#so it's not cold enough for me to be this fucking cold

[yasminawayne]

PART II. 100 Object Boyfriends vs One Ex-Boyfriend

SYNOPSIS: Your ex is coming at 7:00 AM to pick up his stuff. Your object boyfriends have other plans.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Protective everyone, Hurt/Comfort

tw. emotional abuse, gaslighting, physical violence, threats, controlling behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, implied past trauma

W.C: 7.4k | CHARACTERS: Dorian, Dirk, Hanks, Cabrizzio, Hector, Cam, Tony, Dante, Volt, Daisuke, Timothy/Timmy!

PART I

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."

There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.

"Who we peepin’?"

Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."

Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."

"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."

Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."

Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"

Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"

Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."

Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."

"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"

Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."

Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"

Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."

Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"

Rod huffed. "Fuck no."

“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”

Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."

Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.

"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"

Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.

Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.

Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”

In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.

"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."

Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.

He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.

Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.

So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector. 

Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.

He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.

Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.

You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body. 

Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.

That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.

Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you. 

They could still offer what they were made for.

Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.

Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.

Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled. 

Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.

Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.

Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.

Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself. 

Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.

Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.

They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands. 

They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back. 

They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there. 

You open the door slower than you mean to.

That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed. 

And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.

You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.

He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much. 

And for a moment, all you can do is stare.

God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond. 

He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.

Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.

"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."

You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."

He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."

You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.

He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.

Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."

You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but. 

‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."

You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar. 

He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."

He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack. 

His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.

A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.

That’s all he needs.

"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."

He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.

From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.

But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.

Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.

You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.

"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."

For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.

Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.

"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."

You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.

You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.

Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.

 "Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."

"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"

You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"

As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.

The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief. 

That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.

He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.

His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth. 

The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.

From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.

You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.

That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers. 

And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back. 

Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head. 

"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."

Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses. 

A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.

He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.

His grip tightens, just slightly.

CRACK.

A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.

From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent. 

The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.

On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.

Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves. 

Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.

Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire. 

The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.

"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."

He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.

Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.

"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still." —H.

Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.

"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me." —H.

His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. 

Of course. You already had someone else.

You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.

Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.

"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you." —H.

This one, Iseul crumples.

Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.

Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.

The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use. 

A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.

But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.

His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"

He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”

Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.

Interesting.

With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.

So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen. 

Noted. 

He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.

Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.

“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”

Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”

Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.

“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”

“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”

Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”

The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.

"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.

Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."

"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.

"No."

Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."

Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.

" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."

Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.

"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."

"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."

You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.

"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."

Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."

Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."

The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.

"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."

By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.

"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."

Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.

He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.

His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.

Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.

Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.

His jaw shifts.

In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.

H.

His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him. 

"Iseul…?"

He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.

"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."

You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here. 

You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them." 

You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.

You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.

After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin. 

Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.

Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.

You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.

A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.

Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.

You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.

Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.

It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.

You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.

He glances over the rim of his mug at you.

"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?" 

He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.

A slow step forward.

“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.

He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."

Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.

Then the window slams open.

BANG.

A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.

"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.

You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.

Right on his head.

He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor. 

Silence follows. 

You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.

And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.

Iseul hears it.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”

His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.

You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.

Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.

“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”

“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”

He leans in. Sneering.

Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.

"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."

His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.

"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"

The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.

The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.

"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"

SNAP.

The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.

A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.

Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.

Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.

You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.

He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.

Iseul’s head snaps upward.

His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers. 

From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.

Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.

It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.

"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"

The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.

From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.

Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.

Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.

It steps forward once.

Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear. 

The voice returns, softer now.

"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"

Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”

A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.

Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor. 

Then, everything goes black.

You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.

Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.

The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry. 

They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.

Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.

A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."

You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.

"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.

He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.

"Bro!"

You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.

You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards. 

Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.

You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.

“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”

Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."

Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."

You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."

"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening. 

"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.

Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."

“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.

“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”

“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”

You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.

Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.

You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.

Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."

You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"

"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."

You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."

"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."

"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"

"They’re  already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."

You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."

Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."

Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."

From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.

"See? Even he agrees, babe." 

thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!

[dykebehaviour]

cram session

cw: comfort, crying, finals week stress, oral (r!receiving), strapping (r!receiving), fluff, love, ellie being a soft dom, college au.

a/n: i wrote this while i was in the worsts of my final exams and completely forgot about it lol, so here it is !!

ellie didn’t panic until the third text went unanswered.

the first one:

you good, baby?

was sent casually around five, right as she left campus. the second:

you said you’d be done by six. want me to bring food?

followed by seven. then, by 7:47, she’s at your dorm building with a lukewarm burrito bowl, a hoodie in her backpack, and her heart hammering.

she knows you. and she knows finals week.

the stress. the tears. the insomnia. that one time last semester where you forgot how to spell the word “schedule” and cried about it for 30 minutes while clutching an iced coffee like it was morphine.

so yeah, she’s worried. not panicked… just worried enough to walk into your building without buzzing and knock on your door with the side of her fist.

nothing.

she tries the handle. unlocked. she sighs.

“babe?”

the moment she steps inside, her heart cracks a little.

you’re curled up at the edge of your bed, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, eyes red and puffy. a half-finished paper glows from your laptop. a mug of untouched tea sits next to it, cold. your knees are hugged to your chest and your breath hitches when you look up at her.

“oh, baby,” ellie breathes. she drops the food immediately, crosses the room in two strides. “why didn’t you answer me?”

you open your mouth, but your chin wobbles, and instead of answering, you burst into tears.

ellie’s arms are around you in seconds. “hey-hey, hey, come here. it’s okay.”

you’re crying against her chest, full-body shaking, letting out the kind of broken gasps that make ellie’s stomach twist. she rubs your back, murmuring softly.

“i have three essays due and a final tomorrow,” you choke out, voice muffled by her sweatshirt. “and i missed a quiz this morning because i slept through my alarm, and i haven’t eaten anything except peanut butter crackers, and i hate everything, and i’m so tired.”

ellie hugs you tighter. “god, you are a disaster.”

you laugh through the tears, weakly punching her shoulder.

“i love you,” she adds, kissing the top of your head. “even when you smell like stress and sadness.”

“do i actually smell?”

“like a sleep-deprived angel. who hasn’t brushed her hair in three days.”

you sniffle, sit up a little. “you brought food?”

“of course. because i’m your sexy emotional support girlfriend.”

you laugh again, genuinely this time, and ellie beams.

thirty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing ellie’s hoodie and finally eating the burrito bowl while she scrolls through your quizlet decks like she’s your chaotic little tutor.

“what’s the difference between classical and operant conditioning?” she asks.

you groan. “don’t quiz me while i’m chewing.”

ellie tosses her phone onto the desk and flops down beside you, draping an arm across your waist.

“alright, no more school talk,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “you’ve cried. you’ve eaten. you look like a real human again. which means i can say the thing i’ve wanted to say since i walked in.”

you raise an eyebrow. “what?”

“you’re hot when you’re a mess.”

you snort. “you’re so weird.”

ellie hums. “weird and in love with you. dangerous combo.”

her hand starts to slip under the hem of the hoodie you’re wearing - hers, soft and oversized and draped over your bare thighs like a blanket.

“you okay if i…?” she murmurs.

you nod instantly. “please. i need to not think for a while.”

ellie kisses you; slow, warm, coaxing. her hand traces down your stomach, over your waistband, and slides into your panties. you gasp when her fingers stroke through your wetness.

“fuck,” she mutters. “you’re already dripping.”

“finals are so sexy,” you whisper sarcastically.

ellie grins. “shut up and lie back.”

she kisses down your stomach, nudging your thighs apart, dragging your panties down slowly. and when she lays between your legs, her mouth is already open, her tongue soft and warm as she licks a slow stripe through your folds.

you moan softly, your hands moving to her hair.

she loves this. being between your legs. making you forget everything else - the papers, the deadlines, the chaos. her tongue circles your clit slowly, lovingly, then flicks against it in short, rhythmic strokes.

you grip her hair. “ellie…fuck-i needed this so bad.”

“i know, baby,” she murmurs, breath hot against you. “let me take care of you.”

she eats you like it’s the only thing she came here for. deep licks. gentle suck. she pushes a finger in, then two, curling just right as her tongue keeps flicking - building your orgasm slowly, letting it simmer until your thighs are trembling around her.

you come with a gasp, back arching, hips bucking as she holds you down.

ellie stays there, licking through it, humming like she’s proud of herself. which she is.

when she finally comes up, her mouth is shiny and her grin is cocky.

“i’m amazing,” she says.

you giggle, breathless. “you are.”

“you’re not done.”

your eyes widen. “oh?”

she gives you water first. kisses your forehead. strips off her clothes. then she pulls the harness from her backpack like it’s a damn prize.

you’re already on your hands and knees by the time she slides it on.

she kneels behind you, one hand on your hip, the other guiding the strap between your folds, sliding it through your wetness before easing it in slowly.

“fuck,” you gasp. “god, it’s so deep-“

ellie groans. “look at you. fucking taking it.”

she builds a rhythm, steady and deep, her hands gripping your hips, her strap hitting the perfect spot as she mutters behind you:

“you gonna think about this when you’re in your exam tomorrow?”

“gonna be dripping onto your seat, huh?”

“can’t focus ‘cause your brain’s still full of me?”

you come again embarrassingly fast, clenching around nothing, moaning into the mattress as ellie rocks you through it.

but she doesn’t stop.

she pulls out slowly, kisses your shoulder, and murmurs:

“wanna ride me, baby?”

you straddle her thighs, the strap pressed against you, and ellie holds it steady as you sink down.

you both moan at the same time.

you start to move - hips rolling, thighs trembling, hands braced on her chest. ellie groans and grips your waist, watching you with hungry, adoring eyes.

“that’s it, baby. just like that.”

you grind harder, chasing your own high, body already shaking from the earlier orgasm. ellie keeps praising you - soft, encouraging, hot as hell:

“look at you.”

“so pretty when you ride me.”

“my good girl.”

when you come for the third time, you collapse forward, forehead pressed to hers, your bodies tangled and sweat-slick.

ellie strokes your back gently. feel better?”

you let out a weak laugh. “finals who?”

she helps you clean up. wraps you in a blanket. you lie in bed, legs tangled, her hand stroking your thigh absentmindedly.

“can’t believe you carry that strap around like it’s your wallet,” you mumble.

ellie shrugs. “never know when my girl’s gonna have a breakdown and need a deep dicking.”

you laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

and for the first time all week, you feel okay again.

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @frosttbitten , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie , @celiacallsitcasual , @gurlbownerr , @l0veylace , @bluminescent-moon , @oatmatchalatte , @hitmehardmommy , @iadorefineshyt , @jksevendays , @liztreez , @clemrules , @yourl0caltrash , @rootytootymeow , @thebadwritersposts , @vanillacigarettes777 <3

[rawme-price]

would love to hear a bit more of that immortal!reader who feels all the pain but doesn’t tell anyone angst thing that you mentioned…😇 just saying

Well... a bit off but how abt ghost whos jealous of immortal!reader???

After the initial shock and everyone coming to terms with the fact that u really are immortal, a new feeling creeps into ghosts chest.

Jealousy.

Hes heard plenty of stories from u since that op about all the things you've survived. Sure, they may be embellished, but at the core its all true. Hell, ghost literally saw you regrow a limb. And yet, no one would be able to tell just looking at you. Your skin doesnt scar, no injury ever leaves its mark for longer than a week.

He can't help it, that sick desire to have been cursed with ur ailment. To be unmarred despite all hos truama. In the mornings when ghost looks in the mirror, he studies simons face. Imagines what it would look like now without all the scars. Would he look a bit more like his ma?

This ache only grows, and with it ghost cant bare to look at u, feeling sick with envy. It gets to the point he avoids you and is outright hostile at times. Everyone picks up on it, hes not exactly subtle. But it all comes to a boil when you complain about the possibility of mines and ghost shoots back "who cares? You'll just come back good as new."

The line goes quiet, and you just, you cant take it anymore. Youve put up with the cold shoulder, the sneers, the glares. But downright animosity in the middle of an op? "What the hell is your problem?" You snap.

"nothing. Just making an observation." Ghost's voice is gruff, and no matter how much hes internally screaming at himself to shut up he cant stop. "Doesn't really matter if you die, eh? You come back, no scars or nothin' to ruin that perfect face of yours."

You huff in astonishment and barely contained rage. "Is that what this is about? You feeling too fucking ugly so you gotta take it out on me-"

"thats enough! Both of you, cut it out. You can deal with this later." Ur captain cuts in, and u just barely bite ur tongue.

Still, you seethe and seethe. Ghost basically told you he doesnt care if you died. And ur what, supposed to let that slide? Aa far as ur concerned. Ghost isnt a teammate anymore. Isn't even an ally you can trust.

[ccupcakqs]

— control and collision ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: makeout, suggestive tension, post-race anger pairing: max verstappen x female reader a/n: erm, what did i write

the door slams so hard it rattles the wall.

you barely have time to look up before max is in front of you — jaw tight, eyes burning, fire still crackling off him like he carried it straight from the track. his suit is half unzipped, arms flushed from the heat, sweat at his temple. he looks like a storm. like something just waiting to split open.

“max—”

“don’t,” he snaps, too sharp, pacing like a fuse already lit. “don’t say it was unlucky. don’t say i did everything i could. i don’t want that right now.”

you close your mouth. watch him pace once more. he runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back, restless, furious with nothing to take it out on. you know this version of him. after a DNF, after the crash — when the car fails or the strategy backfires or someone else’s mistake costs him the race. he’s not mad at you. but he’s boiling, and you’re the only one here he doesn’t have to perform for.

you step closer.

he doesn’t move away.

“then what do you want?” you ask.

his head turns toward you. his gaze lands hard. it slides over your face, your throat, your mouth. something shifts in his expression. still frustrated — but now it’s heat too. heavy. hungry.

“this,” he says.

and then he’s on you.

he kisses you like it’s punishment. like you’re the one who made him crash and he can’t figure out whether to hate you or need you more. his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and pressure, and you meet it head-on, matching him breath for breath. he’s hot under your hands, skin burning through the collar of his race suit, and you grip the front of it just to stay grounded.

his hands are everywhere — your waist, your back, your jaw. he tilts your head with too much force, then softens just slightly, like he remembers you’re not part of the wreckage. but you feel like it — like you’re getting caught up in the same wildfire that’s eating him alive from the inside out.

“you don’t know—” he mutters against your mouth, breaking the kiss for only a second to breathe. “how fucking hard it is to let it go. to get out of that car and pretend it didn’t matter.”

you pull him back in. his hands slide up your spine and bunch the fabric of your shirt.

“then don’t,” you whisper. “don’t let it go.”

something in him snaps. his mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, and your back hits the nearest wall — hard enough that it knocks the breath from you. he doesn’t stop kissing you. his thigh slides between yours, his chest pressing into yours until it feels like there’s nowhere left to go but closer.

you gasp when his teeth graze your lip. he licks into your mouth like he’s tasting adrenaline, like the high of the race is still in him and he needs to burn it off with you.

your fingers slide under the edge of his race suit. his skin is damp and warm. he shivers.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you always—”

he breaks off. kisses you again. slower this time, deeper, like it’s sinking into something less explosive and more inevitable. his hands slide down your hips. linger.

“you always bring me back down.”

your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair there.

“then let me.”

he looks at you, really looks. his chest rises and falls fast. his lips are kiss-bruised and parted. there’s still fire in his eyes, but it’s quieter now — coals instead of flames. no less hot.

he kisses you one more time, softer. but it’s a promise. not a pause.

his hands are already sliding under your shirt, rough palms dragging over the small of your back. the wall at your spine is cold but his body is anything but — pressed tight to yours, breath hot against your neck as he mouths down the side of it like he’s trying to devour the anger still coiled in his chest.

you feel him inhale like he’s still trying to calm down.

but he doesn’t pull away.

“you feel that?” max mutters against your throat, voice low, frayed. “how fast my heart’s going?”

you nod, already breathless. “yeah.”

he kisses just under your jaw, hands gripping your waist like it’s the only anchor he’s got left.

“not from the crash,” he adds. “it’s you.���

your breath catches. he pulls back only long enough to look you over — like he wants to memorize the way you look right now, pinned between him and the wall, lips swollen, pulse skipping under your skin. his thumb drags across your cheek, then down to trace the edge of your mouth.

“you’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

you smirk. “so are you.”

his mouth finds yours again, hotter now, more desperate. your fingers dig into his sides, clinging, grounding — trying to keep pace with the heat building fast between you. max shifts his hips into yours, and you gasp into the kiss, feeling the sharp inhale he takes at your reaction.

he pulls back just an inch. “do that again,” he whispers.

“do what?” your voice is barely there.

“that sound.” his hand skims under your shirt, up your ribs, palm flattening just below your chest. “the one you make when i touch you like this.”

you do — unprompted — when he touches you again, firmer this time. he kisses you immediately after like a reward. you arch into him, chasing more, and he groans into your mouth like he’s the one unraveling now.

the makeout turns messy again. fast. his hands everywhere. your hips moving. the sound of his breath and your gasp and the sharp thud of your shoulder hitting the wall when he deepens the kiss again. it’s chaotic. desperate. but it’s all max — that same stubborn control threaded through every movement, every grip, every kiss like he’s pouring all the energy he didn’t get to use on track into you instead.

he breaks the kiss again — barely.

“tell me to stop,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked. “if it’s too much.”

you don’t say anything.

you just pull him back in.

he groans. his hips press forward, hands bracing the wall on either side of your head like he needs to cage you in just to keep himself from losing control completely.

“fuck,” he mutters, like a prayer and a curse all in one. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“good,” you whisper back. “you started it.”

his mouth finds yours again, and he kisses you like he needs to get every last trace of the crash out of his system. like you’re the only thing fast enough to catch him.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[m4mmonthebest]

// Summary: Friend comes to visit you. Dateables are jealous. When she tries to confess her love there's a distraction and she decides to leave. Making a summary because I know some people would probably not want to read out and just go straight to their favs being jealous lol.... Scroll all the way down to click on the available characters. This will get updated every time I finish writing down characters.

"Clementine?"

You try to open the door but Dorian seems keen on not letting anyone in, for your protection. Your friend on the other side, you've known each other for a very long time.

"Hey Dorian... you know her. Let her in..?"

After a minute the door unlocks itself, and your friend envelopes you into a tight loving hug.

"Hi.... it's been so long! I thought you wouldn't open the door for me..."

Her voice is as sweet as always. 

"Sorry for that, sometimes it's a little difficult to get the door to open itself..."

You brush your fingers through the lovely carved wood, and you know that if you had the dateviators on, Dorian would've groaned. Maybe he did.

"Well Clementine...sit wherever you wish. Do you want something to eat? Or a snack? I must have something around here..."

You begin to walk towards the kitchen, opening up the fridge which gives you a little resistance. Weird... Freddy isn't usually like that. Maybe he isn't feeling great?

There's some cookies that you bought the other day, you decide that's enough of a snack, if you got too hungry maybe you could order pizza.

Clementine sits down on one of the sofas. Although one of the cushions suddenly slips from below her, she falls to the ground with a small thud.

"Clementine!"

You go to her side quickly helping her stand up, she rubs her butt with a pained expression.

"Ouch I'm sorry.... that's embarrassing..."

"Hey no, it's okay! Bought cookies."

The word cookies brings a smile to her face, as you both sit down on the large sofa, begining to eat away at the cookies.

There's a comfortable silence between the two of you, not unusual, until a cold breeze makes her begin to shiver. You quickly grab Mateo and wrap her with him. And then the temperature begins to rise. 

Now you know the objects aren't happy with your friend, you shoot Hector an annoyed look, which makes the room a bit colder.

You sigh, which makes Clementine look worried.

"S-sorry. Am I bothering? I can leave."

"No, no, that's not it. Just a bit tired that's all. I'm wondering you didn't just come to hang out though... I know you're a busy woman."

"Would... would've it been bad if I just wanted to hang out?"

She looks sad, shit. Maybe you shouldn't have said that.

"Not at all! I love hanging out with you I truly do...I just know your work doesn't leave you much free time."

Your hand rests on her shoulder. You give her a warm smile and you can see her blushing slightly.

"U-um. I ... did come to tell you something important."

"Important?"

"I've been keeping it with me for ... a while now."

You start thinking of everything you've done to get until then. Fuck. Your mind turns blank and you suddenly can't remember anything.

"Y-yes?"

"I...I wanted to say.....I....um....really lo-"

The lights flicker on an off, and then...

THUNK!!!

There's a really loud noise that interrupts whatever Clementine wanted to say at the moment. You go to the kitchen to find the trashcan fell to the ground, spilling everything on the floor.

"Cam..."

Clementine stands behind you, holding her hands together.

"I....I think it's time I leave....that was fun."

"Are you sure? You can stay if you want..."

"Don't worry. Have to wake up early anyways... bye bye."

She kisses your cheek tenderly. And when she goes to leave the door is already open. She wonders if it had been like that all the time, but ignores it.

You'll have to talk to a lot of people today.

Cam

[thewosocollective1]

Cracks in the Silence

Alexia Putellas x reader

Caught in the Quiet Pt 2

It had been a week since Alba barged into Alexia’s apartment, armed with pastries and bombshell revelations, and turned Y/N and Alexia’s secret world upside down. Since then, things at FC Barcelona had shifted. Subtle. Suspicious. Slightly terrifying.

Ellie had recovered from the shock

Alexia and Y/N tried their best to act normal. In training, they kept their usual distance. In meetings, they spoke professionally. No flirting. No lingering glances. No accidental touches.

But the team was watching. Closely.

Mapi had turned into a detective. Jana dropped not-so-subtle comments like, “Love that chemistry you two have on the pitch… and off.” Even Irene was side-eyeing the way Alexia always gravitated toward Y/N during drills.

The tension was building. Silent. Heavy. And it all cracked open during the game against Atlético Madrid.

It was a high-stakes match. The stadium was pulsing, fans filling every seat, red and blue jerseys creating a mosaic of passion and noise. Alexia had her captain’s armband on tight, her expression cool and focused. Y/N was tense, vibrating with energy as she bounced in place during the warm-up.

Twenty minutes into the first half, things got heated. The game was aggressive, tackles flying, midfielders battling for dominance. Y/N had been frustrated all week — whispering and suspicion hanging over her like storm clouds. She was trying to keep her cool. But when the Atlético winger cut past her too quickly, something snapped.

Y/N charged.

Too fast.

Too hard.

She slid in with studs showing. The other player crumbled to the ground, clutching her ankle.

Whistle. Shouting. Yellow card.

The crowd roared, half in outrage, half in confusion.

“¿Qué hiciste?” she whispered, grabbing her arm.

“I—I didn’t mean—she cut inside, and I panicked.”

“You came in with your studs up. Y/N, this isn’t you.” But her voice wasn’t angry. It was protective. Worried.

And then their eyes met.

There it was. All the months of secrecy, of stolen glances and whispered confessions in the dark. All of it danced between them in a single look.

It lasted just a moment. But it was enough.

Everyone saw it.

Irene’s mouth dropped open. Mapi raised both brows. The referee blinked twice and awkwardly glanced away.

Even the commentators hesitated.

“Uhh… something’s happening between those two… chemistry, perhaps?”

Alexia pulled back quickly, trying to regain composure. “Just… play smarter,” she said, loud enough for the cameras. But it was too late. The unspoken truth had echoed louder than any whistle.

They pushed through the rest of the match in a haze of adrenaline and embarrassment. The tension between them was now public — buzzing through the stands, filtering into tweets and group chats like wildfire.

Then, in the 81st minute, everything changed.

Barça earned a corner kick. The score was tied: 1–1. The crowd held its breath.

Y/N positioned herself at the far post, eyes sharp, heartbeat thumping like a drum. Alexia stood outside the box, watching her like she always did — as if gravity didn’t work properly unless Y/N was nearby.

The ball soared through the air.

Y/N jumped.

Perfect timing. The header was clean. It slammed into the net.

GOOOOOOL!

The stadium exploded in sound.

But Y/N didn’t get up.

She had collided with a defender mid-air and landed horribly. Her head struck the turf — hard.

Alexia’s blood went cold.

She didn’t think. She just ran.

She dropped everything — tactics, armband, captaincy — and sprinted toward the girl she loved. Y/N lay there, eyes squeezed shut, hands barely moving.

“Y/N,” Alexia whispered, kneeling beside her. “Look at me. Say something.”

Y/N slowly opened her eyes, dazed “Tell me it was a goal”

Alexia laughed at the girl “that doesn’t matter now”

“ YES IT MATTERS A LOT!”

“Yes it was a goal y/n”

“Good because if i’m going to stay out during some time at least i scored a fucking goal “

Alexia couldn't help but laugh at her girlfriend

“You were… staring again.”

Alexia let out a breath that sounded more like a sob. “I always stare at you, idiota.”

The medic arrived. Diagnosis: concussion. Mild, but serious enough. She needed to come off. Alexia didn’t move until they lifted Y/N gently onto the stretcher.

The rest of the team gathered silently, concern etched across their faces.

Mapi broke the silence. “So… she’s your girlfriend?”

Alexia paused. Then nodded.

“She is.”

Nobody reacted badly. Not even close. Jana high-fived Vicky, Ingrid mouthed, “Finally.” Even the coach just sighed like he had won an internal bet.

As the stretcher moved toward the tunnel, Alexia walked beside it, fingers brushing against Y/N’s hand.

The crowd didn’t chant. It didn’t cheer.

It just watched — as the secret cracked open in the most painful, honest way.

Alexia wasn’t just a captain today.

She was someone in love.

And now… the whole world finally knew.

The locker room was silent after the match. Victory felt hollow. The only thing on Alexia's mind was the hospital where Y/N had just been taken. She wasn’t allowed in the ambulance — club policy — but she had followed behind in her car, running more red lights than she’d ever admit.

___

Two hours passed. Alexia waited in the hallway, tapping her foot, scrolling through messages from teammates.

Finally, the nurse came out.

“She’s stable. Mild concussion, but she’s awake. You can go in.”

Alexia didn’t wait.

Inside, Y/N lay in the hospital bed, hair messy, skin pale, a faint bruise on her temple. She smiled weakly the moment she saw her.

“You were crying,” Y/N said.

“I wasn’t,” Alexia lied.

“You always lie badly.”

Alexia sat beside her and took her hand. “You scared me.”

“I scared myself.”

A long pause hung in the air, heavy with everything they hadn’t said aloud yet.

“Everyone knows,” Y/N whispered.

“I know.”

“It feels… real now. Like we’re not hiding behind hoodies and late-night drives.”

Alexia looked at her, jaw tight. “Are we ready for that?”

“I think they are. You saw the locker room.”

Alexia nodded slowly. “It’s not the team I’m worried about.”

“The press?”

“The world.”

Y/N gently squeezed her hand. “Let them talk. They don’t get to decide what this is.”

Alexia laughed softly. “Did you rehearse that or are you just dramatic on pain meds?”

“Both.”

Alexia looked at Y/N, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

“I don’t care if the world knows,” she said softly. “I care if you’re okay.”

“I will be,” Y/N smiled. “As long as you’re here.”

[papayainsectorone]

Tell Me Where It Hurts

summary: in the quiet hours of a late night, two hearts meet again, raw, afraid, and still aching, to face the weight of everything left unsaid

content: angst, grief , emotional hurt, rain‑soaked confessions, regret, raw apologies, quiet loud vulnerability, bruised hearts trying to heal, soft reunion (?), still hurting but holding on

word count: 6,3k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

a thought: i’m gonna be honest, you’ll probably either love or hate what’s coming in this chapter… it was so hard for me to write and honestly i’m still stuck on how to end this series.

i think we’re looking at just one more chapter left, so maybe leave some extra love on this one? 🫶 i really really fucking appreciate each and every one of you, every comment, every single silent reader, everyone. i love you so much. 🖤✨

might be confusing if read as standalone

The rain had thinned by the time Lando reached your building, but it hadn’t stopped. It clung to him, a cold, misty sort of drizzle that wasn’t dramatic enough to make a scene, but relentless enough to soak through. His hoodie stuck to his shoulders, heavy with damp. His curls flattened to his forehead. Monaco, for once, had quieted. A few taxis whispered down the street, the occasional hum of a scooter in the distance, but otherwise — nothing. Just him, the hour, and the door in front of him.

He stood there longer than he meant to, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shifting his weight like maybe movement would give him courage. He rehearsed it all in his head. What he would say. What he had to say.

But every version felt wrong. Too small. Too late.

Still, he raised a hand. Knocked. And waited.

For a long time, nothing happened. He half-considered walking away, unsure if he wanted to be relieved or wrecked if you didn’t open the door. But then —

The handle turned.

The door cracked open with a soft click, and then there you were, blinking at him, wrapped in a loose sweatshirt and sleep-soft eyes, the light from behind you catching the curve of your face. You didn’t speak. Not right away. Neither did he.

You just stared.

His breath caught in his chest like it didn’t know what to do anymore. The last time he saw you just hours ago, you’d been walking away. But now, you weren’t moving. But you also weren’t reaching for him.

Finally, you spoke. Quiet. Flat.

“It’s late.”

Lando swallowed, the words sinking into him like a stone. He nodded once. “I know.”

More silence. The hallway light above him buzzed faintly, catching raindrops still clinging to his hair, his lashes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Like the weight of the whole season, the whole year, had collapsed onto his shoulders all at once.

He didn’t ask to come in.

You stared at him another second, maybe out of disbelief, maybe just to be sure he was real and then you stepped aside.

Lando passed you slowly. The warmth of your apartment hit him like a wave: soft lamplight, quiet stillness, the faint scent of something herbal — tea, maybe. Or soap. Something unmistakably you. He tried not to inhale too deeply, but God, he missed this. Missed you in every quiet, invisible way someone could.

You closed the door behind him, arms crossed over your chest now. Guarded. Rightfully so.

He stood awkwardly by the threshold, dripping faintly onto the mat, not knowing where to go, what to touch, how to be here. You didn’t offer him a towel. Not yet. You didn’t move to sit. This wasn’t familiar. This was unfamiliar ground on land he used to know like the back of his hand.

He turned toward you finally, eyes flicking over your face. You looked tired. Not makeup-tired. Not club-night-tired. Heart-tired.

And even though the silence stretched too long, neither of you rushed to break it.

You let out a slow breath, something unreadable flickering through your eyes. Pain, maybe. Frustration. You turned slightly, enough to walk past him toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of silence in your wake.

And Lando just stood there, damp, aching, hollowed out, wondering if there was still a version of this night that wouldn’t end with him more shattered than he already was.

You walked, wordless, disappearing down the hallway. He didn’t call after you. He wasn’t sure he had the right to anymore.

He glanced around the space — not intrusively, just… searching. For something. A trace of the version of you that used to laugh into his neck. The version of himself that hadn’t ruined it all.

Books lined the wall in uneven stacks. A candle flickered low on the coffee table. One of his old hoodies, the one you used to steal and never give back, was slung over the back of a chair. That detail hit him harder than it should have.

When you returned, your expression hadn’t changed — still quiet, still guarded. You held out a towel and then grabbed that same hoodie.

His hoodie.

Lando looked at it for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, before taking both from you. His fingers brushed yours in the handoff — a brief touch, barely anything — but it jolted through him like a memory.

You just nodded toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down there.”

He disappeared for a few minutes, long enough to dry off, to change, to look in the mirror and almost not recognize the person staring back.

When he returned, he stood there in the middle of your living room, wearing the hoodie and looked, finally, like someone entirely human. Not a podium finisher. Not the life of the afterparty. Just Lando.

Just the boy who had said the wrong things and let the right one walk away.

You hadn’t moved. Still standing by the counter, arms crossed, as if they were the only thing holding you together. Your eyes flicked to him — to the still damp curls, the hoodie that hung a little looser now, the water-darkened hem of his jeans — and then away.

He didn’t speak. You didn’t ask.

For a long stretch of seconds, the apartment was still. Monaco was quiet outside, a soft rain still tapping faintly against the window, as if trying to fill the space neither of you could.

He looked around again, slower this time. Noticing the things he hadn’t before. The small comforts of your new life — a folded blanket, a half-finished book, a ceramic mug by the sink. Home, but without him.

And it hit him, slowly and all at once, how far he'd fallen out of the picture. How much he’d lost without even realizing when it happened.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Rubbed the back of his neck. Then, softly:

“I had to talk to you.”

The words fell like a stone in still water. You didn’t flinch. But something in your posture changed, not enough to open the door again, but enough to listen.

And that… was where it began.

Not with forgiveness.

Not even with an apology.

Just with two people standing in the quiet wreckage of what they used to be, trying to find enough air to speak again.

He swallowed, the motion catching in a throat gone suddenly dry. The apartment felt too small, the air dense enough to press against his chest, each breath coming a little too shallow. Somewhere behind them, the refrigerator hummed its low, steady song, and a leaky faucet dripped in slow, measured beats that seemed painfully loud in the silence.

“I had to talk to you,” he repeated. This time his voice came out rougher, hoarse around the edges, like the words had scraped his throat raw on the way out.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stood in the kitchen, arms folded tight across your chest, shoulders rigid. Your gaze stayed fixed on a spot on the floor between you, as if you could will it to split open and swallow the moment before it grew heavier.

“How did you know where I was?” you asked at last. Your voice carried a wariness that felt older than this argument, worn in over too many sleepless nights.

“Charles told me,” he said. The words dropped into the space between you with the weight of something undeniable.

Your eyes flickered up, surprise breaking through for an instant before exhaustion took its place. Then your guard returned, subtle but sure, in the way your mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So I came here,” he finished, his hands lifting slightly, palms open in a quiet plea. He had nothing left to hide, nothing left except this battered truth.

Silence settled over you both. It wasn’t gentle. It crawled over your skin, thick enough to make the air feel harder to breathe. Each second stretched, heavy and awkward, until it felt like the room itself might crack.

He shifted, taking half a step closer before stopping himself, shoes scuffing softly on the worn floorboards. The space between you felt fragile, like thin glass that could shatter at the smallest misstep.

“I remember that night,” he said, voice softer now. He almost whispered, as though speaking louder might break something inside him.

Your breath caught. It was quick, barely there, but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened, the tiny tremor in your hands where they clutched your arms.

“I didn’t before. I really didn’t,” he continued, the words spilling out in a rush he couldn’t hold back any longer. “But I do now.”

Your answer came out quieter than you meant. “And?”

“And I hate that it took me this long,” he admitted, voice cracking at the edges. His gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted to meet yours again. Regret sat there, raw and unhidden. “I hate that I didn’t see it. Not just that night—everything before it too. That I hurt you so badly. That I lost you.”

His words hung in the air, trembling under the weight of everything neither of you had been able to say until now. It wasn’t a perfect apology. But it was honest.

Something in your chest twisted tight, a sharp ache that made it hard to pull in a steady breath. You didn’t look away from him, though every second felt like pressing your palm against an open flame. His gaze held so much regret that it almost hurt to see.

“You did hurt me,” you whispered. The words were barely louder than the sound of your own heartbeat. “You hurt me more than anyone else ever could.”

It felt like stepping off a ledge into open air, knowing there’d be no one to catch you. But it was the truth, and it tasted bitter and metallic on your tongue.

“I know,” he breathed out. The confession scraped past something raw inside him. “Fuck, I know I did.” His voice trembled, and tears welled in his eyes, catching the low light like broken glass.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you moved. The silence wrapped around you both, heavy and unsteady, like a floor that might give way beneath your feet.

“It wasn’t just that night, Lando,” you said, and your voice shook, though you kept it quiet. “It was months. Months of feeling like I was waiting for you to actually see me. And when you finally did, it was only to say something that shattered everything I’d been holding onto.”

He nodded, slow and small, his eyes rimmed red. His shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink under the weight of his own guilt.

“I didn’t see you. Not the way I should have,” he admitted, voice ragged. “And when I thought maybe… you’d stopped waiting, I panicked. I got angry. At you, but more at myself. At everything that felt too big to fix.”

A short, cracked laugh slipped out of you. It wasn’t really laughter, more an exhausted sound that felt hollow in your chest.

“And you made it my fault,” you said, the words cutting sharper than you meant. But they needed to be spoken.

He flinched at that, the truth hitting him hard. Still, he didn’t look away. “I did. And that’s on me. I fucked it all up. I made a mess of everything.”

The next words slipped out before you could stop them, carried by months of silence that had turned heavy in your lungs.

“You made me feel small, Lando. Like what I felt didn’t matter. Like I was the fool for wanting it to.”

Your voice caught, breaking around the last syllables. You swallowed hard, blinking back the blur in your vision. His expression crumpled, and guilt carved deep lines into his face, making him look older than he had just moments ago.

“You were never foolish,” he whispered, voice hoarse. He stepped closer, slow and careful, as though afraid you might bolt. “Never. I was the fool. I still am.”

Neither of you dared to sit down. You stood there on opposite sides of the living room, each in your own corner, separated by more than just space. The floor beneath you felt fragile, as if the weight of everything unsaid might crack it open.

“I thought keeping quiet would protect what we had,” he said. His voice shook, thin and brittle. “That if I pretended it wasn’t there, I wouldn’t lose you. But I did it anyway. I pushed you away so hard there was nothing left to hold on to.”

“And what about her?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. The name tasted bitter, like something spoiled on your tongue. “Charlotte.”

He drew in a sharp breath, shoulders flinching as if the words had landed like a blow. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“She saw through it,” he said, voice lower now. “Told me I was there, but not really there. That I looked sad even when I smiled. And she ended it. Whatever it even was.”

You swallowed. Even after everything, the confession sent a dull ache through your chest, like pressing on an old bruise.

“So what now?” you asked, quieter this time. Your words felt heavy, like they had to push through the exhaustion weighing down your lungs. “You show up in the middle of the night, tell me you remember, and think that’s enough?”

“No,” he answered quickly, the desperation plain in the crack of his voice. “I know it isn’t enough. Words don’t fix what I did. But I had to start somewhere. I had to see you, even if it meant you’d slam the door in my face.”

Your arms dropped to your sides, the fight in your muscles finally slipping away. Your shoulders sagged under the weight of it all, the sadness, the anger, the memories you still didn’t know what to do with.

“You hurt me, Lando. And I’m still angry. I’m still sad,” you said, your voice wavering but steady enough to be heard. “I still don’t understand why this happened. How you could choose. Or how you, of all people, could say the things you did.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he said, the words spilling out in a raw rush. “I chose fear. And I hate that I did. Because I lost the one person who felt like… home.”

He gulped hard, the sound catching in his throat. His shoulders slumped, as though the admission itself drained the strength from his bones.

“You are my home,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath. “You’ve always been my home. And I really don’t know what to do if you won’t be there anymore. I’m lost.”

Your chest tightened, something sharp and warm prickling at the corners of your eyes. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t.

“It doesn’t change what happened,” you whispered back. “It doesn’t erase what you said.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time, almost to himself, as if trying to believe that he truly did understand. “But I want to fix this. Fix us. More than anything. And I know it’s probably not the right time to beg you to trust me again, but maybe it means something to you. That I finally see it.”

Your vision blurred for a heartbeat, your lashes wet. You blinked hard, steadying yourself, and met his gaze.

“It does,” you said, your voice cracking around the edges. “But I don’t know what to do with that. Not tonight.”

The words settled between you, raw and honest. Outside, the hum of the city felt impossibly far away, leaving only the two of you and the silence you’d both built and now were trying, piece by piece, to break apart.

“Okay” he murmured. His voice was barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, like the words had to push through something raw in his chest.

You nodded, slowly. Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes, hot and stubborn, but they didn’t fall. Your throat felt tight, the ache sitting there, refusing to ease.

“Okay,” you whispered back. The word came out softer than you meant, as if speaking any louder might make the moment break apart.

He let out a breath, shaky and uneven, the sound of it carrying both relief and sorrow tangled together. His shoulders dropped, and for the first time tonight, some of the tension left his posture — though it left behind a hollow weariness in its place.

You turned away, blinking fast, your fingers brushing under your eyes to catch what might spill over. Then you gestured to the far side of the living room, the motion small but certain.

“Blankets are in the drawer by the TV,” you said. Your voice felt steadier now, though it was still quiet. “It’s late, and you probably shouldn’t be walking around the city like this.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. The words were so soft they barely reached you, but they carried a raw gratitude that felt heavier than any apology.

At the doorway to the bedroom, you paused. You turned your head, just enough to see him over your shoulder. His gaze met yours, open and unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen in so long. For a moment, it was like the silence and distance had fallen away, leaving just the two of you, stripped bare of anything but the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

“Goodnight, Lando,” you whispered.

“Goodnight,” he echoed. His voice cracked slightly, hoarse with everything he still held back.

Inside your room, the air felt too still. You sat on the edge of the bed, your palms pressed firmly into the mattress as if to anchor yourself, as if you had to convince yourself this was real, that he was here, somewhere beyond the thin wall, carrying the same ache you did.

For a long moment, you just sat there, listening. You thought you could hear the soft creak of the drawer opening through the lightly ajar door, the rustle of fabric as he pulled out the blankets. It felt intimate, painfully so, like a memory unfolding in real time.

When you finally lay down, you curled onto your side, knees drawn up tight. Your breath caught high in your chest, every inhale shallow and unsteady. Your heart thudded, loud enough you half-feared he could hear it through the walls, its rhythm stumbling between ache and hope, between old hurt and something too fragile to name.

Outside, a car passed slowly down the street, headlights sweeping faint shadows across the walls. They shifted and danced, briefly lighting the edges of your room before fading again. But nothing stilled the quiet tremor under your ribs, the way your chest seemed to pull tighter every time you closed your eyes.

Every word replayed in your mind, looping like a melody you couldn’t silence:

“I didn’t choose anyone. I chose fear.” “I see it now.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face deeper into the pillow as if darkness itself could shield you. But it only made it worse, the images grew sharper in the quiet: the way rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, the tremor in his voice when he spoke your name, the rawness in his gaze that felt too honest to bear.

Sleep didn’t come. Your pulse drummed loud in your ears, each beat tangled up with questions you couldn’t answer. Beneath the thin sheets, your body stayed curled tight, like if you uncurled, the ache might spill out and drown you.

In the living room, Lando lay on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling that seemed farther away than it should be. The borrowed blanket barely kept out the chill. His hoodie still carried the faintest trace of your shampoo, a ghost of the home he hadn’t known he’d built around you until he’d torn it apart.

Rain tapped gently against the glass doors to the balcony, steady and unhurried, like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. Each drop echoed softly in the room, threading through the hush like a lullaby too quiet to soothe.

His chest ached, a deep, dull weight pressed under his ribs. Regret burned hot and sharp, but beneath it, something smaller and more dangerous stirred — hope, fragile as a breath, stubborn enough to still exist at all.

He turned onto his side, the couch creaking under the shift of his weight. His gaze drifted to the darkened hallway that led to your room. In the hush, it felt like staring toward a door that might never open again. His fingers curled around the pillow, gripping it until his knuckles turned white, as if it could anchor him in a night that felt ready to swallow him whole.

She let me in, he thought. She didn’t slam the door.

The thought itself felt like a gift he hadn’t earned. His throat tightened painfully, words catching and dissolving before they could leave his lips. Apologies crowded his chest, tangled with promises he’d meant to speak long ago, but none of them found a way out.

The apartment settled into a quiet so complete it almost rang in his ears. Only the low hum of the fridge and the rain beyond the glass kept him company. Time felt suspended, stretched thin and fragile, holding its breath between heartbreak and something that dared to hope.

Almost without realizing, his lips parted. At first, it was only your name, breathed so quietly it was almost swallowed by the dark before it could cross the room.

But it wasn’t enough.

His voice cracked, softer than prayer, raw with everything he’d kept buried until it hurt to stay silent:

“I love you.”

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and bruised, not asking for an answer, only needing to exist.

Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. For a heartbeat, the entire world felt impossibly still: no sound from the street below, no hum from the fridge, even the gentle patter of rain on the windowsill seemed to pause. Just silence. And the heavy, aching echo of I love you burning behind your sternum, searing its shape into your chest.

It hurt. God, it hurt. An ache so sharp it seemed to slice through you, yet so deep it felt like it had always been there, waiting to wake. Your chest felt tight enough to crack; your palms damp with sweat you hadn’t noticed until now. And your heart — traitorous, stubborn — stumbled wildly, caught between disbelief and a hope so fragile it felt like it might crumble to ash if you dared to reach for it.

Almost before you’d made the decision, your legs carried you to the edge of the bed. You stood, bare feet sinking into the cold bite of the floorboards, breath quivering in the hush. The soft thud of your pulse thundered in your ears, louder than anything else.

At the doorway, you paused. Fingers hovered near the handle, muscles tight with hesitation. The wood felt smooth and familiar under your skin, yet tonight it felt like a threshold, a line between what had been and what might still be.

Was this what you really wanted?

The part of you still raw with anger and humiliation whispered to stay. To keep the distance, to let him sit with the loneliness you had carried so long it felt stitched into your bones. To let silence do what words never could.

But beneath that, quieter yet deeper, lived another part of you: the part that remembered his warmth pressed against your side on sleepless nights, the weight of his hand covering yours in crowded rooms. The part that remembered the stupid, gentle things: the way he’d tug your sleeve to get your attention, or the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t watching. The part of you that still, after everything, wanted to see him look at you that way again.

And that part — stubborn, foolish, hopeful — moved anyway.

Your eyes found him through the dim glow. His outline slumped against the couch cushions, one arm crooked behind his head, gaze pinned to the ceiling as if the answer to everything might be carved into the cracked plaster above. His hair, curling messily from the rain, clung to his forehead. His cheeks looked drawn, the softness in his face replaced by an exhaustion that cut deeper than tiredness. His lips parted, frozen somewhere between breath and words unsaid.

And his eyes — usually bright, alive, always restless with humor or stubbornness — looked dulled now, shadowed and almost hollow. A weight sat there you had never seen press so heavy, as though regret itself had settled behind them.

In that moment, neither of you moved. And the distance between you, measured in heartbeats, memories, and words left unsaid, felt both impossibly small and heartbreakingly wide.

It was like something magnetic, an invisible pull that tugged at something deep in your chest, impossible to fight. Your feet moved closer, step by slow, almost reluctant step, breath shallow and uneven. Each movement felt suspended in the thick hush of the apartment, the silence broken only by the soft patter of rain outside.

When he noticed the shift in the dark, his head jerked toward you, quick and startled. For a second, his eyes searched yours, wide and raw, something desperate flashing through them, balanced precariously between panic and hope. His lips parted, breath catching in his chest as if he was about to speak.

But you shook your head, just once, gentle, your hair brushing your cheeks. You didn’t trust your voice; you could feel it trembling at the back of your throat, threatening to crack the moment you tried.

So you just kept moving. Closer. Until you stood right in front of him, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating off his body, close enough to see how his breath stuttered, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly.

He hesitated, blinking like he didn’t dare believe it, then shifted sideways on the couch. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket, lifting it in a small, awkward gesture — an invitation that felt almost painfully unsure, as if he thought you might change your mind at any second. But it didn’t need to be spoken.

You lowered yourself beside him, slow and deliberate, the couch dipping under your weight. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and rain and him. Your body brushed against his, fitting into the narrow space like a memory you’d half-forgotten how to hold.

Your back settled against his chest, your head resting lightly on his arm. You could feel every shiver in him, every hitch in his breathing. And then — without hesitation — his arms wrapped around you. Not careful, not cautious. Just there — an instinctive, bone-deep need to pull you closer, as though his body had been waiting for this moment so long it hurt to finally move.

A shudder rippled through him, chest tightening around you. His head dipped until his nose pressed lightly into your hair, and the breath that slipped past his lips sounded torn, almost painful. Like the relief itself hurt to let out.

Another low, shaky exhale ghosted across the back of your neck, warm and uneven — the sound of something breaking and being held together at the same time. His arm curled tighter around your waist, not to trap you, but like he was terrified you’d vanish if he didn’t keep holding on.

Your eyelids fluttered shut, lashes damp, and for a long, suspended second, neither of you moved. Just two hearts, bruised and battered, beating against each other anyway. Just shared warmth, shared breath, shared silence that felt heavier than words.

Then, barely above a whisper, raw, hoarse, like it scraped his throat to speak:

“I’m so sorry.”

A tremor in his chest as the words left him. His breath caught, then another broken whisper, softer but no steadier:

“I’m so sorry…”

The words spilled from him, ragged and desperate. Each repetition chipped away at something inside you, the edges of your resolve softening under the weight of his voice.

“I’m so sorry,” again, quieter now, almost childlike, like he was saying it to the memory of you as much as to you now.

“I’m so sorry,” once more, the words shaking loose on a breath that seemed to drag everything in him out with it.

It became a mantra, an exhale he couldn’t stop. As if silence itself felt more terrifying than admitting — over and over — how deeply he’d broken what mattered most. Each syllable bruised and raw, wearing itself thin until it was barely sound at all, just need and regret strung together.

Your chest ached so deeply it felt hollow, like his words had carved something out of you. Instinct moved you before thought did: your hand reaching for him, fingers curling around his arm where the muscles trembled under your touch. Your thumb brushed gently back and forth over the fabric of his sleeve, slow, steady, grounding.

And when you finally found your voice, it came out small, ragged, but gentle, coaxing:

“Shhhh,” you breathed, the sound barely more than air. “Shhhh…”

Like calming a wound you both couldn’t see. Your voice trembled, your heart thundered, but your touch stayed steady, a promise, even if you weren’t sure what it promised yet.

But the apologies didn’t stop. They kept spilling out of him in a whisper-shaken tumble, as if he could bleed the guilt from his chest by naming it. And still, you stayed there — pressed close, breathing each other’s air, neither healed, neither whole, but holding on anyway.

You shifted, wriggling just enough to loosen the suffocating press of his grip. For a split second, panic flashed sharp and white in his eyes; his hand tightened again, fear bleeding into his voice.

“No — please, don’t leave,” he rushed out, breath catching on the words.

Your heart cracked at the sound.

But you didn’t move away.

Instead, you turned into him fully. Slowly, deliberately, your body pivoted until your foreheads nearly brushed, and your legs tangled into the heat of his. The blanket slipped down your shoulders, forgotten, as if it no longer mattered.

Your hand rose, trembling, to cup his cheek, thumb brushing away the salt-streaked tear that clung stubbornly there.

His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, as if the tenderness stung more than comforted — too raw, too close to the bruise.

Your thumb kept brushing against the tear track, gentle and rhythmic, as if you could smooth the ache out of him just by touch alone. His skin felt warm and damp beneath your fingertips, rough with stubble in places, softer in others.

Your breath trembled between you both, each inhale catching on the edge of a memory you hadn’t dared touch in weeks, the nights his laughter had settled into your chest.

His apology slipped out again, barely a breath:

“Sorry…”

Your chest tightened around the word. It felt like it weighed too much for a single syllable, cracked and raw, as if it had scraped its way out of him through every bruise and regret he carried.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you watched him: the way his lashes clumped together with tears, the way his lips parted around words that never made it past his tongue, the faint tremor that rippled down his arm where your hand rested.

For a heartbeat, the world shrank to just this: your hand on his cheek, the shaky warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips, the shared pulse that seemed to beat between your ribs and his.

Your fingers slid upward, brushing the mess of damp curls clinging to his forehead, your nails grazing lightly across his hairline. His breath caught at the touch, another sob shivering loose before he could stop it.

“Look at me,” you breathed, voice hushed but firmer than it felt inside.

Slowly, he did. His eyes opened, heavy and glassy, lashes trembling.

Your thumb traced beneath his eye, catching another tear before it could fall. His skin twitched under your touch, like the tenderness hurt more than the distance ever had.

“I know,” you whispered, voice breaking at the edges. “I know you’re sorry.”

The words felt small in the hush of the living room, swallowed by the quiet, but they still landed between you — softer than forgiveness, but not rejection either.

Your hand slipped to the back of his neck, fingers splaying across the warmth of his skin, feeling the faint, frantic beat of his pulse beneath your thumb.

“I’m still angry,” you whispered, the words hitching in your throat. “And I still hurt. But I know you’re sorry, Lando.”

He let out a breath that sounded like it broke something loose inside him, shoulders shaking as he pressed closer, as though even this sliver of absolution was too much to hold.

His nose brushed yours, breath ragged. You could feel the damp heat of his tears where your skin touched, could taste the salt of your own on your lips.

Your legs tangled tighter, the blanket half-forgotten, pooling around your hips. All that remained was skin, warmth, breath — hearts beating too fast, too loud, too close.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His chest heaved against yours, uneven and desperate, your thumb still stroking the back of his neck in slow, grounding circles.

Finally, almost swallowed by the space between your mouths, another whisper slipped from him — quieter now, rawer, edged with something that sounded like surrender:

“I don’t know how to stop being sorry.”

And your heart cracked again, wide and aching, because you knew:

Neither of you knew how to stop hurting.

“Lando.”

Your voice broke the quiet, soft but steady, threading through the fragile space between you.

His lashes lifted slowly again, heavy and thick with exhaustion, wet-rimmed and glistening with tears that refused to fall now.

And in that gaze, you saw everything.

The shattered pieces of his heart, jagged and bleeding.

The relentless gnaw of guilt that clawed at him from the inside out, twisting him with every breath.

The paralyzing fear that he had lost you, lost the only thing that had ever felt like home.

The aching regret, so deep and weighty it seemed to hollow him from the inside, leaving only the fragile shell of the man you once knew.

So close that you could feel the trembling warmth of his breath as it brushed against your lips, soft and hesitant like a whisper carried on the wind.

Your eyes never left his, tracing the contours of his face—the way the light caught the curve of his cheekbone, the way his jaw clenched slightly beneath the roughness of stubble, the way his eyes searched yours like a lifeline.

Slowly, almost reverently, your forehead dipped forward until your noses touched again—softly, lightly—an intimate connection that reached far beyond skin. It was a question and an answer all at once, a fragile thread weaving you back together.

Then, a breath closer, your lips ghosted over his, barely there, a feather-light touch that spoke volumes in its gentleness.

Not desire.

Not desperation.

But something infinitely more tender: forgiveness.

Regret.

A quiet yearning to heal the wounds you both carried, raw and unspoken.

Lando’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp hitch that made his entire body still, suspended between fear and hope, between the past you both wanted to forget and the future you both dared to imagine.

For a suspended heartbeat, he didn’t breathe at all, his chest rising and falling frozen, as if afraid to shatter the fragile moment.

And then, finally, your lips met fully.

There was no force, no urgency, just a softness that spilled from your souls, an apology with no words, a balm for months of loneliness and love that had nowhere else to go.

Under your palm, his chest trembled again, this time not with sorrow, but with something new. Like the first deep breath taken after nearly drowning, shaky but alive.

When you pulled back, your foreheads still resting together, the silence between you felt different.

Fragile, yes.

Painful, still.

But somehow, held in the warmth of your shared breath and the closeness of your bodies, it felt a little less impossible.

He whispered again, voice hoarse and breaking, the weight of the confession heavy but real:

“I’m sorry.”

And this time, you didn’t hush him.

You let those words linger between you, because even if they couldn’t erase the past or fix the broken pieces completely, they were true.

And so was this moment.

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[lazysoulwriter]

stay, even if it hurts ── ✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: emotional confession, rainy night, angst with comfort, insecure reader, fear of love.

You hear him before you see him — his knock is fast, urgent, like he’s been holding something in too long. And when you open the door, he’s standing there in the rain, completely soaked, eyes burning like they always do when he’s about to say something that terrifies you.

“Can I come in?” he asks, even though he’s already stepping forward.

You don’t answer. You just move aside, letting him drip all over the hardwood while your pulse tries to outrun itself.

The door shuts. Silence. Just the sound of water falling from his hair, the soft drip-drip of a storm still raging outside. You keep your arms crossed, like it might keep your heart from cracking wide open.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says.

You flinch — barely. But he sees it. He always sees everything.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with you running away every time it starts to feel real.” He breathes out hard. “I’m so in love with you it physically hurts, and you just… you keep slipping through my fingers.”

You look away, blinking against the sting behind your eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” he snaps, stepping closer. “You think I’m lying?”

“No,” you whisper. “I just—can’t hear it. I’m not built for this. For being someone’s everything.”

He exhales like your words gutted him. “You don’t have to be everything. Just be mine.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that easy.”

“It is. You just don’t let it be. You pull back every time I get close. You turn your head when I say I love you. Like it’s a bomb.”

You’re already crying, cheeks hot even in the cold of the stormy night. “Because it is. Because if you really love me, you’ll see everything. You’ll see how I shut down, how I fuck things up, how I never let anyone stay.”

“I do see it,” he says, suddenly soft again. “And I still want to stay.”

You don’t respond. You don’t even breathe.

“I hate that you think love is something you don’t deserve,” he murmurs, reaching for you like he always does — slow, open palms, no pressure. “I hate that you think pulling away protects you. Because it just breaks both of us.”

You step into him, finally. Just enough to let his warmth seep into your skin.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper against his shirt. “But I want to try. With you.”

He holds you like you’re made of glass, like loving you isn’t scary at all. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And maybe it’s not a fairytale. Maybe you’ll still run sometimes. Maybe he’ll still chase you. But tonight, in the middle of a storm, you let him love you. Even if it hurts.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[screamlet]

27 for cuddle prompts? 🥺😍

aaah this is for first cuddle (27). set immediately after s07e06 aka maddie and chimney's wedding/the hospital kiss (can't resist the link). about 1.8k.

---

Buck was trying not to look too much like a cartoon dog that had its tongue lolling out onto the hospital parking lot, but he was probably failing. Even as he leaned against the side of his Jeep, super super cool with his arms crossed over his chest while Tommy stripped out of his turnouts, he was—he wasn't cool, not even a little.

"And you're sure you don't mind that the back of your Jeep is going to smell like a wildfire for a while?" Tommy's in his LAFD t-shirt and pants, glaring down at himself with an annoyed huff. "Sorry that I look—"

"No, you—"

They'd stopped in a bathroom before they left the hospital to wash the dirt and ash off their faces, and they shared a quick kiss when they were clean again. Tommy looked beautiful when he showed up in the ER, beautiful as he tried to eat a piece of cake but was literally too tired to chew, beautiful when he scrubbed the grime off his face and ran his wet hands through his hair, beautiful in the parking lot with dust all over his t-shirt and slacks and sweat stains where his shirt was sticking, and these were all things that Buck wasn't stupid enough to say to the guy he'd been on 0.5 dates with (-1 pizza date, 1 coffee date, 0.5 making out in the ER at his sister's wedding before bailing).

"You look fine," Buck says, like a moron who doesn't want to learn how to suck dick at Tommy's knees, and a moron who didn't look up the website for Maddie and Chim's original venue and didn't linger on a wedding video called Bernardo and Jake's Magical Journey.

Tommy arches an eyebrow at him. His hair's still damp and starting to curl and Buck can lie all he wants, but he can't hide the way he's stopped breathing as he stares at Tommy, who's staring right back.

"Just fine?" Tommy asks, finding the strength to smirk but not eat a piece of wedding cake. Priorities? Maybe.

"Get in the car," Buck laughs, hoping his laugh sounds more normal than it did inside his head.

---

Tommy's showering downstairs and Buck is staring at his bed trying to see what it looks like to a gay guy. Is this a straight guy's bed? Not anymore, he says to himself. He's been on some journeys with his phone and laptop up here since he kissed Tommy, but that doesn't mean that he's like. In it.

He's changed the sheets. They smell sensitive skin fragrance-free fresh. He brought a couple of waters up here. The lube is in his nightstand, not hanging out somewhere under the pillows. Tommy's a cool guy and maybe he would fuck Buck's brains out the first time they were anything close to horizontal, but he's been working and too tired for cake so the lube can hang out in its usual home for now.

"Evan?"

Buck almost trips on his foot. He was standing still. "Yeah?"

"Sorry if this is too forward, but can I borrow a pair of shorts or something? I don't know which is more forward: borrowing some clothes or just walking out of here naked."

"That's why I came up here, ha ha," Buck calls back. "Sorry, I was—I'm coming down now."

Buck grabs a sleeveless shirt and a pair of shorts, and a pair of pants in case Tommy runs cold, he doesn't know, then starts down the staircase. He's almost to the bottom when Tommy comes out, a towel wrapped around his hips and barely hanging on. "Holy shit," Buck says, then slips on the last two steps of his staircase and bounces down to the bottom.

"Jesus, are you—"

"Your towel," Buck stammers as it slips even lower.

Tommy gives him a look so wry and slick it makes Buck sweat even more. "Did you hit your head? How many towels do you see in front of you?"

Buck pouts at him from the bottom step. "You're making fun of me."

Tommy looks relieved for a beat before he switches easily into the coolest, hottest guy Buck has ever had in his apartment (sorry Bobby, wait who said that). "A little bit," Tommy admits. "Are you okay?"

He holds out a hand and helps Buck back onto his feet. Buck's not used to someone helping him up actually having the strength to help him up, so he lands a little clumsily on his feet and a little too close to Tommy. "Wow," Buck says. "How much do you bench?"

"Around 250. Is that a no to the concussion?"

"What? Yeah, I didn't hit my head or anything."

"Okay. Good." Their eyes are locked on each other until Tommy looks down and then at Buck again. "Are those for me?"

"Clothes, yeah, uh, I. Hope they fit?"

"Don't laugh if I look a little funny," Tommy says as he heads back into the bathroom. He stops so he can thoroughly look Buck up and down. "You're a lot of leg."

"Yep," Buck says. "I've got 'em."

Tommy shakes his head and laughs as he goes back into the bathroom. Buck takes several deep breaths, then says, "I'm gonna be upstairs, if you wanna come up. I've got water and, uh, I brought your phone up here. And I've got—"

Tommy's already out of the bathroom in Buck's clothes, his oversized shirt and his shorts that look a little long on Tommy. "Do I look okay?" He's fucking around with Buck so much and Buck can't fight back or do anything about it, he's so gone.

"Not bad," Buck says. "You wanna come up and see the rest of the wardrobe?"

"Very smooth, 10/10. Be careful on these steps. You really need runners or something on them. How long have you been here?"

"Uh, long enough that I definitely should have put runners down earlier," Buck admits. "One of those things you forget about until you fall on your ass in front of—"

They're upstairs, at Buck's bed, and. Yep. This is his bed.

"In front of your super hot wedding date who just… really wants to sleep for a while?" Tommy lets out a huge yawn, all of him stretching and flexing in the most distracting way. "Sorry I'm not a lot of fun right now. Firefighting, it'll do it."

"No, let's." Buck pulls the covers back and climbs in, changed into his own clean outfit, too. "It's been like, 36 hours straight of adrenaline looking for Chimney, our parents being here, trying to keep Jee-yun calm, encephalitis? I'm—I'm ready to crash, too."

Tommy doesn't kneel on the bed until Buck smiles at him and pats the mattress. "Did you really need an invitation?"

"No, no, of course not."

"Do I need to say or do something else that's dumb so you're comfortable in here?"

Tommy laughs, surprised. "No, it's just." He climbs in, then, and lies on his side. Buck does, too, then takes some comforter and throws it over him. Tommy should enjoy this; Buck hogs the covers so it's probably the last time he'll let him have any. "You'd never been on a date with a guy before. Does that mean you'd never been… with a guy before?"

Buck hopes it's not too obvious when he swallows the giant lump in his throat. "Not my first cuddle with a guy, if that's what you're asking."

Tommy laughs so brightly at that, the crinkles at the edges of his eyes taking Buck out. "That's exactly what I was asking because every other part of me? Way too tired."

"So cuddle me," Buck says, feeling so brave and terrified because what if he cuddles wrong? What if he cuddles like a straight guy? Oh, he probably does. Tommy reaches out a hand and rests it on Buck's waist, which is enough for Buck to edge closer and blurt out, "I'm sorry if I cuddle like a straight guy."

Tommy looks surprised. "Is that a thing? I wouldn't know."

"Really? I know you weren't out while you were at the 118 but like, didn't you have friends—"

"No, my model came fueled with repression, not an ounce of heterosexuality in the tank." Tommy half-smiles at his joke, then moves his hand from Buck's waist to his arm. "This okay?"

"So okay," Buck says, edging closer. "I don't know what cuddling like a straight guy is, either, but I don't know if it's different with—with other guys."

"Well," Tommy says. "Turns out you're not so straight anymore. So maybe it's whatever you want it to be."

Buck nods. "What do you want it to be?"

"Hmm, right now?"

He carefully, so carefully, wraps an arm around Buck's chest and rests his head on Buck's shoulder. Buck lets him lie there for a beat, then turns a little, too, trying to fit his body to Tommy's. It's—it's not that it's different from women, but. But Tommy's different.

As Buck shifts, he sees that Tommy has his eyes closed, but he's grinning so wide. "I'm not gonna bite. Maybe later, if that's your thing."

Buck laughs and feels a little better settling against Tommy. He's so solid and so—wow, he really could bench Buck without breaking a sweat. He really could hold him like this in bed, smelling like Buck's hair product and body wash and detergent.

He reaches tentatively and finds Tommy's hand, links them together under the sheets. Tommy grins again and his eyelashes flutter, a little slow like he's falling asleep already. "God, you're cute."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tommy says. "And not straight, unless you want to be."

"Um. Nah. I'm good."

He's cute, Buck thinks. He is cute. He's been called cute before, but—this—he's cute. A guy thinks he's cute.

"You keep smiling like that, it's never gonna be dark enough to sleep."

"Oh, shit, I can get the blackout curtains if—"

Suddenly Tommy kisses him, more like the kitchen than the ER, now that Buck has all of two kisses with a man (this man) to compare. He's on his back and then Tommy's pressed against his side, an arm around his waist and a leg slung over one of his own. "Just push me away if this is—you know, if it's too much," Tommy says.

"It won't be," Buck says, his voice thick. He finds a place for his hand, his arm, his leg, his head practically off his pillow and on Tommy's. "This is good."

Tommy's already drifting off; Buck doesn't mind saying it again, here between them, under his breath to himself: "This is good."

[mofuguru]

sweet enough ╱ toji . 18+

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 toji has always been the gruff, broad-shouldered single dad next door. You were never supposed to get involved. But when he shows up at your door late at night asking for sugar, you both know that’s not what he really came for. 〞

pairing: toji x fem!reader

genre: smut, neighbour!au ; wc: 1.9k

warnings: unprotected sex, dirty talk, dilf!toji, mild size kink, light roughness, breeding talk, toji in grey sweatpants (a warning itself)

You hear the knock at exactly 10:07 PM. Three slow taps. The same way he always knocks.

You open the door, already knowing who it is.

Toji stands there, shirtless—just grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, a faint line of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he says. “But… you got sugar?”

You arch a brow. “Sugar.”

“Megumi wanted pancakes tomorrow.” His voice is gravel and sleep. “I was halfway into bed and remembered I used the last of it.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping aside. “Come in.”

You expect him to wait at the door. He doesn’t. He walks in like he always does—big, broad, filling the room with his presence like gravity. The smell of sandalwood and something smokier follows him, something warm. Familiar.

You grab the sugar from your pantry. “Here.”

He takes it from your hands but doesn’t leave. He sets the bag on your counter instead and leans back, palms braced on the edge, flexing those thick arms just a little too easily.

“What’s the real reason you came over?” you ask quietly.

His mouth twitches into a smirk. “Knew you were smart.”

You wait. You don’t trust your voice if you speak too soon.

Toji’s eyes flick over your figure, lazy and deliberate. “Megumi’s asleep. House is quiet. I just… I get restless sometimes.” His voice drops. “And I kept thinkin’ about you.”

You swallow.

He steps closer. Just one step, but it’s enough.

“You keep answering the door lookin’ like that,” he murmurs, eyes on the loose sleep shirt clinging to your curves, “and I’m gonna start thinking you want something.”

“Maybe I do,” you say, breath hitching.

He’s on you before you finish the sentence.

Mouth crashing down on yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up the back of your neck. His kiss is all heat—messy, deep, and desperate. He tastes like peppermint and something darker. Hunger.

You clutch at his back, nails digging into skin. He groans, low in his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes, lips dragging along your jaw. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

He walks you backward, lifting you up onto the counter. You gasp as the cold marble hits your thighs.

“I won’t be gentle,” he warns, eyes dark. “You okay with that?”

“God, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hand is under your shorts in seconds, fingers slipping past your underwear, finding you soaked. “This all for me?” he growls, voice gone rough.

“Yes—fuck—”

He sinks two fingers inside, curling deep, thumb rubbing circles over your clit with practiced precision. You fall forward, forehead against his shoulder, moaning into his skin.

He pulls his fingers out, licking them slow. “You taste good. Wanna feel you ‘round my cock.”

He tugs your shorts down and turns you on the counter, bending you over. Your cheek hits the cool marble as he slides his sweatpants low, cock already thick and hard, tip leaking.

“No time for condoms,” he mutters, lining himself up. “Been clean. You?”

“Yes. I’m on the pill—”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He pushes in with one deep thrust, groaning as your walls stretch around him. You cry out—he’s big, the stretch delicious and brutal at once.

“Shit,” he pants. “Tight little pussy. Gonna ruin you.”

He fucks into you slow, then hard—deep, punishing thrusts that make your legs tremble. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter. He grabs your hips, yanking you back to meet every thrust.

“So pretty like this,” he grunts. “Bent over, takin’ it all for me. This what you wanted, huh? Every time you smiled at me over the fence, dressed like that?”

You whimper.

He slides a hand under you, fingers back on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shatter around him, body trembling, crying out his name. Your orgasm drags him over the edge—he curses, grip bruising your hips as he pumps into you one last time, spilling deep inside.

You both stay there, catching your breath, skin slick with sweat.

After a minute, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, dazed and wrecked.

He pulls out gently, tucks himself back into his sweats, and smirks. “Might need to ‘borrow’ more sugar next week.”

You roll your eyes, breathless. “Pancakes again?”

He grins. “Nah. You.”

© 2025. mofuguru ─── all rights reserved. do not repost or translate.

[girlfromflor]

SUMMER TIME w/ Kyle Garrick

The sound of the waves crashing at the sand is like a siren's melody calling you to the sea.

The heat would be unbearable if it wasn’t fom the welcoming, thrilling relief that you’re at the beach, with Kyle. Your sweet Kyle who took a special time off to spend the remaining days of sunny days and blue skies with you.

There was not a single cloud at the sky, the usual Brazilian setting from when you decided to go to the beaches at the south, around your city. Kyle loved them, you could see by the way he'd happily prepare your sandwiches and excitedly talk with you all the way to your got to spot – a 5 minute walk and you had to take your flip flops off, otherwise they'd get stuck in the sand, but he never complained.

You usually loved the cold weather, rainy and cloudy days were your favorite, so it was a big surprise when your London-born boyfriend shared he liked summer in Brazil to enjoy the soul consuming heat, that would probably be the closest you'd ever get to hell if it weren't for your very convenient location.

You've lived around the beach all your life, literally growing up in an island in a tropical country. Kyle loved to share that with you, just like he loved to take you to London and see how much you liked to look over the window whenever it rained.

You already missed summer even though it wasn't over yet. Kyle did so too and that's why you found yourselves at the beach once again, the two of you already coated in sunblock and with your designated hats on.

You couldn’t help but bury your feet at the sand, enjoying it's texture against your skin. You contemplated bringing a umbrella and beach chairs but it'd be too much work, so you opted for laying in a beach barong and wear lots of sunblock to prevent any damage.

Kyle rolled over to his stomach, head turning to see the guy who was passing by selling something – maybe food, maybe accessories, he didn't pay attention. His eyes trailed over you very uncovered body with love almost over spilling from them.

"I'm so glad you felt like showing skin today..."

You giggle, already seeing where this is going. "Uhm... Do tell me, my love, why's that?"

He smiles, enjoying you uplifted humor. "'Cause you're the prettiest person ever." Before you can comment on anything about your body – size of this, weight of that, color of whatever – he is adding: "Fuck society's standards, you know you are the prettiest."

"Well that's... You know what? Damn right, I am. And you're standing as the prettiest right beside me. Prettiest couple ever."

He laughs hard, urging you to laugh with him. The way you spoke so easily about makes him feel like he did something right and he's happy he gets to be that person for you.

Kyle leans in slightly to steal a kiss from you and you let him, lips brushing slightly every time he moves back just to peck you once again. He tastes like seawater and the sugarcane juice you two shared a while ago, the sweetness of it luring you in further with each kiss.

Kyle makes a dramatic motion back. "Okay! I think that's enough." He laughs as he gets up, taking your hand on his to urge you up as well. You're still smiling when your ankles enter the water, the small waves getting bigger as you start to dive deeper.

"Let's swin a bit, amor..."

[evnseokz]

pairing: boxer! sunghoon x shy f. reader

blood mention ⋆ p in v ⋆ riding ⋆ begging ⋆ praise ⋆ corruption kink

a.n: here i go changing my post aesthetics again sighhh ⋆ 1k words

he shows up at your apartment just past midnight. hoodie damp with sweat, lip split, knuckles scraped raw. there’s blood on his jaw, and you don’t know if it’s his or someone else’s — you don’t ask.

you just let him in.

he doesn’t say much as you guide him to the bathroom, shedding layers as he walks — hoodie, shirt, hand wraps peeled off slow. he looks wrecked. chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, bruises blooming purple down his side. his mouth is swollen, bleeding a little at the corner.

you kneel between his legs on the cold tile floor, bowl of warm water beside you, and begin to clean him up. soft cotton to the corner of his lip. fingertips gentle under his chin.

“you’re too sweet for this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

you blink up at him. “what?”

his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “you always take such good care of me.”

you try to answer, but his hand slides into your hair and you freeze.

he’s still looking at you — soft but steady, like he’s making a decision he’s already committed to. “hurts less than wanting you does.”

your breath catches.

“sunghoon…”

“been thinking about you all night,” he says, voice low. “in the ring, between rounds. thinking about how good you’d look on top of me.”

you don’t mean to whimper, but you do — quiet and caught off guard. his grip in your hair tightens just slightly.

“you like hearing that?” he asks. “tell me.”

“i do,” you whisper, cheeks hot. “i like it.”

his jaw clenches. “fuck.”

he leans down to kiss you, and it’s messy and slow and claiming. he tastes like blood and sweat and need. you sigh into it, hands curling in his lap as he deepens the kiss.

“can i touch you?” he asks against your mouth. “or is this too much?”

“please,” you say instantly. “i want you to.”

his eyes soften, just for a second. “then get on my lap, baby.”

you straddle him carefully, knees on either side of his thighs, hands braced on his shoulders. his hands are warm when they slide up the back of your shirt, palms splayed flat.

“take this off for me,” he says gently, tugging at the hem. “wanna see you.”

you nod, skin prickling as you lift your shirt and drop it behind you. you feel exposed — bare from the waist up, straddling his bruised frame — but the way he looks at you melts the nerves.

“so fucking pretty,” he breathes. “you always this shy?”

“just… with you.”

his gaze darkens. “good. don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.”

his hands drift down your sides, thumbs teasing the waistband of your shorts. “can i?”

you nod again, lips parting, and he smiles — soft, proud. “use your words, sweetheart.”

“yes,” you whisper. “please.”

he pulls your shorts and underwear down slow, letting you step out of them completely. he shifts his own sweats down just enough to free his cock — hard, flushed, leaking already.

you stare, breath hitching. he catches the look in your eye and strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“you ever done this before?” he asks gently.

you nod, a little shy. “not like this.”

“you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he says, voice lower now, more serious. “just tell me.”

“i want it,” you say quickly. “i want you.”

his breath shudders out. “okay, baby. come here.”

he guides you with both hands, helps you sink down onto him slowly — inch by aching inch — until he’s buried inside you and you’re both gasping.

“fuck,” he groans. “so tight. you feel so good.”

your nails dig into his shoulders. “it’s so big—”

“i know,” he soothes. “you’re taking me so well. just breathe. you’re doing perfect.”

you nod, trying to relax around the stretch, your body adjusting slowly. sunghoon’s hands never leave your waist, thumbs rubbing little circles into your skin.

after a moment, he lifts your hips gently and brings you back down. slow, careful. again. and again.

you gasp, thighs trembling, pleasure blooming sharp and slow in your belly.

“you like that?” he asks, voice breathy.

“mmh—yes,” you whimper. “feels so good—”

he starts guiding your pace — helping you move, bounce, roll your hips just right.

“that’s it,” he praises. “you ride me so well, baby. look so pretty fucking yourself on my cock.”

your head falls forward onto his shoulder. he wraps his arms around your waist, starts thrusting up into you now — slow but deep, controlled.

“feels so good, can’t—can’t think—” you gasp.

“don’t need to think,” he murmurs into your neck. “just feel. let me take care of you.”

you cling to him, body shaking as the pressure builds. he’s relentless now — dragging you down with every thrust, cock hitting deep, perfectly, over and over again.

“gonna come for me?” he breathes. “want you to make a mess all over me, pretty girl.”

you nod, eyes shut tight. “yes, yes—sunghoon, please—!”

you come with a cry, body jerking, clenching hard around him. he holds you through it, whispering praise, fucking you through every wave of it until he’s groaning against your neck and spilling inside you, hips stuttering, cock twitching deep.

for a moment, you just breathe — tangled together, hearts racing, bodies trembling.

then he lifts your chin, kisses you slow.

“you okay?” he murmurs. “was i too rough?”

you shake your head, smiling sleepily. “felt good. you were perfect.”

he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then your lips again.

“next time,” he whispers, “i’ll take my time.”

you laugh softly. “that wasn’t you taking your time?”

he grins, bruised and beautiful.

“baby,” he says, voice low, “that was me holding back.”

. . .

˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[rafesteddy]

Ｂｉｒｔｈｄａｙ Ｂｌｕｒｂｓ

Ｎｕｍｂｅｒ 𝟸

𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓯𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓬𝓵𝓾𝓫!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

+18 -> “𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐... 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝.”

c/w: reader is possessive over rafe, physical violence (reader fights), caregiver dynamic (rafe), verbal insults, name calling, blood mentioned briefly, pet names, oral sex (female receiving) + fingering

2K

ᯓ★

𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓽 𝓻𝓸𝔀 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓴 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽𝔂…

You’re tucked right up against Rafe, his arms wrapped tight around your waist from behind, his lips brushing your neck every few seconds. You’re laughing, head tipped back against his shoulder, swaying your hips to the music as you sing along, your body grinding into his.

But you can’t ignore her. Amber. Standing way too close, glued to Topper’s side but shooting those lingering glances at Rafe when she thinks you’re not looking.

Her voice cuts in every few minutes—snide, pointed, dripping with that syrupy fake sweetness that makes your skin crawl. She’s been nasty to everyone all night, but with you, it feels personal. And you hate it; hate the way she leans into conversation like she still belongs next to him.

You hate that she and Rafe have history—that she’s kissed him, touched him, knows him in ways only you wanted to know him.

Rafe’s focused on you—his mouth on your skin; hands on your hips. He doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see the way Amber’s been practically throwing herself at him, right there in front of you, or so it seems.

Her laugh rises above the music. She tosses her hair, low top clinging to her body as she rolls her hips on Topper’s lap, waiting for Rafe to look, and you hate her for it. Point blank.

Rafe leans down, voice warm and low at your ear. “She’s nothing,” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “Nothin’ to worry about, baby. Let her embarrass her, alright? Desperate as hell.”

You tip your cup back and finish the last of your drink in one swallow, biting back a tight little huff.

Rafe chuckles, kissing you again, dragging his lips along your neck as he murmurs, “M’gonna grab us drinks, alright? Save my spot—” He flashes a look down at you, smirking—“And try not to kick her ass, aight?”

You give him a dry smile, rolling your eyes, feeling her gaze burning into the side of your face before he’s even two steps away.

When Topper wanders off to grab another drink, Amber seizes her moment. “God,” she snaps suddenly, loud enough to slice through the music. “You’re exhausting to watch.”

You slowly turn your head toward her, pulse quickening but your smile stays razor-sharp.

You lean in close, letting your voice drop just for her.

“I’m sorry. What now?” You say, tone sugar-sweet, “I’m exhausting? I’m tryin’ to enjoy my night with my boyfriend. The only one that’s exhausting, Amber, is you. Fucking cunt.”

Her eyes flash with surprise, then anger. She lets out a cold little laugh and tilts her head, giving you a once-over, dripping disdain.

“Finally found a backbone, huh?” she sneers. “Guess you really are Rafe’s type after all.”

You stiffen not because you need her approval, but because it was even a question in the first place. She leans in further, her voice like poison.

“You think this is a backbone?” You murmur. “This is restraint, bitch.”

Amber’s smile falters just a little but she recovers fast. “Sure it is,” she drawls. “You know, you’re not the first one he’s paraded around like this. He gets bored easy, you know that, right?”

You breathe in through your nose, steadying yourself but your pulse is racing; nails digging crescents into the palm of your hand enough to pinch.

Amber smirks, leaning in so close her cheap perfume clogs your nose. “How long do you think before he starts texting me again?” She whispers. “He’s thought about me plenty. Maybe not lately, I’ll give it to you, you’ve got the man distracted for a moment but trust me, babe… he remembers.”

“You wanna know what he remembers? How insufferable you were. How he couldn’t even fake it anymore.” You let your smile widen. “That’s why he left you. That’s why he’s here, wrapped around me.”

“Looking at me,” she corrects you and you swing—fast and clean—your fist connecting square with her cheekbone. Its crack cuts through the bass before the crowd begins to erupt, liquor sloshing as faces turn towards the mayhem. Amber flinches, cupping her face in horror, her features distorting with fury and shame.

And she’s wrong, you’re exactly Rafe’s type: strong, sharp, dangerous when fucked with.

You lunge again, fist twisting in her hair as you drag her sideways, swinging another punch. You don’t stop—“Baby? Hey—Hey. What the fuck?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and loud.

His eyes go wide as he sees you on top of Amber, hair wild, teeth bared, knuckles flying. And Amber? Helpless and flailing.

It takes half a second for him to react—fast and instinctual—hooking his strong arms under your own, lifting you clean off her, wrapping you up tight against his chest as you kick and twist.

You get one last wild shot in, a solid kick straight into Amber’s gut as he hauls you backward, sending her falling back into Topper as the crowd roars.

Rafe’s breath is hot at your ear, his laugh choked with adrenaline as he tries to steady you. “What’s gotten into you, baby?” He murmurs, half-concerned, half-impressed, by the sight of you like this. “Fuck, princess.”

Rafe’s body tightens around you, locking you to his chest as you struggle, your pulse racing against his.

His heart pounds just as fast as yours, and under all that worry; all that chaos, there’s no mistaking the way his lips curl. The way he looks down at you like you’re his dream girl come to life. He doesn’t even think about setting you down. He doesn’t want to.

He shifts his grip, arms locking under your thighs as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, arms draping loosely around his neck.

His breath is warm and quick at your temple, the adrenaline still burning off him as he carries you through the crowd.

He steps through the front doors of the frat house, eyes squinting through the darkness, eyes darting over your face, expression tightening when he sees the aftermath. Blood rolls slowly down your cheek from a sharp little gash and his brows draw together, worry knitting deep.

“She got you,” he murmurs under his breath, voice worn with concern.

Your eye’s already swelling, tight and hot, turning dark as he heads up the stairs—doesn’t even slow down when the catcalls and whistles echo behind him. His steps are quick but careful, jaw locked, one hand held up, ready just in case.

The bathroom’s quiet when you get there, door clicking shut behind him. He sets you on the counter without saying a word.

You stay still, legs swinging a little, heart still racing. He steps back just a bit, like he needs space to really take you in. The scene hits him. The familiarity of it all. Except usually it’s him sitting there—bloody, bruised, and aching while you dig around for the first aid kit; you pouring alcohol over his cuts; you fussing and wiping him clean.

He moves over to the medicine cabinet—the same one he’s watched you open a bunch of times after late-night fights—and swings it open, grabbing a bottle of tequila off the top shelf, then pulling out the old first aid kit stuffed behind it.

He tries not to smile, but that’s a fight he won’t win. Even like this, scratched and swelling, messy and fierce you look so sweet. So utterly his.

You reach to your side, fingers trembling as you grab a clean rag, running it under the faucet, warm water running between your fingers, pressing it gently to your cheek but your hands won’t steady.

“Your hands are shaking,” he murmurs, stepping in close again. “Here… Let me do it.”

You drop the rag without argument, leaning slightly into his touch as he takes it from you and starts tending to the cut himself. Rafe’s fingers are rough but careful, and every time he dabs at the blood or places a bandaid just so, he presses a kiss to your lips.

Your heart melts as much as it pounds. A quiet little laugh slips out and you mumble, soft and warm, “I look like you right now.”

He laughs too, that sound sending your stomach flipping and your heart racing. His eyes gleam up as he pulls his hat off, runs a hand through his messy hair, then fits it onto your head backwards. His fingers come up, framing your face, tilting your chin up to him.

“Now you do,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk before he kisses you again but this time, the kiss deepens instantly.

His body moves between your thighs; hips pressing flush against the counter as his mouth claims yours.

You smile against his lips because you can feel it. He loves this… Loves that you didn’t back down. That you fought for him without hesitation. That you made a scene—his girl throwing punches because you couldn’t stand the idea of anyone threatening what’s yours. Just like he would.

You feel his fingers curl at the back of your neck, leaning in even closer. His kiss turning rougher by the second, deepening so fast it steals your breath. Rafe’s mouth moves hot and rough against yours; tongue sweeping past your lips as his grip tightens on your waist.

Then he’s moving you—strong hands sliding under your thighs, pulling you to the very edge of the cool counter, tilting you back just enough so your spine bows; knees falling open around him.

Rafe’s hand moves up your thigh, slow, pushing your skirt higher ‘til it’s all bunched around your hips. His breath catches when he sees how wet you already are, panties stuck to your skin.

His knuckles scrape as he drags them down your legs, sliding your panties off, just letting ‘em fall.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice all rough and blown out, eyes dark. “You’re… god, you’re so fuckin’ perfect. Perfect for me.”

His words send heat rushing through you, make your skin flush hot as he sinks to his knees right there on the bathroom floor.

His big fingers glide between your folds, sliding through your slick, groaning under his breath like he can’t take it.

Rafe’s fingers circle your clit teasing, smiling as your body reacts; hips tilting, craving more then he pushes two inside you—deep and slow—filling you perfectly. His other hand braces your hip, holding you tight.

You gasp and he leans in even closer, resting his cheek briefly against your thigh as he works his fingers in your soaked pussy; scissoring and curling, digits glistening and wet with arousal.

“You want my mouth too, don’t you?” He rasps, looking up at you, his grin wicked, his eyes soft and hungry all at once. “Bet you do… Bet you’re desperate for it.” He chuckles darkly, breath hot against your inner thigh. “I am.”

The first slow, wet drag of his tongue on your clit has your head falling back, fingers diving into his hair, pulling tight as a broken gasp slips from your mouth.

He groans like he’s starving, devouring you with a messy kind of worship, reserved for you. You whimper at the greedy strokes of his tongue, punctuated by the relentless pump of his thick fingers as he moves them just right.

Rafe’s stance shifts, adding more pressure, more depth; another finger. Your thighs shake as he hauls you right to the edge.

Your cries start to break and he groans ginto you, holding you tighter, pulling you deeper onto his mouth.

The bathroom is filled with it now: the echo of your breathless moans, the wet sounds of his mouth on you, the quiet, sinful rasp of his voice when he mutters, “That’s it, baby… Give it to me… Let me have it…”

Your climax crashes over you; body trembling, fingers knotted in his hair, back arching right off the counter as your cry splits the air and shatters.

Rafe doesn’t stop. He stays with you through it, mouth and fingers working ‘til your hips start to shake and your thighs try to close in around his head. Then he pulls back, letting out a low, smug little laugh.

He lifts his hand, sucking his digits clean, eyes locked on you. Rafe leans in, tilts your chin up, making you look at him.

“Fucking mine, always will be.” He rests his forehead against yours, breathing with you as his smile spreads with yours. “I love you, baby.”

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @cherrywriterrr | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1

[vel-vet61]

Remmick would be WAITING for one of your sex toys to break. Uses his thought projection to tell you that you need him because he won’t eventually break like one of those toys. Can see him being lustful enough to risk a little burn to scavenge it out of your trash on garbage day, some time before the sun starts setting. He is licking and smelling that thing and jacking himself to the taste and scent of you.

yes yes a thousand times yes🤍🤍🤍 + sequel for my previous ‘pretend its me’

explicit 18+, dirty talk, peeping tom, double penetration, fantasies, oral, masturbation, filth, everything smutty above

————————|||————————————

you’ve really given remmick something to look forward to. something to idealize and a goal to chase after. someone that isn’t just the next blood bag to rip open and then throw away

remmick still aches inside while he’s pleading to you and the stars above him like it’s some deep holy prayer all the while still very deliberately messing with you in your head

the pervy little fuck that he is takes full advantage of your pliant mind to mold you. ingrain some of his favorite scenarios into you that he has while he gets so goddamn worked up from outside spying. pathetically drools as he’s posted up in that same tree outside your bedroom window. his go to excuse was that it’s not like he had anything else to do with his time. this ultimately became his new favorite sickly way of spending it

visions of having you pinned down often scrambled any thinking thoughts you had left after a long day. remmick would have you envisioning how he’d position you, how he’d fuck with you using those impressive sized toys to his advantage

thinks of getting you spread open wide and salivating for it as he’s smiling mischievously right above you. he’d keep his jaw hung open to let a nice drag of spit dribble down until it spreads over you. smoothing you up to take what you were gonna take

thinks if he had the chance he’d line up one of your rubber toys right above his cock like it’s another fat strap on before slowly stretching you out with both at the same time. spears them inside at the same time

feeling your hole clench and try to accommodate the thick girth of both dicks. he’s as whiny as you are, gushing over how beautiful you look getting stretched impossibly. filled to the very brim. his fingers take great care keeping that toy and his cock squished together close, moving real nice and slow for you at first

he’d takes extra time drawing out the made up scene of splitting your pussy open on two bulging cocks at once, making you compare out loud to him which one is better

one moves real nice and warm inside you, don’t it?

remmick knows what his hips could do to tease you, go gently side to side before slamming all he has in

he’d shake his head in utter disdain at how that rubber toy on top of his cock ruined all the slippery, heavenly friction that helped guide him between your legs

this other one just feels so stiff and so cold… you don’t need no lube to get on mine, I promise. s’this feel good, having two cocks in at once?

imagines giving you some well deserved sweltering ecstasy, making sure he’s pounding his hips good the way you’ve evidently craved day in and day out for so long. now without having to do any of the work, leaving all of it up to him instead. and nothing else would make him happier

other visions got lodged in with the rest, soon turning into ones strictly without a toy in sight. nothing to wash or plug in and recharge. just remmick. all the parts of him. remmick’s tongue, remmick’s cock, his lips and his hands. he makes the obsession all consuming

shows you other ones drowning through his thoughts like him on his knees and lapping at your pussy like you’re his only water supply. drinking and kissing up your slick mess

visions like spending way too long with his favorite foreplay. taking his cock and slapping that fat round head directly down on the throbbing hood of your clit. watches how those harsh blunt beatings on your pussy had you writhing and squirming like he was burning you so good

when the jealousy over your own rubber collection started becoming proper torture for him the whispering in your head got a little louder. louder but still delicate in your ear, straight in your subconscious that yeah those toys may be all fun and games when you’re riled up by yourself, alone, but do they ever truly beat the feel of the real thing? and honey, d’you really believe you been all alone this whole time?

he licks off some loose saliva hanging off his lips. fangs releasing as his cherry colored eyes dilated twice the size. like he can’t handle how hard his own daydreams made him. how it was so fun to force feed you all of them right out of the palm of his hand

we both know those things ain’t gonna last you long pretty girl. even that new one y’got that you been riding like a cowgirl every night. thing’ll wear down fast f’you keep gettin’ as needy as you do

sure as shit didn’t think a proper lady like you could take all that dick in so goddamn fast… m-must be real fucking wet. I love it. you’re always dripping down them legs, getting it on them sheets

he wants, he begs that someday somehow you’ll throw away those bedsheets too. soaked and unwashed just for him. manifests it

his eyes hone in on you, smiling teeth fully out on display in the dark. his greedy dick starving for more. starving for warmth.

bet you’ll be beggin’ to feel the real thing soon. and it’ll feel good for you ‘cause I got a real one right here, he tugs on the giant tent poking through his trousers with a tight fist. he sees how immediate you are, stroking your clit with the tip of a finger at the probing imagery of his cock. does thinking ‘bout the real thing too much make you wet, babygirl?

some could call it luck but remmick knows fate when he sees it and fate was what it was. truly your timing couldn’t have been better

it looked so precious - watching how short fused and pissed off you became when one of those batteries gave out and died on you about halfway through a quickie really early in the morning. hears your ramblings to yourself about hating having to deal with batteries and has a smug laugh to himself

and it’s stupid early in the morning. like. remmick shouldn’t have even still been out. his skin slowly started to crawl and bubble and burn like it was pressed up against a skillet under the warmth of impending daylight

but you were up and at em, so he wasn’t interested in anything else. nothing compared to watching how you ground those hips down on that loud, buzzing, battery-powered one that intrigued him enough to obviously keep feasting his eyes. before you could cum for him one last time it dies on you, freezing your high mid-moan and it seems like you’d had enough

of course he’s still staring with hyper vigilance and baited breath as you’re marching out your front door with a loose bag of trash in hand, slamming it in the can carelessly before stomping right back in. watches as you head back to your room. sees your heavy head fall to the pillow. body language screaming that you were irritated with defeat

remmick goes back and forth between watching you and eyeing the trash you left out front. might’ve been fucking foolish but it would be absolutely fucking worth it. he smells that used up toy that you’d rid yourself of and shoved inside the trash. and now the risk was a no-brainer

the opportunities it gave him felt delicious, felt endless. once his grubby creep hands snuck it from your garbage he’d been fucking his fist on it ever since. gets to thoroughly smell you and taste you now so distinctly up close for the first time was easily more than enough to have him busting untouched before his hand even gets started on the job for him

he gives that cute little toy some long feverish kitten licks so he’ll get to taste the ghost of you and your creamed up slick. digs his nose right into it, inhaling hard to reminisce on all the sticky memories you’ve had with that exact toy tucked right between your legs

mm. should get rid of a couple more of these for me. right after using them too. what a good girl. tastes too fucking ethereal, baby

remmick thinks it’s adorable seeing how you toss and turn in your sleep in the midst of all his mind games. knowing that he’s the root cause of this restlessness. knowing that he’s the one that’s had the underlying thread of control over whatever plays behind those eyelids. anything that goes on in your imagination. all without you ever knowing

your name leaves his lips in a hushed rasp. he knows you can hear it when your head lifts off the pillow in real time, barely conscious before he’s in your head again while spitting down his own cock yet again. teasing himself with some wet slow drags up and down

agonizing me. tempting me. got me out here touchin’ myself, gettin’ off on your sloppy seconds, a smirk appears while he holds onto the base of it, shoved in one of his pockets of his trousers

strokes two fingers down the length of that used toy with his unoccupied hand before taking a lick of those same fingers like your trash was his own dirty little trophy

fucking shit… gonna—g-gonna make me cum again. pussy’s already the death of me—

his full body shudder could’ve sent him tumbling down from the branch he barely still balanced on. with his eyes screwed shut and that hand still vigorously stroking, he doesn’t see it in time when you’re first waking up. half conscious and trying your hardest to drill the nonstop slideshows of getting fucked behind your eyes. you shake your head and try to pinch yourself before any more paranoia sets in

he’s still lost and blissfully unaware to see you trudging over as if you might as well have been sleepwalking. in an instant you’ve slammed your window shut, ripping both curtains until they’re fully closed. the sound makes him flinch, killing the high he was about to reach in an instant

reluctantly jolting him back to reality, he finally seems to remember where he is. tucks his painfully hard neglected dick back in his pants in a hurry before flying back down to the ground. eyes barely even once leaving what was now your covered up bedroom window

alright, alright sweetheart. privacy. I get it. f’it comes down to this then that’s just fine by me. don’t gotta shut me out like that. don’t be so shy. we’ll just get you to let me on in next time so I can fuck this new attitude you got right outta you

———————|||—————————————

might def have to do another part after having this one be alllll edging too :D

[dragoneyelashart]

Pls do g!p Billie as a pirate!! And reader sneaks onto her ship 🤭🤭

SHIPWRECKED

𖤓 SMUT.

𖤓 synopsis :: you sneak aboard an old "friends" ship, half-desperate and fully out of options, when billie finds you tucked away trying to hide she decides to finally put you in your place

𖤓 warnings :: g!p billie, degradation, praise kink, oral (billie receiving), tummy bulge, size kink, choking, p in v, unprotected sex, captain kink

au :: pirate!billie x pirate!reader

the docks are quieter than you remember.

it’s well past midnight, and the sea is breathing slow and heavy beneath a low-hanging moon, the kind that makes everything silver-edged and unreal. you move like smoke through the shadows, barefoot, hood pulled low, every instinct from your old life coming back like muscle memory. like a bad habit.

the tide’s higher than it should be. the salt stings your throat. your hands sting worse.

you spot the ship from the pier’s far end, sleek, dark, dangerous. she’s bigger now than she was two years ago. the sails are furled, black as pitch, and the figurehead gleams with the faint shape of a snarling wolf. her name's been painted over. of course it has.

you hesitate at the mooring line. the rope feels damp and coarse under your fingers. for a second, you think about walking away. about turning around and disappearing for good this time. but the truth is: you’ve already tried that. and you have nowhere else to go.

so you climb.

you haul yourself up the hull, find the seams in the wood like old friends, like lovers you used to know. the ship groans under your weight, but not loud enough to alert the crew. not yet. you duck under the rail and roll silently onto the deck, chest heaving. it smells like salt and smoke and something spiced, something heady and intoxicating. it smells like her.

your heart’s in your throat.

you move fast, avoiding lantern light. the ropes above sway gently with the wind, casting warped shadows across the planks. you edge toward the stairs to the lower deck, already picturing the old storeroom. you could stay hidden for a few days. long enough to come up with a plan. long enough to—

but her voice slices through the dark like a knife.

“well, well.”

your blood turns to ice.

you freeze, every part of you locking up at once. slowly, painfully, you lift your head.

she’s leaning against the mast like she owns the world, which she might, now. loose waves tied back, a half-buttoned linen shirt clinging to her skin, boots scuffed and sea-worn. there’s a sword at her hip. and that smile—

god, that smile.

“what do we have here?”

she stalks toward you, easy and slow, like a predator who knows there’s no point in rushing the kill. the deck creaks under her boots.

you don’t run. maybe you should. maybe you can’t.

she stops just in front of you, crouching down like she’s inspecting something small and amusing. something pathetic.

“a little stowaway,” she murmurs, voice low and cruel and far too familiar. her eyes drag over your face. “how fucking cute.”

the blade appears like magic, cold steel pressed to your throat.

her breath is warm against your cheek when she leans in.

“what the fuck are you doing on my ship, y/n?”

your heart is beating so hard you think it might split your ribs. your hands tremble, but your voice stays steady. barely.

“i had nowhere else to go.”

she laughs. not kindly. 

“so you thought you’d sneak onto mine?” another step closer. her knee brushes yours. “you’ve got some fucking nerve.”

you swallow, hard. “you used to like my nerve.”

her hand shoots out. grabs your jaw. forces you to meet her eyes.

billie.

skin warm and freckled, lip split from some recent fight. and her eyes, fuck, her eyes, dark and furious and hungry.

“that was before you disappeared,” she says, voice like gravel and smoke, tilting her head just enough for a curl to fall loose against her cheek. moonlight catches on the edge of her blade, glinting silver where it still kisses your throat. “before you left me high and dry in the middle of a goddamn storm.”

you flinch. not from the knife, but from the memory. her words hit harder than steel ever could.

your voice scrapes out rough. “i didn’t come here to start a fight.”

she hums, low and mocking, like you’ve just told her the best joke she’s heard in weeks. her eyes drag down your frame, slow and deliberate.

“no?” she murmurs, stepping in closer. “then why are you already shaking?”

you are. your legs, your hands, trembling like a wire stretched too tight. you’re not sure if it’s fear or want, or both, tangled together in your chest like salt-soaked rope.

and she notices.

her smirk sharpens, eyes dark with something feral. without breaking eye contact, she slides her thigh between your legs, firm and unforgiving, the worn leather of her pants catching just where you’re softest, neediest. 

 “still get wet when i’m mean to you, huh?”

you gasp, hips betraying you instantly, jerking, stupidly, into her. your breath stutters. her cock is already hard beneath her trousers, thick, heavy, pressing into your stomach when she shoves you back against ships walls.

her hand flies to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, grounding you there. 

“i should throw you overboard,” she growls, the words hot against your jaw, all teeth and venom and something that sounds far too much like longing.

she doesn’t move slow. the blade disappears, and her free hand drops to her belt, yanking it open with practiced ease, fingers working the buckle one-handed like she’s done it a thousand times before, like she doesn’t even need to think. her other hand never leaves you. it tightens instead, until there’s no space left to pretend you’re not exactly where you want to be.

“but you’ve always been better on your knees.”

you don’t fight it. don’t want to.

you missed this, missed her voice, her grip, the way she handles you like she owns you. she drags you by the waist to her cabin, slamming the door behind you. she reaches her desk sitting there man spread, her hands placed back on her head. 

you reach for her belt. undo it like muscle memory. she’s already hard, her cock heavy against her thigh when you pull her pants down, the tip flushed, dripping just slightly.

you don’t tease, you know she hated it when you did. 

you wrap your lips around her in one slow motion, taking her to the back of your throat like you missed it.

“fuck,” she hisses, head tipping back instantly. “that’s it. knew you were still my little whore.”

you hum around her, sucking harder.

she grabs a fistful of your hair roughly, keeping you there. keeping you obedient.

“look at you,” she pants, cock twitching in your mouth. “sneaking on board just to get my cock down your throat. missed it that bad, huh?”

you nod without pulling back, spit sliding down your chin.

she groans, deep and rough.

“shouldn’t reward you for showing up like this,” she mutters, breath ragged. “but your mouth’s too fucking good.”

you hollow your cheeks, working her deeper, her tip hitting the back of your throat as her hips twitch forward, her dick pushing further down your throat. 

“shit— that’s it,” she moans, jaw tight. “just like that. fuck. i’m gonna—”

she pulls back before she finishes. grabs your jaw. tilts your face up to hers, breathless, flushed, dick slick from your mouth.

“get on the fucking table.”

you obey without a word.

she turns you, bends you over her desk, covered in maps, and presses herself right up behind you.

“you ran from me once,” she growls, teasing her tip against your cunt, soaked and ready. “try it again, and i’ll make sure the whole crew knows what this pussy sounds like when it begs.”

you roll your eyes at her, causing you to receive a sharp slap to your ass, whining in response. 

“gonna fuck the attitude out of you,” she mutters, dragging your skirt down, pushing her dick between your thighs from behind. “let’s see if you still know how to beg.”

you whimper, hands flat against the table, legs spread.

“you remember how big i am, baby?” she taunts, rubbing the tip against your soaked slit. “or did your pretty head forget that too?”

“n-no— i remember—”

“good girl. then take it.”

she thrusts in hard, all at once, and your knees nearly buckle. she doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, just fucks into you like it’s punishment. like she’s been waiting to do this again.

“missed this pussy,” she groans, grabbing your hips. “tight little thing always took me so well.”

you moan, loud and desperate.

she leans in, lips brushing your neck.

“don’t you dare run, mama,” she growls. “try it again, and i’ll tie you to the bed and leave you there.”

you moan into the table, cheek pressed to the old, creased parchment, billie still buried in you, hips snapping hard, dick deep and so thick you feel it in your stomach, feeling each and every vein on her dick tracing and memorizing your pussy.

and still, you can’t help it. you turn your head, smirk, breathless:

“still fuck like you’ve got something to prove, billie.”

everything stops. her hands go still on your waist. her breath hitches.

and then, a laugh. dark. sharp.

“you’re real mouthy for someone with my cock inside you.”

you shift your hips back a little, grind against her. “maybe i wouldn’t be if you could actually fuck me good”

she yanks you upright by your hair, spine flush to her chest, her dick still deep inside you.

“oh, baby,” she whispers in your ear, voice too sweet. “you wanna be ruined.”

her hand slips down, presses flat over your lower stomach, right where her dick makes a bulge. she pushes hard.

“feel that?” she growls. “you’re so full of me i could carve my initials into your skin from the inside out.”

you gasp, legs shaking.

“keep acting up,” she whispers. “you think i won’t bend you over the rail and let the whole fucking crew watch you come on my cock like a whimpering little slut?”

you moan, loud, louder now, and she fucks into you even rougher, one hand at your throat, the other gripping your hip like she wants to bruise you with it.

"you love it,” she snarls. “mouthy little brat gets fucked stupid and begs for more. tell me i’m wrong.”

your vision blurs. thighs trembling, body bent forward again as she slams into you, cock punching moans out of you with every deep, punishing thrust.

"not so mouthy now, huh?" she pants, voice hot against your neck. "where’d all that attitude go, sweet girl?”

you can’t answer. can barely breathe. all you can do is grip the edge of the table and take it.

her thighs are soaked, from your slick, your cum, and she’s fucking you like she’s claiming you all over again.

"that’s what i thought,” she growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them behind your back. "i get one good thrust in you and suddenly you're my little toy again."

you whimper, broken.

she laughs, breathless, and leans in closer.

"tell me you missed it."

you try. it comes out as a sob. “i— i missed it— missed you—”

"mm," she hums, mock-sweet. "missed getting stretched out on my cock like this? missed being fucked dumb?"

"yes," you cry. “fuck— yes, captain—”

she groans, loud and low, and pulls out just long enough to slap the tip against your dripping folds.

"say that again."

you choke on a moan. “yes, captain.”

she slams back in deep, both hands gripping your hips now, forcing you to take every thick inch.

"gosh, look at what a mess you are,” she mutters, watching the way your body takes her, the bulge showing every time she pushes deep. 

"please," you gasp.

"oh, now you beg?" she snaps, laughing.

she pulls out again, slow,  and you whine, desperate, body clenching around nothing.

"you want more?" she asks, teasing the tip against your entrance, just barely pressing in.

you nod, frantic. “need it— please, billie—”

she smirks.

“good girl.” © dragoneyelashart

𖤓 taglist :: @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @chrissv4mp @peytonneilish @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx @thinkshespretty @cantlandonmyfeet @emi-inspace @marieilish1823 @rubyszjuno @belovedbil @hopingforgoodblogs @willowsshots @dousleepanymore @billiesbabygirll @hehehehannahthings @clairrehwart @malefantasy23 | link to be added to my taglist !

[dontrllycaretbh]

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Title: Mine to Know (pt.5.1)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings: explicit sapphic content (18+), dom!Azzi, sub!Paige, stalking, obsession, dubious consent, psychological manipulation, possessive behavior, mutual degradation / humiliation kink, invasive monitoring, voyeurism, emotional coercion, explicit sexual language, sexual tension with power imbalance, mild violence/threats, boundary violations, toxic dynamics, masturbation, dark romance themes

Summary: Azzi finally cracks. She tries to stay in control but loses it, fucking Paige brutally. Then Paige turns the tables, pinning Azzi down and breaking her completely—making her beg, come, and admit she’s lost all control.

Notes: imma post pt2 when i feel like it, thanks yall <3 and pls do interact, i love yall’s comments!! <3

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They pushed through the restaurant hallway in silence.

Azzi’s pulse roared in her ears. Paige’s hand was warm in hers, fingers tight like she was afraid Azzi might let go if she didn’t squeeze hard enough.

Emily was still at the table, oblivious, laughing at something on her phone.

Paige hesitated for half a second when she saw her.

Azzi felt it. Felt her pause.

Her grip tightened so hard Paige winced.

“Don’t even think about it,” Azzi growled low in her ear.

Paige swallowed. Her jaw worked, but she didn’t pull away.

Azzi pulled her along, past the table, not sparing Emily a single glance.

Paige kept her head down, hair falling in her face. But Azzi felt the shudder that ran through her when Emily finally looked up, confusion flashing across her face.

Azzi didn’t care.

Paige didn’t look back.

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They burst out into the cold night air, Azzi’s fingers digging so hard into Paige’s arm it would bruise.

Paige only laughed.

“God, you’re in a mood.”

Azzi yanked her around, slamming her back against the car.

Paige hit with an oof and a delighted grin.

“Someone’s jealous.”

Azzi’s teeth were bared. “You think this is funny?”

Paige licked her lips slowly. Deliberately.

“I think it’s hot.”

Azzi grabbed her throat. Paige didn’t flinch. She purred.

“You wore that E just to fuck with me.”

Paige’s smile was predatory.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Azzi squeezed harder. Paige’s eyes fluttered but didn’t shut.

“Careful,” Paige breathed. “You’ll make me come just from this.”

Azzi shoved her even harder. Paige let out a soft, broken sound and laughed breathlessly.

“God, you’re such a psycho.”

Paige’s voice was husky. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Azzi’s other hand was on her waist now, fingers digging in.

Paige pressed forward so their hips met.

“You want everyone in there to see you own me?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you just fuck me on the table?”

Azzi growled. “Shut your mouth.”

Paige smirked. “Make me.”

Azzi kissed her. Violent, biting. Paige kissed back with equal savagery.

When Azzi pulled back, breath ragged, Paige licked blood from her lip and winked.

“Mess me up. I fucking dare you.”

Azzi snapped. She spun Paige around, chest to the car, grinding her hips against Paige’s ass.

Paige moaned. Loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

“God, yes. Like that. Harder.”

Azzi snarled in her ear. “You’re so desperate for it you’d let me take you right here?”

Paige’s voice was wrecked with laughter.

“I’d love it. Make Emily see. Make the whole street see.”

Azzi’s hand slid between Paige’s thighs, tugging at the waistband of her pants.

Paige gasped and pushed back, shameless.

“Fuck, Azzi. Do it.”

Azzi yanked hard, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip, exposing the thin underwear beneath. Her fingers pressed against Paige through it, hungry and insistent.

Paige keened.

Azzi pulled her back by the hair so their mouths were next to each other.

“You’re mine,” Azzi hissed.

Paige’s eyes were molten.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Azzi bit her neck hard enough to leave marks.

Paige’s laugh was breathless.

“There it is.”

Azzi’s hand went to her mouth, fingers forcing her to hush.

“You’re going to get in the car now,” Azzi growled. “Or I’ll fuck you in the open.”

Paige’s eyes glinted.

“I’m good either way.”

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Azzi yanked the door open and shoved her inside.

Azzi’s hands strangled the wheel, knuckles white.

Paige was breathing hard, grinning wickedly, shifting in her seat, adjusting her ruined panties under ripped pants—still wet. She didn’t hide it.

Azzi’s jaw ticked.

“Stop.”

Paige just hummed. “Why? You like it.”

Azzi’s gaze flicked to her, sharp, hungry.

“Get up.”

“What?” Paige cocked an eyebrow.

“You heard me. Stand up.”

Paige snickered but obeyed, unfolding herself inside the cramped car. Her head brushed the roof. “Azzi, what the hell are you—”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just grabbed Paige’s hips and dragged her close. Her hands yanked Paige’s pants and panties down in one motion, baring her completely.

“Azzi—fuck,” Paige hissed, breath catching.

Azzi didn’t respond with words. Her hands gripped tighter, nails biting in, and then her tongue was flat against Paige’s cunt, licking a slow, deliberate stripe.

“God,” Paige gasped, fingers tangling in Azzi’s hair.

Azzi was infuriatingly slow, her tongue teasing, savoring, her grip iron on Paige’s hips to keep her from squirming away.

“Faster,” Paige ordered, her voice breaking.

Azzi’s eyes glinted as she obeyed, tongue moving faster, more purposefully, flicking and circling Paige’s clit with relentless precision.

Paige moaned shamelessly, her thighs trembling, the car filled with the slick, wet sounds of Azzi’s mouth on her.

“Fuck yes—Azzi—right there—”

Azzi groaned against her, the vibration making Paige cry out, hips bucking.

“Don’t stop,” Paige panted, “Please—don’t fucking stop—”

“Never,” Azzi growled between licks, her teeth scraping lightly against Paige’s swollen clit before sucking hard.

Paige’s body went rigid, a strangled moan ripping from her as her orgasm slammed into her. Her thighs clamped tight around Azzi’s head.

“God—Azzi—fuck—”

Azzi kept licking through it, refusing to let up until Paige was whimpering and jerking from overstimulation.

She finally pulled back just enough to look up at Paige, lips shiny, breathing hard.

“Taste yourself,” Azzi ordered, voice dark.

Paige didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Azzi’s chin, dragged her up, and kissed her hard, moaning into her mouth, tasting herself on Azzi’s tongue.

Azzi’s grip on her tightened, fingers digging in, the two of them gasping into each other’s mouths, sharing heat, aggression, and triumph in every breath.

“Holy fuck,” Paige whispered when they broke apart, eyes wide and hungry.

Azzi just smirked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before grabbing Paige’s ass and pulling her close again.

“Round two,” she rasped.

Paige leaned over, voice a husky whisper.

“Emily would die if she saw what you did to me.”

azzi smirked.

“I bet you’d like that,” she taunted. “Her crying while you make me scream your name.”

Azzi’s hand shot out, grabbing her thigh in a bruising grip.

Paige moaned, head falling back.

“Fucking slut,” Azzi spat.

Paige’s grin was savage.

“Your slut.”

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When they got to Azzi’s place, Paige didn’t hesitate. She was out of the car before Azzi even killed the engine, waiting with wild, eager eyes.

Azzi stalked over and Paige threw her arms around her neck, smashing their mouths together.

Azzi dragged her inside.

Paige laughed against her lips.

“Don’t even pretend you don’t love this,” Paige gasped. “You’re obsessed.”

Azzi slammed the door so hard it rattled in its frame, then pinned Paige with her full weight.

Paige grabbed Azzi’s wrist and guided it to her throat, eyes gleaming.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Show me.”

Azzi’s fingers locked around Paige’s neck, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. She smashed their mouths together, biting Paige’s lip until it split, then forced her mouth open. Their tongues slid together, wet and sloppy. Azzi pulled back just enough to spit deliberately onto Paige’s tongue before kissing her again, letting it smear messily between them.

Paige let out a muffled, filthy moan, eyes rolling back.

Azzi broke the kiss, breathing hard. Paige sucked in air with a laugh that dripped challenge.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that to get rid of Emily’s ghost,” she taunted.

Azzi’s expression darkened. She growled low in her throat.

She slammed Paige harder against the wall, one hand tightening around her throat while the other grabbed a handful of her ass, fingers digging in so hard Paige yelped. Azzi ground her hips against Paige’s, making sure Paige could feel how turned on she was, rolling her pelvis deliberately, roughly, dragging a broken gasp from Paige’s mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” Azzi hissed against her ear.

Paige whimpered and rocked back against her, breath hitching at the contact.

Azzi kept grinding for a moment, savoring the friction, the way Paige’s legs trembled. Then she suddenly yanked Paige away from the wall by her hair.

Paige barely had time to squeal before Azzi dragged her down the hall. She threw Paige onto the bed so hard she bounced, hair a mess, laughing even as she scrambled to sit up.

“Finally,” Paige breathed, licking her bruised lips, eyes shining with anticipation.

Azzi was already climbing onto the bed after her, eyes locked on her prey.

“You’re going to forget her.”

Paige’s grin was animal.

“Make me.”

Azzi’s hand was on her mouth.

Paige licked her palm.

Azzi growled.

“Confess.”

Paige arched.

“Confess what?”

“Every time you thought of me while you were with her.”

Paige’s laugh was breathless.

“All of them? We’ll be here all night.”

Azzi slapped her thigh, hard.

Paige yelped and moaned.

“Fuck. Again.”

Azzi’s voice dropped to a dangerous purr.

“God, you’re mine. No shame. No fucking shame at all.”

Paige’s grin softened into something dark and intimate.

“Yours,” she agreed. “Always was. Always will be.”

Azzi paused.

Paige’s eyes glittered.

“Now ruin me.”

Azzi did.

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Azzi did ruin her.

Hands everywhere. Teeth on her neck. Fingers tearing at her clothes.

Paige didn’t resist. She arched into every touch. Moaning encouragement.

“Harder,” she gasped.

Azzi slapped her face lightly.

Paige’s laugh was hoarse.

“You hit like a bitch,” she taunted.

Azzi’s eyes went black.

She grabbed Paige’s jaw, squeezing until Paige winced, and kissed her so brutally their teeth clacked.

Paige loved it.

She bit Azzi’s lip so hard it bled.

Azzi pulled back just enough to see the blood, then licked it from Paige’s mouth.

Paige moaned.

“God you’re sick,” Azzi panted.

Paige smirked. “You’re sicker.”

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Azzi pushed her onto her back and stripped her the rest of the way except her panties.

Paige didn’t cover herself. She sprawled out, shameless, spreading her legs.

Azzi’s gaze raked over her.

Paige’s grin was filthy.

“Like what you see?”

Azzi’s voice was a growl.

“I see hers.”

She grabbed Paige’s wrist and twisted it, forcing her to look at the stupid little E she’d inked on herself.

Paige actually laughed.

“Oh, that?”

Azzi’s rage was molten.

“You think this is funny?”

Paige’s eyes glittered.

“I put it there so you’d do this,” she whispered.

Azzi was breathing hard.

“You’re going to take it off.”

Paige’s voice dropped to a husky purr.

“Make me.”

Azzi shoved her off the bed.

Paige hit the floor with a laugh and a hiss of pain, rolling onto her back.

Azzi yanked open a drawer and threw antiseptic wipes at her.

“Get it off.”

Paige picked one up slowly. Teasing.

“What if I don’t want to?”

Azzi lunged.

Paige shrieked in laughter as Azzi pinned her, knee in her stomach, hand in her hair.

“Fucking do it,” Azzi snarled.

Paige’s smile was wild.

“God, you’re hot when you’re feral.”

Azzi twisted her hair harder.

“Wipe. It. Off.”

Paige’s breath was ragged. She slowly raised the wipe.

But she didn’t move it to her skin. She held it out to Azzi instead.

Azzi froze.

Paige’s voice was low.

“You do it.”

Azzi’s eyes went black.

She snatched the wipe.

Without breaking eye contact, she scrubbed at the E until Paige winced, skin going red.

Paige moaned.

“Harder.”

Azzi pressed harder.

Paige hissed.

But she didn’t look away.

When it was finally a smeared, raw mess, Azzi dropped the wipe.

Paige raised her arm, inspecting it.

“Gone?” she whispered.

Azzi’s voice was ragged.

“Gone.”

Paige met her eyes.

“Good.”

Azzi grabbed her chin.

“You’re not hers.”

Paige’s voice cracked with dark glee.

“Never fucking was.”

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Azzi’s voice was a ragged growl.

“I’m going to fuck you until you forget she exists.”

Paige’s grin was feral.

“Promise?”

Azzi didn’t answer. She lunged.

She slammed Paige into the wall so hard the picture frames rattled. One hand locked around Paige’s throat, squeezing until Paige’s mouth fell open, gasping. Azzi leaned in, close enough to share breath, and spat straight onto Paige’s tongue.

“Swallow it.”

Paige obeyed instantly, moaning, her eyelids fluttering.

“Good fucking girl,” Azzi snarled, biting at Paige’s bottom lip and sucking it between her teeth before letting go with a wet pop.

Paige was panting, hips rolling shamelessly.

Azzi’s free hand groped roughly between Paige’s thighs, fingers pressing into the wet heat of her ruined panties. She rubbed her clit through the soaked fabric, deliberately slow.

“God,” Paige whined, “please—fuck—Azzi—”

“Listen to you. Begging like a bitch in heat,” Azzi taunted. She ripped the panties aside, shoving two fingers in without warning.

Paige’s back arched violently, a strangled scream ripping out of her.

“Yeah,” Azzi growled in her ear. “So fucking wet. You want everyone to know how much you need me?”

Paige whimpered, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck—Azzi please—just fuck me—”

Azzi twisted her fingers, scissoring them, stretching Paige until the squelch of her cunt was loud and wet. She grinned savagely at the sound.

“God, you’re dripping. Pathetic.” She pulled her fingers out just to slap Paige’s cunt hard enough to make her sob.

“Please,” Paige sobbed.

“Please what?”

“Please—Azzi—I’ll do anything—just fuck me—”

Azzi spat on her fingers and shoved them back in, pumping mercilessly.

“That’s it. Say you’re my dirty little whore.”

Paige’s voice cracked.

“I’m your dirty little whore—fuck—I’m yours—”

Azzi kissed her again, messy and wet, teeth clacking, tongues sliding. She pulled back to let spit string between their mouths.

“Good girl.”

Paige trembled as Azzi’s thumb found her clit, grinding it in tight, brutal circles.

Paige’s thighs shook. Cum slicked Azzi’s fingers, leaking onto her palm, soaking the floor.

“Fuck—you’re coming just from my fingers,” Azzi mocked. “Can’t even wait for my cock, huh?”

Paige was sobbing, nodding frantically, legs giving out.

Azzi caught her before she fell, slamming her back onto the bed. She crawled over Paige’s trembling body, pressing her thigh hard between her dripping folds, grinding until the wet squelch was obscene.

Paige moaned like an animal.

Azzi pressed her forehead to Paige’s, voice ruined.

“Mine.”

Paige’s laugh broke on a sobbing moan.

“Yes. Fuck. Yours. Always yours.”

Azzi didn’t hold back. She ground her thigh harder, soaking it with Paige’s cum, hand wrapped tight around Paige’s throat as she fucked her raw with her leg.

Paige’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back.

They didn’t speak in words anymore.

Just guttural, obscene noises.

It wasn’t love.

It was ownership.

It was degradation.

It was worship.

And Paige wouldn’t have it any other way.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Paige was still trembling, face flushed, thighs slick and shaking when she pulled her fingers out slowly, watching them glisten. She brought them to her mouth and sucked them clean, eyes locked on Azzi like she was prey.

Azzi collapsed forward, panting.

Paige didn’t let her rest.

She grabbed Azzi by the hips and pushed her on the bed, crawling up her body until she was straddling her chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Paige asked, voice low and dark.

Azzi blinked, dazed. “I—”

“Shut up.” Paige slapped her cheek lightly, not to hurt — just to mark her. “You don’t talk now. You listen. You take it.”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

Paige leaned down and dragged her tongue slowly over Azzi’s jaw, then down her throat, leaving spit behind. “You like being in control, huh? Thought you ran this?”

She reached down and slapped Azzi’s pussy, hard. Azzi gasped.

“Wrong. You’re mine now.”

Paige slid two fingers inside her, then three — no warning, no mercy. The wet noise was instant and obscene.

“Fuck—Paige—”

Another slap. “What did I just say?”

Azzi bit her lip, trying to stay quiet as Paige thrust harder, curling her fingers cruelly.

“That’s better,” Paige whispered. “You don’t get to call the shots anymore. I do. And I say you’re gonna come again, just like this. Dumb, wrecked, dripping.”

Azzi moaned, hips twitching, trying to push back onto Paige’s hand.

“Desperate little thing,” Paige purred. She spit in her hand and rubbed it over Azzi’s clit, slicking it messily, grinding it hard and fast.

Azzi arched violently, her hands clawing at the sheets.

“You gonna come for me?”

Azzi whimpered. Paige leaned down, lips against her ear.

“Say it. Tell me who owns this pussy.”

Azzi’s voice was broken: “You—fuck—you do—Paige—”

Paige’s smile turned vicious. “Good girl.” She fucked her harder, faster, pushing Azzi toward the edge.

“Come for me, baby.”

Azzi screamed as the orgasm hit her, legs shaking, body arching. Paige didn’t stop, driving her through it, past it, into oversensitive madness.

“That’s it. Break for me.”

Azzi sobbed, twitching beneath her, totally undone.

Paige smirked, still straddling her chest, sweat dripping off her body.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi was on her knees on the bed, hair a mess, panting as Paige fucked her with her fingers from behind.

“God—you’re dripping,” Paige rasped, leaning in to bite Azzi’s shoulder.

Azzi moaned, pushing back onto Paige’s fingers. “Faster—please—”

Paige gave a sharp slap to Azzi’s ass, making her yelp. “Say it nicely.”

“Please!” Azzi whined, voice cracking.

Paige twisted her fingers just right, and Azzi let out a strangled cry:

“Fuck—daddy—”

Silence.

Paige froze for half a second. Then she let out a low, predatory laugh.

“Oh? What was that?”

Azzi buried her face in the pillow. “Shut up—I didn’t mean—”

Paige pulled her hair, yanking her head back. “You called me daddy. Own it.”

Azzi squirmed, blushing hard. “N-no—”

Paige slapped her ass again. Harder. Azzi whimpered.

“Say it.”

“Daddy—” Azzi moaned, breath catching.

“Good girl.” Paige leaned in, licking the sweat off her neck. “You want daddy to fuck you harder?”

“Yes—fuck—please!”

Paige rammed her fingers deeper, scissoring them cruelly. Azzi screamed.

“Louder.”

“Daddy!” Azzi sobbed.

Paige’s voice dropped to a dark whisper. “Since I’m daddy, what are you?”

Azzi blinked, tears pricking her eyes. “What—”

Paige pinched her clit viciously. Azzi jolted, wailing.

“Say it.”

Azzi’s voice broke. “I’m—ah—mommy—”

Paige shuddered, grinding her own soaked pussy against Azzi’s ass.

“Fuck yes. Good little mommy. Daddy’s gonna ruin you.”

Azzi keened as Paige fucked her harder, their bodies slamming together, filthy words filling the room.

“Say it again.”

“Mommy—ah—mommy wants daddy—wants daddy’s fingers—”

Paige bit her neck and growled, “Mommy’s gonna come for daddy?”

Azzi screamed as her orgasm ripped through her, legs shaking.

“Say it while you come.”

“Mommy—ah—mommy’s coming for daddy—fuck—”

Paige groaned and buried her fingers to the hilt, riding out Azzi’s spasms, both of them a sweaty, panting mess, the words echoing

They collapsed together, breathing hard.

Azzi’s face buried in Paige’s hair.

Paige’s fingers idly traced the lines of Azzi’s ribs.

Silence.

Then Paige’s voice, soft but wicked.

“So. Still think I’m going back to Emily?”

Azzi didn’t even lift her head.

Her answer was a growl.

“I’ll fucking kill her first.”

Paige’s grin was feral.

“Good girl.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi lay half on top of her, breathing ragged into her neck.

Paige was grinning like the devil.

“Look at you,” she whispered.

Azzi didn’t move.

Paige’s fingers curled into Azzi’s hair, tugging lightly.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

Azzi’s answer was a growl.

Paige’s smile widened. She spread her legs a little more, letting Azzi settle even heavier against her.

“Say it.”

Azzi bit her shoulder, hard enough to make her jolt.

Paige’s laugh turned breathy.

“Fuck—Azzi—”

Azzi licked the bite.

“You want a confession? Fine.”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were black, pupils blown.

“I know everywhere you go,” she said, voice low and harsh.

Paige blinked.

Azzi didn’t stop.

“I’ve followed you home. Watched you at the gym. Sat in my car outside Emily’s place to see if you stayed the night.”

Paige shivered.

Azzi’s grip tightened on her wrist until her knuckles went white.

“You think you’re in control of this? I know every fucking thing you do.”

Paige let out a breathy laugh.

“Oh my god. You really are just like me.”

Azzi didn’t deny it.

Paige’s eyes gleamed.

“I love it.”

Azzi’s expression twitched.

Paige bit her lip, eyes fluttering.

“God, that’s so fucking hot.”

Azzi made a guttural noise and kissed her hard, messy, bruising.

Paige moaned, wrapping her legs around Azzi’s waist.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

They broke apart gasping.

Paige’s voice was raw.

“Tell me more.”

Azzi’s jaw clenched.

Paige’s grin was feral.

“Tell me how you stalked me.”

Azzi’s eyes burned.

“I watched you go into her building and didn’t leave until the lights went out. I wanted to break the door down.”

Paige’s breath hitched.

“I know where she lives. Where she works. When she sees you. What she orders for fucking lunch.”

Paige shivered.

“Jesus.”

Azzi’s voice dropped to a snarl.

“And you like it.”

Paige didn’t even blink.

“I fucking love it.”

Azzi kissed her again, even rougher.

Paige whimpered into it, nails dragging bloody lines down Azzi’s back.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

When they finally paused, both of them panting, Azzi reached for Paige’s wrist again.

The skin was red and raw where the “E” had been wiped away.

Azzi traced it, thumb firm.

Paige hissed at the sting.

“Don’t flinch,” Azzi ordered.

Paige bared her teeth in a grin.

“Do it harder then.”

Azzi dug her nail in until Paige whimpered.

Azzi’s voice dropped, vicious and satisfied.

“Good. That’s mine now.”

Paige licked her lips.

“Gonna carve your name there next?”

Azzi’s eyes glittered.

“I fucking might.”

Paige shuddered.

“Please.”

Azzi smiled slow and cruel.

“Knew you’d beg.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Paige shifted under her, deliberately grinding her hips.

Azzi’s breath stuttered.

“You think Emily could ever fuck you like this?” Azzi growled.

Paige snorted.

“Emily doesn’t even know how to touch me.”

Azzi’s fingers slipped between them, finding Paige wet and throbbing.

Paige gasped, biting back a scream.

Azzi’s voice was poison-sweet.

“Say you’re my mine”

Paige’s laugh was broken.

“You want me to say it?”

Azzi’s thumb circled her clit, unrelenting.

Paige’s voice cracked.

“Fuck—Azzi—”

Azzi pressed harder.

“Say it.”

Paige moaned.

“I’m yours.”

Azzi smirked.

“Louder.”

Paige’s eyes fluttered.

“Ive been fucking yours”

Azzi kissed her hard, swallowing her cry as Paige came, shaking, under her.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

When Paige went limp, chest heaving, Azzi didn’t move away.

She hovered over her, breathing her in.

Paige eventually cracked one eye open.

“You done yet?”

Azzi’s voice was dark.

“Not even close.”

Paige’s laugh was weak but delighted.

“God, you’re perfect.”

Azzi’s lips curled.

“So are you.”

Paige snorted.

“I’m a mess.”

Azzi kissed her again, slower this time.

“My mess.”

Paige moaned into it.

“Yeah. Yours.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚