#post-breakup fic

[quintessenceofdust88]

Wip Wednesday

Omgg I was tagged by @bidisasterevankinard and I managed to publish it with ONE MINUTE of Wednesday to spare on my timezone hehe So here, have a little bit of a fluffy fix-it I'm working on, where Thomas needs some old lady wisdom to get his shit together. Also, it's a way for you to meet my most darling OC, Nonna Rosa. Hope you enjoy it!

--

A week after breaking up with Evan, Tommy is still feeling like shit. He can barely sleep, anything he tries to eat tastes like sawdust, and he feels like he’s living on autopilot. He goes to work, he comes back home, he tries to eat, he tries to sleep, rinse and repeat. Nothing else matters, there’s nothing else he feels like doing. He doesn’t answer Howie’s texts asking how he’s doing (he answered the first one, telling Howie not to worry about him, but can’t do more than that); he completely ignores Eddie’s invitation for Muay Thai and basketball, and he comes up with an excuse as to why he can’t make karaoke bar that Thursday. And yet, there’s one thing he can’t put off, as much as he wishes to: talking to his Nonna. 

Tommy calls his grandmother at least once a week; she still lives in Indiana, in the same house he spent most of his childhood in, and he knows his uncle Bart visits often. But he likes to hear from her himself. Visiting her is a rare occasion with his work schedule, and the last time he was able to was about four months ago. The minute he had stepped in, Nonna had asked him if he was ‘innamorato’, because he was looking so much happier than usual.

And he knows she’ll perceive his sadness just as quick, if not quicker. The woman has always been able to read him like an open book. She’s probably the only person alive who can; he’s always made sure to keep his layers hidden from everyone else, even from… 

Well. Doesn’t matter now, does it? 

Fact is, that if he misses his call with Nonna, it’ll be even worse. She’ll know something’s up, and he doesn’t put past her to fly across the country to check on him (he’s always been the favorite grandson and everyone knows it). So it’s best to get it over with. Gosh, Nonna’ll be unconsolable; she’s been pestering Tommy to introduce her to his ‘Evanino’ for ages now, and instead… With a heavy sigh, he sits down on his couch (and tries not to think about how empty it feels when it’s just him in there) and rings her up, bracing himself.

“Pronto? Tommasino?” She answers the call, as always with the camera too close to her face, and that at least brings a smile to his face. -- Np tagging @typicalopposite @unhingedangstaddict @30somethingautisticteacher @actuallyitsellie

[to00fu]

how can you look at me and pretend

i'm someone you've never met?

[itneverendshere]

ex!reader who loves the game and wants to support her team but hockey captain!rafe is on the ice. he thinks she’s there for him but when she comes in with a date? and when they get put on the kiss cam? rafe slams into the glass to scare them? hate sex????

someone who lets you break them twice - hockey!toxic!rafe x ex!reader (+18)

warnings: veryyy long and 99% smut🙂‍↕️ the things i do for you...

The cold air inside the rink always made your skin tingle.

Your breath curled in front of you like smoke as you moved uncomfortably on the bleachers, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

This is why you hated fall. It was too cold to be outside, too early to be winter. Except tonight wasn’t about the weather—it was about hockey.

Hockey and, the fact that you hadn’t missed a game since… well, since Rafe and you broke up.

“Everything okay?” The voice beside you pulled you back to reality.

Elijah, the guy you’d been seeing for the past couple of weeks, smiled at you, oblivious to the bullshit taking over your mind, and you gave him your best smile back.

“Yeah, just cold,” you said, trying to focus.

You weren’t here for Rafe anymore. You loved hockey, loved watching the boys skate across the ice, their power and grace. Or at least that was what you kept telling yourself.

Elijah wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to him, and you leaned in, feeling his warmth.

The game was about to start, and the arena lights dimmed, casting shadows over the rink. The roar of the crowd drowned your thoughts for a moment as the players took the ice.

Then you spotted him.

Rafe.

Of course, he looked good.

God, why did he always have to look so fucking good? His broad shoulders filling out his number 17 jersey, that stupid smirk as he skated out with the rest of the team, dark blonde hair peeking out from under his helmet.

He was captain this year, and it made sense—he’d been working his ass off since…ever, you genuinely couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than him. 

You knew better than to be here, yet somehow you ended up courtside anyway. As painful as it was watching him, you’d never let him run you out of your favorite sport. Not even if he was captain now.

This was your team, the one you’d been coming to see since before Rafe even knew what a slapshot was.

You sank further into Elijah’s side, forcing your eyes away from your ex, but it wasn’t until you caught the dark blue of the jersey you were wearing in the corner of your eye that you realized…

You’d put on Rafe’s jersey, his number. The one you’d always worn to support him when you were together. Out of all the team merch you owned, of course you had to wear his.

“You really like hockey a lot, huh?” Elijah asked, glancing down at your jersey.

“Yeah,” You mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’ve been following the team for a while.”

Lies. You loved hockey, but you loved Rafe more. Or, you used to.

The puck dropped, and the game started.

For a while, you tried to focus on the action but Rafe was all over the ice, playing like the goddamn superstar he was. You couldn’t help but notice how his gaze kept darting up toward the stands, as if sensing you were there.

Halfway through the second period, he slammed into an opposing player, sending him crashing into the boards. The sound echoed through the arena, and the crowd went wild, but you could feel your stomach knotting up.

That had always been Rafe—intense, aggressive, unable to hold back. On the ice or off.

You tried to focus on Elijah, laughing at something he was saying, but your heart wasn’t in it. And just when you thought you’d survived the worst of it, the kiss cam flashed up on the big screen.

Your laughter died in your throat as you realized what was happening, your face heating up instantly. You weren’t embarrassed, but this was... awkward. 

“Aw, how cute,” He said, grinning as he pointed to the screen.

You followed his gaze, heart dropping. They were zooming in on the two of you. You could feel the crowd around you start to cheer and whistle as Elijah leaned in closer, clearly getting ready to kiss you.

You could see him coming toward you, his lips getting personal, but all you could think about was—

Bang!

In the span of a second, a body slammed into the boards right in front you, the sound so loud it made you jump. The entire section gasped, and you turned your head just in time to see Rafe standing there, glaring up at you from behind the glass.

He looked like he was ready to tear Elijah apart, or you, or both of you. His chest was heaving, eyes blazing, standing mere inches away from where you sat.

He had skated right into the glass.

Your heart was practically in your throat, and it wasn't from Elijah being close. You could hardly focus on Elijah, but the way he laughed, oblivious to the scene your ex was causing...it made your stomach churn because Rafe was staring like he owned you.

He always had this way of making you feel like no matter what, no matter who else was around, you were his. 

Then, still staring at you, he mouthed the words, "I dare you."

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

Those stupid words, silently mouthed, but somehow loud enough to hit you like a punch through the glass. I dare you. God, what was wrong with him? He knew how to push your buttons. And of course, it was working.

You could feel Elijah shifting next to you, still oblivious to the whole freaking drama unfolding right in front of him. He was so sweet, too sweet, and it was infuriating right now because Rafe was standing there, all but daring you to move on.

The breakup had been brutal, a messy, loud explosion where neither of you were willing to be the first to walk away. You were both too stubborn, too prideful.

Now, here you are months later, still dealing with the fallout. 

Elijah finally leaned in, lips brushing yours, and you kissed him, but your heart wasn’t in it.

All you could feel was Rafe’s stare burning into you.

The kiss cam lingered for a few seconds, and the crowd cheered, but you felt was... empty.

When the kiss ended, you forced a smile at Elijah although your mind was a mess. Rafe’s eyes were still on you, and you could feel anger radiating off him, even through the thick glass.

You glanced down, avoiding his gaze, and tugged at the hem of his old jersey, suddenly feeling like you didn’t belong in it anymore.

You leaned into Elijah, mostly out of spite at this point. If Rafe thought he could just walk around, acting like he owned you—then he deserved to stew in.

Except, he wasn’t the type of guy to let something like that go. You watched as he skated back into play, but his eyes kept flicking up to where you sat, he couldn’t stop checking to make sure you were still there. Still with Elijah.

His shoulders were tense, movements too aggressive, you knew he was about to snap. You hated this, that he could still make you feel this way, even now, after everything.

After the fights, after the breakup, after swearing you were over him.

The third period started, and Rafe was everywhere, throwing his weight around like he had something to prove. Every hit was harder, sharper.

You felt sickly satisfied, knowing you’d gotten under his skin.

With less than five minutes left in the game, things escalated.

Rafe slammed into one of the opposing players so hard that the guy went down, and the whistle blew immediately. The crowd was roaring, but Rafe didn’t back off.

He stood over the guy, glaring down at him, ready to throw a punch.

"Jesus," Elijah muttered beside you. "What the hell’s his problem?"

You didn’t answer, knowing exactly what his problem was.

The ref skated over, shouting something at your ex boyfriend, but his eyes weren’t on the ref, they were back on you, even as the other guy on the ice slowly got back to his feet.

The arena was buzzing, the crowd still rowdy, you thought Rafe was going to lose it right there. His fists clenched—he looked like he was ready to drop gloves and start swinging.

And then he smirked.

It was that same cocky smirk you knew so well, the one he always flashed right before doing something reckless. The ref sent him to the penalty box, and he skated off, still with that fucking look plastered on his face.

Elijah leaned back in his seat, totally unaware.

“Man, that guy’s intense,” Elijah said, shaking his head, eyes still on the ice.

Intense didn’t even begin to cover it.

Rafe was sitting in the penalty box now, helmet off, running a hand through his hair, too casual for someone who was just about murder a guy on the ice.

The last few minutes of the game passed in an instant.

You weren’t paying attention anymore, not to the score or the plays. You were too busy trying not to think about Rafe, how he had looked at you. About the way it had made you feel.

When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Elijah stood up, stretching, turning to you with a smile. “Ready to head out?” he asked.

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You made your way toward the exit, weaving through the crowd, tension building in your chest.

It wasn’t over. It never really was with Rafe. You knew—somehow—you weren’t getting out of here without seeing him again.

You reached the bottom of the stands, where a crowd had gathered near the exit. Elijah was still chatting about the game, but you were distracted, scanning the faces around without even realizing it.

Then you saw him. Of course, you did.

Rafe was leaning against the wall, helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes locked on yours the second you stepped into his line of sight.

He didn’t bother pretending to care about the fans around him—his gaze was intense, a predator waiting for its moment.

You hated how your heart skipped.

Elijah noticed you freeze and followed your eyes, his smile faltering when he saw Rafe standing there.

"Isn’t that the captain guy?" he asked, glancing between you and Rafe, confused.

You swallowed hard, forcing your feet to keep moving.

“Yeah. That’s him.”

As you passed by, Rafe pushed off the wall, stepping right into your path. Elijah, sweet, unsuspecting Elijah, paused beside you.

"Leaving already?" Rafe’s voice was casual, but his eyes were locked on yours, ignoring your date completely. "Not gonna stick around to congratulate the team?"

You clenched your jaw, fighting to keep your cool.

"It’s late, Rafe. We’re heading out."

He stepped closer, his towering frame making Elijah shift uncomfortably.

"Used to be the last one out."

You'd always let him fuck you in the locker room.

Elijah cleared his throat, "Uh, yeah, we’ve got plans after this."

Rafe’s eyes dropped to him for the briefest moment, before landing back on you. "Plans, huh?"

Your pulse was hammering, the heat rising in your cheeks. Why did he always have to do this—why couldn’t he just let you go?

“Rafe, we’re done,” you said through gritted teeth, holding on to the last shred of your composure. “You don’t get to pull this shit anymore.”

“You sure about that?”

You clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms as you tried to calm yourself. You didn’t need this right now, especially not with Elijah here.

“Let’s go Elijah,” you said, tugging at his arm, desperate to get out of there before things escalated.

Rafe stepped in front of you again, blocking your way like he had some kind of claim on you. And God, the worst part was—you weren’t sure he was wrong.

You glanced at Elijah, who was staring at the two of you like he had walked into the middle of a conversation he couldn’t quite follow.

“Look, dude,” he started, awkwardly laughing, “I don’t know what this is, but—”

“It’s nothing, ignore him.” you cut him off quickly, “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, Elijah,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. “It’s nothing.”

Elijah’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, frowning.

“Shit,” he muttered, distracted. “I’ve gotta take this call real quick. Give me a sec?” He stepped away, leaving you and Rafe standing there in the middle of the hallway.

Shit.

He was on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the locker room door. 

“Rafe, what the fuck—” you hissed, but he wasn’t letting go.

You tried to resist, but something inside you broke down—the unresolved pull between you two, he still had that stupid hold on you, your body responding when you shouldn’t.

You’d never fully closed the door on Rafe.

He shoved the door open, pulling you inside the lit hallway that led to the locker room. You spun around, shoving him in the chest, hard. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?”

Rafe didn't so much flinch, his eyes smoldering as he crowded you against the wall. 

“Yeah? You didn’t seem to think so when you were wearing my jersey tonight.”

“That was an accident!"

“Bullshit,” he growled, leaning in closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Bringing a date with you. Do you want me to kill someone?"

Your heart was pounding, Rafe had you pinned against the wall like he always fucking did before— God, why did he have to be so damn close? He was overwhelming, and you hated it.

You hated him for still making you feel like this.

“Get off me,” you snapped, but it came out weaker than you intended.

His eyes were boring into yours, he could see through all your bullshit.

“C’mon, baby, don’t act like this wasn’t what you wanted. You show up, wearin’ my number, sitting there with some random guy like I don’t still own you.” 

He caged you in completely. You pressed your hands against his chest, but it wasn’t like you were really pushing him away.

“You don’t own shit,” you spat, glaring up at him.

Even as the words left your mouth, you knew you didn’t believe them, part of you was always gonna his.

Rafe’s lips curved into a smug grin as if he was reading every thought running through your head.

“Really? ’Cause from where I’m standin’, you’ve been thinkin' about me all night."

His breath was hot on your skin, and you despised how much you wanted to close the distance between you.

Your jaw clenched, trying to muster the strength to tell him to fuck off, leave you alone for good, but he was right. As much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise, he was still in your head, under your skin.

His hand found your hip, fingers pressing into your skin through your jeans, and you felt your body betray you. You cursed yourself silently as heat pooled low in your panties. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, didn’t want him to know how much power he still had.

But damn it, he knew. He always fucking knew.

“I hate you,” you muttered. It was a weak defense, and you both knew it.

Rafe's lips brushed against your earlobe.

“Yeah?” His voice was a low rasp that made your knees weak. “Funny, you never sound like you hate me when you’re under me.”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t—”

He was already kissing you, like he owned you, you were his and his alone. You kissed him back, like the fucking idiot you were. 

His hands were pawing at you, grabbing at your waist, tugging you closer until your bodies were fully pressed together. You wanted to shove him away, slap that stupid look off his face—but your body had other plans. 

This was so wrong, on so many levels. 

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, Rafe was staring you down.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you bit out, trying to cling to some sense of control.

His pretty grin widened knowingly. He leaned down, lips ghosting over yours. “We both know that's a lie.”

You clenched your fists, frustrated beyond belief, at him, at yourself, at how easy it was for him to pull you right back in.

“Fuck you,” you hissed, but the breathless tone in your voice told a different story.

Rafe’s eyes darkened, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly sexy way he always did. “Oh, you will.”

God help you—you knew he was right. That fucking arrogance. It crawled under your skin, set your blood on fire in ways it shouldn’t.

You needed to punch him, shove him, do something to wipe that smug expression off his face.

All you did instead was grab his jersey, pulling him back toward you, kissing him with all the fury you felt.

His lips crushed against yours, it wasn’t gentle—there was nothing sweet about this. It was all months of unresolved anger bursting out in one messy kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, and you bit down, hard, just to remind him you weren’t going to make this easy.

He groaned, pulling back, his gaze dark. "You always did like it rough."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking back down, kissing him like you needed to get all of this out of your system. His hands roamed your body, possessive, and you hated how much you craved him.

You weren’t his. You couldn’t be, but every heated breath you took, every desperate movement your body made, was telling you otherwise.

When his lips moved down your neck, teeth grazing your skin, you gasped, tilting your head as your resolve crumbled to pieces. He knew exactly what to do, how to make you fall apart.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you with ease, pressing you harder against the wall. Your breath hitched, the cold tile behind you making you gasp. Nothing else mattered.

Not Elijah, not the fact that this was so stupidly wrong, not the months of hurt and anger you’d been holding onto.

There was only Rafe. How touched you, the way he kissed you like he was trying to stake his claim all over again.

"Tell me you don’t want this," Rafe begged against your lips.

You bit down on your lip, you did want this. You couldn’t lie—not to him, or to yourself.

“I—” You choked on the words, eyes meeting his, hoping you’d find some kind of resolve to pull yourself back from him.

His grip only tightened, his mouth capturing yours again in a kiss so raw, it was borderline filthy, your last piece of control vanishing with it.

“Fuck,” you gasped, head spinning as his hands explored your body like he had every right to.

“Yeah, baby. That's what I thought."

His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave bruises, you let out a frustrated, muffled groan, your fingers still lost in his hair.

It was a lot longer than the last time you’d seen him.

It didn't help that you could feel every inch of his muscle through the thin fabric his jersey. It was suffocating in the best way.

“You’re such an ass,” you gasped between kisses, breath hitching when his mouth clamped down to your neck. You felt him grin against your skin, the bastard.

“You say that like it’s supposed to stop you.” His voice was low in your ear, sending shiver down your spine. “I don’t think it is.”

You were about to fire back, but his hands slid under your shirt, fingers teasing your skin, whatever you were going to say swallowed by the heat rushing through you. He still knew exactly how to get to you—how to pull you apart and leave you helpless against him.

“Rafe, this—”

Your words were cut off when he bit down gently on your collarbone, sending a shockwave through your body.

“This what?” he taunted, “This a mistake? Because I don’t think that’s what your body’s saying.”

You just glared up at him, trying to catch your breath.

“I told you,” you managed to say, though your voice was shaky, “this doesn’t mean anything.”

Rafe’s grip on you tightened, lips brushing yours as he whispered, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

There was no denying it—you were here, and you weren’t leaving.

Maybe not for a while.

And Rafe knew it.

His hands moved lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.

 This was dangerous territory.

“Last chance,” he murmured, “You want me to stop?”

You should’ve said yes, shoved him away and walked out of there with what little dignity you had left. But instead, you kissed him again— angrier, needing to prove something to yourself.

He yanked your shirt over your head in one fast motion, and you weren’t gentle either, tugging at his jersey until it was off and tossed aside. His hands were on your back, in your hair, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down with the same rushed urgency you’d been feeling since you laid eyes on him tonight.

“I hate you,” you whispered as your nails dragged down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake.

Rafe just laughed.

“No, you don’t,” he growled, his hands grabbing your hips as he settled you onto one of the locker room benches. “But keep telling yourself that.”

Your jeans hit the floor, and he wasted no time, his hands gripping your thighs as he positioned himself between them, pressing you down on the bench.

Everything was messy, neither of you could get enough. A silly attempt to erase the months of distance, of frustration.

“Still think this doesn’t mean anything?” Rafe rasped, his voice hoarse as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You could barely think, let alone speak, but somehow, you managed to gasp out, “Positive.”

His mouth moved down your neck, biting and sucking again, leaving marks you knew would still be there tomorrow.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

It was wrong, it was toxic, but fuck—there was something about the way he touched you. You were furious with yourself, with him, with everything, but the anger only made you want him more.

His fingers brushed against the seam of your panties, hardly touching you, but doing enough to have you drenched. 

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, amused, slipping one finger under the fabric to run along your folds, dipping inside before pulling back out, "Was this all for Elijah?"

Sonofabitch.

“Stop talking,” you spat, but your voice was already shaky, showing him the way you were falling apart under his touch.

Rafe chuckled low in his throat, his finger moving back, this time slipping inside you, properly. You gasped, head falling back as he began moving his finger, curling it inside you in just the way you taught him to.

Your body responded immediately, jerking against him, desperate for more, but he took his time. He added another finger, stretching you out as his thumb rubbed circles over your clit. He sped up, fingers thrusting deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made your mind go blank.

“Been wanting this, haven’t you? All those nights pretending you don’t think about me, but look at you now.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, legs shaking as you felt your hips following the rythm of his hands, driving you closer and closer to the orgasm you so desperately needed. Damn him.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, sending shocks of pleasure through you. “Tell me how bad you need this.”

“Rafe—” you gasped, hips bucking wildly against his hand. You hated him, hated yourself, but the words slipped out anyway. “I need it.”

He groaned, pleased, and that was all it took. He always delivered when you begged nicely.

Rafe thrust his fingers harder until your body gave in completely. 

In your defense, you hadn’t had a proper orgasm in months, nothing could get you off properly.

Your walls clenched around his fingers as the sweet pleasure tore through you. You cried out, leaving half-moon marks in his skin as you moaned beneath him, lost in the sensation.

He slowed down enough to draw out every last bit of pleasure, his fingers still moving inside you as you rode out the aftershocks.

When you finally caught your breath, he pulled them out, his hand moving to cup your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

He shoved his pants down, not bothering to take them off completely, only enough to free himself. Your breath hitched when you felt him against you and every rational thought you had left disappeared in that moment.

Rafe lined himself up, pushing into you in one hard thrust. Your gasp turned into a breathless moan as your back arched, hands gripping his shoulders for something to hold on to. The familiar sensation of him stretching you out was overwhelming to say the least, but exactly what you needed.

Rafe didn’t give you time to adjust.

He pulled back and slammed into you again, setting a punishing rhythm that left you stupid in seconds, gasping for air. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tender.

His fingers dugg into your skin as he fucked you, reminding you who you belonged to.

You loathed how good it felt.

“You’re mine,” Rafe growled as he thrusted into you, each movement brutal. “Doesn’t matter who you’re with, doesn’t matter how much you try to deny it—you’ll always come back to me.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, but you still wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. 

He dropped his forehead to yours, “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this every night."

You couldn’t.

The words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, but a moan escaped your lips instead, as he hit that perfect spot inside you. Your body arched even further against his.

“Fuck,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built.

“That’s what I thought,” Rafe hummed, his pace quickening, the force of his thrusts making the bench creak beneath you.

The sound of the bench, his big toned body pressing into yours so perfectly, his breath against your neck—it all made it impossible to think straight. You should have been disgusted with yourself for letting it get this far, for letting him have this kind of control over you. 

“I f-fucking hate y-you” you managed to gasp out.

Rafe chuckled, “Yeah? Then why do you sound like that, huh?” His voice was taunting, filled with the arrogance you hated, “This pussy still mine, huh?”

You loved the way he grabbed you like you were his, even though you’d sworn you were done with him. You were still in love, weren’t you? Even after all the shit, all the screaming matches, the nights spent crying because of him. 

Before you knew, his hands were flipping you over so fast, your knees hit the bench.

“Rafe—mmh!” you whined, but your words died in your throat when he shoved you forward, pressing your chest flat against the cold wood, hs hands were gripping your ass, spreading you open for him.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath, already dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, knowing how much you wanted it, even if you wouldn’t say it.

You squirmed, despite how desperate you felt, “Fuck, stop teasing—”

“Want more?” he cut you off, voice dripping with arrogance. He slapped your ass, hard enough to sting, and you yelped, your back arching instinctively. “Gonna have to beg for it.”

"Like hell," you spat back.

Just like that, his chest was fully pressing against your back, his mouth right by your ear.

 “Act tough all you want sweet girl, I still know how much you want this,” he gritted out, fat cock sliding against your ruined pussy again, torturously slow. “Know how much you need it.”

That's when he slid back inside, filling you completely in one sweet stroke. You cried out, hands gripping the edges of the bench when he didn't bother giving you a moment to adjust, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in.

The angle had you seeing stars.

The bench was narrow, forcing your legs closer together, making everything tighter. You couldn’t stop the way your body responded to him, hips greedly moving back to meet his thrusts.

Rafe's rough hands gripped the fat of your ass, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Rafe groaned, head dropped back as he thrust into you. "So fucking tight for me.”

He pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing in deliberate circles that had you on the edge again in seconds. A embarrassing whimper ripped from your throat, your hips bucking wildly against him as the pleasure built, you felt like you might break apart.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He rasped. “I can feel it. Fuck.”

You tried to hold on, but it was useless when he knew exactly how to break you.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whimper as you felt your second orgasm rising fast.

“Do it,” Rafe growled, his fingers rubbing harder, “Come for me, baby.”

This time around your vision blurred, your body shaking as the pleasure tore through you. You cried out, walls clenching around him, milking him for all he had.

Rafe groaned llike a pornstar as he fucked you through it, relentless, until your entire body was in an entire different dimension.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out suddenly, and before you could catch your breath, he yanked you up, turning you around. You barely had time to register what was happening before he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the cold locker. His cock was back inside you in seconds, filling you again, and you moaned, the new angle sending jolts of pleasure through your already overstimulated pussy.

He pounded into you, his grip on your ass bruising, and you clung to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he fucked you against the lockers. The sound of metal creaking under the force of his thrusts only made it hotter, more desperate. You could feel another orgasm building, and you hated him for it—hated how easily he could pull them from you. 

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin. “You’ll always be mine.”

And you hated that some twisted part of you wanted it to be true.

Your legs tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer, deeper, as if you couldn’t get enough of him.

And God, you couldn’t.

His grip on your ass was rough, bruising, but it only made you moan louder. You were on the verge again—your body still tingling from the last orgasm, but the way he moved inside you, the way his teeth grazed your neck, it had you spiraling toward another one, faster than you thought possible.

“Look at you,” Rafe groaned, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with you. His pupils were blown wide with lust, a wild look on his face that sent a thrill down your spine. “Fuck, you love this, don’t you?”

You did. Because no matter how much you hated him, how much you wanted to hate him—there was a part of you that still belonged to him. A part of you that couldn’t walk away.

His lips were everywhere—on your neck, your collarbone, your jaw—and you couldn’t stop the sounds escaping your throat as he kept driving into you.

“Say it,” he growled, “Say you’re mine.”

You bit down on your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to fight back, but every nerve in your body was betraying you. The way his body fit against yours, the way he moved inside you, it was all too much. You were coming again, and you hated it.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Say it.”

You wanted to spit in his face. But your body was telling a different story, hips bucking against him, legs tightening around his waist again.

“R-Rafe,” you whimpered, hating how weak you sounded, how desperate.

His smirk was infuriating, but fuck, it was hot.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his pace quickening, each thrust deeper than the last. “You’re mine. Always have been.”

And then he slammed into you one last time, hitting that perfect spot inside you, and the orgasm tore through you, leaving you gasping and trembling in his arms. You cried out, head thrown back against the lockers as your body shook with the force of it, your nails raking down his back.

Rafe groaned, his grip on you tightening as he rode out your orgasm, his movements growing sloppier, more erratic. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Fuck, baby,” he moaned, his hips jerking against yours as he finally let go, his release hitting hard. You felt the warmth of him spill inside you, as he held you against him, buried deep.

The second his breathing slowed and his grip on you loosened, reality came crashing back in. 

What the fuck had you done?

You pushed at his chest, trying to put some space between you, but he wasn’t letting go that easily. His arms stayed wrapped around you, his body pressed against yours like he still had something to prove.

“Get off,” you muttered, your voice weak, but sharper than before.

He chuckled, that low, arrogant sound that drove you crazy. “That’s not what you were saying five minutes ago.”

You shot him a glare, shoving at his chest again, harder this time. “I’m serious, Rafe. Move.”

Reluctantly, he let go, stepping back just enough for you to slide off the locker and onto shaky legs. You stumbled a bit, and Rafe’s hand shot out to steady you, but you jerked away from him, pulling your jeans back up with shaky hands.

He leaned against the locker, smirking like he hadn’t just torn your world apart all over again. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You wanted to scream at him, to throw something at his face. But instead, you grabbed your shirt off the floor, yanking it over your head as you tried to steady your breath.

“Good luck finding your date.”

Elijah. You’d come to the game with Elijah.

You shook your head as you zipped up your jeans and ran your fingers through your hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. You avoided looking at him, knowing that if you did, you’d see the smug satisfaction on his face that would only make you feel worse.

He pushed himself off the locker and took a step closer to you. You flinched, stepping back instinctively. “This can’t happen again.”

His smirk slipped for a moment as he looked at you. H e closed the distance between you in two strides, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, pulling you toward him before you could react, “You’re choosing him?”

You yanked your wrist out of his grip, your heart racing as you forced yourself to take a step back, putting distance between the two of you, “You’re the one who chose yourself.”

His eyes darkened, searching your face, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. Maybe he thought he still had you wrapped around his finger.

“You’re the one who walked away,” you added, hating how your voice trembled, “So don’t act like I owe you anything.”

Rafe’s hand hovered like he was about to reach for you again, but he didn’t. “That’s not how I remember it.” 

Your stomach twisted, “I’m not doing this anymore. I can’t—” You glanced at the door, feeling the weight of Elijah waiting for you. The one person who was good for you, who actually wanted to be with you.

But the worst part? You were still thinking about Rafe. Even after everything, you were still here, breathless, a mess because of him.

He took a step closer, his eyes locked on yours, and for a second, you thought he might apologize. Maybe say something real. But Rafe Cameron didn’t do apologies. 

He raised an eyebrow, “Really?” His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair out of your face in a gesture that was far too intimate, given everything that had just happened. “Then why are you still standing here?”

You flinched, stepping back. Why were you still standing there? You had no good answer, at least not one you were ready to admit.

“Go back to your date,” Rafe continued, his voice mocking now, “Pretend like he’s enough for you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the tears at bay. You couldn’t give him that satisfaction, not again. “You’re wrong.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t think I am.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, throat tight, trying to push back the tears. This was all wrong. It was always wrong with Rafe, “Stop.”

It sounded like a plea—a plea for him to stop talking, stop looking at you like that, stop making you feel so small and yet so overwhelmed all at once.

Rafe sighed, stepping back just a fraction, and for a second, his gaze lifted. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, his voice softer now, like that made a difference.

“You always do,” you shot back, finally meeting his eyes. The truth slipped out before you could stop it, and there it was.

His jaw clenched, "I don’t mean to," he muttered, his voice low. "You know that."

"Does it even matter?" You felt the bitterness rise in your throat, along with something else—something fragile and painful. "You still do it. Whether you mean to or not."

Rafe stayed quiet, and you hated that silence. He didn’t have an answer. He never did, not for this. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your jacket, something to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t say something you’d regret. But regret was already everywhere, suffocating you both.

“I thought we were past this,” you said finally, barely more than a whisper. “I thought I was past this.” But clearly, you weren’t. Clearly, some part of you was still here, with him, in the wreckage you’d both created.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated, torn. “It’s not that simple.”

"It should be." Your voice cracked. You hated how much this hurt. How much he could still hurt you.

It wasn’t fair. You weren’t supposed to still care this much. You weren’t supposed to still feel this.

Rafe sighed, taking another step back, giving you space. But it wasn’t the kind of space you wanted. It wasn’t the kind that would make things easier. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admitted quietly, his eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t find.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. "I don’t want anything from you." 

That was the truth, or at least it was supposed to be. You didn’t want anything he had to offer, not anymore. Not when every time you reached for it, it slipped through your fingers like water, leaving you emptier than before.

But there was still that ache, that feeling between you two, the one that dragged you back here even when you knew better. You wished you could kill it, cut it out of you like some infected part, but it was tangled too deep. And maybe a small part of you didn’t want to.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, his voice almost tender, like he was seeing right through you. “But you’re still here.”

“I don’t know why,” you whispered, blinking back tears. Fuck, you hated this. Hated how vulnerable you felt, how easily he could unravel you, even now. “I shouldn’t be.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, watching you, like he was waiting for you to make the next move. Like he wanted you to figure it out on your own.

But you didn’t know how. You never did when it came to him.

"I’m sorry," he said, and this time, it felt real. There was no arrogance. Just Rafe, standing there, as broken as you felt. "I don’t know how to fix this."

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “There’s nothing left to fix, Rafe. We’ve already destroyed it.”

His face twisted, like he didn’t want to believe it. Like he was still holding onto some small piece of hope. "We could—"

"No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "We can’t."

You couldn’t keep doing this. The push and pull, the endless cycle of hurt and apologies that never really fixed anything. You couldn’t keep pretending that something would change, that he would change.

Because you both knew he wouldn’t.

He took a breath, exhaling slowly, and you could see it—the realization sinking in. 

He knew it too. "I never wanted to lose you," he admitted quietly.

You swallowed hard, your chest tight. "You already did."

[blooms-in-april]

"Here."

Jaskier looks up from his lute to see Eskel holding the reins of a horse so beautiful it looks like a pearlescent moon.

"She's for you." Eskel says.

Jaskier moves as if in a dream, taking the reins of the albino mare. Eskel continues, the words flowing.

"She was a steal, blemished. Someone cut her deep in the head and sides. But I thought you'd find that romantic, you know. Make a wounded unicorn out of her marks. And you need a horse and you like pretty things. It made sense to me."

The chords of his throat knot, cut short. Jaskier draws his fingers through the white mare's mane, lute callouses catching on hair white as snow. He picks at a stuck burr and his heart clenches with the familiarity of the movement .

"Why couldn't it have been you?" He says.

Eskel stops abruptly. There is something wild and despairing in the bards voice, a reclamation of destiny.

"Why couldn't it have been you I met in Posada all those years ago?" Jaskier says. "Where were you twenty years ago? Where were you ten? Where were you when I was young and green and full of music?Of course I meet you now,"

He laughs, and there is no melody in it.

"Of course I meet you now, when I am full and sick of loving. You would have been- kind, when you finally sent me away. You would have killed it quickly, killed the dream quiet and fast, in my sleep, like a horse with a broken leg too weak to stand."

[strawberrytommy]

ever thought of calling (when you had a few?)

Post break-up, Buck gets drunk and calls Tommy to pick him up. Tommy shows up every time. post-break up, fix-it 3.8k words

Buck didn’t mean to drink so much. He’d been out with Hen and Karen and when they called it a night, he had decided to follow some new friends to another club, to keep the night going. He didn’t want to be left alone in the loft with his thoughts, not tonight.

The club is fun, thumping bass vibrates through his body as he moves among the throng of people. Then, shots start going around and he rapidly starts feeling dizzy and too-hot, too-much.

He ignores the people calling his name, as he pushes through and out of the sweaty, suffocating masses. The fresh air is a relief to his overwhelmed senses and overheated body, and he doesn’t think twice about dropping down to sit on the curb. He can’t call Maddie to pick him up, or Chim or anyone from the 118. They’d all fuss over him, shoot him worried glances and probably stage an intervention— and he really doesn’t need that right now.

He should order an Uber. He should. He will.

And then, he remembers the first time Tommy had picked him up, when he’d been all giggly and tipsy, after a late night with Chim and Hen. Tommy was just coming off a shift and Buck felt terrible for calling, but Tommy only smiled at him, so tenderly and told him, “I’ll always come for you, any day, any time. Always.”

Before he knows it, Buck’s dialing Tommy’s number and his heart races, as he waits in suspense for Tommy to answer— if he even will. The seconds feels like hours and he’s about to hang up when Tommy picks up.

“Evan?” He sounds sleepy and tired, but it’s music to Buck’s ears. He’d only been left with the ghost of his voice these past few months.

“Hello?”

“S- sorry. Um, I don’t really know where I am and I- this is dumb, I’ll just—”

“No, don’t go. Are you okay? Do you need help?” Concern bleeds through Tommy’s voice and it makes Buck’s heart ache in his chest. A pang goes through the cavity in his ribcage, where Tommy is still lodged.

“ ‘M okay, just drunk.”

“Do you need me to call someone for you? Maddie?”

Buck bites the inside of his cheek. “No, please don’t. She’s pregnant and I don’t want to worry her. Do you think.. can you pick me up? Please?” His voice grows small, bracing himself for rejection.

“Evan, it’s late, I don’t know if—”

There it is, the sting.

“It’s fine, forget I said anything.”

“I’ll be there. Send me your location?”

Buck sighs, eyes teary with relief.

“Thank you, Tommy.”

“Of course.”

Read more on AO3

[mamawasatesttube]

nobody even gets koncassie like they exist in my rich inner world. theyre gay/lesbian solidarity. when they dated they just didn't know that. it was never romantic. but they still felt like a kind of haven to each other - they were safe for each other. kon, with all the trauma of being groomed twice over, felt safe with cassie, his friend, his peer, his equal. cassie, under all the pressure of public scrutiny and constantly feeling like she failed to measure up to the wonder girl legacy, was safe with someone who saw her trying to force herself to present super feminine and conform and told her no, you don't need to do that. not for me. i've always thought you're beautiful. like. in a world where they were both in the public eye and crumbling under the pressure, they were each other's sanctuary. like, even if they didn't understand that they weren't actually into each other, the love was so real. do you guys even get it????

[formulafanfics13]

Could you write something with Oscar when you both just came out of relationships when you met it was supposed to be only fun no strings attached but other the months you can’t seem to let go of each other you have no idea when sex changed into lovemaking and he doesn’t know when he started grinning when he got a text from you but it happened and when you finally met after weeks apart and end up laying with you’re head on his chest you can’t help but ask him how the whole not falling in love thing es going he only grins crooked and tells you terribly.

didn’t mean to - CS55 🔥

Masterlist

summary: you were supposed to keep it casual. both newly single. both bruised. both pretending it was just sex. but somewhere between shared breakfasts and long-distance texts, you stopped keeping score. and now, lying on his chest after weeks apart, you ask the question you’ve been scared to say out loud — how’s the not falling in love thing going? warnings: (soft smut to fluff, friends with benefits turned real, emotional intimacy, vulnerability, post-breakup softness, slow build, domestic touches, mutual pining, quiet yearning, chest kisses, tangled limbs, emotional sex, longing, comfort, sleepy cuddles, gentle teasing, mentions of past relationships) wordcount: 548

It starts in a hotel room in Singapore. You’re six weeks out of a breakup. He’s eight.

You’ve both been orbiting heartbreak and trying not to let the silence feel too loud. A mutual friend introduces you. You talk. You drink. He makes you laugh in a way that doesn't feel loaded. You like that his hands stay to himself. You like that he doesn’t try too hard.

And later, when you do kiss on your hotel bed, half-drunk, half-daring yourselves, it’s soft. Curious. New.

It’s not about forgetting. It’s about breathing. No pressure. No promises. Just now.

And when you both come down, sweaty and flushed, he kisses your shoulder and whispers, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

You nod. “Good. I don’t want it to.”

He smiles. So do you. But you both already know you’re lying.

You keep seeing each other. Japan. Austin. Brazil. Always quiet. Always simple. Flights aligned. Hotels arranged. Schedules synced by some force neither of you are willing to name. He texts you more often now. You send him videos of your meals. He sends you pictures of sunsets from track walks.

You still say it’s nothing. But he starts bringing your favourite snacks when he visits. You start wearing his shirts to bed. 

One night, curled into his chest after lazy, late sex in Monaco, he brushes his fingers through your hair and says, “You ever wonder if we’re fooling ourselves?”

You freeze. Then pretend to be asleep.

You spend three weeks apart in the off-season. Too long. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re not dating. You’re not his.

But you miss him in stupid, quiet ways. You reach for your phone at breakfast, forgetting he’s not around to send a photo to. You sleep in his shirt every night. You catch yourself laughing at texts that aren’t even funny, not because they’re jokes, but because they’re him.

He calls once. You miss it. Your stomach sinks when you see the missed call. You don’t know why.

Actually, you do. You just don’t want to say it.

You see him again in Melbourne. It’s been twenty-three days. You count.

He walks into the hotel lobby with that easy grin and a hoodie you know he didn’t wash properly, and your whole body goes warm. You try to stay casual. So does he.

But by midnight, you’re tangled in his sheets again, panting into his mouth, your hands in his curls and his mouth on your throat like he’s starving.

This time is different. You don’t fuck. You make love. You feel it.

The way his hands move slower. The way he kisses your forehead. The way he whispers your name like it’s a song he forgot he knew.

You look up at him after, bare chest to bare chest, and see it in his face before you even ask. Something’s changed. Something’s been changing.

You lay your head on his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let your fingers trace lazy circles over the slope of his ribs.

Then, finally, softly, you ask: “Hey. How’s the whole not falling in love with me thing going?”

There’s a pause. Then you feel him laugh, breath warm against your hair.

His hand brushes your spine. “Terribly,” he says.

And you grin. Because same.

[loulou-land]

Don’t Leave Me (I’m Staying)

This was meant to be a tiny lil ficlet based on a prompt line (that I didn’t even end up using in the actual fic) and then it turned into this…a drunk bucktommy fix-it of sorts lol. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy it! Ps. Tommy is hard on himself in this one and blames himself entirely for the break up, that in no way represents my opinions on the matter. It’s just how it turned out in this fic 😋

bucktommy | wc: 2,711 | post break up, light angst, emotional hurt/comfort |

Read here or on ao3

The call came in a little past midnight. Tommy had gone to bed early—after the usual romantic comedies failed to hold his attention and only made him feel more miserable. He’d hoped for a rare, dreamless sleep. But instead he found himself trapped in one of his recurring nightmares—memories of leaving the loft, ruining the best thing that had ever happened to him—when the sharp ring of his phone jolted him awake, his heart pounding before his brain caught up.

Squinting at the screen, his breath hitched.

E. Buckley

He almost dropped his phone in his haste, thumb fumbling to answer the call before it stopped ringing.

“B—Buck?” he stammered. “Are you okay?”

There was a pause, and then a voice that was definitely not Evan’s, heavy with irritation and booze, spoke.

“Hey, this Tommy?”

Tommy frowned, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, that’s me. Where’s Evan? Is he okay?” His mind raced, already conjuring a million scenarios, none of them good.

“Define ‘okay’,” the guy snorted. Tommy’s stomach dropped before he focused on the rest of the words. “Your boy’s shit-faced. Keeps crying and saying your name. Maybe come get him so the rest of us can drink in peace?” the man slurred.

Tommy’s heart lurched at the thought of Evan crying. He forced out a tight thanks to the drunk man, getting the name of the bar while he yanked on his jeans and boots. Thirty-five minutes later, he was parked in front of a dingy-looking dive lit by flickering neon signs and plastered with shady looking posters promising “quality alcohol.”

For a moment, he debated calling someone else—Eddie, or maybe even Sergeant Grant—but then wondered why Evan would come to an out of the way dive like this, alone. Steeling himself, Tommy decided to go in, keeping 9-1-1 dialed on his phone, just in case.

It didn’t take long to find him. Evan was sprawled over the bar top, head buried in his folded arms, his curls sticking out every which way. Tommy’s heart raced at the sight of him, as well as feeling an overwhelming sense of relief at once again being in the same room as Evan.

Tommy made his way through the bar, clocking in all the exits and keeping an eye on the other patrons, bracing himself for any trouble.

“Hey, Ev—Buck,” he hastily corrected himself, as he came up beside him. “Let’s get you home.”

Bleary baby blue eyes lifted, unfocused but just as bright as always. A lopsided grin spread across Evan’s face.

“Tommy” he slurred, his voice full of unguarded wonder. “My Tommy.”

Tommy’s chest tightened painfully at Evan’s words. He knew he’d be Evan’s until the day he died—leaving that night hadn't changed that, had only made it worse. It had made him realize that Evan was it for him. But it also confirmed what he’d always feared: Evan deserved more than a broken man like him. Still, hearing Evan call him his, ignited a flicker of hope he couldn’t afford to acknowledge. Not right now.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he whispered. “You okay, Buck?”

“Nooo,” Evan protested, shaking his head so vehemently he almost tumbled off the stool, if not for Tommy catching him and keeping a steady hand on him.

“Not Buck,” Evan mumbled, burping mid-sentence. “Not to you. Ev…Evan,” he said, poking Tommy in the chest and trying to glare at him—a glare somewhat softened by the way he kept squinting and hiccuping.

Tommy exhaled a shaky laugh, a pang of something tender and broken twisting deep in his chest. Even like this, Tommy couldn't help but be absolutely endeared by the other man.

“Alright, Evan. Let’s get you out of here.”

“I don’t want to go home, it’s empty a…and—lonely” Evan replied quietly, eyes shifting away as he made himself smaller.

“Hey, no…it’s okay.” Tommy’s heart cracked, guilt taking hold of him. “I’ll take you to Eddie’s—”

“Ha!” Evan cuts in, chuckling bitterly. “No, that’s empty too.”

“What do you mean?” Tommy frowned, feeling a sense of foreboding creep up on him.

“He’s in Texas, looking at houses,” Evan paused, exhaling deeply. “He’s leaving…everyone leaves me. Why—” He trailed off, slumping as though the weight of everything was suddenly falling over him.

Tommy went rigid, the raw vulnerability in Evan’s voice cutting through him like a blade. Tommy thought he had braced himself for whatever tonight would bring but he hadn’t prepared for this—seeing the possible aftermath of his absence carved into the man he loved.

“Okay,” Tommy said, his resolve crumbling. His next words came out hesitantly, almost afraid…of what, he didn’t know. Rejection or the thought of what would come after—inevitably breaking his own heart again. “I’ll take you to my house.”

He knew it was selfish, he didn't have a right to this anymore, no right to be the one Evan leaned on. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to take care of Evan, just for tonight, even if saying goodbye in the morning might destroy him.

“With you?” Evan asked, his voice trembling with disbelief as he looked up at him.

Tommy’s stomach dropped. “Yeah, sweet…heart,” his voice catching on the endearment that slipped out. “With me. I want to make sure you're okay. Is that alright? I can call Bobby or Hen if you’d rather—”

“No!” Evan yelled, eyes wide and glassy. “Take me with you, please?”

“Shh,’’ Tommy soothed, gently brushing away the tears gathering at the edges of Evan’s eyes. “Don’t cry, honey. You can come with me.”

It took some effort to get him upright, but eventually, Tommy had an arm around Evan’s waist and one of Evan’s draped over his shoulder as they headed for the door.

Suddenly, a man stepped in front of them.

“So, you came for your boy?” the man slurred, swaying unsteadily. Tommy recognized his voice as the caller.

Tommy tensed, his mind racing through potential threats, readying himself to protect Evan. Only, instead of hostility or the expected homophobic barb, the man pointed a half-empty beer at him and said, “You better fix it. Take him home and grovel.”

Tommy blinked, caught off guard. “Uh…yeah,” he managed, unsure how else to respond.

The drunk shook his head and stumbled back toward the bar, muttering incomprehensible things all the while.

Tommy exhaled deeply. “Alright, let’s get out of here,” he muttered, tightening his grip on Evan as they headed for the exit.

______________________________________

The drive to his house was quiet, except for the occasional hiccup or muttered word from Evan.Tommy had gotten him to drink a full water bottle, before Evan slumped against the passenger window for the rest of the trip. He did his best to drive carefully, not wanting to dislodge him or have him bump his head. Tommy kept his eyes on the road but couldn’t help glancing at him every few seconds.

When they finally arrived, Tommy parked and hurried to the passenger side, slipping an arm under Evan’s knees and bracing the other against his back. He lifted him with a grunt, feeling Evan’s steady weight against him as the other man buried his face in Tommy’s neck, sniffing deeply and mumbling against his skin. The sensation of Evan’s lips on his neck sent a shiver throughout his body.

Taking a deep breath, Tommy moved inside, carrying Evan to the couch. He eased him down gently, propping him up as he kneeled in front of him to tug off his shoes, feeling Evan’s eyes following his every movement as he did so.

Then Evan mumbled, hesitantly. “Tommy, I’m sorry…just, sorry.”

Tommy froze, his throat tightening. He looked up sharply. “Evan, you don't need to apologise for this. I'm always happy to help you,” he said, keeping his voice calm, trying to soothe him.

But Evan shook his head weakly, a new wave of tears spilling over his flushed cheeks. “No.” he whispered, voice breaking. “I'm sorry for being too much. For messing it all up. I always…jump ahead of myself and…I didnt mean to scare you away.” His voice trailed off in a pleading tone.

The words hit Tommy like an avalanche, burying him under their weight and his breath left him in a rush. His hands stilled, hovering over Evan’s untied laces as his chest clenched painfully. Too much? He couldn't believe what he was hearing. When Tommy left that night, he knew he was breaking both their hearts, but he thought Evan would be able to move on easily. He’d convinced himself that someone as bright, good and incredibly kind as Evan would find someone better—someone who really deserved him. And in the end, Tommy wouldn’t be missed.

But, he hadn't anticipated this. He hadn't anticipated this.

Tommy sat back on his heels, trembling as the realization of Evans words and his own actions crashed down on him. He needed to fix this. He couldn't live with himself knowing that this wonderful selfless man blamed himself for Tommy’s cowardice.

“Hey,” Tommy said softly, his voice catching in his throat as he tried to draw Evan’s eyes to his. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and brushing a stray curl from Evan’s damp forehead, his breath stuttering when Evan followed the motion.

Tommy swallowed hard in the silence of the room, broken only by Evan’s quiet sniffles.

“It wasn't you, okay? It wasn't you, Evan.” Tommy said, his voice thick, as he emphasized Evan’s name, needing him to understand that. “This…It was entirely on me.”

Evan frowned, the words lighting a fire in his eyes and stirring something defiant in him. His expression shifted, his mouth tightening as his brows furrowed in bitter disbelief. “Really?” He scoffed, voice cutting. “You're giving me the "it's not you, it's me" line?” A bitter laugh spewing from his mouth. “They all leave me, but it's okay…because it's not me,” he said derisively.

Evan sucked in a shuddering breath, his voice cracking when he spoke again. “You want to know something funny? I didn't think you’d leave. But—” His hands rose up to his face, gripping it as though trying to keep the words in, before giving up. They dropped limply to his lap.

Tommy’s heart twisted, knowing what was coming. He could already feel the sting of it.

“You left. You left me, Tommy.”

Evan’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the words still reverberated in the room.

And Tommy shattered.

Those words, they obliterated him. Every defense he had crumbled, leaving him raw and exposed, guilt bleeding through every crack. He felt the tears running down his face, and he tried to hold himself together—not wanting Evan to see what his words had done to him. But wasn’t that the very thing that had brought them here? Tommy hiding himself away from the world, scared to show himself for fear of being hurt. But he was already hurting—and had been from the moment he walked out the door that night.

He looked up at Evan, whose face was heartbreakingly vulnerable, tears shimmering in his blue eyes, but completely open to him, his pain laid bare for Tommy to see. It was only fair, Tommy did the same.

“I know,” Tommy rasped, voice thick and uneven. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

He pressed a hand to his chest—instinctive, desperate—as if trying to hold his heart together.

For one wild moment, Tommy wished he could rip it out and hand it to Evan, to show him that it had always been his. From the day Evan had smiled at him after a hurricane rescue gone well, Tommy’s heart had belonged to him. It always would. Instead, his fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, useless, trembling, trying to show how much he meant it.

“I’m so sorry, Evan,” he whispered again.

Evan blinked at him, fresh tears spilling over as he exhaled a trembling breath. The room was silent save for their uneven breathing. They just looked at each other, months of pain and longing passing unspoken between them.

Then, they moved at the same time—Tommy leaning forward, giving in to the urge to touch, to comfort, to heal. He gathered Evan in his arms, pulling him close.

“You didn’t mess anything up, baby.” Tommy murmured, the endearment coming out naturally again. He felt Evan’s head drop to his shoulder, shuddering against him. “I did. I was scared. Scared of you seeing the real me…the broken man behind the façade. And I thought—” he stopped, his throat closing up painfully for a second. “I thought leaving would protect my heart. That it would be better if I left before I got in any deeper. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t any better. Oh god…Evan.”

A sob tore through him as he held Evan tighter, his grip unyielding, as if letting go might break him once and for all. Evan’s arms wrapped around him just as fiercely, his hands clutching at Tommy’s back with equal desperation.

For the first time in months, Tommy let himself feel everything he’d been holding back. The pain of being apart from Evan, the weight of his regrets and endless “what ifs’ that had haunted him—all of it poured out in body shaking sobs. But this time, he wasn't alone. Evan was there, holding him through it.

And Tommy felt Evan’s pain too—he accepted it, welcomed it, knowing he had caused it. It was his to carry, and he’d carry it for as long as he needed to.

Evan didn't say anything for a while, his face buried against Tommy's neck as he took in shaky, uneven breaths—shivering in his arms. When Evan finally spoke, his voice was a broken whisper. “It hurt. It hurt so much, Tommy.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion. He nodded, taking responsibility for the hurt, before giving in to the need and pressing a soft kiss to the side of Evan’s head.

He knew Evan wasn't trying to hurt him with those words. He just wanted Tommy to understand and…he did.

Tommy’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper when he at last pulled himself together. “I can’t take away what I did, but if you’ll let me…I’ll do my best to make it better.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with a promise Tommy didn’t intend to break. Evan pulled back, searching his face before taking both of Tommy’s hands in him, squeezing emphatically with every word that spilled from him. “We…We will make it better. Together an—and, we’re going to stay for each other. O—okay?” he stuttered.

Tommy felt something click, something slot back inside of him—relief, grief, hope, love—all fitting together in a way that finally made sense. “Okay.” he answered, unhesitatingly, with the full conviction of a man who’d gone through hell and made it out.

Evan sighed, slumping fully against him in relief. Slowly, the tension drained from his body, his breathing evening out as exhaustion and the lingering effects of the alcohol took over.

Tommy shifted, settling them down to lay on the couch, his arms still wrapped securely around Evan. He felt completely wrung out, pulled inside out, but for the first time in months, he felt no regret.

He looked down at Evan, now curled up against him, his face tranquil and smoothed in sleep. Tommy brushed a hand lightly over his back, grounding himself in the reality of holding him again.

Tomorrow, they would talk. Whether Evan remembered tonight or not, Tommy would lay everything out again. He’d fight for them—for the second chance he’d been too afraid to ask for before. Therapy, hard conversations, whatever it took.

Because now he knew. He’d finally realized what he should have understood all along: Evan deserved someone who would stay.

And Tommy was done running.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but his mind flashed to Evan squeezing his hands and promising they’d do it together. Hope flickered unwaveringly in his chest, easing the ache in his heart and, at long last Tommy felt like he could breathe again.

Evan stirred slightly, his fingers twitching against Tommy’s arm as he mumbled, “Stay.”

Tommy pressed a kiss to Evan’s hair as he whispered “I’m not going anywhere, love. Not this time.”

And he meant it.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Love Island Steddie would never survive Casa Amor (unhappy Steddie, Ronance; bittersweet Stobin)

Steve, sent away to Casa, would ignore all of the Bombshells that make a move on him. He’s too happy with Eddie to risk losing him. They’ve only been together for a week, but it’s more than Steve could’ve asked for, even if they had met outside the show.

Plus, Steve’s seen previous seasons, so he’s fully aware Eddie and the rest of his friends at the Villa will get sent a video of what’s going on at Casa. Steve doesn’t want to get himself into trouble, so he plays the games as best he can, chats with everyone that pulls him, but always sleeps in the daybeds with Robin.

Eddie, back at the Villa, gets a video of Steve chatting with ALL of the Bombshells, doling out hugs, smiling when the Bombshells say he's stunning. He watches as Steve kisses multiple women in a game of truth or dare. Most of them were quick, but still. Eddie can't handle it, and the insecurity eats him alive.

Of course the show sends in Billy, a boy who's almost an exact replica of Steve, with just a bit of an extra edge, like Eddie. Eddie falls right into his charm, sharing a bed on the first night, and when Billy makes a move, Eddie just follows his lead, fully convinced Steve's head's been turned toward someone else..

After the three days, Steve return to the villa with a smile on his face and roses in hand, only to be greeted to the sight of Billy's arm wrapped around Eddie's waist. Out of all the contestants, everyone thought they'd make it.

Except Nancy, who’s shocked. She spent her time at the Villa convincing Eddie that Steve’s head would turn, because if it happened with her when Eddie showed up, it could definitely happen again.

Now she doesn't know what to do. She waited for Robin, and Robin waited for her. Except now Robin won't speak to her, irate and devastated to find out Nancy’s shit talked Robin’s best friend behind their back and broke up his relationship.

The new Bombshells try Steve again for the next few days, but nothing’s the same. He can't stand watching Eddie and Billy together, and he sleeps on the daybeds again. Eddie puts up a good front, clinging to Billy every chance he gets, but can't keep the tears at bay when he's with his friends.

Finally, Steve announces he's leaving the Villa. Everyone knows he's the most successful of the contestants, an established supermodel with an inheritance who just broke into TV acting. He really was here for love, not money.

But Eddie's a car mechanic, and he could use the winner's rewards to pay off old debts. So he decides to stay, yet refuses to say goodbye as Steve leaves the Villa with Robin in tow, who couldn’t forgive Nancy for what happened. She came here looking for love but found a platonic connection she knows will last for a lifetime. Steve and Robin, more heartbroken than they’ve ever been, leave the Villa hand in hand. They might not be in love, but she's his and he's hers.

[eggsdrawings]

dabihawks post-war pizza au 🛵💨

“you’ve still got a pizza my war-torn heart” by phanatics 🍕

[blooms-in-april]

I think part of the reason I'm so obsessed with Geralt and Jaskier, especially post-mountain apology fics is I'm projecting onto it. That fantasy of being apologized to, being made up to, being given attention above and beyond by someone who ignored you before - that's the dream, isn't it? That's the dream.

To have someone who underappreciated you and thought you were annoying turn around and say, "I was wrong, I adored your presence, You were never a bother, you were never annoying, and I miss you so much and I will spend the rest of our relationship letting you know how much I love and appreciate you." It's a drug I will never get enough of.

[spicycinnabun]

@118dailydrabble for day 91 prompt blackout ❤︎ rated: t ❤︎ pair: buck/omc, post-buck/tommy

He'd thought Buck 1.0 was long gone.

Apparently not. He'd blacked out.

“Here.” A glass of water and ibuprofen were deposited on an unfamiliar nightstand.

Buck groaned, sitting up. Took in the stranger who resembled his ex and felt shame encase him. “Thanks. I-I don't remember… did we…?”

“No. We didn't.” A lopsided smile appeared. “You just asked me to hold you.”

He was still fully clothed, his eyes crusty with what he really hoped weren't dried tears. He had a sudden, humiliating flashback of pleading and using the D word.

Buck covered his face. “God, I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” the guy said kindly. “Not the first time I've comforted a pretty boy with a broken heart.”

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 145

I'm gonna be real with y'all, I have not seen the netflix show. I do not wish to see the netflix show. I don't like how it handles the characters, and changes things around. However I do know that Jaskier gets tortured by a man named Rience ("Firefucker") and then Yen saves him and whatnot, and I cannot for the life of me find fics where it's Geralt that saves him instead. He wants to make up for what he said on the mountain and tracks down his bard only to find him being tortured. So this is your calling, my darling writers, feed me, won't you? Go.. Off into the wind... write me my hurt/comfort... write me my rescue missions......

Geralt slams the door open, splinters of the wooden door flinging through the air. The first thing to hit him is the smell of burned flesh. He stomps in, and glances around, seeing a man looming over another man, the second is tied to a chair. A single inhale of the air, and more of that burned smell, but Geralt also smells- .. Jaskier. He knew he was here. His tracking hadn't failed him. "Look, songbird, the man of the hour is here." Firefucker practically coos, locking eyes with Geralt.

[captainbfresh]

Forever considering writing a coldflash fic where Barry decides to go and save Snart from the occulus after a day where he just can't save anyone.

And he figures it all out and if he times it right nothing will change because the occulus still explodes and Barry can drop them back off in the present so everything that happened still happens and he's just making sure that Snart gets a future as well as the rest of them.

And he does it. And nothing goes wrong and he is so excited because he saved someone without fucking with timelines etc

But team flash are pissed because they're seeing it as another flashpoint moment and Barry not learning from his mistakes and Barry's insistence that it's not the same because he knew nothing would change doesn't help because its just showing it was premeditated and if he can justify this one who's to say he won't justify it again.

And iris breaks off their engagement because she doesn't want to live always wondering whether this is the first time they've lived through something.

And when Snart finds out that stopping him from blowing up essentially blew up Barry's life he's like "well why don't you just drop me back off where ya left me?" Because everyone's moved on after his death and he has issues.

And Barry's like?!??! That is exactly what Iris doesn't want me to do what the fuck is wrong with you. I can't kill you just so she doesn't dump me and I wanted to save you. I'm not letting you die because Iris doesn't want to marry me. I'm sure we can work it out. (they dont)

And Barry helps like reintegrate Len into the land of the living while Len 'helps' Barry deal with his broken engagement (mainly just mocking him tbf) and len splitting his time between helping team flash with their problems and doing crime because he is that bitch.

And of course they fall in love

[loucifersbitch]

it's never just coffee

Tommy Kinard | Rated G | 739 Words

Tommy Kinard, two weeks post-break up, is not doing well.

Read on ao3

[cupidford]

Whirlwind by DiscordantWords

Johnlock Love Letters #2354

John, former storm chaser, has settled into a comfortable new life. There's only one problem: John's already married. John reluctantly makes a trip to see Sherlock in the hopes of finalizing their divorce. John finds himself talked into riding along after one last storm. Twister AU