#the counters all feel so good to pull off

[slutzforbueckers]

can you write about paige and yn are on holiday tg but they aren’t fully together just teasing each her but when paige sees her in a bikini tanning for the first time she starts acting up leading to smut

Vacation — p.b x fem!reader

pairing: paige buckers x fem!reader

warnings: smut

synopsis: you and some of the team go on a week long vacation together to start off the first week of summer, and finally the tension between you and paige couldn’t get any thicker.

‎ ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

by the time you arrived at the rental house, everyone was extremely agitated with each other. it wasn't on purpose though, the traveling had just made you all annoyed with everyone and everything. you all just needed a moment to relax from the travel and then you could come back together and socialize.

thankfully when you were finalizing the plans of the trip and confirming the rental house, you all looked at the pictures to determine your bedrooms. it was a great idea, to pick the rooms beforehand, and everyone had settled on a room except you and paige. it was down to the last two rooms and you had laid claim on the room you liked more, the only problem was that paige liked that room better as well.

you both argued over the room for nearly 30 minutes and yet you still didn’t come to an agreement. so, now that you’re finally at the house you had no choice but to come to an agreement.

“paige! i called dibs on that room first and you know it!” you yelled at her, your hands balling into fists at your sides. even though you had called the room first and you should’ve been able to just walk in and put your things away like you planned, paige still wasn’t letting up on getting that room.

“i don’t care. im taking that room.” she shrugged her shoulders. the only reason she wanted that room was because the view was good, and maybe because you wanted it and she loved fucking with you.

sarah, jana, azzi, and morgan had all filed away to their rooms, ice and kk stood in the kitchen watching you and paige argue. they leaned on the marble counter eating a bag of tru fru they picked up on the way.

“i don’t know why they’re even arguing,” kk snickered, shaking her head and snatching the bag of tru fru away from ice.

“right, they’re just going to end up in the same room anyway.” ice smiled and nudged kk when she noticed how close you and paige were standing. you were toe to toe, looking each other up and down as if you were sizing each other up.

there was no real heat behind your eyes though, just lots of unspoken words and admiration. you and paige never fully acknowledged it. yeah there had been a few times you almost kissed and times you’d gotten drunk and couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, but other than that you both tried to keep things team friendly. anyone could see the feelings between you two, it was so obvious with out you looked at each other. when you and paige were in the same room anyone that was there could feel the tension between you.

you weren’t sure what was stopping you and paige from being more, you were both two adults that clearly had feelings for each other. you thought maybe it would throw off the team dynamic, things might be weird with everyone else, neither of you realized it but the whole team was rooting on you two being together.

kk and ice left the kitchen, kk cleared her throat as they walked past you two. paige took her eyes off of you and watched the two girls leave, she had been so engrossed by you that she hadn’t realized they were still around.

“i want the room, p.” you said, keeping your voice stern and holding your ground. you raised your eyebrows and crossed your arms, waiting for her argument. paige bit her bottom lip, her hand making contact with your waist for a solid second before she pulled it away.

“fine, take the room. you know where ima be at the end of the night.” at with that she picked her bags up and headed to find her room. you turned on your heels and stared at her until she disappeared behind a wall. you couldn’t understand why her words had your body heating up. you and paige sleep together all the time as best friends, some nights when you’re not together you find it hard to sleep. so why did it feel like her words had a different meaning?

˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

after you all relaxed from the travel angst you decided it was time to go out. you all had different things you wanted to do and since none of you could actually decide on what to do, you decided you’d go down to the boardwalk where there were plenty of things to do. it kept the peace between you all if you could all go do your own thing while also having the beach as a common area to meet back up.

you were all standing in a small circle at the beach going over where you would be, which of course you demanded you do so you knew where everyone was. they all called you the mom of the group, next to azzi. you just wanted to make sure no one got lost, especially the freshies.

“make sure you check in, please. don’t make me come hunt you down.” you looked at all of them with a very serious expression, you had already made a groupchat with all of them so you could send a check in text every thirty minutes. they all rolled their eyes but there was no real annoyance behind it, well only a little. “oh! before you go come put sunscreen on.”

paige was already standing behind you with the sunscreen in her hand, knowing that would be your next demand.

“okay, mom.” sarah said, grabbing the sunscreen from paige. she passed it along to jana. the bottle had made it around the entire group and back to you. soon enough everyone left and it was just you and paige left on the beach, you had told her to go and do something but she insisted on staying with you. the sun was shining bright and it was perfect for you to tan and that’s what you planned on doing for a while.

paige sat down on the towel she had spread out and watched as you took off your bathing suit cover and discarded it on top of your bag. she couldn't take her eyes off your body, the light pink bikini looked perfect on you. her eyes roamed up and down your body, taking in all your beauty, and she could almost drool.

yes, she knew you were absolutely breathtakingly beautiful and she knew she had some feeling for you that were behind friendly but this just sealed it. she wanted you and she didn't know how, but she was going to have you at some point.

being to absorbed in staring at you, she didn't hear you calling her name, not until you bend down and waved your hand in her face. she met your eyes and cleared her throat. "what?"

"i need you to put sunscreen on my back, i can't reach." you handed her the sunscreen and laid stomach down on your towel. you noticed her face had turned a bit red which made you scrunch up your face. paige squirted a bit in her hand and rubbed it together before spreading it across your skin, trying to keep herself from staring at your ass. "did you put any on? you're red."

"no im not." paige scoffed and looked away, she definitely was red but it wasn't because she hadn't put on any sunscreen. not that she was willing to tell you that. she sat back on her heels when she finished rubbing it into your skin.

"you definitely are." you laughed and sat up, reaching for the bottle. "now lay down so i can get your back."

she did as you said and laid on her stomach, you moved to straddle her back. you did just as she did but as soon as your hands landed on her, you could feel her tense up. as you ran your hands across her skin she tensed up more and suddenly it clicked it your head. the tensing, the blushing, and the staring all made sense now, seeing you in your bikini had her all worked up. you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t egg her on.

“relax, paige.”

“fuck- i’m trying.” she groaned, moving her head so her forehead rested on her crossed arms under her head. she wasn’t sure why she was acting like this, you were still the same as always and you were still just her best friend, so why was she acting like she’d never seen a girl in a bikini before?

you snickered as you retracted your hands and slid off her body. paige let out a sigh of relief when she felt your body leave hers.

“stop laughing, it’s not my fault you’re so heavy.” she flipped the conversation to teasing to distract you from what you already knew. paige lifted herself up on her forearms and turned her head to look at you.

you let out a gasp and placed your hand on your chest, your mouth dropping open in shock. “no you didn’t!”

paige shrugged her shoulders with a smirk on her face. you let out a scoff and reached into the sand, grabbing a handful of sand and throwing it at her back. now it was her turn for her jaw to drop, she looked between you hand-- that still had remains of the sand-- and your face that held a proud smile.

"you're gonna regret that." she shook her head, starting to sit up. your smile faded and it only took a second before you were jumping up and running away from her. paige jumped up and started to chase you, calling your name the whole time. you laughed and kept running. a ball got kicked in front of you, causing you to come to a halt so you didn't trip. paige caught up with you and grabbed you from behind.

"paige!" you laughed as she lifted you off the ground, her arms tight around you and holding you against her so you couldn't wiggle out. paige turned you around and started walking straight to the ocean. "wait! wait! no, paige- you better not throw me in there!"

"i told you i'd get you back, ma." she laughed, walking further into the water. she was about knee deep but she still had a tight grip on your body, she wasn't going to let you go just yet. you were still kicking your feet and yelling at her to take you back. "hmm, beg me not to throw you in."

"why would i-" you started but quickly stopped when you felt her loosen her grip. "okay! okay! please, paige! i don't want to get wet! please, i'll give you what ever you want, just take me back to the beach!"

paige hummed in content and turned around, walking out of the water and setting you down on the sand. she ignored the icky feeling of sand sticking to her feet. you turned to face her with a scowl on your face and your arms crossed over your chest.

though you acted like you were upset with her, you knew you weren’t. you loved those moments with her, the moments where you could see a glimpse into the window of a relationship. you loved how playful she could get but how she also knew when to stop before going too far.

you didn’t have to beg for her not to throw you in the water—not really— if you expressed to her that you really didn’t want to be thrown into the water she would’ve taken you back immediately. you could trust her with your life, she would never intentionally do anything to hurt you and you knew it was mutual.

“that was so not funny.” you shook your head at her. paige laughed and shrugged her shoulders, reaching out for your hand to walk you back to your things so you could finally relax and tan like you initially intended.

paige had been watching you tan for nearly an hour. well, not the whole hour, she had looked away to watch people and read a book. for the most part, though, her eyes had been trained on you. she looked over your body, biting her lip at how perfect you looked. you had rotated onto your back a few minutes prior and she had a clear view of your face.

she thought you looked perfect, your skin sunkissed, lips pouty and perfect. all she could think about was leaning over and pressing her lips against yours. it had become such an overwhelming thought in her head to the point she couldn’t even pick up her book and read anymore.

she wanted to reach out and run her hand over your exposed stomach. she wanted to decorate your body with hickeys to show everyone that you were hers, not that they didn’t already know. she wanted you, all of you, and she had finally made up her mind that she was done pretending she didn’t.

“you’re staring again.” paige nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard your voice, her eyes immediately moving away from your thighs and up to meet yours. she opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out but a choked noise, she shook her head and looked away. you folded your sunglasses and set them aside. “i’ve been watching you stare at me for the past hour.”

“you’ve been awake this whole time.” she looked back at you, her cheeks getting red knowing that she had been caught. she tried to deflect but she was still just as embarrassed. “that’s creepy.”

“says the one that got staring.” you laughed, sitting up and reaching for your phone. you quite enjoyed the fact that she couldn’t keep her eyes off of you, it made you feel good knowing that she liked what she saw. you tossed your phone to the side after checking the time and crawled forward to lay yourself over paige’s lap. “i’m getting hungry, p.”

“we have reservations at 7:30.” she looked down at you and pushed your hair out of your face. it was only 4pm so you still had hours to go before your dinner plans, you weren’t sure you could wait that long.

“i’m hungry now.” you pouted, batting your lashes at her. paige’s eyes were drawn to your lips as you pushed them out into a pout, her thumb twitched as she taught the urge to trace it over them.

“c’mon, i’m sure we can find something in the meantime.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“oh my gosh! tomorrow can we do absolutely nothing.” jana groaned when you all walked through the door of the house. you all had just gotten back from having dinner and the day was finally over, you could all go to your beds and relax for the rest of the night.

“i agree, everything was fun but im ready to sleep.” morgan shook her head, falling down onto the couch dramatically.

“well, you are all free to do whatever. i’m about to shower and head to bed, i love you all and goodnight.” you closed the front door behind you and locked up. you didn’t give anyone any time to ask you anything and went straight to your room. once you made it to your bedroom, you immediately starting to undress. you kicked your heels off to the side haphazardly and went to stand in front of your dresser so you could look in the mirror.

you ran your hands down your sides as you rotated slightly to look at your body. you thought you looked pretty good tonight, the black dress you had on adorned your body and accentuated your curves perfectly. just as you reached back to try and unzip your dress there was a knock on the door.

you let out a exhausted sigh and gave whoever was there permission to enter. you turned around to watch the door open and paige walked in, the annoyance in your body washed away as soon as she walked in. you should've known it would be her and you didn't mind that it was her. you always wanted to be around her, no matter how socially drained you were.

paige sauntered in and fell down on her back onto your bed, she stretched her arms out beside her and spread her legs. you stared at her for a minute, your eyes glued to the slip of skin that showed under her shirt when she raised her arms. you found herself wishing you could see more than just that bit, your skin starting to get hot at the thought. you forced yourself to turn around and busy yourself, deciding that taking off your jewelry would work.

paige sat up in the bed and leaned forward, resting her head in her hands on her knees. her eyes roamed up and down your body, taking in the backside of you and trying to memorize all your curves. she wished she could be the one to unzip your dress, she wished she could run her hands over your body and feel you for herself... she wished she could do more than just stare.

of course, you caught her staring at you and you figured you might not have been the only one to think you looked good tonight. you watched her watch you for a minute or two, you wanted to enjoy the way you could see the lust in her eyes.

just as you opened your mouth to speak her eyes met yours in the mirror. it was like the air in the room got 10x thicker the longer you stared at each other. in that moment you knew you couldn't deny what was happening between you two. you both knew that there was no point in denying it anymore, not when you looked at each other the way you did.

paige decided that she was tired of the distance between you and she finally stood up. she held eye contact with you the entire time she walked up behind you. you placed your hands flat on the dresser and took a deep breath as she invaded your space.

she hesitated for a second, mentally battling herself, before she reached up and slid her hands around your waist. she kept a small space between you just incase but she had a feeling you wouldn't pull away, and she was right. it was quiet, the only sound you heard was your heart thumping in your chest.

"you looked good tonight. so damn good." she broke the silence between you. paige ran her hand up your back and pushed your hair all to one side, exposing the right side of your neck to her.

"thank you, paige." your voice was merely a whisper. you almost didn't want to speak at all, scared she would be able to hear the shake in your voice. paige ran her fingertips over your warm skin, causing a shiver to run through your body and goosebumps to erupt on your skin. "you looked good too."

she only hummed in response. it went quiet again and suddenly her hands weren't on you anymore, your body went cold from the absence of her. she took a step back but she was still in your reach. you turned around to face her, your eyes scanning her face to find some type of answer to what was happening.

you weren't sure what had came over you but before you knew it you were reaching out and grabbing her by her shirt, pulling her into you and cupping her face. her hands immediately fell to your hips, lowering her head to you as she pulled you flush against her body.

you leaned into her and let your lips brush against hers, your eyes closed as you both breathed against each others lips. it was like all the times you had imagined this moment happening were playing out in your head. when it happened, it happened. you finally connected your lips fully and kissed her hard, paige returned it with more force. her hands grasped at your waist and tightly.

you both let all the built up emotions you had for each other out in that very moment. you kissed and grabbed at each other life you were each others oxygen. the kiss was messy and perfect all at the same time. paige ran her hands around your body and cupped your ass, she pushed you back until you were pressed against the dresser.

"can i take this off, please?" she pulled away from your lips to look at you, her hand moving up your back to grab the zipper of your dress. you wouldn’t say no to her, not when you’ve been wanting this for the longest. you weren’t even sure you could say no to her, not when her voice was so breathy and desperate.

you turned around and presented your backside to her, slightly leaning over the dresser and pressing your ass into her. paige bit her lip to suppress the moan wanting to leave her. she took her time with tugging the zipper down, her eyes being drawn to every inch of your skin that was being exposed.

if it weren’t for the excitement running through your body keeping you warm you would have shivered at the cool air on your back. once she got the zipper all the way down she gently pulled the dress down and let it fall to a pool around your feet. paige leaned down and pressed her lips to your back, her hands wandering on your body, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to touch so she touched everything.

“paige,” you whimpered, your head tilting to the side as she started to kiss your neck. she let out a hum of acknowledgment as she cupped your tits through the lacy black bra you were wearing. “is this- is this just the alcohol? are we gonna regret it?”

paige paused, she stood up straight and turned you around to face her. “we didn’t even have much to drink. i want you, y/n, i’ve wanted you for a while and i know you want me too.”

“i do. i’ve wanted this for a long time, wanted you.” you expressed. paige scanned your face, staring deep into your eyes to make sure you were telling the truth. there was a moment of quiet between you as you both stared into each others eyes. you couldn’t take it anymore, now that you knew for sure the feeling was mutual you didn’t want to waste anymore time.

you fisted her shirt and started to pull it over her head. paige stood there and let you take her clothes off until she was only in her sports bra and boxers. once you had tossed the clothes aside she was back on you, lips crashing into yours and her hands grabbing at your body. you did the same, you took the chance to run your hands up and down her abs, like you’ve wanted to do for a while now.

paige nudged your legs with her knee until you got the hint to spread them. she slotted her knee between your thighs and used her hold on your hips to start grinding you down on her tensed thigh. the friction between your legs had you gasping against her lips and eventually you started to move on your own, grinding your clothed cunt against her.

you could feel your slick drenching your panties and you knew you were probably leaving a trail on her thigh, not that she minded anyway. you pulled away from her lips and laid your forehead against her shoulder. “paige, i need more.” you whined, grinding down on her harder.

“fuck,” she let out a breath as she looked down at your body rocking on her thigh, her fingernails dug into the plush of your hips before she swiftly lifted you up in her arms.

“m’gonna make you feel so good, baby. don’t know how long i’ve been waiting for this.” she mumbled as she turned around and walked you to the bed, she gently laid you down and hovered over you. “can i do that? can i make you feel you good?” she spoke against your lips.

“yes-yes please, paige.” you exhaled, your lashes fluttering slightly. she softly kissed your lips before she started to kiss further down your body. while she kissed your neck she reached under you to unhook your bra, you arched your back a bit to help her.

once she got your bra off she immediately attached herself to your tits, her mouth closed around one of your harden nipples and her fingers gently toying with the other. after a few seconds she switched to give the other the same attention. you ran your fingers through her hair, grabbing a fist full and slightly tugging at it.

you’re eyes shot open at the sound of the low moan that came from her, you looked down at her to see her already looking up at you. paige bueckers liked getting her hair pulled and that fact made your stomach flutter. “didn’t know you were into that.”

“i’m into a lot.” she admitted, descending down your body. once she got to your hips she sat up and hooked her fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down you legs and tossing them to the side. she cursed under her breath and bit her bottom lip when she saw how wet you were. you whimpered at the cool air you were exposed to when she ran her hands up the back of your thighs and push your legs up and apart.

she was spreading you out for her to see and you couldn’t lie and say you didn’t like the almost predatory expression on her face. she looked like she wanted to eat you alive and you weren’t sure you would stop her if she tried. eventually she leaned down and pressed a few kisses to each of your thighs before diving straight into running her tongue through your folds, humming and closing her eyes at the taste of you.

under any other circumstances she would have teased you and kissed your body more before jumping straight into eating you but she had been wanting this for so long and now that she had it she didn’t want to waste any time.

your hips bucked into her face when she wrapped her lips around your clit and gently sucked. you tried to keep your moans to a minimum since there were other people in the house. so you bit down on your lips in efforts to keep quiet.

you could tell when she really started to get into it, she switched between flicking her tongue on your swollen clit to gently sucking to running her tongue through your slit. she eventually added her fingers into the mix, pumping two long fingers into your sopping cunt. the sound your pussy was making combine with the sound of your moans was music to her hears.

your back arched from the bed and you brought your hands up to pinch your nipples. paige was eating your out like she was starved and your cunt would give her the nutrients she needed, she loved the way you tasted better than she had imagined.

“fuck paige! mmph— shit, you’re so good at this. don’t stop please—“ your moans weren’t the only ones sounding out in the room, paige was moaning just as much as you. you reached down and gripped her hair again, tugging at it harder than she did before.

you were starting to thrash around as you felt yourself getting closer and closer, your hips stuttered trying to pull away and get closer at the same time. paige wrapped her arms around your thighs and pulled you into her, using her strength to keep you flush against her.

“m’gonna cum- fuck, m’cumming paige” you couldn’t help how your moans got way louder, you were sure everyone had heard you by know but you couldn’t care less in that moment. your body tensed up as your orgasm crashed down on you. paige worked you through it, still working her mouth and fingers, and she didn’t slow down either. eventually you were starting to get overstimulated and started to push her head away. “okay, okay! that’s enough for now.”

paige pulled away from your cunt with your juices dripping down her chin and fingers. she looked up at you and smiled teasingly, tilting her head to go along with it. “is it though?”

“yes it is.” you rolled your eyes with a laugh, falling back into the pillows with a sigh. you were loving the post orgasm bliss, eyes glazed over and low. you thought that it had to be the best you ever had, or maybe it was because it had been awhile since you last came at the hand of someone else. paige kissed her way up your body until she was level with your face, she held herself up by her fist and stared into your eyes. you reached up and cupped her face, wiping your mess off her face. “i can’t believe we did that.”

“me neither. i’m glad we did, though.” she leaned down and pressed her lips on yours, slipping her tongue into your mouth so you could taste yourself on her tongue. you wrapped your arms around her neck to hold her against you as you deepened the kiss.

you were finally ready to go again but the sound and feeling of paige’s phone sounding off over and over made you both break away from the moment. paige groaned and sat up, looking behind her and grabbing her phone she had left on the bed when she first came in.

you watched as she unlocked her phone and looked at the text. she she snorted and shook her head, her eyes locking onto yours and you gave her a curious look. she turned her phone around to show you the string of messages from the group chat you made.

sarah

okay well that was disgusting

🤮🤮

kk

omg!! my poor virgin ears!!!

y’all are NASTY

azzi

i think it’s nice they finally realized they’re practically in love with each other

sarah

azzi please…

you shut your eyes and pushed the phone back to paige, sinking into the pillows and letting out a long groan as the embarrassment started to sink in.

“oh. my. gosh.”

‎ ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

a/n: so this actually took way longer than i expected and im not a fan of it tbh.

taglist: @jnkbueckers

[strnilolover]

٠ ࣪⭑ helpless without you

warnings : phone sex. male masturbation. female masturbation. degradation (?). praising. sub!matt. dom!reader. nothing else?

matt couldn’t help himself when you had left to go clubbing with some of your friends—the tight red dress you wore, hugging your curves just right in all the right places. it was embarrassing how hard he had gotten when you gave him a simple kiss on the cheek, telling him you’d be back later tonight.

he tried to distract himself—he really did—but when he saw some photos you posted only two hours in of being there. he absolutely lost it.

his back rested against the headboard of the bed, sweats and boxers pulled down to his mid thighs as his fist wrapped itself tightly around his cock. his tip, pink and swollen leaking pre-cum as he squeezed each time he moved up—just as you would.

but he was growing frustrated. little whines and whimpers falling from his chewed up lips as he tried to cum. but he couldn’t. he was right there on the edge, but nothing could tip him over.

not even the picture of you he was staring at.

tears began to brim his waterline, a recked sob slipping past his lips as his fist moved faster—desperate to cum. but eventually he slowed, the hand holding his phone exiting the photos app as he opened your contact. quickly clicking the dial button.

when you picked up the phone, your breathing was heavy—the sound of music thumping quietly in the background, like you had wandered off to a separate room.

“matt? is something wrong?” you asked, your voice breathless and sweet—he could tell you had a few drinks. he whined at the sound of your voice, his fist beginning to pick up speed once more.

he took in a shaky inhale, then another breathy whine before he spoke. “n-no..m’sorry.” he pants, voice already sounding a wreck. “t-tried without you, but i—fuck—i can’t.”

you smirked to yourself. “tried to what baby? hm?” you teased, knowing full well what he couldn’t do—the wet squelches flowing in from his side of the line.

matt moaned, squeezing his fist tighter around his cock. “c-couldn’t—haa—couldn’t cum.” he squeaked out. you hummed in amusement, already picturing him—sprawled out on the bed, flushed and desperate, hand working himself over but not enough.

“pathetic.” you murmured, voice laced with mockery. “sound so desperate, whining and humping your fist f’me.” and a broken moan tore from his throat, his breathing ragged through the speaker.

“m’not-“ he cuts off with a choked whimper, his hips jerking up into his hand. “m’not humping.”

lies.

you let out a sharp knowing laugh. moving yourself to sit on the counter of the bathroom you were in. you knew full well that he was—knew he was too far gone to stay still, rutting into his own fist. probably imagining it was your own.

“oh, sweet boy, don’t lie to me.” you purred, your own legs spreading as your free hand came down to toy with the end of your dress. “bet you’re so worked up huh? making a mess all over yourself.” slowly your hand moved to the inside of your thigh, moving up until your fingers pressed against your clothed clit.

the fabric was damp, matts little noises had gotten to you. you hadn't realized your own breathing had picked up, too focused on how your sweet boy sounded. slowly, you moved the clothing to the side—fingers making contact with your sensitive nub. a loud moan slipped from your lips. your head tilting back against the bathroom mirror.

matt heard—of course he did, and he slowed his fist, a whine emitting at the loss of friction. your fingers moved down, sliding through your wet folds before plunging inside core, already starting a brutal pace. "f-fuck..matt baby, making mommy feel so good." you groaned, your hips rutting forward to grind against your hand. "gonna be a good boy for me and keep going?"

matt nodded, even though you couldn't see him from the other side of the line. his hand started to move again, hips rutting up into his closed hand. you could hear the faintest sound of the bed creaking under him. "mhm—be so good f'you mommy." he moaned. the wet squelching from him and you combined was lewd, but it only made you move your fingers faster, legs spreading wider.

"doin' so g-good baby." you muttered, fingers moving quickly in and out of your slick walls. you could already feel the knot forming in your stomach, already so close to cumming. matt chokes on a moan, hissing. "p-please." he whines, voice cracking. "mommy please—keep talking, m'so—mmph—s'close."

"yeah?" you breathed, a whimper echoing in the room as your fingers prodded at your g-spot. "wanna cum for me baby?"

"y-yes." he gasps, breath hitching. "please. please let me." he sounded so fucked out, so so pretty. you moaned once more, legs beginning to shake as his noises shot straight through your core. "m'so close too matt." you breathed. "b-be a good boy and cum. cum with me baby."

a loud sob sounds from the other end of the line. his whole body tensing as he cums hard, whimpering your name over and over again like a prayer. and thats what makes you loose it—your own body tensing as slick gushed around your fingers, thighs shaking and moans spilling past your lips.

you both ride out your highs, shaky cries flowing into your ear as matt spilled over his hand and his thighs. every sound making heat flare through you as your hips slowly come to a stop. for a long moment, the only thing filling the quiet space is your combined ragged, uneven breathing and the faint rustling of sheets as matt shifts.

he was the first one to speak. "thank you mommy." he whispered, voice hoarse and tired. you smirked, body slumped against the bathroom counter. "you're welcome baby. did so good for me." you murmured back slowly removing yourself off the counter and fixing yourself.

"don't do anything else until i get home, okay? m'not done with you yet." was the last thing matt heard before the line went silent.

[achilles-rage]

Cookies

summary: you and buck bake cookies at 3am.

word count: 1.8k

a/n: hey... how y'all doing... i am finally making my comeback!! if you missed my post from yesterday (i answered a bunch of asks so now it's pretty far down there), i'm gonna be posting again, but probably less regularly. i've been stressing myself out i think by feeling the need to post a fic every 2/3 days, otherwise i feel like shit, so i'm trying to get away from that mindset, so i hope that less fics are okay!! i love and appreciate you guys so much!! anyway, enjoy<33

warnings: none, purely fluff, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

The light from the fridge casts a light across Buck’s face, harshly contrasting the dim light coming from the television as he opens the door to grab the ingredients he needs. 

“The butter needs to be room temperature,” he tells you sadly, glancing in your direction as he places the eggs and butter on the kitchen island. Your legs are dangling off the counter as you watch his every move, the cool counter pressing against the backs of your thighs in a way that makes you shiver in your sleepy state. 

It’s late; 2:30am the last time you checked, and you and Buck had the silly idea to pull an all-nighter, since you both have a few days off of work. Just like you used to do with your friends when you were kids.

“I’m sure they’ll be just as good. And, a lot better than store bought cookie dough,” you tell him with a soft laugh, rolling your eyes. 

Honestly, you’re just glad Buck has agreed to bake cookies for you this late. While you were watching a movie, the main character was making cookies, and suddenly you needed chocolate chip cookies. Like, immediately.

"Definitely better,” he says with a smirk, giving you a wink before pulling out the rest of the ingredients from the cupboards.

He helped you onto the counter before he began his work, telling you that he wanted to make them for you, and that all he needed from you was to sit there, look pretty, and keep him company. And with a face like that, how could you say no?

You watch as he measures out his dry ingredients, then mixes everything together, but he pauses every so often to give you gentle kisses, the ends of his curly hair tickling your forehead each time. When his hands aren’t somehow all sticky from the dough – you quickly learned how messy of a baker he was when you first started dating – he’d place a hand on your thigh, taking comfort in the warmth of your skin and the fact that he could feel the goosebumps under his palm. He always knows that you’re sleepy because you get cold, and your skin erupts in goosebumps.

“What do you think you’d be doing right now if we never met?” you ask quietly after a few moments of silence. He looks up at you from his bowl with furrowed brows, tilting his head to the side. 

“Is this the beginning of a breakup conversation?” he replies in a slightly teasing tone, although you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he studies your expression, and your body language, and your eyes.

Your eyes soften, and you immediately shake your head, giving him a reassuring smile as you hold your hand out. He reaches out for it, not letting it hang in the air for longer than a second or two, and lets you pull him forward until his body is positioned right between your legs, although with his hands all doughy, he opts to place his wrist under your palm.

“Baby, I have absolutely no intention of breaking up with you anytime soon. I was just thinking. How different would our lives be if we never met?” you say as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, letting your hands dangle behind his head as his lay on the counter on either side of you, making sure not to get your pajamas dirty from the dough covering his hands.

“They’d be very different. I’d be fast asleep right now, that’s for sure,” he teases with a cheeky smile. You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. It may have been your idea to pull an all-nighter, but he happily agreed that it would be fun. You didn’t even have to try to convince him.

“I’m serious,” you say with a laugh, leaning forward slightly, “I don’t know what I’d do if I never met you.” Your voice is softer now, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. You met Buck purely by chance, and you still think it’s a miracle that he took interest in you, despite him thinking the exact same thing about you.

“I’d be looking for you,” he says after a moment, shrugging as if it’s that simple. And to him, it is. 

Your eyes soften, and your head tilts to the side as your throat suddenly gets tight with your growing emotions.

“For me?” you ask in a teasing, yet slightly disbelieving tone, and he shrugs again with a nod. There’s no hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

“I’d be looking for someone who makes me happy, and who knows what I need without me even having to think to ask, and who is so beautiful that I can’t even believe that they’re with me. So, yeah, you.” You smile, feeling your face heat up. You can practically feel the love radiating from the deepest part of him and into your chest, and while your entire body suddenly feels warm, your cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Suddenly, you’re not so tired anymore.

“I’d be looking for you, too,” you reply, feeling tears prick your eyes as you lean forward and let your forehead rest against his. Buck has to keep a sliver of his mind occupied on not putting his hands on you, no matter how much he wants to feel your soft skin under his fingers. He wishes he washed his hands before coming over to you, but he wouldn’t have dared to let your hand stay raised in the air longer than a split second, just like he wouldn’t dare to part from you right now.

“Yeah?” he whispers, breathing in the faint scent of your body wash now that he’s so close. He wants to touch you so bad, and his self-restraint is wearing thin.

“Mhm. Except maybe without the snoring. I’ve never heard anyone that sleeps so loud.” You match his tone, letting out a soft laugh as he suddenly pulls his face back with a scoff, his brow raised and a smirk growing on his lips.

“Really? Because I seem to remember getting a text a few days ago saying that someone thought it was too quiet to sleep while I was at work,” he challenges, his eyes moving down to your lips for a second before moving back up to meet your gaze, the smug smirk still plastered to his face as you fight back a smile.

“I sent that in a moment of weakness,” you argue quietly, pursing your lips to stop the grin from making its way onto your face.

“Hey, come on, don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he continues, his hands now raised off of the counter and hanging in the air. They’re dangerously close to your waist; if he could touch you, he’d be tempted to tickle your sides to see that gorgeous smile grace your face, but he holds back. Instead, they just remain frozen, almost able to feel the warmth radiating from your soft body.

“I plead the fifth,” you tell him, reaching down and grabbing his wrists. You saw them out of the corner of your eye, full of dough and dangerously close to your pajama top, and the last thing you want to do is go upstairs and change.

You hold his wrists out between your bodies, and all Buck does is chuckle, rolling his eyes and murmuring a soft “brat” before leaning in and catching your lips in an intoxicating kiss. 

In the heat of the moment, you let go of Buck’s wrists, instead grabbing onto his hoodie and pulling him closer to you while your legs wrap around his waist, and he lets his hands go up to your cheeks. Neither of you notice at first, despite the sweet smell of brown sugar filling your nostrils, and he deepens the kiss, letting his lips work in tandem with yours as he savours the feel and taste of your mouth on his. 

Your noses brush against each other as you tilt your heads, and a low hum escapes Buck’s throat as his tongue meets yours when you part your lips. All you can focus on is each other as the oven beeps behind you, signalling that it’s time to put your cookies in, and Buck’s stubble scratches your face in a way that makes your head spin. You’re pretty sure the fire alarm could go off right now, and you still wouldn’t part from him.

You finally have to pull away to catch your breath, and when you do, you finally notice that your cheeks are now sticky. You giggle softly, and you can’t bring yourself to be upset with Buck about it. Not when he just kissed you like his life depended on it.

“Finish my cookies, Buckley,” you whisper after a moment of looking into each other's eyes, and then he finally pulls away from you, immediately missing the feeling of your thick thighs wrapped around him.

“Yes ma’am,” he murmurs, then dumps the chocolate chips into the mixture before mixing, humming in approval when they’re fully combined.

You take this time to wash the dough off your skin; not bothering to go upstairs to actually wash your face, rather merely using a wet paper towel over the sink to wipe off the residue. You know you’ll regret it later, but right now, you wouldn’t dream of being that far away from Buck. Not when the soft light from the tv mixes with the overhead oven light, and the soft sound coming from the credits of the movie envelopes the main floor of Buck’s loft and makes you feel so safe and calm.

When the cookies are in the oven, Buck helps raise you back up onto your spot on the counter, then makes himself at home between your legs, wrapping his arms around your plush middle and resting his head comfortably on your shoulder. You wrap your arms around his shoulders immediately, letting him melt into you as you wait for the timer. The steady feeling of his breath on your skin makes you feel even more at ease, if at all possible.

You don’t talk for those 10 minutes; you just bask in each other's presence. It’s past 3am now, you’re sure of it, but neither of you care. All you care about is how good it feels to be in Buck’s arms, and to know that you’ve found someone to bake cookies with in the middle of the night, just because you felt like it. Someone to bake cookies for you despite being so tired. Just because he loves you so deeply.

notes: likes/comments/reblogs would be much appreciated if you liked this<33

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[prettyangellllll]

Breaking Point

Disclaimer: 18+

Pairing: Blue-collar!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, strong language, dom!Rafe, rough wall sex, teasing, frustration, sexual tension, possessiveness

Summary: You were mad at Rafe—so mad that you refused to give him the satisfaction of your attention. But he wasn’t making it easy. He spent the entire day around the house in that tight white shirt, his muscles flexing with every movement, his black hat low over his face, his jaw tight from the work he’d done all morning. It drove you insane, but you wouldn’t let him win. You held out, resisting him, ignoring him, refusing to look. Until it was too much. Your legs felt weak, your body ached with need, and before you could stop yourself, you went searching for him—only for Rafe to take one look at you and finally put you in your place.

---

The house was silent except for the occasional sound of tools clanking in the garage, where Rafe had been working all morning. You could hear the low hum of music playing from his speaker, the bass vibrating through the walls just enough to remind you he was still there. Still lingering. Still within reach.

You were pissed at him.

You weren’t even sure why anymore—something about a stupid argument the night before, about the way he brushed you off when you called him out for being late, for not answering his phone, for making you feel like an afterthought. He had been exhausted after a long day, dirt smeared across his skin, his body aching from hours of labor. He barely gave you a second glance before collapsing onto the couch, and it had ignited something bitter in your chest.

So you were determined to ignore him today. To make him feel your absence the way you had felt his.

But he wasn’t making it easy.

Not with that damn shirt.

The plain white fabric clung to his torso, slightly damp with sweat from working in the heat, the short sleeves barely containing the muscles of his arms. He’d come inside for a drink earlier, and you had made the mistake of looking—of catching sight of the way his veins bulged as he twisted off the cap of a water bottle, of the way his jaw tensed when he took a sip, the flex of his forearm as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

And that fucking hat.

The black fabric sat low on his head, casting a shadow over his sharp features, his messy strands of blonde curling beneath the brim. He looked good. Too good.

You had spent the entire day pretending not to notice him. You didn’t look at him when he passed by, didn’t acknowledge him when he grunted something under his breath. You busied yourself with small tasks, pretending to be unaffected, keeping your distance even when you could feel his presence like a magnet, pulling at something deep inside you.

But it was getting harder to resist.

Your body was betraying you—heat pooling low in your stomach, thighs pressing together as frustration bubbled under your skin. You felt restless, wound up too tight, every little movement of his making it worse.

When you finally caved, you didn’t even realize what you were doing.

Your feet carried you down the hall, your breath shallow, your hands clenched at your sides as you searched for him. It wasn’t a conscious decision anymore; it was instinct, a need so overwhelming that you couldn’t fight it any longer.

You found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he scrolled through his phone.

He looked up the second you entered.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, like he already knew why you were here, like he had been waiting for you to crack. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and that was it—that was your breaking point.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you were on him.

Grabbing the phone from his hand, you tossed it onto the counter, gripping his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss so hard it knocked the cigarette from his lips. Rafe let out a low groan, his hands instantly finding your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he pressed you against the nearest wall.

“Couldn’t hold out any longer, huh?” His voice was smug, deep and rough, laced with amusement as his lips ghosted over yours. “You were staring all fucking day.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, but your voice was breathless, desperate.

Rafe chuckled darkly. “That mad at me, huh? And yet, here you are.”

His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms searing against your skin, tracing the curve of your waist before gripping your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, the hard press of his body making your head spin.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You hated him for making you say it. For making you admit just how much you needed him.

But pride didn’t stand a chance against the way he was looking at you—like he had been waiting all damn day to ruin you.

“Rafe,” you breathed, rolling your hips against him, feeling the hard outline of his length through his jeans. “I need you.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you hard, teeth scraping against your lower lip, tongue pushing into your mouth as he gripped your thighs tighter, pressing you against the wall like he was trying to mold you to it. His movements were rough, desperate—like he had been holding back too, like the sight of you all day had driven him just as insane.

His hands slid beneath the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down with a sense of urgency that sent a thrill through you. He groaned when he felt how wet you were, his fingers dipping between your thighs, teasing you until you were squirming in his grasp.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving. “You’re already dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the wall, but Rafe wasn’t done teasing.

He lined himself up, dragging his length through your slick folds, taking his time, making you feel every inch of him before finally pushing inside.

The stretch was overwhelming, pleasure mixing with frustration as he filled you completely, his hands tightening on your hips as he set a brutal pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the space, his grunts mingling with your moans, the pressure building too fast, too intense.

“Fucking knew you’d come crawling,” Rafe rasped, his lips grazing your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You wanted to deny it, wanted to fight back, but the pleasure was too much. All you could do was hold onto him, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you into the wall, as he shattered every last ounce of control you had.

It didn’t take long before you were falling apart, your body trembling, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless cry. Rafe wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering, his grip bruising as he buried himself deep inside you, groaning your name like it was the only thing that mattered.

For a moment, the world was still.

Then he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk lazy, satisfied.

“Not so mad anymore, huh?”

[deansbeer]

off limits ・ JASON TEAGUE. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ library

eighteen plus. minors do NOT interact.

୨୧ synopsis. you visit jason at his first football game as an assistant coach, and after his team wins, he takes you in his office—reckless, desperate, and forbidden. but when lana finds out, everything shatters. now, caught in the fallout of your affair, you and jason must face the consequences.

୨୧ warning(s). smut | fem!reader | cheating | praising | unprotected sex (wrap it up) | semi-public sex | light dominance | slight degradation | established affair | bad decision making | tension | recklessness | big time secrecy | confrontation | emotional tension | getting caught | angst | heartbreak.

୨୧ word count. 1.5k

୨୧ kari notes. listen, i don't condone cheating !!! but when it comes to lana … it's justifiable. so save the bitching, i'm entitled to my own opinion and have my reasons for disliking her <3 now that we got that out of the way! this is my first ever jason teague fic and i'm down astronomically bad for him.

the friday night lights shine bright over the smallville high football field, the crowd buzzing with energy as the game wraps up. the crows just won—another victory under assistant coach jason teague's belt.

you watch from the bleachers, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on your lips as you spot him down on the field. he's all confidence, shaking hands with players, clapping them on the back, his spiky sandy blonde hair slightly damp from sweat.

he invited you tonight—nothing unusual, just a casual you should come watch the game when you last saw him.

but there's nothing casual about the way his eyes find yours through the crowd, lingering just a second too long before he turns away.

nothing casual about the way your stomach tightens, your skin prickling with heat.

because jason teague isn't just anyone.

he's your good friend. nothing more.

not to mention, he's also dating lana lang.

but that doesn't stop the way your body reacts when he pulls you aside after the game, leading you through the halls of smallville high, past empty classrooms and dark corridors, until you're standing in front of his office.

"you coming in?" he asks, voice low, gaze heavy.

you should say no.

but you don’t.

the second the door clicks shut behind you, he's on you.

his hands are firm, gripping your waist, pulling you against him, and his mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that's all heat and hunger.

"fuck, i've been thinking about this all night," he mutters against your lips, hands sliding down to grab your ass, pressing you harder against him.

you let out a soft gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.

"jason," you breathe, "someone could—"

"don't care," he cuts you off, lips trailing down your neck, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. "you think i could focus on that game with you sitting up in the stands lookin' like that?"

your head tilts back as he kisses his way down, his hands already tugging at your tank top, pushing it up, exposing more skin to his touch.

"knew i had to have you the second i saw you walk through those gates," he murmurs, voice rough, "knew i wasn't gonna be able to wait."

you shiver at his words, at the sheer desperation in his tone, and then he's lifting you onto his desk, pushing between your legs, his mouth claiming yours again.

the kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, years of restraint snapping like a rubber band stretched too thin.

"this is wrong," you whisper against his lips.

"doesn't feel wrong," he counters, hands sliding under your denim skirt, fingers tracing the lace of your panties.

you bite your lip, anticipation thrumming in your veins.

"lock the door."

he smirks, reaching back blindly, twisting the lock until it clicks.

and then he's back on you, pushing your skirt up higher, fingers slipping beneath the lace, finding you already soaked for him.

"fuck," he groans, "all this for me?"

you don't answer—not with words. instead, you reach for his belt, unfastening it with quick, eager fingers, pulling him free from his jeans.

he's hard, thick, the tip already leaking, and the sight alone makes your mouth go dry.

"tell me, baby," he urges, voice low and rough, "tell me you want this."

you meet his gaze, your breath shaky but sure.

"i want this, jay."

that's all he needs.

he pushes your panties aside, lining himself up, and then he's sinking into you, stretching you open inch by inch until he's fully seated inside you.

you both let out a low groan, his forehead dropping against yours, hands gripping your thighs as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust.

"shit," he mutters, "you feel so fuckin' good."

you clutch at the sides of his neck, nails digging into his skin, your body already trembling from the intensity of it all.

"move," you whisper, "fuck—please."

he doesn't make you beg twice.

his hips pull back, then snap forward, setting a deep, steady rhythm that has you gasping, your back arching against the desk.

the room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the quiet creak of the desk beneath you, the wet, obscene sound of him fucking into you.

it's reckless. desperate. like you both know how wrong this is, but neither of you care enough to stop.

"so tight," he grits out, "so perfect. my perfect girl."

his hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, pulling you down to meet each thrust.

you bite your lip, trying to hold in your moans, but he notices—of course he does.

"don't hold back, baby," he murmurs, "wanna hear you."

his words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you let go, moaning his name as he fucks you harder, deeper, hitting that perfect spot that has you seeing stars.

"jason—mm—fuck—"

"that's it, sweetheart," he groans, "love hearing you say my name."

you're close—so close you can barely breathe, your body tensing, your nails now dragging down his shoulder blades, the dip in his back.

"gonna come for me?" he teases, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, precise circles.

you nod frantically, clinging to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building inside you.

"then come," he commands, voice rough with need. "wanna feel you squeeze me, baby."

his words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, your whole body trembling as you cry out his name.

he follows moments later, burying himself deep, groaning against your skin as he spills inside you, his grip on you tightening like he never wants to let go.

for a moment, there's nothing but heavy breathing, the sound of your racing hearts.

then, reality starts to creep back in.

he pulls back slightly, brushing hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheek.

"you okay?" he asks, voice softer now.

you nod again, having trouble forming coherent sentences, still catching your breath.

he smirks, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

"damn good thing we locked that door."

you laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t move—not yet.

because despite everything, despite knowing this was probably a mistake, there's a part of you that doesn't regret it.

not one bit.

BONUS.

it was bound to happen.

smallville was too small, too full of watchful eyes and nosy mouths.

but you weren't thinking about that the next time you found yourself in jason's office, pressed up against the door, his mouth hot and insistent against yours.

"missed you," he murmurs against your lips, hands already pushing beneath your shirt, fingers rough with need. "been thinking about this all damn week."

you shiver, arching into him, your own hands tugging at his belt.

"you saw me three days ago," you tease, but your voice is breathless, betraying just how much you missed him too.

"not enough," he growls, spinning you around, pressing your front against the door as he grinds against your ass, letting you feel just how hard he already is.

you bite your lip, anticipation thrumming through your veins.

"then don't waste time," you whisper.

he doesn't.

his hands yank down your jeans, your panties, just enough to free you, and then his own zipper is undone, his cock pressing against your slick heat.

"fuck, baby girl," he groans, "always so ready for me."

you barely have time to brace yourself before he's sliding inside, stretching you open in that perfect way that makes your head spin.

"oh, jay—"

"shh," he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck, "gotta keep quiet, sweetheart. wouldn't want anyone hearing, right?"

but that's exactly what happens.

because just as he starts to move, the door handle jiggles.

"jason?"

a voice.

her voice.

lana.

you freeze.

jason stills behind you, his body tense, his grip tightening on your hips.

there’s a single, agonizing beat of silence.

then��

"why is the door locked?"

you barely have time to react before jason is pulling out, his hands quick as he tugs your jeans back up, fixing his own pants in record time.

your heart is hammering in your chest, panic rising fast.

"shit," you whisper, but jason is already moving, already composing himself.

he unlocks the door, cracking it open just enough to slip out, blocking the view inside with his body.

"hey," he says, voice calm, controlled, like he wasn't just buried inside you seconds ago. "what are you doing here?"

"i was looking for you," lana says, her voice soft but suspicious. "why was the door locked?"

"just… needed a minute," jason says smoothly. "long day."

there's a pause.

"who's in there with you?" lana asks, her voice sharper now.

your stomach drops.

jason hesitates—just enough for her to push past him, stepping into the office.

and then her eyes land on you.

her face shifts in an instant—confusion, then realization, then pure devastation.

"oh my god," she breathes.

you don't move.

"lana—" jason starts, but she's already backing up, shaking her head.

"don't," she cuts him off, her voice trembling. "don't you dare, jason."

the silence is suffocating.

then, she turns, storming out of the office without another word.

you exhale, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once.

"goddamnit," jason mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

you swallow hard, looking at him.

"what now?"

he looks back at you, his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

"now," he says, "we deal with it."

but the real question is—how?

៸៸៸ special tags. @titsout4jackles @bluemerakis @daylighted @beausling @jasvtsc @honeyryewhiskey ⎯⎯ if you wanna be tagged in any jason content, do let me know !!!

[sofa-king-lame]

Buddie Drabble just because

idk you guys this one came to me in the shower like two hours ago and here it is:

--

Carrying two drinks, typically, is an easy enough task. Carrying two drinks through a crowded club is a slightly more challenging task, but one Buck prides himself on excelling at (because how shitty of a bartender would he have been if he hadn’t been able to manage that?). Carrying two drinks once he notices Eddie rolling his hips in time with the bass-heavy beat of the music as sweat drips down his neck, is fucking impossible. Buck walks directly into someone who wasn’t even in the way, spilling his drinks all over both of them.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,” he hisses, grabbing napkins from a nearby table and thrusting a handful at the stranger.

“It’s okay,” they laugh, before gesturing to Eddie. “He’s one hell of a distraction.”

“Yeah,” Buck replies, eyes narrowing and a hot flash of jealousy washing over him. “Pretty sure he’s not here looking for anything, though.”

“Moving like that? No ring on his finger? You’re full of shit,” the stranger scoffs. Buck straightens himself up and rolls his shoulders back, forgetting about the sticky liquid soaking into his own shirt. “Twenty bucks says he comes home with me.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Buck sighs. “He’s -”

“What, you don’t think you could get him? You scared it’d crush your little ego?”

“No, I think you’d be left emotionally devastated as you watch me lead him out the door,” Buck smirks.

“Forty bucks,” the moron offers. “And you can go shoot your pathetic little shot first.”

“Make it fifty,” Buck counters. “Ten seconds to shoot your shot. You go first.”

“You’re an idiot. Get ready to lose your money and your dignity,” they laugh, weaving through the crowd to approach Eddie. Buck watches as they walk up to Eddie, sliding their hand down his arm. He feels vindicated as Eddie immediately shrugs them off and steps away from them. Buck can see the dickhead trying to whisper in Eddie’s ear and absolutely cackles as Eddie physically pushes them away. Defeated, the loser makes their way back towards Buck scowling.

“Guy’s an asshole,” he complains. “Who the fuck comes to a club and dances like that if they don’t want anyone to even fucking talk to them?”

“Normal people? Who the fuck comes to a club and thinks they have the right to touch people without their consent?” Buck all but yells. “Sorry not sorry you lost, though. Get that fifty out for me, will you?”

“Yeah good luck,” the bitch mocks as Buck weaves through the crowd. Eddie has stepped off the dancefloor and is scanning the crowd, presumably trying to find out where the fuck Buck is with their drinks.

“Hey,” Buck shouts to him over the music. “This place kind of sucks, you want to get out of here?”

“God yes,” Eddie replies. “I’m starving, let’s swing through a drive-thru?”

“Sounds good,” Buck grins as Eddie settles his hand on the small of Buck’s back and starts guiding him to the exit, right past Buck’s new nemesis who is begrudgingly holding the money out.

“How the fuck -” they huff as Buck snatches the fifty dollar bill out of their hand.

“I was hoping for a little more devastation on your face, but this crisp fifty is going to pay for our Uber back to my place. Good enough for me,” Buck smirks, blowing a kiss to the person he hopes to never see again as Eddie takes his hand and tugs him towards the exit.

“The fuck was all that about?” Eddie asks.

“Oh, they bet me fifty bucks they could get you to go home with them,” Buck tells Eddie as they step into the cool night air. Eddie stops dead in his tracks and levels Buck with an exasperated look.

“Buck, we’re married,” he groans, eyes fond and warm.

“They didn’t know that,” Buck shrugs with a gleeful grin as the tugs the chain holding Eddie's St. Christopher medal and wedding ring out from underneath his shirt, then pulls out his own. “And now they've paid for our dinner.”

“You’re a fucking crazy person,” Eddie snorts, pulling Buck in for an absolutely filthy kiss.

“I’m your fucking crazy person,” Buck murmurs into Eddie’s mouth.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eddie sighs, pressing one last kiss to Buck’s lips as they head for the car.

--

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[cuteandhughesy]

i’d LOVE to see you write “just sit down and let me pamper you” with joseph woll

prompt no.14: “just sit down and let me pamper you”

you’ve always loved being, for lack of a better term, a girl. fresh blow outs and velcro rollers. summer fridays lipgloss and planning outfits days in advance. choosing nail designs, watching rom coms, anx everything showers. also called pampering yourself.

and that’s not to say if you do those things you’re automatically girl, as well as if you don’t do those things, doesn’t mean you’re not a girl. but there’s just something that feels so relaxing and feminine about doing your skin care routine that you’re not sure what else to call it.

before joseph met you, he didn’t have a skin care routine. hell, most men don’t. he’d scrub his face with either shampoo or body wash in the shower and call it a day. so a few months into dating, just at the point where sleepovers became common, he found you in your bathroom before bed, sleeves rolled up and little towel bracelets around your dainty wrists.

your face was slathered in pre-cleanse, giving you that oily, wet look as you quirked a brow through the mirror in joseph’s direction. “you okay?”

he’s leanings against the doorframe, looking at you so curiously. his eyes move over your skin, the way your makeup is melting off, and then down to your bathroom counter. there’s so much skincare.

obviously he’s been in your bathroom before, but he’s never really looked at what you keep on your shelves and in your drawers. it’s rather intriguing—the lineup of products that you’ve set out in order of usage. joseph meets your gaze through the mirror, “what does that do? like the stuff on your face.”

“it’s called a pre-cleanse,” you say, wetting your hands and beginning to massage the cleanser into your skin. “it’s the first cleanser. to get off my makeup before the gel cleanser.”

“there’s multiple cleansers?”

you hum before leaning over the sink, cupping your hands under the tap and then splashing it over your face. you repeat that a few times.

curiosity gets the best of him and joseph walks further into your cluttered bathroom, moving right up beside you. he picks up one of the products. seaweed mask?

you rise back to your full height and jump in surprise when you spot your boyfriend, much closer than when you last saw him. he doesn’t even noticed you though, too busy switching out the mask in his hand for a milk toner, which he inspects in detail. “you use all of this? at once?”

“not at once,” you tell him, gently slapping his hand as he tries to grab your gel cleanser. you squirt some into your palm, and then put the bottle back down. joseph immediately grabs it, pops it open and sniffs. you giggle, emulsifying the product in your hands, “I just use the basic stuff everyday, and then if there’s something I need to focus on, i’ll incorporate certain products.”

“focus on?” he trails off, waiting for you to elaborate.

“like,” you start, washing your face, “if i’m breaking out. or if my skin is really dehydrated i’ll use more hydrating products.”

“oh,” he chimes, picking up one of the hydrating masks you must be referring to.

you wash the cleanser off your face before continuing. “that mask would be really good for you joe, with the ice and sweat and all that stuff.”

then it’s like you just found some kind of great discovery, eyes wild and bright as you spin half way around to look at your boyfriend. your hands, still wet, clap together, and you’re practically jumping on your feet. “oh my god, can I put it on you?”

you look so cute and so enamoured by the idea of putting a light blue face mask on him, all clean, rosy skin and a froggy headband pulling your hair back, that joe almost doesn’t want to say no. he sighs, tired from afternoon practice and not much sleep the night before. “I don’t think so, baby, but thanks.”

he pats your butt affectionately before making a move to leave your cluttered bathroom. but you’re not having that. you grab his arms, pulling him back towards you. “please,” you pout, “it’ll feel so good and your skin will thank you.”

he laughs, kissing your pout. “my skin is fine.”

you quirk a brow, “says who?”

his mouth opens, and he scoffs in amusement. “did you just diss on me?”

“just...sit down and let me pamper you” you grumble.

joseph sighs, and by the look he gives you, you already know your answer. and the answer is yes. you gleam, guiding him over to your closed role it seat and plopping him down.

“okay,” you start cheerfully, “do you want a cat headband, or a cow headband?”

“cat obviously.”

—

(not edited)

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 2

Summary: You save Soap's life. Yours continues to go off the rails. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, panic attack, my continued attempt to write Soap and Ghost's accents, military inaccuracies, more canon divergence, Soft!Simon. MINORS DNI A/N: I truly cannot believe how sweet you guys were about the first chapter. Thank you so much for being so kind! I apologize for the wait. I was almost done with this chapter when I decided I hated it and scrapped all of it and started over. I also finished another draft of my novel! Busy times. This is definitely more of a slow burn romance and I'm thinking it'll be around 10 or so chapters.

Well, at least you were out of the hospital room. It wasn’t far from the hospital room, but the horrendously beige room down the hall had a television and a few chairs you could sink into and a small kitchen that always seemed to be stocked with snacks in neat boxes on the counter. Were they good snacks? Not really. But you weren’t about to complain when it was a break from the nutrient dense and flavorless food they’d been shoveling down your throat the last handful of days.

Coronation Street was playing on the television as you soaked a plain biscuit in your tea. This was probably a breakroom of some sort, cleared out of anything that you could have possibly used to communicate with the outside world and you were pretty sure the blinking light in the corner was a camera to make sure you weren’t going to do anything ridiculous. Like climb out a window.

No.

You just wanted out of that stupid room with its uncomfortable bed and terrible pillow and beeping machines.

The biscuit crumbled in half when you tried to remove it and you stared at your tea for a stretched moment as the soap opera continued to drone on. Dammit. You shoved the rest of the biscuit into your mouth and then sipped on the tea for a moment before digging out the remnants of the biscuit with your spoon. Not your proudest moment.

You were pulled from your sad cup of tea and entertainment by the door opening and Soap walking in, arm still in his matching sling.

“Why am I hearing about ye not taking yer pain killers?” He asked instead of a greeting. You found that Soap did that. He barged right into things. No slow starts for him. It would be endearing if this were any other situation.

And just like you not saying anything to Ghost about your sister and why she wouldn’t be found in any intel about you, you wouldn’t give Soap a straight answer either. You were not going to take any of those pain killers if you didn’t feel like you needed them. You knew… Well, that didn’t matter right now. “Are they telling you my medical history? I don’t think that’s legal on either side of the pond.”

He frowned. The big Scot frowned and you almost laughed with how it made him look like a puppy. “Don’t ye need it? Ye were shot.”

“I’m aware of that. Trust me.” You turned and grabbed at the sleeve of biscuits, knowing it was a blatant change of topic. “These are awful, by the way.”

Soap snatched them out of your hand and scowled at them. “These are shite. Why’d ye do that to yerself?” He then pivoted and rummaged through the cabinets you weren’t brave enough to open and then set down a pack of shortbreads in a fancy looking tin which he popped open with one hand (you tried not to be jealous about that particular skill). “That’ll be the only thing going near yer tea.”

The shortbread was delicious and you wordlessly made another cup of tea for yourself and a cup of coffee for Soap. You were prouder than you wanted to admit to hear you guessed correctly when you said he looked like he preferred coffee and prouder still when you dug some out of the cabinet and made it just the way he said he liked it as he settled on the lumpy couch beside you to watch the rest of the episode. He knew what was going on better than you and regaled you with the storylines long since finished and convoluted family ties of the characters. It was nice. Soap was…nice.

He had finished his coffee by the time the episode ended and scooped up your mug on his way toward the breakroom’s tiny kitchenette and set them both in the sink. He turned back toward you, bright blue eyes scanning your face for something. He had a casual set to his shoulders, even with the sling, but you knew the look of a smart man trying to pick his words carefully. Soap honestly reminded you, just a little bit, of a guy you went to highschool with, who looked the part of loveable idiot but eventually went to an ivy league school on a football scholarship. He was currently a doctor, knee deep in cancer research, if those annoying alumni emails had any truth to them.

“Just say what you need to say. I’m sure I can handle it.”

The corner of Soap’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I wanted to let ye know that yer intel was good.”

You just nodded. That would explain why you hadn’t seen the other three lately. They had been sent to Kastovia. “That mean I can go home?”

Soap sighed and your heart shriveled a bit more. “No, lass. I’m sorry.”

Someone had left a calendar in the breakroom. You had tried to keep track of the days that had slipped by, but you just wanted to be sure. You counted on your fingers how many days you thought had passed, but the pain killers the first few days after the tunnel had made everything hazy. You worried your bottom lip with the blunt edge of your teeth as you flipped through the next month and dragged your finger down to the day you knew Kirby was due.

Just a few short weeks. That’s all you had. You needed to be there. You needed to be back in time. You’d promised Kirby you would be. You’d never broken a promise to your younger sister and you didn’t want to start now. Those stupid, useless tears stung at your eyes again and blurred the calendar dates. “Fuck.” You wiped at your eyes, trying to keep them from falling before anyone saw, before you felt more useless and trapped than you already did.

Another episode of Coronation Street was playing, a hum at the back of your mind, but it started to mutate and grow until it was a screech. You needed to get to Kirby. They had what they needed from you. You would sign anything they wanted, change your name, dye your hair, live off the grid. But you needed to see Kirby.

You promised.

The door opened easily and you strode out into the hallway. Did you know where you were going? Not really but you just needed to leave. You could figure out the rest later. After all, Kirby always said you landed on your feet. It was time you proved her right. You turned down another hall and yelped when a meaty hand clapped on your uninjured shoulder. You turned, tamping down the urge to throw an elbow and snarled as you realized it was only Soap and his ridiculous blue eyes.

“What’re ye doing?”

“I’m leaving. I have to go.” Your heart thudded painfully as you turned, slipping out from his grip. The edges of your vision started to blur and you hated that you knew what this meant. It had been years since you felt like this—but this situation hadn’t exactly been great for your mental health.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Each beat of your heart hurt.

“Ye cannae do that, lass. Ye know that.”

“I’m leaving.” You turned again to leave and grunted when he pulled at the back of your shirt. “Let go of me.”

“Lass-”

You turned and tugged your shirt free, letting the snarl curl your mouth as your vision continued to tunnel.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

“I’m leaving!”

What happened next was not your finest moment but you’d also been through worse. Soap reached for you again and after you pulled out of his grip once more, he lowered his shoulder and ran at you, hauling you up and over. His arm anchored you down, a weight across your back as his shoulder dug into your stomach. You didn’t even freeze as he turned, presumably to bring you back to the breakroom. Your arm pushed out of its sling and you wrapped your hands around one of his thighs and let his next step help pull you from his grip. Heat lanced across your shoulder as you wiggled against the grip until you yanked your legs free and kicked them above his head and over your own until your heels hit the ground. And then you were throwing yourself forward and dashing down the hallway. Out. You needed to get out. You needed to leave. Every breath burned a little more and-

The tile was cool against your cheek but Soap’s arms were a heavy firebrand as they banded around your waist. “Calm down. Calm down fer me.”

You thrashed against his hold as he stood but he didn’t seem to care and it wasn’t like you were a match to those dumb, hulking muscles. But still, your memory was hazy as he dragged you back to the breakroom and shoved a shortbread into your hand.

“Now, I’ll talk to someone. But ye cannae do that. Ye understand?”

By the time Simon arrived back on home soil, they’d moved her and Soap to a different part of the base. A hall of barracks that had been recently constructed but not yet assigned to a different squadron had been a good place to hide away their injured sergeant and American informant. Laswell had informed Price of the move and then sent along a video in lieu of an explanation.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure how many times he watched her claw and wiggle her way out of Johnny’s grip but Price did eventually take the phone away from him. (But not before Simon sent himself a copy.) She was wily. Strong. Stubborn.

Even when she had tears smeared across her face.

It was easy for Simon to claim one of the rooms as his own—it had always been better for Simon to be on base anyway. His flat in Manchester never felt like home. Just an expensive place to rest his head when he was ordered to take his mandated leave. Knowing the others were down the hall was more comfortable than any sort of high priced pillow anyway.

The mission had been successful. And a shitshow. The cache of gas had been exactly where her intel had said it would be in a barren steel plant. But the handful of missiles had been an unexpected find. As had the small militia that awaited them. While they had been easily dealt with, one of them managed to set off what Simon could only describe as a failsafe to take out the entire plant and the surrounding area. The gas dissipated quickly but not before it had caused extensive damage. Makarov wanted them dead. And he wanted her dead, too, if the picture one of his men had pinned up beside a map of different caches and routes to take over borders was any indication. It was upside down and some artist had taken it upon themselves to scratch out her eyes and draw an obvious axe buried in her neck. Charming. There were a few smaller pictures beside it but he didn’t get a clear look at them.

The explosion meant they didn’t have more than the one picture Gaz took of the map and Simon’s lungs burned a bit every time he took a breath. Nik had been quick in the exfil but still cut it close. Too close. And it grated on his every nerve that Makarov hadn’t been there. Still in the wind.

Simon had been told to visit the medbay before going to bed—Laswell was supposed to be arriving tomorrow for a debrief—but he thought that was more of a suggestion than an order. He’d dropped his bag on the floor and rinsed off before lumbering into the small bed, letting the standard-issue sheets scratch at his skin. It felt like coming home. And he watched the video again, feeling a strange smile push at his mouth.

He could bother Johnny about her ability to get away from him in the morning.

The doctor whose name you couldn’t be bothered to remember told you to start physical therapy. And, just your luck, Soap had been told to do the same. If he was wary of you because of your outburst, he didn’t show it at all. He would smile at you, eyes crinkling, over his coffee whenever you opened your door at the crack of dawn. A tea would be in his other hands and ready for you. It was a nice routine as more days continued to slip by.

You’d stretch and grumble about the slowly fading pain in your shoulder and Soap would do the same. At least you didn’t need to use the sling anymore. But this was, pathetically, probably the closest you’d had to a friend. He’d talk and talk and talk. About his mom and sisters up in a small town outside Glasgow. About the dog he had as a kid—“Boots was the best dog a boy could have, lass, lemme tell ye.” About anything that seemed to pop into his head as the sun would intermittently peek out from behind the low hanging clouds to splash warmth across the dead grass beneath your sneakers. You counted it as a win that they let you outside. It was behind a fence with razor wire at the top, but a win is a win. Mostly. Maybe they were seeing if they could actually trust you outside those beige walls.

You’d swallow nails if it meant you could be at Kirby’s side when she needed you.

One of the more ridiculous exercises the doctor had you and Soap do was passing a yoga ball between one another—of course, you had to move your arms a certain way to get the right stretch or whatever, but it all felt a little silly, even with the twinge growing more pronounced with each pass. Hands on top and on bottom, twist so they’re on the side, hand to Soap. He’d repeat.

���This feels very stupid.”

“Aye. But they’re watchin’ so we’d best play nice.”

The yoga ball nearly slipped from your suddenly-slick fingers. “What do you mean?” You’d heard a bit of thudding from the empty room next to yours last night but thought it was a faulty air unit. Was there someone else here?

“They got back last night. Give ‘em a chance to settle before they say hello, aye?” Soap’s blue eyes sparked with mirth and you might have shoved the ball back at him a little harder than necessary. He just laughed at you.

You chanced a glance at the rectangular windows cut into the metal building, close to the sharp edge of the roof. He was probably just being funny, but now you couldn’t fight the feeling of someone watching you. And why did your mind conjure Ghost’s ridiculous mask?

He hadn’t said much after you had told him you weren’t going to pour your heart out to him. But he’d continued to stare until he and the others left for Kastovia without a word. One guy who’d found you “mysterious” while you were in undergrad thought that he could figure you out and stared, too. Thought that his attempt at a psychology degree would unravel all…well, all of you. He gave up after a couple of months. Ghost didn’t seem the type to give up. But that still didn’t mean that you were going to tell him anything.

You threw another glance toward the window and the yoga ball hit you in the face.

Simon stared down at the inhaler. This was stupid. The doc had hurriedly explained that being exposed to the gas during the explosion had done a number on Simon’s lungs. At least he wasn’t Price who’d hit his head on his way out and was told he’d had a concussion and also needed the inhaler. Gaz had been the only one who’d managed to get out mostly unscathed aside from needing a butterfly bandage for a cut over his eye.

His next breath burned and Simon finally shook the damn scrap of plastic and took a puff just as he heard the back door open. He stood and watched Johnny and the woman trudge out into the dead grass, carrying a few bits of equipment, including a yoga ball, craning his head just enough to see them through the high window. And well, if he stood on the small desk chair to watch, who would know?

He couldn’t hear them but he watched her throw a few glances toward the window. And then Johnny hit her in the face with the yoga ball. She promptly slingshotted one of the resistance bands at his head in retaliation.

“Heh.”

The debrief later that morning with Laswell had gone as expected: More intel was good. Makarov not being spotted was bad. They needed time to heal. Farah and Alex would investigate possible gas caches just within Urzikstan’s borders.

The picture Gaz managed to grab was helpful and did verify a majority of the intel they had already. But it did mean that Makarov’s network was larger than they had ever thought. One of Laswell’s contacts had enhanced the slightly blurry picture and Simon recognized each of the 141’s faces, pinned to the board, too. They were targets just as much as she was. Small bits of paper stemmed from Price, Soap, and Kyle’s pictures and Simon knew what they represented even without the fancy tech trying to make it clearer. They were hunting for weak spots. Family. Friends.

They needed to leave. Keep low. Hide. Simon hated it. He hated that the others had families on the line and he could do nothing but take a few puffs of his stupid inhaler and wait. These were men who’d become his brothers-in-arms and their families were at risk. He knew what it was like to lose.

Price’s hacking cough basically ended the debrief and Laswell said she needed to make some calls, disappearing to another part of the base and Price griped as Kyle urged him to go back to medical. Johnny said he was going to start packing.

Simon walked away as Price continued to grumble and walked down the small hallway toward the bunk rooms and–

BANG.

Simon paused just for a moment, straining his ears as he pushed further down the hallway. With how the mission had gone, he couldn’t rule out that someone had attempted to get onto base and finish the job the gas couldn’t. There were security gates and checkpoints, of course. The high fences. And this part of the base was underdeveloped for now. But having a traitor in the midst wasn’t something Simon could write off.

“Fuck,” came an annoyed voice.

The tension slipped from his shoulders as he pushed open the nearest door.

Sitting in a chair in front of the mirror atop the tiny dresser, she was picking at her stitches with a pair of needle nose pliers. A small pile of the twists sat atop the dresser—apparently she’d been at this for a while. Simon walked in, watching as she leaned closer to the mirror, trying to see the stitches across her shoulder better as she plucked at them. She’d jammed her tongue between her teeth and the strap of her thin top had been tugged down. A book, probably pilfered from the breakroom, was open beside her.

(Simon stared. Just for a little.)

The pliers fell from her hands and bounced off the dresser before hitting the floor. That had been the sound he’d heard.

“Need a ‘and?”

She let out what he could only describe as a squeak as she turned toward him, hurling the book at his head as the pliers slipped from her other hand. He caught it without letting loose the laugh he felt growing.

“Jesus Christ! How long have you been standing there? Don’t you knock?”

“Heard something. Thought something bad ‘appened.” Not a lie. He tossed the book onto the bed. He watched her mouth curl at the edges and Simon wasn’t sure if she was going to yell at him or laugh.

“Right.” She stared at him for a little longer before bending down to grab the pliers again. She settled in front of the mirror again and stared at the remaining stitches. At least the ones she could see. Simon had a clear view of the mess of stitches on her back. She’d never reach those.

She stared back at him in the mirror. The grip she had on the pliers was tight and grew tighter when he stepped closer. But he still easily pulled the tool from her hand and then reached down to turn her chair around to face him.

“What’re you doing?” She asked as he started to untwist the next stitch.

“Helping.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Doin’ it anyway.”

Well, fuck.

You could do very little except stare at Ghost as he undid each of the stitches. You weren’t stupid enough to tell him to fuck off. What he was doing was nice. You couldn’t deny that but why the hell was he doing it? He was even bigger from this angle as he loomed over you. But he was being gentle with you, so gentle. And silent. Maybe it would be better if he talked to you through it all or said anything at all, but he was…quiet.

And so were you.

Until the door opened again and Gaz came in, gun drawn. You had pivoted back toward the door, only for a moment before Ghost let out a short, sharp breath from behind his mask and nudged you back into position. You still managed to see Gaz holster his weapon with a smile on his face, perfect teeth glinting in the low light. “All good here, LT?”

He grunted but didn’t turn to look at his teammate. You chanced a look up at Simon to see him still singularly focused on your stitches. His dark eyes didn’t stray from them even though you were sure he could feel you looking at him.

By the time he reached down to turn your chair again, letting him start on your back, you found yourself liking how quiet he was. Small talk had never been your forte and you surmised that it wasn’t high on Ghost’s list of skills either.

When his thumb pressed into your spine, covered by the harsh fabric of his gloves, you tried not to shiver as you let him move you so he could see the stitches better. And he removed those, too.

It was when his finger trailed against the new scar on your back, barely a whisper of a touch, that you couldn’t stop it. God, you really were pathetic. When he moved the strap of your shirt back up your shoulder, you managed to bite the next one back. “Thanks,” you said, the word uneven and warbled. “You going to help Soap take out his, too?” You weren’t sure if you were being sarcastic or not.

The way Ghost tilted his head made you think he wasn’t sure, either. “Cap did ‘is already. Looks like shit.”

And you laughed.

The nondescript SUV rocked slightly side to side as it tore down the road. Gaz seemed hellbent on getting wherever you were headed quickly. There had been some good-natured ribbing about not letting Ghost drive. They seemed to like each other, a good camaraderie between them that seemed as easy as breathing. But you guessed that would probably happen in their line of work. Defying death together usually did that. Price, however, did seem at least a little put out about not being the driver.

And you were stuck at the back of the SUV, listening to them talk amongst each other. To his credit, Soap and Gaz both tried to involve you in the conversation. They would ask what you had been doing in London, if you’d ever been outside the city, if your shoulder was giving you trouble. It was nice.

They were still nice.

You didn’t really understand why they were trying so hard but you weren’t about to ask. Especially not now when you had a black bag over your head. They didn’t really trust you but it had been a weird kindness when you’d felt Ghost buckle you in and place a light blanket over your lap before you’d departed. It was probably a silent order to go the fuck to sleep seeing as you hadn’t been sleeping well since you’d hastily weened yourself off the most intense pain killers. It didn’t help that you’d been shuffled outside right after midnight and told to get in the back of the vehicle without much fanfare. And you knew better than to argue.

You had a bag over your head and were heading to an unknown destination. The power dynamics didn’t exactly scream trustworthy. They kept you alive, that was true. But they didn’t trust you. Funny.

You leaned your head back against the seat and sighed, the fabric rustled against your mouth. It was a strange feeling. Weirdly comforting, like when you’d push your face into the pillow and scream when you were a child, desperate for an outlet.

“I can see why you like the mask,” you muttered.

“Whot?”

Hm. You said that out loud. Well, too late to take it back now. “I said I see why you like the mask.”

“She’s bloody insane,” Gaz whispered. But you liked to think he was smiling while he said it.

“Maybe Ghost’ll lend ye one of his? Ye two could match.”

There was an answering smack and “och, what was that for, LT?” before the blanket was adjusted over your lap.

“Go to sleep.”

You smiled beneath the bag. And, knowing you had nothing better to do…you went to sleep with Ghost’s low rumbling echoing in your ears.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[meadowfics]

seoah's first sport

father!husband!kang dae ho x f!mother!wife!reader

apart of my 'kang family' series

warnings: none, however I do use the american way of saying football

the morning sun poured into the living room, casting a warm glow over the wooden floors as seo-ah bounced onto the couch beside you, her tiny legs barely able to sit still.

your daughter's face is glowing with excitement, her bunny hugged tightly against her chest as she beamed up at you.

“eomma!” she practically shouted, eyes wide with enthusiasm.

“eomma, i wanna play soccer like my friends at school!”

the school she goes to is a daycare, but I digress.

you blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden outburst, before a fond smile crept onto your lips.

“oh yeah?” you asked, gently tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“you wanna play soccer?”

she nodded furiously, her little pigtails bouncing with the movement.

“yes! jiho and min-seo play, and they say it’s really fun! they have real teams and everything, eomma! real games and goals!”

you couldn’t help but giggle at her excitement, her entire body practically vibrating as she spoke.

“that sounds amazing, baby. do you want to be on a team too?”

“yes!” she said without hesitation, gripping her bunny a little tighter.

“please, please, please?”

your heart melted at her excitement. she was only four, but her enthusiasm was undeniable.

“okay, okay,” you laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“let me talk to appa about it, and we’ll see what we can do, okay?”

“okay!” she grinned, throwing her arms around your waist before scrambling off the couch, her bunny swinging wildly as she ran off to play.

you watched her go, shaking your head fondly before standing up and heading toward the kitchen, where dae-ho was finishing up his morning coffee.

he was dressed in his usual work-from-home attire, sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt, his hair slightly tousled from sleep.

he glanced up as you entered, immediately sensing you had something to say.

“what’s that look for?” he asked, smirking as he set his mug down.

you leaned against the counter, crossing your arms.

“seo-ah wants to play soccer.”

he blinked, then let out a small chuckle.

“soccer?”

“mhm,” you nodded, “apparently, a few of her daycare friends are on a mini team, and now she wants to join too.”

dae-ho rubbed the back of his neck, thinking for a moment.

“well… that’s kinda adorable.”

“right?” you laughed, “i mean, she’s only four, but if she really wants to try it, why not?”

he nodded in agreement.

“so, what’s the schedule like for this team?”

you pulled out your phone, glancing at the information the daycare had sent you.

“they practice once a week, and the games are on saturdays.”

he considered this for a moment, taking another sip of his coffee.

“well, since you’re home with the girls, you could take her to practice during the week, and i’ll come to all of her games on saturday.”

your heart warmed at his immediate willingness to adjust their schedules for seo-ah.

“you sure?” you asked, “i mean, we don’t have to sign her up if it’ll be too much.”

he scoffed, shaking his head.

“y/n, we’re literally in a position where we can do this without any stress. we have the time, and more importantly, she’s excited about it. we should let her try.”

you smiled, nodding.

“yeah and of course, if she ever decides she doesn’t want to do it anymore, we won’t force her to stay right?”

“exactly,” he agreed.

“it’s about her having fun, not turning her into some superstar athlete unless she wants to be of course.”

you let out a small laugh at the thought, imagining seo-ah running around a little soccer field, her tiny legs chasing after the ball with all the energy she had.

“alright,” you said, setting your phone down, “i’ll enroll her today.”

dae-ho smiled, stepping forward to wrap his arms around your waist.

“good. she’s gonna love this.”

you rested your head against his chest, feeling a sense of peace settle over you.

“i think so too.”

you couldn’t wait to see your little girl run around on the field, her face bright with excitement as she chased the ball with her tiny teammates. seeing her find something she loved, something that made her feel proud and happy, meant everything to you.

the sun hung warm and casted a soft glow over the small soccer field. little kids in neon orange jerseys ran around in packs, their tiny legs carrying them across the grass with excitement, while their opponents in bright blue did the same.

it was chaotic, unorganized, and absolutely adorable.

you stood on the sidelines, byeol snugly strapped to your chest in the lavender baby carrier, her tiny head resting against you as she slept peacefully.

beside you, dae-ho casually ate from a mini bag of chips, his eyes locked on the field with a look of pure focus.

meanwhile, seo-ah sat on the bench before warm-ups, munching on the small rice cakes you had packed her, her little cheeks full as she chewed.

she looked just like her father.

the similarities were crazy.

the way they both ate, their little habits of pausing mid-chew when something caught their attention, the way their eyebrows furrowed in the exact same way... it was like looking at two versions of the same person, one grown and male and one in toddler and female form.

“you two are so alike,” you muttered, shaking your head with a small laugh as you glanced between them.

dae-ho popped another chip into his mouth and shrugged.

“good genes,” he smirked, before nodding toward seo-ah, “she’s got my athletic skills too, just watch.”

you rolled your eyes playfully, though your heart warmed at how invested he already was.

the little warm-up drills started, and the moment seo-ah successfully tapped the ball with a tiny pass to one of her teammates, dae-ho sat up straighter, his hand hovering near his knee as if he were about to get out of his seat.

“that’s it, seo!”

he called, his voice full of encouragement.

you bit your lip, trying not to laugh at how intensely he was watching the game, but you had to admit...seeing seo-ah run around out there, her little face full of determination, made your chest swell with pride.

soon, the mini-game started.

the tiny players took their places on the field, and you could tell from how seo-ah was positioned that she was supposed to be one of the little defenders.

your heart could have burst at the sight of her little body bouncing in place, already eager for the ball.

suddenly, the ball rolled toward her feet and that’s when everything else went out the window.

seo-ah, your little girl, your firstborn, saw the ball and took off, straight up the field, forgetting all about her defensive position.

you and dae-ho exchanged a glance before laughing.

“you can pass it, baby!” dae-ho called, amused as he watched her tiny legs power forward, completely focused on reaching the goal.

seo-ah didn’t pass it. at least, not right away.

she kept dribbling, weaving between the other kids in her own version of ball control, before finally sending the ball toward a little girl on her team who was wide open in front of the undefended goal.

the girl kicked it in.

you and dae-ho immediately started clapping, your cheers loud and proud.

“great assist, seo-ah!” you called, your voice carrying across the field.

she turned, hearing your voice, and gave you a small wave, her tiny face lighting up with pride.

soon after, the other team managed to score.

your eyes landed on seo-ah immediately, noticing the way her little shoulders slumped, her bottom lip pushing out into a small pout.

“it’s okay, seo!” you called, giving her an encouraging wave.

she turned again, her big brown eyes locking onto yours before her tiny hand lifted to wave back.

near the end of the game, something magical happened, well at least for your oldest daughter.

seo-ah got the ball again, and this time, instead of passing, she ran full speed toward the goal.

tiny legs pumping, arms slightly out to the sides for balance, her face scrunched up in the cutest little look of focus... you and dae-ho were completely locked in.

she kicked it.

the ball rolled slowly but surely into the goal.

goal.

you and dae-ho erupted into cheers, clapping like absolute idiots around the other parents who looked at the happy parents with admiration.

“that’s my girl!” dae-ho hollered, grinning ear to ear.

your hands clapped together, your voice carrying across the field,

“way to go, seo-ah!!”

the loud cheers startled poor byeol, who had been peacefully napping against your chest.

she let out a small whimper, her tiny hands stretching slightly in protest of being woken up.

you immediately rubbed her back, rocking her gently.

“sorry, baby, eomma got too excited.”

on the pitch with seo-ah, her faces beaming. she turned toward the sidelines and saw you, saw her appa, saw that she had the biggest, loudest, most supportive parents in the crowd.

and that made her smile even bigger.

as the tiny game came to an end, you and dae-ho exchanged glances, both filled with the same overwhelming love for the little girl on the field.

kang family masterlist

[aspenmissing]

ʀᴜɴᴀᴡᴀʏ ʙʀɪᴅᴇ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 12217 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ/ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ/ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ/ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏ��ɪᴋ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ

VANDER

The Last Drop pulsed with life, thick with the scent of sweat, cheap spirits, and something burning in the back that smelled almost edible. The air was warm, heavy with voices—laughing, shouting, singing off-key. It was alive in a way Piltover had never been.

Y/N kept her hood up, letting the dim lighting and thick haze of the bar shield her. Even so, she felt eyes on her. Zaunites weren’t used to someone like her in a place like this. It wasn’t just the fabric of her cloak, stitched with precision by hands that had never known hard labour. It wasn’t even the outfit beneath, fine and delicate, a stark contrast to the grime-streaked floor.

It was the way she carried herself—like someone who had never belonged in the Undercity.

But she didn’t belong there, either.

Her fingers curled around the glass set in front of her, its surface cool against her palm. The amber liquid swirled under the lantern light, rich and deep. She had no intention of drinking it.

She just wanted to touch something real.

“Don’t see your kind ‘round here much.”

The voice was deep, roughened by time and too many cigarettes. She glanced up and found the source—a man leaning against the bar, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The kind of presence that made a man stand out in any room, even one as loud as this. He looked like he belonged here, a man shaped by the weight of something heavier than most could carry.

She had never met him before, but she knew of him. Everyone did. Vander—the man who kept Zaun standing, even when the rest of the world wanted to see it fall.

Y/N’s fingers tapped lightly against her glass. “And what kind is that?”

Vander’s gaze flickered over her, assessing. He wasn’t subtle about it. “Piltover girl.”

The words stung more than they should have. She wasn’t wrong to be here. She wanted to be here.

She wasn’t sure where else to go.

“I needed a drink,” she said, voice barely above the hum of the bar.

Vander huffed a quiet chuckle, wiping his hands on the cloth tucked into his belt. “That so?” He gestured to the untouched glass. “Not doin’ a great job of it.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Not sure where to start.”

“Depends what you’re runnin’ from.”

Her grip tightened around the glass.

He saw too much. Even without knowing her name, he had already pulled at the threads of truth beneath the silk and lace.

Vander nodded toward her hands. “You alright, love?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she sighed, shifting slightly on the stool. “You get a lot of runaways in here?”

“More than I’d like,” Vander admitted, resting an elbow on the counter. “Though most don’t look as well-fed as you.”

She let out a humourless laugh. “Guess I’m not very good at it.”

“Maybe not.” He considered her for a long moment. “But somethin’ tells me this ain’t your first time sneakin’ out.”

It wasn’t.

She had fled before—twice, to be exact. The first time, she hadn’t made it past the front gates before they caught her. The second, she had reached the docks. This time, she had made it all the way down to Zaun.

Progress.

But she had always known how this would end.

That’s why she didn’t flinch when the doors to the bar slammed open, or when the heavy boots of Piltover enforcers stomped across the floor.

She didn’t even turn around.

“Y/N L/N,” one of them called out sharply. “You’ve been ordered to return home.”

A few heads turned. A few shoulders tensed. But no one stepped in. Zaunites knew better than to get between Piltover and their problems.

She could feel Vander watching her, felt the weight of his presence at her side.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Took you longer than usual.”

One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. “Come quietly, and your father will—”

“I know the speech,” she interrupted, pushing back her hood. “I wrote half of it for him.”

Vander didn’t say anything, but she could feel his gaze sharpening. She glanced at him, offering a small, wry smile. “Told you I wasn’t good at this.”

His brows furrowed, jaw tightening.

“You don’t have to go,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. Don’t make this harder.

“If I don’t, they’ll bring more,” she muttered. “And next time, they won’t ask nicely.”

Vander exhaled slowly, looking like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched as she reached for the glass in front of her, lifting it to her lips.

The liquor burned as it went down, sharp and punishing. But at least this was a choice she got to make. She set the empty glass down with a quiet clink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned to the waiting guards.

“Alright,” she sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

They stepped forward, their hands closing around her arms—not rough, not cruel, just final. Vander didn’t stop them. But he didn’t look away, either.

His gaze stayed on her, steady and unreadable, like he was committing this moment to memory. Like he was trying to figure out whether this was the last time he’d see her—or just the beginning of something neither of them could name.

Y/N exhaled slowly, forcing down the lump in her throat. Then, just as they reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes one last time.

“See you later, Vander.”

=

The first time she came back, she barely made it through the door before the guards found her. The second time, she got a drink in before they dragged her away. By the third time, Vander already had a glass waiting by the time she sat down.

He didn’t even have to ask what she wanted. Just set the drink in front of her with that knowing look, his arms braced against the bar as he leaned in slightly.

“You’re gettin’ predictable, love.” His voice was warm, teasing.

Y/N huffed, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she wrapped her fingers around the glass. “I’d call it improving. Last time, I made it a whole hour.”

Vander chuckled, a quiet rumble deep in his chest. “And the time before that, forty-five minutes.” He tipped his chin toward the door, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Not much longer ‘til you make it a whole night.”

She grinned, taking a slow sip of her drink. The burn was sharp, but familiar now. A taste that had come to mean freedom. Even if only for a little while.

“That the gambler in you talkin’?” she asked, raising a brow.

Vander smirked, shifting his weight against the counter. “Just callin’ it how I see it.”

Something about the way he said it made warmth creep up her spine.

The first time they met, there had been caution in his eyes, suspicion. He had been wary, watching her like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But things had changed. Somewhere in the past few weeks, between the stolen moments and the drinks she never got to finish, something had shifted.

She wasn’t just some Piltover girl anymore.

She was his runaway.

Even the guards had stopped being rough when they came for her. By now, they had accepted their fate as much as she had—tired men chasing after a noble girl who refused to stay put.

“Lady Y/N,” one of them sighed, stepping up to her side. The exhaustion in his voice was almost comical. “Again?”

Y/N groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. “Just let me finish my drink.”

The enforcer glanced at Vander, as if hoping for some kind of help.

Vander just shrugged, casual as ever. “She did just get here.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The guard sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Five minutes.”

Y/N grinned, lifting her glass in a silent toast to Vander before taking another sip.

=

Months passed, and the game never changed. She ran. They found her. She ran again. But it wasn’t just a game anymore—it was a life, a second home carved out in the Undercity, slipping between the cracks of her rebellion.

Every time she made it to The Last Drop, Vander was waiting. Sometimes behind the bar, already setting down a drink before she pulled back her hood. Other times mid-conversation, nodding at her in quiet acknowledgment while others wisely chose not to question her presence.

She wasn’t just some Piltover girl anymore. She was theirs.

Powder saved her a seat, chattering about her inventions. Claggor taught her how to cheat at cards while Vi teased her mercilessly. Even Mylo, ever skeptical, had begrudgingly stopped acting surprised when she walked in. And Vander? Vander just watched. Never asked why she came back. Never pushed for answers she wasn’t ready to give. He just let her be.

Maybe that’s what made this so much harder.

She traced the rim of her glass, staring into the amber liquid. Tonight, the drink tasted different—bitter, heavy, like something had already been lost before she even spoke the words.

Vander was watching her, arms crossed, brow furrowed slightly. He had already picked up on it—of course he had. He always did.

“You’re quiet,” he finally said.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I talk too much?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it. “A bit.”

She turned the glass in slow circles against the counter, focusing on the way the light caught the liquid inside. The warmth that settled in her chest had nothing to do with the alcohol. It was just him. Just the way he was there, solid and steady. For months, she had convinced herself she had time. That if she just kept slipping through the cracks, she could keep coming back. But Piltover had finally found a way to cage her.

She swallowed hard. “I can’t come back.”

Vander stilled. Not much, just enough. Just a shift in the way he stood, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his arm. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Didn’t demand an explanation.

She hated that about him. Hated that he made it easy. Hated that he never forced her to say things out loud, because now, she had no choice but to do it herself.

She tightened her grip around the glass, the words tasting like poison as she finally said them. “My father—he’s arranging a marriage.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s been decided.”

Vander exhaled slowly, and for a long moment, he just stood there. Not surprised. Not angry. Just steady. Like he had known this was coming, even if she had refused to admit it to herself.

“When?” he asked quietly.

“A few weeks.”

A slow nod. Thoughtful. His eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “You gonna go through with it?”

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Not much of a choice, is there?”

“There’s always a choice.”

Y/N looked away, jaw tightening. “Not this time.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick.

She wished he would say something—anything. Tell her she was being foolish. Tell her she was right to go. Tell her not to go. But Vander wasn’t that kind of man. He wouldn’t give her an answer because he knew it wasn’t his to give.

She inhaled sharply, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess that’s the end of my little rebellion, huh?”

His lips quirked, but it wasn’t really a smile. “That what this was?”

She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “Maybe.”

Another silence. Longer this time. She could feel it slipping away. This. Them. Whatever it was. Whatever it could have been if she had just—

Her fingers clenched in her lap. “Say something.”

Vander’s jaw tightened. His fingers tapped idly against the counter, a slow, thoughtful rhythm. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“You’ll be miserable.”

The words hit her like a punch to the ribs. She forced out a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to her own ears. “You don’t know that.”

Vander just looked at her. Didn’t need to say anything else. She dropped her gaze, swallowing hard. He was right.

Of course he was.

She wanted to tell him—wanted to say the things she had been biting back for months, to admit what she already knew deep down. That no matter how far she was taken, she would always find her way back to him.

But instead, she downed the rest of her drink, set the glass down with a quiet finality, and stood. Just like the first night they met, she turned toward the door. No guards would drag her away this time. She was walking out on her own. At the threshold, she hesitated—just for a second—before glancing over her shoulder, meeting his eyes one last time.

And she smiled.

“See you later, Vander.”

His expression didn’t change. He just nodded, slow and knowing. “Yeah,” he murmured.

The doors opened before she could push them herself. The enforcers were already there, standing just outside, waiting. But something was different this time.

They weren’t pulling her away. They weren’t dragging her from the bar like before. She was already leaving. And that, if anything, made it worse. For the first time, they almost looked sad. Not because they had to bring her back. But because they knew.

Because this time, she wasn’t coming back.

=

The morning of her wedding was quiet. Too quiet. No laughter, no clinking glasses, no whispered conversations drifting through the halls like they should have been. Even the enforcers outside her door weren’t speaking, their usual idle chatter replaced with silence. They knew. Everyone knew.

This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a sentence.

Y/N stood before the mirror, barely recognizing the girl staring back at her. The dress was beautiful—perfect, her mother had said. Delicate lace, soft silk, every pearl and embroidered detail crafted with precision. Yet, all she saw was a cage. She looked like the woman her father had shaped her into—poised, polished, silent. A bride. A bargaining chip. A prisoner.

Her fingers curled into the fabric at her sides, nails pressing into the fine silk as if she could rip through it and break free. Every stolen night in Zaun, every unfinished drink at The Last Drop, every teasing smirk from Vander—it had all been borrowed time, a dream that had to end.

And now, here she was. Standing in a dress she never wanted. Walking a path she never chose.

The fight was over.

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard, forcing down the ache rising in her throat. This was it. This was—

Tap.

Her breath hitched.

A soft, deliberate tap against the glass.

Her eyes snapped open, heart hammering, pulse roaring in her ears. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she turned toward the window.

And there he was.

Vander.

Standing on the narrow balcony, broad shoulders barely fitting in the small space, his storm-coloured eyes locked onto hers. The morning light caught the silver streaks in his hair, but nothing softened the intensity of his gaze. He was calm, steady—dangerous in the way only certainty could be.

Her breath left her in a sharp exhale, disbelieving. “You—what the hell are you doing here?”

Vander smirked, slow and knowing, fingers still resting against the glass. “Came to steal a bride, what’s it look like?”

Her stomach twisted painfully, breath catching in her throat. She stared at him, at the sheer audacity of him standing there, calm as ever, as if this wasn’t completely insane. As if they weren’t in the heart of Piltover, with enforcers right outside her door, with her entire future hanging in the balance.

“You can’t just—” She shook her head, words failing. “Vander.”

He huffed a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “What? You gonna tell me you wanna go through with this?”

She swallowed hard, fingers tightening in the fabric of her gown.

He watched her carefully, voice softer when he spoke again. “You say the word, love, and I’ll walk away. But if you don’t wanna do this—if you don’t wanna marry this bastard—then come with me.”

A pause. A choice.

His voice dropped lower, quieter. “Ain’t no one gonna stop you this time.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. No one was coming to drag her away. No one was forcing her into anything. This time, it was up to her. She inhaled sharply, gripping the skirts of her dress.

And then, without another word

She ran

SILCO

The rain hit the cobblestone streets in rhythmic patters, coating Zaun in a silver sheen. It was late, past the time anyone decent should be out. But then again, you had never belonged to a world of decency.

The first time you ran away, it was not truly by choice. It was by design—by greed, by the hunger of parents who had spent their whole lives clawing for something better. They had seen their opportunity in you.

“He’s your chance,” they had said. A man from Piltover, polished and wealthy, who had looked at you like a prize rather than a person. “A life up there is better than anything you’ll ever get in this gutter.”

And for a while, you had believed them. Because what else was there? Zaun, with its decay and danger, had been your whole world. And Silco—Silco had been a part of it. A boy who had grown into a man alongside you, who had been there in every quiet moment, every stolen night. But he had no gold, no promise of a clean future.

Your parents wanted wealth. Stability. A way to claw their way out of Zaun’s grasp, even if it meant selling you to a man who could afford to take you with him.

And so you had gone.

Now, you were back. A ring on your finger. A ghost of a bruise on your wrist. And nowhere left to go but here.

Tomorrow, you would marry him.

Tonight, you needed to see Silco one last time.

The door to his office creaked as you stepped inside, water dripping from your clothes onto the floor. The familiar scent of whiskey and smoke greeted you, wrapping around you like a warning. He was behind his desk, as he always was, a half-empty glass resting in his hand. His gaze lifted slowly, trailing over you, and you braced for the impact of those sharp, knowing eyes.

“Y/N,” Silco drawled, voice as smooth as ever, but undercut with something unreadable. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the soaked fabric of your cloak. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

A beat of silence. Then, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “Strange. I recall you once saying Piltover had everything you needed.”

The sting of his words wasn’t unexpected. You had left him behind once before, choosing another man, another life. One built on bright dreams and whispered vows. And yet, here you stood, back in the depths of the Undercity, a place you had tried so hard to forget.

His gaze flickered downward. His eye, sharp and unforgiving, lingered on your wrist, where the bruise—faint but unmistakable—peeked from beneath your sleeve.

His expression didn’t change. But something in the air did.

“Who?” The single word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a storm.

You exhaled sharply, tugging your sleeve down. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does.” Silco stood, his movements slow, measured. His gaze never left you as he came around the desk, stopping only when he was close enough for you to feel the warmth of him. “I assume he is the reason you’re here?”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say no, wanted to say you had come back for him, that you had realized too late where your heart had always belonged. But the words refused to come.

Instead, you whispered, “I made a mistake.”

Silco’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Then, just as quickly, his mask slipped back into place.

“Did you?” he murmured, reaching out, fingertips just barely grazing your chin, tilting it upward. His eye searched yours, waiting, measuring. “And now you’re here. With a ring that isn’t mine.”

Shame burned through you. “I didn’t come to ask for help.”

“No?” His voice was a blade now. “Then what did you come for?”

You swallowed. “To say goodbye.”

Silco stilled.

You forced yourself to keep speaking. “Tomorrow, I—” The words caught in your throat. “Tomorrow, I marry him.”

His expression didn’t change, but the silence that followed was unbearable.

Silco’s fingers ghosted over your wrist, his thumb brushing against the faint bruises with a gentleness that didn’t match the sharpness in his voice. “And this? Does he treat you well?”

The lie sat heavy on your tongue. But Silco had always seen through you.

“He’s not you,” you admitted.

Silco exhaled slowly, as though steadying himself.

“I thought I had to do it,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper. “My parents—they sold me to him. A means to an end.” You let out a bitter laugh. “They said love would come after wealth. But it never did.”

Silco’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might lash out, might demand that you stay, might try to fight for you the way you had once wished he would.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer, so close you could feel his breath against your skin. “You still have a choice, Y/N.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “No, I don’t.”

His hands came up then, framing your face, tilting your chin so that you had no choice but to look at him. “Then why are you here?”

Your breath hitched.

And then, finally—

“Because I love you.”

The moment your lips met his, the world outside ceased to exist.

It was all Silco—his hands, his touch, the heat of his body pressed against yours. The rough fabric of his vest beneath your fingers, the scent of smoke and whiskey filling your senses as his fingers tangled into your damp hair, pulling you deeper into him.

You had kissed him before—years ago, in secret, before everything had fallen apart. But this was different. There was no uncertainty now, no hesitation. This was desperation. This was finality.

His hands roamed over your body as though trying to memorize every inch of you before you slipped away from him again. And you let him, let yourself drown in the feeling of his touch, the way he held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

His lips ghosted over yours between breaths, whispering against your skin. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes heavy with longing, with pain. “I had to.”

Silco’s hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a touch so reverent it made your chest ache. “You’re cruel, Y/N.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I know.”

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, more claiming. His other hand slid down to your waist, gripping you firmly, like he was trying to keep you tethered to him. His voice was lower, rougher when he spoke next.

“Tell me you don’t love him.”

You let out a shuddering breath, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t love him.”

His fingers dug into your waist, possessive. “Say it again.”

You kissed him, pouring everything into it—every regret, every unsaid word, every stolen moment between you. “I don’t love him,” you murmured against his lips, again and again, until the words blurred between kisses, until the truth settled into your bones.

Silco pulled back just enough to study you, his single eye dark and searching. “And yet, you’re still going to marry him.”

Your heart clenched. “I have no choice.”

His grip on you tightened, but his voice was eerily calm. “There’s always a choice.”

You shook your head. “Not for me. Not anymore.”

For a moment, you thought he would fight you on it, that he would demand you stay. But instead, his expression shifted—something raw, something resigned.

“Then I’ll make sure he never touches you again.”

You inhaled sharply, your hands pressing against his chest. “No, Silco.”

His jaw clenched. “Why not?”

“Because I won’t be the reason you start a war,” you whispered. “I won’t let you burn Piltover to the ground for me.”

His gaze flickered with something dangerous. “I’d burn the whole world if it meant keeping you.”

Your breath caught. You knew he meant it. You had always known.

But that wasn’t why you came. You didn’t come for war, or for vengeance. You came for him.

So you reached for him again, pulling him down to kiss you, slow and deep, as if this could be enough, as if it could make up for everything.

His hands slid over your hips, gripping you tight as he guided you backward, until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You let yourself fall, pulling him down with you, letting him press you into the worn fabric as his mouth found your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm, his voice raw with possession. “You’ve always been mine.”

Tears burned behind your eyes as your fingers tangled in his hair. “Then take me. One last time.”

A growl rumbled low in his throat, his lips crashing against yours again as he pressed his body flush against yours. The weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his hands held you like he was terrified you would slip through his fingers—it was everything you had ever wanted.

And for one last night, you let yourself belong to him.

=

You woke before the sun rose, still wrapped in Silco’s arms. His breath was slow and steady against your shoulder, his body warm against yours beneath the thin sheets. A rare moment of peace.

For a fleeting second, you let yourself stay there. Listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, felt the gentle weight of his arm draped over your waist. His grip had loosened in sleep, but not completely—like some part of him still feared you’d disappear the moment he let go.

And maybe he was right to.

A soft chill crept through the air, your bare skin prickling in response. It wasn’t until you shifted that you realized something heavy and warm was draped over both of you—his jacket.

At some point in the night, he must have pulled it over you, shielding you from the cold. The familiar scent of him clung to the fabric, a mixture of smoke, steel, and something undeniably him. You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the worn leather.

Silco wasn’t a man of grand gestures, of whispered affections. But this—this silent, protective act—meant more than any words ever could.

And it made leaving all the more unbearable.

Carefully, you slipped out of bed, trying not to wake him. His fingers twitched in protest as your warmth left his side, but he didn’t stir. You sat at the edge of the couch, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself as you gazed at him.

Even in sleep, he was himself—sharp angles and quiet intensity, the scarred side of his face half-hidden against the pillow. You memorized him, let your eyes trace every detail like it was the last time you’d ever see him.

Because it was.

Your limbs ached, your skin bore the imprint of his touch, and yet, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Silco’s jacket was still around your shoulders when you stood, its weight like an anchor, like a promise that had come too late. You wanted to keep it. You wanted to keep a piece of him.

But that would be cruel.

So, with trembling hands, you slipped it from your shoulders and laid it carefully beside him. Your fingers ghosted over the lapel, over the familiar worn seams.

A part of you ached to wake him, to tell him you had changed your mind, to let him pull you back into the warmth of his arms and never let go.

But you had no right.

You made it to the door before his voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You turned, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of him—half-illuminated by the faint glow of the lantern, hair tousled from sleep, the sheets pooling at his waist. His single eye locked onto yours, heavy with something you weren’t ready to face.

His voice was quiet, rough with sleep. “Stay.”

Your heart cracked. You wanted to. You wanted to so badly that it physically hurt. But you couldn’t. So instead, you gave him the only truth that mattered.

“I love you.”

Silco inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you. But he didn’t. He only watched as you turned and slipped out the door, disappearing into the fading darkness. His jacket lay abandoned beside him.

And when he finally reached for it, it was cold.

=

The church was suffocating, its silence heavier than the officiant’s words. Air pressed against your chest, thick with expectation, as you stood frozen at the altar, heart thundering beneath layers of silk and lace. Stained-glass windows painted fractured hues of gold and red onto the marble floors, casting you as an illusion on the verge of shattering. Piltover’s elite sat poised, gloved hands folded, their sharp gazes pinning you in place. Trained for this moment, conditioned to be the perfect bride—a symbol of unity, power, and wealth—you felt instead like a prisoner in a gilded cage.

Your fiancé—your husband-to-be—smiled, calm and certain, as if your fate had already been sealed. His fingers curled around yours, firm and unrelenting. But your pulse pounded in your ears, drowning out the murmured vows. You could still feel Silco—his hands, his lips, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin. The way he had whispered your name, the way he had told you you still had a choice.

And yet, here you were.

The officiant’s voice barely registered, his words blurring into nothing as your mind swam in an ocean of doubt.

"Do you, Y/N, take this man as your lawful husband?"

The words rang hollow.

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling slightly in your fiancé’s grasp. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your chest ached, a war raging inside you.

Say it. Say yes. Say something.

You couldn’t.

A cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck. The officiant was waiting. Your fiancé’s grip tightened just slightly, his smile unwavering, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were anything but soft.

He knew. He knew you were hesitating. And then—

Boom!

The grand church doors burst open, crashing against the stone walls with a deafening bang. Gasps erupted from the pews, women clutching their pearls, men rising abruptly from their seats. The air turned electric with tension, fear rippling through the pristine congregation as booted footsteps echoed against the marble floor.

Zaunites.

The scent of smoke and gunpowder clung to them, an unmistakable stench of the Undercity—your city, the one you had tried to leave behind. They moved with practiced ease, fanning out through the church like a silent threat. Not reckless, not wild—intentional.

And in the centre of it all, flanked by his men, stood Silco.

The breath left your lungs.

He was still, a commanding force, his long coat billowing as he strode forward with the slow, measured steps of a man who knew he was untouchable. His mismatched eyes cut through the crowd, through the suffocating air of gold and wealth, and landed directly on you.

The church had never felt smaller.

His face was unreadable, but his anger was palpable. Not rage—control. A dangerous kind of fury, a silent promise.

He took you in, his gaze sweeping over your pristine wedding dress, the silk gloves on your hands, the delicate gold chain around your neck. Everything about you was wrapped in Piltover’s claim.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

"Well," Silco drawled, voice smooth as ever, but undercut with something sharp. "Apologies for the interruption. But I believe the bride has some unfinished business."

The reaction was instant.

Your fiancé stiffened beside you, stepping forward as though to shield you from the man before him. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded, voice sharp with authority.

Silco barely spared him a glance. His gaze remained locked on you, unwavering. “I should be asking you that, considering you’re trying to wed a woman who doesn’t want you.”

The words sliced through the air like a blade.

Murmurs broke out among the guests. Shocked gasps, whispers of scandal, of impropriety. The officiant took a nervous step back, his hands trembling over his book.

The guards stationed at the doors exchanged uneasy glances, hesitating. Zaunites weren’t common in Piltover’s sacred halls, and none were foolish enough to test the man before them. Silco wasn’t just any Zaunite.

Your fiancé scoffed, turning his glare on you now. “This is ridiculous,” he spat. “Tell them, Y/N. Tell them you chose this. Tell them you want this.”

Silco tilted his head, watching you with unnerving patience. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Because this was your choice.

The weight of expectation pressed against you. Your parents, your fiancé, the glittering world of Piltover—everything that had been set out for you.

But then there was Silco. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you in a way no one else ever had. Your lips parted.

“I—”

Your fiancé squeezed your hands tighter. “Say it.”

You flinched. Silco noticed. His patience evaporated in an instant. His men raised their weapons as he took another step forward, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl.

"Let. Her. Go."

Your fiancé hesitated, but only for a moment before he yanked you toward him, an unmistakable warning in his grip. “She’s mine.”

That was the final mistake.

Silco moved in a blur.

A blade flashed in his hand as he grabbed your fiancé by the collar, yanking him forward with terrifying ease. The polished steel kissed his throat, forcing him to still.

The church fell silent once more.

Silco’s lips curled into something sharp, something deadly.

“She was never yours,” he murmured.

Your fiancé swallowed hard, his confidence flickering under the weight of Silco’s unwavering stare. “You wouldn’t,” he spat. “Not here. Not in Piltover.”

Silco’s smirk was razor-sharp. “Wouldn’t I?”

A tense beat passed.

And then—

"Silco."

Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but it sliced through the thick air like a knife.

His grip on your fiancé tightened for a fraction of a second before, with a sharp tch, he released him, shoving the man backward with enough force that he stumbled.

Your breath trembled in your chest.

Silco turned to you then, stepping closer, his presence consuming. “Say the word,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pleading. “Say the word and I’ll burn all of this to the ground.”

Your fiancé was still sputtering behind you, his voice distant, irrelevant.

But it didn’t matter.

None of it did.

Not the gasping nobles in the pews. Not the shocked officiant, clutching his ceremonial book like a shield. Not the weight of expectation that had been suffocating you for years.

Nothing mattered except the man standing before you.

The man who had come for you.

The man who had always been waiting for you.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, your hands trembling at your sides as your heart pounded against your ribs, caught between fear and something rawer, something inevitable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

Silco didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Only studied you with that unreadable gaze—like he was looking past the silk and jewels, past the gilded chains Piltover had wrapped around you, seeing only the girl he had always known.

The girl who belonged to him.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low, steady, certain, "here I am."

Slowly, deliberately, Silco lifted a hand.

His fingers curled beneath your chin, the calloused tips brushing against your skin with a featherlight touch. It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t demanding. It was a question.

A challenge.

A choice.

For a moment, time stretched between you, an eternity wrapped in a single breath. The air felt thick, electric, as if the entire world teetered on the precipice of this moment. As if the very foundations of Piltover held still, waiting—watching—to see what you would do.

And then—

You chose.

You surged forward, closing the space between you in an instant. Your silk-gloved hands fisted into the front of his coat as you crashed your lips against his, pouring everything you had into him. Every ache, every regret, every moment of longing you had swallowed down in the name of duty—it was his now.

A scandalized gasp rippled through the pews, but the sound barely registered in your ears.

The world fell away, dissolving into nothing.

Silco caught you with a steady, unshakable grip, as if he had been waiting for this, expecting it, counting on it. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling you deeper, his other hand finding the small of your back and pressing you flush against him. There was no hesitation, no restraint—he kissed you with a hunger that set your veins on fire, a desperation that spoke of years lost, of a future he was willing to burn the world for.

And you let him.

You melted into him, into the taste of whiskey and smoke, into the warmth of him, into the rightness of it all.

You had spent years convincing yourself this feeling wasn’t real. That you had outgrown the girl who had once stolen away into the depths of Zaun to be by his side. But the truth was clearer now than it had ever been.

This was where you belonged.

When you finally broke apart, your chest was heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears.

Silco didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t so much as breathe as he stared down at you, his single eye flickering with something dark and unreadable, something alive.

And then, with the kind of certainty that made your knees weak, he extended his hand—palm open, waiting.

"Let me take you away from this place." His voice was a whisper between you, a promise wrapped in smoke. "Back to where you always have belonged. Right beside me."

An invitation.

A vow.

You took it without hesitation. The moment your fingers slipped into his, the weight of everything disappeared.

Behind you, the church erupted into chaos. Women shrieked. Noblemen shouted in outrage. Your fiancé was yelling your name, his voice desperate, angry, humiliated all at once. Your mother’s sharp, disbelieving gasp cut through the clamour like a blade, her voice rising in a breathless, horrified whisper.

"What have you done?"

But you didn’t look back.

Not when you stepped down from the altar, silk dress trailing behind—a life never truly yours; not when you passed your parents’ stunned faces, their broken ambitions never meant for you; not when Silco led you through the grand doors, his men shielding you from the world you left behind; not when the cold air hit, Piltover fading into fog while Zaun’s smog called you home; not when Silco pulled you close, draping his coat around you, his lips a silent promise against your temple.

And for the first time in your life—

You knew, with certainty—

You had made the right choice.

MEL

You and Mel grew up together, bound by the expectations of your high-status families but tethered more deeply by the quiet understanding that neither of you quite belonged within those constraints. From the moment you met, she had been a steady presence—sharp-witted, observant, the only person who ever made you feel truly seen.

There had always been something effortless about your bond, an unspoken ease in the way you moved through each other's worlds. In the grand halls of the Medarda estate, where golden sconces bathed the marble floors in soft, flickering light, she was a force of nature—draped in silks, adorned in gold, commanding attention with the mere arch of an eyebrow. And yet, in the quiet of her private quarters, beneath the carved ceiling where the glow of candlelight softened the sharp edges of expectation, she was simply Mel.

You spent endless afternoons there, the scent of ink and aged parchment thick in the air as you played chess across an opulent mahogany table. The game was an excuse, really—an intellectual battleground where the real war was waged in words. Strategy and sacrifice. Power and defiance. She could read you too well, saw past your carefully maintained indifference.

It was inevitable that the conversation would return, time and time again, to the future.

“They’ll expect you to marry one day,” Mel mused one evening, turning a rook between her fingers, its polished surface gleaming in the lantern light. Her voice was light, almost teasing, but her gaze was calculating, golden eyes sweeping over the board, then to you.

You scoffed, flicking a pawn aside with deliberate carelessness. “Marriage is a gilded cage,” you muttered. “They talk about alliances, but really, it’s just another way to control us.”

Mel hummed in consideration, tilting her head slightly. “And you?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more pointed. “What will you do when they demand it of you?”

There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. “I’ll run.”

She laughed at that—a soft, breathy sound, edged with something like amusement but not quite. Her fingers hovered over the rook for a moment longer before placing it down with a decisive click. “You always say that,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“Because I mean it.” You leaned forward, bracing your elbows against the table, eyes locked with hers. “I won’t let them decide my life for me.”

A flicker of something—doubt? Curiosity?—crossed her features. She studied you for a moment, a slow, deliberate assessment. Then, in a voice quieter than before, she asked, “And if you found someone worth staying for?”

The question stole your breath for half a second. Not because you hadn’t considered it before, but because of the way she asked it—soft, careful, as if the answer mattered more than she’d ever admit.

You hesitated, the pieces on the board suddenly feeling insignificant compared to the weight of her words. The candlelight caught the gold in her eyes, turning them molten, unreadable.

“Maybe,” you admitted finally, your voice quieter now. “But only if it’s my choice.”

Something in her expression shifted, but whatever it was, she kept it to herself. Instead, she reached for her queen, dragging it forward across the board with deliberate grace.

“Check,” she murmured, but there was no triumph in her voice—only something softer, something uncertain.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were still talking about chess at all.

=

Years passed, and what began as a quiet companionship deepened into something undeniable. The stolen glances, the lingering touches, the way Mel’s voice softened when she spoke your name—it had all woven into something more. Something unspoken, yet understood.

You had spent years convincing yourself that it didn’t need to be said aloud, that as long as she looked at you that way, as long as her hand lingered on yours for just a moment too long, you could be content. But love had a way of making itself known, carving its mark into every stolen second you spent together.

And then, in a single moment, your world shattered.

The letter came without warning, a summons to the grand hall of your family’s estate. You had barely stepped inside when you saw them—your parents, standing rigidly at the head of the long, polished table, their expressions carved from stone. A sealed letter rested between them, the wax crest unfamiliar, its meaning heavy with expectation.

Your father’s voice was devoid of warmth. "You are to be married."

The words struck like a physical blow.

"To a nobleman from the Southern Territories," he continued. "This union will solidify an alliance that has been years in the making. You leave in a fortnight."

The room seemed to tilt around you. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything but the sound of your own breathing. Married. Sent away. Torn from Mel.

Your lips parted, but no words came. A thousand thoughts, a thousand refusals clawed their way to the surface, but all that escaped was a broken whisper.

"No."

Your mother exhaled sharply, her fingers pressing to her temple as if speaking to you was an exhausting effort. "You will do what is required of you, Y/N. This is not about love—it is about duty."

Love.

Mel.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "And what of my own will? My own happiness?"

Your father’s gaze was like steel, unyielding. "You are not a child, and this is not a fairytale. You will do as you are told."

The words slammed into you, suffocating, final. You felt the walls closing in, the weight of expectation pressing against your ribs until you could barely breathe.

But you would not break here.

You turned on your heel and fled before they could say another word, the heavy doors slamming shut behind you. Your feet carried you without thought, without hesitation, down the stone paths and through the winding streets until the towering gates of the Medarda estate loomed before you.

The guards barely had time to react before you pushed through, heart hammering as you rushed through the familiar halls, past the towering marble columns, past the velvet-draped corridors.

You found her in the gardens, where the air smelled of roses and the last golden rays of sunlight turned the sky into a watercolor of amber and violet. She was leaning against the stone railing, her silk robe pooling around her in the evening glow.

She turned the moment she saw you, her golden eyes sharpening with concern.

"What happened?"

The words came out in a rush, like a dam breaking. "They’re sending me away. To be married."

Mel stilled, every trace of ease vanishing from her expression. Her grip tightened around the marble ledge. "No. No, they can’t."

You let out a bitter laugh, though it was anything but humorous. "They can. And they will."

Mel’s hands found yours, her fingers strong but trembling, like she was willing herself to stay composed. "You told me you would run," she whispered, searching your face. "You told me you wouldn’t let them decide your life."

Tears burned at the edges of your vision. "I was a child. I didn’t know how ruthless they could be."

Mel exhaled sharply, her hands rising to cup your face, her thumbs brushing against your cheekbones with a tenderness that nearly undid you. "You were brave then," she said, her voice fierce, steady. "Be brave now. If we fight, if we stand together, we can find a way. You don’t have to do this alone."

Your lip trembled, and you leaned into her touch, your forehead resting against hers. "What if we lose?"

Mel’s breath ghosted against your lips as she whispered, "Then we lose together. But I will not let them take you without a fight."

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Mel caught it with her thumb, her other hand still gripping yours as if she refused to let go.

And then, as if something inside her had finally shattered, she spoke the words you had longed to hear but never dared hope for.

"I love you," she whispered, the words slipping past her lips like a vow. "I have always loved you. And I will not stand by while they take you away from me."

The breath left your lungs. You had known, in the quiet spaces between moments, in the way she looked at you, in the way her fingers lingered at your wrist when no one was watching. But to hear it, to have it spoken into existence, was something else entirely.

Your hands tightened around hers. "Mel," you whispered, her name a prayer on your lips.

The wind stirred between you, rustling the leaves, carrying the weight of your choice on its back.

This was everything you wanted, everything you had feared you would never have. And yet, duty loomed like a shadow over your happiness, threatening to swallow it whole.

=

The fortnight passed in a blur of whispered plans and stolen moments, of desperate strategies and half-formed hopes.

Mel was relentless—poring over maps, calling in favors, speaking in hushed tones to the few people she trusted. Every night, as the world slept, you met beneath the veil of darkness, your hands intertwined as you planned your escape.

“We’ll leave before dawn,” she had told you just the night before, her voice unwavering, golden eyes blazing with determination. “I have everything arranged—a ship, safe passage. We’ll be gone before they even realize what’s happened.”

You had clung to those words, to the dream she painted, to the idea of a life beyond the cages that had been built for you.

But dreams are fragile things.

Before the sun had even begun to crest the horizon, you were torn from sleep by the rough grip of hands on your arms.

You fought, thrashing, kicking, nails clawing at the hands that held you, but there were too many—guards clad in your family’s colors, their grips unyielding as steel.

“No,” you gasped, struggling as they dragged you from your bed. “No, let me go!”

The silence of the estate swallowed your cries. No servants, no distant echoes of life—only the muffled shuffle of boots against marble and your own ragged breaths.

Panic clawed at your throat.

They had known. Somehow, they had known.

Your father stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his posture rigid, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, your mother lingered in the flickering glow of the lanterns, her face unreadable.

“This is for your own good,” she said simply, as if that made any of it better.

The doors swung open, and the cold morning air struck like a blade against your skin. Outside, a carriage stood waiting, its dark wood gleaming with frost, horses stamping impatiently against the cobblestone.

“No!” Your voice broke as you thrashed harder, as the guards lifted you off the ground and carried you toward the waiting prison on wheels. “Mel—!”

A cry of rage split the morning stillness.

And then she was there.

Mel.

A vision of fury and desperation, her silk robe billowing behind her as she sprinted from the Medarda estate, bare feet against stone, golden eyes alight with wild defiance.

“Let her go!” she shouted, her voice shaking with rage, her breath coming fast.

She ran toward you, hands outstretched, reaching— But then— A hand shot out, catching her by the wrist, wrenching her back.

Ambessa Medarda

She stood unmoving, her grip firm but deceptively gentle, a force of quiet control against her daughter’s frenzied struggle.

“Mel,” you choked, reaching for her even as the guards shoved you inside the carriage, even as the heavy doors slammed shut, sealing you away.

Mel fought. Fought like hell. She wrenched against her mother’s grasp, heels digging into the stone, her entire body twisting as she tried to tear herself free.

“Let me go!” she screamed, raw and broken, eyes locked onto yours through the small window of the carriage.

But her mother did not yield.

“Enough,” Ambessa said, her voice cool, measured, a quiet force of unshakable will. “This is how it must be.”

“No!” Mel’s voice cracked, her struggles frantic. “She belongs with me!”

The carriage lurched forward. You slammed your fists against the window, eyes burning, throat closing with unshed tears.

Outside, Mel twisted in her mother’s grip, a broken sound tearing from her lips as she reached for you—fingers outstretched, just shy of touching—

And then she was gone.

The estate blurred into the distance, the city shrinking behind you, the life you had known disappearing like a cruel mirage.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your hands trembling in your lap, your skin still burning from where she had touched you last. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

But as you stared at the fading horizon, the ghost of her voice still ringing in your ears, you made a vow. This wasn’t over. Not yet.

Right?

=

The weight of the gown felt suffocating.

Layers of delicate silk and lace cascaded over your form, flowing like water but clinging like chains. Every stitch, every pearl embroidered into the bodice, felt like an extension of the prison you had been thrust into. The corset bit into your ribs, each breath a reminder that this was not yours to escape.

The veil, though sheer, felt more like a shroud, draping over you as you walked down the grand aisle of the cathedral.

The air was thick with incense and expectation. Nobles, dressed in their finest, filled the pews, their whispers barely concealed behind gloved hands and jeweled fans. Their curiosity was a vulture circling above you, feeding off the spectacle of your fate.

Overhead, chandeliers bathed everything in a golden glow, their light flickering against the polished marble floors, reflecting in the cold eyes of the man waiting for you at the altar.

Your fiancé.

He was handsome in the way noblemen were bred to be—sharp features, tall, expression as carefully measured as his perfectly tailored attire. His hands were clasped before him, unreadable. He was everything your parents wanted—noble, powerful, an impeccable chess piece in their grand game.

But he wasn’t Mel.

The thought made your stomach churn.

Each step felt heavier, like your feet were sinking into the marble itself, dragging you toward a life that did not belong to you. Your heart pounded against your ribs, suffocated by the weight of expectation.

And then—

Boom.

The massive doors at the end of the aisle slammed open.

Gasps filled the cathedral as heads snapped toward the entrance, murmurs breaking into full-blown panic as a figure strode inside.

Ambessa Medarda.

She moved like a storm, each step a rumble of distant thunder. Her boots echoed against the marble, broad shoulders squared, adorned in gleaming gold armor that caught the candlelight and made her look like something out of legend.

Her presence was suffocating. Absolute. Ambessa Medarda did not make entrances. She made declarations. And this?

This was a declaration of war.

Your breath caught, hands trembling against the bouquet you barely remembered holding.

“What is the meaning of this?” The groom’s father, a lord of the Southern Territories, stood abruptly, his face flushing with anger. “This is a sacred ceremony—”

Ambessa did not acknowledge him. Her gaze found yours first, heavy and assessing, as if confirming you were still whole. Then, without breaking stride, she pulled a parchment from her belt, unrolling it with deliberate care.

“This union,” she said, voice deep, unwavering, “is no longer valid.”

The room went silent.

Your fiancé’s father scoffed, stepping forward. “This is absurd. Who are you to—”

Ambessa’s gaze turned to him, and he froze mid-sentence.

Then, with the patience of someone who had expected resistance, Ambessa extended the parchment to your father.

His hand twitched before he took it, fingers stiff, almost reluctant, as though touching the document itself would burn him. The parchment unfurled with a soft crinkle, the ink catching the candlelight, and he scanned the words hurriedly, his breath hitching with each line his eyes devoured.

Your stomach tightened, an unseen hand twisting its fingers into your gut, pulling. Your father was not an easy man to shake, yet there it was—the shift in his expression, the flicker of disbelief swallowed by something graver.

His face paled.

“This—” The word barely left him, strangled and raw. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles whitening as his grip crushed the edges of the parchment. His gaze darted back and forth between the inked decree and Ambessa, desperate, searching— for an error, for an escape, for anything that would unravel this.

He found none.

Slowly, as though the weight of the words had turned him to stone, he lifted his head. His eyes locked onto Ambessa’s, burning with unspoken fury.

“You expect me to agree to this?” His voice wavered—not in uncertainty, but in something else, something sharp and disbelieving, yet edged with a helplessness he had not expected to feel.

Ambessa did not flinch. Did not move. Did not waver beneath the storm brewing in your father’s gaze. “This is not a request.”

The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, suffocating in its silence.

Your father’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. You had seen him furious before—rage that scorched, that consumed. But now? Now, there was something else flickering beneath it, something heavier.

Resignation.

Your mother, seated in the front row, remained eerily still. A porcelain figure cast in cold detachment. She did not speak. She did not move. But there was something about the way she held herself, her fingers clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned ghostly white.

She would not stop this.

Ambessa stepped forward, the click of her boots against the marble floor reverberating through the vast cathedral. Her presence swallowed the space, swallowed the room, left no room for resistance.

“You will sign it,” she said, each word deliberate, measured. Unshakable. “Both of you.”

A cold dread pooled in your stomach, thick and heavy.

Your father turned slightly toward your mother, searching, perhaps, for defiance in her eyes. A shared outrage. A reason to fight. But she did not meet his gaze. The quill in Ambessa’s hand gleamed, its tip poised and waiting.

For the briefest of moments, hesitation cracked the air, stretching the silence into something unbearable. Your father’s fingers twitched at his sides, his breath uneven, shallow.

You wanted to move. To speak. To demand to know what this meant. But you already knew.

Slowly, with movements so precise they almost seemed unnatural, your father reached for the quill. The feather trembled in his grip before he pressed the tip to the parchment.

The ink bled into the page, dark and inescapable. His signature bloomed across the document—permanent. Final. Something inside you twisted.

Your mother followed without a word. The scratch of her quill against the parchment was the only sound in the cavernous cathedral, the weight of its finality heavier than steel. Then she set it down.

It was done.

A murmur rippled through the pews, the weight of realization settling over the gathered nobles like a suffocating fog. The shifting of silks, the hushed voices of those watching history reshape itself before their very eyes.

And then—

“What is the meaning of this?”

The groom’s father surged to his feet, the force of his movement sending the heavy fabric of his robes billowing around him. His voice thundered through the high arches, rattling the air with unrestrained fury. His face had darkened, eyes wild with disbelief, with indignation, with betrayal.

He turned sharply on your father, his rage palpable. “What have you done?” His voice was thick, taut with barely restrained outrage. And then, he turned on her.

Ambessa.

His disbelief twisted into something more dangerous, something venomous. “This arrangement was settled. Our families agreed.” He gestured sharply to the parchment still clutched in your father’s trembling hands. “What gives you the right to change it?”

Ambessa barely spared him a glance. “The fact that I can.” A single sentence, wielded with the weight of an empire behind it. Your breath hitched.

The nobleman’s lips curled, his nostrils flaring as he fought against the tide closing in around him. “This is outrageous—”

“She will not marry your son,” Ambessa interrupted, the words clean, absolute, carving through the tension like a blade. “She will marry my daughter.”

The hush that followed was deafening.

It slammed into you, left you adrift, unmoored. The weight of a thousand eyes pressed in from all sides, heavy, suffocating.

Your father’s grip on the parchment twitched, but he said nothing.

The groom’s father’s gaze swept across the room, searching, desperate, waiting for someone—anyone—to challenge this. Someone to fight.

But no one spoke.

And then, his gaze landed on you.

“You think you can just take her?” His voice was bitter, thick with incredulity, seething with unspent fury.

Ambessa Medarda did not flinch. She did not shrink beneath his anger, nor did she offer any hint of apology. She merely inclined her head slightly, expression unreadable, gaze as sharp as a blade.

“I did not take her,” she said smoothly. “She was given.”

A pause. A beat of silence so sharp it could cut. She flicked her gaze to your father. His silence was damning. You exhaled, the weight in your chest tightening like a vice.

Ambessa turned back to you. “Come.”

The moment stretched, thick with something unspoken. Your chest tightened. Your breath shuddered. Your mind raced, grasping at strings, desperate to catch up.

But fight for what?

A future you never wanted? A man who had never once truly looked at you? A life built on obligation, duty, sacrifice— for everyone but yourself?

Your fingers loosened.

The bouquet slipped from your hands, the delicate petals hitting the marble with a soft whisper, the sound swallowed instantly by the vastness of the cathedral.

A murmur of scandal rippled through the gathered nobles, whispers like a thousand tiny knives scraping against your skin.

But you did not falter. Lifting the heavy skirts of your gown, you stepped away from the altar. Gasps echoed through the cathedral, rippling outward like a tidal wave. But they no longer mattered.

You did not spare your fiancé a glance. You did not look at your parents. You only followed Ambessa—toward the life that had been stolen from you.

Toward the woman who was waiting for you.

=

The ride back was silent for a long time.

The weight of your wedding gown pooled around you, heavy and untouched. You barely felt it now. Your pulse had yet to settle, the echoes of the ceremony lingering in your mind like a dream you had just woken from.

Ambessa Medarda did not speak without purpose. She had made her move, disrupted a marriage that would have cemented political ties, and now sat as if nothing had happened at all.

Finally, she spoke.

“I still see love as weakness.”

You turned your head to look at her. She wasn’t looking at you, her gaze fixed on the window, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“I built everything I have because I was willing to make sacrifices,” she continued, voice steady, resolute. “I have never let emotions cloud my judgment. And I do not believe I ever will.” Then, for the first time, she looked at you. “But I know my daughter.”

The weight of those words settled deep in your chest. Ambessa studied you for a long moment, as if calculating, measuring something unseen. Then she exhaled, the faintest hint of frustration flickering across her face.

“And I know that if I had let this marriage happen, she would never forgive me.”

Your throat tightened. Mel.

This—this wasn’t for you. It was for her.

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Did she…?” The question felt fragile, hesitant. “Did she ask you to do this?”

Ambessa’s lips twitched in the faintest semblance of amusement. “Mel does not ask for things. She fights for them.”

The ache in your chest grew sharper.

“She loves you,” Ambessa said simply, as if stating a fact rather than something profound. “Enough that she would have burned every bridge, toppled every alliance, if it meant getting you back.”

The breath left your lungs. Mel had fought for you. Even when you had been dragged away, when she had been held back, when all had seemed lost—she hadn’t stopped. Ambessa studied you once more before exhaling sharply, as if exhausted by the very concept of sentimentality.

“I may not agree with her,” she said, “but I will not stand in her way.”

The carriage rolled on, the weight of her words settling over you like a heavy cloak. And for the first time since you had been taken from her, you felt the stirrings of hope. Because if Mel had fought for you this hard—

Then you would fight just as hard to return to her.

=

The carriage ride had been long and silent, filled with words left unspoken, yet their weight hung between you and Ambessa like a sword balanced on a thread.

You had barely breathed as the Medarda estate loomed into view, its towering columns bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The world outside felt eerily unchanged, as if the past weeks of your suffering, of your loss, of your fight, had left no scar upon it.

But you had changed.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Ambessa merely nodded toward the doors, her face unreadable beneath the dim light. “Go,” she said simply. “She is waiting.”

You hesitated only a moment before stepping out, the hem of your abandoned wedding gown catching against the stone. You lifted it, letting the torn fabric whisper against your hands as you made your way past the grand entrance, past the lavish halls, past the life you had once walked alongside Mel without knowing just how much it would come to mean to you.

You found her in the gardens.

She was sitting on the edge of the stone fountain, lost in thought, golden eyes tracing the petals of a single flower held delicately between her fingers.

The sight of her made your chest ache.

This was Mel—poised, sharp, a woman of power and grace—yet here, she looked softer, pensive, lost in a quiet world where war and duty did not exist.

You took a breath before stepping forward, the crunch of gravel beneath your heels breaking the silence.

She looked up.

Her golden eyes widened, flickering with something unreadable as she took in the sight of you—the ruined gown, the exhaustion lining your face, the raw emotion barely contained behind your gaze.

For a moment, she simply stared.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke.

“Y/N…?”

You swallowed hard, barely trusting yourself to speak. “It’s me.”

A sharp exhale left her lips, as if she had been holding her breath this entire time.

And then—

She moved first.

Mel closed the space between you in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into her warmth, holding you so tightly you almost forgot how to breathe. The scent of ink and jasmine enveloped you, grounding you, anchoring you in a way nothing else ever could.

You felt the tremor in her grip, the way her fingers pressed into your back, as if making sure you were real and not just some fragile dream that would slip through her grasp. Her breath was warm against your temple, uneven, like she was battling between disbelief and relief.

"You’re here,” she breathed, her voice barely holding together. “They let you go?”

You shook your head, pressing your face against her shoulder, allowing yourself to sink into her hold, to let the world outside this moment fade away. "Ambessa took me back."

Mel stilled. “My mother?”

You hesitated, then slowly pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Her golden eyes searched yours, flickering with disbelief, with questions she wasn’t sure how to voice.

“She ended the arrangement,” you told her softly, watching as shock and suspicion warred across her face. “She made sure I would never have to marry him.”

Mel blinked, searching your face for any sign of false hope, of uncertainty.

"But… why?" she whispered, more to herself than to you. "H-How?"

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves, holding on as if to steady yourself. "Because she made them sign a new arrangement."

Mel stiffened. Her hands, which had been gripping your arms so tightly, relaxed just slightly, enough for her to pull back and search your face. "A new arrangement?" she echoed, golden eyes flickering with wary disbelief.

You nodded, feeling your pulse hammering in your throat. "She dissolved the marriage to him. And in its place… she created another."

Mel stared at you, her breath hitching. "Y/N… what are you saying?"

Your lips parted, but the words felt too big, too impossible to speak aloud. "She arranged for us to be married, Mel."

The silence that followed was thick and unsteady, like the moment before a storm.

Mel blinked once. Then twice. Her fingers twitched against your skin as though her mind was struggling to catch up with what you had just said.

“She… she arranged for—” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply, taking a step back as if to clear her thoughts. She ran a hand over her face, golden eyes wide with something you had never quite seen before.

Disbelief. Hope. Something dangerously close to relief.

"You don’t have to," you rushed out quickly, because suddenly, doubt coiled inside you. "I don’t expect—this wasn’t my choice, and I know you never wanted—"

"Stop." Her voice was firm, steady despite the storm brewing behind her eyes. You fell silent, throat tight. Then, slowly, her hands found yours again, fingers threading through yours, grounding you, anchoring herself to you as much as you to her. “Say it again,” she said, softer this time, her voice almost fragile.

Your lips parted, a breathless whisper spilling forth. “She arranged for us to be married.”

Mel let out a sharp exhale, something breaking in her composure. "She actually did it," she murmured, almost to herself. "That stubborn, infuriating woman actually did it."

You swallowed, uncertain. "What does this mean for you?"

She studied you, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "It means…" She took a slow, careful breath. "It means she knows she could never stop me from choosing you. So instead, she made sure you would never be taken from me again."

A shaky breath escaped you, the weight of it all settling in your chest. "And do you—"

She cut you off before you could finish.

With a fierce, certain pull, she brought you into her arms once more, hands pressing into the small of your back, her face buried in the crook of your neck. "Yes."

The word was whispered against your skin, trembling but certain.

Yes.

Yes, she would take this arrangement. Yes, she would stand by it. Yes, she would have fought for you even if it had never been signed in ink. And then—

She pulled back just enough to look at you, golden eyes searching, dark lashes lowered as her gaze flickered to your lips.

You barely had time to take a breath before she kissed you.

Soft at first. Tentative, lingering—like she was memorizing the shape of you, like she was grounding herself in the reality of this moment. Then, all at once, something snapped.

The grip at your waist tightened, drawing you impossibly close. Her hands cradled your face, fingertips pressing into your skin as if she was afraid you might disappear if she let go.

You melted into her, hands tangling in the fabric of her sleeves, the scent of jasmine and ink filling your senses.

This was what you had fought for. This was what had nearly been stolen from you. And yet, here you were. Here you stayed.

As your lips parted, your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling in the quiet night, neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

A soft breeze stirred through the garden, carrying the scent of roses and something else—something warmer, something knowing. And from a distance, standing just beyond the grand windows of the Medarda estate, Ambessa watched.

She did not move, did not interrupt.

Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable, but for the briefest of moments, something flickered across her face. Something small. Something almost like satisfaction.

Then, with a slow, measured exhale, she turned on her heel and walked away. She had done her part.

The rest was yours.

[twobitsblade]

sick fic. idc for who but i want some like, angst maybe. maybe not the right word for it. like the sick one is really stubborn abt it but is genuinely so sick that they cannot fight the care that they’re being given. they just gotta sit and take it cause they’re physically too weak to do anything abt it. i feel like dally would be good as the sick one tbh. up to you tho. TYSM POOKIE ILY‼️💗💪💗🤗😝🫶‼️💗🤗😍🤞

[ credits to @r0seb100d for the header ]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ no rest for the stubborn !

written by @ twobitsblade

[ author’s note: author’s note: thank you so much for this request! it was really creative, and i had loads of fun writing it. i hope it doesn’t disappoint! xoxo! ]

You put your hand over Dallas’s forehead, clicking your tongue. “Dal, are you kidding me? You’re burning up! I’ve told—”

“For god’s sake, will you just calm down?” he snaps, shoving you away. You swat his shoulder, used to his bratty behavior, and watch as he sits on his bed, reaching for the lighter on his counter. But before he could grab his pack, you snatch it away from him, earning a harsh sigh and a string of curse words muttered under his breath—each one making you even more stubborn.

“I’m not letting you keep getting sick. You don’t dress for the weather, and you always have those damn cancer sticks in your mouth.”

“Would you rather I have something else in my mouth?” he shoots back, his voice a mix of anger and cockiness.

You ignore him and stand up to grab some medicine from your cabinet. You return with two ibuprofen and a can of Coke, but when you walk over to him, he shoves it all against your chest, shooing you away.

“Dallas, I swear to god—”

“Jesus Christ, quiet down, you’re giving me a damn headache,” he mutters, which is when you notice him squinting, squirming away from the bright white light above.

You force yourself onto his lap, causing him to grunt slightly. That’s when you see the perfect opportunity to slip the pills into his mouth and clamp it shut. After a moment of resistance, he finally swallows before shoving you off of him again.

“I still won, Dally.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re such a dick,” you sigh, before crawling into bed beside him.

He mocks you, rolling over with a huff so his back is facing you. But then, he has a coughing fit.

You giggle at him before giving him a rough couple of pats on the back and a kiss on the cheek.

As soon as you lie down, you feel Dally turning around and roughly wrapping his arm around your waist. His sniffling is now directly in your ear, causing you to groan and try to pull away.

“Nuh uh, you wanted to take care of me so bad. Here’s your opportunity. You ain’t movin’ an inch.”

[ogwintersmind]

Kiss the chef ꨄ - w/katsuki

Katsuki is an amazing chef, after years of watching his mother cooking and baking in the kitchen, it’s only natural that he'd pick up on the habit.

As time wears on cooking would become one of his main love languages. He isn't too big on physical touch (or so he claims. he’s so clingy.) he's terrible at compliments and expressing his feelings without adding some witty comment, though he tries, it's safe to say words of affirmation isn't his main love language. but acts of service (specifically cooking/baking) he could do that.

Whether it be Japanese, American, Korean, Mexican, Italian, etc, this man can cook! And it's always the best food you've ever had. I mean so good your taste buds are literally dancing, celebrating and, thanking whatever food god there is for blessing them with these amazing flavors and spices.

He also hates when you ask to go out for fast food like McDonald's or wing stop, his answer is always "no, we have McDonald's at home.” while he proceeds to make you the best burger and fries you've ever had.

One day you're on break at work and start scrolling through TikTok to pass time. While scrolling you come across a video of a woman making home made chicken and waffles + cinnamon rolls from scratch (idk I saw a TikTok of both recently so that's on my mind.) and they looked so good!

You send the TikTok's to katsuki of course, like you always do.

— MSG

“Look how good this looks! She's eating like royalty and I'm stuck at work eating leftovers 💔.” - YOU

"It's cinnamon rolls, chicken and waffles ou how is that "royalty" idiot? - KATS

"And I made those left overs so have some respect would you.”

“I never said the leftovers were bad.“

“I'd just much rather have the royalty meal.”

“‘Royalty meal’ you're such an idiot, get back to work.”

“Fine. See you later I love you ❤️❤️”

“See you idiot.”

“Love you❤️.”

Obviously after this conversation he immediately goes to the kitchen and starts setting out the ingredients for the chicken and waffles + cinnamon rolls.

He gets the chicken breasts, cutting them up and pulling Off any extra fat. He mixes his seasonings together with the flour and makes the buttermilk. After this he coats the chicken In the flour, then the buttermilk, then back into the flour once more.

After frying all of the chicken he gets started on the waffles, once those are done he sets the chicken and waffles to the side and starts on the cinnamon rolls.

After all of the cooking is done he plates the chicken and waffles, topping the waffles with whipped cream and fruits, before drenching everything In syrup.

Just than the front door unlocks, and a moment later you come into the kitchen.

“You're 10 minuets late, idiot." katsuki says while walking over to you and placing a quick kiss to your forehead.

"Traffic.” you say while clearly more interested in the food on the counter.

“I made yer damn royalty meal or whatever. Taste it.”

You quickly grab the plate and dig In. And of course it's the best thing even!? Who knew chicken and waffles could taster a like a 10 ⭐️ meal. And you can taste the all of the love he cooked it with.

“This is so good i could literally cry.” you say while inhaling the food. Katsuki 1s just standing there shaking his head.

“It’s literally chicken and waffles you're so dramatic.” he secretly loves that you like the food so much, it makes him happy that he can express his love for you through this action instead of having to use his words, cause you know.. this guy stinks at communication.

“ I made the cinnamon rolls too. They're in the oven.” you push the plate a side, “Give them to me now! Pleaase.”

He rolls his eyes and gets the cinnamon rolls out from the oven and places them on the counter. He grabs a spatula and hands it to you and you immediately try to cute one of the cinnamon rolls out of the pan but he stops you. “Whattt??” You ask with an annoyed look on your face.

“Don’t give me that damn look, idiot. You know the rules. Eat the food, kiss the chef.” He says bluntly. He made this stupid rule up about 6 months in the relationship and now every time u eat aolwthunf he cooks he expects a kiss in return.

You let out a huff as if you’re annoyed but theres a large smile on your face. You lean up to kiss the idiot. “There. Now can I eat?”

You’re joking right..? He made you your royalty meal and you have the nerve to PECK his lips? He’s genuinely offended and his face says it all.

“That’s all I get?? Come ‘ere.” he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into a gentle tongue kiss. "Don't you ever disrespect me like that again, eat yer dam food, idiot."

THE END (cs I’m lazy)

Hi friends!

I haven't been posting because I have no ideas + no motivation... But I wanted to get something posted because inconsistency is not a good look.

I hope you enjoyed reading!

Thank you for reading!

Not proofread

(Commenting improvement tips are highly appreciated!)

(Commenting or sending messages for recommendations are highly appreciated as well! I check my notifications hourly and every day so please please do recommend! It’s very appreciated especially with my head space at the. Moment!!)

xo -winter 🪼🤍

[chrismalfoy]

C. STURNIOLO best friend’s brother.

i’ve been listening to the victorious soundtrack A LOT and i just. yes.

the sexual tension between you and chris was driving you insane.

whenever nick left you alone in the living room, you two would communicate through your eyes.

you decided that you had enough and wanted to do something about it.

“hi.” chris smirks, eyes trailing down your figure. he tilts his head, leaning against the counter with his hands on top.

you scoff, taking a step forward crossing your arms over your chest. “you’ve been driving me fucking insane.”

he smirks again, his eyes raking over your figure as he murmurs lowly, "oh, i know.”

he reaches his hands out, gripping your waist and pushing himself onto you. he whispers. “nick left you all alone again. how do you feel about that.”

“god. i want you so fucking bad.” you finally admit, biting down on your bottom lip as you glance downwards.

he smirks loving the answer as he fumbles with the button of your jeans. he twirls you around against the counter. “yeah?”

he takes a step forward touching his chest against your back, wrapping his arms around your waist as his head dip to the side of your neck, shoving his hand inside.

his middle and ring finger teasingly glide between your folds. “are you always this wet for me?” his fingers slowly pump in and out, your body jerking forward to his touch.

“god.” you whine, feening for more as your brows furrow, eyes fluttering shut. he smirks, cupping a tit as he pushes your top upward.

your jaw slightly partly open, tilting your head backward against his shoulder, letting out a small moan.

both of his hands grip your waist, turning you around. he lift you onto the counter tugging your jeans off to the ground, and does the same with his.

his hand reaches up to his mouth—with his hand slicked with saliva, he pump his dick a few times.

the tip pushes inside between your folds throbbing desperately to be swallowed.

your eyes hungrily gawk at his dick. this has been the moment you’ve been craving for. he grunts, grabbing both of your hands intertwining for support.

the sound of his hips slapping against your skin makes your knees rises as your head lolls against the cupboards. “oh god. fuck. please, please. feels so good.”

his breathing grows heavier as his head dip to your head. “christ, i can’t.”

you exhale lowly, turning your head to focus on him—vision blurry, and chest heaving heavily. “chris, i’m gonna. i’m gonna—“

he grunts, pulling out pumping. white strings spluttered all over your cunt, tapping the excess against your clit.

you breathe out quietly, pushing yourself upward and wrap your arms around his neck. “mm. that was pretty amazing.”

he smirks, letting out a laugh as his hands leans on top of your knees. “yeah it was. should do it more often.”

his fingers trail up your inner thigh, his thumb toying with your clit.

“oh my jesus christ.” nick’s jaw falls open as he reaches his hand up to his mouth in horror. “what the fuck! i’m never leaving you alone again.” he shrieks in pure disgust.

© chrismalfoy

[buck-star]

For the drabble thing, if this speaks to your muse...

dark!Steve K. x dark!reader

Jealousy prompts #12

"Hey, look at me. I'm yours and no one else can change that."

All yours

You notice the dinner table ready for two people, but where’s Steve and who did he plan a dinner with?

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Steve Kemp x Soft!Dark!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 697 Words

Warnings: dark content (if you know the movie), jealousy, fluff

Authors Note: Hope you enjoy. Divider made by me. @holylulusworld LOOK WHO WE HAVE HERE…🤭🤭

Masterlist | Steve Kemp Masterlist

Walking into the kitchen, you notice the glasses on the table, the plates in front of them, and the expensive wine already in the glasses. The house is filled with the wonderful smell of the noodles your boyfriend makes so perfectly. But there is no sign of him.

“Steve? Steve!” You shout through the hallway, looking around. His phone is placed on the kitchen counter next to the finished food, and you narrow your eyes. “Where are you, babe?”

You take another step into the kitchen, when suddenly a pair of strong arms wraps around your waist and pulls you back into a muscular chest. “Hi, my love.”

Steve’s familiar, musky scent surrounds you, and you relax in his embrace, letting yourself fall backwards. He leans forward, kissing down your neck and to your shoulder before he trails his lips upwards and nips at your earlobe.

“Missed you; got dinner ready,” he mumbles, but you’re skeptical. You’re not sure why, but usually he would fill the glasses once you’re seated, but now he does it already. Did he plan to eat with someone else and change his plans when you said you would come over?

“Where were you?”

“In the basement, finishing some orders,” he explains, his lips back on your neck before you push away from him with a low growl in your throat. Steve sighs, leaning against the kitchen counter next to him.

His ocean blue eyes look you up and down, taking in your tension. You turn to face him, looking back to the table, before you look at your boyfriend again.

“Why is the wine already in the glasses? You never do that before we sit. Did you have plans? Is there someone else?” You ask, your voice dropping to a dangerous growl.

Steve smiles softly, pushing himself off the counter, and takes a step closer to you. His big hands find their way to your hips, a tight grip to keep you in place and offer him to get closer to you. He shakes his head slightly, tilting it.

“The only person I have plans with is you, baby. There is no one else, sweetheart, you know that, don’t you?” He asks, but you still look unsure if you want to trust him or not. Of course, you love him, but the fear that he will find someone else and push you away is sometimes filling more of your mind than acknowledging that he loves you.

You turn your head to the side, looking at the dining table. Your boyfriend sighs softly; he keeps looking at you with a soft, loving expression. He might do a job that’s not considered a job, and he might do things most people wouldn’t consider as good or legal.

But there’s always you, who keeps the softness and light in the darkness, in the cold. He knows that he has always someone who loves him just as much as he loves you. Steve would give up his job, but he would never dare to even think about pushing you away.

“Look at me,” he mumbles, turning your face to make you look at him. A soft smile — one he reserves only for you — spreads on his lips. “I’m yours, and no one else can change that.”

Before you can answer him, he presses his lips on yours, devouring your sweet taste when his tongue pokes between your lips. You immediately bring your hands to his neck, pulling him closer. Steve grins into the kiss; even though he’s kissing you with such softness and tenderness, he slightly fights with you for dominance — something he loves to do because he just loves to feel you pulling his hair when you try to push his tongue down with yours.

“Nah… you know who’s in charge, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your lips when you tug his hair harshly. With a growl that leaves your lips, he kisses you once more, softer, sweeter. “The glasses are filled because I love when you get all jealous and possessive. Just love to kiss the attitude out of you before we have dinner and dessert. Sweet, filthy, delicious, but also a pleasurable dessert, sweetheart.”

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[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Four: push him away

tw: violence, blood, vomit

Your life has become nothing but a game of numbers. 

It’s a grueling game. One that deals in quantitative facts that reminds you of its indifference towards your feelings and needs as you scribble your thoughts and desperate math into your journal. You’ve gotten very good at mental math over the years. Between calculating hours, wages, taxes, overtime… Every day that you live is planned to perfection to make sure you can survive throughout the month. There isn’t a single pence not accounted for, nor pound that goes to waste. 

After completing all your math—multiplication, division, subtraction, subtraction—you calculate the expenses you need to keep yourself alive. Paying your rent keeps you alive. Getting Marco his money on time keeps you alive. After everything, you are left with £79 in your checking account. 

You draw an angry circle around your final number before tossing the journal back onto the mattress. How you’re going to pay for groceries is beyond you, let alone anything else this month. Your teeth nearly draw blood as you bite into your cheek at the thought of using your credit cards and the debt that’s already wracked up on them. 

You work like a dog, just to live off of scraps. 

A sigh dances between your lips as you give your hand a break from writing by tossing your pen next to your journal. You’ve been sitting in bed for what feels like hours. Crunching numbers, setting timelines—the effects begin to ravage your lower back and wrist with a pestilential ache that refuses to relent even as you rub it. 

As your head rests against the wall behind you, you take a deep breath of the fresh air seeping through your open window. It’s always chilly in November, but you go insane being kooked up in the small confines of your studio apartment. Opening your window is the only bit of freedom you can pretend to have without having to put yourself in the eyes of the public. Your teeth sink into your lip as you glance back at your notepad. 

Two weeks. That’s all you have left until the 25th. 

A quiet curse cuts through the silence in your apartment as Simon’s knuckles scrape against the sink spout for what sounds like the tenth time this morning. Several parts lay dismantled and gutted on the counter next to him, along with a various assortment of tools. He scrubs the parts clean with a solvent that leaves the room smelling like vinegar, testing them bit by bit to ensure that they fit together better than they did before. 

You hadn’t expected to need him so soon. At the very least, you wanted to wait to call him until you had a bit more money in the bank, but your sink seemed to destroy itself overnight. No longer a soft drip, it turned into a steady flow that gushed more water than you knew you could afford. When you sheepishly messaged him earlier in the morning, he left almost immediately in order to buy the right materials. 

And now, here you are again, stuck with Simon Riley. 

Bee’s words from the other night ring loudly in your mind. You sure know how to pull them. It’s laughable how she thinks you’re able to attract people as if Simon sees you as something more than a pathetic animal that doesn’t know how to care for herself. Though, you can’t exactly disagree with her. For all his rough edges, he’s an attractive man. Quiet, and polite—kinder than his appearance alone would have you believe. Still, that’s as far as you would ever go. Looking. Admiring from afar. Keeping your distance. Distance is good—it keeps you safe. 

Keeps everyone safe. 

Besides, you’re not sure if intimacy is something that’s meant for you. Every time you think of a hand on your waist or hot breath on your face, your body tenses so much you can feel it trying to rip itself to shreds. The thought of someone’s lips on yours makes you want to scream. The bile in your stomach starts to churn—it’s that hand. His hand. Sliding between your thighs, inside of your skirt, going up, and up—

“There we are.”

Simon’s voice yanks you out of your anamneses, violently snapping you back into the present. Swallowing, you pull your blanket tight around your shoulders as you slide out of your bed and tip toe into the kitchen behind him. Water no longer drips out of the spout, and it now sits as the shiniest item in your apartment. A smile pulls at your lips; you’re grateful to no longer have something quite literally siphoning your finances. 

“Should be set now,” Simon explains as he cleans up the old, calcified hardware from your counter. He tosses the discarded metal into your trash where it falls with a heavy thunk. “Anythin’ else need fixing?” 

“No, nothing else is broken, For now,” you say in an attempt at humor. 

But there is one issue left: payment. 

“Thank you again, Simon. I, uh, don’t really have the money to pay you for it, but I can… maybe comp another meal for you tonight, if you’d like?” you offer. 

“It’s no problem,” Simon hums as he rinses his hands clean. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’m workin’ tonight anyway.” 

This… is not how the conversation is supposed to go. He seemed more than happy to accept free food last time, yet now he’s making it seem like you don’t need to pay him back at all. Of course you have to pay him back. That’s how the world works. It’s how everything works. You cannot take without giving—it’s an equal exchange. 

If he doesn’t want anything from you now, he’s going to want something later. 

“I can drop it off tonight at the club,” you insist, desperate to finally be rid of him. “I’m sure you get hungry at work, and I know for a fact the food there is terrible.” 

Simon hums as he shakes his hands off. He borrows the kitchen towel hanging from the oven to dry his hands as he leans against the counter, tilting his head at you with a shrug. “The chips aren’t that bad.” 

You look him up and down before raising an eyebrow. It’s a silent question—no, a protest—you know for a fact that a small serving of chips isn’t enough for a man his size. 

“Text me what you want, and I’ll bring it after I’m off tonight,” you repeat, tone all but begging for him to accept. 

Twilit eyes study you like you’re a specimen. Simon’s gaze feels like he’s pinning you to some examination board with your legs and arms splayed out. You’re on full display, chest and stomach waiting to be cut into—beating heart visible through your ribs. All he’s missing is the lab coat and scalpel to rip you open. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes. “See you tonight, sweetheart.” 

Work goes by fast. Too fast. It’s busy, which is to be expected of a Saturday, but this is outrageous. Between the takeout orders and the endless wave of patrons, it’s impossible for you to take any sort of breather. The aroma of fresh bread and cheeses soaks so deeply into the fabric of your being that you’re certain you’ll have to scrub yourself in the shower for hours in order to rid yourself of the scent. Worn shoes offer no support to your aching feet, and by the time you’re finally able to lock the door at midnight, you swear your heels are bleeding. 

Really, you should be thanking the universe for this—a blessing in disguise. A busy day means busy hands, and busy hands mean you don’t have to think about the notification waiting for you on your phone, or the meal you’ll have to deliver soon. 

Yet, your phone is the very first thing you reach for the moment you’re able to sit. One of the waiters sits huddled up in the booth across from you, rolling silverware for tomorrow’s service. The clinking hits too dull on your ears, but you ignore it as you unlock your phone. 

Order whatever you want for tonight. Not picky. Come through the VIP entrance. I’ll wait for you. 

Simon’s message came in a while ago. Just before eleven. He’s been waiting for nearly an hour and a half for you to respond, and it’ll be much later by the time you finally get it to him. Groaning, you cup your face in the palm of your hands. You should have waited until he had a day off so he could have come in rather than have you deliver—your need to push things out of the way is coming back to bite you in the ass. 

sorry, it’s been a long night. should be there before one!

“Chip!” 

Your eyes dart away from your phone just in time to see Bee waving at you from the kitchen entrance. Her ponytail is mussed from a night of busy service, yet her beauty is still effortless and captivating as large, sunflower-shaped earrings swing above her shoulders. 

“Bruce is gonna close up soon. Want anything?” she calls. 

“Uh, yeah. Just an order of capellini pomodoro. With chicken please!” you shout back. 

Instead of answering you, she gives you a thumbs up where she shouts your order at the kitchen in Italian. Bruce’s sonorous voice yells back, followed by laughter. 

It’s an easy meal. Something quick. Your usual go-to dish whenever Bruce demands that you let him feed you, which is quite often. You swear he has some sort of sixth sense that can detect when you’re trying to skip meals to save cash. 

A sharp buzz from your phone pulls your attention back down to your lap. Its screen illuminates with the preview of Simon’s response. 

Take your time, sweetheart.

“Christ…” you mumble to yourself.

You wish he wasn’t so kind. It would be easier to push him away if he was as cruel as everything else in your life is. 

It’s an awkward ride on the bus. Warmth seeps into your lap through the thin, styrofoam takeout box that holds Simon’s dinner as the world passes by you in a blur through shiny windows. There are two other women on the bus with you—you feel guilty for being grateful at the lack of men. Everyone avoids eye contact with one another as a woman in scrubs types away furiously at her phone, and a woman who looks two seconds away from puking rests her head against the cold window. 

All three of you exist simultaneously, yet so separate from one another. For once, a part of you is glad that you’re not alone. 

You lugubriously exit the bus as it comes to your stop and stare at the intimidating building a few meters down. While the inside is lit plenty well, you can’t say the same thing for the outside. Shrouded in a thick numbra, lights can hardly cut through the darkness far enough to properly illuminate the pavement in front of the main entrance. You feel your muscles begin to twitch. It’s one thing coming to Terminus when you have Aelin dragging you around, but it’s something else entirely when you know you’ll have to navigate the area all by yourself. 

Styrofoam squeaks as you grip the box in your hand and traverse down the frigid pavement. The air cuts right through your work clothes, and not even zipping your jumper offers any reprieve. You find comfort in knowing it’s a short walk—the bouncers hanging around the front entrance are already within sight. 

“Excuse me!” you call.

The duo of men crowded at the entrance seem to be in the middle of a smoke break when you interrupt them, and they look at you with narrowed, unentertained eyes. They stand at the top of the steps leading up to the entrance, making you feel impossibly small as they scrutinize you. You’re just some bug on the pavement. 

“I’m, uh, looking for the VIP entrance? I’m supposed to meet Simon?” you say. 

“You askin’ or tellin’ us?” one of the men barks over the cigarette stuck between his teeth. 

Every word you speak is so fragile you feel them shatter on the ground at your feet. You’re beginning to second guess asking for help. Twitchy fingers yearn to reach for your phone—calling him would have been easier. No, you just need to grit your teeth and bare it. Once this is done, you don’t owe him anymore, and you’ll never have to see him again. 

“Sorry,” you try again. “It’s just that, I’m supposed to bring Simon dinner tonight, I just need help finding the entrance.” 

“Sorry love, dunno a Simon.” 

You raise an eyebrow at the man as your confusion strangles out the anxiety gripping your chest. “Doesn’t he… like, work security with you?” 

The other man slaps the smoker on the arm—something playful and childish—before he rolls his eyes. “She’s talking about Riley you pillock.”

Terrible realization washes over the smoker’s face, and he quickly flicks his cigarette onto the ground. It sputters and dies in a little wisp underneath the sole of his boot. 

“Shit, of course,” he says, a silent apology soaking his words. He points a finger toward your right, guiding you along the darkness of the building. “VIP entrance, yeah? Just head that way and make a left before the alleyway.” 

It’s not the easiest set of instructions to follow, but you don’t dare ask for clarification. Instead, you mutter a quiet thanks and goodnight before trudging down the pavement. The only thing keeping you warm is the food in your hands, but the night air is sapping its heat faster than you had anticipated. You try not to think about it too heavily as the main lights of the building grow more faint with each step. 

Just as instructed, you make a left turn into the area you assume is the VIP entrance, yet you very quickly find yourself in the alley you were told to turn before. It’s a simple fix. Turn around, backtrack, and find the right turn—but it’s not. Acrid air begins to choke you with thin fingers that grip your throat without remorse. Your diaphragm tenses, solid as a rock; it refuses to loosen and allow you to draw breath. You’re frozen—stuck in time at the entrance of some grimy alley as two men converse with one another where they pass notes and cash between one another beneath the adust halogen lights. 

Dirty business. Something that stains your skin and festers until you’re just as sordid. Your tongue goes dry as if someone’s shoved your mouth full of cotton, and it only worsens when you realize that you recognize one of the men. It’s difficult not to with his brown undercut and stony eyes nestled beneath rigid brows. Trembling fingers dig into the takeout box in your hands as your mind is plagued with the fluttering idea to flee, but it’s too late. His blue eyes have already found you in the darkness with a fire that illuminates your body like a spotlight. 

He always looks angry—determined—with harsh features and tense lips. Yet, as he stares at you, he appears almost relieved. 

Like he had been looking for you. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as this man mutters something to his friend. The stranger looks back and forth between you and the man before quickly departing, shoulder brushing against yours as he passes by. Heavy feet stomp against the stone floor of the alleyway as you’re approached by this monster of a man. You tell yourself to look away, but you can’t. 

You know better than to look away from Andrei when his hands are in his pockets. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, stopping just close enough to crowd your space, but not so much that you step back. 

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you attempt to choke out the words to respond to him. “I’m… delivering food.” 

Andrei looks over his shoulder. The tenebrous alleyway stares back at both of you with nothing to show but noisome garbage bins. “To who? The rats?” 

“I made a wrong turn,” you answer honestly. 

He chuckles, but it’s flat. There’s no amusement behind it, just macabre curiosity. You’re nothing but a creature—one he can’t wait to cut into. 

“You’re always getting lost, aren’t you?” he questions. It’s not something he expects an answer for, and you know it, so you stay silent as he leans closer as if ready to tell you a secret. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

You’re very aware of this fact. You knew as much the moment you laid eyes on him. 

“I’ll just… drop this off and go. I’ll go straight home, I swear,” you attempt to plead. 

“Dangerous men here. Lots of them,” Andrei continues as if you never said anything in the first place. “You’d do well to keep your distance. I know you like getting caught up in bad business, but this isn’t something you want to get stuck in. I can promise you that much. I mean it. Stay the fuck away from this place. I don’t want to catch you here again.” 

“Chip?” 

Simon’s voice bounces off the brick walls around you, rattling you to the point you swear your knees will give out. You’re unsure if you should feel relieved or terrified that he found you. A twitch in your neck urges you to look over your shoulder, but you stop when you see Andrei is already staring at him. The corners of his lips twist downward. 

“Need something?” Andrei asks, bored. 

“Yeah,” Simon responds. Gravel and sand crunches behind you, and you flinch as you feel a warm hand bleed through your jumper as he squeezes your shoulder. “I need you to fuck off.” 

Amused, Andrei tilts his head to one side. Simon is significantly taller than him, yet he doesn’t seem intimidated at all. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into here, friend,” he warns. 

“I said fuck off,” Simon deadpans. “I don’t need some mangy cunt sniffin’ around here. Creepy little shit, you are. What? Need me to repeat myself?”

There’s no time to warn Simon about the war he’s started with those words. Rage boils in Andrei’s eyes with a heat so violent you can feel it in his hands as he shoves you to the side. 

The takeout box slips out of your palms just in time for you to catch your fall. Soft flesh collides with jagged rocks and broken glass, but the adrenaline pumping through your system numbs the pain in your palms and knees. Angel hair pasta litters the ground around you, and the mouthwatering scent of Simon’s would-be meal becomes stomach churning. A strained sob escapes your mouth as you try and steady yourself to keep your body from toppling over onto the ground. 

All you wanted to do was drop off the meal and go home. 

It takes an eternity for you to push yourself to your feet, and even then you nearly fall back to the ground. Mind spinning, your weary eyes can hardly make sense of your shredded palms and the blood that trickles from small lacerations. Shock grips you like a vice, forcing your body to shiver as it pumps your muscles with enough adrenaline to stop your heart. 

When you turn around, the tinnitus in your ears suddenly roars louder than anything else around you as you witness the fight before you. Blood gushes from the side of Andrei’s head and his nose. It dribbles down his chin until it leaves dainty stains on the white cotton of his shirt. He leans against the wall for support while staring daggers at Simon, who stands between the two of you like a human meatshield. A physical barrier to keep Andrei from you. Still, it isn’t enough to hide the unmistakable glint of the knife in his hand. 

It hits you all at once. The blood. How it spills freely from a stomach, ruining fresh upholstery. You wonder how many other lives that knife has taken. That cruel, curved blade that taunts you as Andrei folds it up and shoves it back into his pocket. Pale eyes land on you in a warning as he wipes his face on the back of his hand, smearing blood across the flushed color of his cheeks. He doesn’t have to say his caveat out loud for you to know what he wishes to say. 

It’s only a matter of time before you’re next. 

You catch the tail end of Andrei’s retreat before your stomach begins to bubble. Turning around, you hardly have enough time to brace your sore hands against the wall before rancid bile stings the back of your throat. You puke. Vile liquid sloshes on the ground. There’s hardly anything inside of you to get rid of; just the consumed remnants of your brunch from hours ago. You try to keep it down, but you’re overwhelmed by the way your muscles contract, contorting your body uncomfortably as you expel the only bit of sustenance you were able to eat that day. 

Simon’s hand rests on your hunched back, but you can’t get yourself to face him as your stomach quivers and protests. He whispers something on your left—something too muffled for you to hear. It can’t reach you. Everything is disconnected. Nothing but frayed wires and nerves. Shuttering breaths. Cold blood. Trembling hands. Rocks sticking out of flesh. 

Then, there’s nicotine. It’s faint; something that haunts the fabric of Simon’s shirt as he pulls you close. You’re not sure if he holds you to offer you comfort, or to keep your shaking legs from collapsing. You decide that you don’t care why he does it—either way, you’re grateful for it. You focus on the smell of him—old smoke mixed with something clean, like cotton—as well as his warmth as he keeps you tucked close to his side. It does nothing to stave off the panic ravaging your chest, but it’s enough for now. 

“C’mon, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Simon urges. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

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[mattslilies]

... barista!chris and academic weapon!reader meeting for the first time ...

warnings: none!

lowercase intended <3

college was stressful, to put it extremely lightly. you had always been a high achiever, and you had never been the one to skip class or assignments, putting so much of your self worth onto your grades.

where most people burned out their senior year of high school or their freshman year of college, you were still going strong, showing no signs of that happening.

in a blink of an eye, half of your first semester was over, and midterms were rapidly approaching. you had spent so many hours in your dorm room, or in the study lounges at the library, bent over your computer, and today you had decided you needed to sit somewhere else. a change of scenery for once, to help clear your mind.

the city you lived in was walkable, as most popular areas in California are, and you had seen a corner cafe as you had been out exploring during your first week there. you'd never gone in, having never had the time, but decided that now was better than never.

getting to walk outside and feel fresh air without being stressed about making it to class on time was a welcome feeling, and it was nice enough outside that the walk was enjoyable. quickly making it to the small cafe, you opened the door, hearing a gentle ding from above your head, signaling your entrance.

a few people behind the counter glanced up at you, not pausing what they were doing, before continuing to finish making the drink or icing the pastry they had been working on. you noticed that one boy's eyes lingered a little longer on you than the others, but eventually, he too tore his gaze away, and you didn't think any more of it.

finding a free table, you sat down, and spread out all of your notebooks, textbooks, and plugged your laptop in to charge, getting back to work. even though you hadn't ordered anything, it was nice to have a change of pace, and be working in a different environment. plus, the shop smelled really good, which helped you relax.

you focused in on your work, the world around you fading into a fuzzy background noise, not paying too much attention to anything.

if you had, you would've seen that the one barista who had been looking at you when you walked in couldn't keep his eyes off of you.

it wasn't until a cup was placed down in front of you that you were ripped out of your thoughts, glancing up to see a stranger standing there. pulling your headphones off of one ear, the confused look on your face prompted them to speak, pointing behind the counter.

"he asked me to give this to you."

you looked over, immediately figuring out which one they were speaking about, as he gave you a small smile and a wave. you instinctively smiled back before he returned to work.

you picked up the cup, unsure of what was in it, and as you turned it around in your hands, you noticed a small note on the side of it, scribbled in what appeared to be black sharpie.

"you look stressed, figured this might help. :)"

his handwriting was a mess, but so was yours, so you found it endearing. he'd gone with a basic choice, just a cup of hot chocolate, not wanting to give you something you wouldn't like.

after finishing your work, you left, not failing to notice his eyes on you. you'd definitely be coming back soon.

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