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jamminvroomvroom · 5 months ago

Text

let’s go ride.

LN x fem!reader

in which lando keeps getting frustrated and you wanna know why…

hiiiiii here u go! belated love day fic from me to you 💝 love u all, tysm for the love on my last few fics, i’ve had a lot going on lately so i’ve not had very much time to write but when the inspo hits….. shoutout to miss mcrae for dropping lando-coded bangers bc i literally cannot resist. might make a part 2 of all the times they get freaky in a car lmao, lemme know if you want that! likes, comments and reblogs are sooooo appreciated so lemme know what u think xoxox

proofed by my own personal goat @lavenderlando 💖

songs to set the vibes: sports car by tate mcrae, bad guy by billie eilish

warnings: 18+!! minors begone! smut, language, fluff, bit of angst bc lando’s in a mood, friends to lovers, p in v, porn without plot but there is a little bit of plot, bitchy lando

4.2k words

you sit in silence, opening spotify and preparing to fiddle with the bluetooth as he slips into the drivers seat beside you. the car door slams shut and he huffs, jawline taut with annoyance. the hood of his car is surrounded, a million and one cameras pointed at you both as he tries to relax into his chair. the engine roars to life and you side eye him.

“when are you gonna learn, hm?” you try and sound playful, teasing, but it comes out laced with a twang of scolding. lando tenses up even further, turning to glare at you.

“god forbid i go outside.” he snaps.

“give over.” you roll your eyes. “poor me, i’m famous! lando, you can’t get angry when you park in the most high profile spot on the fucking planet and your fans want to worship you.”

“you don’t know what you’re talking about.” he sighs, white knuckles wrapping tighter around the steering wheel.

“don’t i? this has been happening a lot lately.” your voice softens, ever so slightly. “every time i’m seen with you, you lash out.”

“because i don’t want people harassing you, looking at you like some fucking commodity.” lando snarls, steely eyes locked on the supposed car enthusiasts that are slowly backing away from his parking space.

“lando, we’re friends. this has always been a thing. why is it bothering you so much now?”

you wonder if it bothers him for the same reason it bothers you.

he shuts his eyes, collecting himself for a moment. he puts the car in drive and smoothly pulls out of the space, ignores your question. you scowl at him, at this sudden childishness that has overtaken his easygoing manner in the last few months.

“fine. whatever.” you mutter, slumping defeatedly into your seat. you give up on playing music, leaving him to bask in the silence, something he loathed.

lando had switched from his usual self to this stony, irate version of him that you rarely had the displeasure of seeing, from the second you walked out of the restaurant where you’d had lunch. he was reluctant to pose for photos and sign hats, something he usually revelled in, grateful that people even wanted to see him. the swathes of fans that had gathered had irked him for once, but what really boiled his blood was the photographers that seemed to find him no matter where he chose to spend him time. so much for monaco’s privacy laws.

it wasn’t like he cared about himself, either. it was you. the way they leered, leaned close to you while he was distracted with pens being shoved in his face. it was the way their eyes dipped low, whether you were in a tank top or a baggy hoodie. it was the way they spread the false, painful narrative all over the internet that you and lando were together, which drove hoards of losers into your comment section and your DMs just to call you names.

you were not together. as much as it pained him, you were just friends.

he couldn’t exactly explain his overprotectiveness to you without getting himself into a big, tangled mess. you, being the resilient, cool as a cucumber stoic that you were didn’t care what fourteen year olds on the internet thought about you. you weren’t about to let faceless, jobless trolls ruin the friendship that you’d nurtured for years, through ups and downs, thick and thin, race wins and huge losses. but lando, god, it killed him, tore him up inside every time someone so much as looked at you wrong.

“you really don’t get it.” he says, hushed, like he’s telling a secret. you turn to look at him, tearing your eyes away from the glistening view of the marina.

“lando, tell me then. make it make sense because i’ve never seen you behave like this. they love you! least you can do is lose the attitude over some harmless pictures.”

“jesus christ, it’s not the fans! it’s not the ‘harmless pictures’! it’s these fucking creeps that follow us around just to make some money off of my own personal hell. you really don’t get it, because if you did, you’d know that it breaks my fucking heart to see the way people talk about you online, just for being seen with me. it’s my fault that you get harassed, that paps are basically stalking you now.”

he signs of his rant with a sharp inhale, one that seems to suck all of the life out of the car. you melt.

“but lando, it doesn’t bother me. i just wanna be here with you, i don’t care about the rest of it.” you coo softly, reaching over the centre console to grip his forearm.

“and i want you here. i want you with me every fucking second of the day, but i can’t cope. can’t help thinking that one day it’ll all just be too much and you’ll leave me.” he whispers.

“never. never ever ever.” you promise. your belly swirls with emotions, tickled from the inside out by butterflies that threaten to swarm.

lando breathes shakily, warmed through by the hand that rests on his arm as he manoeuvres through the twisty lanes. as he hits traffic and slows, he clocks another photographer looming on the pavement, lens aimed at his windshield. already too annoyed, he aggressively smacks his sun visor down, leaning over the console to reach yours too, pulling it down. he prays it’s enough.

“you need to relax, lan. i’m fine, we’re fine. i promise.” you reassure, but he’s breathing heavily now. “you don’t worry this much when it’s max.” you trail off.

he doesn’t know what comes over him. he spins the car into a sharp u-turn, positively speeding back in the direction you’d just come from. any mention of you and him as a ‘we’ makes him crazy, makes him utterly lose his mind, but something about your sweet, earnest voice bringing him back to reality has left him completely shaken. the sun is setting now, most people clearing out of the underground car park he pulls into to head back to their homes. he has other intentions. you don’t say another word until he pulls into a space at the back of the lot, tucked neatly into a corner.

“what are we doing?”

“need a minute.” lando rasps, forehead resting on his steering wheel, the matte leather pushing his sharp curls back. you trail your eyes over him, the way his chest rises and falls under the sweatshirt he’s wearing, the way his thick fingers curl as his grip continues to tighten.

“i’m jealous. and i’m selfish. and i’m a complete fucking idiot.” lando says, steadily, like he’s reading the news.

“you’re… you’re jealous? of what?” you’re like a deer in headlights.

“of any other person that gets to lay their fucking eyes on you.”

“what are you saying?” you whisper. the air in the car goes still, frozen. you can’t breathe.

“i’m saying… that you’re mine. and i should have made that a known fact a long time ago.” ever so slowly he looks up at you, and you gasp at the intensity of his stare. he’s gazing at you with complete conviction in his eyes, a whole lot of vulnerability mixed in with the sincerity of his words. “i don’t want anyone else anywhere near you. lose my fucking mind watching the way they look at you.”

“lando…” you trail off, eyes as wide as saucers. is he really saying what you think he’s saying?

“i know this is terrible of me, to do this now, here - to do this at all, to be honest. i know that i have no right to stake some kind of claim on you, and i know that you probably don’t feel the same, but god, i just needed you to know. if you want me to shut the fuck up or leave you alone forever then i totally get it but-“

“oh my god, are you stupid?” you shake your head, still stuck in your state of disbelief, but you muster the coherency to grip the collar of his crewneck, tug him close.

your lips meet hastily, urgently, and every ounce to tension seems to seep out of the car. he moans at the very sensation of you against him, breath caught in his throat when you lace your finger through his hair like you want to mould your faces together, never stop. his brain finally catches up, awestruck as he is, and you trade passion and saliva, bumping noses as you clash chaotically.

“i think we’re both stupid.” he mumbles into your lips. you shut him up with another kiss, fiery and needy, and his hands begin to wander. he smoothes over the back of your jumper until he finds your waist, awkward in the limited space of the front of the car, and skims his hands up until he’s made his way beneath the material and he’s gripping your bare skin.

“too forward of me to ask you to get in the back?” lando pants with a cheeky smile.

“you literally just marked your territory on me, and nearly bit a photographer. i think we’re past ‘forward’.” you deadpan.

“then get in the fucking back.” he grins, devilish and commanding. you do as you’re told, wriggling between the leather until you’re propped up against the backseat. lando follows, sitting beside you, tugs you into his lap like you’re weightless.

you can feel him beneath you, hard and wanting, and you mewl, keen into him. your breaths mingle in the nonexistent space, lips brushing gently.

“this okay?” lando’s lips ghost over yours and you lean forward, just enough to reach him. he pulls back, eyes hooded, teasing, and tuts. “use your words.”

“who knew you were such a bossy boots.” you smirk. “more than okay.”

his eyes glaze over once he has your permission, and he kisses you like you’re the last supply of oxygen on earth. he licks into your mouth, wet and desperate and you whimper as he grazes over the crease of your thigh, toying with the hem of your skirt where it’s ridden up.

“can feel you.” lando groans, pulling away to look between your bodies. “so warm for me, you like seeing me all riled up?”

you nod coyly, lip caught between your teeth, and you swear you see his eyelashes flutter.

“what did i say about words?” lando composes himself enough to tease. you roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the way heat rolls through your body.

“like when you get all bitchy.” you reply, rolling your hips once.

“bitchy?”

“mhm. always been so easy to toy with.” you whisper, leaning in to nose along the thickness of his neck. you drag your tongue up the vein there, feeling it pulse under your tongue. he smells like his cologne, so him, and it makes you even hotter.

“oh, so you’ve been playing with me?” he chokes out, eyes rolling back in his head at the marks you’re leaving.

“maybe a little.” you hum.

“you liked watching me get angry? pretending to be all sweet and clueless?” lando whispers, the words hanging heavy in the space between you. all you can manage in response is a mischievous smile that twists his tummy.

your hands trail under his sweatshirt, skating over the muscled ripples of his belly, ever so slightly dipping into the band of his sweats. his head lulls back, blindly holding you close while you worship him. he lets you, lets himself have this moment, thinking for so long that it would never come.

“waited so long,” your lips brush over the shell of his ear, tongue grazing the lobe. he descends into a mess of shivers. “needed you to break first. i knew you would.” you croon.

“you’ve been loving this, haven’t you?” lando starts, low and calculating. “bet you’ve been getting off on dressing like a whore for the cameras, watching me suffer.” he pieces together. your resolve cracks. “bad girl.”

the sense of control you’d briefly maintained shatters, a hand around your neck forcing you away from him, preventing your sweet torture. his fingers flex, just above your collarbone, and you swallow at the smirk that seems to engulf his entire face. he looks animalistic, crazed with a feral adoration that leaves you certain that you’re dripping all over his lap.

“i think you’ve had your fun, baby, it’s my turn.”

you whine when he drags you across his lap, back and forth until you’re squirming. his hips rut up into yours, fuelling your desire for every single inch of him.

“please, lando.” you breathe, reaching out to lace your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“let me look at you.” he demands, shutting down your intentions for more. “i’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you think?”

“so have i.” you beg him with your eyes, but give in to him nonetheless. you’re staining his lap, grey sweats darkening as your wetness pools there and he can’t help but buck up into your warmth.

“wanna play with you, baby, see how you like it.” he taunts, bringing two fingers between your legs.

he brushes his knuckles over the obvious damp patch at the crotch of your panties, lip caught between his teeth at what he finds. your soaked through, and he pinches your bundle of nerves just to watch you thrash in his grip.

“i hate you right now.” you spit through gritted teeth, but your hips can’t help but chase his hand.

“doesn’t feel like it.” he kisses you quick, loving the way you lean in for more, but he relaxes against the seat and dips slowly beneath your underwear. “fuck.”

he doesn’t have to work too hard to spread your wetness around, you’re already lathered in it, but he continues to tease, fingers gliding over your clit and through your folds.

“please.” you beg, leaning back to give him as much access as possible.

“what do you want, baby? tell me.” he urges, drawing circles on the swollen bundle of nerves.

“your fingers.”

“you have them.” he barks out a condescending laugh, applying more pressure just to prove his point.

“need them inside of me.” you pant, eyes squeezing shut at his sadistic game between your thighs.

“that’s my girl.” he praises, and you curse, clamping down around him before he even gets the first knuckle inside of you.

“how are you doing this to me?” you think aloud, tears in your waterline already. it all feels far too good for a first time.

“because i know you better than you think i do.” he coos.

lando pulls you flush against him, grinding his fingers deep so that they curl deliciously against your sweet spot. his palm bumps your clit with every twist of digits and he nips over your collarbone. his tongue laves over your skin, tasting the perspiration that gathers as the car steams up around you. you’re suddenly hyper aware of your surroundings, huddled together in the back of his urus in a dimly lit car park. thank god you’d lost the photographers.

“can’t believe we’re doing this.” you gasp, feeling your tummy tighten at the thrill of it all, of feeling your best friend work to please you.

“i knew it would happen. knew that someday i’d get to see you like this, all for me.”

“all for you.” you repeat, drunk on him as you rode his fingers. “feels so good.”

“want you to come for me like this.” lando orders, replacing the heel of his hand with his thumb against your clit. his ministrations are more controlled like this, precise, and you throw your head back in pleasure. his teeth sink in to the base of your neck, sucking softly over the bruising skin, lapping at the mark to soothe it.

“i’m so close, lan.”* you choke, riding his fingers as you near your release.

“c’mon baby, make a mess for me.” he urges, eyes locked intensely on yours. you’re enticed by the sea green storm that swirls in his irises, shrinking as his pupils blow with lust. you can’t help it, can’t delay the inevitable, and you thrash in his arms, wildly bucking your hips against his as you fall apart.

you gush all over his lap, further ruining his sweatpants but he doesn’t bat an eyelid, working you through your orgasm until you’re spent. he’s transfixed by the way your thighs glisten, by the way your release seeps through the material covering his crotch and it makes him throb.

“that’s it baby.” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. you pant, collapsing forwards onto him.

“thank you.” you whisper into his neck, and he laughs softly.

“don’t thank me, silly girl.” he coos into your ear. you pull back just enough to kiss him, taking it slow, giving you a moment to come down from your devastatingly intense high. you’re exhausted, eyes fluttering shut from the exertion, and he tucks sweaty strands of your hair behind your ears. his fingers graze your warmed cheeks, noses bumping and you take him in, carefully studying the lines of his face, the sharp slope of his nose, the flutter of his eyelashes against those ridiculously high cheekbones.

“you’re so pretty.” your voice floats over him like a delicate caress, makes him shiver. he grins at you, enamoured.

“didn’t think our first time would be in the back of my car but i don’t think i can’t wait to get you home.”

“you’ve thought about this?” you ask, bashful. he gazes up at you sheepishly.

“every night before bed.” he jokes, and you shift your hips.

you’re overstimulated, but it does the trick, the playful haze shattering, replaced by thick, charged tension.

“you gonna make that fantasy a reality?”

“yeah. yeah, i am.” he mumbles.

his hands skim your waist, pushing your jumper up as he goes higher and higher, until it’s off, chucked into the footwell. you tear at his sweatshirt until it joins your discarded clothing and explore the bronzed planes of his chest, extra sun-kissed by the trip you’d taken to dubai just a few weeks before. if only you’d known then…

“hurry.” you plead, and he scoffs, adjusting you on his lap just enough to free himself from his sweatpants and boxers, and you gawk down at what’s revealed to you.

it’s big, thick, and you sigh in relief that he’d so thoroughly stretched you out, got you nice and slick for him already.

“gonna take it all for me?” lando taunts, catching your hanging jaw between two firm fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“gonna try.” you reason, breathing shakily as you rise up on your knees. you feel the head of his cock prodding your clit, the sodden tip running along your folds until it catches on your entrance. you both hiss as the contact, his hands steadying your hips.

“you can do it, baby.” lando promises, helps you begin your descent.

“oh my god.” you gasp, sinking down slowly. “dunno if i can take it, lan, you’re so- so…” you trail off, head thrown back far enough that you miss the way he’s smirking up at you.

“c’mon baby, being such a good girl for me, i know you can take it. just a little more.” he goads, pressing each button of your apparent praise kink, and you whine, soft moans tumbling from your lips. a sense of determination becomes you, and you’re aching to take him all the way.

you cry out his name when you’re pressed flush against him, and he soothes circles into your hips, holding you close against his chest. one hand smoothes through your hair, the lace of your bra scratching against his chest as you breathe rapidly.

“well done, baby, knew you could do it.” lando praises, trailing kisses over your face. you quiver in his hold, hips wiggling ever so slightly, and he takes that as a sign. “want me to do the work, hmm? make you feel so good?”

you nod lazily, looking up at him from where your face is smushed against his shoulder, and he lets you break his rule of “words”, softened by how beautiful you look, vulnerable in his strong arms. he starts to move, fucking up into you slowly, feeling you out. you can feel him twitch inside of you, his breath catching in his throat at the feeling of you, tight and warm, enveloped all around him. you roll your hips languidly, meeting his thrusts and you both moan out as the explosion of sensations unfolds between you.

“harder, lando. can take it.” you mumble, glazed over doe eyes looking into his. he tenses up, shaken to the very core by the emotional tether between you, feeling the way it grows even stronger. the one woman he’d wanted since he’d laid eyes on you, the one women he never thought he could have; his heart pounds violently in his chest.

he readjusts your hips, pushing you back so that you’re upright once more, eyes raking hungrily over your flushed body. your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties tugged to the side, cups of your bra barely covering anything anymore. he tweaks a nipple through the lace, paws at your tits until you’re fluttering around him. the cups of your bra are tugged down, resting below your breasts and he swallows hard.

“fuck me, you’re so beautiful.” lando rasps, leaning you back further to perfect the angle.

once he’s satisfied, he bounces you against him, meeting your hips with harsh thrusts, his pace unrelenting. he can see the way you pool around his base, dampening the thatching of hair that decorates his pelvic bone. you seem to chase the friction there, rutting your clit against him. sweet puffs of breath fill his ears, melodic combined with a symphony of your needy whines, continuously intensifying as he fucks you deeper and deeper.

“it’s so good.” you slur, mouth hanging open, totally unhinged from the raw pleasure that he courses through your veins.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby.” he wants to say more, but then he sees it, the way your lower belly seems to protrude with every roll of his hips. “oh, fuck.” he cries out.

“do you see that, baby? see how deep i am?” lando growls, voice rippling through your connected bodies. you glance down, and the first tears start to fall.

“oh my god.” you repeat, nothing else to say, totally braindead at the sight. your cheeks are wet with tear tracks, utterly overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you, so blissful that it hurts.

“you crying for me, baby? do i feel that good?” lando mocks, reinvigorated by the way your tears gather at your collarbone. his hand swipes messily against your throat, swiping them away, but you catch his hand, keeping it there. your eyes lock as your hand squeezes around his, a silent plea. he rocks up into you even harder, hand clamping around you neck slowly, leaving your breathless, liquid heat shooting down your spine. you can’t stop it from hitting you like a ton of bricks, can’t hold back, not when he’s making it hurt so fucking good.

“lando, i can’t- i’m gonna- fuck.” you bellow, falling to pieces around him. he keeps you propped up through your orgasm, plowing into your limp body until you’re so tight around him that he quite literally can’t keep going. he shudders, repeating your name like a godforsaken prayer as his abs flex beneath your shaky hands. you feel him filling you up, shots of warmth painting your insides.

lando lets you collapse into his arms, holding you tight as you both tremble in the silence of the car. condensation rolls down the windows, giving away your frenzied desires. if anyone caught sight of his car, it wouldn’t be hard to do the math.

“gonna let me take you home so we can do that again?” lando laughs, breathing you in. he can feel the way your chest rumbles softly in response, hears your angelic, raspy laugh.

“gimme a sec, don’t think i can move ever again.” you groan, sighing into his chest.

you stay there for a while, basking in it, coming down. he traces shapes into the bare skin of your back; you absentmindedly trace a heart into the window fog.

when you finally manage to redress, it’s dark outside, bright lights casting patterns into the calm midnight of the marina. he holds your hand as he drives up into the heights of monaco, and you stare at the way yours fits so perfectly with his, just like how your head tucked so perfectly into the crook of his neck. you smile out the window and lando smiles at you.

by the time bedtime rolls around, you’re both well and truly exhausted. when you try and wriggle out of his grip, ready to retreat back to the guest room like a wounded animal, lando pouts - pouts! - and holds you even tighter.

“silly girl.” he kisses the words into your hairline, and drifts off to sleep.

hehe

taglist

lemme know if you wanna be added or removed! any tags that don’t work will be removed xo

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @formulaal

taglist cont. in reblogs. smooches

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vastwillcurse · 15 days ago

Text

Aries Rising

You’re forced to own your primal will not the “motivated” version, the ruthless, raw instinct.

Others project power struggles onto you, seeing you as a “threat” even when you’re silent.

You’re a disruptor of passive compliance your existence screams: “Do something about your life.”

Your shadow gift? You learn to use confrontation as a spiritual tool. Not war. Rebirth.

Taurus Rising

You’re born to hold steady in the middle of chaos and that pisses people off.

People try to disrupt your peace, not because you’re weak but because your groundedness triggers their instability.

You’re the soul midwife for dying systems your job is to build something real after things collapse.

Your power is in slow, permanent transformation the kind people resist, until they beg for it.

Gemini Rising

You speak in ways that slice through masks even your jokes are psychoanalytical weapons.

Your presence is mentally destabilizing to people still clinging to surface level truths.

You’re born to disrupt “fake clarity” expose contradictions, ask the taboo questions.

You don’t “communicate” you surgically unearth hidden beliefs with language.

Cancer Rising

You’re the one who feels the unspoken grief of the lineage. Your identity is built on emotional truths no one else faces.

People see you as “soft” but your emotional presence erodes their defenses like ocean waves on stone.

You are not a nurturer by default you’re a transformational container, holding psychic surgery inside your empathy.

People break down around you, because your aura says: “It’s time to feel what you buried.”

Leo Rising

You’re not just charismatic you’re catalytic. Your light burns through others’ shame.

People may envy or worship you but it’s projection. They’re seeing the unclaimed confidence they abandoned.

You show that power isn’t about dominance it’s about being fully, radically visible.

You don’t shine for applause. You shine to say: “It’s okay to exist loudly.”

Virgo Rising

Your existence challenges the lie of perfection. You fall apart in front of others so they know healing is nonlinear.

People think you’re neat but your soul is a sacred dissecting table. You see what’s rotting and you fix it, or you leave.

You offer healing through sharp honesty, not gentle coddling.

Your life is about refining everything until it’s true. Including yourself.

Libra Rising

You don’t just “look good.” You seduce transformation. You make others see their shadows through beauty.

Relationships for you aren’t just connection they’re contracts of karmic confrontation.

You are often used as a screen: people project their shame and longing onto you.

You’re here to reclaim your identity outside of others’ comfort zones and then burn the performance mask.

Scorpio Rising

Your very presence starts endings and you’ve known this since you were a child.

Others fear you, love you, obsess over you because you mirror what they’re not ready to admit exists.

You don’t trust easily because you see motives like X-rays see bone.

You’re not dark. You’re real. You just stopped pretending life is clean and safe. That’s your gift.

Sagittarius Rising

You speak wild truths that unravel illusions. Not everyone can handle your freedom.

You embody contradiction: joy that also hurts, insight that destroys naivety.

People think you’re carefree but you carry the burden of awakening others through shock, laughter, or rebellion.

You’re here to drag philosophy out of the ivory tower and into the dirt.

Capricorn Rising

You carry the weight of being taken seriously before you wanted to.

People assume you’re strong but they don’t know that your power was forged in forced maturity.

You’re here to dismantle fake power by becoming real power.

Success for you isn’t about status it’s about proving that survival can turn into sovereignty.

Aquarius Rising

You are the anomaly. You carry the code for future systems which is why you never fit into old ones.

People say you’re cold, distant, weird but really, you’re five timelines ahead, watching the current one collapse.

You don’t rebel for fun. You refuse false consensus and you suffer silently for it.

You will be thanked later after you’ve burned the dying script down.

Pisces Rising

You dissolve people’s illusions just by existing and they often hate you for it.

You’ve always been between realms, which makes you feel like a ghost in your own life.

But you’re not fragile you’re porous. You can hold grief no one else sees.

Your gift is in making invisible truths real through art, touch, disappearance, or surrender.

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formulafanfics13 · 7 days ago

Note

don't laugh, really, don't laugh

around five ago i got my girls pierced and i recently found your account and i found it so damn ironic, but you know what's most ironic? i recently changed the piercings ans i just found they make some for order, and what about if oscar's found out his girlfriend got her piercings changed and now she's got some with his numbers or initials?

The nipple bar massacre - OP81 🔥

Masterlist || Part 1

summary: oscar was already obsessed with your piercings. already touching them constantly, already marking you with his mouth like they were his. so when he finds out you got them changed—one with his initials, the other with his race number—it breaks him.

warnings: established relationship, nipple piercings, possessiveness, dom!oscar, deep praise, filthy dirty talk, public-to-private tension, overstimulation, breeding kink language, claiming kink, emotional intimacy, rough sex, nipple worship, crying from pleasure, some soft obsession-coded behavior, you are his and he’s not hiding it anymore

It happens in the stupidest way. At breakfast. You’re both in Monaco, sitting at a little table outside your favorite café. Oscar’s just finished his eggs. You’re nursing an iced coffee and wearing one of his looser McLaren hoodies over a tiny white crop top, one that dips low enough to show just the barest shadow of your piercings beneath the fabric. He’s trying not to stare. He’s doing a horrible job. And then you say it. Just casually. Just like it’s no big deal.

“Oh, by the way,” you murmur, stirring your coffee, “I swapped out the bars yesterday.”

His fork pauses mid-air. You glance up. He’s staring already. “You what?”

You try to play it off with a shrug. “Got the jewelry changed. They’d healed enough. I went to that little studio by the marina.”

He says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes. Something dangerous.

You sip your coffee. Slowly. “They’re cute. One says OP. The other one has 81.”

Oscar is out of his chair before you can blink. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just throws a few euros on the table, grabs your hand, and drags you down the street like a man possessed.

You giggle as you trip along behind him. “Oscar, what the fuck-”

“Home,” he mutters. “Now.”

He doesn’t speak again until the door to your apartment slams shut behind you. Then he turns. “You got my initials?”

You nod. Innocent. Smiling. Already soaked.

“And my number?”

Your voice goes syrupy. “Wanted you to have something to suck on during the off-season.”

He growls. Fucking growls. And then you’re pinned to the nearest wall. Hoodie gone. Crop top shoved up over your tits. “Show me.”

You do.

He nearly drops to his knees.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes. He’s staring like you’ve performed a miracle. Like you’ve just presented him with a holy relic. “You’re serious. That’s-” he chokes, thumb grazing over one of the bars, “that’s me.”

“Both sides,” you whisper. “You own me.”

He moans. Actually moans. Then his mouth is on you. It’s immediate. Brutal. Worshipful. He sucks like he’s dehydrated, like your tits are the only thing keeping him alive. His tongue traces the O. The P. Licks over the 8, the 1, mouthing your chest like he’s learning his own name for the first time.

“Can’t believe you did this,” he mutters between sucks. “Can’t believe you walk around with my fucking number in your tits. You’re insane. I love you.”

You gasp. “You said that already.”

He pulls back, eyes blown wide. “I’ll say it every fucking time I see these.”

And then he drops you on the bed. Clothes gone. Legs spread. His mouth doesn’t leave your chest even as he slides inside you, deep and perfect and his. He fucks you slow but rough, grinding against you like he needs to sink his initials even deeper. His thumb stays on one nipple. His tongue on the other. You can’t stop shaking.

“You’re gonna cum for me just like this,” he whispers, voice thick. “Every time I touch you. Every time I say my name.”

“Say it,” you whimper. “Please, Oscar, say it.”

“Mine,” he growls. “You’re fucking mine. Marked. Pierced. Owned.”

You cum so hard you sob. He doesn’t stop. “Gonna get a ring in your pussy next,” he murmurs, biting your shoulder. “Have it say ‘Piastri’s.’ Then maybe people’ll finally get the fucking message.”

You laugh. Cry. Cum again. And he just keeps moving. Slow. Obsessed. Completely undone.

“I love you,” he whispers again. “I love you, I love you, I love you-”

And you believe him. Because the bars in your tits match the fire in his eyes. And you know he’s never going to stop.

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lov3lyl3tters · 4 months ago

Text

“All the little things”

summary: Spencer shows his love through small, everyday acts of service—making your coffee just right, folding your laundry, stocking your favorite snacks—all quiet ways of saying “I love you” without needing the words.

warnings: Fluff, Slice of Life, acts of service, reader getting sick, Spencer being dreamy

Living with Spencer Reid meant noticing the details.

Not the dramatic ones—the sweeping romantic gestures, the overly flowery confessions, or the movie-style declarations of love. That wasn’t his style. What was his style was quieter. Simpler. And, honestly? So much better.

You saw it first in the small things.

Every morning, when you stumbled into the kitchen barely awake, your travel mug was already full—coffee, two sugars, a splash of oat milk. Spencer never asked. He just remembered.

You used to make a joke about it. “Are you reading my mind again, Dr. Reid?”

He would smile softly, always with that slightly bashful look, and say, “No, I just… pay attention.”

You never had to ask him to do the laundry. Not because it was his chore—there was never any scorekeeping—but because he always noticed when you were exhausted after a long day at the Bureau. He’d quietly sort it after dinner, folding your favorite sleep shirt last so it stayed warm when he handed it to you.

He even did it the right way—sleeves tucked in, tags folded so they wouldn’t itch your skin.

Once, after a particularly hard case, you came home and found that he had already stocked the fridge with your comfort food. Mac and cheese, those overpriced ginger sodas you liked, your favorite chocolate from that specialty store two blocks over.

“Don’t tell me you profiled me at the grocery store,” you teased, collapsing onto the couch with a tired sigh.

He smiled, setting a bowl in front of you. “You don’t have to be a profiler to know what someone needs when you love them.”

You melted on the spot.

He always made sure your phone charger was plugged in before bed, even if you’d tossed it somewhere during the day. He bookmarked your latest reads so you never lost your place. He even color-coded your shared calendar—purple for your work, blue for his, green for nights off together.

The first time you got sick while living together, you tried to brush it off. “It’s just a cold, Spence. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t buy it. He’d already rearranged his schedule, made a thermos of lemon tea, and queued up your favorite comfort show on the TV.

“You need to rest,” he said simply, sitting beside you with a tissue box and a book in hand. “I’ll be right here.”

And he was.

All day.

You weren’t even surprised when he showed up at work with a second umbrella because he checked the forecast and knew you’d forget yours. Or when your car mysteriously got new windshield wipers after you casually mentioned they were squeaky.

One night, you were both curled up on the couch, the quiet hum of the city outside your window, and he was rubbing small circles into your back without even realizing it. You turned to him and asked, “Why do you always do so much for me?”

He blinked, like it was a strange question. “Because you matter to me.”

You stared at him, heart full. “You know, you don’t have to do any of this.”

He smiled again—soft, sure, a little sheepish. “I know. That’s why I want to.”

It hit you then. His love wasn’t loud. It was consistent. Reliable. Woven into the rhythm of your daily life in ways you didn’t always notice until you paused long enough to look.

Spencer’s love language wasn’t about words or gifts or grand gestures. It was about checking the tires on your car before a long drive. About picking up your prescription on the way home. About learning how you like your eggs even though he never eats breakfast.

It was acts of service. Every day. Quietly. Faithfully.

And every time he refilled your water bottle without being asked or plugged in your curling iron because you were running late or made sure you never ran out of the lavender lotion you liked… you fell a little more in love with him.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

But because he wasn’t.

#spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid comfort

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dear-ao3 · 5 months ago

Note

You can't hide the bit about starting a cult in the tags. We demand the story.

once upon a time i was a menace of a 15 year old taking high school chemistry. and this was not a particularly advanced chemistry class. we had ancient bunsen burners, occasionally we lit things on fire, sometimes there were chemicals involved, but for the most part, it was standard run of the mill shit.

the class was divided into two groups of people:

The Trouble Makers and the People Who Didnt Cause (many) Problems

as a mostly straight a and usually honors (when it wasnt science) student, i fell into the second category.

this class was 8th period, last period of the day, and the teacher was new that year. we will call him mr a.

mr a was on the younger side and seemed like a dude who wanted to have fun with us (essential for a science class). unfortunately he was teaching a batch of idiots (myself included).

its been several years so i dont remember the exact politics of this class, but i do know that it was populated by the two guys who stuck a pop tart still in the foil in the band room microwave and nearly lit the entire building on fire, a few class clowns, some very stereotypical football players, two guys who were positively dumb as bricks and constantly acted like they were on the verge or breaking up or getting back together (they were not dating at all. they were both and still are very straight), and then there was me and a few other girls who mostly just minded our business and watched the chaos unfold.

mr a's mistake was that he engaged with the insanity caused by The Trouble Makers. which resulted in even more insanity. he only lasted one year. he hated all of us but he might have hated himself more.

he did like me and my friends tho because again, we did not cause problems.

you might be wondering what kind of problems could be caused in a high school chemistry class. well lots. for starters one of the outlets in the room was taped over with NO JUSTIN! BAD JUSTIN! written on it because one kid thought it would be funny to stick scissors in the outlet in a different class (true story). there were broken beakers, smashed glass, general insanity. again, not an honors class so most of us didnt really care about it as long as we passed. there was one time he told us (jokingly) that we should only drink pepsi because his wife worked for the company and it would help fund his kids college career or something. two days later five guys came in with coke bottles. that was the kind of class this was.

but we still learned chemistry. probably. i dont actually know.

this guy taught lessons like he was reading a tumblr text post. like full on "so the guy hated that guy cause xyz and smited him in the science journals for this that and the other thing" it was entertaining.

i remember learning two things in this class. one was that salt is NaCl. which mr a called "our good friend nackle" the second we will get to in a minute.

one of the things we had to do in class relatively early on was decorate a periodic table that we would be allowed to use for tests. like color code and all that. we were allowed to use it for tests because there was a Giant periodic table hanging in the room and mr a was "too short to cover that up"

well, that periodic table proved to become his worst nightmare.

now. remember that i am 15. i am a sophomore in high school. i have not yet had to consider the horrors of college. i am at peace. aside from this chemistry class i am also taking a dance class (that i didnt like), ap english language (which was terrifying because im really bad at deeper meaning in texts), honors algebra 2 (which i Barely passed), latin III (another class i was pretty shit at, but it was fun), crafts 2 (which was wonderful), gym (thats a totally Other story) and honors united states history (which i loved). i was also dancing about 20 hours a week outside of school. but most of my schedule required me to be a good little honors student and mind my business. i was also, by all accounts, an absolute loser and a nobody and had very few friends and was totally unknown to most popular kids. however, you all know me on this blog and know im a little shit and it was only a matter of time before i caused problems Somewhere.

and that somewhere came one blissful day during 8th period chemistry when mr a asked me something about the number of electrons on carbon.

and i (to my credit) was entirely zoned out because again it was 8th period. but i gave him an answer. it was the right answer. what the answer is now i have no idea because i went on to get a ba degree in history and my eyes have not graced the periodic table since this class.

and then he asked me "how do you know thats the right answer"

and i said, in all my zoned out, infinite wisdom "it says so on the periodic chart"

isnt a periodic table? you might be asking.

well you are correct.

but you see. the giant periodic table above the front of the board at the front of the room was from the 70s. and it didnt say periodic table. it said "periodic chart of the elements"

and i, being zoned out, just read the damn name off of the thing because what the fuck else is a girl to do.

and mr a says "its a table. the periodic table."

and i, who have now zoned back in and realized my mistake, refuse to admit that i was just zoned out in class so i say, like any reasonable person, "then why does it say periodic chart up there?"

and mr a said "i dont know, its old."

and i said "well it says chart. so why cant we call it chart?"

and mr a said "because its a table."

and me, because im a little shit and also 15 and there were probably also 10 minutes left in the school day said "i think we should be allowed to call it a chart. it says so right there."

and well. that was all the go ahead the trouble makers in the class needed to hear.

from then on, it was the periodic chart. we all called it that. all of 8th period. and mr a HATED it. if you wrote chart on your test you got points taken off (which i never did because i wasnt an idiot but i would put little smiley faces next to my answer and he would draw a frown face when he graded my paper next to it). if you said it when you answered a question he would pretend he hadn't heard you.

it was such a phenomenon that it spread to his other classes. everyone called it the periodic chart. the scissors in the outlet kid. the pop tart kids. the football players. everyone. it was a chart. not a table. to this day i still call it a chart.

though, i think he was just mad that my cult (which he did call a cult, the periodic chart cult) was more successful than his stoichiometry cult. which was basically that we all had to repeat stoichiometry back to him every time he said it. that is the second thing i learned in this class. dont ask me what it is though, i just remember the name.

at the end of the year we parted ways, mr a silently glaring at me for my chart crimes, never to return to our school (probably because he got fired, unrelated to my chart crimes). despite this, he did still like me as a student, and i did get an a in his class, though it probably pained him to give it to me.

the following year i had physics in the same classroom, periodic chart overlooking me.

i used my iPhone 5c to take a photo of a white board and accidentally dropped it six inches onto the lab bench. the screen grayed out and it never turned on again.

the chart had cursed me for my hubris.

#not a tag #from saph #the periodic chart #if you went to high school with me and you remember this no you do not #somewhere in my room at my parents house i still have the chart and the tests he wrote frown faces on if i remember ill pull them out #when im next home

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angelsuecult · 15 days ago

Text

crystal clear | s. crosby

“please tell me not to go

we’ve been here long before”

warnings: some language

summary: A wedding, a best man, a maid of honor, a pair of childhood best friends and memories of love and what-could’ve-been.

request: Could we get a brother’s best friend Sid x reader?

word count: 12.3k

song: sienna - the marias

a/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this one as I really enjoyed writing it! made me a tad sad but I love it nonetheless! original asker I’m sorry it took so long pls don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it, if you love it, if you want more! anything! I’d love to hear your feedback back! enjoy it guys.

—

It had rained the night before. That kind of east coast rain that soaked the earth through and made the air heavy and still the next morning, like the world hadn’t yet decided whether it was going to sweat or sigh. The backyard was quiet at first, just the rustle of wet leaves and the soft clink of your mom’s coffee spoon against her chipped porcelain mug. Then the frenzy started—not all at once, but in slow-building waves. A misplaced floral centerpiece here, a tablecloth creased the wrong way there. Someone couldn’t find the mimosa glasses. Your aunt was already asking if the eggs had been overcooked. The back gate was sticking again.

You sat on the edge of your childhood bed, bare feet brushing the worn carpet, hands resting still in your lap like they were waiting for instructions. The smell of lemon polish and toast drifted up from the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of your old lotion, the one you always used when you were younger, still tucked into the back of your dresser drawer. You’d put it on last night without thinking. Muscle memory. The small things always came back first.

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. Just your brother checking in. “U up?” it said, like it wasn’t the first big day of the weekend. Like you hadn’t both been going over every last detail for weeks. Your thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before you replied with a thumbs-up emoji. No words. There never really needed to be between you two. Especially not today.

Outside, you could hear the thrum of voices getting louder. Chairs scraping against the patio bricks. The neighbor’s dog barking once, then going quiet again. It was all familiar—painfully so. A backdrop of a life that used to be yours, that sometimes still felt like it was, in the right light.

You hadn’t lived in Cole Harbour in years. Twenty-two when you left, with two suitcases and a very sure step, telling yourself it was time. There were things you needed to do, things that couldn’t be done here. And maybe a part of you hoped it would help, help you forget that some stories stay unfinished. Help you put space between yourself and the ghost of something that never quite was.

Sidney.

The name alone stirred something in you. Not a sharp pang, not anymore. Just something old and low and settled, like a sigh you’d learned to breathe around.

He was, of course, going to be here. You knew that. You had known it the moment your brother and Janie called you last year to say they were finally getting married. You were the maid of honor. Sid was the best man. No surprises there.

Your brother’s best friend since before they had knees full of hockey bruises and dirt-stained jeans. The kid from down the street who practically lived at your house all summer, who knew the code to your garage door and could always find the hidden snacks in the back of the pantry. The one your parents adored. The one Janie used to elbow you about every time he so much as looked your way for longer than necessary. “Just wait,” she’d whisper with a grin. “You two are it.”

But real life has a funny way of skipping the part where things fall into place just because people think they should. He’d gone, of course. Became Sid the Kid. The golden boy of Cole Harbour, then of Canada, then the world. And you had clapped for him every time. Genuinely. Proudly. Quietly. You had never chased him. Never clung to something half-formed. You loved him in your own way—from a distance, in silence. And eventually, you let him go without ever having to say it.

It wasn’t a dramatic falling out. No heartbreak, no fights, no door slammed shut. Just a slow, quiet fade—the kind that settles into your bones before you even realize it’s happened. You still visited home now and then, still talked to your brother, still sent a text here or there when someone’s parent got sick or when there was news worth sharing. But you and Sidney? Somehow, you always missed each other. Maybe it was bad luck. Maybe not.

And now, after all this time, you’d be spending the next forty-eight hours in his orbit again. Rehearsal, toasts, dances, photos, brunch. All the little moments stitched into a wedding weekend that would pull the two of you closer than you’d been in years. Best man and maid of honor—the old punchline everyone used to toss around like a prophecy.

Only now, you weren’t that same girl who used to watch his games from the floor of your parents’ living room, chin in your hands. And he wasn’t the boy who used to steal your hoodies and leave them in the backseat of your brother’s car. You had a life. A job you liked. A city you didn’t hate. And a partner—new, but good. Steady. Kind. The kind of man your brother liked. Which mattered more than you cared to admit.

But he wasn’t Sidney.

And even if you would never say it out loud—even if you’d never betray what you’d built, what you’d chosen—you knew, deep down, that there was a part of you still shaped like him. Quietly. Permanently.

The smell of bacon had been the thing to drag you fully out of bed—that, and the sharp sound of your mom’s voice calling your name from the bottom of the stairs like you still had soccer practice in an hour and were about to miss the carpool. You’d groaned into your pillow, shoved your face against the cool side, and tried to pretend you weren’t a grown woman back in your childhood bedroom with the faint shadow of your old posters still ghosting the wall.

It was too early to be annoyed, but too late to go back to sleep. You pulled your hair into a clip, grabbed the sweatshirt you’d left on the back of your desk chair, and padded barefoot down the stairs.

“Jesus, Mom,” you muttered as you reached the kitchen, voice scratchy with sleep. “You trying to raise the dead?”

Your mom turned from the stove, spatula in hand, a smear of flour across her apron. “You think I can get over thirty people fed on schedule without a little yelling? You’re lucky I didn’t start banging pots.”

You looked past her at the chaos: platters of fresh fruit and mini muffins on the counter, eggs in two separate pans—one scrambled, one some kind of frittata—a tray of tiny croissant sandwiches next to a bowl of lemon water with mint floating on top like she was hosting a fucking bridal magazine shoot.

“I thought this was supposed to be casual,” you said, pulling a mug from the cabinet and pouring yourself coffee.

“It is casual,” she said, throwing you a look. “Casual doesn’t mean half-assed. You think Janie’s mother is gonna show up with Costco muffins? Please.”

“God forbid.”

She pointed the spatula at you. “Don’t you start.”

You grinned behind your coffee mug, then leaned on the counter, watching her fuss with the bacon. The back door was already open, letting in the morning breeze and the faint sound of your dad dragging folding tables across the patio bricks. The backyard looked honestly, beautiful. String lights criss-crossed from the garage to the fence. White linen tablecloths, mismatched chairs that somehow worked. A wooden bar station was set up under the tree with glass pitchers of juice and sangria sweating in the sun.

“Where’s Dad?” you asked.

“Yelling at your uncle for putting the ice bucket on the wrong table.”

“Classic.”

“And your brother’s out there too,” she added, glancing toward the yard. “He said he wanted to make sure the speaker situation didn’t ‘embarrass him.’”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “That sounds about right.”

Your mom wiped her hands on a towel and looked at you—really looked at you—with a little smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” you asked suspiciously.

“Just wondering if that sweet man of yours is going to make it this weekend.”

There it was. The gentle poke. The nudge in the ribs.

“He’s in Chicago,” you said, sipping your coffee. “Busy all weekend. But he’s trying to fly in tomorrow afternoon for the reception.”

“Trying to?”

You gave her a look. “Mom.”

She raised her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. Big weekend. Would be nice to see him, that’s all.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but your brother chose that exact moment to come in through the back door, hair sticking up, t-shirt slightly damp with sweat. “Hey,” he said. “You up?”

“Clearly.”

He glanced at the kitchen clock. “You ready for the circus?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Good. Me neither.”

You smiled, bumping your shoulder against his as you both walked out to see the yard was slowly filling up with uncles carrying folding chairs, kids already kicking a soccer ball around, Janie’s cousins adjusting the spacing of the tables.

“Think your guy’s still making it to the reception?” your brother asked casually.

You gave him a small nod. “He’s gonna try. Said he might catch a red-eye.”

“He’s solid,” your brother said, and it wasn’t just to be nice. He meant it. He liked your boyfriend. You could tell.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “He is.”

You didn’t say, but he’s not the one who makes me forget my own name when he walks into a room. You didn’t say, he’s not the one I’ve loved since I was fifteen and didn’t know what the hell to do with it.

You didn’t have time to think about it much longer. Because that was the moment you heard your dad call out, “Hey! Look who finally decided to show his face!”

And when you turned, the air shifted in your lungs like it had weight again.

There he was.

Sidney.

Baseball cap low over his brow, white t-shirt soft and worn like it had survived a dozen summers, sleeves tight around his arms in that way you hated yourself for noticing. Jeans slung low on his hips. Clean-shaven. Tan from time spent outside. He smiled as he stepped into the backyard—easy, unbothered, like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t just reappeared in the middle of your family’s life after years of silence and space and nothing.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. Your pulse did that stupid thing it always did when you looked at him too long—stumbled once, twice, then leveled out like it had learned to lie.

He found your eyes almost instantly, like he’d been looking for them the whole time.

And you swear—swear—something in your chest cracked open just a little as he made his way towards you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and familiar and maddeningly calm.

You blinked. “Hey.”

That was it. That was all. Two fucking words. And still it felt like something sacred, something buried beneath years of goodbyes that were never said.

Your brother pulled him in for a hug, slapped his back hard enough to make him laugh.

“Bout time you got here, asshole,” he said.

Sidney shrugged with a lazy grin. “Flight got in late.”

“You drive from the airport?”

“Would’ve, but your dad insisted on picking me up.”

Your dad, now fussing with the grill, called out, “Damn right I did. Kid’s practically my second son.”

That made everyone laugh—warm, easy, affectionate. And you stood there in the middle of it, still holding your mug, still barefoot, still absolutely drowning in the realization that seeing him again felt like home in a way nothing else had in a very, very long time.

Eventually, Sid turned to you again. “You helping run the whole show?”

You nodded slowly. “You know how my mom gets.”

He chuckled. “Same as ever?”

“Worse, actually.”

His eyes softened as he stepped a little closer. “You look good,” he said, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—like it just slipped out.

You felt your throat go dry. “So do you.”

And just like that, it was like no time had passed at all. Like you’d seen him just a few days ago instead of years. That old rhythm settling back into place before you could stop it. The comfort, the ease—the weight of all the things that were never said curling up like a cat between you.

By the time brunch really got going, the backyard felt like a full-on garden party. People had spread out across the lawn, some under the big tree, some wandering back toward the food tables, others sinking into the cushioned patio chairs with coffee cups and mimosas in hand. Your mom was in her element—circulating with a pitcher of orange juice, pointing out which muffins were gluten-free, reminding people (kindly but loudly) to please, for the love of god, use coasters on the new outdoor furniture.

You had just finished helping your aunt fix the paper napkin situation—“they’re supposed to be fanned, not stacked like a sad little deck of cards,” she’d scolded—when you wandered back toward the long table under the umbrella, still adjusting your outfit as you went. You didn’t even realize what had happened until you were halfway into the seat.

The one beside Sidney.

It wasn’t planned. At least not by you. But when you looked around—your brother already deep in conversation across the table, Janie chatting with someone’s cousin, your parents distracted near the buffet—you noticed how everyone had just left it open. Like there had never been another option. Like it was already written into the seating chart, even though there wasn’t one.

Just like always.

Sidney turned to glance at you as you sat. “Hey,” he said again, low and warm, like it was a continuation of the last one.

“Hey,” you echoed, tucking your foot beneath your leg, pretending the butterflies in your stomach hadn’t just gone full riot.

There was a small, charged silence as you poured yourself a glass of water. The air between you was thick with things unsaid, like the dust of old memories had been kicked up and neither of you knew how to breathe through it yet. You could hear him shift slightly in his chair, the denim of his jeans brushing against the fabric seat.

You caught him watching you once or twice—quick glances. Soft, familiar. Like he was still trying to get his bearings in the reality of you sitting there beside him. And you weren’t any better. The curve of his profile. The way he tilted his head when someone was talking. How his thumb tapped against the side of his glass like it always used to do when he was thinking. It was stupid, how easily the rhythm came back.

But still neither of you said much. Not right away. Not when it felt like the weight of everything was pressing into the small sliver of space between your shoulders.

Then came the stupid magic trick.

“Alright,” Sid said suddenly, loud enough to get your brother’s attention across the table. “You still haven’t figured this one out, have you?”

Your brother looked up, immediately suspicious. “Don’t start with that bullshit again.”

Sid grinned. “Come on, just one more shot. This time you’ll get it.”

You frowned a little, watching him pull a coin from his pocket and lean forward like he was about to reveal the secret to the universe.

You knew exactly what was coming.

Because it wasn’t his trick. Not really.

It was yours.

You’d shown it to him when you were maybe fourteen. The two of you had been stuck in the backseat of your parents’ car on the way to a hockey you, bored out of your skulls while your brother blasted some awful pop-punk CD up front. You’d had that coin in your hand and showed him how to slide it across your knuckles, do the fake thumb switch, all while hiding the real sleight of hand beneath the edge of your sleeve.

It was so simple. So dumb. But it always worked the first time.

And watching him now—years later, after everything—you felt a strange, unshakable warmth bloom somewhere in your ribs.

He hadn’t just remembered it.

He’d kept it.

“Alright, watch close,” he told your brother, brows drawn in fake concentration. “Coin goes in this hand…” He waved his other hand over it, made a few exaggerated flourishes with his fingers. “And—poof. Gone.”

Your brother groaned. “It’s not gone. It’s in your damn sleeve.”

Sid held his hands up, innocent. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. So check.”

Your brother rolled his eyes and tugged at Sid’s sleeves like he was unwrapping a Christmas gift he didn’t trust. Nothing. The quarter wasn’t there. Just fabric and arm.

“…Fuck,” your brother muttered, sitting back with a half-smile. “I hate you.”

Sid laughed. That deep, easy kind of laugh that used to make you feel like the center of something special. And then—without even really turning his head—he nudged you gently with his elbow.

“Still works,” he said softly, just for you.

You didn’t even try to hold back your smile. “Barely.”

“You showed me that trick, what—a million years ago?”

“A million and some,” you said. “Back of my dad’s car. You couldn’t stop dropping the coin between the seats.”

He looked at you then and there was something unspoken in his expression. Not quite nostalgia. Not quite longing. Maybe something in between. A softness.

“I never forgot it,” he murmured.

Your heart twisted in your chest, almost painfully. “Yeah,” you said. “Neither did I.”

The noise of the brunch swelled around you again—someone calling out for more coffee, your mom fussing with the serving trays—but it all felt far away. Fuzzy. Like the edges of the world had blurred and narrowed until it was just the two of you again.

You noticed how his knee brushed yours under the table, not deliberate, not quite accidental. How his hand rested on his thigh, fingers relaxed but close enough that if you moved your own just a few inches…

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

But you thought about it.

He glanced down at the table for a moment, then back up. “You ever still do it?”

“What, the trick?”

He nodded.

You laughed under your breath. “Only when I’m really bored. Or trying to impress a kid. I taught it to my neighbor’s daughter last summer. She lost the coin under my couch and made me move it.”

He smiled again—smaller this time. “I can see that.”

You tilted your head. “You still doing it at parties to impress people?”

“No,” he said, eyes gleaming with something playful and dry. “Just weddings.”

You let out a soft snort, looking down at your plate as your cheeks warmed. God, you hated how easy it still was. How natural. Like you’d slipped right back into the same script, the same rhythm, without even realizing it.

And you don’t mean to spend the whole day with him.

It just… happens.

The brunch bled into early afternoon the way the best days always did—slow and warm, without anyone realizing how much time had passed until the sun had shifted halfway across the yard. Guests lingered longer than planned. Coffee was refilled, leftovers wrapped in foil and stashed in coolers, and your mom refused to let anyone leave without a baked good “for the road,” even if the road was two streets away.

Sidney stayed. Of course he did.

By then, it didn’t even feel like a question. Like gravity had kicked in, and somehow, you just kept finding yourselves orbiting around each other.

When your mom began rallying people to help clean up, he was already at your side collecting used glasses and stacking plates before you could even ask. You were both elbow-deep in soapy water within ten minutes—him washing, you drying, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in the same kitchen you’d grown up in.

“You’re scrubbing that like it owes you money,” you said, nodding toward the dish he’d been focused on for far too long.

“It does,” he deadpanned.

You snorted. “You need better material.”

“I’m out of practice.”

You tossed him a towel. “Still got good hands, though.”

He froze for half a second before cracking a grin. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late.

He bumped his hip against yours lightly. “I missed this.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because you missed it too.

After the last dish was done and the final folding chair was stacked against the garage wall, you retreated into the kitchen to start on the floral arrangements that were definitely behind schedule. Janie’s cousin was supposed to help, but she disappeared sometime around the second round of sangria. You didn’t ask questions.

Sid stuck around, trailing behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know what you're doing?” he asked, eyeing the buckets of blooms on the counter like they might attack him.

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, grabbing the shears and a roll of floral tape. “But I watched a lot of YouTube videos last night, so that basically makes me a professional.”

He laughed, then nodded toward the peonies. “Where do you want me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Asking a lot of big questions today, huh?”

He gave you a look. “I’m serious.”

You handed him a bunch of eucalyptus. “Strip the bottom leaves. Leave a little stem. Don’t cut off a finger.”

You worked side by side for the next hour, him quietly following your instructions, you occasionally pausing to rearrange what he’d done without telling him. He noticed. You both pretended he didn’t.

“I forgot how bossy you are,” he muttered, trying to fit one more dusty miller into a mason jar without snapping the stem.

You didn’t look up. “I forgot how slow you are.”

“I’m deliberate.”

You smirked. “Sure.”

But it was good. Easy. That strange, beautiful kind of right that had always existed between you. Every so often you’d catch his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. And maybe you weren’t doing much better—your gaze lingering on the slope of his neck, the curve of his jaw when he leaned in to grab another flower.

It shouldn’t have felt like this.

But it did.

Later, upstairs in your old bedroom, it only got worse.

Or better.

Or both.

The room hadn’t changed much. Same faded posters on the wall, same bookshelf lined with paperbacks, a few trophies, an old lamp that buzzed if you turned it past the third notch. The bed was made. The dresser still had a sticky drawer. There was something mildly horrifying about steaming a row of grown men’s tuxedos next to your childhood collection of sea glass and friendship bracelets.

You were crouched over your steamer, barefoot and frustrated, trying to get a stubborn crease out of a bridesmaid dress that absolutely did not want to cooperate.

Sid was sitting on your bed, slowly working his way through a stack of jackets.

“You sure I’m not ruining these?” he asked, holding one up and eyeing the seams.

“You’re not,” you muttered, then paused. “But maybe don’t burn a hole in the best man’s.”

He smirked. “He’ll understand.”

You rolled your eyes, standing and stretching your arms over your head. “How are we only halfway through?”

“Because you insisted on doing Janie’s cousin’s dress twice.”

“Because it looked like it was rolled in a suitcase and then sat on.”

He leaned back against your pillows like he belonged there. Like he remembered being there—because, god, he had been there. So many times. Eating snacks on the floor. Playing cards on the bed. Sneaking in after midnight when your brother was already asleep and he just wanted to talk to someone who got it.

You caught his eyes on you again, quiet and unreadable. But not really. Not to you.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

You didn’t believe him. But you didn’t push.

And for a second, everything felt so loud. Like the past was pushing its way into the room, crawling up the walls, whispering all the things neither of you had ever said.

You looked away. “Don’t go getting all protective now. That’s my brother’s job.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah, but I was doing it first.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that.

You just sat there in the middle of your childhood room, surrounded by half-steamed suits and the soft hum of old memories that hadn’t ever quite let go.

He was watching you again. You could feel it.

“Do you ever think about…” he started, then trailed off.

You swallowed hard. “About what?”

He blinked. “I don’t know. This.”

You turned back to the steamer. “We were kids.”

“I know.”

There was a long pause.

“But sometimes,” he added quietly, “I still feel like that kid when I’m around you.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was—you did too.

And maybe that was the problem.

You clear your throat. “We were so dumb, weren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “You were so dumb.��

He smiles. “Okay, fine. I was a little dumb.”

“And a coward.”

“Absolutely.”

“And a bad texter.”

“Still am,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you didn’t try either, you know.”

Your gaze finds the floor. “I didn’t want to chase you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“But you didn’t stop me, either.”

Silence again.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move. Just breathes.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask quietly.

He exhales. Not a sigh, not quite. Just a long, slow breath like he’s been holding it in for a long time.

“Only all the fucking time.”

Your heart cracks clean down the center.

And then—like it never happened at all—he gets up and reaches for the next suit.

The two of you finish the steaming in silence. It’s not awkward. Just weighted. Like the air between you has gotten thicker, harder to move through.

When you drive the dresses over to Janie’s parents’ house, he goes with you. Carries the bags without being asked. Jokes about stealing one of the suits for “old time’s sake.” You laugh. He grins. You talk in the car on the short way there. About nothing. About everything.

Favorite road trip snacks. That one time he got food poisoning in St. Louis. How you once kissed a boy behind the movie theater who ended up becoming an accountant and now has five kids.

“I knew about that,” he says, glancing at you. “The movie theater.”

You squint. “How the hell would you know that?”

“I heard about it. From your brother, I think. Or Janie. One of them was pissed. Said the guy was a dick.”

You laugh. “He was a dick. I made him walk me home.”

Sidney smiles at the road. “Good.”

When you pulled into the gravel driveway, people were already starting to gather for the quick rehearsal. Folding chairs were stacked along the fence. A few of Janie’s uncles were arguing over whether the rental arch would hold up in the wind. Her little cousins were chasing each other with sticks, and one of your brother’s groomsmen was very obviously trying to flirt with a bridesmaid and failing miserably at it.

“Feels like a graduation rehearsal,” you said under your breath.

Sidney let out a low laugh. “Except there’s way more alcohol involved.”

“And less crying. Hopefully.”

“Debatable,” he murmured, nudging your elbow as you both stepped into the backyard.

You were instantly swept into the buzz of last-minute logistics—who’s standing where, what music will be played, when exactly to start walking, whether Janie’s cousin actually knows how to work the bluetooth speaker.

Sidney was pulled aside by your brother, and you could hear them arguing about whether the groomsmen should have their hands clasped in front or just let them hang by their sides.

“Just don’t look like idiots,” Janie said, cutting in, exasperated but smiling. “That’s the bar.”

Sid raised his eyebrows. “Low expectations. I can work with that.”

You eventually found yourself with the rest of the bridal party, standing in a loose line as Janie’s mom clapped her hands and waved her notes around like she was stage managing a Broadway production.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this rolling. Best man and maid of honor, you're first up.”

Sidney stepped beside you automatically. His arm brushed yours. He glanced over, gave you a look—soft, almost teasing.

“You ready?”

“For a backyard wedding rehearsal?” you asked. “Think I can manage.”

“Still cocky,” he murmured.

“Still annoying.”

You walked together from the sunroom doors down the uneven stone path that had been cleared between the flower beds, timed to the vague sound of a phone speaker playing some version of an instrumental love song that definitely had a few notes out of tune. The “aisle” hadn’t been dressed yet—no petals, no chairs in formation—but you could picture it. You could picture the way Janie would light up walking down it. How your brother would probably forget to breathe. You’d both waited so long for this day.

At the end of the walk, you and Sidney paused. The rest of the party clapped like it was a job well done, and you both dipped in mock theatrical bows.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Really laughed. And he was laughing too, eyes crinkled, like the two of you had just pulled off something far more impressive than walking ten yards.

You walked through it two more times. Each time it felt easier. Surer. Each time you caught yourself smiling a little longer when he looked at you. Each time his hand brushed your back to gently guide you forward and your skin felt like it had been waiting years for that exact contact.

After the final run-through, Janie’s dad clapped his hands and declared it “good enough for government work,” and everyone broke into scattered, easy conversation. There were plans to head to the bar down the street—nothing fancy, just pitchers of beer and greasy food and the kind of laughter that only really happened in groups like this. The kind of laughter you only got in rooms where everyone had known you before you were anything but yourself.

You stood off to the side, watching everyone gather their things, shoes clicking against the flagstone. Sidney appeared at your side again, just like he always did.

“You coming?” he asked, his voice soft, hopeful.

You gave him a small smile. “Can’t. I’ve still gotta ice the cake.”

He blinked. “Wait, you’re doing the cake?”

“Janie wanted something homemade. I said I’d do it.” You shrugged. “It’s that kind of wedding, you know?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I know.”

You clasped your hands behind your back and rocked on your heels a little. “Plus, I still need to make sure the lights are strung up right in my parents’ yard. And the tablecloths are all wrinkled to shit. And the playlist needs tweaking. It’s fine. It’s good. I’ve got it.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re doing all of that tonight?”

“Someone’s gotta.”

There was a pause.

“You sure you don’t want help?”

You looked up at him, surprised.

“I mean—” he scratched the back of his neck “—I don’t mind. We could split a beer. Hang the lights. You can boss me around some more. Just like old times.”

Your heart twisted.

You wanted to say yes.

God, you wanted to say yes.

But that ache—low and slow and constant—reminded you this was still a life he dipped into like a summer storm, not something he stayed for.

“I’ll be alright,” you said quietly.

Sidney nodded. Not disappointed exactly, but… something close. Something quieter. Something heavier.

“Okay,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You gave him a soft smile. “Bright and early.”

He took a step back, then stopped. “You really sure? You’re doing a hell of a lot.”

You shrugged again, trying to play it off. “Comes with the title, right?”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push.

Just looked at you for a long moment. Like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t quite find the words. Like if he stayed a second longer, it might break him a little.

And then, with one last nod, he turned and followed the rest of them down the driveway, his shoulders broad, his pace slow, like maybe—maybe—he was hoping you’d call him back.

You didn’t.

You stood there under the soft wash of string lights that hadn’t been plugged in yet, watching him walk away, heart tugging painfully against your ribs.

And even though you’d spent the whole day with him, even though you’d laughed and touched and felt something that hadn’t existed in years—you still missed him the second he was gone.

When you got back to your parents’ house it was empty, the kind of quiet that only ever existed after a full day of voices. The screen door clicked shut behind you, and the silence swallowed the last of the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window. Shoes kicked off. Hair out of the way. Your dress swapped out for bike shorts and an old university t-shirt that had definitely seen better days. You exhaled as you glanced around the kitchen.

Time to get to work.

You start with the fairy lights.

The tent’s already half-assembled in the backyard, a long, pale canvas skeleton stretched out across uneven grass and clumps of flowers that your mom swears weren’t planted last week, but definitely were. The fairy lights are looped haphazardly through the rafters, the extension cords bundled like nests of panic in every corner.

You plug them in one at a time. Each strand flickers to life with a tiny sigh of electricity.

Warm. Golden. Gentle.

It helps. Somehow.

What doesn’t help is the damn tent.

You wrestle with it for thirty minutes. At one point you curse so loudly you’re sure someone five blocks over heard. The center pole keeps sliding. One side collapses entirely. You should call your dad. You should call anyone.

But you don’t.

You’re stubborn, and this tent is not going to win. Not tonight.

So you grit your teeth and keep at it, knees in the dirt, arms aching. When you finally get it standing properly, you drop to your ass in the grass, sweat clinging to the back of your neck, and just breathe.

One problem down.

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “Who needs CrossFit.”

You made your way to the side yard and started hauling the extra chairs and tables out of storage. Dusty, cobwebbed, probably a decade old—but they’d do. You lined them up on the lawn and hosed them down, the pressure washer sputtering like it needed support. Mud splashed up your legs. You didn’t care. Your socks were soaked. You didn’t care about that either.

The seat covers and tablecloths went straight into the laundry. You tossed in more detergent than anyone with common sense should. If one of them still came out smelling like the basement, you were burning it.

You washed the mismatched dinnerware in the kitchen sink while humming a half-remembered Norah Jones song under your breath. Something soft and old, something you hadn't thought about in years until today. Until him.

And yeah, fuck, you’d be lying if you said he hadn’t been lingering in the back of your mind like static. Like a hum. Like something your body kept tuning into without permission.

He wasn’t supposed to feel so close. So here.

You lined the plates up to dry and wiped down the counters. Pulled out the boxes for the wedding favors. Little jars of homemade jam with tags that still needed tying and labels that still needed sticking. You didn’t touch them yet. Just stared at the pile, promising yourself you’d get to them in a minute. Or two. Or an hour.

And then you found the cake topper.

It had been wrapped in bubble wrap inside a shoe box labeled “DO NOT LOSE.” You peeled it open, blinked at it, then burst out laughing.

“What the hell,” you muttered, lifting it by the tiny plastic base.

It’s horrifying. The figurines look nothing like your brother and Janie. The groom’s face is too long, the bride’s hair too yellow and their eyes are staring off in opposite directions like they’re both actively regretting this.

Neither of them looked remotely like Janie or your brother.

You hold it up, tilt your head, then glance at your paintbrushes still sitting in a mason jar near the microwave.

You could fix it.

Maybe.

You turned it over in your hands, debating whether to paint it, break it. Then finally you set it down.

The fridge hummed at your back, and you remembered the cake. Three tiers. Vanilla sponge. One layer already covered in lemon curd because you’d had too much wine when you baked it the other night and got experimental.

You pulled it out and set it on the counter, fingers automatically checking the edges. Then you opened the pantry, grabbed powdered sugar and butter, and started prepping the frosting.

And that’s when you heard the knock.

One tap.

Then another.

You frowned and wiped your hands on your shirt as you walked to the back door.

And there he was.

Sidney.

Holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a case of beer in the other.

His t-shirt was soft and rumpled, his hair a little messy. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You blinked. “Didn’t you leave with everyone else?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. And then I left them.”

You stared. “You snuck out of your bestfriends pre-wedding bar night?”

“Yup.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Why?”

He held up the beer. “Because you’re icing a wedding cake alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t explain the bag.”

He lifted it a little higher. “Fries. Burgers. Some questionable chicken fingers. Possibly poutine, but the guy behind the counter wouldn’t confirm.”

You paused.

Then opened the door wider.

“Get in here.”

He stepped inside like he’d never left. You watched him set the bag on the counter, open the fridge, and start putting the beers inside like it was his fridge.

“I thought you were gonna play darts and get nostalgic with the guys,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said, not looking at you. “And then I realized I’d rather be here.”

You hesitated.

“Why?”

He finally turned, eyes steady on yours.

“Because I wanted to.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. What to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

You just handed him a spatula, nudged the frosting bowl toward him, and turned back to the cake.

He grinned. “You’re gonna let me help decorate?”

He licked a bit of frosting off his thumb. “This feels like a trap.”

“Welcome to wedding prep.”

You worked in silence for a while after that. Him holding the bowl steady. You smoothing out the top of the cake like your life depended on it. Occasionally, he’d pass you a wet towel or adjust the music playing off your phone

It was quieter now, but the kind of quiet that held something warm beneath it. The kind of quiet that felt like a conversation waiting to be had. Like your heart and his were speaking a language your mouths couldn’t yet translate.

Eventually, he leaned his hip against the counter and looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You know,” he said softly, “this cake’s gonna be the best part of the whole wedding.”

You scoffed. “Please. You haven’t even seen the bar. You wanna try?"

You lift the spatula toward him, frosting-covered and halfway through smoothing the second tier. Sidney raises both brows like you’ve just offered him an organ.

“To do that?”

You nod, stepping back. “Come on. It’s not rocket science. You just… scoop, swipe, spin.”

He frowns, hesitating like the cake is a bomb. “You sure you want me touching that thing?”

“Sidney,” you sigh, “you played through broken limbs in multiple playoff series over the years but you’re scared of buttercream?”

“You make it look easy,” Sidney said, leaning a little too close over your shoulder. His voice was low, warm, familiar in a way that made your neck prickle. “It’s just... like spackling a wall, right?”

You blinked at him. “If your wall is made of sponge cake and costs your sanity, sure.”

He grinned.

You passed him the angled spatula anyway. “Alright, hotshot. Show me what you’ve got.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and gave you nod. “I was born for this.”

You took a cautious step back and crossed your arms. “Please don’t butcher my masterpiece.”

He dipped the spatula into the frosting bowl like he’d seen you do—slow, deliberate—and slapped a generous amount onto the side of the top tier.

You winced. “Okay. Less… aggressive.”

He dragged the frosting across the surface, but instead of smooth, elegant strokes, the cake started to resemble stucco. Lumpy, uneven stucco.

“Shit,” he muttered, tongue caught between his teeth.

“Gently,” you coached, biting back a laugh. “It’s not a defensive zone.”

“I don’t like this,” he said flatly, trying again and failing to make it better. “This is worse than icing my own bruises.”

You cackled, grabbing a towel to dab a little frosting off the base. “Oh my God. Sid. This is a wedding. Not an art therapy session.”

He looked at you with faux offense. “I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

He sighed and dropped the spatula into the sink with dramatic flair. “Alright. You win. I’m retiring from the cake-decorating game with a perfect record of one disaster.”

You leaned back against the counter, grinning. “It’s honestly kind of perfect. Like, ‘crafted by the hands of someone who tried really hard but should never do this again.’”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my ability to decorate a wedding cake,” he deadpanned.

You snorted, and the two of you stood there for a moment, both looking at the lopsided, slightly dented upper tier of the cake. It was charming in a way that made your heart ache. Like it had a story. Like it was loved.

“Alright,” you say. “Time to fix the monstrosity.”

“The topper?”

You pull it out of the box and hold it between you like it might start cursing.

Sidney squints at it. “Why does it look like your brother’s been possessed?”

“Right?” you mutter. “And Janie looks like a gremlin.”

He nods solemnly. “That’s a crime.”

You grab the paint box your mom keeps for craft nights and haul it to the counter. “Let’s make them hot.”

Sidney grins. “Finally. A wedding task I’m qualified for.”

You spend the next hour painting the little figures, laughing the whole time. He gives your brother abs, you paint Janie’s eyeliner on with terrifying precision. At one point, he dips the brush too far and ends up with paint on his cheek, which you dab off with your thumb before realizing how close your faces are.

Neither of you mentions it.

You left the topper dried on a paper towel, you moved on to the wedding favors—rows of little glass jam jars that still needed ribbons and tags.

He tied one ribbon and immediately groaned. “This is so not in my skillset.”

You rolled your eyes and moved closer, fingers brushing over his as you fixed his knot. “Good thing I’m here to supervise.”

You were dangerously close now, shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed together, knees bumping under the table as you leaned in to reach the far row. The tension was so natural you barely noticed it anymore—but it was there. Buzzing beneath the surface.

“I forgot how good you are at this stuff,” he murmured after a while.

You looked up. “At what?”

“Organizing chaos. Bossing people around. Making everything feel like it’s gonna be okay.”

You paused.

“Well,” you said, trying to play it off. “I did spend four years managing toddlers at a rec center. Turns out it’s excellent training for weddings.”

He smirked. “Is that what I am? A toddler?”

You shrugged. “Emotionally? Debatable.”

He laughed, and you smiled because you missed that sound—his real laugh, the one that cracked open his face and made his eyes go soft. The one you’d memorized long before you even knew you were in love with him.

After the favors were done, you both carried the chairs into the backyard.

“You thinking long rows or circles?” he asked.

“Circles?” You stared at him like he’d suggested a dunk tank. “This isn’t an AA meeting.”

He shrugged. “Just thought it’d be more communal.”

You squinted at the space. “Okay. Fine. Let’s try it.”

You spent the next twenty minutes setting the chairs up in a wide circular formation. Then you stood back and stared at it.

“I hate it,” you said flatly.

“Told you,” he said, smug.

“You literally suggested it.”

“And you approved it. That’s on you.”

You sighed and started dragging chairs around again. He joined in, and the two of you rearranged them into neat rows this time—only to realize the tables wouldn’t fit that way.

“Goddammit,” you muttered.

Sid dropped into a chair dramatically. “We’re going to die out here.”

You laughed, then sat beside him with two fresh beers from your dad’s basement stash. “If we’re going down, at least we’re drinking good stuff.”

The beer went down smooth. The night settled around you like a worn blanket—soft, warm, familiar. The air smelled like grass and sugar and possibility.

You leaned back, watching the string lights blink to life above you.

“You know something’s gonna go wrong tomorrow, right?” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Something always does.”

He glanced at you. “But it’s still gonna be a good day.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“You think so?”

He shrugged. “It’s a wedding. Two people who love each other saying, ‘Let’s do this.’ That’s the whole point, right? The rest is just—” He waved his bottle. “—frosting.”

You were quiet for a beat. “You always did have a thing for metaphors.”

“You always did have a thing for cake.”

You smiled down at the beer bottle in your hands. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that stretched long between people who knew each other. People who didn’t need to fill the quiet to feel full.

Eventually, you stood and gathered the bottles.

“You staying to help me clean this up?” you teased.

Sidney gave you a look. “Like I’d leave you to it.”

He followed you back into the house, and you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pretend to protest. You just let him move with you, beside you, like he belonged here—because in some ways, he always had.

And by the time everything was wiped down and packed away and the lights were turned off and the doors were locked, the sky had gone fully black. The stars were out.

You stood together on the porch for a long moment.

You could feel it again, that pull. That ache.

The quiet gravity of something inevitable.

And when he said goodnight, it was soft. Almost reluctant.

You didn’t watch him leave this time.

But you felt the hollow he left behind.

Same as always.

The wedding morning crept in slow, soft, and golden—the kind of summer light that filtered through gauzy curtains and made everything look like it belonged in a memory, not real time. You’d woken up early without needing an alarm, the weight of the day already humming in your chest before your eyes even opened.

Janie’s parents' house was already alive with quiet movement by the time you got there. The living room had been overtaken with curling irons and hairpins, coffee cups half-full and sweating into coasters, the scent of hairspray mingling with cinnamon rolls. One of the younger bridesmaids was doing a face mask in the corner while another played the same three Taylor Swift songs on repeat from her phone. A speaker somewhere softly buzzed with oldies. Someone kept misplacing their shoes. Someone else was panicking about a dress zipper.

But the chaos was calm in its own way. Like everyone knew this was what the beginning of a forever kind of day looked like.

You stood at the kitchen island curling the last pieces of one of the bridesmaids’ hair, bare feet on the cool tile, your hands moving almost automatically. This was your happy place, oddly enough. Tending to people. Making sure they looked and felt beautiful. Making sure things worked the way they were supposed to.

Janie looked beautiful. Radiant in a way that made your chest ache. Her skin glowed. Her hair curled just the way she liked it. She had her mom’s necklace on, the one you all swore she’d lose before today. She hadn’t. She looked like every version of herself from every year you’d known her—all stitched into one breathtaking woman standing in front of you in a robe and slippers.

When your brother called—right in the middle of her makeup—her face crumpled before she even answered. You watched her hand shake slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear and whispered a teary “Hi, honey,” before bursting into tears, laughing through it. The bouquet he sent arrived right after. Sunflowers, because they reminded him of that trip they took when they were eighteen and broke and stupid and completely in love.

Your own eyes welled up, and you weren’t the only one.

Everyone cried at least once that morning. Janie’s mom and yours both let it out when she stepped into the dress. You helped zip it up, hands steady, breath catching when you saw yourself in the mirror beside her. God. This was real now. All of it.

She looked at you, eyes full of love, and whispered, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

You just smiled, brushing a hand down the lace at her side. “You’re gonna wreck all of us, you know that?”

She laughed and then sniffled and immediately started blotting her face with a tissue while cursing her waterproof mascara.

You stepped away for a moment to collect yourself, standing in the hall outside the living room where everyone else was buzzing. You leaned against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the laughter and the shuffle of feet and the sound of your own heart pressing against your ribs.

You wondered how it was going at your parents’ house.

Probably like a zoo.

You pictured the groomsmen in various stages of readiness. Your dad and Janie’s dad trying to wrangle them into some type of order. Someone using too much cologne. Your brother probably calm and steady, until his tie wouldn’t cooperate. And Sidney…

Sidney ironing his shirt, sleeves rolled up, tongue caught in his teeth while he concentrated. Taking the lead in corralling the chaos. Playing along with the dumb jokes. Smiling that shy, crooked smile that could still undo you.

You shook the thought from your head. No time for that now. No space for it.

Eventually, it was go-time.

The guests were arriving. The backyard was set. The flowers were placed. The music was queued. And one by one, the bridal party lined up in order. You smoothed Janie’s veil one more time and gave her a kiss on the cheek before slipping into position. Sidney was already waiting in the sunroom, standing near the door, tie perfect, suit crisp.

He looked ridiculous. In the way that made your stomach twist. Like he had no business being that handsome when you were this emotionally vulnerable.

His eyes lit up when he saw you. And you felt it again—that shift in the air, like gravity remembered itself.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, like a secret.

“Hey,” you breathed, smoothing your dress even though it didn’t need smoothing.

“You look…”

You raised a brow. “Careful.”

He laughed, soft and quiet. “I was gonna say beautiful. But I could go with, uh… ‘passable.’ If that’s safer.”

You smiled. It reached your eyes.

“Thanks,” you said. “You clean up okay, too.”

He shifted his weight. Glanced down at his dress shoes. “Do we know what we’re doing?”

“Vaguely.”

He nodded. “Good.”

A pause. Long enough to feel like something could be said. Like maybe the weight of everything between you—the years, the silences, the closeness—might spill over.

But then the music started.

Everyone shifted.

The groomsmen straightened up. The bridesmaids checked their bouquets. The sun poured in through the sunroom windows like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

And just like that, it began.

You and Sidney walked out together—best man and maid of honor. For what felt like the billionth time in your lives. Every school dance. Every birthday party. Every made-up backyard ceremony when you were kids. You’d always been the two flanking your brother and Janie. Like you were orbiting around the same center.

It felt right.

Too right.

Your arm was linked in his. His fingers brushed against your wrist. Your pace matched without thinking. He was warm beside you, steady. And in your head, all you could hear was your heartbeat.

The ceremony itself felt like a blur. Soft and warm and spinning just a little. Janie’s vows cracked on the last sentence. Your brother choked up halfway through his. Someone’s baby wailed at the exact wrong time and then immediately calmed down when Janie smiled at them. Everyone cried. Everyone.

You caught Sidney brushing at his eye discreetly once.

And then it was done.

The kiss. The cheer. The applause. The breath that everyone had been holding finally let out.

They were married.

You stood there, bouquet in hand, your cheeks aching from smiling so hard. And across from you, Sidney looked like he’d just witnessed magic.

And maybe you had.

Because in that moment, watching your best friend marry the love of her life, standing beside the man who—against all your better judgment—still held pieces of your heart in places you didn’t talk about…

You felt it.

The ache. The wonder. The possibility.

And it wasn’t just Janie and your brother who had stepped into forever.

It was the part of you that remembered love as something patient. Something quiet. Something that never really let go.

And it was the part of Sidney that never stopped waiting for the right moment.

Even when it never quite came.

By the time everyone trickled into your parents’ backyard for the reception the sun had started its slow descent, and you swear—swear—it had never looked more beautiful.

Not in that overly-curated, perfect kind of way. But in the real kind of beautiful. The kind that was built on effort and love and chairs you sprayed down yourself just yesterday.

Everything had come together. Somehow.

The tent was strung with the fairy lights you wrestled with. The tables you and Sidney rearranged three times were now covered in mismatched tablecloths and little jam jar favors, already half-raided by kids sneaking spoonfuls of berry preserves. The centerpieces were simple, garden-style—baby’s breath and daisies from your aunt’s backyard. The cake, now perfectly imperfect with that slightly wonky upper tier and the hand-painted topper, sat on a side table like a monument to chaos and teamwork.

Cocktail hour blurred by in a haze of laughter, clinking glasses, passed pastries, and the occasional rogue frisbee someone’s cousin insisted on bringing.

And now—now the string lights were starting to glow as the sky shifted from coral to lavender to navy, and people were finally settling into their seats for dinner.

You and Sidney had been ushered to the long table reserved for the wedding party, directly beside the small sweetheart table where your brother and Janie now sat. She was glowing. He looked like he still hadn’t caught his breath.

Sidney pulled out your chair. Like it was instinct. Like he hadn’t missed a beat in the years between.

“Why, thank you,” you teased as you sat down, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

“I’m a gentleman,” he said, deadpan. “Don’t act surprised.”

“You did try to body check me into a snowbank when we were fifteen.”

“I also gave you my jacket afterward.”

“Because you got us lost.”

He just smiled, smug. “And you still helped me with math homework the next day.”

You scoffed and reached for the bottle of wine on the table between you. “You were lucky I was in a good mood.”

He bumped your elbow gently with his. “You were always in a good mood back then.”

Your hand stilled for a second.

The words weren’t loaded. They didn’t need to be. But they landed somewhere deep in your chest.

Because it was true, wasn’t it? You had been softer then. Lighter. Easier with your joy. He’d seen you in ways few people ever had.

You poured two glasses and changed the subject.

The music shifted—mellow, romantic. The kind of instrumental track that told everyone to hush for just a moment. Everyone turned.

Your brother and Janie walked slowly into the open center of the lawn-turned-dance-floor. He whispered something in her ear that made her throw her head back in a laugh you could feel in your chest.

They swayed, and the world softened.

Sidney leaned toward you just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. “Remember their prom dance?”

You smiled. “She wore those rhinestone heels.”

“That she kicked off halfway through the night and walked home barefoot.”

“And he carried her through the parking lot because she stepped on a pinecone.”

You both chuckled softly, eyes still fixed on the couple twirling in the golden light.

“She’s been in love with him forever,” you murmured.

He nodded. “And he’s never looked at anyone else.”

Dinner followed. Roasted chicken, grilled vegetables, buttered potatoes, a salad that somehow vanished faster than anything else. People mingled, chairs shifted. Someone’s toddler stole a roll off the sweetheart table. Someone’s uncle took over the aux for five minutes and played ‘American Pie.’

You and Sidney stayed seated, talking.

You talked about what shows you were watching. About how you missed breakfast sandwiches from that shop near your old high school. About a summer road trip you both remembered, where the A/C broke and someone got sunburned through the car window.

You didn’t ask him about his life now, not really. He didn’t ask about yours, either.

It was unspoken—whatever you didn’t say, you still knew.

The music shifted again. Upbeat now. Bolder. Someone dragged your grandma onto the dance floor and she ate it up, hips swaying, hands clapping. More people joined. Couples. Cousins. Friends you hadn’t seen in years.

The fairy lights blinked. The stars blinked back.

And then—

“You wanna dance?”

You turned your head.

Sidney was already looking at you, soft and sure and impossible to say no to.

You raised an eyebrow. “You dance now?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “For you? Always have.”

Your heart did something—a misstep, a flutter, a leap.

You didn’t trust your voice. So you just stood.

He followed.

And suddenly, you were in the middle of the backyard, surrounded by music and string lights and people laughing and clapping—and none of it mattered.

Because it was you and him again. Like it always had been.

He rested one hand on your waist. Not low. Not possessive. Just enough.

Your hand found his shoulder.

And you danced.

Not well. Not choreographed. Not even really in rhythm.

But it was easy.

It was good.

He spun you once, badly. You laughed. He tried again. You let him.

“Still terrible at this,” you murmured, grinning up at him.

“I’m carrying the team,” he shot back.

You bumped your hip into his. “You wish.”

He laughed, head tilting just slightly down. Close enough to smell his cologne again. That warm, steady scent that had burrowed into your memory years ago and refused to leave.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above the music, “I missed this.”

“Weddings?” you teased.

“Us.”

Your heart clenched.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because you had missed this. You missed him.

And standing there, swaying in a circle you’d drawn for yourselves, you realized the ache between you was less like a wound now and more like a tether—long, stretched, frayed at the ends, but still holding.

Sidney didn’t let you go. Not after that first dance. One song had turned into two, then three.

And suddenly it felt like you’d been dancing forever.

Not in a bad way. Not even in the way that made your feet ache or your dress feel too tight or your smile start to droop. But in the way that made time melt, made the moments stretch into something suspended—something you weren’t ready to step out of just yet. The night was buzzing around you, glowing with a kind of golden blur. Love floated like pollen in the air. Warm and light and soft.

The dance floor was completely full now—your parents, Janie’s aunts, a handful of toddlers spinning in circles, your brother in his wrinkled shirt letting Janie lead her niece around like a parade. Everything was joy. Everything was loud and lovely and lit by fairy lights strung overhead and the occasional flicker from someone’s camera flash.

And still, Sidney’s hand was at your waist. His fingers relaxed now, like they knew their place there. Like they remembered.

The music had faded into something slower without either of you really noticing. A low, sway-heavy song, no lyrics, just soft guitar and subtle piano and something about it that made you feel like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

He held you a little closer now, but not possessively. Just like he didn’t want to let go.

And honestly, you didn’t either.

Your voice was low when you spoke. “Do you remember Janie’s 18th birthday? That party in her parents’ basement?”

Sidney let out a breath of a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “The one with the broken karaoke machine?”

You nodded. “And those horrible frozen margaritas someone’s cousin brought in a cooler.”

“Oh my God,” he groaned. “I’ve never been so sick in my life.”

“You tried to sing with a fever and a black eye.”

“I did not have a black eye.”

“You absolutely did. It was from a pick up game—”

“Okay, fine. But I nailed the bridge.”

You rolled your eyes. “You screamed the bridge.”

Sid grinned. “And everyone cheered.”

You shook your head with a smile, and it went quiet for a few beats, the music filling the space between your bodies as you shifted in place, still swaying.

After a moment, you asked, “How are things in Pittsburgh?”

It came out softer than you intended. Like you were afraid to actually hear the answer.

He blinked, like the question caught him off guard. “They’re… alright,” he said after a second. “Good, even. Mostly.”

You gave him a look. “That sounds fake.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “It’s just—y’know. Same thing, different season. Routines. Practice. Home games. Media. The usual.”

You nodded slowly. “And… personally?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

He shrugged, mouth quirking with a tight smile. “It’s quiet.”

Quiet.

You didn’t press. You just nodded, because you understood exactly what he meant. Maybe better than you wanted to admit.

You glanced down for a second, watched the toes of your shoes brush softly against his. “I feel like I haven’t asked you about any of this in forever.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his thumb brushed the side of your waist, absentminded, like a current running through him.

“You used to be the only one who ever asked,” he said quietly. “Like, really asked.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You looked up at him again. His expression was unreadable, the kind of blank you knew was hiding a whole storm underneath. The kind he wore when he didn’t want to give something away.

Your voice dipped lower. “How long will you be in town?”

“Well,” he said. “Most of the summer probably.”

“That long?”

He shook his head. “Yeah. Well sort of. I’m going on a trip next Wednesday.”

You nodded.

Then he asked it.

“How long are you here?”

Your heart clenched.

“Tomorrow,” you said softly. “I leave tomorrow.”

He stopped moving for half a second. Just half a second. But you felt it.

“Oh.”

The word landed like something being dropped into water.

And then you both kept swaying, like maybe if you didn’t stop moving, you wouldn’t have to face the fact that the weekend was about to end.

That this—whatever this was, this moment between you—would be over, too.

“Guess it didn’t really hit me until now,” he said, voice quiet. “How quick this went.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

He glanced away, jaw tightening slightly before he said, “These last two days… I had a really good time.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

And it wasn’t just small talk. It wasn’t just pleasantries.

You meant it.

Because you had.

You’d felt more like yourself in the last forty-eight hours than you had in maybe years. You’d laughed more. You’d relaxed more. You’d remembered versions of yourself that you thought were long gone.

And it was because of him.

Sidney looked at you again, and this time there was something sharp in his eyes—something that made your stomach dip.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he said.

You swallowed. “I did.”

There was a lump growing in your throat and you weren’t even sure why—wasn’t like anything had happened. Not really. No declarations. No goodbyes. Just you and Sid and everything you couldn’t say dancing its way around the silence.

And then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he asked:

“Do you ever wonder how it happened?”

You looked up at him. “How what happened?”

His gaze was steady. Sad, almost. “How we lost each other.”

You froze.

The music kept playing. People kept laughing. Your parents were slow dancing near the bar sharing a glass of wine, Janie was now crying over a card someone had written her, your brother was chasing a flower girl who’d stolen his sunglasses. But all of that faded into something blurry.

Sidney kept going, his voice low like he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying this aloud.

“We were close, y’know? Really fucking close. For years. And then we just… stopped. You stopped calling. I stopped trying, I guess.” His mouth twisted. “Maybe it was mutual. Or maybe I just convinced myself it was.”

You tried to say something. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He gave a short, dry laugh. “I just don’t know how we went from talking every damn day to this. Catching up over someone else’s wedding and pretending it doesn’t hurt.” He shook his head. “I mean, fuck, Y/N… I used to tell you everything. I used to need to tell you everything. And I thought—I thought I was your best friend. Like you were mine.”

You exhaled, shaky. “You were.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah? Doesn’t feel like it.”

Your chest cracked a little.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t know what happened either. I really don’t. I think we just… grew up. Life happened. And I didn’t mean to let so much time pass. I swear I didn’t.”

His eyes dropped for a second. He looked like he was trying to hold something in—something sharp, something old.

He looked back at you and said, so plainly it nearly cut you in two, “I miss you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I miss you every time something good happens. Or something really fucking bad. Or nothing at all. I miss you in the in-between. I’ll be halfway through something stupid and I’ll think, ‘God, I gotta tell Y/N,’ and then I remember I can’t. That you’re just… not there anymore.”

Your heart twisted.

“And I’ve only ever wanted all of you,” he finished, voice catching just slightly at the end.

Your voice cracked when you answered, “You think I didn’t feel the same?”

He blinked.

“I’ve gone to your games,” you blurted.

Sid’s brows pulled together.

His mouth parted, stunned. “You came to my games?”

You glanced up at him. “Over the years. Just a few. I didn’t… I didn’t make a thing of it. I never said hi, I just sat up in the stands. It was the closest I could get to you.”

His expression shattered. Quietly. Subtly. But you saw it happen.

“I always looked for you,” he said. “Every single time. I thought—God, I thought maybe one day I’d turn around and you’d just be there.”

“I was,” you whispered. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how to explain what I was doing there. And I was scared if I said anything… I’d want more.” You bit your lip. “And I wasn’t allowed to want more.”

His expression softened into something achingly tender.

“And now,” you went on, “we’re standing here like no time has passed, but all the time has passed. We missed it all. Everything. We don’t even know each other anymore.”

“Bullshit,” he said, sharp. “I still know you. I know your laugh. I know the way your shoulders tense when you’re overthinking. I know when you’re holding your breath. I know when you’re about to cry.” His hand skimmed just slightly up your spine. “I still know you.”

You closed your eyes. Let your forehead rest lightly against his chest. Just for a second.

It felt like peace. Like pain. Like home.

And then, in a voice so soft you could’ve imagined it, he asked: “Why didn’t it ever work for us?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t an accusation.

It was just honest.

Raw. Earnest. And full of the kind of love that had waited in silence for too many years. He looked so open. So devastatingly full of love and pain and quiet disbelief. Like he couldn’t understand why it didn’t work, because he’d never stopped wanting it to.

And God, it almost brought you to your knees.

You’d asked yourself the same question in the quietest parts of the night. When you couldn’t sleep. When your heart was aching. When someone who wasn’t Sidney made you laugh, and it didn’t feel the same.

And for the first time, you were ready to try and answer.

“I think—”

“Sweetheart?” your mom’s voice cut through the air like a knife wrapped in silk.

You blinked, still wrapped in Sidney’s arms. Still wrapped in everything unspoken.

You turned slightly and saw her standing just a few feet off the dance floor, her hands wringing together, eyes soft.

“Sorry to interrupt, sweetie,” she said gently. “But someone’s here for you.”

You frowned. “What?”

She gave a small nod toward the house. “He’s waiting by the back door.”

You followed her gaze. There, standing awkwardly just outside the back entrance, was him.

Your boyfriend. His outline backlit by the kitchen light, his tie loosened, holding his phone like he’d just parked and come straight in. You’d told him not to bother. He said he’d try anyway. And apparently, he had.

You turned back to Sid, heart in your throat.

His face had changed. You saw the confusion first—then the realization. And then something resigned. Something that slashed through you like glass.

He nodded once. Small. Controlled.

You opened your mouth to explain. To do something.

But he shook his head—just once. Subtle. Final.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice barely audible. “Go.”

Your heart twisted.

“Sid—” you tried, because you had to say something—anything to soften the crack.

But your mom had already stepped into your place, gently taking your hand and brushing her thumb across your knuckles like a quiet usher. Her expression said everything. Go on, sweetheart. Do the right thing.

And even though every fiber of you wanted to stay planted right there in his arms—to tell him everything, to say, It was always you. It’ll always be you—you didn’t.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just walked away.

You walked toward the man who was good. Kind. Safe.

And with every step, it felt like you were leaving a piece of yourself behind on that dance floor. Like you were bleeding out in the quietest, most polite way possible.

You didn’t turn around.

You didn’t let yourself.

But if you had, you would’ve seen him standing alone now. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders heavy. Watching the spot where you’d been just moments ago.

Because leaving him behind on that dance floor?

Leaving this behind—whatever it had been, whatever it could’ve been?

It felt like walking away from the person you’d always belong to.

From the man you dreamed of building a life with.

From a version of love that lived so deep in your bones, you weren’t sure who you were without it.

And you did it anyway.

Because you’d grown up. Because timing was never on your side. Because sometimes love doesn’t equal right.

You walked toward the man waiting for you.

But you knew no matter how warm his arms felt, no matter how kind his smile, he wasn’t the one who got the pieces of you that were still scattered in Sidney Crosby’s hands.

—

#angelsuecultwrites #angelsuecult #crystal clear | s. crosby #sidney crosby #sidney crosby fic #sidney crosby imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl players #pittsburgh penguins #sidney crosby x reader #reqs open #mutual pining

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delicateperspective · 2 months ago

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happy pride month, my loves 🏳️‍🌈

this fandom, especially the larrie corner of it, is inherently queer. not just because of who we believe H and L are, but because of why we believe it — and what it says about the world they’ve had to survive in.

this june, i'd like to encourage you to take the time to learn. really learn.

look at the legacy they coded into the background of their lives:

🌟 rbb and sbb stood for something. they still do. - george michael taught the world the cost of being outed. - divine broke boundaries with drag before most of us were born. - freddie mercury gave the world his voice while the world gave him silence.

learn about section 28 — the uk law that told a generation of queer kids they didn’t exist. learn about keith haring’s art and activism. learn about polari — the secret language gay men used just to survive. rewatch my policeman and sit with what it meant for H to take that role. really sit with it.

but go even further. step outside of fandom and learn about:

- matthew shepard, who was brutally murdered for being gay. - the stonewall riots, led by black and brown trans people. - harvey milk, one of the first openly gay elected officials in the u.s. - the aids crisis, and how an entire generation was lost while the world looked away.

and then — celebrate our progress. go to a pride parade if you can. stream queer artists. read queer authors. watch queer films made by queer people. donate if you’re able. volunteer if you’re willing. advocate always.

because at the end of the day, we exist as larries for a devastating reason: in 2010, it was more profitable to shove queer teenagers into a closet than it was to believe that the girls buying their music could love them as they were. and in the fact that, in the big year 2025, queer and trans people — especially in the u.s. — are still fighting every single day for the right to live safely, freely, and fully.

so yes — H and L are beautiful. but the reason we care about it is because it’s rooted in something real. in something painful. in something ongoing.

use this month to honor that. to learn. to grow. to love louder. to make the world a little safer and kinder.

#lits perspective #pride month #queer history

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danandfuckingjonlmao · 6 months ago

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do you ever think about how we have phannies in every field? like we have doctors and baristas and mental health therapists and geologists and audiologists and engineers and neuroscientists and authors and social media consultants and activists and child care workers and museum managers and teachers and biologists and emts and linguists and accessibility coaches and sign language interpreters and artists and musicians and editors and actors and chefs and fucking EVERYTHING. not to mention the specific knowledge bases and hobbies we have outside of our professions—coding, linguistic and cultural diversity, artistic creativity, political/social awareness, passion for justice, research, make up and hair and fashion design, media literacy, philosophy, all of our special interests/hyperfixations, etc. we could run a successful commune no problem at all. we’re so smart and talented and resourceful and powerful.

the phandom is rooted in a past of being infamously shitty, and i do see yall slipping back into old habits sometimes (mostly on twitter but sometimes here and you know it <3) but it’s pretty fucking cool how capable this community is and our ability to unify. anyway phanmune when.

(if you want, leave your knowledge base/skills in the tags or replies. can be profession, hobby, major/program of study, what you study in your free time, what you want to learn about, what you’re interested, all of the above, anything)

#this is me having a commie fantasy about liberation #i want this so bad i want COMMUNITY #I WANNA LIVE IN A COMMUNE IN THE WOODS #anyway here’s my resume:#i have a psych bachelors degree and am in a mental health counseling program #i have been a crisis worker for two years and working in mental health in general for longer than that #i also have extensive knowledge of philosophy and politics #and i kick fucking ass at languages #can converse in 6 language and have a level of understanding and/or knowledge in 8 languages #i’m experienced and knowledgable in accessibility and #activism and i’m a writer and musician #and have been taking care of animals professionally for 8 years #i do NOT have proficiency in microsoft word or excel or powerpoint i am completely lying about that on my resume #dnp #dan and phil #phan #dan howell #daniel howell #amazingphil #phil lester #d&p #dip and pip #danisnotonfire #danandphilgames #yeet my deet #yeet my deenp #phstudy

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sunarryn · 4 months ago

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DP X Marvel #10

It all started because Clockwork got bored. That was the only reasonable explanation Danny could come up with. One minute he was signing ghost realm tax paperwork—yeah, turns out being Ghost King came with bureaucracy—and the next, Clockwork was swirling his little time-staff like a smug ghostly Gandalf and muttering something about “character growth” and “you’ve gone soft, Daniel.” And then bam, vortex of neon green time-energy, and suddenly Danny Fenton—a.k.a. Danny Phantom, Ghost King, Defender of Amity Park, Sloppy Hot Mess™—woke up in Westchester, New York, in a bed that smelled like lavender detergent and severe academic trauma.

Also, there was a kid across the room with laser eyes. Like, literal laser eyes. Danny dodged the optic blast with a yelp, crashed into a dresser, phased through it out of panic, and immediately got tackled by some blue-furred acrobatic Shakespeare enthusiast named Hank McCoy, who tried to sedate him with a tranquilizer gun the size of a trombone.

The chaos didn’t end there.

After an hour-long misunderstanding involving accidental ghost-punching, a kid phasing through a wall and screaming about “this new spirit trying to possess my Xbox,” and someone named Jean calmly levitating him mid-air like he was a naughty kitten, Danny finally got an audience with Charles Xavier. That guy. The bald one. Professor X. Wheelchair. Mind reader. Wears a turtleneck in July.

And of course, as soon as Danny sat down, Professor X pressed two fingers to his temple and Danny felt his entire mental vault of trauma shatter like a haunted snow globe. “Ah,” the Professor said with the polite cadence of someone realizing they’ve just tuned into a true crime documentary instead of the weather channel. “You have a great deal of… unique experiences.”

Danny laughed. Hysterically. “I died at fourteen and now I run a death monarchy in an alternate dimension. Unique is so last week.”

Turns out Clockwork, that glorified antique grandfather clock with too much free time, had decided that Danny needed to “learn to connect with others his age again” and “gain allies outside the Ghost Zone.” So he dropped Danny off at a mutant boarding school like some sort of half-dead foreign exchange student. And Charles Xavier, either because he’s too nice or secretly thrilled to collect weirdos like Pokémon cards, welcomed him with open arms.

Now, Danny wasn’t a mutant. He made that very clear. He was a half-ghost hybrid from an accident involving his parents’ DIY death portal and a broken sense of safety regulations. But that didn’t stop the other students from assuming he was just a weirdo with very specific powers and a questionable haircut. The moment Rogue tried to absorb him and got an accidental flash of the time Pariah Dark tried to possess his left kidney, she screamed, exploded a tree, and refused to make eye contact with him for a week. Logan thought that was hilarious and called him “Casper with PTSD.” Danny called Logan “Hairy Ferret Man.” A rivalry was born.

Also, it turned out that mutants at Xavier’s School had no chill. None. Zip. Zero. When they found out Danny could go intangible and invisible? Prank war. Full-on, Cold War-style prank war.

Kurt teleported hot sauce into his shoes. Danny replaced Kurt’s shampoo with slime from the Box Ghost. Bobby froze Danny’s underwear drawer. Danny phased into Bobby’s room at 3 a.m. and whispered “I’m always watching” into his ear like a cursed Roomba. Scott tried to discipline them with a “team bonding” exercise. Danny phased his clothes off in front of the entire class during the obstacle course.

He did not know Kitty Pryde could scream that loud. Or punch that hard.

Things escalated.

One day, Jean and Ororo walked into the library to find Danny floating upside down while holding a book with his foot, chewing a pen, and muttering to himself in the Ghost Zone’s dead language. When asked what he was doing, he said he was “reverse engineering a spectral war code to crash the cafeteria’s menu algorithm so they’d bring back pizza bagels.” Jean left the room. Ororo gave him a high five.

That might’ve been the least unhinged thing he did that week.

Because Danny had fans now. The students—bless their hormone-fueled, superpowered hearts—thought he was the coolest thing since Wolverine got into a fistfight with a vending machine. He had followers. A literal cult. Called themselves “The Phantom Phreaks.” They made glow-in-the-dark hoodies with his face on it. One kid tried to dye their hair white using bleach and ghost peppers. It didn’t go well.

It got worse when Peter Parker showed up.

Apparently, he was doing some college-credit tutoring with Xavier’s School because of course the kid with radioactive spider powers and crippling anxiety was the designated Marvel mentor. Peter tried to explain the concept of “laying low” and “not being a public menace” and Danny just blinked, turned intangible, floated through a wall, and popped his head back in to say, “I once bench-pressed a building-sized ghost walrus. I am beyond menace, Peter.”

They became friends instantly.

Peter would swing by to help with science classes and would end up staying for hours, mostly because Danny was a magnet for eldritch ghost disasters. One time, a time-displaced pirate specter named Captain Bloodwhistle tried to possess the student kitchen mixer. Peter got covered in spectral marshmallow fluff. Danny laughed so hard he accidentally ripped a hole into the Astral Plane. Peter got dragged halfway in. Jean had to psychic-yank him back with what she described as “a migraine made of bees.”

Also, Danny started dating one of the Cuckoo sisters.

He wasn’t sure which one. They wouldn’t tell him.

One of them would show up to lunch, sit next to him, hand him a thermos full of ghost chili, kiss his cheek, and then disappear into the crowd. Danny asked once if they were just messing with him. The Cuckoo in question smiled and said, “Maybe. Or maybe we’re all in love with you. Isn’t that romantic?”

He nearly screamed.

That was before the Avengers got involved.

Apparently, Xavier forgot to tell them he’d adopted a literal half-dead godchild of the underworld into his school. So one day Tony Stark landed in the front yard in a red-and-gold panic and tried to “detain the supernatural threat.” Danny responded by phasing into the suit, taking control of it, and flying it into the sky while singing “Let It Go” at full volume. Tony had to eject mid-air. He landed in a bush. Scott filmed it. Jubilee added sparkles in post.

Then Nick Fury showed up and tried to recruit him.

Danny told him he was already King of the Dead and the living were beneath him. Then he tripped on his shoelace and fell into a bush. Same bush Tony had landed in. They bonded. Kind of.

And then Loki showed up, because someone (cough Wanda cough) told him that a teenage ghost king with ancient death powers was living rent-free at Xavier’s. Loki tried to seduce Danny into joining his side. Danny asked if his horns were compensating for something. Loki cursed his shampoo to turn his hair pink. Danny retaliated by summoning an actual ghost bull to chase Loki through the halls while yelling, “Fight me, Party City Maleficent!”

Charles suspended them both for 48 hours.

Danny used the time off to open a haunted lemonade stand in the Danger Room. It made five grand and summoned three minor demons. Hank was not pleased.

And look, Danny was trying. He really was. He went to his classes (when he remembered), tried not to make sarcastic comments during training (he failed), and even got a job at the school paper writing ghost horoscopes. (“Sagittarius: avoid mirrors this week. Capricorn: the undead whisper secrets to you, don’t trust them unless they have snacks.”) But trouble followed him like a clingy poltergeist.

One time a field trip to Central Park ended with a ghost bear rampaging through the zoo. Another time, he got possessed by a Victorian poet ghost and started writing depressing haikus on the bathroom walls. He once accidentally opened a mini-portal in the girl’s dorm by sneezing. No one knew how. Not even Clockwork.

And oh, Clockwork?

He’d drop in occasionally, hovering in midair with that smug look, sipping ghost tea, and muttering things like, “Growth looks good on you,” while Danny was being chased by a ghost goose that had eaten a cursed student ID.

It was chaos.

It was ridiculous.

It was unhinged, feral, terrifying, and oddly heartwarming.

Because for the first time since he’d become half-ghost, since he’d died and come back and been crowned a spectral king with too many responsibilities and not enough hugs, Danny had a home that was weird enough for him. A home full of flying kids, clawed professors, laser eyes, psychic meltdowns, teleporting blue elves, and students who didn’t flinch when he told them his parents once tried to dissect him in a lab accident.

He was just another freak among freaks.

And he kinda loved it.

Even if his bedroom lights occasionally flickered Morse code insults.

Even if Logan kept threatening to shave his head in his sleep.

Even if Peter Parker made a “Ghost King Survival Kit” and stuffed it with snacks, holy water, and emotional support memes.

Even if the Cuckoo sisters left threatening notes in his locker written in glitter glue.

Even if Xavier kept giving him polite but exhausted psychic lectures about “not weaponizing the garden gnomes.”

Even if the Danger Room now had a setting labeled “Phantom Mode” that was literally just a green portal, a pissed-off dragon ghost, and an army of flying textbooks.

Danny Phantom was home.

And Ghost King or not, these mutants had no idea what kind of disaster they’d just adopted.

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animatewarriorcats · 5 months ago

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Redwillow! First listed in the eclipse allegiances with Whitewater as his mentor. He has some appearances in the first few omen of the stars books, but mostly is a generic background character. By Night Whispers however he is in my opinion characterized as a seasoned warrior, even though he is very new to the books. He is put in charge of leading a boarder patrol, and is seen after the battle of the border covered in wounds. Later in the book however he is part of the group that plays on the frozen lake, skidding across the surface on his belly. I love this segment because he is mentioned alongside senior warriors Crowfrost and Ratscar who yowl in amusement at his antics.

There is some of what I'm going to call fan interpretation of Redwillow that he is a loner in Shadowclan, but in the books his moderate regard by his own leader and senior warriors suggests to me instead that he was well liked, and integrated into the clan, even though it's never established who his kin is. That's why to me he becomes an example later on of a cat who's ambition is used to radicalize him to the Dark Forest. He doesn't start out a traitor to Shadowclan, on the contrary Redwillow spends his time in the dark forest close to his living clanmates. It isn't until the Forgotten Warrior that Ivypool points out Redwillow specifically multiple times when she's looking for cats that may have loyalties outside their clans. He never says anything to that point, rather his body language and exchanged glances are what makes her think so. Within the Last hope he makes several remarks in the Dark Forest about becoming the best warrior he can be, and that training in the Dark Forest makes training with Shadowclan feel like working with kittypets. Ivypool confronts him in a conversation with Hollowflight asking if he would let his weaker Clanmates die and he says "O-of course not" just that they had a lot to learn from the Dark Forest Warriors. Even with that I remember finding his final moments in the Last Hope a departure from his character, where he declares the Dark Forest his new clan, and that Blackstar's time is over.

Idk I just wanted more out of the radicalization of the clan cats while it was happening. I guess as someone who grew up with the internet I'm not a stranger to what anarchy and rebellion look like behind closed doors and personally felt that the concept of being isolated in a toxic in group extremely interesting, I found the the non-committal conversations of the dark forest trainees to be much more innocent than the showy posturing of competitive vitriol I've known such spaces to inspire. The fact that Redwillow and Breezepelt at the end of the battle were the only two warriors we know by name that sided with the Dark Forest to the end seems like such an underestimate to me. All I'm saying is that while I do love Redwillow for being an example of this, Clan cat rebellion to the Dark Forest could have been much more catastrophic than it was, and especially for the amount of plot and hype that it was given in universe. Add to all that the possible reading of Redwillow as a transmasc character that is radicalized into toxic masculinity and I want it to be known that i do love this character, but that most of that love comes from meta analysis and not from the text itself. He shouldn't have died twice in the Broken Code because truthfully he just didn't deserve it.

#Redwillow #shadowclan #Dark forest #warriors #warriors designs #warriorcats #warrior cats #warrior #Extinct

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capricores · 2 years ago

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if you have strong mutable (gemini, sagittarius, pisces, virgo) placements then you NEED to write things down if you don't already. all those thoughts that constantly swirl in your head: the frequent tasks, goals, feelings, aspirations, opinions, etc - WRITE THEM DOWN. this is not only therapeutic & stress-relieving for you but almost necessary, or you're going to burn out and overload your own mind constantly.

when you bottle, or when you let plans, goals, dreams, to-do lists, projects, etc live solely in your head - you'll notice you can't sleep as well, it's harder to rest, your memory gets more foggy than usual, you feel burnt out and unable to connect, etc. specifically:

write down your feelings. this will be your ultimate (free) therapy. start to journal, write a diary. make a private twitter/tumblr where you spill your feelings, frustrations, thoughts. you will feel an immense sense of relief by writing or typing your feelings out - even if no one is reading it but you. mutable moons especially. our feelings tend to change rapidly, but it doesn't make them less valid. don't bottle out of the fear your feelings will change/you'll just "get over it"!! write it down and let it out!!

write! to-do! lists!!!!! these don't have to be for important things. you want to learn digital art? you want to study coding? you want to learn french? you want to re-decorate? you probably have a billion things you want to do, and then you get overwhelmed by the options, and do nothing. write down all the things you want to do. make a to-do list for these things. get them out of your head and somewhere permanent/physical. looking at the options in front of you will feel much easier.

make excel project trackers (you can even make these for to-do list items/goals/etc)! mutable placements have a tendency to start a lot of projects or tasks, and never finish any of them. make a simple tracker for all the projects you start. you won't forget what you're working on, and you'll be less overwhelmed trying to remember what you have going on (example of the one i always use pictured below)

talking out your thoughts and feelings is also very cathartic. make fake (or real, i support u!) youtube vlogs where you spill your feelings and talk about your plans, your day, what you have to do, etc. talk to someone you love and trust, vent to them about how things are; or about what you're getting up to. i find writing has an edge, because you can go back to it for reference (mutables tend to forget things easily) - but as long as you're getting the swirl of your mind somewhere outside of your head, you'll feel so, so much less stressed.

mutable dominants tend to constantly live in go-mode, we're restless and always doing something. we feel uncomfortable and sometimes guilty about staying still. our minds don't ever shut off. it's very important for mutable placements to learn how to rest, be present in the moment, and learn grounding. this can be done in many ways, but i've found personally that writing works best for me. other helpful practices can be: talk therapy, acceptance theory, yoga, meditation, hiking, camping, etc.

i also want to remind mutable signs: we change a lot. we have a lot of ideas. there's so much we want to do. we often feel like we have no path, no big goal; we can struggle with purpose as we don't often aspire for permanent things or "one big goal". this is NOT bad. there is nothing wrong with changing your feelings, your mind, your goals, your life path. you CAN do all the things you want to do! you have your entire life ahead of you! yes, you can learn all those languages. yes, you can have three different careers in your life. yes yes yes! don't listen to negativity from others. don't beat yourself up for not having one big goal like some people around you might. cherish and embrace all the things you want to achieve and complete (both big and small). learn to follow-through with and finish the things that matter to you (writing things down will really help with this, make action plans/steps - break everything down into smaller pieces). take the time to slow down and enjoy the moments as they come. you got this!

#like PLSSSS it is so important you all NEED to write/type your thoughts and feelings #talking abt them will make u feel amazing but writing them out will get them out of your brain #astrology #mutable #luna.txt #i love u mutables <3 #this post was so scattered and random and all over the place in true mutable fashion #but im not editing it because this is for the mutables anyway and yall will get my scattered-ness #mine

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shysuccubusstuff · 7 months ago

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Bodyguard! Mr. Scarlatella:

Content: Yandere! Mr. Scarlatella but he is actually human + assassin + farmer! scarlatella; non proof-reading; female anatomy + dubcon/noncon + kidnapping + usage of substances (once for the kidnapping) + mindbreak + lovesick! Mr. Scarlatella; cunnilingus + breeding kink + baby trapping + possessive! dom + overstimulation + orgasm denial + creampie + impregnation + trophy wife! reader (kind of?)

Summary: You never imagined that the guy that was about to end your father's and your life would end up falling head over feels for you, but hey, at least you're alive, right?...

Word count: 4240 words.

Note: I just hate how my brain decides to get dry af as soon as I end with my exams/essays... btw, Merry Christmas to everyone who reads this!! I'm thinking about making a kind of pt. 2 but with Mr. Crawling, let me know if you would want to read it!! It's weird to go back to the more dark stuff when I had started to write less heavy stuff... I feel I may have gotten a bit too creative for his personality, so let me know!!

Note 2: Let me know if any content tag is missing-- I wrote this over a whole week so I may have forgotten some...

You were the daughter of one of the wealthiest so it was only natural for you to live under the feeling of being targeted by someone, even since you were a child. So when your father presented a new bodyguard for you, it was nothing out of the ordinary, just some new guy who would probably quit by the month (at most). So he arrived, long black hair falling in a cascade and deep purplish pupils that pierced you through his polarised glasses.

"Dear, this is the new bodyguard, I hope you know how to behave yourself, I don't want to keep on complaining to that damn company, they keep saying it's your fault, but it's impossible for it to be solely your fault, I mean, it's been over 10 bodyguards in less than two months... Anyways, I have to leave, Daddy has some work to do." With that, your father left, his expensive cologne lingering in the air as he slammed the door, the new bodyguard still on the entrance of your room, a slightly unsettling smile creeping on his lips as he stood there.

"So you won't even introduce yourself? Seriously, the quality of that damn company is so freaking low... Can't believe they didn't even teach you how to introduce yourself." The man bowed a bit, taking a small notebook and giving it to you. "What the...? So you're saying that you're still learning the language and don't want to mess up? Ugh, ok, whatever. What's your name?" The man with crimson hair refused to speak, stating that he had not received a proper code name yet. "Seriously? Can't even call your name cause they didn't gave it to you, well that's just perfect. Don't bother me, just stand outside or whatever, as if I care." With those last words, the man left, finally leaving you alone in your room. "What the heck is wrong with that dude? I'm gonna complain to that fucking company of security, how am I supposed to trust him when I don't even know his name..."

As time went on, you were slowly able to get to know him, getting to know that he was actually coming from Japan because of some "old acquaintance" he knew since many years ago, that he loved magic tricks and that he was actually quite... cute. It hurt to even think it, but it was true, he was a cute man, always behind you when you allowed him, always running around you with your delicious drink ready and your purse hanging off his shoulder. God, he even learnt how to do your nails, makeup and hair in case you wanted to get it done on the days you were just too lazy to get out of the house... He was even there that night.

You had waken up by around three in the morning, making your way to your door so you could get something to eat in the kitchen, soon noticing that Scarlatella (as you liked to call him in a kind of playful way because of his hair colour) was nowhere to be seen, but hey, he was human as well, maybe he just went to the bathroom or something like that. As you were about to arrive to the kitchen, you noticed that the mansion was a bit too quiet, one would even say that it would have been possible to listen to a pin dropping to the marble ground. Unsettled, you quickly made your way to your father's bedroom, but you soon found out that the bed was completely cold. Now alarmed, you run to his studio, the sound of your feet resonating all over the empty corridor as you forced the door open, soon finding a terrible scene.

It was your father, well, what used to be your father, as his body was already turning cold, his skin turning slightly blue with clear signs of choking. Just as you were about to scream, your vocal cords were unable to produce a sound, your lungs being completely filled with a strange air that made you gasp for hair before you started to feel lightheaded. As you felt your conscience drift, you silently cursed that stupid company and that useless yet slightly charming man.

By the time you woke up, you soon noticed that your whole body was intact, expect for slight marks of rope on your wrists. As soon as you recovered a bit, you took a deep breath, deciding to try and scream to the top of your lungs in case someone could hear you.

"Hey! Someone there? Some crazy jackass has kidnapped me and---!" Suddenly, the heave iron door was opened, a familiar face entering the room.

"Good morning, dearest. I'm so glad you were finally able to open your eyes, you see, it was a bit difficult to get the amount of dose correctly, as I have never tried to keep someone as tiny and beautiful as yourself." Your old bodyguard entered, the heavy door closing behind him as he brought a tray on one of his hands. "Here, I brought you a few things I know you like." You looked at the delicious-looking food, your mouth watering as you saw all your favourite desserts, together with a bunch of your most beloved fruits. Despite the confusion, you tried to keep it together, looking to the other side and refusing to do what he asked. "Dearest, you've been asleep for over t--" Before he could end his sentence, you had already hit the tray with one of your legs, sending the appetizing food.

"Why the fuck are you here? You failed protecting me-- Fuck, you left my father to die, you're lucky I'm tied here cause I would crush your fucking skull with my---" The crimson-haired man got closer, dangerously close, in fact, his warm breath hitting against your face.

"Oh dear, I always knew you had quite the filthy mouth, but you must have been quite shocked to see that pig like that... I understand, I would never stop loving you for something trivial like that... Nor for anything, to be fair." His cold hands touched your face, the callouses in his hands making you frown even more than before.

"Listen fucker---." The man covered your mouth with his much larger hand, the shivers resulted from the cold shifting into goosebumps from the fear.

"Shh, dear. I understand, no need to explain it to me. I will make sure to re-educate you so you can go back to your natural self, that pig tricked your poor mind, but I will be able to fix it for you, see? I’m being such a good man for you, after all, I was supposed to kill you, but I even decided to turn my back to my client and let you live, I even avoided someone to think that you were alive. It was a bit of a hassle, but hey, I would do everything for you, dear.” The man finally got away from your face, taking the tray that had fallen to the ground because of you, together with the food that had been smashed to the ground. “It’s ok, dear. I understand this will take some time, luckily, I have all the time in the world, you just need some… hard love. I’m sure you will start to appreciate my company and care soon enough.” With that, the man smiled one last time to you, leaving the room with the sound of the heavy iron door closing, leaving you in the middle of the dark.

Since that moment, your slow torture started. The man left you in the dark for who knows how long, covering your eyes with a soft cloth, only taking out when he was around so he could start to… kind of associate him with the light, you supposed. He kept bringing you scrumptious plates, from your favourite foods to exotic ones. Of course, that was until the… maybe over tenth time you had throw his tray to the ground. That time, he simply took the tray, taking once again all the food on the floor and leaving in complete silence. The next time you was him was after… maybe one whole day? Your stomach kept rumbling, and what began as anger quickly became desperation, then crying and finally crying while screaming.

By around two months, your mind and body had become completely accustomed to his timetable and behaviour, letting him pet you as you ate what he brought, letting his hands clean your whole body and hair, not even complaining when you felt his hands drift towards your more private parts. Scarlatella looked extremely content with his work, rewarding you with constant praises and even a “pretty” collar for you. Despite it was a clear symbol of your turn into a kind of pet, the collar was beautiful, the gold glistening under the cold light as the beautiful charm with the form of a heart made a small noise of a bell each time you moved.

“Do you like it? I wanted something to congratulate you, after all, you have finally graduated. You are now back to your natural self.” You nodded, letting your head fall on his lap as he kept petting you. “I was thinking about giving you whatever you want, you can just ask.” He waited patiently until you were able to think about something other than the warmth that was coming from his body.

“…Freedom. I want to leave this room, please.” His eyes widened a bit, perhaps surprised that you were still able to think about your freedom.

“Dear, I know this can get suffocating, but you must stay here, it’s for your sa—”

“Please! I can feel my mind… slipping. This is getting worse each day, I… I don’t want do it, but the constant darkness is making me… think about… Just give me a bigger place, I don’t need something as fancy as my house, just something bigger than this room.” Scarlatella looked at you with a puzzled expression, his hand still massaging your scalp as he thought. Finally, he answered, not before letting a deep sigh.

“I suppose that’s fine. I can think of a story to explain your sudden appearance. Give me a few days so I can get everything ready, yeah? Promise I will do it.” As soon as he said that, he got up from the sofa that was in the room, quickly leaving the place before you were able to beg him to keep his promise.

Contrary to what you believed, Scarlatella kept his promise, coming back with a small suitcase and some clothes for you to change yourself, taking your hand as he made you walk with your eyes covered by that well-known cloth. When you were finally told to take it off, you were in the middle of a beautiful flower field. All the flowers were spider lilies, making it seem as if it was some kind of blood-filled battlefield.

“Do you like it, dear? I had to pay some money so they could build this house, together with planting these flowers.” He kept his grip around your wrist tight, not hurting you, but not letting go either. As he opened the door, you finally saw the house. It was a beautiful villa, completely decorated with cottage-like furniture.

“Yes, I like it.” Scarlatella smiled, a strange sheen in his gaze.

Soon, you realised why was he looking at you like that. You had fallen completely into his plan for turning you into his wife. He had created some complex story about you being his wife for over eight years, having to separate because you had been taking care of your sick father while he worked to the bone to get you as much as he could for the moment you came back to him. Everyone in the small hometown believed him, after all, he had been working there as farmer for quite some time, using it as a mere disguise so he could plan every little detail, creating a perfect façade so everyone would simply nod and smile to whatever he said. After that, your role became the one of a housewife, making you bake, cook, and clean, keeping the house warm and tidy by the time he arrived back home.

Soon, the days started to melt together, and your deep engraved hatred for him turned into a less bitter resentment. After all, he was the one that was providing for you, keeping you all warm and cozy while buying every single thing you asked him for, never doing anything that could hurt you. Slowly but surely, your mind started to reshape once again, now seeing him as a still intimidating, yet protecting figure. With that, it was finally the perfect ground for Scarlatella to create his perfect little wife.

Since that moment, Scarlatella started to become more physical with you, helping you around with all the cooking, “accidentally” rubbing his groin against your ass while he pretended to search for something on the top shelf. Not only that, but he made sure you could see him as a capable man, carrying the animals over his shoulder with ease, other times he was simply fixing stuff around the place. But the last moment he needed for your brain to start to see him as a possible partner was when you found him around town playing with the small children from the orphanage. He was surrounded by all of them, lifting them around and making them fly across the hair, his relaxed smile plastered on his face as he tried to make them control themselves as they waited their turn. Your eyes widened a bit, surprised to see him in such a… casual scene. So when he got back home, his working shirt slightly drenched because of the sudden rain that had started quite recently. The shirt was getting clung on his body, making his lean and muscular body stand out even further.

“Hey dear, how was your day? I hope it went great. Sorry I’m late, can’t believe I got caught in the middle of the rain while I was finishing some errands…” As he said that, he made his way around the kitchen, taking off his shirt and leaving it hanging on one of the chairs, surrounding your smaller frame with his arms. “I missed you so much, dear.” You tried your hardest to pretend not to notice, but of course you did, fuck, his groin was rubbing against your ass, and even then, it was clear that he was quite… gifted, down there. Still, you simply tightened the grip on the knife, biting your lips as you kept trying to focus on the food you were cooking.

Ever since that moment, you were no longer able to control yourself, always orbiting around him with your hand tightly wrapped around his arm every single time any other persons started to look way too affectionately at him. Scarlatella quickly noticed this, looking completely pleased with how he had been able to fix your precious little brain into a loving wife. In fact, he even started to pamper you even further, kissing your forehead every morning, asking you to let him shower together… Of course, you said yes.

So then, the two of you entered the bathroom, slowly undressing each other as the water started to warm up. “Love, you look so nice like this… All naked for me… I could just eat you up.” His hand drifted around your body, making your body shiver under his hands, and even if you were about to kiss him, he got away, extending his hand so he could help you get inside the bathtub. “Let me help you, dear.”

As the two of you finally entered the bathtub, he calmly traced your body with the sponge, making sure to scrub your skin without causing any type of harm. Then, he moved to your hair, taking the bottle of shampoo and scrubbing it while he hummed a little tune. Then, he focused on himself, redoing everything he had done to you. As he did that, your naked bodies kept pressing against each other, making you squirm at the slightest touch and forcing you to let small whimpers out every time you felt his lower half rub against your back. Finally, Scarlatella lost his composure as you kept pressing against him on purpose. “Dear… I have a feeling that you’ve been quite, eager to make our relationship more physical, am I right?” His eyes were now fixated on your face, making you feel even more flustered as you avoided his gaze. “Oh sweetheart, if you wanted that, I could have given it to you any time, after all, I do believe it is time we get to expand our little family.” And despite you would have normally shivered in disgust, this idea now started to charm you. So you nodded, accepting whatever he wanted you to do at that point. “Then we should get to business, let me get you ready love.” With that said, Scarlatella finally kissing your lips, his tongue entering your oral cavity as if he had been starving for a long time. “You taste so good… I could stay like this forever.” Scarlatella kept kissing you, his hands starting to glide towards your chest, starting to play with your nipples as his tongue kept exploring your mouth. “Dear… I think we should move to our bedroom; I don’t want your first time to hurt.”

“Oh, that’s fine, not like it’s my first time, you know, I did it a few times before you became my-.” Before you were able to finish your sentence, Scarlatella was already getting the two of you out of the bath, lifting you up and carrying you over to the bedroom he had been preparing for quite some time. Despite his gaze looked a bit crazed out, he let you down softly on the bed.

“It seems I was a bit too gentle with you, that was my fault. I suppose you must prefer someone meaner, treat you as if you were a little fuck toy, I suppose your brain is still not that adapted to having a husband, that’s ok, I will fix it.” With nothing left to say to you, he got on top of you, towering over your smaller body as he started to kiss your neck. “I just wish I could have arrived earlier… Get to be your first, let you make me yours…It’s a shame we had to meet under those circumstances.” And even regardless his almost apologising words, his actions were crude, clearly showing his uncontrollable desire to make you completely his. “… I should definitely get you pregnant, make sure everyone knows who your husband is, let’s see if any other fucker tries to get with my sweet wife.” As he kept mumbling to himself, his lips started to make a trail towards your chest, moving even further down as your moans got louder. Suddenly, he got away from you for a second, taking something from the small nightstand. Still quiet, he opened the small bottle, letting the sticky liquid help him prepare your pussy for him. “Not like you will need it, apparently you were more prepared than me.”

“Come on, it’s not like we are… fuck, I don’t know, it’s just, it’s not like you are a virgin, right? There’s no need for---”

“I am.” His hands stopped for a second, his fingers a few inches away from entering you. “I’ve been investigating so I could make it as comfortable for you as possible, but that’s ok, I will make sure our next time is perfect… Let’s just use this time for letting you know how this works.” Without further due, Scarlatella started to tease your entrance, rubbing his fingertips against your entrance, while his other hand started to move towards your weak spot, starting to tease your clit as he kept kissing your neck. As the minutes went on, you started to notice a weird warmth inside your cunt, making your tears swell up in your eyes as Scarlatella kept teasing you.

“Stop— Can’t—It feels weird, like really weird, it’s not normal!” Scarlatella smiled wickedly, his eyes darkening as he saw how your pussy kept releasing your sticky fluids, with no shame, he got his face closer, starting to leave kitty licks over your clit before he began to fuck your entrance with his tongue, making you cry due to the overstimulation as he kept stopping just before you could release. This torture kept going for a couple minutes, making you clench the sheets, biting your lips as you kept mumbling barely understandable words: “Please, please… Just—Please! Fuck, please, let me cum, please, please…” Your words kept slurring, making him smile at the beautiful portrait he had been able to turn your gorgeous face into, he caressed your face with one of his hands, his lips still curved into an amused look as your face had become a mixture of snot, tears, and saliva. Suddenly, you felt Scarlatella’s arms wrap around you, lifting you from the bed and letting you lay on his lap, his unclothed erection rubbing against your clit, rocking your body back and forth as he kept taunting you.

“I just can’t believe you preferred some random person over me, love. I’ve waiting for you my whole life, I even learnt all this… tricks to get you to feel as good as possible.” All of sudden, his tip went in, barely letting you get ready as he kept pushing it inside and out, making your eyes water as he kept tormenting you for a few minutes more, his gaze becoming more and more obscure as his erection just kept growing. “Fuck, whatever… I’ll just have to prove you that nobody will ever fuck you like I can, get you pregnant so you can only see me… love me…” His eyes lightened for a second just from the thought, and before you even noticed, your back was once again pressed against the mattress, with Scarlatella towering over you as he was finally able to gradually introduce his whole length, the stretch making you whine and cling to his back. “You feel so good around me, love… Just wait, I’ll fill you up, fill your pretty pussy with my cum so nobody ever tries to get too close to you—You’ll look so pretty with your tummy all round—” As Scarlatella’s hips started to punish your sore cunt, you were finally able to cum, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your legs locked around him, as a poor attempt on getting him to stop for a second.

“Wait—Too soon, I can’t get pregnant yet!” You pushed a bit against his lower abdomen, your hands barely stopping him as they kept shaking because of the constant orgasms that just kept pilling up, forcing your brain to become more and more fuzzy each time. It was then that Scarlatella wrapped his own hands around your waists, using them as mere handles for him to push the tip of his cock just a bit further, just enough for you to cum once more with a pathetic whine. Despite you had already cum all over him, Scarlatella’s thrusts didn’t slow down, if not growing stronger as his mind was already too far gone.

“Gotta get you pregnant—That’s all I need—Fill your pretty pussy with my cock and get you to- Fuck- cream all over my cock, that’s it baby… Cum all over your husband, make a mess on my cock, you’re doing so good love…” His words kept resonating in your mind, almost as if it was some kind of chant, and despite you tried your best to endure it, your brain gave up, after all, Scarlatella had been taking care of you so nicely… It wouldn’t hurt to let him keep doing it for the rest of his life… right? As Scarlatella kept muttering to himself, his cock was already twitching, signifying just how close he was to releasing his essence inside of you. With your mind now completely broken, you smiled, your arms and legs tightening around his waist as his cock kept hammering against your cervix, one of his hands carefully pressing against the lower half of your abdomen, causing the pleasure to just build up even further as he finally released his load inside of you, his constant groans now turning into soft praises and kisses. “You did so good, love… Let me take care of everything from now on, I will make you the happiest wife ever, no need to think about anything, just promise to tell me everything you need or want, yeah? I’ll be the best husband int the world.” His hands kept petting your hair as his cock started to deflate inside you, still remaining inside as he refused to pull out in case some of his essence spilled out. “Let’s wait a bit, love. I will prepare the bath in few minutes; I just want to make sure everything goes correctly.” He peppered a few kisses all over your face, his hand rubbing your tummy as he kept imagining that near future he had been longing for.

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