his face. His blanket barely covers him, the edges falling short of his feet.

You hover for a second, second-guessing yourself, but then you take a step forward and clear your throat softly. “Chris.”

He stirs, his arm dropping slightly so his eyes—half-lidded and groggy—meet yours. “What?” he mutters, his voice low and thick with sleep.

“You don’t have to sleep out here,” you say quickly, before you lose your nerve. “I mean—you can come back. To the bed. Just… separate blankets or whatever.”

He blinks at you, his brows furrowing slightly as he pushes himself up onto one elbow. “What?”

“I feel bad,” you admit, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s your bed. You shouldn’t have to give it up.”

Chris stares at you for a moment, like he’s trying to process what you’re saying, before shaking his head slightly. “S’fine, Star. I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” you interrupt, frowning at him. “But you look just as wrecked as I feel, so stop being stubborn and come back there. I’m not gonna bite.”

That earns you a faint snort, though his face is still guarded. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, trying to play it cool even though your chest feels tight again. “It’s just one night. You don’t have to sleep on that deathtrap.”

Chris hesitates, running a hand through his curls as he considers it. Finally, he sighs and swings his legs off the couch, standing up and grabbing his blanket. “Separate blankets,” he mutters, his voice dry but not unkind.

“Obviously,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes as you head back toward the room.

Chris follows, his footsteps quiet behind you. The bed feels smaller when you climb back in, scooting to one side as he drops his blanket on the other. He doesn’t say anything as he settles in, lying stiffly on his back with his own blanket pulled up to his chest.

The silence stretches out again, but this time it feels heavier, more aware of itself. You stare at the ceiling, your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.

“Thanks,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chris doesn’t look at you, but his voice is low and steady when he replies. “Yeah. Go to sleep, Star.”

You close your eyes, the faint sound of his breathing filling the room. And somehow, with him there, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

The room is quiet except for the faint creak of the trailer settling and the steady rhythm of Chris’s breathing. You lie on your side, facing away from him, staring at the faint outlines of the dresser in the dark. The guilt and awkwardness of earlier fade slowly, replaced by the steady calm of his presence just a foot away. His breathing evens out after a while, the tension in his frame melting as sleep takes over. You hear him shift once, settling deeper into the mattress, his quiet exhale signaling that he’s finally out.

You don’t know when your own eyes drift shut, but when they do, the room falls into a stillness that swallows you whole. The bed, the space, the faint hum of his existence next to you—it all pulls you under like a tide.

Chris stirs at first light, groggy and disoriented, the sharp pang of something warm and heavy on his chest dragging him out of sleep. He blinks, squinting against the pale light seeping through the blinds, his mind sluggish as he tries to figure out what’s wrong. It takes a second for him to register it—why his left arm feels pinned, why the blanket he remembers pulling over himself is now somewhere at the foot of the bed.

And then he sees her.

Star.

She’s not in her designated zone. Not even close. Her head rests against his chest, her face relaxed, lips slightly parted as soft snores escape her. One of her arms is draped lazily across his stomach, and her leg—barely covered by her own blanket—has somehow tangled with his.

Chris freezes, his breath catching in his throat as he stares down at her. His mind races in a million directions, but none of them seem to help the situation. She looks so… soft. Completely out of place from the sharp, sarcastic edges she normally carries like armor. Her messy hair is splayed across his shirt, a few strands tickling his chin, and her face is tilted just enough that he can see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the slow rhythm of her breathing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, careful not to move too much.

He’s not sure how this happened—how she ended up here, draped over him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Part of him wants to wake her up, to shift her back to her side of the bed before she realizes what she’s done. But another part—the part he’s trying hard to ignore—can’t bring himself to disturb her. She looks… peaceful. More peaceful than he’s ever seen her.

Chris glances toward the door, half-hoping for some kind of escape route, but there’s no way out of this without waking her. He sighs quietly, his chest rising under her weight, and lets his head fall back against the pillow.

The warmth of her against him is distracting—too distracting. He feels her breath ghost over his collarbone, soft and steady, and it makes his throat tighten. Her hand shifts slightly, her fingers twitching against his side, and he has to clench his jaw to keep himself still.

This is fine, he tells himself, though the heat creeping up his neck says otherwise. She’s asleep. She doesn’t know.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to will himself back to calm, but it’s impossible. Every breath she takes, every slight movement, pulls his focus right back to her.

Finally, he mutters under his breath again, quieter this time. “Shit.”

Chris leans his head back against the pillow, his body still stiff beneath her weight. He doesn’t move, just lets his tired gaze drift down to her face. There’s something almost strange about seeing her like this—so quiet, so still, so… unguarded. It’s a far cry from the sharp edges and quick comebacks he’s come to expect.

His eyes linger on her lips, parted just enough for her soft, even breaths to brush against his chest. That’s when he notices them—two new piercings he definitely didn’t see last night. A small hoop glinting faintly from just under the curve of her upper lip, tucked near the corner of her mouth. And below that, in the center of her bottom lip, another piercing—vertical, the shiny ends of a barbell catching the early light filtering through the blinds.

Chris furrows his brow slightly, the sluggish haze of sleep keeping his thoughts slow. He wonders when she had the time—or the nerve—to get them done. He thinks about her rambling about something ridiculous like piercing her own face and winces faintly at the possibility that she actually did.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been staring until his own exhaustion starts to creep back in, the steady warmth of her body pulling him under. He blinks once, then twice, his lids growing heavier with each passing second. The last thing he registers before sleep claims him is the quiet sound of her breathing, the faint weight of her resting against him.

Chris isn’t sure how long he’s out before the door bursts open with a bang, jolting him awake.

“Chris! Waffles! I want—”

Lila’s voice cuts off sharply, replaced by an ear-piercing squeal that makes him wince. His eyes snap open, his mind catching up slower than his body as he registers the weight still pressed against him—and the very smug expression on Lila’s face standing in the doorway.

“Lila,” he groans, his voice rough with sleep, “what the hell?”

“Chris!” she shrieks again, pointing dramatically at the bed. “What are you doing?”

Chris looks down to find Star still half-asleep on his chest, her head nestled there like she belongs. Her lips part slightly, a faint mumble slipping out as she stirs, her fingers twitching against his side. And just like that, the heat that had started creeping up his neck earlier comes rushing back in full force.

“Lila, get out!” he snaps, his voice louder now as he tries to sit up, but Star shifts against him, groaning softly as her eyes flutter open.

She blinks blearily, her face inches from his chest, before realization sets in. Her head jerks up, her eyes wide as she scrambles back to her side of the bed, yanking her blanket around her like a shield. “What the—Chris?”

“It wasn’t me!” Chris blurts, his voice defensive as he throws his hands up. “You were—you just—”

Lila is practically bouncing on her toes now, her squeals turning into giggles as she clutches Bunny to her chest. “You two were cuddling!”

“We were not,” Chris says firmly, glaring at her as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Go wait in the kitchen, Lila.”

“But you were sleeping together!” she insists, her giggles growing louder.

Star groans, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my God.”

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “I swear to God, Lila, if you don’t—”

“Waffles!” Lila announces, spinning on her heel and darting out of the room, her laughter echoing down the hall.

Chris exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping as the room falls silent again. He glances over at Star, who’s still wrapped tightly in her blanket, her face buried in her hands. Her hair’s a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and there’s a red crease on her cheek from the pillow—or, more likely, his chest.

“You good?” he asks after a beat, his voice low and gruff.

Star groans into her hands. “Absolutely not.”

He huffs out a dry laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Could’ve been worse.”

She finally peeks out from behind her hands, glaring at him. “Worse than your little sister catching us in the world’s most awkward position and making it sound ten times worse? Sure. Let me know when that happens.”

Chris smirks faintly, leaning back against the edge of the dresser. “She’s six. She’ll forget about it by lunchtime.”

“You sure about that?” Star mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around herself like it’ll somehow shield her from the sheer embarrassment radiating through her body.

“Not even a little,” he admits, shrugging. “But it’s not like she’s gonna tell anyone. What’s she gonna do, run to the neighbors?”

Star lets out a dry laugh, finally dropping her hands to her lap. “I don’t even care about that. I just—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Forget it.”

Chris doesn’t press, but his tired gaze lingers on her for a moment longer, studying the way her shoulders are still hunched under the blanket. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

She snorts softly, brushing her messy hair back from her face. “I think your sister would disagree.”

“Lila’s six,” he says again, pushing himself off the dresser. “She also thinks Bunny’s alive. Not exactly a credible source.”

That earns him the faintest smile, though she quickly hides it by ducking her head. He sighs, raking a hand through his curls as he nods toward the door.

“Come on,” he mutters. “You might as well eat something before she makes this worse.”

Star looks up at him, her eyebrows raising. “She’s gonna make it worse?”

“Oh, I definitely lied,” Chris says, smirking faintly. “This’ll be all she talks about for days.”

She groans, throwing the blanket off and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Chris doesn’t respond, just turns toward the door and heads into the hall. Star follows a second later, still trying to shake off the awkwardness of waking up where she definitely wasn’t supposed to be.

When they reach the kitchen, Lila’s already at the table, Bunny perched on the edge like he’s part of the conversation. She grins at them as they walk in, her greenish-brown eyes sparkling with barely-contained glee.

“You guys were cuddling,” she announces again, just in case anyone forgot.

Chris groans, opening a cabinet to grab the waffle mix. “Drop it, Lila.”

“But it was so cute,” she insists, swinging her legs under the table. “Like you were best friends or something.”

“Drop it,” he says again, though his voice lacks any real heat.

Star slides into the chair across from Lila, her face still warm but her smirk returning. “You’re relentless, kid.”

Lila shrugs, flashing her a cheeky grin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Chris snorts as he measures the mix into a bowl. “Don’t let it go to your head, Star.”

“Too late,” she fires back, and for the first time in a long time, the smile that spreads across her face feels easy.

Lila chatters away like a radio stuck on full volume, her words tumbling out so fast you can barely keep up. She’s already telling you about Bunny’s “big adventures” this week—apparently, he had to “save the day” when her friend’s toy broke at school—and you nod along, biting back a grin as she gestures wildly, her curls bouncing with every word.

Across the tiny kitchen, Chris stands at the counter, methodically sliding frozen Eggo waffles into the toaster. He doesn’t say much, just glances over his shoulder every so often to make sure neither of you are about to set something on fire.

“Star,” Lila says suddenly, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hands. “Do you like waffles?”

“Uh, yeah,” you reply, glancing at Chris. “Who doesn’t?”

“Right?” Lila says, throwing her hands up like it’s a universal truth. “Chris makes the best waffles.”

You snort softly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Does he now?”

Chris rolls his eyes, pulling a plate from the cabinet. “They’re frozen, Star. Let’s not get crazy.”

“Yeah, but you put the good stuff on them,” Lila insists, beaming as she watches him grab a jar of Nutella. “That’s what makes them the best.”

Chris sighs but doesn’t argue, twisting the jar open and slathering a thick layer of Nutella over the steaming waffles. He grabs a banana from the counter, slicing it with the precision of someone who’s clearly done this routine a hundred times before. When he’s finished, he pours a cup of strawberry milk and sets everything on the table in front of Lila.

“Here,” he mutters, sliding the plate and cup over. “Knock yourself out.”

You watch, wide-eyed, as Lila digs in immediately, taking a huge bite and humming with exaggerated delight. Chris catches the look on your face and smirks faintly, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Nutella? Bananas? Strawberry milk?” you say, motioning to Lila’s plate like it’s some kind of luxury breakfast. “You’re gonna have her bouncing off the walls.”

Chris shrugs, his smirk growing. “Almond moms would probably kill me, but I don’t have the energy to fight a six-year-old over food. Besides,” he adds, nodding toward Lila, “she’d win.”

Lila grins, her cheeks already sticky with Nutella. “I’m unstoppable!”

You laugh, shaking your head as Chris grabs another pair of waffles from the toaster and slaps them onto a plate. This time, he doesn’t bother with the toppings, just slides the plain ones across the table toward you.

“Sorry,” he says, smirking as he sets a butter knife down beside you. “You don’t rate the deluxe version.”

“Gee, thanks,” you reply, but your smile lingers as you pick up the knife and start spreading butter over the still-warm waffles.

Lila kicks her feet happily under the table, pausing only to take a long sip of her strawberry milk before launching into another story—this one about a school art project Chris apparently helped her with. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he just shrugs, his tired eyes softening slightly as he watches her ramble.

It’s loud and chaotic, but as you sit there, listening to Lila’s endless chatter and the faint clatter of Chris cleaning up at the counter, you realize it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels warm. Familiar. Like maybe this is what mornings are supposed to be.

Lila clings to your arm like she’s physically trying to anchor you to the trailer. Her curls are wild from the morning’s chaos, and there’s still a faint smudge of Nutella at the corner of her mouth as she pouts up at you.

“Don’t go!” she whines, her voice teetering on the edge of dramatic. “You just got here!”

“I’ve been here all night, kid,” you say with a small laugh, gently prying her fingers off your sleeve. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got plans.”

“But Bunny likes you!” she insists, holding up her stuffed rabbit like it’s a compelling argument. “He says you should stay.”

Chris, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, rolls his eyes. “Bunny doesn’t pay rent, Lila. He doesn’t get a vote.”

Lila glares at him but turns back to you, her greenish-brown eyes wide with determination. “Stay for just a little longer? Please?”

You crouch down to her level, your hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “I wish I could, but my friend Madison’s waiting for me. I promised her.”

Lila’s pout deepens, and for a second, you think she might actually cry. Chris clears his throat from behind her, his tone dry but not unkind. “Star’s gotta go, Lila. You’ll see her again.”

“You promise?” she asks, turning to look at him, her voice suddenly softer.

Chris’s gaze flicks to you briefly before nodding. “Yeah. She’ll come back.”

You stand, glancing at him, and there’s something unspoken in the way he meets your eyes. He doesn’t say it, but you can tell he means it—that he expects you to follow through.

“Of course I will,” you say, ruffling Lila’s curls. “Who else is gonna hear about Bunny’s next big adventure?”

That earns you a small, reluctant smile from Lila, though she still looks a little heartbroken. “Okay,” she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chris straightens up from the doorframe, opening the door and nodding toward the gravel outside. “I’ll walk you out.”

You grab your jacket from the back of the couch and follow him, Lila trailing behind until Chris gives her a look that sends her back inside with one last wistful wave. The morning sun is brighter now, cutting through the cool air as you step onto the porch.

Chris steps down after you, his hands shoved into his pockets. “She’s dramatic, in case you didn’t notice.”

“She’s sweet,” you counter, glancing back at the trailer. “You’re lucky to have her.”

His jaw tenses slightly, but he nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Yeah. I know.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the sound of the gravel crunching faintly under your boots as you shift your weight. Finally, you glance at him, tilting your head slightly.

“You’re not gonna get all sappy, are you?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Chris smirks faintly, his tired eyes narrowing slightly. “Not a chance.”

You grin, pulling your jacket tighter around you as you take a step toward the road. “See you around, Chris.”

He nods, leaning back against the porch railing. “Yeah. Take it easy.”

As you walk away, you can still feel his gaze lingering on your back. And even though the morning feels a little too bright, a little too sharp, you find yourself smiling as you head toward Madison’s.

AUTHORS NOTE: can you tell i have some time on my hands today…

TAG LIST: @jetaimevous @sturnsblunt @riasturns @ifwdominicfike @chrissturns-wife @mattsmunch @pip4444chris @ribread03 @ariestrxsh @angelic-sturniolos111 @pvssychicken @mattslolita @stvrnzcherries @dottieboo @lovergirl4gracieabrams

[antimonyandthyme]

2k, paul/carlos

(written after the c2 / paul vid, and this post came out with the brilliant @formulahs suggesting an auction LMAO)

He goes without the expectation of buying anything. He looks forward to a good time, even with all the cameras around. The shoes his stylist wants him to go in are fanciful, shiny monstrosities, and he nearly insists for the sneakers to stay on. Then he remembers that he’s technically there for Ferrari, and dutifully swaps them out.

Technically. Paul can go for other reasons too. Charles is lovely, if a little vacant around him. Carlos is. Carlos is, he’s—

It’s early days and Paul isn’t one for poetry, and yet here he is. He hopes to god he isn’t being obvious. Not to the staff when he spots Carlos and lights up like a schoolboy with a crush. Not to Charles, when he holds on to Carlos for a handshake that’s a little longer than necessary. Definitely not obvious to whoever watches these videos, when he mouths all of the answers to Carlos.

Can’t deny having a favourite. He can turn his nose up all he wants at the reputation that follows any young actor these days, but he can’t deny his appreciation for nice things. There are no trophies in his world—yet, just good food, good drink, good people. Beautiful people. For the third time since they rolled cameras, Paul is caught staring. Carlos always looks slightly lost, staring back, like he’s trying to figure Paul out, before he ducks his head and curls up. Large hands clasped in his lap. Maybe a little shy. Maybe a little pleased.

“He’s a little expensive,” Charles says, “but you should be able to afford him.”

Paul attempts to tamper his face into something palatable. Ungracious of Charles to lay out his desires so plainly. And then in the same breath insinuate that his ability to pay might not stack up. Somewhere past Paul’s eyeline, Carlos is returning his mic to the staff with a relieved smile. Unpacking his spine into something looser, now that the cameras are off. He tips his head at Paul, eyes inquisitive, as if guessing that they were discussing him.

Paul has to look away, guilty.

“I didn’t plan on buying,” he says. It’s the truth. Mostly. In his defense, it wasn’t like Ferrari were being subtle about shoving them in a room together, especially after they made this tradition known. It’s like asking someone not to think of elephants. On command, a safari blooms open in Paul’s mind.

Charles shrugs. “We’ll have another event later. Someone else probably will.”

The flippant way Charles speaks about it grates against Paul’s skin. He can’t tell if Charles is trying to rile him up. The thought of Carlos having to hang off a faceless person’s arm makes distaste churn so violently in his belly that it manifests into an ache.

“Carlos wouldn’t mind, if it’s you.”

“How would you know,” Paul grits out. The mental fidget spinner he has for Charles keeps going around in circles, flickering from Empty to Dickhead to Helpful, maybe?

“Ah, he’s used to it no? People looking at him like that.” Charles’s voice dips low, like he’s sharing a secret. Paul’s an actor for fuck’s sake. He knows when someone’s selling him something, a mediocre contract, a shitty line. Still, he can’t help leaning in closer, puts his ear right next to Charles’s mouth.

Further away, Carlos’s mouth twists down, his gaze shutters. Just a minute, baby, Paul wants to tell him. Just—give me a minute.

“He looks back, when it’s you,” Charles says, and Paul’s done convincing himself otherwise.

--

They tell him, in one of the most bewildering conversations Paul’s ever had, that Carlos will be delivered in the evening, at whatever time suits Paul best. Delivered, like he’s some kind of package. What the fuck, sings one part of his brain. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what have you just done. The other part, the part that’s mostly primitive and hedonistic, somehow takes charge and sends him off on multiple errands. He gets his hair trimmed, just a little at the sides. He buys some wine. He changes into the sneakers. He considers getting another tattoo, before he snaps himself out of it.

Poetry and tattoos. Paul’s lost his mind.

The time in between gives him room to vacillate between wanting to feed the open maw within him and growing shamefully aware about the shape of his yearning. He hadn’t realized he had enough space within his ribcage to stuff another man entire. There are so many other ways he could have gone about this. But he doesn’t have Carlos’s number. He can’t text. Even if he could, Paul wouldn’t know what to say.

Tick tock, tick tock. Paul rearranges furniture, door dashes some flowers, after spending half an hour reading up on flower language, interspersed with vapid scrolling of his socials. Tick tock.

By the time Carlos arrives, he’s in a bit of a wreck. People who move in Carlos’s world would certainly be familiar with Ferrari’s clauses, and would know how to act. The muted greeting Carlos gives doesn’t help either. He’s dressed up but down, in a plain, almost translucent shirt that leaves little to imagination. He toes off his shoes with an unconscious gracefulness, and comes to stand in front of Paul. He’s waxed, which Paul knows, just from being so close to him this afternoon, had to have happened in that space where Paul was questioning all his life choices. He looks wonderful, except for the fact that he looks so visibly uncomfortable.

“Do you,” Paul starts. Swallowing around the dry lump in his throat. “Do you want something to drink?”

Carlos fidgets. “If you’d like,” he says.

That’s, ow.

They’d assured him, again and again, that Carlos always had the final say, but his teeth are buried in his lower lip, hard enough to blanch, and his toes dig into the carpet like a lifeline. It’s not like Paul’s hung out with Carlos more than a handful of times, but it’s hard to ever picture him in such distress. Carlos is—larger, than what he’d ever seen on screen. You have to witness him in person, to understand.

Faced with this shrunken version of Carlos, Paul can’t bring himself to continue.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I really am. I assumed you’d want—I’m sorry.”

Carlos flinches, jerks his head up. “Wait.”

“It’s alright,” Paul says. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. You could just leave. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Wait,” Carlos says, more urgently. “I don’t want to—” His voice grows small. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Of course not,” Paul nearly yelps. “But you’re. You’re…”

Carlos’s cheeks are very pink. His toes tap an erratic beat on the floor. His hands are clasped in front of him, almost in supplication.

“You’re nervous!”

“Yes!” Carlos blurts out, before looking very mortified. “I’m. Ah, fuck. Paul, I’m never. Never like this.”

Tension bleeds out of him. Something so relieved escapes out of Paul’s mouth in an embarrassing giggle. “Carlos. You should have just said.”

“I don’t know why…” Carlos trails off, scrubbing at the back of his neck vigorously. “With you, I’m like this. I don’t know. I want.” His toes tap some more. “I want to.”

“Want to?” Paul says, coming closer, watching Carlos sway in eagerly.

“Make it worth it,” Carlos mutters. “What you paid.”

Paul groans. He wants to shake Carlos. Then decides, hey, he actually can shake Carlos. Gentle hands around his shoulders, shaking him like a beloved ragdoll. “Oh my god. You can’t be serious.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Carlos protests, but the corners of his mouth are turned up now.

“Shut up, you’re ridiculous. Do you think I would have even paid that if, if I. Oh my god, Carlos. You have to know, right?”

“Know what,” Carlos says, enjoying being a little shit now that they’re joking.

“Can’t take my eyes off you, when you’re in the room,” Paul says. “I thought I was being obvious.”

“You were,” Carlos says brightly. “I thought I was obvious right back.”

“Okay, so. So why are you—?”

Carlos’s face twists. “This season has been. Ah.” He shakes his head reluctantly. “You don’t have to listen to this.”

“Go on,” Paul says. “Come on, tell me. Twelve hours of your time, remember?”

“Been hard to live up to expectations, this year,” Carlos says. “I didn’t want that with you.”

“You are so.” Stupid. Hot. Stupidly hot. “I’m going to shake you some more,” Paul says. “I cannot believe you.”

“That’s fine,” Carlos says. He goes along with the shaking, in a way that shows exactly how much of his body he’s putting into Paul’s hands. A neck as thick as that and he’s somehow limp under Paul’s touch. That’s, well. That’s a lot. “Then maybe, maybe. You could kiss me?”

Yes, yes. Yesssssssss, sings both parts of Paul’s brain. Yes.

Carlos is still now, expectant. A long, lean line of muscle, rooted to the ground, that Paul can trace hungrily with his eyes. He could pull at Carlos with all his strength and Carlos would not move, if he did not want to. But when Paul nudges a finger under his jaw, Carlos goes, looks up, right at him. Leans in.

--

He’s a greedy little thing, isn’t he. Swallows Paul with ease, every which way. He makes insane noises, deep, and guttural when Paul fucks him hard, high, and breathless when Paul thumbs at his nipples. Carlos clutches at Paul like it’d physically hurt to let go. Everything he’s meant to do, he does and is wonderful at it. And somehow, he’d managed to assume he wouldn’t live up.

“Unbelievable,” Paul says to the ceiling, some time after he’d come so viciously it felt like he’d been wrung out like a dish towel. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Are you still mad at me,” Carlos says, amused.

“Yes.”

“Ay, don’t be,” Carlos says, softly. “I really was nervous.”

Paul turns on his side, hand supporting his head as he gazes at Carlos. Crazy intimate. Terrible, the way he’s setting himself up for the worst time. He can’t bring himself to care.

“You’re allowed to stay the night?”

“Twelve hours,” Carlos says. “You can ask me to do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Carlos confirms. “Sleep at the foot of the bed, if you want.”

Why would he even say such a—Paul is going to shake him again. If he can unpretzel himself from all that easy comfort following an earth-shattering orgasm. He nudges at Carlos’s hip instead. It’s the closest body part he can find.

“I kick in my sleep,” Paul says seriously, delighting in the way that makes Carlos giggle. He pats the scant space next to him. “I’d rather you be right here.”

“I’ll be right here,” Carlos says, then clears his throat. He probably was just parroting Paul, didn’t mean for it to sound so much like a promise.

But Paul… is also a greedy little thing, isn’t he? So greedy he paid for it, and so greedy he wants more now that he’s had a taste.

“And after?” Paul says. Will you be…?

“After,” Carlos says, “after Las Vegas is Qatar. Then Abu Dhabi.”

“Fine,” Paul says. As let downs go, this is pretty devastating, but he’ll live. It’s not like he had expected—never mind.

Carlos shifts. His jaw unlocks, then clicks back. “You get discounts, after, did you know that? Very good discounts.”

“Oh,” Paul says, a little wobbly. “Do I?”

“Yes. And after Abu Dhabi, it’s. It’s free.”

“Ah.” His chest is squeezing tighter than a fist. The space in his ribcage! Expanding and contracting to accommodate whatever Carlos sees fit. He lets himself imagine pressing up close to Carlos in a quiet apartment, pulling out every sound in Carlos's vocabulary with time, unlimited, on his hands. Buying flowers he knows for sure Carlos likes.

“I guess I need to stick around."

“Guess so,” Carlos says, smiles. “Make it worth your while.”

[that-one-banger-of-a-rhcp-song]

rodrick headcannons cuz i can

Warnings: mentions of drugs

Poor dude, he can’t handle spicy stuff

^Like, cayenne, paprika, and ‘franks red hot’ is the only shit he can handle.

Eats popcorn with so much butter it could kill you.

^Also, with pepper(please try it its so good)

Thinks manny’s weird

Dyslexic but we all knew that.

Will ask to borrow your eyeliner.

Random ass make-outs

^Will literally pull you into a closet just to give you a hickey and shove his tongue down your throat

Actually very respectful

Yall share earbuds cuz he forgets his

^If you have airpods, you sneak them into class and listen together.

Tries to write you a song.

Random dates

^You go to a gas station or some shit and raid the place

^One time he accidentally bought CBD oil honey sticks(they sell them where i'm from) and yall got high af

Little spoon

His favourite way to cuddle is when you lay on your side and hold his head/face into the crook of your neck

^Oh my god, the neck kisses

Dog person

Golden retriever boyfriend lookin ass

He will follow you around like a lost puppy. It's so cute.

Sucks ASS at guitar hero

Study dates 

^He hates them and tries to make-out instead (valid)

He’s so soft and gentle with you

^One time he thought you were greg (you poked the small of his back) and he turned around and bitch slapped you.

He saw you tearing up and he bent down and cupped you face gently (think trying not to break a family heirloom??) and he cried rather than you

There's this spot on the small of his back that is really sensitive and if you poke it he jumps and whirls around and its super cute.

He started showering a lot more when you started dating.

His family likes you

^Frank never thought Rodrick would ever get a partner

He can actually sing but its more of the scratchy emo voice, not the smooth/clean high pitched justin beiber voice.

Do his eyeliner for him

^Do it I dare you

I beg you, run your hands/fingers through his hair.