#its like empty bottles and cans and clutter

[domesticated-whores]

lord give me the strength to put up with a cishet man that's seemingly not been in a serious relationship for at least 5 years--

[likeumeanit9497]

hop on | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: a dare is just a dare, until it isn't. until your breath hitches in your throat. until your body stirs with need. until your drunk mind blurs the line between dare and desire.

warnings: smut; established friendship; unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); fingering; handjob; teasing; dirty talk; cream pie; mentions of alcohol; 18+

notes: for my matt girls since ive been non-stop posting my chris series. honestly even though ive been spending so much time writing ab chris im currently in a matt era (THE BEARD THE BEARD OH MY FUCKING GOD) so this one shot is as much for me as it is for u lmao. love u all so so so much!! ps no ftb chapter tonight but will post one very soon!! <333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The triplet’s house was buzzing around you — tipsy chattering, loud music, and the sound of cans cracking open creating the familiar symphony of a party. You felt lighter than usual — likely from both the alcohol in your system and the pleasure of the night so far. After years of being close friends with the triplets, you had attended many of their parties. But tonight something felt different. Not in a very prominent way, but there was a certain energy lingering in the air. Something so subtle you couldn’t quite decipher it, but its presence was noticeable enough to cause a strange fluttering in your stomach.

Your phone read 12:58, and the party was in full swing. There were people scattered all across the triplet’s main floor, but you were sitting with the triplets and a handful of your other friends, creating a loose circle around the coffee table; cluttered with empty bottles, solo cups, and a half-completed stack of Do or Drink cards. You were seated between Nick and Matt, legs tucked comfortably beneath you, cocooned in the safety of two of your closest friends. Although you were good friends with all three triplets, your relationship with Matt was different in a way that neither of you had ever tried to define.

With Nick, things were fast and funny, a friendship built on shared jokes and late-night texts full of chaotic gossip. Chris had always brought the noise. Startlingly magnetic and charming, he had a habit of tossing you into the middle of whatever absurd plans he came up with. But Matt. He was the one who would stand beside you at a crowded event and lean down to ask if you needed air, and then lead you out into the quiet like he already knew the answer.

Over the years, your friendship with him had blossomed into something easy. That rare kind of comfort that never needed to be tended to or explained. You trusted him without effort. You could be with him for hours, half-watching a movie or each reading a book, and not feel the need to fill the air with chatter. Matt never asked you to perform, never made you feel like you couldn’t just be yourself.

As Nick had his turn picking up a card and completing the dare, you reached for your drink — feeling the warmth of the rum as it spread through you. Your eyes were hazy, your limbs were lose, and your mind was numbed by the night spent drinking. Matt noticed, and with a quiet chuckle, took the drink from your hand and placed it on the coffee table — not wanting you to overdo it.

“Your turn, Y/n.” Chris called out from his place across from you, grabbing your attention with his signature charming, bordering on dirty, smile. You offered him a lazy smile of your own before pushing yourself forward to reach a card. “It’s a red card.” You muttered, flicking the card and letting it land haphazardly on the ground before leaning forward again to grab a card from the shorter, though more intimidating pile. As soon as you read the dare on the red card, a squeak escaped your lips. “What does it say?” Prodded Nick, leaning over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the card. You watched his eyes travel across the phrase before widening as he released a taunting cackle. “Have fun with that, diva.”

“What is it?” Whined Chris, reaching across the coffee table for the card. Rolling your eyes, you held the card away from him before grabbing the rum and coke that Matt had taken from you moments before. Taking a quick chug, you read from the card. “Sit on the lap of the person to your right for the rest of this round.” The circle buzzed with laughter, all eyes scanning between you and the person to your right — who just happened to be Matt. You turned to look at him with a nervous laugh, and his gaze caught onto yours before he offered a quick shrug. He adjusted himself on the couch, widening his legs slightly before softly patting his lap with a smile. “Hop on,” He encouraged, his tone nonchalant as though it was the most normal thing in the world for the two of you to do.

You hesitated for a brief moment, feeling the pressure of ten pairs of eyes burning into you. Matt offered you a reassuring smile and jerked his head to the side to encourage you over to him. Before you could lose your nerve, you shifted, turning to face him as you placed your hand on his shoulder for balance. He didn’t move from under your touch — just shot an exaggerated raised-brow look at Chris from over your shoulder as he leaned back to make more space for you. Your knee brushed his thigh as you straddled him — the circle erupting into obnoxious hollers once you did.

Your weight hovered over his lap, one of your hands braced on the back of the couch to keep you from making complete contact with his waist. Even still, you felt the heat radiating from his body into yours — causing an unfamiliar feeling begin to rise in your chest. As soon as your body settled, his hand moved almost instinctively to your outer thigh — settling against your bare skin without a thought. Your eyes shifted down to his face, but thankfully he was already adjusted to your new position and was back to having a conversation with the person to his right as though nothing abnormal was occurring on top of him.

The circle eased back into normal motion around you, comfortable chatter flooding your ears as you joined in on the conversation with Matt and his friend. You tried to shift subtly, your weight adjusting forward slightly to hover just enough to avoid fully sinking into him without making your awkwardness obvious. You attempted to ease your hips back, then forward again, searching for a position that felt less intimate — but it seemed useless. You risked another sideways glance, and he was still leaning back, gaze fixed on his friend as he casually maintained a lighthearted conversation while sipping his drink.

You swallowed hard, wishing you were still holding your own drink, before shifting your hips one last time — just slightly, barely more than a twitch — when his hand suddenly squeezed your thigh. Still, he said nothing; showed you nothing. But you felt the faintest pause in his breath — not enough to draw attention, but enough to make your skin hum. Enough to make you aware of the heat of his palm. You did your very best to follow suit — to laugh along with your friends and stay focused on the group — though the unfamiliar flutter of tension within you was ever-present.

“Your turn, dumb fuck.” Said Nick, his voice bellowing over everyone’s jumbled conversations as he flicked Matt in the arm. Matt’s attention was finally pulled back to the game, and with a deep inhale he shifted slightly under you, reaching for a card. His movement forced you a little closer to him — closer than you meant to be. You tried not to react beyond wrapping your arms around his neck to keep your balance, but the motion of him beneath you sparked something strange within your centre.

You craned your neck to watch him draw, brows raising when he pulled a card just like the one you had a moment before — a red card. With a sigh he pulled a card from the second deck, and when he turned it over you both seemed to read it at the same time — your bodies freezing in unison. The circle was buzzing with anticipatory silence for a moment, before Nick reached over with a huff, yanking the card from Matt’s grasp to read it for himself. After one final moment of silence, Nick’s excited shriek made your cheeks redden.

“Kiss the girl closest to your left!” He read from the card as you and Matt shot one another uncertain glances. Not only did you happen to be the only girl playing the game, but you were definitely the one closest to his left considering you were literally straddling his lap. The circle erupted. Some people broke into laughter, some gave a few cheers. One who sounded an awful lot like Chris gave a dramatic ooooh as though you were all back in high school. You scoffed, feigning near-confidence as you looked over your shoulder. “You’re a child, Chris.”

But your voice came out thinner than you had wanted it to. You felt a prickle of heat rush to your face from the sheer embarrassment of the many laughs and gazes sent your way. “Hey, rules are rules,” Chris remarked from his place across from you, “You had to sit in his lap, now he has to kiss you. Sounds like the circle of life or some shit to me.” You rolled your eyes as you turned back to face Matt, preparing another witty comeback as you did — except Matt was already looking up at you. Calm, unbothered; with that usual glint in his tipsy eyes.

“Well,” He began casually, keeping his voice low, “We should probably get it over with if we don’t want them to start chanting.” You let out a nervous laugh, feeling as though you had entered an alternate dimension over the last fifteen minutes. “God forbid,” You muttered, doing your best to control your breathing as you smiled down at him. The moment stretched for what felt like hours. You knew that everyone was still watching, and you felt crushed under the pressure combined with crippling anticipation.

You could tell that Matt was just as uncertain as you were — you could see it in the way his cheeks had turned a slightly brighter shade of pink, could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell rapidly against your own — though he seemed much more capable of maintaining his cool-guy decorum. So you sat perfectly still, waiting for him to get his dare over with as though you were just another spectator. After cracking you one final smile, he tapped your thigh softly before whispering, “Come here.”

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t loaded. It just sounded like a simple request from one friend to another. So you didn’t hesitate before leaning down — heart nearly jumping out of your throat. When your lips eventually met his, you froze — just for a second — at the sheer newness of it. It was soft, quick, but also impossibly intimate. You were in shock from feeling Matt’s lips press delicately, cautiously against your own. But the shock quickly dissipated once you recognized that it was exactly the kind of kiss you’d give someone in response to a drinking game — a kiss by definition alone, but more like a shared breath than anything else.

He seemed to have frozen beneath you as well. His frame still. The circles he had been haphazardly drawing against your thigh coming to an abrupt stop as your closed lips pressed against his. On its face, it was an innocent kiss. One meant to last only a second or two before ending in a fit of awkward laughter between two friends who could look back on the moment in five years and think nothing of it.

But it lingered. Just for a second, but long enough for the undercurrent between you two to shift.

You finally allowed yourself to relax into his lap, no longer feeling the need to hover above him. His thumb resumed its gentle movements against your thigh, as though drawing you closer to him. You were suddenly very aware of how close you were to him, how warm he felt — and how much you liked it. The kiss was still soft, though there was a rumble of energy building between you both that was threatening to boil over.

Matt pulled back for a breath, but when you opened your eyes, he was still watching you. His expression was no longer nonchalant, no longer playful. His dilated eyes dropped to your mouth, and for a moment neither of you moved a muscle. Something was happening. You could both feel it, and you were equally powerless to it. So when he leaned back into you again, you met him with a sigh of relief.

His free hand immediately slid to your waist, pulling you in closer. His lips parted hungrily against yours, deepening the kiss with a quiet eagerness that made your whole body tremble. You responded to him without a thought; your mouth opened to mesh with his, the kiss growing deeper. You allowed yourself to melt completely into his lap, stifling a gasp at the feeling of his growing hardness already evident through his jeans. As he tilted his head to devour you completely, your hands slipped into his wavy hair — fingers threading through the base of the strands and pulling him closer to you without even realizing.

He responded by exhaling through his nose in that intoxicatingly masculine way. His hands were buried in your thighs, fingers curling greedily against the plush skin before sliding beneath the hem of your mini skirt; exploring the hidden skin before guiding your hips to roll just once against his front. The shaky breath you released from the sensation caused you to break the kiss, but he leaned forward and searched for your lips once more like he couldn’t help it.

Once his mouth engulfed yours once more, the kiss was hungrier; even more sure than before. A gasp fell from your lips as one of his hands slid up your back, pressing your chest against his so that no space remained between your needy bodies. As a breathy moan fell from your lips at the way his hand wrapped possessively around your throat, you were aware that your other friends were still watching. But, you no longer cared. As your panties flooded with moisture from the heat of his cock pressing against you, all you could think about was the delicious, dizzying satisfaction of tasting someone for the first time — someone you knew so well, but never like this.

He murmured your name against your lips, voice hoarse. You couldn’t even reply — capable of little more than to kiss him harder. Your fingers gripped his shirt as if that could ground you; as if the only thing real anymore was the way he was touching you, holding you, breathing you in possessively like he’d needed this much longer than either of you realized. You felt that need, too. Making your thoughts melt away, caring very little about anything besides the pull you knew you were both feeling. The overwhelming pull that had started as a party game dare and was now spiralling into something neither of you could stop.

After what felt like hours of bliss, the kiss broke slowly, like neither of you really wanted it to. You couldn’t help but let your lips linger against his, your breath catching when he didn’t move right away. Your faces hovered close, foreheads brushing with each needy gasp for air. His fingers still rested on your hip firmly as though he wasn’t quite ready to let you go. Neither of you spoke — you didn’t have to.

“Well that was…thorough.” Chris’s voice, laced with wavering uncertainty, could be heard from behind you. The room around you was still buzzing — cheers and laughter spewing from everyone in the circle — but it had fallen into a dull backdrop. The only thing that you were capable of hearing in that moment was your own heartbeat and the sound of Matt’s breath; still uneven against your mouth. You looked at him — into his glazed over eyes. He looked at you. And in an instant something passed between you — something wordless, something electric, something final.

Without saying anything, Matt shifted beneath you, one arm slipping under your legs and the other wrapped tightly around your back. You gasped softly as he lifted you off of the couch — his movements weren’t rough, but they were rushed and fuelled with an urgency you had never seen in him before. You didn’t question anything, didn’t say a word, even as the circle of your friends began chanting and gasping at what even they knew was about to happen. You only wrapped an arm around his tense shoulders, letting your fingers slide through his hair as he carried you through the house in the direction of his bedroom.

Your heart was really pounding now. Not from surprise but from the sudden, dizzying realization that you two were about to cross a line you had never even come close to approaching before. The faces of party-goers blurred past you in streaks as you travelled down what suddenly felt like an endless hallway, the party growing more and more silent as you approached the bedroom until the only sounds you could recognize were his steady footsteps and the soft rustle of your breath against his chest.

Once you reached his bedroom, Matt nudged the door open seamlessly with one foot; the hinges creaking faintly acting as a reminder of what’s to come. Dim light spilled only from a lamp on his bedside table, his fully drawn blinds restricting any moonlight from entering the room. He set you down with the same careful urgency he’d carried you — with his hands still holding your hips, searching eyes still fixed on yours like they were tethered. You looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted, your breath shallow, your heart beating out of your chest. Matt’s thumb brushed softly against your cheek, then traced the line of your jaw before resting gently against your throat.

Your breath was shallow, heart still rattling from the kiss that had pulled you both off the couch and into motion. The intensity of the moment suddenly crashed down on you as you let your eyes drift over his room — a room you had spent plenty of time in yet never in this way; never with this feeling of trepidation burning through your veins. You forced yourself to take in a deep, steadying breath. The air smelled faintly like him — clean laundry, cedar, something comforting and unmistakably his. It helped relax your mind, and when you turned your attention back to him, he was watching you.

Not with that unreadable ease he had worn throughout the night — but with something even quieter. More careful, and more aware. His jaw was tight, and in his eyes, that familiar calm had frayed slightly at the edges; replaced by a flicker of hesitation and a much more powerful desire. “Y/n,” He breathed out, as though your name was the only thing he was certain of in that moment. His eyes fluttered shut as he took another step towards you, and you simply swallowed, not trusting your ability to speak quite yet.

His movements were slow and deliberate, but when he reattached his hands to your waist, you melted into his touch. When he used his grip to slowly push you back until your knees hit his desk, you didn’t resist. And when his mouth attached to yours once more, you didn’t even consider pulling away. In fact, you found yourself leaning into him reverently, chasing the heat building between you two. His kiss was intoxicatingly slow, and each pass of his lips against yours lingered like he was drinking in the taste of you. But that restraint only lasted so long, because the moment you let out the faintest broken sound against his lips, something in him shifted.

His hands tightened at your waist, and like a wave crashing through you both, all of the built up tension of the night snapped into motion. There was no longer space for caution in that room, humid with lust. His mouth was suddenly hot and unrelenting against yours, but very quickly your lips fell into a rhythm that felt maddening and necessary all at once. His hands found your thighs and lifted you slightly, powerfully, to seat you on his desk without breaking the kiss. You expressed your approval by hooking your ankles around his waist to pull him closer, and he replied by kissing you harder, deeper; his hands massaging your thighs.

Your kiss had turned rushed and greedy, as though you were making up for every wasted second you had not touched one another in this way. You tugged at the collar of his shirt, drawing him impossibly closer like it was a need; like the closeness was the only thing anchoring you to the desk. He groaned into your kiss, the sound a deliciously rough vibration in your chest. He pressed himself into you, the edge of the desk digging into the back of your bare legs — but you didn’t care. You could barely feel anything beyond his hands, hot and insistent, sliding under your shirt and over the smooth expanse of your skin like he’d been dying to explore you for years.

His fingers delicately skimmed your skin, slowly at first. But then he pulled the thin fabric of your shirt up higher, over your ribs, and once you let your head fall and your back arch into his touch, he bent to kiss the strip of exposed skin just below your bra. You inhaled sharply from the contact, the feeling of his breath against your body. His hands snaked behind you to undo your bra, and once the clips were undone, he bit down gently on your ribs — not hard, just enough to make you squirm — before meeting your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, chest rising and falling as if he just ran a marathon. “This is real, right?” The question fell from his lips genuinely, and you nodded, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp from the sight of him looking up at you in that way, “Don’t stop.”

That was all the assurance he needed, because once the words left your mouth, he wasted no time before tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. Not even a second later your bra followed, and then his hands were on you again — palming your full tits, thumbs brushing indulgently against you pebbled nipples until you arched into him in pleasure. He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t just lips. Teeth, tongue, desperation flicked hungrily into your mouth. You pulled back, catching your breath only for a moment before dragging his shirt off with shaking hands.

Your mouth trailed down the line of his neck, biting softly at his shoulder and tasting the salt of his skin. An intoxicating hiss fell from his lips in response, and he gripped your hips even tighter than before; grinding against you until you were both groaning from the faint relief it granted. The need between you was quickly growing all-consuming and relentless. Every movement felt like it might push you over the edge, yet beneath the desperate touches and needy kisses, neither of you wanted to rush. You wanted to feel every moment of what was to come.

Your breath hitched when his fingers suddenly trailed between your legs, teasing you through the thin fabric barrier of your lace panties; slow and deliberate. He pulled your lips back into his own, swallowing your breathy moans and pants as your hips rolled against his hand; wordless and pleading. He grunted once his thumb pressed against your core — its hot and sticky wetness evident even through the fabric. “You’re soaked,” He breathed, sounding almost astonished at your body’s subconscious desire for him. You bit his lip gently in response, growing even more needy from the barely-there contact. “Then stop teasing, p-please.”

The pathetic whine in your voice must have been enough to grab his attention, because he didn’t hesitate before pressing his hand firmly against your clit, fingers working in steady, maddening circles. He pressed his forehead against yours and watched through hooded lids as you writhed under his touch. Your movements were purely instinct now, chasing the rhythm of his fingers as they flicked expertly against your bundle of nerves. Your moans were hushed but relentless, and they fell from your lips without you even realizing it.

When he finally slid your panties down and off, he buckled at the knees and followed the motion with his open mouth. As you tugged your skirt up over your waist, he kissed the inside of your thigh, then again, closer — until your breath caught completely. Your gaze had followed him down to the floor, and you watched as he spread your legs wider, encouraging each of your feet to rest on the desk so that you were fully exposed to him. Even with his eyes burning into your core, there was no insecurity, no urge to snap your legs shut and run away; there was just an intense desire for more once his blue eyes flickered up to you. And in an instant, without breaking the filthy eye contact, his swollen lips parted and he was tasting you.

You cried out — sharp, involuntary — and clutched the edge of the desk. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head as his expert tongue found the rhythm you craved. It flicked relentlessly against your swollen clit, as his mouth sucked and slurped indulgently; the audible sound of his eager movements exotic to your ears. “M-Matt,” You whined, your hips bucking from the overwhelming pressure already beginning to bottle in the pit of your stomach. The sound seemed to charge him, because with a grunt of approval he snaked a hand around your waist, pinning your hips to the desk while the other hand slid up your body — cupping your tit as his fingers toyed with your sensitive nipple.

You rolled your hips against his face, chasing a high that was fast approaching as he moaned against your clit in approval. Your fingers laced through his hair, burying his face in between your legs greedily. He caught your bundle of nerves in between his lips, giving it one last tight swirl before releasing his suction and flattening his tongue against your heat — letting you ride his face feverishly as he looked up at you through hooded lids. Your moans were growing more guttural, more raw. You didn’t care that it was too much; that neither of you had talked about this. The only thing that seemed to matter to you in that moment was the pressure building deep within you, the heat of his tongue against your writhing folds, and the desire to let go of it all.

All in an instant, you fell apart. Thighs trembling, you gave into your orgasm with his name on your lips. Every part of you began unraveling under his mouth and he groaned at the sight. Your hips bucked wildly and your legs nearly gave out. Noticing this, Matt reattached himself to your clit and helped guide you through your high, letting you feel everything all at once. “Good girl,” He breathed against your skin, his voice thick with lust and ten octaves lower than usual as he coached you through the waves of your orgasm.

Your limbs were still shaking, your breathing still ragged, when he pulled himself back to his feet and lifted you up off of the desk. You were limp in his arms, yet somehow still so alive with desire as he carried you to his bed. You landed against the sheets with a soft gasp, your skin flushed and tingling from the pleasure still radiating through you. He stood over you for just a brief moment, savouring the sight of you — tangled hair, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with the same mix of longing and desire that mirrored his own.

He climbed onto the bed, hovering above you. His lips were glistening from your arousal, and the sight made you pull him down to you, kissing him fiercely, desperately; tasting your sweetness on his tongue as you claimed it. His touch was everywhere — your thighs, waist, the curve of your back — each movement of his fingers leaving you more and more undone. The bedsheets twisted beneath you as you shifted, your bodies fitting together with reckless precision. Your leg hitched over his hip, his lips hummed in approval.

The kiss was like a fire — rough edges and breathless sounds and the sharp sting of need radiating between you both feeding it like oxygen to a spark. Your mouths turned urgent and he kissed you deeper, his teeth ragged against yours. The room seemed to shrink around you, and all you could feel was the warmth of his mouth and the weight of his body above you. “We should stop,” Matt murmured against your lips, his words strained. “I know,” You replied in a broken whisper, but your hand was already tugging at his waistband, and his own hand came down to help you unzip his jeans.

Your hands found the heat of his cock like a moth to a flame, gasping at the weight of it against your fingers. A gruff moan fell from his lips as you gathered the bead of pre-cum at its tip, using the fluid to begin stroking his length slowly, tauntingly. “Matt,” You breathed against his lips, the tone of your voice encouragement and warning all at once. His body trembled above you, lips trailing across your face until they brushed against your ear; his breath warm and slow as he whispered, “Tell me what you want, please,”

Your breath caught at the question, at the way his voice cracked just slightly at the end like he was barely holding himself together. His restraint only made you want him more. The ache between your legs deepened. “I want you,” You whispered, threading your fingers through his hair as your other hand continued its slow, deliberate stroke, “I want you inside me. Want you to ruin me.”

His groan was low and guttural, reverberating through your chest like a struck chord. For a moment, he pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he was praying for strength — or maybe forgiveness. Then he kissed you, hard. Everything moved quickly now, you both grew careless with desire. He knelt between your spread thighs, and when he hissed your name into your mouth, you felt it everywhere. Still, even in his desperation, he paused just long enough to search your eyes again. “You’re sure?” He asked, breathless. You nodded, without hesitation and instead with impatience, “Please, Matt.”

And that was it. He guided himself to your slick entrance, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding your leg up around his waist. The stretch of him as he pushed inside was blinding — a fullness that made you gasp and claw at his back, made your head roll into the pillows as your body adjusted — trembling. He held still once he had buried himself to the hilt inside of you, his chest pressed to yours. And in the silence that followed, you heard everything else. The sound of your own ragged breath, the pounding of your hearts, the tiny involuntary whimper that left your lips as your walls pulsed around him.

“Fuck,” He cursed, breathing for what seemed like the first time since sliding into you, “You feel — Jesus, you feel good.”

You arched into him instinctively, your hips lifting from the mattress, urging him to move. And when he finally did — slow, dragging strokes that made your eyes roll back — the room shifted around you. There was nothing but the press of his body, the glide of his cock, the sharp sounds you made as he drove into you with aching reverence.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his spine, and he gripped your thigh tighter in response — deepening the angle. The friction hit something devastating inside of you, and a sharp cry fell from your lips; your whole body bucking beneath him. “That’s it,” He whispered against your electric skin, “That’s my girl. Let me hear you.”

Your lips found his neck, biting down to muffle a moan. He was getting rougher now, more desperate. Each thrust sent ripples through your body, your thighs clenching around his hips as his name spilled from your lips again and again. And still, between the heat and sweat and desire, there was a tenderness. His thumb brushed your cheek on its way to your mouth, his lips found your forehead, your temple, your jaw — soft touches that reminded you of the person beneath all of the wanting.

Even so, that wanting remained, sharp and persistent. It pulled at you both like a tide. He stilled for a moment, breath caught on a curse, and you looked up at him — panting, eyes wide, the sudden loss of friction a jolt of cold against the heat you had built. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you, all wrecked and radiant. Then, ran a hand down the length of your side, slow and reverent. “Turn over,” He said, voice low and thick with lust, like gravel coated in honey, “On your knees.”

Your body moved before your mind had a chance to catch up, instinct guiding your limbs as you turned and braced yourself on your knees, back arched and chest pressed against the comforter. You felt him behind you, his weight shifting on the bed, the heat of him returning as he settled in close and slid his hands over your ass; spreading you open with a groan like he was praying at the altar of your body. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, “You’re unreal like this.”

He guided himself to you again, teasing, his tip gliding against your folds with aching precision. Your back arched in response, seeking him, wanting him back inside of you with a need so strong it bordered on desperate. “Please,” You whispered, and the word came out broken by lust.

When he finally slid back in, the angle was impossibly deeper. It made you choke on your own gasp, your arms trembling beneath you. He stilled for a moment, both of you suspended in that blinding relief, before he pulled back and set a rhythm that was measured at first, then faster, deeper — until the sound of skin filled the room, slick and obscene, loud enough for the rest of the house to surely hear.

One of his hands slid under you, cupping your tit and pulling you back into him. His other hand gripped your hip so tightly you knew it would bruise. Each sharp thrust, even deeper now, sent sparks flying behind your eyes, inside of your stomach. Your voice was reduced to breathless whines and moans that sounded less than human. And then — too suddenly — his length slipped out of you. A sharp, wet sound. The loss hit you with a startled gasp, your body clenching down on nothing from the loss of contact.

You looked back at him — dazed, needy — and he met your gaze with a crooked, breathless grin. Thick with heat and demand. “Find it,” He rasped.

It was filthy, the way you arched back further without hesitation, the way your hand slid between your legs to guide him — slick and swollen — back where you needed him. Your breath hitched when he pressed forward again, filling you inch by inch as you pushed your hips back into his. Both of you groaned at the full-body relief of re-connection.

“Good girl,” He muttered, voice unsteady as he sank back in, his hands tightening on your waist, “Now fuck yourself on me.”

Again, your body answered without deliberation. The dirty sound of wet skin against skin filled the room as your hips lifted and fell in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each movement pressing him deeper inside of you. The slick of your arousal made each glide seamless, every bounce a sharp, delicious friction that sent shivers down your spine.

Your breath hitched in ragged gasps, mixing with the low, guttural groans spilling from his lips. His fingers curled into the flesh of your hips, warm and firm, guiding your movements as waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. Your arms threatened to give out, and almost immediately he noticed and looped one arm around your waist; holding you in place as he fucked you from behind with deliberate, punishing thrusts — each one angled to make you cry out his name.

You were so close it scared you. So close to crumbling it felt like your body would fracture from the pleasure. Caught up in all of it — the filthy sounds, the sweat-slick bodies, the way his pulsing cock hit you just right again and again — you weren’t sure you could survive it. As if reading your mind, Matt’s hips stuttered and a ragged moan fell from his lips. “Come for me again baby,” He whispered, voice gritty, “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And when you did, it was wild and helpless. A tidal wave that crashed through your body with an overwhelming force you couldn’t contain. Your walls clenched and trembled, fingers digging into the sheets as your delirious moans fell ragged from your mouth. A shudder rolled through you from your core to the tips of your toes, leaving your nerve endings raw and exposed. Your body quivered uncontrollably, alight with bright white fire, as the waves of pleasure pulsed through you like a train you had no hope of outrunning.

He straightened your limp frame, holding you close against his front. His hips rolled in frantic, desperate thrusts that kept you pinned to him; every movement sending fresh sparks of sensation racing through your overwhelmed nervous system. His moans — deep, rough, drenched in need — fell into the hollow curve of your shoulder. They vibrated against your skin and anchored you in the chaos of his impending release.

As if on cue, he moaned. “Fuck, Y/n, g—gonna cum.”

You could feel the sticky heat of him pulsing inside of you, hot pressure that spilled from him with each shuddering breath he took. His arms cinched around your waist as if by holding you tight he could somehow contain the rippling pleasure crawling down his spine. The steady rhythm of his heart thudding beneath his chest echoed through your own pounding pulse, a shared beat that held you together even as your bodies trembled with both pleasure and exhaustion.

Eventually, he slowed. His thrusts became shallow, then still, until the only movement was the heave of his chest against your back. He let out a long breath, almost a sigh, and then pressed a slow, grateful kiss to your shoulder. When he pulled out, the absence was strange. You felt empty. The room was suddenly very quiet, save for the hum of distant voices through the walls and the sound of your breaths trying to find their rhythm again.

He collapsed onto the bed with a grunt, arm flung over his face, chest rising and falling. You lay next to him in the warm hush, every inch of you tingling, your skin damp and flushed. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loud. Music played through the walls, muffled.

“Jesus,” He muttered, arm still covering his face, “We were not quiet.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, “Yeah, I unfortunately just realized that, too.”

He turned his head, pushed his arm away to glance at you. His mouth curved, sheepish and amused in lethargy that only sex could grant. “There is no chance we can go out there and pretend this didn’t happen.” You stretched a little, the soreness delicious and immediate. “We walked out of the living room like we were about to devour each other, and then we literally did. Loudly.” You rolled onto your side to face him, “I think our friends are smart enough to put two and two together there.”

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face, though he couldn’t hide the smile of contentment. “Nick’s never gonna let me live it down. And Chris’s gonna tell me he recorded from the other side of the door or some weird shit.” You laughed, rolling your eyes at his unfortunate accuracy. “I’ll kill him.” You replied, winking to soften the words. He exhaled through a laugh, then turned toward you completely; propping himself up on one elbow. “I mean…we could go back out. Pretend we were just—”

“What?” You interrupted, “Having an aggressively emotional conversation with the door locked and the bed creaking for forty minutes?” He winced, teeth flashing. “Okay, maybe not.” You reached out, fingers brushing lightly over the flushed skin of his chest. “Honestly, I don’t really care what they think.” He blinked at you then, and something in his face shifted — less apprehensive, almost a little relieved. “Yeah,” He agreed, his voice laced with tenderness, “Me neither.”

The sound of rap music drifted in through the hallway — someone had turned the music up. Voices were growing louder, the night reaching its climax. Life kept going on, loud and hopefully oblivious, on the other side of the door. “We’ll go out in a minute,” Matt said, adjusting in the bed beside you, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close so that you felt his still-warm skin against yours. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let yourself rest there, body still humming, heart full. Unsure of what came next — but certain that you didn’t care.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[ms-sasa]

Random HC for domestic 141 x reader

Reader got that random high motivation for deep cleaning the house when they come home.

No its not proof read, ne English is not my first language, yes it was a spontaneous idea

Yes i have to deep clean the house because we are getting guests....

Price

-would come home expecting his partner to run to the door greeting him but nooo not today...

Today the reader got really pissed off by a coworker/friend/stranger and had to get that angry energy out off their system.

So what would be better than going for an angry cleaning free...

Reader would curse and throw around the laundry while sorting it in the right baskets, slamming the door of the washing machine shut and pressing the few dress shirts he had like they are burning their enemies with the hot iron.

Price decided that it would be the best to retreat to his office and wait for the storm to pass by...

Later that evening he heard a soft knock on his door and a calm and tired reader entered.

"better luv..?'

"hmhm..." They walked over to him hugging him

"welcome home..."

"thanks... Do you want takeout and tell me what happened?"

"yea... And cuddles"

Simon

Simon would come home to open his flats door just to be blocked halfway through. Some furniture was standing in front of the door

Reader had noticed the sand in the hallway when they walked around barefoot. And boy no way that was acceptable... How often did they tell simon to put his damn boots off at the door.

So what started as a quick vacuum of the hallway ended in lifting the shoe rag , rolling up the carpets and dusting off the Skirting boards.

Hence why Simon was now blinking confused why the fucking dresser was standing in the hallway.. in front of the entrance.

"luv'...?"

"si! Good you are home!! I need your help.."

The dresser is moved and he was pulled inside. After a quick kiss on the lips and a warning to take his fucking boots off at the door he was ordered to move the couch....

That's how he ended up seated on the disassembled couch waiting for his love to finish with the living room, ranting about the sand that was just EVERYWHERE. Simon made a mental note to make sure to take off his boots at the front door from now on....

Johnny

Johnny was glad to be home again. The mission was okay and he even got to shower at base before coming home but still...

It was good that he showed at base because when he unlocked the door he was greeted by the smell of cleaning supplies and something that looked like his bathroom had thrown up all the little pots and bottles into the hallway.

"lass... What...?" He walked into the flat peeking into the bathroom and grined.

Reader was wearing shorts, a tank top and cleaning gloves. Added to that was a pair of Bluetooth headphones and they were dancing around and singing (badly) to some 90's pop song.

So it was obvious what he was gonna do next .. right strip down to his boxers, connecting the phone to the home speaker blasting the pop songs on them and joining the cleaning party.

"johnny!!! What are you doing??"

"helping yer lass now move over and give me that sponge"

They ended up with a beautiful clean bathroom, a good hot shower together and a noise complaint from the neighbors.

Kyle

Kyle was hungry when he came back from work this time. Hungry and tired but when he enters the flat and hears the clutter of pans and pots on the floor he knows dinner had to wait.

"babe?" He rounded the corner and almost tripped over a stack of plates "what in the..."

"oh hey love.. uhm we are gonna need to order food..."

Kyle looked around at the completely empty kitchen. Every pot, glass, plate or knife they owned was spread somewhere in the living room. The cabinets empty and even the pantry was bare of everything that wasn't canned or otherwise securely closed.

"babe.. why??" Then something flew past him and he noticed it in an instant groaning. food moths...

"yea... Sorry love." The reader got up and got over to him kissing him hello "how about you go and get some new essentials and some takeaway for dinner? I'll finish here"

Kyle sighed and nodded... No home cooked goods for him tonight

[misctf]

Hunting for City Boys

“Ah reckon they went this way!”

Scott could hear the heavy footsteps and thick southern drawl of his pursuers. His back was pressed against a tree and he did his best to control his breathing. How the fuck did it get this out of hand? It started with the damn car. Of all the places for their car to break down, it had to be in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere. No internet signal, no GPS, nothing. Prior to leaving, Scott asked Will to make sure the car was ready to go. And Will reassured him that his father’s fancy BMW was more than ready to handle the drive across the state. Of course, Will insisted they take a shortcut to make better time.  And for what? To get to the cabin before the rest of their frat bros? In hindsight, it wasn’t worth it.

“Oh, Ah see ’im! There he is!”

Scott felt his heart sink. Did they really see him? No... not him. Will. Scott heard Will cry out in pain, followed by a thud.

“Nice shot, Clay. Y’all wanna keep lookin’ fer the other fella?”

“Ah reckon we ought to git this one back to the house. The other fella won’t git too far.” Clay said, “Besides, we don’t want ’im wakin’ up before we get home.”

Scott could hear the engines of their four-wheelers rev up. And soon enough, they peeled away through the thick forest and back to wherever they came from. When Scott peered around the tree, he realized he was alone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Scott cursed, “This can’t be happening.”

He checked his phone again. No signal. He ran a hand through his matted light brown hair. The chase had left him worse for wear. His jeans were torn from running through the forest, while dirt and small cuts covered his hands. Even his white sweater was stained with mud. He quickly removed it, revealing a tight-fitting t-shirt that hugged his lean body nicely. He sighed. It would only be a matter of time before they started searching for him again. Those two fuckers. They came out of nowhere, driving on their stupid four wheeler. At first, Scott thought they were going to help them. It would’ve been clear to anyone that the two privileged, preppy frat guys had no idea what they were doing with the car. And despite Will being a straight As engineering major, his knowledge on car maintenance was lacking. As was Scott’s. Wasn’t like they ever really needed to learn anyway. But it was too late to worry about that now. Scott needed to figure how to get out of this mess.

“If they have a house,” Scott thought, “They might have a phone, or a car, or some way to get out of here.” He took a deep breath. He could follow the tracks of the four-wheeler back. But what happened if he got there and there were more of them? He sighed. He’d take the risk.

_______

Scott wasn’t sure how long he walked until he arrived at his destination. He spent some time hiding behind trees and bushes as his pursuers resumed their search for him. But somehow, he made it to the house undetected. Unlike the mansion his family occupied, this house (if Scott could even call it that) wasn’t much to look at. The home sits on a gravel path that winds through overgrown weeds and brambles, leading to a weathered structure that looks like it's been standing for decades. Its wooden siding is chipped and peeling, with patches of faded paint barely clinging to the surface. Scattered furniture and empty beer bottles littered the overgrown grass of the front yard.

“In and out. Find Will, find a phone, and bounce.” Scott whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. To the best of his knowledge, those fuckers were still patrolling the forest.

With a rush of adrenaline, Scott stealthily approached the front door. When he got inside, he gagged. The living room is a cluttered space with a mix of mismatched, well-worn furniture. An old plaid sofa, sagging in the middle, sits opposite a heavy wooden coffee table covered in a layer of grime and strewn with empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers. The walls are adorned with faded hunting trophies and old, family photos, framed in crooked, mismatched frames. A faint, smoky odor permeates the air, hinting at years of cigarettes smoked indoors, mingling with the pervasive smell of old wood and dust.

“Fucking pig sty.” Scott mumbled, maneuvering through the old home, “Come on, there has to be a phone or something.” But his search wasn’t all too successful, “Y’all can’t be serious, what kinda folks don’t got a phone?” Scott froze at the sound of the drawl leaving his lips “What the fuck?” He whispered, his voice returning to normal, “Shit, I’m losing it. Focus Scott.”

But there was no phone. Or car keys. Or even a radio. He took a deep breath, gagging more as the stale air filled his lungs.

“Alright, so I ain’t gonna be able to reach nobody. But where on Earth is Will?” This time, Scott barely registered the southern drawl that infected his words. Instead, he found himself focused on the basement stairwell. He gulped, “Maybe Will’s down there.” He whispered.

Scott started down the stairs. The smell that permeated his nose was more intense than the one upstairs. It caused the young man’s eyes to water and he felt like he needed to turn around to get fresh air. But Scott knew he needed to be quick. Find Will, get out of there. Head back the way they came until the got cell service. But his train of thought was shattered when he made it to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Will?” Scott asked, gazing at the figure restrained to the chair, “Oh god, Will?”

“Scott, that you?” The man said in a thick country accent, “Scott, come on now, you really gotta help me out here. Please, I’m beggin’ ya!”  

The man in the chair had very few similarities to Will. Or at least to the Will that Scott knew. Where Will’s toned abdominals once were, a small beer belly was jutting out. His stubble had darkened, while his dark locks had been shaved away and covered with a ball cap. His body hair was more obvious now, leaving him lightly dusted from head to toe.

“Will, good Lord, what in the world did they do to ya?” Scott’s mind raced when he realized he was once again speaking in a southern accent, “I cain't, for the life of me, stop talkin' like this! What in tarnation’s goin' on?” Scott’s hand shot to cover his mouth, but when he made contact with his newly grown stubble, he jumped.

“It’s happenin’ to you too, ain’t it? I reckon it is.” Will mused, “It’s the smell, I tell ya. Gets in your head and messes with ya a bit.”

Scott’s eyes widened in terror. And for the first time, he started to really understand his situation. As he looked down at his own body, he could see his stomach starting to push out into a small gut. Simultaneously, small hairs started to poke out from under his collar.

“No, that just ain’t possible.” Scott whispered in disbelief, “Will, we gotta get outta here, and right quick.” He ran over to his friend and began undoing the binds around his hands. All the while, Scott tried to ignore the itchiness of his new beard.

“I tried to put up a fight too, Scott. I reckon I did. But after spendin’ some time down here, I just went on and accepted it.” Will continued. Scott watched as his friend’s eyes dulled, “Ain’t no need for fancy degrees or gettin’ all dressed up. Just a good ol' nice, simple life."

“Will, listen here, you need to focus now.” Scott said, undoing the final bind, “There’s gotta be a way to fix this.” But Will shook his head and without a second thought, tackled Scott to the ground. Scott looked up at his friend in terror, trying to wriggle out from beneath his firm grasp, “Will! Lemme go, gosh darnit!”

“Well what do we have here?” Scott’s heart sank as he heard the voice of their pursuers flood the room, “Billy! What’re you doin’ strattlin’... Scott?” Clay shook his head, “Naw Scott ain’t a good name for a good ol’ southern boy, ain’t it?” He grinned, “We’ll think of somethin’ but go on now and finish the job, Billy!”

Scott’s eyes widened in terror as Billy nodded. And before Scott could stop it, he found his face in Billy’s rank armpit. The bush of moist pit hair tickled Scott’s nose, and the intensity of Billy’s country B.O. filled his nostrils. He wanted to yell out and beg them to stop, but when he opened his mouth, he only breathed in more of Billy’s stench. For poor Scott, it soon became unbearable. And as the laughter of his captors filled the air, Scott’s world went black.

_________

“We ain’t got all day, Billy!” Scott shouted from the driver’s side, “Git in the darn truck already.”

“Aww Cletus, I’m sure sorry. I went back for the gin.” Billy said, jumping into the passenger seat, “We got a long ride ahead of us.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott- now Cletus groaned, “Just don’t be tellin’ me about no new shortcuts. I ain’t too keen on goin’ through anything like this again.” He looked over at Billy, who was chugging the bottle of gin. He sighed, “I can’t stay mad at you though.” Sure, his upper class life was gone. And he could barely string together an intelligent sentence. His vocabulary was oversimplified and any education past the eighth grade was absent from his mind. Certainly, folks from his prior social circles wouldn’t tolerate his cigarette smoking, beer chugging, and crude jokes. Cletus sighed. His life as Scott was over, “Well, Billy, you ready?” His hand slowly wrapped around Billy’s cock and he gave it a few tugs. Billy moaned and bucked his hips, only for Cletus to stop, “I knew that’d get your attention. Besides, you got plenty more of that comin’, y’know. Especially if we go along with what Clay’s sayin’.”

Billy nodded, lifting his arm and taking a deep whiff, “Y’all think they’ll recognize us?” Cletus shook his head. There was no way their former frat bros would recognize them.

“Soon enough, they won’t even recognize their ownselves.” Cletus replied, taking a whiff of his own pits, “Now c’mon. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

[nataliesmugshot]

Between the Bars | natalie scatorccio x reader

pairing -> natalie scatorccio x reader, college au

summary -> Part THREE of Last Goodbye, damn... also the streak of Jeff Buckley titles has been broken, Elliott Smith title this time :glee: After days of silence, cold sheets, and missed calls, reader lets Natalie back in — hoping her promise to stay means something. But by morning, she’s gone without a word (yikes).

warnings: angst, toxic relationship dynamics, hurt/no comfort, a/n: Part three to my last fic :3, y'all.... idk about this one so, sorry its ass, but anyways be warned, this MIGHT be the final part. enjoy heh

The laundry’s been piling up for days. The clothes she left behind are still sitting in the dryer. You keep meaning to take them out, but somehow it feels like admitting things have changed — like folding them would make it real. She’s not here anymore. She doesn’t want you. 

Not really.

Her voice used to feel like comfort. Now it just feels like punishment.

You press play on the answering machine and hear her say “I love you” like it still means something. Like she still means it.

But you know she doesn’t.

If she did, she wouldn’t have left you here to rot — wouldn’t have let you stew in a house that still smells like her shampoo, with pictures of the two of you still hanging on the walls like you haven’t been left behind. 

For the first time in days, you get up and go to the fridge.

The light flickers on, harsh and sterile, and that’s when it hits you — you haven’t bought groceries since she left.

Mostly-empty takeout boxes and half-used condiment bottles clutter the shelves.

There’s an unopened bottle of mustard near the back.

You hated mustard.

Natalie used to call it “the perfect condiment,” swearing it made everything better — eggs, fries, even grilled cheese.

You’d pretend to gag every time just to make her laugh.

Now it just sits there.

Untouched.

 A monument to something stupid and perfect and gone.

You grab the only clean mug from the drying rack and make yourself some tea — not because you want it, but because you’re cold. Because you’re always cold now.

You clutch the ceramic between your hands, letting it burn your hands, letting you feel something that isn't her absence. 

When the phone rings, your first thought is that it might be her again. One of the quiet calls. The ones where she never said anything — just listened, like that was enough.

You stopped asking who it was after the third or fourth time. You always knew.

The phone rings again.

Once.

Twice.

You don’t think — you run.

Down the hallway, socked feet sliding on the floor. You nearly trip over yourself reaching the table, grabbing the receiver like it’s a lifeline. Your hand trembles as you pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then a voice that isn’t hers — chipper, indifferent.

“Hi, this is a reminder that your payment is past due—”

You hang up.

Hard.

The silence after is unbearable. Louder than the message. Louder than the dial tone. Louder than anything.

You stare at the wall for a long time. Mug still in your hand. Tea sloshing quietly. You set the mug on your nightstand and curl into yourself.

The spot — her spot — the one you’ve been sleeping in since she left, doesn’t smell like her anymore.

Doesn’t feel like her, either.

Just cold sheets and the shape of someone who isn’t coming back.

The phone rings again.

You don’t move at first. You just stare at it from the bed, curled into yourself, tea gone cold on the nightstand. You’re too tired to hope. Too tired to hurt all over again.

You let it ring.

Then, just as the machine picks up, you hear it:

“Hey, I—”

You bolt upright. Your hand fumbles with the receiver, nearly knocking the whole thing off the table.

You can hear wind on the other end. A car passing. Her uneven breath. She’s drunk — slurring just enough to soften the edges.

“Hello?” you ask quietly, interrupting her.

“Hey, uh— I’m on your street. Can—could I come over?”

Your heart jolts.

Of course she’s here. Of course she’s doing this.

“What, come over so you can sleep with me and leave in the morning? Don’t you have a boyfriend now?”

You don’t mean for it to come out so bitter. But it does.

Another pause. You hear her swallow.

“No,” she says, a little too fast. “No, I just— I wanna see you. I… I miss you.”

Silence again.

“I won’t leave,” she adds. Softer. Almost gentle. “I swear. I just wanna be close to you again. Please baby.”

And that’s what does it.

Not the words, but the way she says them. Like she’s fragile. Like you’re the only thing keeping her from breaking open in the street.

And you want to believe her.

You always do.

“Um— yeah. Yeah okay. Door’s unlocked.”

You hang up before she can say anything else.

You leave the door cracked open and sit on the edge of the bed, heartbeat loud in your throat. You don’t even touch the tea. It’s cold now anyway.

A few minutes pass. You start to wonder if maybe she changed her mind.

Then—

The door creaks.

Soft footsteps.

Then she’s standing in the bedroom doorway like something out of a dream you promised yourself not to have anymore.

Her hair’s windblown. Eyes glassy. Cheeks flushed in that way you used to kiss without thinking. She’s wearing your old hoodie — the one you thought she took by accident. Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.

“Hey,” she says, like she didn’t tear you in half the last time.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

She steps closer, slow, like approaching something wounded.

And when she touches you — hand brushing your knee — it’s gentle. Like she thinks you might break. Like she already knows she did.

She crawls into bed beside you like she never stopped knowing how. Her arms wrap around your waist, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

You turn to face her — too fast, too eager, too desperate to pretend you’re not already unraveling.

She’s so close.

So warm.

You whisper her name like a question.

She answers with a kiss.

It’s soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that pretends it means something. The kind that tastes like everything you used to be and everything you’re still trying to heal over.

You kiss her back like maybe it’ll fix something.

Like maybe if you give her enough, she’ll stay.

She pulls you on top of her.

And you let her.

She pulls you in like she never stopped, like she’s been thinking about this the entire time you’ve been apart. Like she never left.

Her hands are familiar. So is the way she breathes your name — soft, wrecked, reverent.

And for a moment, you almost believe it means something.

She kisses you like she’s trying to forget.

Clothes come off in the dark, slow and clumsy and quiet. Not rushed — not this time. It’s softer than it should be, gentler than you expect. She holds you like she’s still yours.

And you pretend that’s true.

When it’s over, she stays close. Fingers trailing lazy patterns across your skin. Her breath warm against your neck. Like this is safety. Like this is home.

You close your eyes and try not to cry.

Because you want to believe her.

Even when you already know better.

You wake slowly, blinking against the soft gray light bleeding in through the blinds. Your body aches — the kind that feels like closeness and regret.

You reach for her without thinking.

Your hand brushes cool sheets.

You tell yourself she might be in the kitchen.

Maybe making coffee.

Or out on the fire escape, smoking like she used to when she couldn’t sleep.

You sit up, the blanket pooling around your waist, and listen.

No clink of mugs.

No hiss of the kettle.

No familiar creak of the window hinge.

Just silence.

You call out softly:

“Nat?”

No answer.

Your heart stutters, but you stand anyway. Move through the apartment barefoot, like if you don’t turn on any lights, it won’t feel as empty.

The kitchen’s still. The counters untouched. The kettle cold.

You check the fire escape.

She’s not there either.

Not even the faintest trace of a cigarette.

You move back to the bedroom on autopilot, already knowing, already feeling it in the hollow of your chest — but needing to see it anyway. And there it is, the bed.

Half-made. 

Her side empty and cold.

Again.

No warning.

Just her scent on your pillow, fading fast.

Just your own arms, wrapped tight around yourself like that’ll hold everything in.

Last night replays in your head — her hands, her voice, the way she said “I won't leave” like she meant it, like she wanted to try and fix things.

But she did.

She always does.

And this time, it hurts worse than before — because you let her do it.

You let her in.

You believed her.

You let her touch you like it meant something.

And she left anyway.

You sit there for a moment too long. 

Still. 

Numb. 

Like if you don’t move, maybe this won’t be real.

But it is.

And then it hits.

Not slowly — not gently.

All at once.

Your chest caves in like something inside you gave up. A broken sob tears its way out before you even realize you’ve opened your mouth.

And then another.

And another.

You double over, hands clutching the sheets she slept in — the same ones she abandoned — and cry like you’re trying to force her out of your body.

It’s not soft.

It’s not cinematic.

It’s ugly. It’s heaving. It’s raw.

Your throat burns. Your stomach aches. You gasp between sobs like you just can’t get enough air, like the weight of her absence is crushing your lungs.

You cry until your voice is hoarse, until your fists ache from clenching the sheets, until your body goes limp with exhaustion.

And when the silence finally returns — thick, suffocating — it feels like it’s swallowing you whole.

Because she’s not coming back.

[bradshawshawaiianshirt]

the mummy | part 1

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x reader AU

The year is 1927 and famed archeologist Bradley Bradshaw is running on whiskey and the last of his reputation. His best skill? Charming every woman in the room - until you show up with a sharp wit, zero patience for his ego, and a lead on finding the Lost City of Nefertari. No matter how intelligent you are, it'd be unheard of for a woman to lead an expedition, so you need a front man, someone with money and connections. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, Bradley fits the bill - even if he's more interested in chasing skirts than treasure.

Rumoured to be full of gold, jewels and one vengeful mummy, the city might kill you - or make you rich. The mummy is one thing, but can you both survive each other?

length: 2.1k

masterlist

Egypt, 1927 – somewhere in Cairo 

Bradley Bradshaw woke up to the sharp sting of sunlight stabbing through the faded curtains. His head throbbed with the familiar rhythm of last night’s whiskey, and empty bottles cluttered the small table beside the bed – scotch, gin, and an absinthe glass with a lipstick stain. The heat pressed through the cracked window, mingling with the dust and a faint scent of jasmine drifting in from the street below. 

He groaned and rolled onto his back, eyes catching a faded photograph that hung crookedly on the wall. It showed a younger, cleaner version of himself at a sunbaked dig site, arm slung around a colleague, both smiling with the certainty of youth and success. The words Dr. Bradley Bradshaw felt like a ghost from a past life. Once a darling of the academic world, which was a shock in itself, considering he didn’t come from money, now he was little more than a footnote. A scandal, a smuggled artefact. Guilty or scapegoat, the academic world had turned its back. No lectures at Cambridge anymore. No invitations to expeditions.  

Just Cairo. 

After dressing in a threadbare suit and pulling on a worn jacket, he stepped out into the dusty streets. The city buzzed with life: vendors shouting their wares, children darting between carts, and the scent of spices heavy in the air. 

By mid-morning, Bradley staggered down a sun-beaten alleyway toward his usual cafe. The old men out front barely looked up as he passed. 

“Late start again, Bradshaw?” one called without much interest. 

“Only because the nights in Cairo are so demanding.” Bradley muttered, rubbing his temples. 

A vendor on the corner handed him a coffee without asking. “Put it on your invisible tab,” the man said with a smirk. 

Bradley raised the tin cup in a mock salute. “Thanks pal, you’re a lifesaver.” 

He wandered toward the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities with the sluggish confidence of someone who had nothing to do and nowhere to be. The museum was where he wasted most of his time these days – haunting the past like a bored spirit. It was quiet, cool, and full of things that reminded him of who he used to be. 

He drifted into the front hall and leaned on the marble railing, surveying the familiar stone columns and sarcophagi as if they still belonged to him. The same young woman behind the reception desk glanced up and blushed, eyes shining. Just as she did every day. 

“Oh, Mr. Bradshaw.” She breathed, her cheeks flushed. “You’re late for your morning haunting.” 

“Miss Fatima,” he said with theatrical flair, tipping an imaginary hat. “You know what they say – a true gentleman keeps ‘em waiting just long enough to build the anticipation.” 

Fatima's smile deepened. “You do have such a way with words...” 

Before Bradley could reply, the heavy museum doors creaked open. 

You stepped through, purposeful and unsmiling, a worn satchel over your shoulder and desert dust still clinging to the hem of your skirt. 

Bradley turned with mild curiosity. “Well, well. Not the usual kind of visitor.” 

Fatima glanced from Bradley to you, a faint frown crossing her brow. 

You looked directly at Bradley. Faint recognition flickered in your eyes, but it was quickly followed by distaste. “Excuse me.” you said, “I have an appointment.” 

Bradley smiled with an automatic charm. “You sure? Because I could swear we’ve met in a dream I once had. Very dusty. Very dramatic.” 

“Do your dreams often involve national archives and paperwork?” you asked flatly, unamused. 

“Only the thrilling ones.”  

Fatima stifled a laugh. You turned to face him fully then, eyes narrowing. “I know who you are.” 

Bradley straightened, amused. “Do you, now? That’s rare these days. What gave me away – the rugged good looks or the air of disgrace?” 

“Neither. I read a great deal of archeology, before your name stopped appearing in respectable journals.” 

“Ouch.” 

Your gaze didn’t waver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.” 

Bradley stepped lightly into your path, cocking his head with an easy smile. “What’s your name?” 

You sighed exasperatedly and told him your name, attempting to step around him, but he blocked your path once more. 

He repeated your name, almost testing it out, before he continued, “You’ve come all this way for dusty papers and old stones? Surely someone like you has grander ambitions.” 

“I don’t have time for this.” you snapped. 

“Conversation?” 

“Distraction.” 

Bradley let the silence hang for a beat, eyes narrowing with interest. “You know, you’ve got a fire in you. I like that.” 

You took a single step closer, eyes sharp. “And you’ve got a reputation. I don’t like that.” 

You swiftly brushed past him, disappearing down the corridor toward the museum offices without another word. 

Bradley watched you go, a strange curiosity stirring in his chest. There was something about you – sharp, determined, maybe even dangerous – that caught his attention. But the moment passed as quickly as it came. 

He turned back to Fatima, flashing his usual grin. “So, where were we before our lovely visitor interrupted us?” 

Fatima smiled, her cheeks still flushed. “You were promising to show me a real adventure.” 

Bradley winked. “Now that sounds like a promise worth keeping.” 

-- 

The air in the archives clung to your skin like old parchment – dry, stiff and unwelcoming. Rows of aging files lined shelves like forgotten tombs, each one more accessible to time than to you. Sunlight filtered through lowered shutters, painting dusty lines across the floor and the counter where you stood. 

The archivist behind the desk wore a beige linen suit and a beige expression to match, a balding British man with a wispy mustache and an even wispier regard for your presence, who was leafing through a registry at a pace meant to discourage further inquiry. 

“I’m looking for any documentation relating to Queen Nefertari,” you said, for what felt like the third time. “Excavation reports, site diagrams, expedition notes – anything from the past twenty years.” 

He hummed absently. “The Queen’s tomb was discovered in 1904, Miss...” 

You flatly reminded him of your surname. 

“Right.” he sighed, “Yes, well, the tomb was catalogued and recorded thoroughly. As for the archives, I’m afraid access is restricted to scholars with formal credentials. University backing. Field permits. If you’re after public records, I suggest the central museum exhibits. You’d like it. There’s even a miniature replica of her burial chamber. Quite popular with the tourists.” 

“I’m not a tourist.” you said, your jaw tightening. “I’ve worked as an archivist for the British Museum for years. I’m a researcher. I studied under Professor Simpson in London. My work was cited in-” 

“Yes, yes, so you’ve said.” He waved a dismissive hand, barely looking up. “But the current archive policy is quite firm.” 

You drew a sharp breath. “Would it be firm if I were a man?” 

He sighed, as if you were a child interrupting him mid-task. “If you were a man, you’d likely already be affiliated with a university expedition. You’d have a letter of introduction. A grant. A patron. As it is, all you have is... gumption.” 

“A man just walked through those doors without so much as a form.” you snapped back. 

“That was Dr. Hewitt,” the archivist replied crisply, “He’s published extensively, well respected. And he’s... well, he’s known.” He looked up finally and offered a patronising smile. “Perhaps you should write all these ideas you have down. A little mystery novel. Ladies do so love a good treasure hunt.” 

You stared at him, stunned by the brazenness of it. The sheer, effortless dismissal. 

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. 

He straightened a stack of folders. “If you wish to submit a formal request, you may do so. But be warned, the process takes time. Months, usually. If you’re still in Cairo by then.” 

You gave a tight smile. “I’ll put it in my calendar.” 

Turning sharply, you stalked out of the room and into the echoing stone corridor, heels clicking in frustration. You passed a group of men chatting by a sculpture of Horus, all laughing far too loudly, one of them openly staring at you as you passed. 

Outside, the heat slapped you full in the face. You ducked into the shade of a colonnade, pressing your back to the cool stone, trying to breathe. 

You wiped your brow, the old anger burning up again. You had the knowledge. The training. The damned map. But none of it mattered. 

Because you’re a woman. 

And the men who held the keys to the past – figuratively, and literally – weren't giving up a single one of them unless it suited their egos, and definitely not to someone like you. 

Unless... 

Bradley. 

You hadn’t even liked him. Disheveled. Arrogant. Reeking of whiskey and wasted potential. But they had listened to him once. Maybe they still would. 

You weren’t asking for help. Not really. 

But if you wanted a chance – any chance – to get through the locked doors of history... 

You might need him. 

You swallowed hard, furious at the thought. Furious that he might be your best chance. 

And even more furious that he would probably say no. 

-- 

The bar was dim and smelled of heat, smoke and old regrets. Ceiling fans turned slow as molasses, stirring the heavy Cairo air just enough to remind you how hot it was. 

Bradley Bradshaw sat slouched at a corner table, halfway through something bitter that had stopped being refreshing an hour ago. His hat lay forgotten beside an ashtray, his shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled. The bottle on the table told the story of his afternoon – long, uneventful, and preferably forgotten. 

So, when he heard a familiar voice, crisp and unmistakable, he assumed at first it was the heat. 

“Mr. Bradshaw.” 

He looked up. No hallucination. 

It was you. 

The sharp-eyed woman from the museum. The one who’d walked past his charm like it was background noise. 

You were dressed more practically now – linen coat, sun-darkened boots – but your expression hadn’t softened in the slightest. Still cool. Still precise. 

He gave a lazy smile and sat up slightly. “Well. If it isn’t the ice queen of the archives.” 

“I was hoping for a private word,” you said, eyes flicking towards the bar. 

Bradley gestured at the empty seat across from him. “You found me. Might as well sit.” 

You did, folding your hands in front of you. “I need your help,” you said bluntly. 

Bradley arched a brow. “That’s funny. You didn’t seem particularly impressed last time we met.” 

“You were flirting with the museum staff,” you said dryly. “Not exactly the entrance of a serious man.” 

“And yet here you are,” he said, lifting his glass. “Asking for my expertise.” 

“I’ve come into possession of something,” you said carefully. “A... document. Potentially very old. Very important.” 

His interest piqued, but he didn’t let it show. “What kind of document?” 

“I’m not ready to share that,” you said. “Not until I know you’re willing to take this seriously.” 

Bradley gave a small laugh. “You tracked me to the worst bar in Cairo to ask for help, and you won’t tell me what I’m helping with?” 

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m asking if you want to matter again.”

That landed with a small, uncomfortable silence. 

You continued, “You’re still known, even if your reputation’s bruised. You know how to navigate these sites, the bureaucracy, the politics. I don’t. I need that.” 

He leaned back. “And what makes you think I’m interested in anything more than my drink?” 

“Because you used to be brilliant,” you said. “And brilliant men don’t die quietly in corners. They just wait for the right reason to stand back up.” 

Bradley studied you more closely now. You weren’t just clever – you were confident, calculated. And you had something. You were holding back deliberately, not out of fear, but out of strategy. 

That intrigued him, more than he liked. 

“You’re not going to show me the document.” 

“No.” 

“Not even a hint?” 

“I’ve already said too much,” you said. “But I’ll say this – if it’s what I believe it is, it’ll change everything.” 

Bradley dragged a hand through his hair, sighing. “And what do I get? Besides a lecture?” 

“Credit. Access. And a front-row seat to something extraordinary.” 

You stood, brushing invisible dust from your coat. “I’m staying at the Hotel Continental,” you said. “If you want to be part of something bigger than your own bitterness, meet me tomorrow morning. If not... enjoy your whiskey.” 

You turned toward the door. 

Bradley called after you, his tone light and sarcastic. “You don't want to join me for a drink, sweetheart?” 

You paused, casting a glance back over your shoulder.  

“I’m not here to flatter forgotten men,” you said. “I’m here to dig up queens.” 

And then you were gone – leaving behind the stale smoke, the empty glass, and a man who, for the first time in years, couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow.

---

taglist:

@jessevans

@grimpowrrs

[pointbreakvhs]

Tainted Promises

genre : one shot - angst pairing : John Constantine x female reader (3rd person POV - "She") notes : I've been thinking of experimenting with 3rd person POV lately. Also, it's my first time writing John Constantine and I really hope I do him justice! (He was my first Keanu crush back when i was a teen ❤️hehe) summary : In Constantine's dim apartment, you confront his emotional walls, only to face his harsh rejection and fear of drawing you into his darkness.

John Constantine’s chocolate eyes bore deep into hers, unflinching, unrelenting. The intensity of his gaze made the room feel even smaller. She realized, with a sharp pang, how close the exorcist had gotten—close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his presence and catch the earthy undertones of his cologne beneath the smoke. She held her breath for mere seconds. The dim light of his apartment brought some sense of comfort.The flickering light of a lamp on the fridge casts long shadows across the cluttered room, where ancient tomes, occult artifacts, and half-empty liquor bottles sit in chaotic harmony on the wood table. The faint hum of the city outside is muffled, as if the apartment exists in its own isolated pocket of reality. The atmosphere is heavy, charged with unspoken emotions. 

"I... I don't understand," she said, her voice trembling. "How do you live like this? How do you carry all of this... darkness?" 

Constantine exhaled smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers, his expression unreadable. "You get used to it," he said, his voice low. "Or you don't. Either way, you keep moving.”

“Oh? You don’t think I can handle it?”

The lump in her throat made it hard to speak. She hated how transparent she felt under his gaze, how easily he unraveled her defenses without even trying. But then anger rose within her, she wanted answers to the visions plaguing her mind.

She shook her head, frustration dancing in her eyes. “You can't always just shut everyone out!"

His gaze never wavered, and for a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in those dark eyes—something raw and unguarded. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the usual familiar mask of detachment.

The tall man took another step closer, his gaze never wavering. “You’re scared,” he said bluntly, the words hanging thickly in the air between them. She couldn't bear the intensity of his gaze, feeling her cheeks flush by the sudden proximity.

The faint crackle of an ashtray nearby broke the silence, Constantine flicking his cigarette with practiced ease before taking a long, slow drag.

“You should be,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don't know what you're asking."

Despite his unreadable expression, his eyes were full of weariness, the weight of battles fought and lost against demons. And yet, there was something else—something that made her heart ache for him.

Without thinking, she reached out, her hand brushing against his arm, feeling the fabric of his white shirt under her hand. Constantine stiffened at the sudden touch. She whispered, slowly shaking her head and boring her eyes into his. “Let me in. Please."

Constantine’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it seemed like he might pull away. But instead, he leaned in, his voice barely audible. "You don’t know what you’re asking. Trust me, you don’t."

She didn’t back down, her hand still resting on his arm, her eyes searching for any sign of the man beneath the armor. "Maybe I do," she whispered, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside her. "Or maybe I just want to."

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. His eyes, no longer guarded, searched hers as if he were trying to decide whether to push her away or pull her closer.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with something that sounded like regret or resignation. “You,” he whispered, the word sounding like both a warning and a plea. “You’ll regret this.”

But even as he spoke, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers—not soft or tender, but desperate, a fleeting taste of the darkness he couldn’t hide. Then he broke the kiss abruptly. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" John said, his voice bitter, almost mocking. "A taste of the darkness? Well, here it is."

Her heart sank at the sharpness in his tone, but she didn’t look away. 

"What are you so afraid of?" she asked, her voice breaking as she tried to hold back tears of anger.

"You," he bluntly said, his voice hollow. "You make me want things I can’t have. Things I don’t deserve."

She reached for him again, but he flinched, his expression hardening. "Don’t," he warned, his voice low and strained. "I’m no hero. I’m the one who drags people like you into hell."

He turned and walked away, the shadows swallowing him as he disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed with a hollow thud, and she was left standing there, the bitter taste of smoke and despair lingering on her lips.

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t move. The silence left in his wake was a reminder of the walls he built, walls she couldn’t tear down.

[foreingersgod]

Can I request a Caitlin Clark x taller Fem Hockey Player Reader who dresses masculine (Reader is extremely clumsy/looks like she has fawn legs when Reader is on normal ground, but when the reader is on the ice she is a force to be reckoned with)

(And the reader has a short and curly ‘burly touching her shoulders’ artist bob hairstyle)

Plot:

-Reader clumsily ran into Caitlin and managed to spill Caitlin’s coffee/hot tea drink on the reader

Reader is embarrassed and just sorta starts rambling out apologizes (I imagine Robin Buckley style rambling) completely ignoring the hot drink that was spilled on her (the readers used to getting injured by her own fawn legs at this point so it doesn’t even faze her)

Reader offers to buy Caitlin a new drink and Caitlin offers to get the taller girl a new shirt

(After that they began dating)

The reader is extremely vocal in her support of Caitlin and the Basketball team when it’s basketball season

So when it’s time for the readers hockey season to begin Caitlin and the team surprise the reader at game in support of reader — but the team is so used to the readers clumsiness that they are shock at how amazing the reader plays on the ice almost like reader is Jack Frost

Maybe at the end Caitlin tells the reader she loves the taller readers clumsiness and finds It endearing how reader is hard core hockey player on the ice and a clumsy goofball on regular ground but no matter either or the reader is always the softness person for her/caitlin

(Sorry This is long I’m kinda sleepy and I can’t find the energy to simplify this 🫤🫠😭😞🥱🥱😪)

— LadyBatSuperKing 🏳️‍🌈🦇🦸‍♂️👑

She’s a force to be reckoned with . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: *refer to request

NOT PROOF READ !!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

the alarm clock on your bedside table wailed throughout your bedroom. waking up for practice at 5:30 in the morning should be a crime. you were in no mood to lace up your skates and throw on your gear at all today, especially this early. despite your body pleading to stay in bed for 5 more minutes, you forced yourself to get up and get ready for the day.

you fumbled around your bathroom, trying to quickly tame your hair and brush your teeth, knocking down numerous toiletries in the process. you whispered a few curses under your breathe as you knocked over your bottle of hair product, half of its contents emptying into the sink.

eventually, and certainly not without clumsily cluttering half of your apartment, you managed to make your way out of the door and on your way to practice.

you tried to enjoy the early hours of the morning as you meandered down the street, dipping into your favorite coffee shop to wash away the 6:00 am drowsiness. it wasn’t busy like it normally was. only a few business men with their eyes glued to their phones and a completely exhausted college student stood around the shop.

glancing at your phone, you realized that you were going to be late if you didn’t hurry up and order so you made haste to order your drink and leave. grabbing your cup from the barista, you swiftly turned around and headed for the door. before you could even wrap your fingers around the handle, a woman, surprisingly just as tall as you were, pushed the door open. the door pushed right into you, the girl running straight into your chest and spilling your coffee all over the front of your clothes.

“fuck” you cursed, feeling the steaming drink seep through your shirt and onto your skin.

“holy shit, i’m so sorry! i didn’t see you there at all i swear to god!” the girl said, cheeks burning up in embarrassment. she ran over to the counter and returned with several napkins, trying to dab up the coffee that was still dripping onto the floor.

“no no you’re…you’re fine it’s not a biggie” you tried to say, not wanting to make a big deal of it all. you could tell she felt horrible about it and you didn’t want to make her feel any worse, even if she did just destroy one of the only shirts that actually fit your tall figure. “this happens all the time! like don’t even-don’t even worry about it it’s totally cool! i should be sorry, i was totally in your way, completely my fault really!”

“what? no! of course it’s a big deal, i just destroyed your shirt dude” completely unfazed by your rambling. her gaze finally met yours and you could now get a clear look of her face. and damn was she smoking hot. not to mention she was tall enough that she didn’t have to strain her neck to see you like everyone else did. “is there…is there anything i can do? i feel like shit, i shouldn’t have rushed through the door like that without paying attention.”

“you’re really fine, don’t worry about it” you gave her a genuine smile.

“can i at least buy you a new shirt? a new drink?” it came out more like a beg than an offer.

“well,” you shrugged “since this was one of my only shirts that fit, i think a replacement would be very generous, thank you”

“definitely, yea no problem” she stuttered out “um, i’m caitlin, sorry we had to meet in such a shitty situation”

you both laughed “i’m YN, nice to meet you caitlin”

and the rest was history, she bought you a new shirt, you bought you both two cups of coffee, and she offered to walk with you the rest of the way to your practice. before parting ways, you exchanged contacts and made plans to hangout later that night. scorching hot coffee spilling on your shirt was probably the best thing that had happened to you in a long time.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

it had been several months since you met cait at the coffee shop, and now you both were happily dating. you originally thought she wanted to be just friends, aware that your clumsiness and tall figure wasn’t typically something that someone looked for in a woman. but she was very adamant that she loved you for you, finding the beauty and originality in your clumsy nature and being incredibly grateful to have a girlfriend that understands what it’s like to have to duck to fit through some doors. to her, you were funny and original and you both had so much in common, she couldn’t fathom a world in which you stayed friends.

your relationship so far has been absolute bliss. hockey season eventually ended as you started getting to know each other, so there was a lot of night spent watching her practice and even more evenings watching her play. you’ll admit, basketball was never your thing, the rink was the only place you were comfortable, but falling in love with caitlin really made you fall in love with the sport too. you were like her ‘personal cheerleader’ she told you, always shouting her name and repping a #22 jersey. the team became your family at this point and you loved nothing more than supporting them from the stadium seats.

the basketball season eventually came to an end and it was truly a privilege to watch your girlfriend blow everyone away. watching her and her team win, take home titles and awards made you explode with joy. but you were even more excited to share the coming hockey season for the first time with caitlin and the rest of the team.

they all knew you to be the klutz in your relationship, so you were anticipating the looks on their faces when they saw you on the ice.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

“alright, baby, we’ll be watching” caitlin said, rubbing your arm through your jersey and padding. she had met you in the hallway, outside the locker room, to wish you luck one more time before your game started.

“i love so much, thanks for being here” you pulled her in for a kiss.

“i wouldn’t miss it for the world”

she made her way back out to where the team was sitting, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before she left. you could see them laugh and smile with each other and it made you so happy that they were all here to support you.

your coach hollered for you from inside the locker room not long after and you quickly hustled back to lace up. after you were completely geared up, stretched, and given a sturdy team pep talk by coach, you were ready to head out onto the rink.

the announcers called out everyone’s names, including yours, and you could practically feel caitlin’s smile from down there. then before you knew it, the whistle was blown and the game started.

it was going incredibly well. you had your stick poised and ready to to move effortlessly across the ice. every one of your movements was deliberate and precise, you felt as though you were gliding on air. when the puck was hurtled toward you, you reacted with lightning reflexes, intercepting it with a graceful flick of your stick.

this was your moment, you thought, time for everyone to see that you weren’t as clumsy on the ice.

you skated down the rink, charging forward to drive the puck into the opponents goal. you were up against girls almost twice your size. and yet, when everyone was sure that you would slip up when the girls came at you, you slid around them with unwavering speed and focus. you were past them in mere seconds, shocking the crowd. finally, you reached the goal and you took your shot, sending it flying right into the net of the goal.

the crowd erupted with applause, hollering your number and screaming for your team. but you were only focused on finding caitlin and the girls. you spotted her almost immediately, locking eyes, and laughing under your breathe when you saw the looks on all of their faces. their eyes were wide and their mouths hanging open with shock, totally dumbfounded by your change in coordination.

after your astounding goal that put your team ahead of your opponents, the game felt like it was over in seconds. your team was incredibly happy that you had won your first game of the season. you all made your way off the rink and into the locker room again, signing posters and shirts as you walked down the tunnel. everyone was changing into their post-game clothes, congratulating one another, and hugging everyone goodbye until tomorrow’s practice.

you hurriedly pulled your gear off and put on your team hoodie and watching sweats, trying to make it out to see caitlin and girls as fast as you could. sure enough, the second you stepped out those doors, they all stood with posters and flowers, excited to shower you and praise and congratulate you on the game.

“you guys are so sweet, thanks for coming!” you beamed, hugging everyone one by one.

“oh of course!” kate smiled at you.

“wouldn’t miss it,” hannah followed “we wouldn’t want to miss those killer moves! who knew you could move like that you klutz” she nudged your shoulder, playfully.

you all laughed with her, making jokes about how your long legs made you almost invincible out on the rink and how they were all worried you’d slip and fall. but you loved that they all cared about you and were proud of what you accomplished tonight.

after the team was finished catching up with you, they retired for the night and headed their separate ways. of course caitlin stayed behind, ready to walk you to her car and head back to her place to further “celebrate”

“you know i love you, and i think you were fantastic tonight, right?” she said from the drivers side of her car.

“of course, why? is everything ok?”

“yea no, no, everything’s fine” she smiled, glancing between you and the road. “i know me and you and the team…we’ll all joke about your clumsiness sometimes, but…i don’t know i just wanted to make sure you knew that i genuinely love that about you”

“cait” you blushed

“seriously, i love everything about you, from your clumsiness and your rambling, to your precision in your games…i love that you’re just as tall as me, if not more, even if you feel insecure about it. i love that your goofy when it’s just me and you. i’m seriously so in love with everything about you, it’s crazy”

“you’re so sweet to me, caitlin, i love you so much” you reached over the console to hold her hand “more than you know” all she did was smile back at you, rubbing her thumb over yours as you sped down the road to her apartment.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

A/N: again, i’m sorry if there are an inaccuracies with the hockey terminology, but i hope you love it nonetheless! i loved this request, thanks so much anon, enjoy! <3

[the-offside-rule]

Sam & Dean Winchester (Supernatural) - Merry Christmas, Kid

Christmas: From The Vault

25 Days of Christmas

Warnings: mentions of k!lling

Italics - flashback

The wind howled outside the rundown motel as the Winchester siblings trudged through the door, cold and weary after a long hunt. Y/n tossed her bag near the door and collapsed onto the creaky sofa couch. She reached down to untie her boots, her fingers fumbling with the laces as she half-listened to her brothers’ banter. "Man, that werewolf had some nerve trying to take a chunk out of me." Dean grumbled, pulling off his jacket and throwing it over a chair. "You mean after you tripped over that log and practically served yourself up on a platter?" Sam shot back, grinning as he dropped his duffle by the table. "Hey, I had it handled!" Dean huffed.

"Sure, Dean." Y/n murmured, her words slurred with sleep as she kicked off her boots. She stretched out on the couch, her eyes fluttering shut despite the conversation flowing around her. "How are you not passed out already?" Sam asked, glancing her way. "Superpower." She mumbled, a small smile tugging at her lips before she succumbed to sleep.

The creaky motel door opened, and the Winchester boys stepped inside, tired and sore after the hunt. The familiar musty smell of cheap furniture and stale air filled the room, but something unexpected caught their attention. "Well, would you look at that." Dean said softly, dropping his duffle bag by the door.

In the middle of the small, cluttered living room, Y/n was sprawled across the ratty sofa, fast asleep. Scraps of colorful wrapping paper were scattered everywhere, along with a half-empty roll of tape and a pair of blunt scissors. A couple of oddly shaped presents sat on the table, wrapped with the enthusiasm of a child but not much skill. Sam chuckled lightly. "She really went all out, huh?"

Before Dean could reply, the door swung open behind them, and John Winchester entered, his boots heavy on the worn carpet. His sharp eyes swept over the scene, landing on the mess. "For crying out loud." He muttered, running a hand through his graying hair. "Now I gotta clean all this up." Dean frowned, his jaw tightening. "It’s fine, Dad. She was just trying to do something nice."

"Yeah, well, maybe she should’ve stayed awake to finish it." John snapped, shaking his head. Sam scoffed, unable to hold back. "You can always count on you to ruin a nice thing." John froze, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Watch your tone, Sammy." He growled, his voice low and warning. But Sam didn’t back down. "It’s Christmas Eve. Can’t you let it go for once?"

John’s face darkened, and without another word, he grabbed his jacket and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The room shook with the force of it, and an uneasy silence followed. Dean sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. "Well, that went great." From the sofa, a small voice broke the quiet. "Did I ruin Christmas?"

Y/n stirred sometime later to the faint sound of rustling. She cracked an eye open, barely moving, and saw her brothers. Sam was by the window, arranging something on a spindly pine tree that looked like it had been hacked from the woods outside. He was stringing it with mismatched odds and ends—charms, bottle caps, and even a shoelace. Dean stood at the kitchenette, muttering curses under his breath as he fumbled with the microwave. "Quiet, Dean." Sam whispered sharply. "You're gonna wake her."

"It's not my fault this thing's ancient!" Dean hissed back, shaking a packet of hot cocoa mix like it had personally offended him. Sam rolled his eyes and stalked over. "Give me that. You're hopeless."

"No, you're hopeless!" Dean relatialted. "Me? I'm devorating and you cant even make a simple cup of hot cocoa." Sam whisper shouted. "Its not the making it, its the opening it!" A scuffle broke out, hushed but no less ridiculous, as they wrestled over the cocoa packet. Dean jabbed at Sam with an elbow, Sam retaliated with a swat to Dean’s head, and the powder burst open, spilling onto the counter. Y/n bit her lip to stifle a laugh, deciding not to ruin the surprise. She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep.

Dean quickly shook his head and walked over, kneeling in front of her. "No way, kiddo. You didn’t ruin anything. Dad’s just…stressed, that’s all." Sam came to sit beside her, nudging her shoulder gently. "Dean’s right. You did great." She hesitated, then reached for the gifts on the table. "I, um… I got you guys something."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look before sitting down on either side of her. She handed them each a package, wrapped with far too much tape and uneven folds. Dean tore into his first, pulling out a comb. He raised an eyebrow before realizing it doubled as a pocket knife when he slid the end off. He let out a low whistle. "This is awesome, Y/n. How’d you manage this?"

Sam opened his next, revealing a thick book. He ran a hand over the cover, his lips quirking into a smile when he read the title: Law Basics for Beginners. "I know you want to go to college and be a lawyer." Y/n said shyly. "So I figured… this might help." Sam looked at her with a mix of pride and surprise. "It’s perfect. But seriously, how’d you afford all this?" She grinned mischievously. "I went caroling on doorsteps. The suckers gave me money." Dean burst out laughing, ruffling her hair. "That’s my girl."

As Dean laughed, his gaze drifted to the table. Among the mess of wrapping supplies, he saw a small handmade frame, carefully constructed from sticks and twine. Inside was a family photo—John, Mary, young Dean, and Sam. Dean picked it up, his throat tightening. "Is this… for Dad?" Y/n nodded. "I thought he might like it. I know I’m not in it, but—"

Dean cut her off, pulling her into a hug. "It’s perfect. He’ll love it." Pulling back, Dean reached into his jacket pocket. "Speaking of gifts, I got you something too." He pulled out a small amulet on a leather cord and dangled it in front of her. "What’s it do?" she asked, turning it over in her fingers. "It’s anti-possession. Keeps demons out. And it looks cool, too." Dean said with a grin as he placed it around the neck. Y/n beamed, immediately putting it on. "I’ll wear it forever."

Sam reached into his own bag and handed her a small flask. "Here. It’s for holy water. You know, just in case you ever go on a hunt with us." She hugged them both tightly. "I love you guys."

"We love you too, squirt." Dean said, ruffling her hair again. "You should probably go to bed though. It's getting late." Y/n nodded. "But this is my bed." She replied. "You know what, just for tonight you can sleep in mine. Too comfy for me anyway." She grinned and gave her brothers a kiss on the cheek before she hopped off the couch and into Dean's bed, promptly shutting her eyes and falling back to sleep.

When she woke again, it was to the smell of cocoa and the sight of her brothers seated at the rickety motel table. Dean had on a slightly askew Santa hat, and Sam’s was tilted just right, naturally. Between them sat steaming mugs of hot chocolate, the pine tree now proudly decorated in all its patchwork glory. Y/n sat up, blinking in mock surprise. "Wow. What’s all this?" Dean squinted at her. "You didn’t already see this, did you?"

"What? No!" Y/n said, her voice a little too high-pitched. Sam raised an eyebrow. "Liar." She sighed. "Okay, fine, I might’ve peeked. A little." Sam grinned and reached behind him, pulling out a hastily wrapped present. "Here. We picked this up in the last town."

Y/n tore into the paper to reveal a Barbie. Sam's face dropped as he saw the gift, Dean cluld only look on amused. "I'm a little old for Barbie, dont you think?" She looked up, her heart swelling at the effort they’d made. "I- I didn't think it'd be that." Sam replied awkwardly. "And what's you think it would be? Maybe a Ken doll instead-" Sam nudged him hard. "I love it." She said sincerely. Dean laughed. "Yeah, well, thank Sam. He’s the one who thought visiting a mall Santa was a good idea." Sam shrugged. "Hey, it worked, didn’t it?"

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol. "Here, kid. Merry Christmas."

"Dean!" Sam scolded, nudging him hard. "What? It's practical!" Y/n laughed, cradling both the doll and the gun. "Thanks, guys." She got up and joined them at the table, wrapping her hands around the warm mug of cocoa. "So-" She said after a sip. "When are we heading out to catch that vampire?" Dean arched a brow as he put his cup down. "We’re not. It’s Christmas. Even bloodsuckers get the day off." Sam nodded. "It’s probably not much of a threat today. People won’t be out."

Y/n shook her head firmly. "The sooner we kill it, the sooner we get back here. Let’s go." Dean and Sam exchanged a look, one of those unspoken moments of agreement that only siblings could share. Dean chuckled and shook his head. "No DNA test needed. You’re definitely a Winchester."

When John finally returned, he reeked of alcohol, his steps heavy and uneven. He stopped short when he saw Dean sitting at the table, the handmade frame in front of him. "What’s your problem?" John asked, his tone gruff. Dean stood, holding up the frame. "This. This is my problem. You nearly ruined her Christmas like always."

John’s face hardened. "I didn’t—"

"She’s not even in this picture, but she still made it for you." Dean snapped. "The least you could do is not be so selfish for once." John stared at the frame, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he sighed and walked over to Y/n’s bed. Gently, he shook her awake. "Hey, kiddo." He said softly. She blinked up at him, surprised.

"I’m sorry." John said, holding up the frame. "This… this is really nice. Thank you." Her face lit up, and he smiled faintly before pulling a pristine white-handled gun from his bag. "This is for you." He said, placing it in her hands. "It’s to protect you. Tomorrow morning, I’ll teach you how to make salt-lined bullets."

Y/n’s excitement was palpable. "Really? Thanks, Dad!" She hugged him before settling back into bed, clutching her new gun like it was a teddy bear. John turned to Dean, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "Happy now?" Dean sighed. "A little."

"Good. Merry Christmas, Dean." John said as he walked over to his bed and lay down, almost immediately falling asleep. Dean sighed and stared at the frame on the table. He missed how Christmas used to be; his mom, dad and Sam just enjoying Christmas, laughing, no demons or monsters. He wpuld give anything to go back to those days. His gaze shufted to Y/n asleep. He thought that maybe- just maybe- Y/n is the only reason he wouldn't go back. Because what would be Christmas without his little sister?

[planetsano]

gojo comforting reader for feeling like a second choice to friends or family?

this bathroom is a cramped and the air is thick with the scent of perfume and cologne, mingling with the faint aroma of alcohol. dim, flickering lights cast eerie shadows across the tiled walls, giving the room an intimate yet slightly ominous atmosphere. the sink is cluttered with half-empty bottles of hand soap and stacks of paper towels, evidence of the constant stream of partygoers seeking refuge in this small space. a mirror hangs above the sink, its surface smudged and streaked from countless hands reaching out to check their appearance throughout the night.

the sound of muffled music and laughter seeps through the closed door, a constant reminder of the festivities happening just beyond the bathroom walls but the couple who had just locked themselves in weren’t having the same fun.

gojo’s expression softens as he watches your troubled demeanor. “i don’t understand why you’re shutting me out,” he says gently, stepping closer. “can you just please talk to me?”

“satoru, I don’t want to do this with you right now.” you sigh, your voice heavy with frustration, as you avoid his gaze, focusing on the tiles beneath your feet.

satoru leans against the bathroom counter, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. “why can’t you just tell me why you’re upset? we just got here and you want to leave? everyone’s looking at me like i’m killing the vibe.”

your shoulders tense at his words, brows furrowing as you look up at him with a mean set of daggers. “this is exactly what i’m talking about.. why should it matter what they think when i’m the one in a relationship with you?”

satoru’s features soften as he reaches out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “you’re right. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice laced with remorse. “It’s just… I hate when you shut me out.. get far away from me and I can’t see you anymore. You’re always my priority, you know that..”

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your body begin to dissipate at his apology. “thank you,” you say softly, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “let’s just try to enjoy the rest of the party, okay?”

“yeah,” satoru agrees, pulling you into a warm embrace and you lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your chest, grounding you in the present. he plants a sweet kiss onto your forehead. “I love you.”

send me a concept you’d like to see & i’ll write a blurb for it!

[reveryfics]

i hope everything is going well for you !! don't know if you'd do another deep request,, but he's the only one (of the seven,,) who'd i'd imagine with a !reader like this lol.

the deep x supe ! reader (reader with similar abilities to the regenerating saliva thing? except, it gets people high lol. due to this, reader is just. constantly 'high'. reader is either the most miserable person or the most chaotic person. why not both? perpetual state of "what the fuck is going on" and "what is real and what isn't?"

either deep or homelander preferably !! idm lol

🪲 anon

Euphoria

Kevin Moskowitz "The Deep" x Male Reader

Summary: Possessing the extraordinary gift of healing even the gravest injuries with your saliva, you became a fixture within the highest echelons of the supe community, providing a weaker version of your unique talent. The only issue, your healing enzymes shared properties with cannabis, resulting in your constant state of a euphoric high and a subtle high for anyone you treated.

A/N: Anon thanks for checking in, I'm doing okay. I've personally only gotten high a couple times, so I'm simply mixing my experiences.

TW: Soft angst - Comfort - Cannabis - Bodily fluids (Saliva)

The air in your apartment clung to you like a damp shroud, thick and stagnant, carrying the ghost of forgotten meals – a faint, sour tang that never quite dissipated. A lone lamp in the corner, its bulb struggling against the encroaching darkness, cast a weak, jaundiced circle of light that did little to dispel the gloom. It barely touched the monumental heap in the sink, a teetering ziggurat of dirty plates, bowls stained with dried remnants, and a chaotic jumble of cutlery – a silent testament to days blurring into weeks, marked only by the necessity of sustenance.

Across the worn wooden floor, crumpled clothes lay scattered like vibrant, discarded petals against a backdrop of muted beige walls. A splash of color in the otherwise dreary space, they spoke of hurried undressings and a lack of care. The bed, a once-ordered piece of furniture, now resembled a storm-tossed sea of tangled sheets and a twisted duvet, stubbornly resisting any attempt at neatness.

On the lumpy, stained couch, you were a figure of stillness amidst the chaos. Your usually meticulously styled hair now fanned out across the dusty cushions in a web of tangled strands. Your eyes, the whites faintly webbed with red and holding a distant, unfocused quality, stared blankly at the flickering images on the television screen. The shifting light painted fleeting shadows across the sharp angles of your face, cruelly highlighting the heavy, bruised shadows that clung beneath your eyes like permanent fixtures. Your frame, already slender, appeared almost gaunt beneath the loose, faded fabric of an oversized t-shirt and baggy pajama pants, the ridge of your spine a stark, visible line beneath the stretched cotton. The tinny sounds of the television – a canned sitcom laugh track – filled the oppressive silence, a hollow, jarring counterpoint to the profound stillness of the room and the aching emptiness that resided within you.

Empty beer bottles, their labels peeling and condensation rings marking the dusty floor, formed a haphazard perimeter around the couch. A scattering of empty chip bags, their silver interiors crinkling softly with any slight movement, added to the debris. You reached a languid hand towards the remote, its surface sticky to the touch, and mindlessly flicked through the channels. Each fleeting image – vibrant commercials, shouting pundits, glossy dramas – offered no purchase for your vacant gaze. Finally, you landed on the droning voices of the news anchors. A sigh escaped your lips, a puff of stale air that did little to alleviate the pressure in your chest. You set the remote back down on the cluttered coffee table with a soft clink and pushed yourself into a sitting position.

The room swam for a moment, the edges of your vision softening and blurring, but it was a familiar sensation, a constant companion you had long since grown accustomed to. It was the price of your powers, this perpetual, low-grade euphoria that felt akin to being perpetually stoned, as if you had inhaled your own weight in cannabis. It had leached the joy from your life, turning simple tasks into monumental efforts. Some days, you were a fixture on that couch, a motionless form refusing the insistent buzz of your phone or the concerned voices that occasionally filtered through your door. You envied the normalcy of those you helped, the fleeting buzz they experienced compared to the relentless tide that washed over you daily. Functioning was a herculean task. Holding down a proper job was a distant memory, relationships withered and died, and even the basic act of self-care felt like climbing a sheer cliff face. Your existence was funded by the grudging payments from Vought, your sole purpose the continued well-being of their volatile top-tier supes.

With a groan, you pushed yourself up from the couch, your body swaying precariously before you managed to plant your feet firmly on the floor. A dull ache throbbed behind your eyes. You dragged your feet across the room, lazily bending to pick up the scattered trash that littered your path, your attention only half-engaged with the news anchor’s monotonous recounting of recent city attacks. Their voices seemed distant, muffled, barely penetrating the persistent pounding in your head. You bent down, the plastic of a discarded bottle cool against your fingertips, and tossed it into the overflowing garbage bag you held open. Straightening up, the television screen flashed with grainy live footage of a chaotic fight, the speed and intensity of the action a blur you couldn’t quite follow.

You tossed the overstuffed garbage bag into the overflowing can in the corner, the thud a small punctuation mark in the otherwise silent apartment. Padding back through the living room, your bare feet barely registering the sticky spots on the floor, you sank back onto the worn cushions of the couch. You had barely registered the familiar face that flickered across the screen, contorted in a mask of pain and agony as a dark stain bloomed rapidly across the vibrant green of his suit. Admist the ever-present euphoric haze, a sudden, sharp clarity pierced through. Those unmistakable ocean blue eyes, the tight, familiar green fabric – it was Kevin. A wave of nausea crashed over you, a sour bile rising in your throat. You scrambled off the couch, your limbs clumsy and uncoordinated, and stumbled towards the bathroom, the contents of your stomach emptying violently into the porcelain bowl.

You fell back against the cool, tiled wall of the bathtub, your hands tangling in your messy hair as ragged breaths hitched in your chest. The world spun, the fluorescent light above making your head throb. With a shaky push, you propelled yourself off the floor, gripping the cold edge of the sink counter for support. You stared at your reflection in the fogged mirror, a pale, gaunt face staring back, your mouth wiped roughly with the back of your hand. You haphazardly reached for your toothbrush, the minty paste a stark contrast to the lingering taste of bile. A quick, perfunctory brushing, and then you were stumbling into the lukewarm spray of the shower, the water doing little to wash away the clammy film that coated your skin.

You stood in the dim light of your bedroom, completely naked and still damp from the hasty shower. Your dark hair clung to your scalp, beads of water tracing cold paths down your skin. You picked up a discarded shirt from the floor, holding the soft fabric to your nose, inhaling deeply to determine its cleanliness. With a shrug, you pulled it over your head, the familiar scent immediately enveloping you. It wasn't yours. It was Kevin’s, a lingering reminder of a recent, intimate night. You slipped on a pair of well-worn joggers, the fabric soft against your bare legs, and stumbled through your apartment towards the door. You swung it open, the sudden influx of hallway light making you squint, your breath catching in your throat as you met those same unmistakable ocean blue eyes you had just seen contorted in pain on the television screen.

Kevin stood before you, his hand raised as if he were about to knock, his brow furrowed in a mixture of concern and something else you couldn't quite decipher through the lingering haze. Words caught in your throat, a jumbled mess of relief and lingering fear. Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you. Without conscious thought, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of salt water and a hint of mint. His arms instinctively tightened around you, his lips parting in silent question. You whispered against his skin, the words tumbling out in a rush, how you had just seen him on TV, how you saw him get hurt. He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours before peering past you towards your television, the news station still flickering with images, but it wasn't him on the screen. It was some new, unfamiliar hero. A silent ‘oh’ escaped his lips as he connected your frantic words to the random bursts of paranoia that often accompanied your heightened state.

Kevin gently ushered you back into the disarray of your apartment, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space with a familiar concern. The last time he had been here, the chaos hadn't been this pervasive. Your place, while never immaculate, had possessed a semblance of order. You had been on one of your rare, clearer highs, the kind that only surfaced after a period of abstaining from using your powers. He remembered lying in your bed, his bare skin pressed against yours, the subtle, intoxicating euphoria that bloomed within him from the mere contact with your saliva seeping into his system. It wasn't an isolated incident. He often found himself drawn back to your apartment, to your bed, chasing that unique high that only direct consumption of your saliva could induce. He had spent countless nights with you in his arms, talking until the first rays of dawn painted the sky. You looked forward to those nights, those precious hours where you weren't alone in your buzzing, miserable reality, where you didn't have to constantly brace yourself for the sight of him in pain. Nights where you felt something more than that relentless, dull euphoria, where the paranoia receded, and you felt, simply, less miserable.

Kevin gently guided you to the edge of the cluttered couch, his gaze softening as he knelt down in front of you, his eyes meeting your unfocused ones. He noted the familiar glazed look, the slight tremor in your hands. "How many times have you used your power since I last saw you?" he asked softly, his voice laced with concern. You couldn't quite grasp the question, the fog in your brain too thick to penetrate. You shrugged, a small, helpless gesture, mumbling something about it being enough for Vought to have their diluted supply. Kevin let out a quiet sigh, understanding dawning in his eyes. This was how it always started – the increased usage, the descent into the hazy paranoia, the unraveling of your living space mirroring the unraveling of your mind.

You weren't entirely sure what it was about Kevin, but his presence seemed to cut through the oppressive haze that clung to your thoughts. He sat beside you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his side. The contact was grounding, his warmth a soothing balm against your perpetually overstimulated senses. You didn't even question why he was here, too caught up in the simple fact that for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you could feel something other than that miserable, dull hum. Your body seemed to operate on instinct, a primal urge for connection overriding the fog in your mind. You suddenly rose from the couch, ignoring Kevin’s worried glance as you gently pulled him along, leading him towards the relative sanctuary of your bedroom.

You gently pushed him back against the rumpled sheets of your bed, your movements slow and deliberate as you moved to straddle his hips. His hands instinctively came up to grip your waist, his fingers digging slightly into your skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. You leaned down to kiss him, a desperate plea in the gesture, but he turned his head slightly. Usually, Kevin’s judgment was clouded by the intoxicating allure of that unique high, the almost addictive pull of your saliva. But now, something was different. A genuine concern for your well-being flickered in his ocean blue eyes, overriding his usual desires. "We can just lay here," he murmured, his voice a low hum against your ear. "You don't look good, an-" You cut him off with a sudden, desperate kiss, your hands clutching onto the front of his shirt, bunching the soft fabric between your fingers. "Shut up," you whispered fiercely against his lips, the words laced with a raw desperation. "I need this. I need that feeling."

Kevin hesitated for a fleeting moment, his gaze searching your face, before his own desire, mixed with a reluctant understanding of your need, won out. He returned your kiss, his arms wrapping around you, his movements gentle as he carefully flipped your positions so you were now lying beneath him against the mattress. He was more tender than usual, each touch imbued with a deliberate care, as if he were afraid of further fracturing your already fragile state. He slipped his hands beneath the fabric of his shirt, his fingertips lightly tracing the curve of your waist, a possessive yet gentle touch. You slipped your tongue past his lips, running it slowly over his own and then the inside of his cheek, the subtle taste of him a familiar comfort. Your eyes fluttered open, your pupils blown wide as you watched the rhythmic bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, the anticipation building within you. The high, that familiar rush, spread through his body, a visible shudder running up his spine at the overwhelming sensation. Kevin pulled back slightly, a thin string of saliva connecting your parted lips, his own ocean blue eyes wide and slightly unfocused as he looked down at you, finally experiencing, even in this diluted form, the constant barrage of sensation that was your daily reality.

His mouth crashed back down on yours, a groan escaping his lips as the full force of the high slammed into his brain. Every nerve ending seemed to ignite, the world around him dissolving into a kaleidoscope of heightened sensations. Your taste, the feel of your skin beneath his hands, the frantic rhythm of your breathing against his – it all intensified tenfold. His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, erratic beat mirroring the chaotic symphony of sensations flooding his senses. He tangled his fingers in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper into the kiss, desperate to chase the fleeting euphoria.

You pulled back, your breath fanning across Kevin’s flushed face, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. The constant, miserable hum that usually vibrated beneath your skin had been momentarily replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria that spread through every fiber of your being. Kevin collapsed beside you, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, a mirror of the vacant gaze you so often wore. His hand found yours amidst the tangled mess of comforter and blankets, his fingers lacing through yours. He turned his head to face you, his free hand coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. He leaned in, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your lips before whispering, the words thick with the lingering effects of the high, "I love you." You didn't know if it was the intoxicating rush coursing through his veins, or if he truly meant the words, but in that moment, nestled in his arms, finally feeling something other than the crushing weight of your constant high, you didn't care. For the first time in a long time, you felt a flicker of something you actually liked.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

TBH your Francis sounds like he sees Matthew more as a pet rather than a child

I think thats the root of the problem. Not really a pet but rather a status symbol. Look at him he has a child who is a personification who looks like a mini version of him that means he is truly influential and an empire bla bla.

I consider love Arthur has for alfred pretty linear. From year 0 when Al is born he is loved fully. He is loved fully by his father (even if showing it would be less likely than cutting his own limbs off with a shovel) during the civil war, he is loved fully during the great war and the war that followed. He is loved fully today.

Matthew and François have a different love. Or rather, François' love is very non linear. I imagine it has spikes, but also periods of drops. When Mathieu is born François is proud. He loves his son but pride is stronger. Is always is for François. He has his own very kitch life, he is not made to be a father. Especially not to an emotional and sensitive lil babe. Mathieu is forgotten often and when he does ask for his needs to be fulilled, when he asks for any kind of attention form his papa, it comes to him with conditions. Yes, you can have new books imported from Paris but I will choose what you read. Yes, you may spend time with me but its going to be at a ball with hundreds of other aristocrats. Pets? Alright, but only the small and weak dogs that show status. It died during the winter? Oh well, that happens.

After a while Mathieu doesnt ask for anything. He yearns and accepts whatever comes his way in regards of a show of affection from the one who made him. If he gets attention its because he did something right, if he is forgotten, its becouse he isnt adequate.

I like to compare Arthurs and François' love by comparing their homes. Arthurs country mansion where Alfred grew up has signs of Alfred everywhere, in every room. You can tell there is a child living in this house. Not only is there a child living in it, you can tell exactly what type of person that child is, what their interests and hobbies are. One look at the bookshelf and you see what fascinates the boy. When you look at the very desk in Arthurs study, its cluttered with neat and precise handwriting with scribbles and doodles right under. The garden with fantastic and grand flowers has small patches of trampled flora at every point. The room where the child resides is always open, always visible from the staircase.

Françpis' home in the heart of Paris is clean. It smells of parfume and repolished wood. His hallway is cluttered with French history. The partlor is tidy except from vibeantly dyed clothing hanging drom the chairs and sofas. There is a half empty bottle of expensive wine on the table next to neatly placed, yet scattered papers. The only noteworthy contents of those papers is the exquisite handwriting that lays upon it. The floor is clean. The sofa is clean. The space is tidy. You can tell a man lives there. A man. Nobody else. If you were to take a peak behind the closed doors of the other rooms you'd find a room with a grand bed with eternaly disheveled blankets and pillows along with pieces of clothing hanging from the edges. Its a used bed. This bed is used by a man. Another peak behind another door at the end of the hallway shows a guest bedroom. A guest bedroom for a child. Some ten books are stacked neatly on the small yet elaborately decorated table next to the bed. A bed with clean and unwrinkled bedding. The colors of the room match to a fault except for the small personal items of the guest child. One could assume the child had no idea what the room they are staying at would look like and whatever it did look like, theyd spend so little time there that in the end it doesnt matter how it looks. The closet is extensively decored with patterns of gold and light blue without a scratch on it. The floor is clean and tidy. It would seem the child forgot to bring any toys while residing here. One wouldnt be at fault for thinking this man has some distant relatives or personal friends with children, and would ocassionaly let them stay at his home.

It's a long conparison but its the best way i can explain myself while sporting a pulsating headache after a long day of classes

So yeah, while I dont think Mathieu is in a position of pet by his father, he is in a position of child who is the result of an one night stand and has to visit his father whenever the court decides and whenever his father decides its convenient.

[failedtheorum]

(  alisha boe.  cis woman.  she/her  ).  ⸻  rue  carrow,   a  twenty  -  seven  year  old  university  library  assistant,  still  wears  last  summer  like  a  scar.  they  move  through  the  heat  as  the  genius  burnout,  each  step  a  reminder  of  the  role  they've  never  quite  outrun.  carried  like  souvenirs  from  something  they  won't  talk  about, you'll  recognize  them  by  playlists  full  of  elegies  disguised  as  indie  tracks  —  headphones  always  on  but  never  loud  enough  to  drown  out  the  silence,  coffee  cups  gone  cold  on  cluttered  desks  —  half-sipped  and  forgotten,  lined  up  like  gravestones  to  mornings  that  never  fully  started,  and  empty  pill  bottles  rolled  under  the  bed,  rattling  like  dry  bones  when  kicked.  they've  always  been  strategic  and  detached,  depending  on  who's  telling  the  story.  the  sand  shifts,  the  shoreline  whispers,  and  everyone  pretends  not  to  notice  what's  changed.  but  secrets  rot  faster  in  the  sun  &  someone  out  there  still  remembers  exactly  what  they  did.

the before.

she was incandescent once — not in the garish way of things begging to be seen, but like candlelight at the back of an old church: steady, aching, inevitable. her eyes wore that kind of burn — the slow and sacred unraveling of a girl too brilliant to last. twenty - seven now, but something in her spine still rings nineteen, like a bell struck too hard and left to echo. she moved through lethe like a storm disguised as silence. people mistook her quiet for calm, her precision for peace. they didn’t see how her genius smoked at the edges, how every answer she gave cost her something she could never get back. she was strategy sharpened to a knife's edge, haunted by a mind that never turned off, only flickered between brilliance and collapse. gravestones of half - sipped caffeine lined her desk, each one a quiet monument to a version of her that tried. and when the silence came — the real kind, not just the pause between library pages or lecture halls, but the thick, buzzing quiet that follows — she didn’t run. she faded. people called her distant. some called her calculated. no one ever called her wrong. she made sure of that. but beneath the curated detachment, the beach was eroding. the sand shifted. the shoreline whispered. and she — she pretended not to hear it. pretended not to see the way people looked at her sideways, like a riddle they were afraid to solve. a ghost in borrowed skin.

the after.  

walks  through  the  world  like  a  ghost  scholar  in  a  crumbling  cathedral  —  a  place  once  radiant  with  light  and  learning,  now  shadowed  by  stained  glass  fractured  and  bleeding  dusk.  the  university  is  behind  her,  but  its  walls  still  echo  in  her  bones,  an  architecture  of  thought  and  silence  she  can  never  quite  escape.  she  is  the  relic  now  —  darkened,  worn,  and  impossible  to  dust  off.  that  night  —  is  a  manuscript  she  rewrites  in  her  mind,  endlessly,  each  rehearsal  an  elegy  and  a  confession  braided  tight  with  despair.  she  remembers  the  sharp  scent  of  spilled  wine,  the  cruel  geometry  of  bodies  tangled  in  reckless  euphoria,  the  way  the  air  snapped  taut  like  a  drawn  bowstring,  how  gravity  shifted,  tipping  toward  oblivion.  the  moment  when  brilliance  dissolved  into  panic.  when  the  carefully  balanced  game  crumbled  beneath  the  weight  of  one  too  many  secrets,  one  too  many  silences.  caffeine  pulses  like  bitter  blood  through  her  veins,  small  blue  pills  hush  the  static  in  her  skull,  but  nothing  silences  the  relentless  replay  —  the  murmuring  echo  of  the  moment  she  chose  silence  over  salvation.  drifts  through  days  like  a  shadow  tethered  to  an  ancient  text  —  beautiful  and  terrible,  brilliant  and  hollow,  a  scholar  of  her  own  undoing.

occupation. 

- quiet.  order.  isolation  masked  as  helpfulness.  surrounded  by  knowledge  she  used  to  devour. - writes  cryptic,  brilliant  notes  in  returned  books,  then  forgets  she  did  it. no  one  recognizes  her  anymore  —  or  if  they  do,  they  pretend  not  to.  her  name  has  faded  from  whispered  reverence  to  polite  indifference. she  shelves  the  same  titles  she  once  cited.  scans  student  IDs.  stamps  return  dates.  wipes  dust  from  the  spines  of  ideas  she  no  longer  feels  connected  to. - the  library  is  still  a  refuge,  but  now  she  lurks  instead  of  leads.  the  silence,  once  full  of  possibility,  now  feels  like  a  muffled  scream.  she  avoids  eye  contact  with  old  professors  and  classmates  who  don’t  know  what  to  say  —  or  worse,  do. - sometimes,  when  no  one’s  looking,  she  solves  equations  in  the  margins  of  checkout  receipts  or  re-categorizes  a  philosophy  section  for  fun.  but  she  never  finishes.  she  never  shows  anyone. - finds  her  own  old  thesis  in  the  archives,  once  requested  by  students.  it  hasn’t  been  touched  in  months.  dust  has  settled  over  her  own  genius,  just  like  on  her.

a  hand  -  crafted  playlist. used to be someone worth knowing  :  grief  -  laced  brilliance.

motion  sickness  –  phoebe  bridgers.   cigarette  daydreams  –  cage  the  elephant. liability  –  lorde. numb  –  men  i  trust.  ribs  –  lorde. not  strong  enough  –  boygenius.   bags  –   clairo. st.  augustine  at  night  –  dawes. your  best  american  girl  –  mitski. junk  of  the  heart  –  the  kooks. scott  street  –  phoebe  bridgers. 

items  found  in  her  bag. 

- a crumpled  funeral  program. - a  xanax  in  an  altoids  tin. - an  unread  letter  addressed  to  teddy. - ink-stained  index  cards  with  half-solved  theorems. - a  receipt  with  “you  okay?”  scrawled  in  the  margins. - a  lighter  with  no  fluid. - a  playlist  scribbled  on  the  back  of  an  old  syllabus.

[veephoenix]

To drown your sadness in a sea song.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x mermaid!reader Parts: one | two | three | four | five | epilogue Trigger warnings: sexual innuendos, brief mention of sexual intercourse, mentions of blood.

PART FOUR — THE SONG | Words: 2.2k

She doesn’t like clothes. It’s a fact that makes him laugh when he first finds out, seeing her stepping out of his room in his old, shrunken shirt and sweatpants. She looks funny but she also looks clearly uncomfortable. 

“They’re itchy,” she says. “I don’t like it. Can I just wear your white t-shirt?” The one she’s been wearing since he bathed her, the one which is thin and light and oversized. 

“Sure,” he agrees, his eyes still soaking in the sight of her human form. 

“I’m just… not used to wearing clothes,” she adds, her voice low, as if she feels guilty for it. 

“Don’t mind me,” he can’t help replying, his lips curling into a playful grin, “I wouldn’t complain if you chose not to wear any.” 

“You’re cheeky,” she retorts, her smile betraying her feigned annoyance.  

“Just a little” he chuckles. 

With a playful sway of her hips, she tugs down the sweatpants and throws them at him. The last thing she hears it’s his laughter as she closes the door behind her to change.

She didn’t tell him but another reason why she likes that old white t-shirt is because it carries his scent. All his other clothes do, too, but there’s a particular tinge on that one that she really likes, that brings her comfort and a sense of closeness.  

 

Later that evening, while Noah sits cross-legged on the living room carpet with his MacBook open on the coffee table, she embarks on a tiny new adventure. Her mermaid curiosity leads her back to his room, where she’s drawn to the artifacts of his human life. 

In a corner, a guitar stands proudly on its stand. Framed vinyl records are framed and hung on the walls. Leafy vines cascade from the ceiling, lending a touch of nature to the otherwise man-made space. And then, there are books, lined neatly on a shelf. The Lord of the Rings collection catches her eye, and she can’t help but run her fingertips along the weathered spines. 

She decides she will ask him to read to her. She craves the sound of his voice, and she can only imagine how wonderful it would be to hear him weaving tales to her into the night. 

There’s also other books and she wonders if he’s ever read anything about mermaids. It doesn’t matter, really. She’s willing to teach him everything there is to know. 

If only there was enough time… 

Her curiosity doesn’t end there. 

She pulls opens the first drawer of a large white dresser by the bed. It’s a jumble of underwear and socks. She entertains herself trying to find a pair of matching socks, but she finds none. 

In the second drawer, she finds a collection of sweatpants.

“Itchy,” she mutters, quickly closing it in disdain.  

The third and fourth contain an array of clothing—tank tops, pajamas, swimwear— all foreign concepts to her aquatic sensibilities. 

The last one is a chaotic mess, and it feels like opening a treasure that’s been lost at sea centuries ago. Her eyes sparkle as she delves into its colorful contents, feeling a rush of excitement.  

Of course, she has Noah’s permission. She might be a wild creature from the sea, but she’s got manners. She waited for Noah to notice how curious she was about things he had in the house until he told her to explore wherever she wants, for as long as she needs.

She moves aside a clutter of items: empty plastic traveling bottles, an ibuprofen blister, travel plug adaptors, two square silver packages, old cable headphones, and a striped fox seashell the size of her hand. 

Her heart quickens its pace, a rhythm echoing the restless tides of her soul now that she’s away from home. 

She cradles the shell in her hand, feeling its weight, tracing the ridges and valleys with her fingertips. It carries a whisper of the distant shore and the echo of crashing waves. Its surface is weathered by time and tides, but it holds a kaleidoscope of reminiscences anyway.  

It’s barely been twenty-four hours, but she does miss the gentle sway of seaweed forests, the iridescence of coral reefs and the playful dance of sunlight filtering through azure waters. 

She wishes she could show Noah her world. 

So, rising from her kneeling position, she closes the drawer and descends to the ground floor, her steps more confident now as she makes her way to the living room. 

“Found something interesting?” Noah asks, catching sight of her approaching barefoot. 

“The last drawer in that white furniture in the room resembles the depths of the ocean,” she enthuses. He furrows his brow in momentary confusion. Then he remembers all the crap and other things he’s stashed away in that particular drawer. He’s about to feel alarmed when he notices the shell on her hand and he senses the energy radiating from her. 

“Where did you find that?”

“In that same drawer. It doesn’t belong to my region, though,” she informs him, still eyeing the sea treasure in her hand.

“I think a friend gifted it to me from a trip abroad. I’m not sure,” Noah replies, his interest somewhat subdued. He really can’t remember, to be honest. 

Undeterred, she settles beside him, facing him directly. Noah’s attention is drawn to the scales on her knee. He wonders if they cause her any discomfort, given their dry appearance. They look as dry as scabs and he’s about to ask her if they should be worried.  

“Listen,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. 

She places the opening of the shell against his ear. 

He expects the familiar echoes of the sea, but what he receives is beyond it. 

A symphony of sounds unfolds within his mind. Not the typical oceanic murmurs, but a harmonious blend of melody and whispered words.  

It’s a harmony. Each note feels like a brushstroke painting the canvas of his imagination, conjuring up a composition on the lines of the music sheet in his mind. There are whispered words. His soul is stirring. He wants to chase the echoes. 

In that moment, he understands where he failed. As he fell into the grasp of his misery, he failed to see the vastness of the world, how boundless it is. Within its depths lie what he’d been looking for, and he hadn’t been able to see it.

As he listens and tries to retain the melodies, a new element is added to the composition—a voice, ethereal and captivating. 

It’s her voice. 

She’s singing and he cannot hear anything else around him. 

“Don’t stop,” he encourages her while enthralled. 

A few moments after, he reaches for his phone, desperate to capture the magic of her voice. 

Her voice fills the room, a haunting melody that echoes through the corners of the house. He will not dream of anything else ever again. His heart is swelling with a newfound sense of purpose, a clarity that he has long been searching for. 

Even as he sets the shell aside, he can still hear the ocean continue to sing within him, mingling with her voice. It’s a promise. 

The smile she wears as she finished singing is like the last ray of sunshine before the sun sets behind the mountains.  

He’s not the only one elated. She can’t recall the last time she’s heard her own voice, let alone performing with such grace. 

 It takes him a moment to fully grasp the significance of the moment. This is what he’s been waiting for for months. With just a worn seashell by his laptop and a minute-long recording of her voice, he knows that a world of possibilities is right there waiting for his added touch of magic. 

It is music already, but he will make it his. 

When he looks back at her, it strikes him again how any of this is possible. 

“Come here,” he says, his voice restrained with emotion. 

She blinks, her smile falling a little. 

She’s right next to his body but closer isn’t enough for him. He wants her nearer still.  

As soon as she makes attempt to move, his hands are on her waist and he’s lifting her up and settling her onto his lap. She steadies herself against his shoulders, and she can feel the muscles beneath her touch. She holds her breath for a couple of seconds. His brown, beautiful eyes roam her face as if he’s not sure she’s really there. If she’s truly real. 

But she is, and he affirms that reality with the press of his mouth against hers.  

The kiss begins with a slow, tender rhythm, just like their first on the shoreline. But it transforms into something wilder, more urgent when he feels her confidence in her grip, in the way she grabs at his shoulders. The kiss deepens as her head tilts to give him better access. It’s as if she knows exactly what he wants. Her hands move to his neck and soon she’s pulling at his hair, eliciting a low growl from deep within him. 

She wants to hear him growl again. It reminds her of the ocean. 

The ocean, who isn’t gentle; who’s rough and demanding. She wants to feel Noah  just like that.

She pulls at his hair again, aware of what it does to him. She feels proud of herself for learning so quickly.

But amidst the fervor, she forgets one crucial detail: 

She can go a lifetime without air.

Noah can’t. 

And despite how he wouldn’t mind dying in her embrace, in her kiss, she doesn’t want that to happen. 

She pulls away, putting her hands on his chest to push him away as she senses how much he wants to continue. 

“You need to breathe,” she reminds him in a soft whisper. Her cheeks are as flushed as his. 

His grip on her hips starts to loosen. His expression is dazed. She watches as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

“I can breathe you,” he replies. His words are laced with enchantment.

He’s definitely bewitched, she thinks as he attempts to draw her back into his embrace.  

She lets out a tiny laugh and attempts to stand up, only to feel her legs tremble beneath her. With a near stumble, she catches herself just in time, steadying herself with a hand on the table. 

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath. 

The curse breaks Noah out of his trance.  

“Did you just swear?” He asks. 

She meets his gaze with wide eyes, wishing she could take back the slip of her tongue. 

“Yes…?” Her response is self-conscious. She feels somewhat mortified that Noah had to hear such language from her. 

“I didn’t think a creature like you could swear,” he says, a hint of amusement coloring his words.  

Why does he find it funny? She wonders.

She shakes her head in mild embarrassment and straightens up, smoothing down the t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh.  

“I can do more than what you think,” she tells him without paying too much attention to her own words. She’s not trying to be provoking. It’s just a genuine, innocent statement. 

But she quickly notices the effect her words have on him.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman here, you know?” he says, his eyes narrowed and darkening for a second.

She knows exactly what he means, and she blushes. 

The rest of the day is spent in the warmth of the living room floor, with Noah sipping on his coffee while she sticks to juice, finding coffee too bitter for her taste even though it smells comforting, she says. 

Also, juice doesn’t make her puke, which is a relief. 

She still refuses to wear something else beside his t-shirt and underwear, which prompts him to cover her with a blanket when the night starts to envelop them.  

The melodies come easier than they ever have, and every time he manages to get another piece of work done, even if it’s just four seconds, he rewards her with a kiss and a touch of her fingers on her face. She loves the way he tucks her hair behind her ear, how sweet and tender he is. It’s something she’s been wanting to do to him since long, even before they kissed for the first time, but she restrains herself for a little while longer. She will do it very soon, when she’s trapped underneath his naked body on his bed and he’s moving against her, building inside of her the same sensation of a tidal wave that will threaten to devour her.  

Noah is engaged in a phone call downstairs when she locks herself in the bathroom. 

She’s been feeling an unfamiliar discomfort in different areas of her body, and it’s only been intensifying in the past few hours. 

It doesn’t take her long to pinpoint the source: the remnants of scales clinging to her skin. 

Delicately, she traces the ones just beneath her ear. They’re parched, dry. It’s an anomaly, for they’re usually wet and shiny. 

She moves her shoulders, trying to locate more of the pain. Hesitant, she gingerly lowers down the fabric of Noah’s t-shirt, revealing another patch of scales covering a tiny bit of her right shoulder. She reaches out and brushes the area, which is surrounded by a crimson halo. When she touches them, she encounters a dampness which is meant to reassure her. Instead, when she brings the fingers in front of her eyes, instead of ocean water she finds her fingertips tainted with blood.            

This is not her world, not her body… and she knows she’s running out of time. 

[littlecrow-rogue]

Trough the Lens: A Mötley Crüe fanfiction - Chapter One

Hi!

So the other day I made a post aboute writing a Mötley Crüe Nikki Sixx x OC fanfiction.

I did it!

I am bit nerves posting it cause english is not my first language so this was a bit hard, and even tho I asked some help from Google and transolaters to fix my grammer mistakes probobly there are still some mistakes left or wrong usage of words. But I hope it's still enjoyable.

If you read this have fun and let me know if you think and if you'd like a second chapter for it.

XoX - V

Chapter 1: "The Beginning"

The band members of Mötley Crüe sat huddled around a cluttered table in Nikki's flat, the air thick with anticipation and the remnants of their brainstorming session. Empty beer bottles mingled with scattered papers, evidence of their search for the perfect promotional plan and a testament to the chaos of their creative minds.

Tommy tapped his fingers impatiently against the table, his dark eyes darting restlessly around the room in search for inspiration. The weight of their first gig hung heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the task at hand.

Suddenly, Nikki's voice shattered the silence, cutting through the haze of uncertainty that had settled over them.

"Alright, guys, time to get down to business," he declared, his tone commanding attention.

Vince lounged back with a smirk, tossing out a suggestion that earned a mixture of amusement and disdain

"A little spray-painted graffiti on the side of Sunset Boulevard could drum up some serious buzz”

Nikki shook his head with a wry smile.

"As much as I appreciate the guerrilla marketing approach, we need something more polished," he said, running a hand through his tousled hair as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on his bandmates.

Mick nodded in agreement.

Nikki arched an eyebrow, his gaze locking onto Tommy’s with a curious intensity.

"Do you have any ideas, Tommy?"

A mischievous grin spread across Tommy's face as he leaned back in his chair, confidence radiating from every pore.

"Actually, I do," he declared, capturing the attention of his bandmates.

"My sister, Katie, she's a photographer. She could help us make some flyres with some killer shoots."

The mention of Tommy's sister piqued the band's interest. They had heard stories about Katie Lee, Tommy mentioned her a lot, but none of them had ever met her.

Mick, ever the pragmatist, cut to the heart of the matter with a single question.

"Is she any good?" he asked, his skepticism evident in his gravelly voice.

Tommy's response was immediate.

"She's incredible," he declared, his voice brimming with pride.

"She's been working as a photographer in downtown LA for the past two years, but she has been obsessed with photography since we were kids. Trust me, guys, she's the real deal. "

Vince grinned.

"Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's go pay Katie a visit and see if she can work her magic for us."

As their car glided to a halt in front of SutterLux Studios, the first thing that caught their eyes was the imposing sign, polished to a mirror like perfection, a testament to the studio's prestige as it boldly announced its name to the world. It stood as a beacon of elegance amidst the bustling cityscape, its modern architecture a symphony of clean lines and sleek facades that mesmerized passersbys. Every detail, from the smooth curvature of the walls to the precise symmetry of the windows, spoke of craftsmanship and artistry that left an indelible impression on all who saw it. Surrounding the entrance, a meticulously curated garden, a lush oasis of greenery, provided a tranquility to the building's exterior.

As they stepped out of their car, the band's rock and roll style clashed brilliantly with the polished surroundings. Leather jackets, ripped jeans, and a smattering of tattoos made for a striking contrast against the backdrop of elegance.

Stepping into the studio, they were greeted by a receptionist girl seated at a marble-topped desk, her workspace packed with notepads and notebooks in neat order wich spoke volumes about her attention to detail. With a shy smile playing on her lips, she chirped a warm welcome, while her eyes scaned the group of men before her.

"Welcome to SutterLux! What can I help you?” her voice was light and airy.

Tommy leaned casually against the desk, flashing his trademark grin as he addressed her.

"Hey there, we're here to see Katie Lee. Is she available?" he inquired, his voice laced with confidence.

The receptionist's bashfulness only added to her charm as she inquired about their appointment, her eyes flitting towards the calendar as she searched for any openings.

"I'm her brother, and I just want to talk to her if she's free," Tommy explained with a nonchalant shrug, his charm evident in every word.

Recognition flickerd on the receptionist's face as she realized who Tommy was

"Oh, you're Katie's brother Tommy? She's mentioned you," she remarked, her shy tone melting into a warm, friendly demeanor.

"Let me see if she's available. Please take a seat. I'll be right back."

With a graceful gesture towards the plush black sofas on the other side, she disappeared into the depths of the studio, leaving the band members alone in the lobby. The air crackled with anticipation as Vince, Mick, and Nikki exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to expect when they finally met Katie Lee.

As the receptionist girl reappeared with Katie by her side, the room seemed to brighten with her presence. Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of flames, framing her face with an aura of vibrant energy. Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous sparkle, and every step she took radiated confidence.

"Tommy!" Katie exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine delight as she enveloped her brother in a tight hug.

"What are you doing here?"

Tommy returned the hug with equal enthusiasm, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

"We came to see you, sis," he replied, pulling back to gaze at her with fondness.

"Who’s we?” she asked couriously as her gaze shifted to the other men standing behind Tommy, her smile widening at the sight of them.

"Nikki, Vince, and Mick," Tommy introduced, gesturing to each member of the band in turn. "Guys, this is my sister, Katie."

The band members exchanged greetings with Katie, their admiration for her evident in their eyes. Her easygoing demeanor and magnetic charm left an impression on each of them, drawing them in with her infectious energy.

"Do you have a little time to spare for us sis?” Tommy asked eagerly.

"I hope so.” Katie replied with a grin.

"Sam, when's my next client scheduled to arrive?" Katie turned to the receptionist girl, who quickly returned to her desk.

Sam scanned the schedule and checked the clock on the wall before responding,

"You've got about an hour and twenty minutes until your next appointment."

Katie nodded thoughtfully.

"Great. In that case, why don't we head over to that coffee shop down the street? We can grab a table and chat," she suggested, turning back to the band with a warm smile.

"Sounds like a plan," Tommy cheered, his excitement matching hers as they left the building.

As Katie and the band strolled down the bustling streets of downtown LA, the city pulsed with an electrifying vitality and amidst the vibrant chaos, they sought refuge at a quaint corner table in a cozy café, where the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped them like a warm embrace.

After placing their orders, Nikki leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Katie.

"So, Katie, Tommy's been singing your praises as a kickass photographer," his voice as smooth as silk. "We're on the hunt for someone with your skills to help us make a splash with our upcoming gig."

Katie nodded, her interest piqued.

"I'm all ears," she replied, leaning back in her chair.

Tommy, unable to contain his excitement, leaned forward eagerly.

"We've headlining at the Starwood Club next month," he announced, a grin spreading across his face. "But we're not just looking to play; we want to rock the joint!"

"And to light up that stage, we need some badass posters, flyers, and all that jazz, something that draws  a lot of people in" Vince chimed in, his voice hyped.

Katie soaked up their vibe, a glint of excitement dancing in her eyes.

"Consider it done" she declared, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"But first could guys maybe show some of your music for me? Just to get a better image of Mötley Crüe.”

The band exchanged looks, a smirk playing on their lips.

"We'll crank up the amps and give you a taste," Tommy promised, a grin spreading across his face.

"You just got a backstage pass to our sonic circus," Nikki added, a playful twinkle in his eye.

"Why don't we invite you to my place? We've got a rehearsal space set up there, so you can experience what we're all about."

Katie's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"That sounds perfect," she exclaimed, a radiant smile gracing her lips.

"Then it's settled," Mick declared with a decisive nod. "We'll make our way to Nikki's place once we're done here."

With the first part of their plan solidified, the band and Katie lingered over their drinks, their conversation flowing with easy.

As the time drew near for Katie's next appointment, the group decided to escort her back to work. Upon the arrival, Katie vanished into the studio to finish her job for the day.

As the band settled into the reception hall, time seemed to stretch out before them, each minute feeling like an eternity as they waited with for Katie's return.

At long last, the door creaked open, and Katie emerged with a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

"Sorry for the wait, guys," Katie apologized, her voice carrying a note of excitement as she joined the band.

"I'm ready to roll now."

With a renewed sense of anticipation, Katie and the band made their way to Nikki's car, the excitement practically crackling in the air around them. As they headed to the Sunset Strip, Katie couldn't suppress the thrill bubbling within her, eager to delve deeper into the realm of rock 'n' roll.

Arriving at Nikki's apartment building, Katie was greeted by a surge of excitement at the thought finally getting to know the band wich her brother was part of.

As Mötley Crüe and Katie entered Nikki's flat, they were greeted by a space that perfectly encapsulated the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Posters of iconi musicans adorned the walls, while instruments were scattered haphazardly around the room. Amplifiers hummed softly in the background, hinting at the music that was created within these walls.

The furniture was a mix of vintage pieces and modern comforts, giving the space a lived-in yet stylish vibe. A plush couch sat against one wall, its cushions worn from years of use, while a sleek bar area beckoned from the corner, stocked with an impressive array of spirits.

Nikki led the group into the room with a grin, gesturing for them to make themselves at home. "Welcome to my humble abode, where the magic happens" he said, a twinkle in his eye turning to Katie

"Make yourself comfortable."

As Katie and the rest of the band settled in, Nikki made his way to the fridge, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Alright, folks, what'll it be?" he called out, opening the fridge door to reveal an assortment of beverages.

"Beer, wine, whiskey? You name it, I've got it."

The band members exchanged glances, a collective smirk crossing their faces.

"Surprise us, Nikki," Vince replied, a playful edge to his voice.

Nikki chuckled as he retrieved a selection of drinks from the fridge, passing them out to the group with a flourish. As the band settled in with their drinks, Nikki turned to Katie with a grin.

"Are you ready for your private show, Katie?" he asked, his eyes alight with anticipation.

Katie's face broke into a wide smile.

"Absolutely," she replied, excitement coursing through her veins as she leand back comfortably in the couch, drink in hand. With a casual ease, she propped her legs up on the coffee table, fixing her gaze on the band with eager anticipation.

With that the band took their place on the stage, wich was the other side of Nikki’s living room, and launched into their first song. The music was filling the room with its raw energy. Katie's eyes danced with delight as she listened, completely captivated by the electrifying performance unfolding before her.

Song after song, Mötley Crüe poured their hearts and souls into their music, each note resonating with passion and intensity. Katie couldn't help but be swept away by the sheer talent and charisma of the band, her appreciation for their music growing with each passing moment.

As the final chords faded into silence, Tommy and Nikki took their seats on either side of Katie, their faces flushed with exhilaration. Vince and Mick settled into the armchairs surrounding the coffee table, their expressions mirroring the sense of accomplishment that filled the room.

"So, Katie, what did you think?" Nikki asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Katie's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she took a sip of her drink, considering her response.

"I loved it," she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration.

"Each song had its own unique energy"

With the mood buoyed by Katie's praise, she launched into her ideas for the flyers and posters, drawing inspiration from the music she had just heard.

The band members listened intently, nodding in agreement as Katie outlined her vision for the promotional materials.

"I love it," Vince exclaimed, his eyes shining with enthusiasm.

"It sounds like you really understand our vibe and what we're all about."

Katie smiled, feeling a surge of pride at the band's reaction.

 "I'm glad you think so," she replied.

"I can't wait to get started and see what we can create together."

As the excitement of their collaboration filled the room, Katie and the band members of Mötley Crüe quickly settled on a date for the photoshoot.

"How about Saturday, two days from now?" Katie suggested, her eyes alight with enthusiasm.

The band members exchanged eager nods, they couldn’t wait to see Katie's vision come to life. "Sounds good to us," Nikki replied, a grin spreading across his face.

"We'll make sure we're ready to rock and roll."

With the date set and plans in motion, the group toasted to their upcoming photoshoot, excitement buzzing in the air. As they continued to chat and laugh late into the evening, Katie couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the creative journey that lay ahead.

As the evening wore on and the excitement of their collaboration began to wind down, the band members of Mötley Crüe started to make their exit.

Vince, with a mischievous glint in his eye, rose from his seat, his voice laced with playful banter.

"Alright folks, see you on Saturday. I'm off to see my girl" he declared, his announcement met with teasing cheers from the rest of the group.

Shortly there after, Mick followed suit, offering a nod of farewell before vanishing into the nocturnal embrace of the city.

Tommy glanced at his watch, realizing it was time to pick up his new flame.

"I better get going, my date is waiting" he said, flashing a grin at the others.

"New girl?” Katie asked quirosly.

"We will see” he answered with a huge smile still plaster on his face

"But before I head out, Nikki, do you mind taking Katie home?"

 "I'd be happy to make sure she gets home safely." Nikki nodded in agreement, a warm smile on his face.

Katie smiled gratefully

"Thank you, Nikki," she said

"I appreciate it."

With goodbyes exchanged Tommy dissapiered and soon after Nikki and Katie made their way down from the flat to Nikki's car, the cool night air greating them as they stepped out side. They exchanged casual banter as they walked, their laughter echoing off the surrounding buildings.

 "So, Nikki, where did you and my brother crossed paths?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Nikki's gaze drifted to the road ahead, a nostalgic smile gracing his lips as he recounted the story.

"Well, it was after I had a falling out with my former band's singer and decided to quit London," he began, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

"I was feeling pretty lost and unsure of what to do next."

He paused for a moment, lost in thought, before continuing.

"I found myself sitting in a diner, flipping through the ads of musicians looking to join a band," he explained.

"That's when Tommy walked up to me out of the blue."

A smile tugged at the corners of Nikki's lips as he recalled the memory.

"He was this cocky guy with wild hair and an even wilder personality," he said.

 "I remember him saying he had my poster on his bedroom wall” he laughed and Katie started giggeling next to him.

"And then he just seated himself infront of me and started twireling his drum sticks and as they say the rest is histroy”

Katie glanced over at Nikki, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"It's amazing how things just seem to fall into place sometimes," she remarked, her voice filled with admiration.

"It's like the universe has a way of bringing people together when they need it."

Nikki nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Yeah, it's funny how life works out like that," he replied, his voice tinged with reflection. "Sometimes the most unexpected encounters can change the course of your life in ways you never imagined."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm of conversation, sharing stories and laughter as they made their way through the city streets. Before they knew it, they had arrived at Katie's apartment building, the glow of the streetlights casting a warm halo around them.

As Nikki pulled up to the curb, he turned to Katie with a smile.

"Well, here we are," he said, his tone lighthearted.

"Thanks for the company, Katie. I had a great time tonight."

Katie returned his smile, a sense of warmth and gratitude filling her chest.

"Thank you for the ride, Nikki," she replied, her voice sincere.

With a final wave goodbye, Katie stepped out of the car and watched as Nikki drove off into the night. As she made her way up to her apartment, a sense of contentment washed over her, grateful for the unexpected connection she had formed with Nikki and the band.

[gghostwriter]

Entangled Strings of Fate

Chapter 1. Lighting stuck (and was caught in a bottle)

Spencer Reid x FOC

Summary: Caltech, Pasadena - Cleo considers herself a woman of logic. With an IQ of 158 and an eidetic memory, how could she not. But meeting Spencer, the boy genius to hers, had her believing in intangible theories like the invisible string and the fates. Now, if only he would notice the depth of her feelings. Set in Caltech, pre-season 1 and will progress from there. previous chapter || series masterlist || next chapter

“Luck is not chance, it’s toil; fortune’s expensive smile is earned” - Emily Dickinson

The day started off beat when the alarm for her 8am class didn’t ring and it continued to snowball since then. Rushing out the door with a piece of bread in her mouth, her bag strap broke into two. The vending machine around the corner was out of order. She stepped on gum while brisk walking to her next class. And missed the chance to borrow the last book copy of a pre-requisite read for another class. In retrospect, these could all be the fates and time setting the scene. 

“Excuse me, I was told by the librarian you borrowed the last copy of The Origins of Totalitarianism?”

A pair of eyes looked up at Cleo blankly from his cluttered library desk by the window. He looked young, younger than any university boys she’d seen around the campus. Locks pushed behind his ears, he was pleasing to the eyes. If the academic genius was the type and it was true for her. 

Cleo found herself rambling under his scrutiny. “I know I’m not supposed to know who borrowed which book due to personal privacy and the librarian shouldn’t have have told me anything even with my incessant questioning but I really do need the book for a pre-requisite.” 

“Actually yes, you shouldn’t have been given access to library records or been privy to any of those information. But I do have the copy you’re looking for,” he pointed at the mentioned book from underneath a precarious book pile. 

“Is it possible for me to borrow the copy for a while?” 

Silence.

“At least right now? I can read through it quickly and never have it leave your area of premises,” she pleaded, sitting down at the empty chair in front of him. “Please and I’ll never bother you again after that.” 

He quirked his eyebrow up. “It’s a 579 page book. You can finish it in one sitting and not compromise retention?” 

“Well, I do read fast and have an eidetic memory.”

Cleo blushed and averted her gaze. She knew better than to brag about her skills that would get her labelled as a freak of nature but she was past the point of no return. Flashbacks of the high school teasing and gum in her hair incident whirled in her mind. It could have been worse if not for her older sister, Thalia, by her side. A 5’3” terror of a protector specially when Cleo accelerated from 1st year to 3rd year which was her sister’s grade. 

The young boy slid the battered copy to her view point. “I actually don’t need it back right away. It’s more of a light reading.” 

Her eyebrows rose with intrigue. Any run-of-the-mill university student wouldn’t consider this type of book a leisure read. “I’m Cleo, by the way. Cleo Murphy.” 

“Spencer. Spencer Reid.” 

“Well Spencer, I didn’t think anyone would consider Origins of Totalitarianism a great book to pass time with. None of any college boys I’ve encountered, any way.” She started, looking around the various books on the table—from Chemistry, to Philosophy, to fictional classics in its original language. “Which begs the question, are you a genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory—like you, and can read 20,000 words per minute,” he rambled on. “Yes, I’m a genius.” 

Cleo couldn’t help but be impressed with his response. It was commonly estimated that one of the greatest theoretical physicist to ever walked the Earth, Albert Einstein, had an IQ of about 160 and here was a modern day genius that beat one of the greats by a mile in numerical value. A proficient reader can read 280-350 words per minute without compromising comprehension and she herself can read 625-950 words per minute, a feat on its own, but here was someone who made that skill seem so ordinary. 

“You’re taking up Political Science as an undergraduate for law school, correct?” His intelligent hazel eyes locking into hers. “And a genius too.”

She smiled. “What made you say that?” 

“Well, you mentioned that this book is a pre-requisite for your class. You also used the term personal privacy, have an idea that library information should not be shared and apologized for it to cover bases. You’ve also hounded the librarian for those details, getting on her nerves similar to how lawyers hound information to get the court hearing outcome that they want,” he paused, tapping his finger on the table like he was in further in thought. “As for the genius commentary, you didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned my IQ. You also mentioned that you read fast, probably not as fast as 20,000 words per minute but faster than the average reader. An eidetic memory and based on your favorite character keychain hanging from your bag it looks to be more popular for a 13-15 year old than a university student so you graduated earlier than average.” 

“Everything was almost right. Except the keychain, it’s not my favorite. It’s my older sister’s,” she looked at the keychain on her bag and chuckled. “I’d like to guess you’re in Caltech for a Ph.D, your interests on reading is too varied to pinpoint what but I’d say you have a BA in Psychology with how you intellectually guessed me.” 

“It’s not an intellectual guess. It’s actually called profiling,” he clarified. “And I graduated with BAs in Psychology and Sociology, recently. Currently acquiring my PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering concurrently.” 

“So you’re a sophophile?”

“I prefer the term polymath,” he stated as he closed the book in front of him, seemingly wanting to focus on the conversation at hand. “Sophophile isn’t really a proper term is it? I don’t think I’ve encountered it in the dictionary.” 

“It’s more of an urban dictionary term, from the Greek origin of Sophia—wisdom and philac—love.” She explained as the 3pm bell rang. “Well then Spencer Reid, I’d leave you to your readings. Do you want to meet up for coffee tomorrow by Cecile’s at 10am? It’s this hole in the wall coffee spot just around the campus block.”

Spencer opened his mouth, seemingly about to disagree.

“As a thank you for lending me the book, I mean,” she rushed out, stuffing the book inside her bag as she stood. “And I’d like to hear more about your eclectic taste of light reading.”

He smiled, a full grin lighting up his baby face. If she thought he was attractive before, it was nothing compared to when he smiled. He was beautiful. 

Heart threatening to jump out of her chest, Cleo felt the times were trying to mark this moment as significant. A moment now engraved in her own mind. A chance meeting that altered the course of her life here on Earth as she knows it.

“I’d like that.” He replied.

And as it were pre-destined, their red strings of fate intertwined. 

———

Cleo was woman of logic, always hated the unknown and where all the impossibilities may lead. That was what attracted her to law, in the first place. Everything is clean cut, written on a piece of legislation with corresponding violations should there be a breach in right or contract. She Also liked her order and structure, clearly seen adapted to her surroundings. Her small personal collection, brought from her home library, of books organized in a Dewy Decimal System. Her number of shoes beside the entryway arranged by type, color, and height. And her  clothing arranged in the same manner. Her roommate, Raina, once jokingly asked if she had ever gone to the doctor to get diagnosed for OCD. It wasn’t that really, it was more of a result to her rigid upbringing as a member of the upper echelons of society.

Meeting Spencer has thrown her life into chaos. Her bed was made, yes, but various pieces of clothing were haphazardly thrown all around it. She was undecided on what to wear, an inconceivable act from someone like Cleo. Was it too casual to wear her favorite jeans or was it too dressy to wear her green maxi skirt. An IQ of 158 and she was unable to answer such a simple problem. Her phone rang underneath all her clutter, a reminder that she had 15 minutes left before the scheduled coffee meet. 

The walk to Cecile’s was an 8 minute walk, 6 minutes if she walked faster than usual. Which gives her a shy of 7 to 9 minutes to decide what to wear and exit her dormitory. She looked at the clock on her bedside table, 1 minute had passed since then. She sighed and reached for her own type of uniform—low rise jeans, long sleeve top, and her trusty black Converse—and she was out the door with 9 minutes to cover the distance. She disliked being late, no matter the setting, and from what she gathered Spencer was the same. 

Rounding the campus block, she spotted Spencer waiting outside Cecile’s. He had his hair, again, pushed behind his ears—possibly gelled slightly to stay in place. A polo tucked in his khaki pants that are slightly rolled to showcase his mismatched socks, scuffed black Converse, a light cardigan hanging on his wiry arms, and a brown satchel to finish the look. 

“Hey Spencer,” she greeted. Peeking at her wrist watch, she noted that she was right on schedule. A small success.

“Hi,” he greeted back with a his awkward smile and half wave of his hand.

As she stepped into the warm shop after him, she was greeted with the enticing smell of newly baked pastries and ground coffee. It was a Saturday, meaning the average university students were all asleep, hung over from Friday parties and booze. The shop was almost empty, sans one table being occupied by a staff. 

“So, what do you like? My treat,” she asked. No longer needing to look at the menu. This was her spot to decompress and people watch. Her order was always the same. She is ,after all, a woman of order and predictability.

“Just plain black coffee, filled only until a fourth of the cup.”

She thought that was an interesting choice of drink and specifications. She’ll have to ask him to explain that later on. She turned to face the cashier, a teenage boy with apparent bags under his eyes. “Hey Adam, one order of plain black coffee filled until a fourth of the cup and my usual, please.” 

“Hey Cleo, sure thing. My mom just baked a fresh tray of croissants, any interest on those?” He asked while ringing up her orders.

She laughed. “Like you’d need to ask, make it two for here and two to go.” 

“You didn’t have to buy me a croissant too, you know,” Spencer stated as they walked to the table by the window with their orders on hand. “The coffee is enough compensation for lending you the book.”

“I want to,” she insisted, sitting in front of each other. “Plus, the croissants here can rival the ones from Paris.” 

“Okay. But why two to go?” He continued to ramble on. “Scientifically speaking, pastries are best eaten after 20 minutes of cooling. They go through a process called starch retrogradation, with moisture from inside the pastry continuing to migrate outward and evaporate, leaving a moist interior and a nice crispy crust.”

“That may be true but those to-go pastries aren’t for me. They’re for my roommate, Raina, and he,” she pointed to Adam. “Is her boyfriend. Where’d you learn that interesting tidbit?” 

“From a pastry cookbook. I was trying to bake myself some pastries for whenever I need a sugar rush.” 

“You know how to bake? That’s charming,” she blushed. This specimen of a teenage boy couldn’t get any more perfect than he already was. “But I have to ask, why the specifics on your coffee order?” 

Spencer proceeded to scoop 7 spoonful of sugar to his coffee, seemingly showing her the answer to her question. 

With an eyebrow raised, she sipped her order—a flat white. That definitely answered her question. That much sugar added to coffee can have bad effects in the future, such as diabetes, when done regularly but she knew Spencer knew that so it was more a taste type of choice, she concluded as she slid the lent book across the table.

“Thank you again for letting me borrow the book,” she said. “It’s not my choice of light reading, per se, but it was a great read still.” 

“Then what would you consider as light reading then?”

She pondered over the question. With the large repertoire of books she has read ever since she was a kid, the inquiry was hard to answer with just one title. “It would depend on what I’m looking for really, definitely fiction, it is a great form of escape after all. If I’d want to stimulate my brain, I’d go for a mystery novel. If it’s for nights when I can’t fall asleep, The Little Prince in it’s original language always does the trick. And if it’s just to pass time, I’d say I gravitate towards contemporary fiction that tackles societal issues.” 

“You read in French?” He asked, clearly intrigued with the workings of her mind. 

“Oui, my family moved to France when I was a little girl due to business and my mother wanted me to learn French from the locals rather than subject me to non-native teachers. Do you also speak French?” It was also her mother who enrolled her to learn Russian, German, Italian and Spanish but she didn’t need to brag more than she already had.

He took a sip of his coffee and smiled. “I can read and understand French, Russian and Spanish but speaking it is a bit difficult. The accent comes off wrong and I’d like to think it’s because I have a lot of things to say so my pronunciation can’t keep up.” 

“I don’t see how that can stop you from speaking the language. If you’d like, we can talk to each other in French for your pronunciation practice,” she suggested. It was a great excuse to not lose connection with him. The boy who tugs at her heartstrings like no other. “Granted I can also communicate in Russian & Spanish but my accent for those two is a bit wonky at best.” 

Staring deeply into her eyes, she felt vulnerable and hoped that he couldn’t hear her heartbeat threatening to jump out of her chest.

“Oui, j’aimerais bien,” he replied. His accent sounding American still but Cleo thought it was cute nonetheless.

“Parfait,” she breathed out, unable to stop her large grin from spreading.