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tbaluver · 3 days ago

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GAME OVER!- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x fem! reader, zayne x fem! reader, rafayel x fem! reader, sylus x fem! reader, caleb x fem! reader summary: the lads men try to get your attention when you're busy playing a video game genre: smut a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ if you're the anonnie that requested something similar to this im so sorry but i may or may not have accidentally read it too fast and did not realize you wanted this as a headcanon .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. but im working on making a headcanon version for this one! anyways enjoy reading ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

tags: mentioning of nipple play and fingering

you lost.

you lost the moment his fingers hooked onto your clit.

this wasn’t the usual way he’d get your attention. usually, he’d curl up beside you, his head resting in your lap, gazing up until you gave in with a gentle pat or pulled him closer.

no, this time was different. he was clearly getting frustrated by how much the game was getting more of you than he was.

“xavier..” you murmur, only to get a hum in return from him. his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, and his fingers brush the smooth skin of your stomach. you lean your head back slightly, resting it against his chest. your mouth nearly parts as he moves further up when he notices your eyes remain fixed on the screen.

his fingers roll your nipple between his fingers. a flicker of amusement tugs at his lips when he catches the way you fumble in your game. it was enough to give you away and only encourages him to keep going.

you bite your lips in frustration. you were so close to reaching your goal, only to slip at the last second. but it’s hard to stay upset when his fingers teasingly drag back down to your body and slip in between your shorts.

you tried. you tried to keep your eyes locked on the screen for as long as you can manage but you eventually slip. you let your head rest against his chest, letting him stroke and rub at your clit in delicious patterns, making your grip on the controls loosen.

xavier watches the way your eyes flutter shut and you breathe heavily as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. as much as he’s fascinated by the sound and the way your cunt takes him in so easily, the sound of your character dying on the screen catches his attention for a second.

a small bright idea pops up in his head. he picks up the controller with his free hand and effortlessly guides your character through the round you were struggling with one hand.

this earns a whine from you from the loss of contact from him and he was quick to press open mouth kisses on the bare side of your neck. his growing bulge presses against your back.

“now that i helped you..can you help me?”

Zayne:

tags: mentioning of kneading your breasts, nipple play and fingering

you’d think by now you’d know not to ignore a doctor’s orders—especially when that doctor is your boyfriend.

you were so locked into your game that you canceled everything outside of it. zayne’s voice barely registered to you—questions, little comments, and even a suggestion to take a break. nothing. not even when he reminded you to sit up so your shoulders and back wouldn’t ache later. all to get the same distracted hum as your eyes stay glued to the screen.

a shift on the bed behind you made you aware of him again. he lets out a quiet sigh as his hands find your shoulders, guiding you into a better position. zayne makes quick work, his fingers expertly finding the spots that had gone stiff from sitting too long without support.

you shift beneath his hands, stretching slightly as you lean into his touch. the subtle reaction doesn’t go unnoticed making him quirk a brow. “if that was sore..” he murmurs. “then perhaps you’re aching somewhere else too?”

his hands slide a little lower as he pulls you closer, his hands slipping inside the hem of your shirt. you’d be lying if you were to say you weren’t heating up when his hands found their way to your breasts. his thumb drags slowly over the pebbled nipple before kneading them both slowly.

zayne never fails to miss a thing, even if it were the smallest reaction. he catches the subtle twitch of your thighs, the way your grip on the controllers falters, your thumbs moving just a little slower than before. a quiet inhale escapes him. “i see..” he murmurs.

one hand stays latched onto your breasts while his other moves down to your waist before dipping into the waistband of your panties. he watches how his fingers slowly disappear when his fingers press against your clit, circling around the swollen bud.

“z-zayne..” you whined, grinding your hips into his palm. the screen you’d been so focused on becomes a blur in an instant as your eyes slowly flutter shut, a gasp slipping past your lips as you arch into him.

the pace he’d been building up begins to slow slightly, drawing a soft whine from your lips. you lean back further into his chest, searching for him with desperate eyes.

“now, won’t you be a good girl and listen?”

Rafayel:

tags: eating you out

it was amusing to watch you get hot and bothered just by a simple touch of his.

what could be more entertaining about a video game when he’s right there? you didn’t even bother to reply to most of the things he said. or the way you didn’t even notice the way he crossed his arms, puffed out his cheeks and pouted in front of you.

with a small hmph, he shifted his attention elsewhere, deciding two can play that game. he flopped down in between your legs, his hair tickling over your skin.

it starts with a small innocent kiss on your inner thigh that leads to another and more which doesn’t go unnoticed by you. he inches in closer, letting his hair brush against your soft skin. each one a little further up and a little bolder. it was as if he was a dried-out fish and the ocean was calling him.

“cutie..” he murmurs teasingly, drawing your attention just enough to make you glance at him over your controller. without a word, you lift your hips, letting him slip your shorts down. now it was only the thin material that separated you both. actually, it was that stupid game and the thin material separating him from you.

you knew how clingy rafayel could be—it was one of the things you found adorable about him. you’d promised yourself you’d give him your full attention the moment you beat your game. but every passing minute only made it more frustrating.

what you hadn’t expected was how far he’d go to get your attention—not that you were complaining. if anything, you were starting to realize that you needed some way to release this pent-up frustration.

he licks a long stripe from your fold up to your clit, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud, making you gasp. you taste divine, rafayel thinks. your fingers are almost sliding off the buttons and your grip on the controller barely hangs on when he spreads your legs a little bit more to dip the tip of his tongue inside you.

it only takes a few thrusts with the top of his tongue before he hears you moan and in his head, he knows that he has already won.

Sylus:

tags: fingering

“winners finish”

those words echo in your mind as you watch the big red ‘DEFEAT’ flash across your screen again. he clicks his tongue, tauntingly. “aw. that’s too bad.”

he slips his fingers out, earning a whine from you. one by one, he savors the sweet rich taste of your arousal to his lips. he’s never letting you finish after a loss-- not when you weren’t paying attention to him.

and with the way he’s distracting you, you’re not even sure you can win. you were already struggling to finish your game before you stopped paying attention to him for a split second and now, now it’s nearly impossible.

“go ahead. finish your little game, sweetie,” he whispers lowly in your ear, his hot breath against your skin, sending that familiar heat traveling back down to the lower half of your body. your legs were wide apart, your panties pooling down to your legs while your back against his chest.

a new round of the game starts. this time, the sounds of the game faded into the background—ironically, just like how you tuned him out a few minutes ago. but now, your focus was entirely on him and the way his fingers expertly work their way around your clit.

a wicked smirk curls on his lips as soft whimpers of his name leave your lips when you feel his fingers slide up to circle your clit, rubbing over it. “that’s right,” he whispers teasingly into your ear. and you know damn well that he’s not encouraging you about the game at all, especially when you think you got back into the rhythm of the game.

or so you thought. his wet fingers drag against your folds before dipping back to your fluttering weeping cunt. sylus doesn’t even need to look at the screen to know you’re losing. with the way you’re trembling with the controls, tells him everything.

his fingers sink further inside you as you clench tightly around him, your hips matching the pace. your eyes struggle to stay locked on the screen, after countless failed attempts, you’ve grown desperate. your grip on the controls loosened, leaving your character on the screen on idled as you melt deeper into him.

you lean back further into his chest, head tilting up to meet his lustful eyes, lips parted as shaky breaths escape you. one look is all it takes for him to surrender.

his two digits drag in and out of you and it doesn’t take long for your eyes to roll back. the little pants turn into a final gasp that slips past your lips as you ride out your high on his fingers. this time he lets you have it. he lets you win. after all, he’s already won many times.

Caleb:

tags: cockwarming

“how about you let me help you?”

bad ideas. one after another. you didn’t think much of it when he suggested there was no need for an extra chair when you can just sit on his lap so you both can share the desk.

you barely even registered the things he said after that, his encouraging comments, his teasing questions, that were meant to pull your attention from the game. you were so wrapped in the screen that you failed to notice the small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. or how you definitely didn’t notice how much you kept shifting on his lap, unintentionally making him hard.

this was not your idea of help at all, but you weren’t exactly complaining.

you can feel caleb’s cock twitching inside of you as you continue to play. caleb suggested this would be better. that the game would be easier when he’s deeply buried in your cunt to help keep you steady while you play.

you shift on his lap ever so slightly, making sure to not rock against him. you want to move so badly, desperate for some more friction. you feel so full, so full of him that warm precum dripped out of your soaking cunt.

or so you thought. your breath would hitch, your fingers on your keyboard coming to a halt whenever he would lean forward, hitting just a little more deeper in you.

“hey, c’mon pipsqueak what’re you doing?” he murmurs. “let’s finish this together, alright?” and you’re not sure if he’s talking about the game anymore. “keep going. i got you,” there’s a faint hitch in his voice, his warm breath ghosting over the bare skin of your neck.

his large hand settles on top of your shaky hand, guiding your fingers across the buttons. the other moves further up your inner thigh. your arousal is growing further, both your heart rate slowly picking up.

he’s trying so hard but he just can't. he felt so warm inside of you and it didn’t help whenever you would clench around him. he lets out a pathetic groan, filling you up with his seed. his hand on your falters, messing up the entire gameplay.

he quietly pants behind your shoulder before leaving soft kisses. you could hear him softly groan when you feel him becoming harder inside you again.

“sorry pipsqueak, guess we gotta start over huh?”

ʚɞ cr. for the dividers @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯:

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! The Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2

ʚɞ Others:

Wattpad

Twitter ( but like i barely know how to use it )

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kianf1sh · 2 days ago

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sure thing silly evil personified

you torment the fine people of this land, maybe, but it's in a cool way

also

i HAVE BEEN EXECUTIVELY FUNCTIONING IN THE ART DEPARTMENT ACTUALLY

IM MESSING UP HORRIBLY BUT ITS THERE AND ITS (allegedly) FINISHED AND I USED MY OWN TWO DAMN H A N D S FOR IT SO IM HAPPY

TELL ME WHAT YOU ASSOCIATE WITH ME

COLORS, SONGS, AESTHETICS, PEOPLE, ANYTHTING

#there's SEVErAL posts under me art tag #none are specefically good but they exist #i am thriving!!!!! (untrue)#the tag in question is “art my beloved” for those interested in my failings

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oc-loving · 23 hours ago

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would your oc get back together with one of their exes if it was an option?

#oc development #character development #oc questions #tag the oc #tag your oc #category: relationships

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heyimkana · 2 days ago

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S-Rank Hunter ❌

S-Rank Husband ✅

"S-so, umm..." The cashier begins awkwardly as she spreads a selection of pads on the counter. "We have reusable pads, regular pads, ultra-thin pads, maxi pads, overnight pads. These ones are scented, these are not. Oh, these ones are exceptionally soft, but they can be a bit expensive. And these ones..." Jinwoo stares blankly at the items, listening but not digesting her explanation. The introduction seems endless, and he’s losing it. “Why, uhh, why are there so many different types? Don't they have the same purpose?” “Why, yes, Sir, but every woman has their own preferences. Some may want to wear the scented ones to mask the natural odor of menstrual blood, while some people prefer to…” She begins rambling again, and his brain is turning into mush. "All right... Which one is the best?" “Like I said, Sir, it depends on what you need.” “Which one do you use?” “Eh?!” She blushes and he’s so out of it right now to notice that he just asked something terribly personal. “T-This one, Sir.” She pushes forward a pack of pads with quivering fingers, unable to meet his eyes. When she woke up this morning, she did not think the handsome S-Rank Hunter, Sung Jinwoo, would bless her eyes with his presence and ask her about her pads. “They’re made from cotton, so they’re more, umm, breathable.” “Okay,” he nods. “I’ll take that one.”

“Right. What size do you—I mean, uhh, your wife usually use?" He stops and stares. Of course, they come in different sizes, too. Seeing his soul leaving his body, she suggests, “You might want to give her a call." "Give me a sec." With his head throbbing, Jinwoo closes his eyes, speaking telepathically. Beru. The shadow soldier's response is immediate. Yes, my liege. What pad size does my wife usually use? She usually uses the overnight pads that claim to be for 'heavy flow', my liege. Jinwoo opens his eyes, relaying the information to the cashier. "Uhh... Can you give me the overnight pads, please?" "With or without wings?" He stops and stares. Again. "O-one moment." Beru. With or without wings? She has mentioned that she prefers the ones with wings, my liege. "With wings, please." "Scented or unscented?" Fucking hell. He tosses his head back, refraining himself from swearing—or contemplating suicide. Beru. The scented ones can cause skin irritation, my liege, so I suggest— “Unscented, thanks.” Please, no more questions.

This is Husband!Jinwoo from Pillow Talk obviously 🥰

If anyone wants to be tagged 👀 let me know 👀

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littlelamy · 1 day ago

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“what is up daddy gang—it’s your founding father Alex Cooper with Call. Her. Daddy. and today…” she leans into the mic, grin wild like she’s about to spill government secrets, “we’ve got the it-girl of the fashion world, THE queen of ‘oh that’s just my friend,’ and apparently—allegedly—the woman giving drew starkey something to smile about. y/n l/n, welcome to call her daddy .”

you giggle smiling, eyes sliding to the side where drew sits behind the camera, legs spread wide in dark-washed jeans, thumb playing with his bottom lip, pretending like he’s not listening to every word.

“hi,” you say, dragging it out slow, lashes batting. “before we start..i’m not saying anything incriminating.”

alex laughs, leaning back. “okay, but you slid into his dms, right? or was this like, a ‘we met at a bar and he begged to buy you a drink while sweating through his shirt’ vibe?”

you snort. “he was sweating,” you confirm. “but he didn’t beg me, just kinda stared. really intensely, like, you’re gonna let me hit eventually kind of stare..it was a little cocky actually.”

behind the camera, drew lifts his brows and smirks, cocky bastard. alex notices, points. “oh my god, he’s smiling! that’s a ‘yeah, i hit it in the trailer’ smile. babe, did he give a good trailer?”

you hum. stretch one leg over the other, slow. “the trailer was very memorable. full mirrors....little couch. we tested the noise insulation. but, before anyone says anything i did make him wait....after two dates.”

“girl, stop,” alex groans, shaking the question cards in her hand. “don’t you dare tease the daddy gang like that. we need details...okay. here’s the real question....drew starkey—giver or receiver?”

your lips twitch as your gaze flicks to the side again, locking with his. he raises a brow, daring you. you bite your bottom lip, slow, then tilt your chin with faux innocence. “he’s a giver....big time.”

alex’s eyes go wide. “like….eat you till you cry type?”

“eat me like a dying man at a buffet,” you reply, voice low. “like, i’ve had to tap out. that man doesn’t quit....it’s a problem.”

“stoppp,” she hisses, fanning herself. “you’re telling me drew starkey is down there with a mission statement?”

“mm-hmm,” you nod. “very passionate about the job...lotta eye contact....makes a mess, and doesn’t care. sometimes i wonder if he’s doing it for me or for a performance review.”

alex clutches her mic like she’s about to explode. “does he, like, talk while he does it? whisper dirty shit?”

“oh yeah,” you grin. “he’s a talker. likes to ask questions he knows the answer to. ‘you like that? that what you needed?’”

“fuck,” she gasps. “he gives boyfriend who’s secretly feral energy.”

“he is—looks like he’d help your grandma with groceries but actually wants to bend you over the hood of your car in a 7/11 parking lot.”

“dead..i’m dead.” alex is crying-laughing. “okay, okay. scale of 1 to broke the headboard?”

you laugh looking at her and then the camera. “we've had to buy a new bed frame, twice.”

alex slaps the desk, next to her, holding her mic closer to her mouth. “DADDY GANG—THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

“also a wall mirror,” you add casually, sipping your drink.

“he broke a mirror?!”

“well,” you shrug. “technically i did....with my foot. it's a long story.”

drew, behind the camera, drags a hand down his face, hiding a laugh. you wink at him. alex leans in, feral-eyed. “you ever, like..film it?”

you blink and smile slowly. “that’s..not for the free content.”

“i knew it! oh my god! tell me—do you rewatch?” you tilt your head, teasing. “when i miss him on location, yeah. keeps me company.”

alex gasps like it’s pornographic scripture. “he’s gonna make a whole generation of girls delusional.”

you just smile, slow, catlike. “yeah..well..they can dream.”

ᡴꪫ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @st8rkey

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wormsinastarcoat · 11 hours ago

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A Home of Sapphire and Rain 👀👀

Bank of Sapphire Cold?

#okay but “I'm not getting up” is sending me #tag game #is that what a tag game is im questioning now #let's go gaymers

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abbotjack · 1 day ago

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Wearing War

summary : Jack Abbot’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed—but instead, you go to his favorite dive bar. You wear the skirt. You wear his tags. You push, and Jack—tired, restrained, and entirely yours—snaps.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! explicit smut, dominant boyfriend Jack Abbot, semi-public sex (in a parked truck), use of dog tags in kink context, possessiveness, fingering, vaginal sex, marking/bruising, overstimulation, reader is bratty and teasing, not much plot, mostly smut

word count : 4,323

Jack’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed.

You’d imagined it—his weight pressing into the mattress, one arm tossed over your waist, the rest of the world pushed away by the rhythm of his breathing. You’d imagined curling into the heat of him, tracing the faint scar beneath his ribcage with your thumb, pressing your face into his chest and not moving for hours.

But instead, you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen, watching him rinse his hands in the sink like he couldn’t quite turn off the part of his brain still stuck at work. His scrub top was balled up on the counter beside him, and his undershirt clung to his back in soft lines.

“Let’s go out,” you said, voice careful but certain. “Just us.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just let the water keep running over his hands like he hadn’t registered the question—or maybe like he was pretending not to.

“Out?” he echoed, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth after ten nights of nothing but fluorescent lights and hallway coffee. “You mean… out out?”

You stepped into the kitchen, folding your arms. “Yeah. Not fancy. Not fussy. Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or have a monitor beeping in the background.”

That made him glance over. Barely. But enough.

His brow creased like he was doing the mental math—how long since his last shower, how much energy he had left in the tank, whether he could fake his way through being social when he barely felt human.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t want… like, a real night out? Something normal. Reservations. Wine list?”

You shook your head. “No. I want you. I want O’Malley’s.”

That got his full attention.

He turned, leaning back against the sink. His dog tags swung slightly when he moved. “O’Malley’s?” he asked, like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.

You took a few steps closer. “Yeah.”

He blinked once. “You want to go to a bar where the jukebox hasn’t worked since ’08, the floor sticks to your shoes, and that guy with the mullet always thinks you're hitting on him just for saying hi?”

You smiled, letting your hands slip up under his shirt, resting lightly against the warm skin of his stomach. “I want you. Where you feel good. Where you’re not someone’s doctor or someone’s emergency. Just… mine. I’ve been coming home to your things, not you. And I want to be somewhere that feels like you again.”

He went quiet at that. Quiet in the way Jack gets when something actually lands. The way he used to go quiet back when you first met him—when you’d say something kind and he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

O’Malley’s wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even clean. But it was his.

Brick walls stained with decades of smoke and sweat and spilled drinks. The barstools wobbled. The bathroom door didn’t lock unless you jammed it shut with your heel. But it was familiar. Steady. Like Jack.

It was the first place he ever kissed you in public.

The first time you saw him relax—really relax—with his hand on your thigh and his smile easy and unguarded. No pager. No badge. Just him and a beer and the kind of quiet contentment he didn’t let anyone else see.

You wanted that Jack tonight.

Not the version who came home bone-tired and silent, who sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark. The one who carried too many stories in his hands and didn’t know where to put them.

“Alright. We’ll go. But I’m not shaving.”

You smiled. “I like you scruffy.”

He kissed you, slow and low, then murmured, “Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” you said, already slipping out of his arms and heading for the bedroom. “You’ve got first round.”

And as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you made a beeline for that skirt.

The black one.

The one that hadn’t seen daylight since your fourth date—back when he’d taken you to a bar kind of like O'Malley's. A little louder, a little messier, but the same kind of dim lighting and cracked leather booths. You’d leaned against the doorframe of your apartment when the night was over, keys in your hand, heartbeat wild under your skin, and asked, “Do you want to come up?” like you weren’t already hoping he’d press you into the wall and never leave.

He kissed you before he even got his boots off.

Not soft. Not slow. Like something in him had snapped loose. You barely made it to the couch—his hands on your hips, mouth trailing heat down your stomach, skirt bunched at your waist. He was on his knees before you could say another word, eyes dark, breath rough against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, voice all gravel and restraint.

You didn’t.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just held your thighs open like he needed to, like he hadn’t had a real taste of anything in months. He made you come twice before he even touched himself. All control. All focus. Like the only thing that mattered was what your body was doing under his.

You still think about how he looked that night.

The way he moved—deliberate and slow, like he was memorizing every inch of you. The low curse he let slip when he finally slid inside. How he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight, barely breathing, like you were the only solid thing left in his world. No dirty talk. No theatrics. Just him, wrecking you with nothing but steady hands and a look you’ve never been able to shake.

That night, Jack Abbot stopped pretending. He stopped playing it safe. He stopped pretending he didn’t want you like a man starved.

You hold the skirt up in the warm light of your bedroom, thumb brushing the fabric like a secret, and smile. It’s tighter than you remember. Shorter, too—but maybe that’s just the way you’re looking at it now. With the memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice when he said your name like it was something sacred.

You slide it up your legs slowly. Deliberately.

Because you don’t want soft tonight. You don’t want tired.

You want him. The version of Jack who doesn’t know how to hold back. The version who comes home and remembers exactly who the hell he belongs to.

And by the time he sees you in this?

You want him wrecked.

Not by the shift.

Not by the world.

By you.

When you came downstairs, he was in the kitchen with his phone in one hand, wallet in the other, the porch light casting long shadows across the hardwood.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t look up until he had to.

And when he did—he stopped mid-motion. The screen of his phone still lit, thumb frozen over it, breath caught in his chest like it had nowhere to go.

His eyes dragged down your body and then back up, slow. Controlled. Like he was trying not to react. Like he had to try.

His mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw ticked once.

He wiped a hand down his face, slow and rough, like the sight of you was something he needed to get a grip on before it undid him. “You really—” he started, voice low and ragged, gesturing vaguely toward your legs. “That skirt?”

You leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that was anything but. “Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

Jack didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“That skirt’s been in the back of your closet since…” He stopped, biting off the rest like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

You smiled gently. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between you. His eyes never left yours.

Then, quietly—honestly: “I’m not gonna ask you to change.” He paused. “But don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself.”

You pushed off the frame with a soft shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

When you reached for your bag, he still hadn’t moved.

You had to walk past him to grab your keys, and even then, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just watched. Like he was counting his breaths. Like if he said one thing too soon, this night would tip into something neither of you were dressed for.

You walked out together into the thick hum of summer, the heat sitting low and wet across the driveway. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The air smelled like warm concrete and fading sunlight.

As you made your way toward the truck, you let one heel wobble—just a little. Just enough.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stopping, bending at the knee like you needed to fix the strap.

You didn’t.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

And you could feel his gaze on you. Hot. Still. Quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t come closer. Just waited, jaw tight, fists curled around the truck keys.

You stood, slow. Turned, met his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed. Then turned and opened the passenger side door for you like he wasn’t two seconds from backing you up against it.

The drive was quiet at first. The windows down, the music soft—something bluesy and old, not quite loud enough to distract from the weight between you.

You reached over, let your fingers brush his thigh gently. The shift in him was instant. A subtle inhale. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hand gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“You sure you don’t want something nicer than this bar?” he asked finally, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer but had to give you the out anyway.

You turned toward him, soft smile still in place. “No, honey. This is about you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead and nodded once. The streetlights passed in slow intervals, the engine humming beneath your feet.

And Jack?

He just drove. Knuckles white against the wheel. Thigh tense under your hand. Mouth pressed into a line like he was already counting down the minutes until you got home—and he could stop pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

When you walked in, his hand found the small of your back.

“Usual booth,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”

You turned, looked up at him with a soft smile. “No, babe. Let me. You always do it.”

He squinted slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Go sit. Relax.”

He hesitated. Then pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and handed you his card. You turned and walked to the bar, slow and confident, letting your heels click against the hardwood. The bar was a straight shot from your booth, just far enough that he could still see you. And you made sure to give him a show.

You leaned forward, pretending to read the drink list. Let your hips tilt. Let the skirt shift. Just enough for the lace of your thong to show.

The whistle was immediate.

A low sound from a table of men a few feet away.

And then Jack was there.

Behind you in a blink.

His hand clamped to your lower back.

And the other—

yanked your skirt down.

Hard. Final. Like the motion itself was a correction.

The fabric snapped against your thighs, the sudden pressure sending a jolt through you. You straightened instinctively, blinking.

“Jesus,” you said under your breath.

Jack leaned in. “You really wanna do this here?”

“I was just reading the menu,” you murmured.

“Bullshit. You order the same thing every time. Diet Rum and Coke. No lime. Half ice.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move again. Just pressed his hand firmer to your lower back and let the moment hang.

The bartender handed over your drinks. You took them. Didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the booth with Jack two steps behind.

You slid into the booth—on his side.

He gave you a look.

“What?” you asked, sipping your drink.

“You’re pushing it.”

You shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You’re doing this because I haven’t fucked you in ten days.”

You flushed—heat hitting your cheeks hard.

But you didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned in. He thought you were going to kiss him. And then your hand dipped beneath his collar. You pulled the chain free.

Unclipped it.

And slid his dog tags over your head. They settled against your chest, heavy. His name resting between your breasts.

Jack blinked.

Then laughed once. Dark. Rough.

“You wear them,” he said, voice low, “you ride. That’s the deal.”

You smiled. “I know the rules.”

He stared at you another beat.

Then stood.

“We’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“You want people to see your cunt?” he cut in. “You want attention? Then let me remind them who you belong to.”

You didn’t argue.

Just followed him out, heart pounding.

You thought you were headed home.

But when he opened the truck door, he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna ride me in bed.”

You blinked.

He nodded to the truck. “You’re gonna ride me right here. Since you wanted to act like bait.”

You got in.

Because that’s exactly what you wanted.

And he knows it.

The truck door shuts behind you with a heavy, final thunk. One of those sounds that doesn’t echo—it lands.

Jack circles around the hood without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a quiet crunch, one slower than the other, rhythm faintly uneven from the prosthetic he’s never once complained about. Shoulders set. Gait loose, but loaded.

He’s not in a rush.

Not because he doesn’t want to touch you.

Because he’s trying not to break.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs drawn up just slightly, thighs tight, heart climbing higher into your throat with every second he doesn’t speak. The skirt’s still riding too high despite his earlier intervention—and the lace between your thighs is still damp. Still warm.

When Jack slides in behind the wheel, he doesn’t touch you.

Just plants both hands on the steering wheel and exhales. Once. Deep. Grounded.

Then he turns his head.

“I knew you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. Strained around the edges. Not tired from work, but from holding back. Like keeping his hands to himself has taken more out of him than the last ten nights combined.

He says it like a confession. Like a warning.

And you don’t bother playing coy.

You tilt your head, smile just enough to be dangerous. “Figured you deserved something to look forward to.”

He shifts beside you, slow and quiet. One arm drapes over the back of your seat, casual on the surface—but his fingers find your shoulder. Trail down, soft as breath, to the edge of your collarbone. He lingers there. Just enough to feel your pulse.

“I’ve been looking forward to you for ten nights,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his palm drags slowly down your chest, not lingering, not teasing—reading.

Then he moves lower.

Hand slipping down your stomach, over the edge of your skirt, until he finds the lace. The wet. The heat.

He hisses through his teeth.

"You’re soaked."

You don’t answer.

“You’ve been walking around like that since the house?” he asks, more statement than question.

Your breath catches.

His fingers press in slightly—not a thrust, just pressure. Just enough to feel.

“I know this body,” he says, low, barely a whisper. “I’ve had this pussy every way you let me. In the shower. Against the wall. Bent over the fucking sink. You think I can’t tell when you’re asking for it?”

Your hips twitch into his hand.

He doesn't give you more.

“You thought this was gonna be cute?” he growls, thumb brushing just beside your clit. “Bend over at the bar. Show everyone the lace I’ve ripped off you a dozen times?”

You bite your lip. Nod.

That makes him laugh. A rough, breathless sound.

“I should take you back in there,” he says. “Let them see what it looks like when you beg.”

You shift toward him, no hesitation now—like your body’s been waiting for this as long as he has. You climb into his lap with practiced ease, knees against the worn leather of the truck seat, thighs bracketing his hips, breath warm against his jaw.

He exhales like the contact knocks something loose in him.

His hands find their way under you, palms settling at the curve of your ass—rough and sure, reverent in the way only a man who’s gone without you can be. Like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Real. His.

“You missed me,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging a slow arc along the edge of your hip.

“I missed you,” you breathe, your lips brushing his. “You weren’t home. Not really. I kept pretending it was enough just to hear your keys in the door, but it wasn’t. I was alone. I needed—”

Jack kisses you.

Hard.

Not like a question. Like a claim.

It isn’t soft. Isn’t slow. It’s hungry—the kind of kiss that splits you open, that tastes like every second he had to swallow the urge to call you in the middle of the night just to hear you. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening like he wants you closer, like closer still isn’t enough.

You gasp against him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders, and that’s when he groans—deep and wrecked—like you just pulled the last thread keeping him together.

Because this isn’t just a kiss.

It’s ten nights of wanting.

And now?

Now he’s got you in his lap, and your skirt’s hitched up, and you’re not stopping him.

You’re meeting him there.

He bites your lip, slow and deliberate. Tugs it between his teeth, groans when you gasp. The sound spills into your mouth and coils low in your stomach, sharp and warm. His hands shift, drag you harder against him, and you feel it—how hard he is under his jeans. How close he’s riding the edge.

You rut against him before you can stop yourself, hips grinding down like instinct, like need. His hands grip tighter, grounding you, guiding you, pulling a sound from your throat you’ve never made for anyone else.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like you’ve undone something deep in him. His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the corner of your shoulder—fast, focused, starving. Each kiss lands like an answer to every silent plea you made in the nights he was gone.

“Jack,” you whimper, breath stuttering. “Please—”

He growls. Low. Close. A sound like something tearing loose inside him, sharp and intimate and only for you.

His thumb presses into your waist, anchoring you. His eyes are on you now, heavy and dark, like he’s drinking you in—committing this to memory in case the world asks him to go without you again.

“You want it that bad?” he rasps, voice tight. “You want to fuck me right here, like this truck’s the only place that’s ever existed?”

You nod—frantic, breathless.

Your moan says the rest.

And the way he looks at you then—like restraint was never about control. It was about respect. And now, finally, he doesn’t have to wear it.

He grabs your face, hands big and steady, his thumbs resting under your jaw, holding you like he needs you still to speak clearly.

“You wear those tags,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You ride. Like you promised. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod again, quicker this time.

“Words,” he breathes, brow low. “Tell me.”

“Yes. I’ll be good.”

He exhales like that undoes something else in him. But he doesn’t thank you for it. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches you, jaw clenched, thumb brushing your chin like you’re both already undone and just getting started.

“You made me watch,” he murmurs. “Watch every man in that bar eye what’s mine.”

You meet his stare, voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to remind you.”

“You did.”

He unzips his jeans without breaking eye contact. Slow. Controlled. Not hurried, not desperate. Just decided. Like he’s already known for days exactly how this was going to end.

The tags shift when you lean forward. They clink once against his chest before settling back against warm skin—your skin.

“Do it,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Do what you promised. Ride me.”

His hands guide you—slow, steady, reverent. Like he knows what this is. What it means. What it’ll undo.

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

A pause. One breath. Then another.

“Remind yourself who the fuck you belong to.”

Your hand slips between your bodies. Sure. Smooth. No hesitation now. You find him—hot, hard, already pulsing in your palm—and line him up.

You sink down.

You don’t even make it all the way down before Jack’s hands are on you—possessive, certain, like your body belongs to him and he’s just reclaiming it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. His head falls forward, lips brushing your sternum as you sink fully onto him. You feel the tremor run through him. Hear the sharp breath he drags in like he’s been choking without you. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

His fingers splay wide across your hips, holding you there. Not letting you move. Not yet.

“Stay right there,” he growls. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

You whimper, thighs already shaking, because he’s thick, hot, deep—so deep it makes your chest ache. You try to move, to set a rhythm, but his grip tightens instantly.

“No,” he says, tone dropping lower. “This isn’t yours to lead.”

You gasp. “Jack—”

He shuts you up with a thrust so sudden, so deep, you see stars. The sound you make is guttural—raw and involuntary.

His hands grip your waist, drag you down harder against him with the next roll of his hips, his cock hitting that spot that makes your spine arch, your jaw fall slack.

“I’ve been hard for you for ten fucking nights,” he rasps against your collarbone. “You think I’m letting you play games? You think I’m letting you tease me, ride me slow like you’re in charge?”

He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re not in charge tonight, sweetheart. I am.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it.

He fucks up into you like it’s punishment for making him wait—hands bruising your hips, his mouth hot against your throat, his body straining under yours like he’s holding back from breaking the whole damn truck apart.

Your skirt rides up higher. Your knees scramble for leverage. The windows fog, the air thick with the slap of skin, the creak of leather, your name torn from his throat like he’s never tasted anything better.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the chain around your neck. His dog tags. His.

And then he yanks.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough.

Enough to snap your head back. Enough to leave you gasping. Enough to remind you—he’s home now.

He thrusts up, harder now, sharper. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, your body unraveling under every precise, unrelenting movement.

“You wanted me to lose it. Wanted to feel me snap.”

“Jack—please—”

His fingers twist the chain tighter, the metal cool against your throat. “You wanted this? You take it.”

Another thrust. And another.

He’s all teeth and tongue now—biting at your jaw, kissing you deep, swearing against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You feel your orgasm building hard and fast, coiled tight in your belly.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice almost gentle in contrast to how he’s fucking you. “You gonna come on me, baby? Hm? Let go for me?”

You nod, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Jack—God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he says, and he fucks you through it. “Come for me. Come now.”

And when it hits, it slams into you—your whole body tensing, toes curling, nails digging into his chest, a moan torn from your throat that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

He fucks you through it—relentless, controlled—until your walls flutter around him and your body starts to fold.

That’s when he lets go.

He growls your name, hips bucking once, twice—and then he’s buried deep, his jaw clenched, eyes shut. Like he’s finally home.

He stays there. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

One arm around your waist. The other still curled in the chain around your neck.

Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to your chest like prayers.

You let a beat pass. Then two.

You shift slightly, still filled. Still aching.

Then you lean back and smirk.

He notices immediately.

“What,” he says flatly, eyes opening just enough to pin you in place, “is that look.”

You blink, all wide-eyed and faux-sweet. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

He raises a brow. “Surprised.”

You nod. Slow. A little too pleased with yourself. “Mmhmm. I thought you were gonna ruin me.”

Jack exhales through his nose. Once. Controlled. His jaw shifts.

“Careful.”

You shrug, grinding down just a little—not enough to be obvious. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I mean… it was good,” you say lightly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

His hand flexes on your hip. Hard.

“But I was expecting…” you trail off, eyes dancing, “more.”

Jack’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then: “You done?”

You grin. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re done.”

He shifts under you, cock hardening again. Already thick. Already ready.

Your smirk starts to fade.

But it’s too late.

You’re about to get it.

#the pitt #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #smut #shawn hatosy #fanfiction

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morganbritton132 · 1 day ago

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Eddie is sitting at the diner, about to eat a well-deserved breakfast after a night of rocking and rolling when the most beautiful man he has ever seen slides into the booth across from him like, “About Dustin.”

Who is Dustin?

Eddie doesn’t know but he lets this pretty boy talk and talk and talk until - “Wait, are you doing a job interview for someone else?”

“N-no,” Pretty Boy - Steve, he’s wearing a name tag on his work vest - says, taken back. “No, I’m like. His hype man.”

“You called him an asshole.”

“He is an asshole, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hire him. The kid is a genius.”

“That brings me to my next question,” Eddie grins. “Who is Dustin? What’s he interviewing for? Does he know anything about sound equipment? Did you really think this was a good idea? And are you single?”

Steve just blinks at him, all nice and dazed and slow. Eddie has concluded that he will fall in love with this guy when Steve says, “You’re not the interview guy?”

A minute later, a kid in a hat walks in, sees them, and then rolls his eyes as he sits down across from a stiff man in a suit.

Steve mutters, “Asshole.”

#Steve to anyone who will listen: Dustin is an asshole. he’s mean. he has no manners and I love him so much #Eddie’s just like: whatever you say babygirl just don’t leave #also Dustin’s doing like a casual interview with nasa or something #something that makes it funny that Steve thought Eddie was the interviewer #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson

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tokkiwrites · 1 day ago

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ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. “Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #dark!joel x reader #dark!joel miller #dark joel miller #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction

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cheriedivine · 2 days ago

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Youtuber Ellie x Reader Hc’s <3

♡‧₊˚₊✧ pairing: youtuber Ellie Williams x youtuber fem reader (No use of y/n)

♡‧₊˚₊✧ CW: slight cursing

♡‧₊˚₊✧ Tags: just pure fluff tbh

♡‧₊˚₊✧ Author’s note: I’ve been watching so much Izzy&Emma lately and i thought about this fun idea and i love this so much lmk if y’all want a part 2 bc i definitely have more ideas for this ^~^ (maybe also a little one shot?)

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ok so Ellie convinced you to start a channel with her for shits and giggles yk but a video of you guys doing a Dress to impress gameplay went viral and it was all over tiktok.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Like the video got 100k views in 48 hours…

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ After that, she was hooked. She begged you to keep making videos together, saying it was “for the fans,” but really… she just liked having an excuse to be on camera with you.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ofc you accepted (how could you not when she was so cute)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ One of your most popular videos is the Couple Drawing Challenge where you switch canvases every 5 minutes. You couldn’t stop laughing, meanwhile Ellie was so serious about it. Like, genuinely stressed every time she had to give up her progress.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The paintings turned out surprisingly good (thanks to her of course), and she hung them up in your shared apartment like they’re museum pieces.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ While you love vlogging little cozy days, behind-the-scenes moments, aesthetic montages, Ellie’s more into chaotic gameplay and silly challenges.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ When you hit 1k subscribers (even though she was ready to celebrate at 100), Ellie made a cake from scratch. It was… questionable looking, but the effort was there. She even tried to pipe "1K BABY" on top with pink frosting. (You chose the colors)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ I just KNOW she’s the type to be like “babe we’re not doing a Q&A those are cringe” cut to 5 mins later: “so the first question is ‘who fell first’… it was me. obviously.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ELLIE WOULD FORCE JOEL TO APPEAR IN A VIDEO AND IT WOULD BE THE FUNNIEST SHIT EVER.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ I can imagine him wearing that “I love my lesbian daughter” shirt.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The comments immediately dubbed him “DILF of the Year.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie was disgusted. “Stop hitting on my dad, weirdos.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You made Ellie a swear jar so your videos wouldn’t get demonetized. She tried to cheat by using creative alternatives like “fork” and “ship,” but gave up after a week.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You’ve collected enough for like, a whole sephora haul

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ She bought you the Sabrina Carpenter skin in fortnite just so you’d play with her.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You did. And totally destroyed her. She was… not okay afterward. Her ego’s was a bit bruised ngl

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie insists on matching outfits when you film together. Oversized hoodies, themed shirts, stupid little hats, she loves it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Also, she has her hands on you at all times. Arm around your shoulder, hand on your thigh, holding your pinky. Marking her territory for the creepy dudes in the comments.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ She always deletes hate comments so you wont get sad :( (cutie)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ But what she doesn't know is that you made a secret account so you could fight the incels in your comment section LOL

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You filmed a “Doing my girlfriend’s makeup” video… Ellie ended up looking like a glam rock star and refused to take it off for hours because “I ate this shit up to be honest.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The comment section was filled with “Is your gf single?, asking for a friend”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You deleted them <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie made you film a ghost hunting vlog in an abandoned building. She screamed first. You have the footage. You’re never letting her live it down.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You guys have a series called “Gayming o’clock” where you play dating sims, fortnite, roblox and chaotic co-op games.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie accidentally went viral for being too soft with you on camera — like fixing your mic, brushing your hair away, or whispering “you’re doing so good, babe” mid-filming. The fans LOST IT.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ For your anniversary, she made a cringey but adorable montage of your funniest on-camera moments. It ends with her saying “Here’s to forever. Unless you beat me at Fortnite again, then we’re breaking up.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ There’s a running joke on your channel that Joel is the true star. You guys got him a little trophy and filmed him “accepting his award.” He actually smiled (rare footage!!).

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You guys always EAT UP the fan edits on tiktok, you have a folder full of them.

#ellie williams #ellie williams oneshot #ellie tlou 2 #ellie willams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #tlou2 #ellie moodboard #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie williams headcanons #tlou fanfiction #tlou fandom #tlou ellie

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oc-loving · 3 days ago

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share a physical feature of your oc's that you like a lot!

#you can literally just go 'i like my guy's spiky hair' it doesnt have to be anything groundbreaking!!#oc questions #oc development #character development #tag the oc #tag your oc #category: appearance

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norrisradio · 1 day ago

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SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark. A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.”

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore.

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer. Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best.

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be

from: +61 *** *** *** always.

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.”

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice.

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot.

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now.

He keeps his word.

He never finds the same sweater.

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

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