#and knocking the hell out of him emotionally

[ickypuppi3]

hm. yeah ok

[spring-lxcked]

@revvnant asked: ❝ [home] ❞ ( bruises & bruising )

[home] – sender has no physical way of helping receiver out of this situation, but they offer out their hand anyway. just to hold onto (and to not let go).

Almost nothing was left to be done. His persona was no longer just cracked around the edges, but shattered. Two of his children were dead, one without proper burial. His anger, so long stifled, had exploded. Venom spewing, absent from work, gone at all hours. Now? Now he was just tired, a dark bruise shadowing his cheekbone. Sitting on the sofa in the all too quiet house, elbow on knees and head in one of his hands, he didn't expect to see the offered hand from Michael in the corner of his vision. His son, his only remaining child. His only remaining connection to who he had once been, really. For all the hellish years between them, Michael was it. He wouldn't lose him as well.

He took his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other. "I don't know how to fix any of it." His mistakes—he should have been more careful. Now, his choices were limited. Dismantle the animatronics, get rid of the evidence. Give up on his other children. Let all his work, his research go up in smoke. Then leave. He squeezed Michael's hand, finally glancing at him sideways. "What do you think about leaving?" William had not once since Michael's birth considered leaving Hurricane. All of his work was here. "We could pack up in a few months and simply. . . go." That was what he did when things got bad enough—he ran. He started over. Except this time, he intended to bring someone with him: Michael. "A fresh start. Anywhere, Michael. We wrap up what we need to, and then we go." He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "What do you think?"

[calif0rnia-lovers]

safe place.

an: ngl, I wanted to hug jude & bukayo through the screen when England lost😔

requested: I remember seeing that Jude said his mom helps him when he gets "too low with the lows or too high with the highs." Can you do a fic where his gf is that way?

pairing: jude bellingham x black!reader

series: lyrically inspired tales.

if my heart aches, you breathe with me at my pace.

song: safe place by ruthanne

warnings: this is most definitely not edited lol.

The stadium lights had dimmed, and the roar of the crowd had faded into a distant memory, replaced by a haunting silence. Jude Bellingham sat in the quiet of his hotel room, the weight of the Euro final's loss pressing heavily on his shoulders. Exhaustion seeped into his bones—physically, mentally, and emotionally he was tapped. The missed shot that could have changed everything replayed in his mind, a tormenting loop of what-ifs and if-onlys.

He felt utterly drained, each breath a reminder of the effort he had poured into the match. The worst part about losing was feeling like he was at his lowest, despite all the hard work and dedication he had poured in for his country. The memory of the silver medal being draped over his shoulder, the relentless flashes of cameras, and the disappointed faces of fans loomed over him like a dark cloud. He had tried to keep his head up, stopping to hug each of his teammates, whispering words of encouragement, but it still hurt like hell. He had forced a brave face, stifling the sting in his eyes, reassuring his family and friends that he was alright. Keeping up the front until he reached his room had been a monumental task, and now, alone in the dim light, the facade crumbled.

He stared blankly at the wall, the ache of disappointment settling deep within his chest. Hours seemed to drag by, each minute stretching into an eternity. His phone was on Do Not Disturb. Although he knew the messages were meant with the best intentions, Jude wasn’t ready to read the encouraging texts sent to him. He hadn't spoken to anyone since the bus doors closed, needing space to process the defeat alone. The team’s efforts, the dreams of a nation, all seemed to hang on that one moment when his shot had veered just slightly off course.

A knock at the door broke through his reverie. Jude ignored it at first, unwilling to face anyone. If he didn’t call out, whoever it was would go away. But then it came again. 

A single knock, followed by three softer knocks, a distinct rhythm that was all too familiar. It was a special knock. Your special knock, a signal that meant more than words ever could. It prompted him to rise from the bed and cross the room.

Your interaction at the stadium was still a blur. A rushed kiss against his lips, nose, and forehead, a whispered “I love you so much,” was all he could receive before he was moving through the line of friends and family. In the few short hours that had passed, you had showered and changed.

When he opened the door, Jude found you standing there with your travel backpack pressed against your chest.

Jude paused to take you in, grounding himself by focusing on your familiar features. It was a routine he had built over the last six months of your relationship, a way to find solace in the midst of chaos. His eyes passed over your smooth, deep brown skin, which seemed to glow softly in the dim light. He traced the contours of your face, from your cheekbones to your lips that carried a gentle, reassuring smile. The sight of it relaxed the furrow of his brow.

Your eyes, warm and filled with understanding, were his favorite feature. They held a depth of emotion and wisdom that made him feel seen and understood. Your lashes framed them perfectly, long and curled, adding to the natural beauty that always took his breath away. His gaze traveled up to the soft curls, pineappled at the top of your head, his hand instinctively reaching forward.

As he studied you, taking in every detail—his touch tracing the curve of your jaw before settling against your cheek—he felt a sense of peace wash over him.

"Hi," you greeted softly, your voice a balm to his battered spirit.

Jude managed a weak smile, the corners of his lips lifting. "Hey," he replied, his voice rough.

You stepped inside, Jude’s hand instinctively settling on your hips as the door closed.

The scent of lavender and chamomile wafted from the bag you carried, filling the room with a calming aroma. It was a scent that lingered on the sheets of each hotel room Jude stayed in, his bedroom at home, and even in his shirts and jerseys. He associated it with you, and only you—a fragrance that instantly brought relaxation and comfort. Whenever you couldn't make it to his games, Jude would find the aromatherapy tucked away in his bag, a thoughtful gesture that made him feel close to you even when apart.

“My flight leaves at 9:30 tomorrow,” you began as you unzipped the bag. Gathering what you needed, you started towards the bathroom. “So, I’ll probably leave here at 7. I’m sure traffic is going to be insane.”

Jude listened to your voice, the calm cadence soothing his frayed nerves. You didn’t expect a response; you knew him well enough to understand that after a loss, he needed time to recover. So, you verbally went through your travel plans. The turnaround was quick, but you needed to report to work. While slightly annoying, the plan was simple: report home, get back to work, and into your routine. Jude would soon follow.

As you focused on starting the bath, Jude began to look through the items you bought. His hand paused on something small and familiar, tucked beneath his favorite snacks—a stuffed lion. He picked it up, a wave of bittersweet memories washing over him. The lion had a soft, golden mane and big, friendly eyes. Stitched into the pad of its right paw was a heart. Jude remembered the day he won it for you at the Ice Palace, the way your face had lit up with joy, your smile so wide and genuine it had made his heart swell.

"My lion," you’d giggled, hugging the plush toy tightly before wrapping your arms around his neck, your laughter ringing in his ears. “I can keep him with me when you’re away.”

You paused in the bathroom doorway, watching him hold the stuffed lion. "That always makes me feel better when we're apart," you said softly, a smile finding your lips as the shared memory hung between the two of you.

You began to take out and explain the things you had brought to cheer him up—a selection of his favorite snacks, your iPad full of movies, and some comforting toiletries. "I brought these because I thought they might help you relax. And I know how much you love Shawshank Redemption. So...being the gracious, loving girlfriend I am, I will sit through it for the hundredth time. But, only if you promise to share your sour st-"

You were mid-sentence when he moved towards you, wrapping his arms around your middle from behind. For a moment, you stayed that way, the warmth of his embrace speaking louder than words. Jude buried his face in your shoulder, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears that threatened to escape.

You could feel the tremors in his body, his grip tightening as if you were his anchor in the storm of his emotions.

"It's okay," you whispered, turning to face him, the warmth of your palms against his cheeks lifting his eyes to yours. "You gave it everything you had, and that's all anyone can ask for. I'm so proud of you, Jude. You’ve come so far, and this is just a moment in your journey. It's okay to feel hurt and disappointed, but remember that you are stronger than this. Everything happens exactly when it's meant to."

Finally, the dam broke, and Jude rested against you, the tears he’d managed to keep at bay all night came pouring out. He remained pressed against you until the stress of the past few months drained his eyes dry. He allowed you to lead him to the bathroom, welcoming the warm, fragrant steam filled the room, creating a cocoon of comfort. 

He allowed you to help him undress, your movements tender and deliberate, as if you were peeling away not just his clothes but also the layers of his hurt.

"Let's get you in," you murmured softly, as his lips brushed against yours, guiding him into the tub. Jude eased himself into the warm water, letting out a deep sigh as the heat began to soothe his aching muscles and weary mind.

You stepped back to gather the other things you had brought, but Jude's hand gently traced soothing circles into your thigh as you stood by the tub. The simple touch spoke volumes, a silent plea for your presence, for you to stay close.

Jude leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he let the warmth of the bath wash over him. The exhaustion and frustration that had gripped him began to loosen, replaced by a growing sense of peace. He listened as you moved around the room, lighting a few candles and setting out the items you had brought—a fluffy towel, his favorite shampoo, and a soft robe for when he got out. 

You joined Jude in the tub, settling behind him. He welcomed the loofah against his skin, the gentle, rhythmic motion of your hands soothing his frayed nerves. You massaged his shoulders, careful with the one that had been previously injured, as he rested back against you. His hand found its place on his leg, grounding him as he watched the movie playing on the tablet propped nearby.

Your touch worked magic, and you could feel his body gradually relaxing. The tension that had coiled within him slowly unwound, and he seemed to be coming back to himself. The voice in his head, the one that echoed with doubt and personal criticism, grew quieter with each passing moment. Each gentle kiss you pressed against his skin, each laugh you shared from the film, chipped away at the walls of his frustration.

By the time most of the bubbles had dissipated, Jude was completely relaxed. His gratefulness showed in the way he gently squeezed your thigh and the soft kisses he brushed against your knuckles. The warmth of the water, combined with your presence, created a cocoon of comfort and safety. 

He tilted his head back slightly, letting it rest against your shoulder, eyes half-closed in contentment. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, fingers tracing small circles on his chest. "You don’t have to," you replied softly. "I’m here, always."

Jude sighed, a deep, contented breath that seemed to release the last of his lingering tension. He turned his head slightly to kiss your forehead, a silent thank you for being his anchor in the storm. The doubts that had plagued him earlier were now a distant memory.

The kiss he left against your lips was soft, almost sloppy. The physical and mental strain he's been under from Real Madrid and the Euros suddenly registering. His body begging for sleep.

"Let's get you outta here," you giggled. "I don't think I can carry you to bed if you fall asleep."

You press against the corner of his mouth, the action stopping the closing of his heavy eyelids. "Come on, Jude."

"Mmm...hold up..." Jude mumbled, eyes drifting shut as your lips brushed against his. Brow arching, his smirk prompting your eyes to roll. "...I'm not even tired."

"Uh-huh," stifling your giggle, you watch as Jude nods. His heavy eyes blinking before dropping down to your smile.

"'m not," he mumbled, his kiss missing your lips and settling on your chin.

A series of soft and light kiss lingered against your jaw, drifting to your shoulder. As much as he tried to fight off the comfortable sleeping tugging at him, Jude couldn't resist. By the time he reached your lips, a tired and goofy smile stretched across Jude's lips.

"Alright," he relented. "Let's go, but we gonna finish this in the morning."

"I'm sure we will," you smiled.

You place a final kiss against his lips. The brushing of your nose against his pulling out the smile that left you the victim of constant butterflies and euphoria. Before Jude knew it, the words slipped out.

"I love you," he murmured, the words hanging in the air between you like a delicate promise. "Thanks for this."

The words halted your movement of slipping from beneath him, your eyes widening slightly in surprise. It was the first time he had said it aloud. You had never pressured him for those words, knowing that he showed his love in countless other ways. Just as you did for him.

"I love you too, Jude," you replied as his lips found your forehead.

Letting his lips pass over your nose, Jude pushed himself.

[angels-sins0]

Ghost x f!reader

Cw: back at it again smut, emotionally unavailable Simon, rough sex, age gap relationship (Simon is depicted in his late 30’s and the reader is around 21), older man!Ghost, young & naive!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, hurt/no comfort, angst, no happy ending, Simon Riley is a fucking asshole.

You’ve been in your bed for the past week, the only thing going through your mind was the last time you were with Simon. You felt so stupid the more you replayed your actions in your head.

He tried calling you three times, but you knew it wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. He wasn’t calling to apologize or to see how you were doing. He was calling because he needed you to be his own personal whore for a few hours.

You wondered why he treated you like you were the scum of the earth. It was so unfair. You were a relatively nice girl, you let him use you however he pleased. You gave him everything he asked for and more. So why? Why the hell was he such an asshole to you? Why was he so—

A knock at your door shook you out of your thoughts.

You got up and opened the door.

“Simon?”

“Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” He asked, his voice laced with anger.

“I wasn’t feeling well.” You said while moving your body away from the door so he could come in.

“Do you feel better now?” Simon glanced over your body.

“I don’t know…I guess?” You leaned against the closed door as he walked towards you.

Your breathing got heavier when his hand reached up to caress your cheek. He looked at your eyes then your lips.

“Why are you here, Simon?” You didn’t mean for it to sound rude but you wished your words were more hurtful because he clearly didn’t care.

He sighed then said “Had a long week at work. Needed to blow off some steam.”

“Oh…”

Without another word, Simon pulled up his mask just enough so that it rested on his nose, and went in to kiss you.

You moaned as he forced his tongue into your mouth. You hated the effect that he had on you, hated that no matter what he did, your body still welcomed him with open arms.

“Ghost-“ He started kissing his way down to your neck, and you wrapped your hands around both his big arms.

“Simon.” He corrected you, before lifting you up, and moving you to your bedroom.

He laid you down on the bed, then pulled back to take off his shirt, and unbuckle his belt.

You whimpered when he got on top of you and started undressing you, making quick work of your shorts and underwear.

You both let out a moan when he finally slid in, filling you up to the brim, and laying still for a few moments before you started squirming.

“Start—mmh—moving…please.” And he did exactly that, moving at a medium pace.

You bucked your hips to meet his thrusts but he held them down. “Stop.” He demanded.

Simon moved one of his hands to tuck a few loose pieces of your hair behind your ear.

He was pounding into you so hard that you physically couldn’t keep your eyes open, turning your head to the side so you couldn’t feel his gaze lingering on you.

“Open your eyes.” He firmly grabbed your face and prevented you from looking away.

You stared into each other’s eyes and he seemed to be almost enjoying it, enjoying the way your face contorted in pleasure.

“Simon! I’m gonna—oh fuck!” You screamed and he couldn’t help but smirk.

You cried out his name as you came, you felt like you were on cloud nine and he kept fucking you through your orgasm.

Simon thrusted into you a couple more times before he came inside you.

You were exhausted at this point and you could tell he felt the same by the way he collapsed on the bed next to you.

It was silent for a few minutes before you found yourself leaning towards him and wrapping an arm around him.

You gave his shoulder a quick kiss which seemed to be the breaking point for him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Simon angrily asked after he got up from your bed.

“I-I thought we had a good time tonight…you know? You weren’t like your usual self and i thought maybe-“

“That i was what? Falling in love with you or some shit?”

“I didn’t say that. I just wanted to-“

“Get it through your fucking head. I don’t feel that way about you!” He shouted at you while grabbing his pants and putting them on.

You felt an immense amount of hurt rush through you but you still couldn’t find it in you to be angry at him.

“Fucking hell…if I knew this is how you would get, I never would’ve thought about touching you.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m not that fucking crazy about you either.” Simon said before storming out of your apartment.

You fell back on the bed and that’s when all the tears you were holding back started pouring out.

You felt like your entire world came crashing down on you. It’s not like you expected him to be head over heels for you but you also didn’t think he would be such an asshole when it came to your feelings.

You didn’t sleep that night. How the hell could you when all you could think about was him?

For the next few days you couldn’t bring yourself to eat, sleep, or do anything except lay in your bed.

You hated knowing that he wasn’t bothered by this like you were.

[amuseoffyre]

I’m emotionally ruined by the fact that Aziraphale hasn’t broken out of his heavenly conditioning. He still loves doing good. He gets happy when people tell him he’s an angel and says “it’s nice to tell people about the good things you’ve done now that I’m not reporting to Heaven”. He will literally put himself in harm’s way to make sure he does the Good and Right thing.

It can’t be understated how much Heaven’s influence still impacts on him. Aziraphale has been created, ordained and conditioned to believe it and he can’t just switch it off or walk away. Crowley didn’t get the choice. He was Fallen. He was kicked out and - as per the rules of toxic and terrifying cults - Aziraphale was always told for centuries and millennia, Falling was the worst thing that could happen. If you’re bad, you’ll be forced out. If you’re bad, you’re not one of Us. You’re one of Them.

When he did something he perceived as Right (ie. saving innocent children from death), but knew it wasn’t what Heaven intended, he broke down. Crowley found him a crying, shaking wreck afterwards because he was so convinced he was Evil. He was so convinced he was going to be dragged to Hell and that he was now a demon because he did one thing that saved some children but because it wasn’t a specific directive, it was Bad.

It shapes so much about him and it’s why the whole series looks like he’s having so much fun doing silly human things, but there’s this brittleness to it. He’s happy and excited and he’s doing his human-life things and having a lovely time, but he’s also constantly stressed because of the Need To Do Good. From the moment Gabriel turns up, he’s a nervous wreck and is trying to hide it by Doing Good, by Solving the Problem, by Fixing Things, by being so active and reactive rather than letting himself think about it. It’s a sign of exactly how frantic he is that he starts giving away his books and letting humans touch them.

Watch his face when the Archangels show up unexpectedly: that isn’t joy. That’s blind terror. He’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing in Heaven’s eyes, even though he made the active choice to do so because it was the Right thing to do. He’s a Guardian and he will protect, but he is so very afraid of the repercussions, even now. 

At the end of S1, Crowley said “they’re gearing up for the big one” so Aziraphale’s not oblivious. He knows a big one is coming. He knows something worse than the Antichrist will be on its way. And he’s trying so hard to pretend that everything is normal and fine and if he ignores all the looming bad stuff, it won’t happen. If we don’t say anything about it, nothing has to change.

But then the changes come knocking at his door holding a box and the choice is gone. He can keep trying to blinker himself to it, but then there are angels and demons in the bookshop and he’s had to use his halo and everything is falling apart.

So when he realises that he can get himself into a position where he can guarantee those repercussions won’t happen to Crowley? He will absolutely take it. He says himself “I don’t want to go back to Heaven”, but the instant the Metatron offers him a free pass for Crowley, to take Crowley out of both Heaven and Hell’s sightlines, to keep him safe (Another bee inside the hive, if you will), no wonder he grabs it with both hands.

The tragedy is that Crowley thinks that when they saved the world together, that was the end of Heaven’s influence in Aziraphale. When he was cast out the split between him and Heaven was sharp and clean. He doesn’t - he can’t - understand how deeply it has tangled around Aziraphale. It’s built into Aziraphale’s entire being and unravelling it isn’t that simple. Aziraphale’s trauma is a horrible, terrible Gordian knot and Crowley can’t understand that he couldn’t simply cut through it, because that’s just not how Aziraphale works.

[suguru-getos]

| Bully! Gojo Satoru x F!Reader | Part 7 |

Summary: You had just transferred schools, and your first day was an encounter with your new bully. He’s mean, terrifically hot & absolutely a menace. Though there’s more to that personna. Perhaps an emotionally stunted softie who can’t communicate after used to being worshipped by everyone?

Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: With the School festival coming right up the corner, your class choosing the Maid Cafe and you dressing up as a Maid. Satoru has to pull a few strings of his own. He may not be your bully anymore, he still is a spoiled boy who wants what he wants.

Between the haze of studies, and the workload because of the festival preparation, two weeks had passed. Satoru? Yeah, Satoru has gone more and more normal you'd say. He doesn't bother you apart from the occasional greetings. Sometimes he would smile and wink at you during the cafeteria where you settle with your friends; they are enamoured by the snow-haired king of school. Both the best friends, Satoru and Suguru are so sought out, you are worried it would end up in you getting into trouble because of it. Satoru is hell-bent on giving you the attention you don't need. You don't wish him good morning upfront when you accidentally catch him in the corridors, he does. Never failing it even once. The people who hang out with you have started to taunt you because of it.

"If it was up to me, I would have also spilled my lunch on his shirt. Maybe then he would notice me like he does, you, Y/N." Your eyes roll back a total of 360 degrees. This, this very behaviour was the reason Satoru was able to humiliate you so many times. The reminders aren't needed. The brutal reminders of you wishing you had no school, of you wishing that maybe he would have a change of heart and leave you alone. All because you said he collided against you purposely. Insufferable, Satoru Gojo was truly insufferable.

The cafeteria was echoing with the whispers, laughs, and discussions of your classmates and seniors alike. This was supposed to be festive time of course. Everyone was busy with something. As for you, this was your break. You had just finished giving your sizing for the maid costume. You hope it would look good on you at least, and you would get some memorable pictures. The thought of the School Festival commencing soon makes you giddy. You're not one of those emo loners anyway, you'd rather enjoy. "Hello Y/N san." One of your classmates diverts your attention, your gaze wanders up at him, reflexively shifting in your bench with the tray of your food so he could sit next to you. "Hello!" You chirped, watching him glance at you in a weird way, what's so weird about it? Well, Satoru looks at you the same way, as if you were a movie. You gulped, the stare was awkward. "So, what did you need?" You asked, raising an inquisitive brow. "Uh, nothing, just wanted to ask if you would participate in cooking as well? Some of the girls have been given the opportunity to dress up as maids, the others are going to be cooking." You think about it, this was pre-decided that you would be wearing a maid-costume. When the discussion happened, you were chosen pretty easily for the same.

"Hmm, I don't think I'm a great chef to be honest." You half chuckle, shrugging. The boy nods, gnawing at his lower lip. He seemed, almost nervous. As if he didn't know what to do if you didn't agree with him. "Why? What's the problem?" You asked again, trifling with your food now that your curiosity was piqued. "N-Nothing as such, it's just, you know Y/N there are going to be people from different schools, seniors- and I don't want anyone to hit on you." His cheeks are beet red when he says that. You raise a brow, you don't know how to take it. "Uh, thanks? I can take care of myself. Didn't take me much time to knock a shitty senior out in this very cafeteria?" You lean back, observing his face. He was looking more and more nervous by the passing minute. What is going on? "You know, I appreciate whatever you thought about me, but I can handle myself and take care of myself. Anything else?" You asked politely, unsure why you are being talked-to like you're a damsel in distress who wouldn't be able to take care of herself from hormone raging teens. "Sorry." He pouted, looking down. "I know it must sound like I am trying to control you - but you should remember I only want what's best for you." You want to puke, you barely know the dude. "Do you have a crush on me?" You cut to the chase, this was getting redundant/ "Who? ME?!" He exclaimed, leaning back, stuttering, "N-No of course- I mean, no- not like- Y/N you are pretty." "Thank you, I'm assuming you do have a crush on me?" He shakes his head no, timid again. "I don't want to die by the hands of Gojo san if I become brave and do agree."

Ah, there it is. Gojo San coming and looming in all over you again. "I understand, so you mean he likes me and he doesn't want anyone else to like me else he'll beat their ass?" The boy looked conflicted, should he? Really tell about all that? He wonders about the pros and cons - beaten up by Gojo to a pulp versus being your friend.

"Y/N, please don't discuss this with him." He begs, eyes pleading submissively. You roll your eyes and sighed, fine - you will keep your mouth shut about it. "Yeah, I promise. Won't share anything won't confront him, never heard of it." "He- uhm, ever since he knows that our class is going to do a Maid-café, he's closely supervising things with Shoko san & Geto san." "I never saw him? What do you mean? I never saw him come and check things?" You raised a brow, you were so sure his chapter was a closed one. You barely talked to him apart from having casual small-talk where you both don't ignore each other's existence. "Well, he did. Mostly timed when you were busy, he decided the menu, he interfered with the maid costumes. When everyone was against the long skirts and the full sleeves he threatened that he would have our class not participate at all. When we asked him what we could do so he could let us have some freedom to organize 'our own' activity - he mentioned he doesn't want you as a maid." A broken sigh escapes your classmate when he's done confessing.

You were.. fuming to say the least, every nerve ending pumping with boiling blood. So he is going to make everyone else suffer because he can't have you in a maid costume? "Then?" You raised a brow, this wasn't any conclusion. "Then I said I could talk to you about it, you're pretty and we hoped we would make a lot of money if you were to participate but Gojo San said he could cover the monetary side of it without any issues. Which left us with one final option, you could either opt out of being a maid, or we don't do it."

Ridiculous, fucking ridiculous.

"Why?" You snarled, what the fuck? "Well, because- as he said, he doesn't want other 'men' to look at you and create all sorts of scenarios in their head. He will have to take things on his own hands when that happens - and he wants to avoid that. I mean - avoiding beating up boys and ruin the festival." "Oh how kind, Gojo San is so kind, no?" You scoffed, sighing. Your classmates depended upon you, and you were once again caught in a clutch by Gojo Satoru. He gets what he wants doesn't he? "Tell him that I will be doing maid. Tell him to die mad about it." You got up, hearing the sound of the lunch-end bell and stomping away.

------

Gojo hasn't come back to you, it's been two days. You are sure your classmate had communicated everything to him clearly. Weird. This dude was so fucking weird. You are taut by your own promise to him though, you wouldn't talk to Gojo about it and risk the very foundation with which he trusted you. A lot has been on your mind since, if he likes you, he has no idea how to show it. Besides, doesn't even… matter if he likes you or not. You wouldn't forgive him… right? "Come on, don't be so pouty just because you're losing!" You heard his familiar voice from the basketball court. "Your glasses aren't working properly if you think I'm losing." You heard Geto remark back. Basketball, Satoru and Suguru are playing basketball. You didn't want to be a lurker but you do peek inside, watching the tall hunks play around alone. Every thud of the ball, every chuckle, every snicker and every goal sounding evidently in the echoes of the empty hall. "Peeking's no good." Satoru smirked, looking at you. You have no idea how grateful he is right now. He caught 'you' looking at him. "Sorry-" You mumbled, clearly accepting your mistake when you are at fault, unlike the fucking cafeteria incident. You were NOT at fault back then. "Whatcha lookin' for?" Satoru asked, playing with the ball and dribbling it while walking towards you. "Nothing, just got my 'final' maid costume." You answered, eyes trying their best not to glare at him when you say so. He hums, "Yeah? Gonna be a maid I hear." He cheekily grins. He heard… as if he doesn't know the bits and pieces of everything minutely already. "That's right, 'very excited' for it." You emphasize, and his eyes visibly softened, the pupils humanly dilating and a soft hum escaping him. "Mhm?" "Yeah" You grin back at him, unsure how to continue the conversation further.

Satoru was, dying. He didn't want to become what he was when you two met, and the way you said you were excited about it, he doesn't want to rip that all off because of his own spoiled wishes. It's a complex web of thoughts. On one moment Satoru wants to claim you as his; no one is even allowed to think about you wrongly. Keep you enclosed with him, marry you even? Breed you so you know you're his. Make babies so he gets a perfect blend of you and him. The other bit of him, wants to let you live so he can hopefully become a safe space for you. Help you trust him which he has ruined, show off the person he likes- loves- he doesn't know whether it's like or love yet.

"Well, I'll see you around." You distract him from his thoughts instantly. His lips part and brows furrow a little in resistance, "Well- shyeah."

He glances at Suguru once you leave.  You're going to be a maid and he wouldn't be able to do 'anything' about it when that brings a smile like 'that' on your face.

[ladymarvel27]

Number 1 fangirl | Carlos Sainz

carlos sainz x reader

Description: After the baku crash

Warnings: Tears, a little angst, brief mentions of smut(not actual smut thought)

Word count: 900

f1 masterlist

Your eyes were glued to the screen, you weren’t even blinking. He was fighting for the podium and time wasn't much. You were silently praying he would get a podium. You blinked and you saw him crashing against the wall, alongside Checo. How did it happen? And when did this happen? All the weekend’s hard work went to waste in the blink of an eye. And he was in the wall. The tyres were thrashed against the barriers. It looked horrible; you were scared for his life.

Your lips were quivering and your eyes moistened. You didn’t even realise when a tear fell down your cheek. On the screen, you saw the camera focused on you. Your red and teary face made you feel embarrassed. Immediately removing your headphones and taking your stuff, you rushed to hide in his driver’s room. You couldn’t control your tears. And the garage wasn't the perfect place to let out.

Closing the door behind you, you hide your face in a chilli plushie. You cried for a few minutes then sat silently, waiting for him to return.

The door clicks open after what it felt like an eternity. But it was just half an hour. He enters the room and closes the door behind himself. “Hey,” He greets awkwardly and walks to you. “Where were you?” You asked, your eyes a little red from the crying. “Summoned by stewards,” he mocks in a ‘commentator’ voice. “They are going to penalise you for Singapore, aren’t they?” You ask. “I hope not,” he replies and wraps his arms around you. You buried yourself into his arms. “Were you crying?” You lift your face and look at him. “Who told you?” You sniffed and narrow your eyes. The memory of your teary face on the screen flashes in your mind. He chuckles. “Don’t cry, it’s just a race.” He rubs your back gently.

He pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed, resting his back against the wall. “How are you feeling?” You asked him, “That must have been one hell of a crash.” You slowly make your way to him and rest yourself against his shoulder.

“It wasn’t severe. I was severely disappointed thought,” he pulled you in his lap, “But yeah, it is what it is.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, I am hu-”

“Where?” You interrupted him and immediately grabbed his shoulders tightly.

“No, not physically,” he answers right away, trying to loosen your super tight grip, “I meant, emotionally.”

You softly said, “Oh.” You two fall silent. He slowly takes off his fireproofs and a few moments later he is sitting just in his boxers. He is breathing slowly, probably calming himself after all this adrenaline rush.

“I have to leave for media duties,” he spoke as his hand reached for the team gear. You placed a kiss on his lips. His grip loosens on his team gear as he grips your waist and pulls you closer to deepen the kiss. You grip his shoulder with one hand and your other hand goes in his hair. You felt his hand on the zip of your dress. He undoes it and the dress falls off. You fall into the bed alongside him. The next few minutes were filled with your moans of pleasure. He finally rested when you were completely drained by your climax. You catch your breath. You press your back against his chest as his arm encircles your waist. His breathing is still heavy against your ear. You shuffled and turned to bury your face in his chest. He grips around you firmly and asks, “Why were you crying?” “The crash looked horrible,” you mumbled as your eyelids were dropping after the intimate session you two just had “, I thought I lost you.”

“Oh,” he mutters and continues speaking loudly, “but hey, I am here, complete, one piece.”

Someone knocks on the door. “Carlos?” A voice spoke. “Media duties, please come quickly.”

“Okay, I am coming in a few!” Carlos answers loudly to the person at the door. He gets up from the bed. You whine from the loss of contact. “I have to leave Senorita.”

“Hmm,” you managed to speak out with all the energy left.

“You should rest here for a while, I will be back soon.” You nod, barely able to keep your eyes open.

“Sleep, Amor, sleep,” he runs a soothing hand on your back. Soon you drifted off to sleep and he left the room, closing the door behind.

You were awakened by his voice calling you, “Carino, wake up!” You get up and he helps you get dressed.

“Did you rest well?” He asked. You nod. “How was everything?” You asked.

“Yeah. It was fine.”

“So the penalty?” He smiled and shook his head. “You are more worried about it than me.”

“What can I say? I am your fan too.”

“No, not just a fan,” he leans in to whisper to you “, You are my number 1 fangirl.” He retreats leaving a confused expression on your face. “HUH?”

He unlocks his phone and shows you memes made on your teary face. You blushed in embarrassment. He scrolls past many memes and shows you a post: Petition to declare Y/n as the number 1 fangirl.

You chuckle. “It’s a good one, huh,” he commented. You nodded as a small smile made its way to your face. He places his hand on the small of your back, "Let's go back to the hotel?" You nod and get up.

Seperators credit: @saradika-graphics @saradika

Taglist: @faithshouseofchaos @itsjustvs4

[actual-changeling]

this one is thanks to a post by @thegroovyfool because she is very much correct - we do not talk about aziraphale's "i need you" enough.

so once again, with a deep breath and a sigh, welcome back to alex's unhinged meta corner, where i tear apart the confession scene frame by frame. i'm gonna say, watching this particular clip over and over and focusing on aziraphale's face almost took me out.

let's get into it.

first, how about a little look at our starting point. (any blurry screencaps are due to a LOT of movement on michael's part rip)

crowley is very pointedly facing away from him, he turned after aziraphale said "we can be together - angels!", presumably because being offered exactly what he wants in the one way he cannot have it fried his brain, cause besties it surely fried mine.

aziraphale on the other hand looks openly desperate, which is why he says "i need you." more on that later. let's have a look at how he says it, because michael "microexpressions" sheen is putting in the work.

to me, he seems close to tears, his eyes are glistening in that specific "i'm about to cry my eyes out" way i know from looking in the mirror while crying

he is trying to get crowley to listen to him and to turn around. he wants crowley to face him, which is something most people tend to want during an argument. talking to someone who is not looking at you tends to make someone frustrated and like they're not hearing you/do not care about what you have to say.

aziraphale looks close to despair, his i need you is a plea to crowley to come with him. he is opening himself up not just emotionally but physically, too.

he slightly leans forward, his arms are raised and seem to both slightly grasp for crowley and point towards his chest/heart for emphasis. the pure pain visible on his face knocks the air out of me every single time i look at it.

aziraphale is admitting to needing him, something he has never done before, hell, he has told him the exact opposite on numerous occasions. i don't need you. and while they both knew it was a) a lie and b) a way for him to deal with his conflicting emotional standpoints and cognitive dissonance, it still hurt crowley every. single time.

crowley was there for him no matter what, he knows aziraphale needs him but he came back and remained at his side even when he was pushed away and more or less openly insulted. he endured it all.

aziraphale saying i need you now is pretty much a slap in the face but also what crowley needs to hear. as with everything that happens during the entire conversation, the timing is fucked up and they're talking past each other.

in my opinion, that is why crowley does not react.

only when aziraphale turns spiteful and starts questioning his understanding (aka calling him stupid without outright saying it) does he re-enter the conversation.

aziraphale, however, is upset. now, i will put on my tinhat for just a second and turn up the insanity because there are two more things i want to talk about.

first, the little stutter at the beginning.

"i ngk - i need you."

my question is - why? why does he stumble over these words in particular when it does not happen with any other sentence? the only other time is right after crowley walks away with his "good luck", he stumbles over crowley's name.

so, in short, it happens when he is either caught off-guard or saying something incredible emotional.

and this, everyone, is where i go unhinged in my interpretation.

what if he initially did not want to say "i need you?" what if he was so caught up in getting crowley to stay/come with him that he did not think and almost confessed another three word sentence?

what if he was about to say "i love you" but stopped himself because no, that's too direct, they don't do that, they can't do that. it goes against EVERYTHING they have silently build over the last six thousand years. so he chokes on it. he chokes on it and instead he says "i need you" because it means the same thing.

i need you. don't leave me. come with me. be an us. go off together.

i forgive you. i love you.

they say it over and over again because that's the only way they can say it.

that is why aziraphale is so angry and upset after saying it. he told crowley he loves him, he needs him, and all he got in return was silence.

the funny part is that this code may have worked before, but it no longer does. crowley is too hurt to listen to what aziraphale is trying to tell him, and aziraphale is equally as hurt and also not listening anymore.

the funny part is that it stopped being about love and started being about sides again. my side, your side, our side. choose a side, choose our side, choose me.

the funny part is that beelzebub and gabriel told them what they need to do, i found something that mattered more to me than choosing sides.

[alwaysmicado]

Nightcall

10.4k | 18+ MDNI | Marc Spector x f!reader

Moon Knight Masterlist | AO3

Warnings: angst, smut, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, biting, rough & emotionally intense sex, multiple orgasms, possessive!Marc, choking, spitting, creampie, toxic dynamic Summary: Marc is a bad habit you can’t shake. A/N: This idea has been haunting my dreams like Marc has been haunting reader’s. And just like reader, I couldn’t resist the allure of this elusive, rugged, and devastatingly addictive man. Could you? Happy reading (even though it hurts) and let me know what you think! *Marc lifts & flips you with ease (he’s MK, duh). Dividers by @/cafekitsune.

One year. 

It’s been one year since you’ve last seen him. 

One whole year of wondering where he is, if he’s left for good this time, if he’s even still alive. 

You’ve tried to fill the void in your heart, started smoking again, gave the nice guy from the coffee shop down the block a chance. He’s kind to you, makes you laugh, brings you flowers, and you think you could grow to love him.

You’re trying. 

You’re trying so hard. 

To forget, to forgive, to heal, to live. 

And now he’s back. In your life, standing at your door at 1 a.m.

Marc Spector.

The bane of your existence.

You were lounging on your couch in your pajamas mere moments ago, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows on the walls, when a knock at the door shattered the peace you’d begun to find. Your heart stopped, your head jerking towards the door.

It couldn’t be.

You heard his voice, rough and familiar, sending a jolt through your entire being.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice muffled but unmistakable.

You stood, your legs trembling, walking closer to the door in a trance, bare feet on the wooden floor, your hand hovering over the doorknob. You didn’t answer, but you couldn’t tear yourself away.

He was alive. He came back.

Marc came back to you.

What now?

Taking a deep breath, you look through the peephole, and your heart flutters when you see his face. He looks as handsome as ever, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his t-shirt, dark curls hidden under a baseball cap, beard stubble a little grayer than the last time you’ve seen him.

But there’s a weariness in his eyes, a deep exhaustion that pulls at your heartstrings.

He’s tired.

You know he is.

He’s told you in the rare moments he’d let you in, your sweat-covered bodies tangled in your bed, his fingers brushing over your cheek.

You’d see a spark of something in his warm eyes then. Something akin to sadness, longing, regret. But it would disappear after a few seconds, and he’d harden again, turning around to gather his clothes, telling you he needed to go.

You’d find new scars on his body every time he came to see you. He’d show up with barely scabbed-over cuts, a black eye, a dislocated shoulder, a split lip. And you’d patch him up, kissing it all better.

You stopped asking how he got his injuries some time ago. He’d always give you the same answer anyway.

“Just a scratch, baby. Nothing to worry your pretty head about.”

Whatever it is that keeps him going, it has more power over him than you ever will.

Tears blur your vision, and you slide down the door, sitting with your back against it. You want to stay strong, to remember the pain he’s caused you, but his words cut through your resolve like a knife.

“Come on, let me in. I came all this way to see you.”

It feels like he’s been out there for hours, but you know it can’t have been more than two minutes. Why is this happening?

“Let me in, Sunshine. Please.” 

You blink back tears, shaking your head even though he can’t see you, your hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into your palms.

Every time.

Every time, he rips open the wounds he inflicted on you, and you know this time won’t be any different. You want to resist him, want to tell him to go to hell, that he can’t keep doing this to you, that you’ve finally had enough.

But you can’t do it, can you?

Resist Marc.

You both know you can’t. And deep down, under all the bullshit you like to tell yourself, under all the anger, under all the resentment, you know you don’t want to.

You never did. 

Going for a smoke outside the bar, goosebumps forming on your bare arms as the wind blew and the rain fell, your feet sore from being caged in high heels for hours, the only thing you wanted was a minute of quiet, a minute where you didn’t have to smile or act like you were having fun.

You were tired—tired of the noise, tired of the people, tired of the pretense.

All you wanted was a moment of peace.

“Shit,” you muttered, staring at your lighter in disbelief as it refused to spark, tears of sheer frustration pricking the corners of your eyes. Leaning against the cool brick wall, you let your head fall back, eyes closed, trying to shut out the world.

How did it get like this? How did you get like this? 

Deep down, you know you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. The problem is you. Not the world, not your parents, not the shitty things that have happened to you. It’s you. It’s always been you.

“Need a light?” a voice cut through the rain, smooth and unexpected. 

You opened your eyes slightly, just enough to see a stranger standing a few feet away. “Yeah, mine apparently hates me,” you replied, lifting the offending object.

The man chuckled, a warm sound that contrasted with the cold night. “Here,” he said, stepping closer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, his smirk stirring something inside you. “I got you, Sunshine.”

He pulled out a sleek silver lighter, flicking it open with practiced ease, producing a small, steady flame. You put your cigarette between your lips, leaning in to catch the light. His eyes never left yours, a connection forming in that brief moment. He then lit his own cigarette, taking a drag.

The first inhale of nicotine calmed your nerves slightly, a welcome distraction from the chaos inside your mind. “Thanks,” you muttered, leaning back against the wall and savoring the moment of quiet.

“No problem,” he nodded, staring into the surrounding darkness.

He was closer now, leaning against the wall next to you, his presence oddly comforting. 

“Rough night?”

“You could say that.” You let out a dry laugh, glancing at him. He was handsome in a rugged way—dark curls, full lips, broad chest, with a confident air that was alluring. “What about you?”

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Rough night.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the gentle curve of his nose and the laugh lines in the outer corner of his eyes. You also noticed his split knuckles in the neon glow of the party lights hanging above.

“I guess we’re both running from something,” you said softly, taking another drag of your cigarette.

“Is that so?” He smiled at you with a raised eyebrow and you smiled back. “I’m Marc, by the way.” 

You gave him your name and shook his hand, feeling a strange jolt at the contact. “Nice to meet you, Marc. Thanks for the light.”

“Anytime,” he said, his expression turning pensive.

You both smoked in silence for a while, the rain a soothing backdrop to your thoughts.

When your cigarettes were nearly finished, Marc turned towards you, his movements smooth and deliberate. He leaned in, his hand bracing against the wall next to your head, bringing his face and body close to yours, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, his eyes dropping from your eyes to your lips with unmistakable intent. 

You hesitated for a second, brow furrowed, thoughts swirling. The rain fell around you in a soft patter. You searched his eyes and found something, something that promised a temporary escape from your hollow existence.

You didn’t have anything to lose.

“Yeah,” you said, putting out your cigarette with your shoe.

You ended the night with him on top of you, in your bed, all your troubles wiped away for a couple of hours. His hands roamed your body with a hunger that matched your own, and for the first time in a long while, you felt alive. 

You thought it was just a one-night stand since he left as soon as you both came down, and you fell asleep, spent and satisfied.

Until he showed up at your door late at night, two weeks later.

There he was, standing in the hallway with that same charming smile, holding up a pack of cigarettes and his silver lighter. “Mind if I come in?” he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s how it all started. This…thing you have going on.

“I missed you,” he’d whisper in your ear, his voice rough with longing as he was buried deep inside of you. “My beautiful girl.”

Those words would wrap around your heart, suffusing you with a warmth that felt like everything you had ever wanted. In those fleeting moments, it was as if all the pain and uncertainty melted away, leaving only the intoxicating sensation of being cherished, if only for a little while. But then, like always, he would leave, and the cold reality would set in.

He would tell you he couldn’t stay, but not why. His eyes would darken with unspoken burdens, and he’d brush a kiss against your forehead, promising he’d be back.

Yet, he never told you it was for your safety. He never mentioned the shadows that lurked around him, the dangers he faced on a daily basis. He didn’t tell you about the battles he fought, tooth and nail, just to carve out a few hours to be with you.

He didn’t tell you any of this, and after some time, you stopped asking. The questions died on your lips, replaced by a resigned acceptance. You accepted that you’d never be more to Marc than a brief escape, a distraction from whatever demons haunted him.

Well, your brain did.

But not your heart.

Your heart clung to every whispered endearment, every stolen touch, every heated kiss that promised more than he could ever give. Your heart held onto the belief that maybe, just maybe, one day he’d stay. That one day, this torturous cycle of brief encounters and long absences would end.

You’d lie in bed after he left, the sheets still warm from his presence, his scent lingering in the air. You’d replay the moments in your mind, his whispered words, the way he looked at you as if you were his salvation. You’d clutch your pillow, trying to hold onto the ghost of his touch, knowing that come morning, the loneliness would creep back in.

Every time he returned, it was like a balm to your wounded soul. He’d pull you into his arms, his kiss desperate, as if he was drowning and you were his only breath of air. 

And for those precious hours, you’d let yourself believe that you were his beautiful girl, his light in a world filled with darkness, that he needed you as much as you needed him.

He’d leave again, the door closing softly behind him, and you’d be left alone. You’d tell yourself that it was enough, that these stolen moments were worth the heartache. 

But deep down, you knew it wasn’t. 

You always knew that your heart was breaking a little more each time he walked away. 

And you know now that any resolve you’ve built up over the past year will crumble the second you open the door and look into his eyes.

It’s always the same.

No matter how sick and tired you are of his careless behavior, no matter how many times he chews you up and spits you out, no matter how many nights you spend crying over him, mourning him, cursing him, self-hatred wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.

You let him in. You let him do this to you. 

Because you love him. Because you’re a fool.

Slowly, reluctantly, you stand, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears. You sigh deeply, and before you can stop yourself, your hand turns the knob, opening the door just a crack.

Marc pushes the door open wider, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment, and before you realize what’s happening, his cap is on the floor and his lips are on yours. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close as he kicks the door shut behind him. He spins you around, pressing you against the wall with a desperate need that makes you dizzy.

“I missed you, Sunshine,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands roaming your body.

“Don’t call me that,” you protest, your palms pressed against his pecs.

He smiles. “But it’s who you are. My Sunshine.”

“I’m not your anything, Marc,” you hiss, trying to push him away. He doesn’t budge. “I’m a warm body for you to fuck. That’s it.”

“That’s not all you are to me,” he says without missing a beat, brows furrowed, thumb brushing over your lower lip with a maddening gentleness. “Why so hostile, Sunshine? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

There it is. That damn look. Concern, care, and hunger, all mingling in his eyes, breaking down your defenses bit by bit.

“Are you fucking kidding, Marc?” you snap, snatching his wrist to stop him from touching you. “You–you were gone for a year. No goodbye, no message, no nothing.”

His gaze doesn’t waver as he cups your face with both hands, and despite yourself, you let go of his wrist.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” The warmth in his eyes and the soft smile on his lips make you want to throw up. You turn your head, your chest heaving.

He gently but firmly pushes your head back, his hands still cradling your face, forcing you to meet his gaze once more. His grip is firm but not painful, a reminder of his strength and control—the same strength that has always thrilled you.

“Hey,” he says softly, his eyes boring into yours, pleading. “I’m here now.”

You’re stunned, frozen in place like a deer in headlights, about to be run over.

It’s too late for you.

All you see is him, the man who has torn your heart to pieces and yet somehow still holds it in his hands.

The world narrows to the space between you, and the chaos of your mind falls silent. You’re ready to die in this moment if it means feeling his touch again.

You give an almost imperceptible nod, a surrender, and his lips are on yours instantly.

The kiss is desperate, a clash of lust and guilt, his mouth moving against yours with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. His hands move down your sides to your waist, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear the distance between you for even a second longer.

You moan into his mouth, your body responding to his touch despite your mind’s protests. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him even closer, needing to feel every inch of him against you. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of smoke and mint, and it floods your senses, drowning out the pain, the questions, the doubts.

Marc’s hands urgently explore the contours of your back, pressing you against him, reveling in your scent. You can feel the hard lines of his body, the heat of his skin, and it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. Your back hits the wall again, and he pins you there, his mouth leaving yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

One hand finds your breast, groping it for a moment, palm rubbing against your hard nipple, his touch needy and rough. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, his name escaping your lips in a broken whisper. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Impatient, his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants, yanking them down along with your panties with practiced ease. You step out of them, exposed, his leg pressing against your core.

You can’t help but buck your hips against him, your body moving on its own accord, driven by pent-up desire and anger. Your hands fist his shirt, gripping the fabric tightly as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. His hands are on your ass, kneading your flesh with possessive urgency, each squeeze sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

Marc’s mouth is everywhere, hot and insistent, licking a slow, deliberate stripe from behind your ear down your neck. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching. He sucks and nips at your skin, frenzied and desperate, leaving a trail of bruises that mark you as his, each one a bittersweet reminder of the fleeting connection you share.

The contrast between the roughness of his hands and the wet heat of his mouth drives you wild, every touch igniting a fire inside you that you can’t control.

“Marc,” you moan, your voice a mix of frustration and need. Your nails dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him on. He responds with a growl, his teeth grazing your neck before biting down, the sharp pain making you gasp.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire. His hands grip your ass harder, lifting your leg slightly so he can grind against you, his hardness pressing against your core, sending waves of pleasure through you.

You throw your head back, giving him better access to your neck as he continues to lick, suck, and bite with abandon, each mark he leaves on your skin feeling like a brand, a claim that you both know will fade but never truly disappear.

“More,” you whisper, your breathing shallow. “Please, I need more.” You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand down his hard torso, rubbing his bulge over the rough fabric of his jeans.

Marc groans and pulls back just enough to look into your glazed-over eyes, his own filled with lust and something deeper, something that makes your heart ache. “I’ll give you everything, baby,” he promises, his hands moving to cup your face as he kisses you again, his lips searing and demanding.

You can feel the truth in his words, even if only for this moment, and you let yourself believe it. 

He bites your bottom lip and pulls back with a growl, dropping to his knees, spreading your thighs and pressing his mouth to your core. Your brain takes a few seconds to catch up with what’s happening, your mind foggy, your heart racing.

“Marc, wait,” you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair as his tongue flicks out, teasing your aching clit. “I haven’t—oh fuck—I haven’t showered.”

“I don’t care,” he murmurs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin.

The sensation is overwhelming, his tongue lapping at your folds with a hunger that makes your knees weak. You gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. He groans in response, reveling in the scent and wetness you’re spreading all over his face, cursing under his breath as his cock strains against the inside of his jeans.

His hands tighten their grip on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you steady as his tongue and lips work with practiced precision to make you lose control.

Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a dull thud, but you barely notice. Every flick of his tongue, every suck on your clit sends waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, fingernails scraping his scalp.

“Marc,” you moan, your voice a mix of desperation and bliss, your body trembling under this relentless, sweet torture. “Oh fuck, Marc.”

Hearing you moan his name is like gasoline on a fire, fueling his desire.

“God, you taste so good,” he pants against your skin, his voice filled with raw need, drunk with lust. “Always so fucking perfect.”

Your body trembles as he hums against you, his tongue alternating between slow, teasing licks and fast, desperate flicks before sucking on your swollen clit again.

You can feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each passing second.

“Please,” you beg, your voice a shaky whisper. “I need you inside me.”

He responds without hesitation, his tongue plunging into your wet heat, tasting you, drinking you, fucking you with ruthless intensity. You cry out, your back arching off the wall as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. He replaces his tongue with his middle and ring fingers, sliding them inside you, curling them just right, hitting that perfect spot. His mouth devours you simultaneously, desperately, like a man starved.

Your hips buck harder, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he finger-fucks you in rhythm with his licks. The dual assault of his tongue and fingers is overwhelming, pushing you ever closer to the edge.

Your nails rake across his scalp, and he groans against you, the vibrations sending ripples of ecstasy through your core.

You can barely form a coherent thought, your mind hazy as you can’t hold back the moans escaping your lips. Marc starts sucking on your clit with renewed vigor, the sensation sending you spiraling. You’re on the brink, the tension inside you coiled so tightly it’s about to snap.

The wet sounds of your pussy fill the air, blending with the rhythmic beat of your heart pounding in your chest. He can feel your body tensing, the telltale signs of your impending climax, and it drives him wild.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Fuck, I’m gonna–”

You don’t get to finish the sentence before you shatter into a million pieces, every nerve ending ablaze with euphoric release. Marc doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, holding onto your hip, continuing to lap at you and move his fingers, drawing out every last tremor until you’re left trembling and spent.

For a brief, blissful moment, you feel pure, unadulterated happiness, your fingers absentmindedly running through Marc’s hair. But as reality slowly sets back in, your living room coming back into view, Marc’s mouth on your core starting to become uncomfortable, the weight of what just happened begins to dawn on you. Your eyes meet his, and you feel it all crashing down on you—confusion, heartache, regret.

Marc finally pulls back, his face and fingers glistening with your arousal, a satisfied, almost smug grin on his lips.

He stands, his hands finding your cheeks as he presses his wet lips against yours, sliding his tongue inside. You close your eyes and wrap your arms around his waist, tasting yourself on his lips, your body buzzing with the aftermath of your orgasm.

“You miss me?” he whispers against your lips before pulling back enough to look into your wide eyes. The warmth of his breath mingles with yours, and his gaze is filled with an intensity that makes your heart clench painfully.

The casualness of his question tears at you, as if you had seen each other just yesterday, as if he hadn’t just given you an earth-shattering orgasm after crushing your heart with his bare hands.

And all after you swore to yourself you’d never let him do this again.

You want to hate him, you really do. But how could you? He came back from the dead to see you. You know he needs you right now, so how could you deny him?

You nod, feeling tears well up in your eyes, swallowing heavily. “Always,” you whisper, your voice breaking with emotion.

A smile spreads across Marc’s lips, his eyes softening for a moment, and he captures your lips in a deep, fervent kiss again, as if trying to convey everything he can’t put into words. Then, with a gentle but firm grip, he lifts you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You cling to him, head buried in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as he carries you towards your bedroom.

He clocks the bouquet of pink roses on your dining room table, notices the little card standing next to the vase. There’s a strawberry drawn on the front, but it’s too dark for him to read what he just assumes to be a lame pun about loving you ‘berry’ much. 

How cute.

Marc lays you down on the bed, his body pressed against yours, trailing kisses down your neck. You wrap your legs around his waist again, rubbing yourself against his bulge, impatient, hands tangled in his curls.

“Not yet, baby,” he whispers in your ear, nibbling on your earlobe, reveling in the needy noises you make, how you squirm under him, trying to get him to move and give you what you want.

He will. But first, he wants to look at you—at your beautiful body, every inch of your skin.

He gets off the bed and you scoot back, fluffing up your pillows and leaning against them with your back. You watch as Marc turns on the bedside lamp and removes his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his muscles and the scars that tell the story of battles you’re clueless about. He kicks off his shoes, his eyes never leaving yours. When he unbuckles his belt, ready to pull his pants down and fuck you already, his eyes drop down to your wet pussy, and he decides differently.

“Take off your shirt and show me how you played with yourself while I was away.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you pull your shirt over your head, your skin prickling with anticipation. You feel exposed, vulnerable, but the look in Marc’s eyes makes you feel desired, wanted. You spread your legs wide and slide your hand down your body, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. Your other hand moves to your breast, teasing your nipple, and you let out a soft moan, your eyes locked on Marc.

His gaze darkens with lust as he watches you, jeans on the floor, spitting in his hand, wrapping it around his cock, stroking himself slowly. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need. “Keep going.”

God, how much he wants to bury himself deep inside of you, to feel your warm, wet pussy pulsing around his cock, to fuck all his frustrations into you, to hear your sweet moans, to feel your soft skin pressed against his.

It’s all he wants.

All he can think about when he’s away from you. All he needs in nights like this. 

You increase the pace of your fingers, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pleasure builds. Marc’s eyes don’t leave you for a second, his hand moving faster on his cock, mirroring the rhythm of your movements.

“You have no idea how much I missed this,” he pants. “Missed you.”

Fuelled by his poisonous words, your hips buck against your hand, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core. “Marc,” you moan, your voice a desperate plea. “I’m close.”

His eyes burn into yours as he moves swiftly, crawling onto the bed and positioning himself between your legs. He nudges your hand away and replaces it with his own, his fingers sliding inside you in one smooth motion, his thumb rubbing your clit.

“Let go, baby. Come for me.”

And with his words, you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, your pussy clamping down around his fingers, pulsating, your hands gripping the sheets. Marc watches you intently, his own breath ragged, cock throbbing so close to your dripping hole. 

The ecstatic feeling coursing through you turns into uncomfortable overstimulation quickly, so you grab his wrist, and he withdraws his fingers, giving you a moment to come down. 

You look so fucking gorgeous like this. Eyes glazed over, looking at him like he’s all you see, like he’s all you need. But as Marc holds your gaze, your chest rising and falling, he also sees something else in your big, beautiful eyes. 

Sadness. 

It’s a deep sadness he knows he’s responsible for—a sadness that cuts through the layers of detachment, apathy, and composure he’s built up to survive the trials in his life. Despite everything, there remains a gentle, tender part hidden deep inside him. A part that makes him vulnerable, scared, and like he could be the man you need…if only things were different.

“My Sunshine,” he says softly, his knuckles brushing over your hot cheek. The tenderness in his touch contrasts sharply with the storm of emotions inside him. He leans over you, and the kiss he presses on your lips is soft, oh so soft. 

It’s intense. Intense and unexpected.

It’s easier to push aside your feelings when he’s rough with you. It’s easier to tell yourself you’re just two lonely people fucking to feel a little less lonely if all you can focus on is your body.

But then he pulls shit like this and it gives you hope that you might mean something to him. And after years of asking yourself if he’s just an asshole who gets off on playing mind games, or if he doesn’t care enough to realize what he’s doing is killing you, you’re not sure you want to know the answer.

Marc pulls you out of your thoughts when he releases your lips and pulls back slightly, his eyes darkening with a different kind of intensity as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. 

“Open your mouth.”

You obey, parting your lips, your breath hitching in anticipation. Marc lets a strand of spit drop into your mouth, slowly, deliberately, watching as it lands in the back of your throat, and you swallow it without hesitation.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, kissing and nibbling on your jaw, your neck, down to your breast, circling your nipple with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his eager mouth. 

“Marc…” you whine, looking down, threading your fingers through his disheveled hair, your heart pounding. You let yourself get lost in him, in the way he touches you, in the way he makes you feel alive. And as you do, you can’t stop the words tumbling from your lips.

“Please stay.”

Marc pauses, his mouth still on your breast, his body tensing. He releases your nipple and looks up at you, his brow furrowing at your watery eyes.

He hates to see you like this.

“You know I can’t,” he says, his calm voice betraying none of the guilt that’s clawing at his heart, making it hard for him to breathe.

But he can’t comfort you. Not now. Not when you’re supposed to be his salvation. Not when he knows it’d be a lie.

He sits back on his heels between your spread legs, his eyes never leaving yours as he pumps his painfully hard cock.

“Why?” you whisper, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Why?”

Marc leans over you, arms braced next to your head, capturing your quivering lips with his, preventing you from making him feel worse than he already does.

You moan into his mouth and he can’t wait anymore. Needs to be inside you. Needs to make it all right.

He shifts in closer, pressing his cock against you, just sliding it between your folds, up and down, letting out a raspy sigh at the friction of it. His cock gathers your wetness quickly—you’re always so fucking wet for him.

Before falling asleep on whatever cot he’d find himself on, he’d sometimes allow himself to fantasize about waking up next to you, feeling your warm body, hearing your soft breathing, sliding his hand down the front of your panties, and feeling how wet you are from dreaming about him.

His breath catches in his throat just thinking about it.

“Marc…” you plead, and he smiles to himself—it usually takes far longer for you to start begging, so it must mean you really missed him. You squirm again, hips twisting like you’re trying to get him inside you, and he watches you intently, soaking up every little expression, every little moan, every little plea.

“What do you want, baby?” he murmurs, dragging it out just a little bit longer. He loves to hear you, loves to get you to admit it. For you, the truth is in the action of it, but he likes to listen to you say it out loud.

“You,” you moan desperately. “I need you, Marc. I missed you so fucking much, I can’t take it anymore.” 

“Yeah?” he murmurs with an imperceptible smile. 

“Uh-huh,” you nod, staring up into his eyes.

Marc’s cock twitches at the genuine need he can see in your eyes, the sight like a potent drug going straight to his brain and filling him with more bliss than anything else could. He knows what you like, knows what buttons to push, knows exactly how to touch you to make you forget the world around you. 

It makes him feel good to make you feel good. It always has.

And it’s more than the gratification of feeling your pussy pulsating around his cock or hearing you scream his name while your orgasm overtakes you. It’s more than his pride, his ego, his need to feel like he’s doing good for once in his life. 

It’s you.

It’s his misguided effort to make up for all his misdeeds. His atonement. He tells himself it’s enough for him to fuck your brains out, to pour all of himself into you without inhibitions while he’s with you to offset his absence.

He tells himself that, holds onto it—needs it to be true.

“Please…” you whine, and he pushes up against your clit, feeling the pulse of it. You shudder at the intensity, the pressure, and he grins. “Fuck. Fuck me.”

“Dirty mouth,” he chides, and you whine in frustration as he brings his hand up, pressing one finger to your slightly parted lips. You open them wider, suck his finger in, suckle for a moment and then bite.

“Fuck me,” you demand, voice muffled and tongue pressing against his fingertip, wet and warm.

Your teeth loosen up and he slides his finger deeper, right to the back of your tongue. You don’t gag, just stare him down defiantly, and he can’t wait any longer. He reaches down with his other hand, guides himself to your entrance, cock pushing deep into the tight heat of you, as slow as he can stand it. 

You’re so fucking good. 

His head starts to roll back instinctively, but he holds it steady and slides his hand over to your hip, gripping your flesh as his cock splits you open.

When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, you let out a low moan, brows furrowing, throwing your head back against the pillows. He pulls back a little only to drive right back in, hard, and this time you moan a hell of a lot louder. Quickly, he stifles the sound with his palm, pressing his hand right over your mouth—not because he doesn’t want to hear you. No, because he knows it heightens your pleasure.

Your resulting moans are muffled against his hand as you start trying to meet his thrusts, your hips working towards him, desperate for it. You love it when he smothers you like this, love feeling his big hand over your face. 

He first discovered the power of it when you were arguing about something silly and you wouldn’t shut up—he did it jokingly, only to be surprised when you immediately fell silent. You didn’t even push him away or do anything obnoxious like lick his palm; you just went totally compliant. It was an instant reaction, as though it was something your body was conditioned to obey.

He grips your hip, feeling your soft skin against his palm, his other hand covering your mouth as he thrusts into you hard, until the bed is rocking rhythmically against the wall. The hand on your hip slides higher, over your belly, groping your breast, pinching your hard nipple. His other hand slips from your mouth and you’re panting now, your face hot and almost grimacing, your whole body taut and tense for him. 

But then his hands meet at your throat, and you go limp, your lips stretching into an exhausted smile. He keeps his hands still, just on either side of your neck, curled around your shoulders, his thumbs across your collarbones. 

“Go on,” you say breathlessly, biting your lip in anticipation, lifting up your head in order to strain a little against his hands. He says nothing, smiling wickedly back at you, his hips working shallowly, cock thrusting against your G-spot.

“Go on,” you whine, impatient, and he wants to say, “What?” and grin sardonically and make you beg for it, but he’s too greedy, eager just like you are. 

He wraps his fingers around your throat and squeezes, quick and sudden, watching your pupils dilate and your lips fall open. You’d let him choke you to death if he wasn’t careful, he’s sure—you get so fucking caught up in it—so he has to be vigilant, letting go when you look like you’re about to pass out.

It’s difficult to judge, though. You look blissed out already, and he can feel your tendons working against his fingers as he jabs his thumb just under your jaw, tightening his grip. You make these sounds—gasps at first, and then little choking coughs, your throat all raw, and all the while he’s thrusting into you, hard and fast.

He eases off a second, lets you catch your breath, and you draw it in, hoarse and gasping, looking dazed. Almost high. 

You jerk your chin at him as if to say, “C’mon, again, what are you waiting for?” and he complies, one hand this time, big enough to reach quite a way around your neck. His other hand snakes down the center of you, down between your legs, along your hot skin to where he disappears inside, your slick folds parting to let him in. He teases with his fingers, finds your clit, gentle there even as he’s gripping your throat so tight he’ll probably leave marks. 

You buck wildly against him and he holds you down, grinning, relentless, finger flickering over your clit as he fucks you, chokes you, brings you closer and closer to the edge—

He feels your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, then his arms, grabbing frantically at him as your whole body tenses, and you’re spluttering out a desperate, “Yes, yes,” and then he feels that same clenching around his cock, a quick spasm, so tight he can’t help but groan. 

You come with your eyes shut and your mouth open, and he keeps going a moment longer than he needs to, stroking you where you’re oversensitive, making you shake and squirm. 

Marc lets go of your throat and takes ahold of your breast instead, chasing his own release, fucking you harder and harder and closing his eyes because you’re gazing at him in that way that chips away at his resolve.

“Slow down,” you suddenly whisper, so full of him, so desperate to keep it that way.

He slows down minimally. “Why?”

“I–I don’t want….” you trail off as he licks and sucks on your neck, his hand groping your breast. “Please, I don’t want it to end…” 

He pulls back a little and just…smiles at you, that irritating smile that says, “You honestly still think you’re in control here?” 

It wouldn’t bother you as much if you weren’t still processing that he’s actually here, flesh and blood, after abandoning you, and having the balls to act like the past year didn’t happen. Like he didn’t stab your heart and leave you to bleed out slowly.

“I know you don’t want me to slow down,” he pants in your ear as he picks up the pace again, alternating between shallow thrusts that hit your G-spot perfectly, and deep thrusts that make you gasp. “You want me to fuck you like your little boyfriend never could.”

You freeze. Marc’s labored breathing, the wet sounds of your pussy, the sound of rain coming from outside your window—it all becomes white noise as your brain catches up with what he just said to you.

And then something snaps inside you. 

Something primal, violent, desperate.

You grab the nape of his neck and pull him down for a bruising kiss, biting his lips hard, tongue swirling around his, the taste of blood in your mouth making your head spin. Marc moans into your mouth, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t stop his own movements inside you.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer again, and you hate it. You fucking hate that he’s doing this to you. And you hate even more that you’re letting him.  

He pulls away and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his bloody lips staining your shoulder. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you as your nails rake down his arms, leaving angry red trails in their wake. You claw at his back, holding onto him with all you have. He groans at the pain and looks into your eyes, reveling in the pure need he can see in them.

You see how much it turns him on to see you like this, and it makes you even angrier.

Marc leans in to kiss you again, but before you know what’s happening, your hand shoots up to his throat, fingers digging into his jaw, pushing his face away. He growls at you and tries to kiss you anyway, stubborn and unyielding, his lips brushing against yours despite your resistance. You buck your hips and twist your body, trying to dislodge him, your hands pushing and shoving at his chest and shoulders.

You manage to get one hand around his throat, squeezing as hard as you can, your nails digging into his skin. Marc groans, his breath hot against your face, but his grip on you doesn’t falter. He grabs your wrists, attempting to pin them above your head, but you fight back with all your strength, writhing beneath him, your legs kicking out, trying to find leverage to push him off.

“That’s enough,” he growls, his voice rough and intimidating as he finally manages to secure your wrists. “Calm do–”

You turn your head and bite the arm that’s pinning your wrist down, canines piercing the skin. 

“Fuck,” Marc hisses through clenched teeth, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate, as if he’s trying to match your intensity, trying to make you feel the same pain you’re inflicting on him. The bed creaks with the force of your combined movements, the air thick with the sounds of your mutual anguish.

“You wanna  hurt me, baby?” he pants as he lets go of your wrist and instead grabs your chin to force you to look at him. 

“Yeah,” you whisper without hesitation, your pupils dilated, your voice dripping with venom and need.

Marc’s eyes darken with a mix of lust and something deeper, something almost like understanding. “Good,” he says simply, grabbing your ass and rolling you both over, so you can ride him. He pulls up the pillow behind his back, so he’s propped up and you can hold onto his shoulders. “Take what you need.”

He moves his hips slowly, tenderly almost, as if to tell you he’s done fighting with you and wants you to feel good. You’re not there yet, you’re still seeing red. Clawing at his chest, nails digging into his skin, leaving scratches that will take days to fade.

But it’s not enough. You need more. You need to make him feel the pain he’s caused, to make him understand what he’s put you through. You push his face away, his stubble grazing your palm, and he turns his head, biting down on your thumb, groaning at the taste of you. Spurred on by the sensation, your teeth find his shoulder, biting down hard enough to break the skin.

“Stop,” he grunts, the word strained, his cock twitching inside you. You don’t relent immediately, your teeth sinking deeper until he grabs your shoulders, trying to push you off.

Finally, he manages to grip your throat, not squeezing, but enough to make you stop. The pressure is firm, commanding, and it stills your movements. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and desperation. “Enough,” he says with finality, his voice rough and low. “I want you to fuck me, not kill me.”

You stare down at him, your chest heaving, the raw emotion in his eyes grounding you. Slowly, you release your grip on his shoulders, the tension in your body easing as you adjust to the new position. His hand remains on your throat, a reminder of his control, but also of the thin line between pain and pleasure that you both walk.

You start to move, rocking your hips against him, swollen clit rubbing against his trimmed pubes, taking him deep inside you. His grip on your throat tightens just a fraction, enough to send a thrill through your body, but not enough to hurt. His other hand grips your hip, guiding your movements as you ride him, each thrust a release of the pent-up emotions that have been tearing you apart.

Mouth slightly agape, Marc’s eyes never leave yours, the connection between you intense and unbreakable. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Use me.”

And you do. 

Your movements become increasingly more frantic, muscles tense, driven by a need to feel him, to feel that he’s really here with you.

“You left,” you pant, eyes piercing his, pleasure building inside you with every movement of your hips.

“Yeah, I did,” Marc replies, his tone unapologetic and infuriatingly calm. He lets go of your neck and cups your cheek instead, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your cheekbone.

“I–I thought you were dead,” you choke out, tears stinging your eyes as you find the perfect pace, hands resting on his pecs. The pressure in your core builds, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge.

“You fucking asshole, I thought you were dead!” Your voice cracks as the hurt and anger that have been festering inside you pour out, mingling with the unbearable pleasure he’s giving you. 

“I’m not dead, baby. I’m right here.” His voice is softer now, tinged with an edge of remorse. He accentuates his words with a powerful thrust of his hips, driving deep inside you. The sensation forces a moan from your lips, your anger momentarily drowned out.

The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, trailing down your cheeks as you ride him harder, your body seeking solace in the physical connection. You lean forward, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling, your eyes closed.

“I hate you,” you whisper. “I fucking hate you, Marc.”

His response is immediate, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he drives into you with renewed vigor. “I know, baby,” he pants. “I know you do.”

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, push you closer to the brink. You hold onto his broad shoulders as your walls tightens around his cock, the muscles in your legs aching. The rush you’re experiencing is intoxicating, the line between pleasure and pain, love and hate blurring until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

As the pressure builds to an unbearable peak, you cling to him, your body trembling. “I need you,” you whine, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, I need you.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, his grip on you tightening. “I’ve got you.”

The words are a promise, a plea, and as your orgasm crashes over you, you feel a moment of clarity. Despite everything, despite the pain and the anger, he’s here. He’s with you.

You collapse against him, your body trembling with aftershocks, your breath coming in shallow gasps as tears stream down your cheeks. Marc wraps his strong arms around you, holding you tight as he chases his own release, his hips moving with relentless intensity. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice both a comfort and a torment.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, too far gone to stop himself. 

You’re lost in the moment, too out of it to hear him.

“Tell me,” he urges again, needing to hear you say it.

When you still don’t respond and he feels he can’t hold back any longer, he pulls your head back by the nape of your neck.

You look like you’re somewhere else entirely, flying high, eyes glassy.

“Hey,” he says sharply, slowing his thrusts down as much as he can physically stand it, searching your face until your gaze meets his. 

“Huh?”

“Tell me you’re mine,” he repeats through gritted teeth, brow furrowed. “Please.”

His eyes are warm and you see him—the Marc who shared his favorite childhood recipe with you, the Marc who reassured you after your boss was an asshole to you, the Marc who made you laugh until your sides ached.

“I–I’m yours,” you whisper, the realization that it’s the truth breaking something inside you. “I’ve always been yours.”

Your words are like balm for his wounded soul, and he feels like he can finally let go. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Marc. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

“Fuck,” he groans, his thrusts becoming sloppy. He’s close. “I could–I could never stay away from you. Never.”

The confession slips out, raw and unfiltered, and it’s like a dagger to your heart. You bite down on his shoulder, trying to silence the sob that threatens to escape as he fucks you with everything he has.

“Gonna come, baby,” he pants. “Where do you want me?”

You feel like your body doesn’t belong to you, your mind foggy. But you know exactly where you want him, where you need him. 

“Inside.”

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

But he’s here to give you everything he can. And he does, spilling his warm cum deep inside of you, his cock pulsing, hips stuttering as he groans your name. 

Not baby. 

Not Sunshine. 

Your name.

He wraps his arms around you, softly, almost reverently, feeling your bare, sweat-covered skin against his palms. He holds you close like this for a moment before rolling you both over so he’s on top of you again, his cock still buried inside, his body slumping against yours.

Feeling his weight on you is grounding, soothing, calming you like nothing else in the world ever can. You try to absorb the feeling of his heartbeat against yours, knowing this moment of closeness won’t last. Marc usually doesn’t hold you for long after he’s fucked you. 

You inhale his scent, draw shapes on his back with your fingertips, scratch his scalp softly, nudge his shoulder with your nose, press little kisses on his skin. Each touch is a silent plea for him to surprise you, to stay with you for a little bit longer.

He relaxes on top of you, the deep tension he’s been feeling for so long slowly giving way to a sense of calm. It’s peaceful, his mind quiet for once.

How he wishes he could stay like this forever; feeling your heartbeat, your soft touch, holding you close as you fall asleep, nose brushing the nape of your neck, a protective arm draped over you, keeping you safe. 

He’s convincing himself to stay. He can feel it. 

Just this once. 

To put a smile on your pretty face.

To show you he cares. 

It means so much to you, and how could he–

“I love you, Marc,” you whisper against his skin.

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you immediately regret saying them as you feel his muscles tense and he pulls out of you, leaving you painfully empty. His cum starts leaking out of you, pooling on the rumpled sheets beneath you. 

Marc sits on the edge of the bed with his back turned to you and you sit up, leaning against the headboard, watching his profile with tearful eyes.

“Marc,” you say quietly, extending your hand to lightly touch his arm.

But it’s too late. 

The spell is broken. 

He gets up and fishes out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter from his jeans pocket, lighting one up, the orange glow casting shadows on the wall. He blows out a stream of smoke as he pulls up his jeans, sitting back on the bed, eyes distant as he looks out of the window.

You feel a pang of hurt, but you press on, desperately needing him to understand. “You–you don’t have to love me too,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “But please, you’ve been gone for so long and I–I only just got you back. Please, just stay with me this one time. Just this one time.”

He turns his head to look at you, his eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place. You shake your head slowly, resigned, then reach for his cigarette. 

He gives it to you, watching as you put it between your swollen lips. You take a long drag, the smoke filling your lungs, and then exhale slowly, closing your eyes for a moment. 

Marc eyes you curiously, recalling how you proudly told him you’d stopped smoking the last time he saw you.  

Some things have changed, he supposes.

And some things…haven’t.

“Where were you?” you ask. 

“Egypt,” he replies simply, caressing your leg.

“The whole time?”

“The whole time.”

“And the…business you had there, is it done?”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding, an imperceptible smile on his lips. “Yeah. You could say that.”

You take another drag from the cigarette before passing it back to him, the smoke a comforting distraction. “Will you stay in town now?”

Marc looks at you, and for a moment, hope flares in your chest. “Mhm. That’s the plan.”

You reach out and trace the remnants of what you can only imagine was a nasty bruise below his ribcage. “Aren’t you tired of this?”

He chuckles. “Of course I am.”

“Then why the fuck don’t you stop?”

He sighs. “It’s not that easy. There’s people who count on me, who need me.”

You avert your gaze, laughing mirthlessly, quickly wiping away a tear with trembling fingers. Marc watches you intently as he smokes, his hand resting on your thigh. 

“I see,” you say softly as you meet his gaze, a sad smile on your lips. “Nothing’s changed.”

He doesn’t say anything in return.

“Why did you come back?”

I wanted to be as close to you as possible. 

“My…job required me to. And I think it’ll stay that way for the foreseeable future.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He gently strokes your leg, unconsciously trying to soothe himself more than you. He’s about to say something, he doesn’t even know what, just something, when you can’t hold it in anymore.

“I get that I’m not a priority for you, Marc, I really do,” you whisper, your expression so full of sadness he can barely stand to look at you. “You made that abundantly clear when you disappeared without having the decency to say goodbye–”

“Sunshine…”

“–but I don’t understand why you won’t do this one thing for me.”

Marc’s brow furrows deeply as he watches your lip quiver with frustration.

“I-I promise I won’t ever ask you again, but please stay with me tonight. Please. It doesn’t even have to be the whole night. Just an hour, Marc, or–or half an–”

“Sunshine, no,” he says a bit sharper than intended, his own nerves frayed. He gets up and looks at the moon.

You just…don’t understand.

You don’t understand what keeps him up at night, what keeps him away from you, what he’s vowed to protect you from—and he can never tell you. 

He knows he should have left you alone when he saw you outside the bar that night, should have walked away and spared you the pain. 

But he couldn’t do it then, and he can’t do it now.

Because he’s a selfish asshole.

Because he loves you.

He flicks the cigarette butt out of the window, then bends down to put on his shirt, the act mechanical, his face set in a mask of determination. You haven’t noticed before, but now you notice how careful he is when bending and stretching. 

He must be in pain.

“Marc,” you plead, your heart beating so fast you feel like it’s going to explode.

He puts on his shoes, the silence that’s stretching between you suffocating. He’s killing you. He’s killing you, and yet you’re more afraid of losing him forever.

This needs to stop. You need to stop.

“If you walk out of that door, I don’t ever wanna see you again.” 

Marc halts his movements and your pleading eyes search his, the genuine desperation in them twisting a knife in his heart. For a moment, you think you see something in his eyes—a flicker of the man you need him to be—but then it’s gone.

He sighs heavily, then rounds the bed, leaning in to cup your cheek. “You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead. “I’ll see you around.”

“Please,” you whisper, but it’s too late.

When he reaches the front door, his cap in hand, you stand in the living room, naked and vulnerable. “I hate you, Marc Spector,” you say, your voice filled with all the pain and anger you feel.

He turns, his eyes softening for just a moment. “No, Sunshine. No, you don’t.”

And with that, he’s gone. 

It takes a few seconds for your body to react to what just happened, and when it does, it’s overwhelming. Your stomach sinks, your chest tightens, and your vision blurs as you grapple with your ambivalent feelings.  

Tears spill down your cheeks as you crumble, the exhaustion and heartbreak taking over.

Heading back to your bedroom, your eyes catch the roses your boyfriend gave you yesterday, a cruel reminder of the life you’ve been trying to build without Marc. All the work you put in, down the drain.

And for what? Why do you do this to yourself?

In a fit of anger and despair, you grab the flowers and throw them off your balcony. You watch as they scatter on the rain-wet street below, the cool night air wrapping around your naked body like a cloak. You stay for a moment, heart pounding, staring at the flowers as Marc’s cum runs down your thigh.

God, you’re a dumb idiot.  

You turn off the TV as you head back inside, turn off your bedside lamp, the darkness a welcome solace. You go to the bathroom without turning the light on, clean up, put on a fresh pair of pajamas. 

You do hate him.

You need to tell yourself that, for tonight at least.

Curled up in your bed, you clutch at the pillow where his scent still lingers, letting the darkness take you as the man who holds your heart is once again slipping through your fingers. The tears come again, silent and unending, each one a testament to the love you can’t seem to let go of, no matter how much it hurts.

Because for better or worse, Marc’s a part of you, and you can’t escape it.

Down on the street, Marc watches the scene unfold from the shadows, the flowers landing at his feet. He stands there, drenched in regret, his heart heavy. He wants to turn back, to hold you and tell you everything will be okay, but he knows he can’t.

Not with the life he leads.

Not until he’s finally free. 

He walks to his car, parked on the opposite side of the street. Coming from the reflection of the driver’s window, the car illuminated by the street lamp above, he hears a familiar voice. 

“You’re a cold bastard, Marc,” the man in the reflection says, his tone filled with quiet condemnation.

“Thanks, bud,” Marc sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You wanna explain to him that we’re gonna be late, then?” He raises an eyebrow, but Steven just shakes his head disapprovingly.

Marc scoffs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think so.” 

He takes the silver lighter out of his pocket, lights a cigarette, and leans against the car door, looking up at your windows. He imagines your silhouette as you’re lying on your side, your soft skin, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. He imagines you’re dreaming of him, finding peace in your sleep.

He knows he’s dreaming himself, knows you’re tossing and turning, cursing him. And he deserves it. He knows he does. 

“Tick-tock, Marc Spector,” comes the resonating voice of Khonshu, his towering figure perched atop a nearby rooftop, his skeletal bird skull gleaming in the moonlight. 

Marc rolls his eyes, takes a last drag of his cigarette before putting it out with his shoe, and shoots the impatient god a glare that earns him a chuckle that echoes through the night. 

He looks up at your windows one last time, his heart aching with a longing he can’t afford to indulge. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gets into his car and turns on the radio.

As he speeds down the road, the city lights blurring past, leaving you behind, he feels the crushing loneliness of his life.

It’s strange. 

Feeling lonely despite never being, you know, alone. 

Right on cue, he catches the intense gaze of a dark pair of eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“What? You gonna tell me I’m a cold bastard, too?”

Jake looks back at him with a sly grin. “Nah. You don’t need me to tell you what you already know,” he scoffs. “But it’s a real shame, Marc. Leaving that poor girl to get fucked by boys who don’t know what they’re doing, just ‘cause you don’t have the balls to–” 

“And that’s enough of you,” Marc mutters, turning up the volume of the radio, refocusing on the way ahead.

⚡ Kavinsky’s Odd Look is playing in Marc’s car as he’s driving through the night, thinking of you. ⚡ Marc’s Ferrari Testarossa – the sexiest car there is. ⚡ I adore the synthwave aesthetic if you can’t tell lol.

Moon Knight Masterlist | AO3

[pactw]

turning over 15.01.24 when tubbo spent four hours on stream emotionally detaching himself from the eggs (addressing them with "hello, minecraft eggs" or "don't hit me, minecraft egg" etc repeatedly) and laughing about the inevitability of their deaths, joking that the parents should all "take the eggs out ourselves: take back control!" like fucking hell dude they made him go like roier without even permanently killing his kid off

followed by downing the worker repeatedly in the corner, "ohh, you got knocked again? how do you fucking think empanada felt?", he refers to her as empanada, a child, a child...

"at least i gave you more time than you gave her, you sick fuck."

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Bad Idea, Right?

Summary: You know this is a bad idea, but fuck it, it's fine.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut - this is just all smut. Unprotected P in V sex. Vaginal fingering. Dirty talk. Dean being a cocky little shit. Dean being fundamentally irresistible.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader (You)

Word Count: 1,317

A/N: So, Bad Idea, Right? by Olivia Rodrigo (fabulous song, give it a listen!) came on earlier, and this little scenario just popped into my head.

P.S. I wrote this quickly - so sorry for any mistakes!

Dean Winchester Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

The phone rang six times before you finally dragged your eyes open to groan and grope for the buzzing, trilling device on your bedside table.

You looked at the caller ID and were instantly awake and pissed. You sent the call to voicemail and dropped your phone on the bed beside you. 

But seconds later it was making noise again, so you angrily swiped your phone open just long enough to bark out a few words.

“Go to hell, Winchester. Stop calling me. I told you last time, we’re done.”

You hung up without hearing a word from him. You knew why he was calling, and you weren't interested.

Liar.

Your internal voice was always brutally honest with you, so you conceded that okay, yes, you were always going to be interested in a booty call from Dean Winchester, aka Walking Sex.

But you swore the last time that it was, well, the last time.

The two of you had already tried dating years ago, but it ended badly. You were both too much alike, stubborn and incapable of explaining your feelings to one another. You were pretty sure you loved him, but when you imagined telling him that, it felt like you were exposing a raw nerve. 

And it wasn’t as if Dean was the most emotionally available person, so between the two of you there had been an abundance of heat and acrobatic sex followed by fighting and more make up sex, but since that didn’t really translate to a healthy relationship, you’d both agreed to end it.

But even though you broke up over a year ago, you’d never quite managed to quit each other. Every month or so one of you called up the other, and no matter what you told yourself, that you were just gonna hang out, just gonna talk about the hunts you'd been on, inevitably, the night always ended with the two of you falling into bed for a night of extraordinary sex. 

You knew it was unhealthy, though, so you’d told him the last time that you were through, that this couldn’t keep happening. The conversation had devolved quickly and exploded into a massive fight that ended with him slamming out of your hotel room with just his unbuttoned jeans tugged up over his hips, dragging his shirt, shoes and jacket with him.

But now here he was at three in the morning calling again and again. 

And again! You thought angrily as your phone started buzzing once more.

You picked it up and swiped it open, drawing in a big breath to yell at him, but he spoke before you had the chance and his deep voice already had your stomach swooping and your resolve wavering.

“Sweetheart, just hear me out. I know what you said last time, and I know it’s a bad idea, but fuck baby, I just need you. Need to feel you moving against me, clenching so tight around me. It’s been too fucking long and I miss the taste of you.”

You tried desperately to hang on to your anger, but it was melting fast beneath the onslaught of need coursing through you.

Likely knowing he already had the upper hand, Dean continued. “Let me come over and make you feel good. You know you miss me too.”

Even as your head screamed at you to hang up, you heard yourself caving. “Get here in fifteen minutes or the chance is gone.” You said, knowing that even that was a lie.

But Dean hung up without another word and ten minutes later you heard the Impala squeal into your driveway. That sound alone left you dripping in anticipation. 

He didn’t even have the chance to knock, because you wrenched open the door as he bounded up your porch steps.

“This is a bad idea, right?” You asked pointlessly. 

But Dean nodded. “Yeah probably.”

You stood staring at each other for a heartbeat before you shook your head and leapt at him. “Fuck it, it’s fine.”

Dean was already pulling off your clothes as he pushed you back into your house and slammed the door behind him. You pushed his flannel off his shoulders, and yanked at his t-shirt as he got your pajama shorts off and then ripped off your tank top.

He growled as he lifted you so you could wrap your legs around his waist. He dipped his head down to suck your pebbled nipple into his mouth, drawing deeply and making you throw your head back with a shout of pleasure.

He set you on your kitchen table so he could kick off his boots and push down his jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear and for some reason that realization made you feral. 

He swept two of his thick fingers through your slit, groaning at the dripping mess he found. He brought his sticky fingers to his lips and sucked your juices from the tips. 

“So fucking delicious baby. I’m gonna need to feast on you later, but right now all I can think about is getting my cock buried so fucking deep into that sweet pussy that you feel me for days, maybe even weeks.” 

His filthy words always drove you crazy. Listening to his deep, gruff voice as he described everything he was going to do to you, had made you come untouched more than once.

He slipped his fingers back into your slick, burying them inside you this time and scissoring you open, before sliding in and out of you a few times with a wet squelching sound. Then he curled his fingers forward like he was beckoning you to him, hitting your sweet spot perfectly, pressing and rubbing until you were writhing on the table and begging for him.

“Dean, please, just give it to me.”

“Yeah baby? You want it?” Dean asked with a smirk that made you wanna smack him a little. 

“Yeah, jackass! Why do you think you’re here?” You shouted at him breathlessly.

“Knew you were needing this big cock, knew you couldn’t go without me any more than I could go without you.”

He suddenly drove himself all the way into your heat with one thrust, ripping a pleasured scream from your throat. You clung to his shoulders, digging your nails into his hard, straining muscles as you both looked down to watch his thick cock slide in and out of your cunt, opening you up again and again.

You dropped back onto your elbows, head thrown back, as Dean lifted your hips off the table so he could drive in deeper.

“Jesus fuck!” Dean ground out. “You take me so fucking good, baby. Never had anybody take my cock like you do, so perfectly, clenching around me so goddamn tight.” 

As you squeezed him hard again, he sucked in his breath on a hiss and continued to pound into you, shaking the table and drawing endless, keening moans from deep inside your chest. Finally, he slammed into you hard and deep, hitting your sweet spot again and pushing you over the edge. With a high-pitched cry, you clamped down on his cock, making him shout out your name as he fucked you through your orgasm and into his own. 

He let your hips drop back onto the table and his softening dick slipped out of you. But he pushed it back inside and began nibbling on your breasts as he breathed out his words against your skin.

“I wanna feel you around me for a little longer, feel the way those little shuddering aftershocks of yours send electricity shooting straight through me.” He slid his hand to your clit and began rubbing you. “Gonna make you come over and over while I’m inside you, get me hard all over again.”

All you could do was moan and scratch your nails across his shoulders as the pleasure built deep inside you once more. A weak voice echoed in the back of your head reminding you this was a bad idea. But you just ignored it.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya

@arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry @ladysparkles78 @kr804573

Dean Fics Only: @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world @aylacavebear

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @hobby27

@waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007

@notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

[carolmunson]

always something there to remind me (s.h.)

summary: ten years after the sealing of the upside-down, you and your fiance steve head to a cookout to unwind during memorial day weekend. with steve on edge after a rough half sleep full of night terrors, you hope the day can be salvaged by seeing the party and just relaxing, but a violent thunderstorm changes those plans for the worse. pairings: steve x reader, lumax, edancy. heavy on the steddie brotp tho.

tw: 18+ as always. this story deals with themes of mental illness and ptsd, it is only intended for mature audiences. descriptions of ptsd flashbacks, internal and external (please be advised they are dramatizations). partner violence (unintentional). drinking/smoking. discussions of mental illness. very moody steve but very soft steve. features some tense arguments. smut, like, very loving and passionate smut. this relationship is not perfect, it's also a depiction of a moment in time in 1997. the emotional load was very much a woman's job and i personally think steve would be 'too proud' to be 'too soft' about his stuff. so there are parts that seem kind of 'eh' but -- that's just how things were sorta. gif by @kingofscoops

His pill case sounded like a rattle when you took it from the medicine cabinet, taking it into the kitchen where he was shrugging on his freshly ironed polo. The ironing board and hot iron still set up by the counter. The black stone contrasted nicely against your cherry wood cabinets that he installed two summers ago. That was when you both thought he might be getting better: the night terrors were less and less frequent, the flashbacks far and few between, he was less tense, less irritable. Seeking you constantly for soft touches and kisses, any kind of affection he could pull from you he'd take willingly. Two years ago was your two year anniversary -- when he finally told you the real story. Why he had all those scars, why he can't sleep, why he wakes up in a cold sweat crying. Why you'd never been able to figure out which health care company was providing him with so much medication and therapy when he was working part time at the hospital -- it's because it was the FBI.

It was two years ago where they took you to an underground office where they told you everything. Steve sat next to you, gripping your hand so tightly you thought it might break. They reassured over and over that nothing was coming back, that everything was over, but that Steve and his friends will likely never recover emotionally and mentally from what they endured. Four years into things now, you were both his fiance and his nurse. You checked in monthly with his caseworking team, but in these last few months, they've had nothing but shaky reports. You wondered if maybe his mind just isn't as sharp as it used to be -- you both just entered your thirties, maybe things get knocked loose quicker when you've been to hell and back. "Here, honey," you say softly, putting his pill case on the table. He looks at them and sighs, amber eyes lingering on the 'Saturday' section of the pill box. "Let me get you some wa--" "You don't need to give me my pills every day," he says -- it's soft and sharp, "I know I have to take them. I've been takin' them for ten years."

You offer him a tight smile, "I know, Stevie..." You trail off. 'It's important that he feels in control of the situation, a lot of his role when he was in this situation was to protect others. Try not to baby him about it, he might be fragile, but he doesn't like to feel like he is.'

"It's just...I don't want a repeat of last year," you quietly remind him. He had gotten too sure of himself when he started to feel better -- missing days, stopping altogether, off and on.

He reaches for the pill case and pops open the Saturday square, tossing the main five pills into his palm and then into his mouth. Pain, anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, migraine, blood thinner. The heavy stuff sat in the cabinet above the fridge: Quaaludes, Oxycontin, Sumatriptan, Clozapine -- among others. Every day was a reminder to him that he didn't come out of this a stronger person. His dad let him know that at every visit, treating him like he had a son made of glass. "Don't," he says after he swallows, "Don't start with me."

Your eyes narrow in on the finger he puts up in warning and travels down to his big hand, a vein popping in his forearm and under the band of his watch. His bicep flexes against his polo, you follow it across the expanse of his chest and down the other arm, landing back on the pill case.

You knew last night what kind of day it would be this morning. Desperate reaches for you while he woke up from another nightmare, his damp chest up against yours while he hid his face in your neck. He hugs you so tightly to him so he doesn't float away, and you match his strength as best you can until he falls back asleep. Sometimes it takes hours of stroking his hair and soothing him before he feels safe enough to even close his eyes. In the years you've been together, he's been more and more embarrassed over these needier nights. 'It's just, baby -- I'm a man. I have to get over all this shit.'

"I'm not starting anyth--" "You are," he warns, eyes narrowing. He clenches his jaw, "Don't."

"M'sorry," you breath out. You take the pill case when he sets it back down and bring it back upstairs to the main bathroom. You refill the case before placing it back in the medicine cabinet with a sigh. When it closes you look at yourself in the mirror, no longer the fresh 26 year old he met at the hospital admin desk when he started his part time job as an assistant in the children's psych floor. Gaining hours towards getting his pediatric therapist licensure to help kids who were like him and his friends -- well, sort of. To some extent. You smooth over your button down dress, his favorite one in your closet -- navy blue with beige flowers littering the fabric. It flounces over you in dips and swoops, falling just under your knee. Another sigh and you grab your purse from the bedroom and slip on your sandals, clip clopping down the stairs where you hear him grab the keys. Another Saturday morning where the group gets together and just hangs out, even though Steve sees Eddie, Rob, and Dustin pretty often throughout the week. They've been doing it for years now, but the outside buzzed with the promise of summer, Memorial Day weekend making everyone feel more at ease. Everyone except Steve.

He slams the car door when he gets in the drivers seat, making you jump in the leather of his Lexus. He runs his hands over his jean clad thighs, having grown in size over the last six years with age and trips to the gym. 'I just wanna be in like, peak physical condition if anything tries to come back. I wanna be more ready than when I was a kid, y'know?' And while the muscle was certainly titilating, it made for a very wary you when things went left. "Don't be like that, Stevie," you say softly, your voice calm and gentle like it is with patients on the floor, "I promise I wasn't trying to get on your case. Do you -- I don't know, do you wanna just stay home?" "No," he snaps, looking ahead toward the road as he starts the car, "I didn't pack a cooler full of all the shit you made for this cook-out just the stay home." "Can you relax?" you ask a little harsher than you planned, "Are you even good to drive?" "I'm good. To drive," he says through gritted teeth, pulling down the street. "Are you sure? 'Cause -- Honey you -- you didn't sleep so good last night and I --" He hits the breaks hard, stopping short at a stop light turning to look at you, tilting his head a bit to glare at you down the slope of his straight nose.

"Drop it," he says, the tenseness in his voice sends a chill up your spine. "Stevie I'm not trying t --" "Drop. It." he warns again, "Don't make me raise my voice at you." "Don't talk to me like that," you say sharply while he pulls the car forward when the light turns green. "Then don't talk to me like I'm a fucking child," he snaps back. "Well maybe if you didn't have an attitude with me like one I wouldn't have to," you cross your arms over your seat belt and huff. He shakes his head slowly, tongue tight between his teeth. He thought he knew better than to fall in love with someone who had a tongue as sharp as his. "You're askin' for an argument when you say shit like that to me," he says lowly, the Lexus crunching over helicopter seeds while he navigates through the neighborhood. You see his shoulders rise and fall while he attempts to steady himself -- fuse lit and ready to blow. "I'm sorry," you follow up, a deep breath filling your chest. You uncross your arms to lean your elbow on the edge of the window, resting your cheek in your hand, "I didn't mean that." "You did," he responds, tight and frustrated, quiet. He hastily reaches into his back pocket with one hand, eyes still on the road. Steve pops a cigarette between his full lips and you sigh at the sound of the lighter flicking. “What’s wrong now, hm?” he asks while the cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, “What’s your problem?” “Nothing,” you say – it’s something. He takes a drag and blows the smoke out the open window, “It’s just that you bought that pack yesterday and it’s already half way gone. You always chain smoke when you –” “Give me a fucking break,” he snaps, voice raising with each word, “God, can you let me have fuckin’ anything?” “No Steve, I guess not. God forbid I look out for your heal–” you start sarcastically. “Look out for yourself, baby,” he says sharply into the rearview so you can see his glare, “I’m doin’ just fine without you on my back.” You bicker the rest of the way to Ed and Nancy’s house, he only raises his voice one more time. 

Eddie and Nancy's wedding was one for the ages, something about the mixture of straight laced and all over the place that made sense when they tied the knot. The pair, you were told, seemed unlikely until Eddie was in recovery after being removed from the Upside Down. He was down there for six months, tested on for another six. The Party and the older kids would visit him every day, keeping him updated and fed and hydrated. They'd cheer him on when he made advances in his mobility -- but for the most part he just needed rest. Nancy was working a lot, throwing herself into journalism like she always wanted, so she'd come to the hospital late. She wasn't really one for small talk so instead, she'd just read. She'd read aloud while he was asleep, her voice slow and calm -- stoic. Keeping him lulled like still water, she didn't even know if he knew she was there. One night, she picked up where she left off on the first installment of Lord of the Rings, continuing in her soft stoic voice. She watched him lay there with his eyes closed, breath steady, the beeps of the hospital machines in quiet rhythm with him. She at frist felt silly before she started, but maybe in his dreams he could hear her, and maybe just maybe if she does something fun, he won't have nightmares tonight. So she tries it...she puts on a silly voice for Samwise, and she continues with her silly voices. Gruff and manly for Aragorn, gleeful for Sam, some weird form of Scottish for Gimli. She bites her lip, smiling as she tries each one, shaking her curly head at her ridiculousness and stops. Then she hears it...the low rumbling giggle from Eddie in his hospital bed. "Keep going, it's funny..." he said with a grin, eyes still closed. "You can hear me?" she asked, trying to stifle her giggle. "I can hear you every night," he said, eyes peering open slightly, "It's the best." "Do you want me to keep reading?" she asked with a blush. He nods, a soft grin pulling up on his lips while he eyes closes again, "Only if you do the voices."

When you park in the driveway it's clear that the rest of the group arrived before you, their cars already Tetris'd into their places. Steve lugs the cooler out of the back seat with a grunt, hoisting it to rest on his broad shoulder. You roll your eyes at his machismo, like someone is watching him at all times and he has something to prove. You both walk to the back, the sounds of music and conversation and laughter bubbling louder and louder as you get to the gate of the yard.

A symphony of 'Heeeyyy!' and 'There he is!' and 'Finally!' come from the group as he opens the gate and you follow in toe. Eddie comes over quickly to help with the cooler, his hair still as long as it was when he was 20 – the only real updates being his five o’clock shadow and the ring in his nose. A few more weary tired lines by his eyes. His home made Iron Maiden muscle tee had a small sweat mark by the neckline – they must’ve been out here getting ready all morning. “Hey man,” he grins when the cooler gets set down, pulling Steve in for a tight hug. “Hey,” Steve smiles, patting his back hard, savoring the hold. “You alright?” Eddie asks when he lets go, putting a hand to his face, “You feeling okay?” Steve smiles tightly and nods but Eddie only half buys it, returning his look before turning to you. He comes forward, kissing both your cheeks with his full lips, scruff scratching at your skin, “Hi, sweetheart.” “Hi Ed,” you grin, watching everyone else come up to say their hellos. “Where’s Nance?” Steve asks, but his question is answered when she waddles out of the sliding door of the kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade. From the back, you’d have no idea she was seven months pregnant, but from the side – let’s just say, it was gonna be a real big boy. “Honey, what did I say?” Eddie calls out, walking over to her and taking the pitcher. “It’s not even heavy,” she chides back with an exasperated eye roll. You giggle at their bickering, listening to their sweet back and forth with a gentle ache in your chest. You wonder if Steve will be the same way when you’re pregnant. You wonder if the back and forths will sound so sweet, so innocent, so soft. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the cooler opening, turning to look and grab what you can to put in the fridge inside. Steve takes the meat out to put by the grill and a few appetizers that you put together last nice. You take the icebox cake and chocolate covered strawberries, hurrying with them through the sliding door into the kitchen. “I know, mommy just thinks she can do it all,” Eddie coos, resting his hands on Nancy’s stomach while she slices cheeseburger toppings on the counter, “She just won’t rest, are you gonna be like that too? You gonna run me ragged? You gonna be just like mommy?” Nancy laughs and it’s half airy, half from deep in her belly, “Look, it’s just better if I’m active so that I’m not surprised by it when he’s born.” “I know,” he says, kissing her cheek, “I know. You still love me, Wheeler?” “Love you always,” she grins, blushing when she sees you come in with desserts, “Oh! Oh my goodness, let me help you!” “I got it!” you say, “Just hope there’s room in the fridge!” When everything’s loaded up you give each other a hug, watching as Eddie and Steve have a mildly stern conversation about who is grilling what. ‘It’s my grill.’  ‘And? It’s my meat.’ 

“Do you think they should just kiss?” you ask while you watch them. “Honestly, I feel like they need to at this point," she laughs, "Go on outside, I’ll be out in a few,” Nancy encourages and you make your way back out into the very early summer heat – mugginess starting to soak the air around you. Before you know it, you’re already being pulled over to the picnic table to watch a game of Magic the Gathering between Lucas, Max, Dustin, Mike, and Will. El doesn’t come back to Hawkins very much,so you’ve been told – she’s the only person from the group you haven’t met. “So is this like D&D?” you ask, resting your cheek against your palm while you lean on the table. “Yes and no,” Max explains, looking at her options, “It’s like…” “Like poker but D&D,” Dustin says, making Mike, Will, and Lucas snort. “I think that’s the easiest way to explain it to you,” Mike says. “I trust that,” you laugh with them. You’ve been consistently hopeless with trying to learn the mechanics of Dungeons and Dragons but still enjoy watching, loving it more when Steve decides to join a campaign. He lets loose in ways you’ve never seen when he does, smiling and laughing, free like a child in the summertime. The sun beating on your back suddenly disappears when you hear Steve come up behind you with a hand on your shoulder, “Can I have my glasses, honey?” “They’re in the glove box,” you say, turning around, “Why do you need them?” “Oh, is Erica making you read her thesis outline?” Lucas asks, “Just tell her to buzz off. She already passed it in.” “Sinclair – don’t be an asshole,” Steve gives him a look that can only be described as ‘bitchy’, “She wants some assurance. We need another psychologist in the family, and she’s obviously the only one smart enough to get it done.” “Rude,” Max deadpans, flicking her eyes up at him. “You’re rude, twerp,” he says back, he turns back to you after sucking his teeth, "My glasses?"

“I just said, in the glovebox,” you repeat, a little sharper than you meant to. He lets out a huff through his nose, looking at you like he can’t believe you’d get snippy with him before stomping off toward the gate of the yard. “Is he alright?” Dustin asks quietly, “I saw him on Thursday he just…I don’t know, he seems a little tense.” “He had a bad night,” you explain, toying at a splinter in the wood, “He’ll be okay.” The sun disappears again but not from the expanse of your fiance’s shoulders and chest, but from a thick cloud moving slowly across the sky. The relief from the heat is almost welcomed until you feel the humidity raise a bit in the air – a little too tight, a little too suffocating for your taste. 

The party is in full swing while Meredith Brooks’ ‘Bitch,’ blares from the boom box, Nancy and Max screaming the lyrics with abandon while the boys groan. You smile at how much fun they’re having, the afternoon going smoothly enough that you haven’t had time to notice how cloudy the sky had become. Your eyes linger on Steve, glasses on while looking at Erica’s thesis outline with her on the back porch. He had a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the fifth one in the last hour and a half.  "You got something here," he says to her, tapping his pen while continues reading, "Your argument's really strong -- especially about the rates of homelessness, it's almost always trauma related." "Well -- I am me," she says. He raises his brows and nods in agreement. "Can't spell America without Erica," he teases. You watch him, how gentle he is and how he taps through outline, asking her questions about how she feels about the finished thesis, where she got it bound, if the articles he sent over were helpful. They speak in words you don't understand, but it's okay -- he looks calmer, brows softened while they talk, so encouraging. "I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint, I do not feel ashamed --"

Eddie's rasp pierces the groups singing and conversation as he belts the lyrics next to his wife. Everyone looks up to watch him go, laughing as he does. "We should cover this," he grins, "Me and the guys, we gotta cover this at the next show." "So you can get boo'd off the stage?" Mike laughs. "So I can make sure your ass doesn't get in the bar?" he asks back. Mike scowls while Dustin laughs at him -- it's always smarter to not try it with Eddie, he'd always get you back ten fold. With a jolt, you feel something cold hit your hand, looking down to see a water drop splat against your skin. Then another, and another, and another. After the fourth or fifth, the rain starts to come down -- and then it starts to pour. "Alright!" Nancy calls, "Everyone grab something and head inside." The Party rises, wincing as the rain pellets down on them while everyone grabs a foil tray or covered Pyrex filled with food. You follow suit, hurrying inside with the undressed cheeseburgers and buns, laying them safe on the counter in the kitchen. Everyone else starts to file in, Steve and Eddie turning off the grill while the sky starts to darken significantly. The first rumble of thunder sends everyone's face to a flat line -- you wished Robin wasn't spending the weekend in New York City so that you'd have someone on the front lines with you and Nancy to keep everyone at ease. Nancy and Robin definitely had their moments but had a much tighter grasp on the world around them now.

A few flashes of lightening crack followed by deep rumbles of thunder. Boom, crack! Boom, crack, crack! You notice everyone resettle themselves around the kitchen table -- jittery, quiet. You sit down across from Steve while he looks down, following the woodgrain with his finger. You keep your gaze on his chest, watching for a tell -- he swallows the frustration he feels from having your eyes on him. "It's alright guys, just a storm," Nancy reminds everyone gently while she brings in the last of the food from outside. Eddie gets her seated before opening things back on the counter, the kitchen smelling like barbecue while he opens the foils. The conversations start around you again while you sit across from Steve, the tension sitting like a weighted stone in your chest. Another flash of lightning and that's when you notice it, the twitch of his hand. The thunder rumbles and he reaches up to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger under his glasses. Shit. "You okay, honey?" you ask him softly. He swallows, jaw clenching, "Mhm." "Okay," you nod, trying not to bring attention to it just yet, just incase it passes. The thunder booms again and he lets out a breath through his nose, he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes more agressively. You tap your foot under the table and he can hear it, he can hear everything in the room -- the scrapes of foil on foil. The separate conversations. Eddie's laugh while he talks to Nancy. The clinks of silverware. Ice in cups. The drumming of fingers. Your tap. Tap. Tap. Tapping. Under the fucking table could you just stop tapping your fucking foot -- The next crack of lightening is so intense it shakes the house and everyone gets quiet. 'Just a storm', Nancy reminds, but her voice sounds far away. Thunder rumbles again in the distance and he swears when the lightening flashes through the windows it's red. He rubs his eyes again, a short burst of breath coming through his nose. 'Honey?' he hears you but its like he has cotton in his ears. The thunder rumbles again, the slick squelching of vines starts to creep into the sound of it. Another crack of lighting and the lights in the kitchen flicker. But when they turn back on Steve isn't with the group anymore. He's not even in the kitchen. He's back at the Creel House. 'Baby? Steve?' your voice is distant -- does Vecna have you? Did he find you? Is he taking you away from him? Steve whimpers, getting out of the chair, pulling at the roots of his light brown locks -- desperate to pull himself out of the memory, "Help, please..."

"I'm here, Steve," you say rounding the table while the rest of the group stands back, getting ready to help. Max grabs a boom box and Lucas runs to his car to grab his tapes with everyone's favorite songs on it -- just in case. Dustin approaches him slowly, hands out in front of him while Steve shrinks to the floor, back against the cabinets. "Steve, it's me, it's Dustin," he says calmly and slowly, "You're in Eddie's kitchen, Steve." But Steve only hears Dustin saying his name -- Dustin must be in trouble. "I'm coming," Steve says, eyes shut tight, falling further away. You watch as sweat grows on his hair line and neck, muttering a fuck under you breath. This was gonna be a bad one. "Honey, honey," you continue, kneeling down in front of him to ease his hands off of his hair, "You're okay, you're safe. I'm with you." 'Honey.' He hears your voice in the distance, searching for you in the blue black haze of the Upside Down, the thick particles of dust in his eyes. The slither of vines covers the walls and the floors while he ascends the stairs -- where are Nancy and Robin? Weren't they with him? "Nance?" You watch him call out for Nancy and she goes to get up but Eddie puts his hand delicately on her shoulder. He shakes his head no at her, "Just talk to him," he says to her. 'I'm here, Steve, it's okay!' 'It's okay!' But it's not Nancy's voice, it gets more an more deep, more gravelly, more like him. Steve flinches in front of you, soft 'no, no, no's slipping from his mouth. 'Stevie...' Where are you? Does he have you? 'S̷T̴E̶V̴I̷E̵.'

The sound of Vecna's voice booms in his ears, the thunder rumbling, the red lighting flashing to light up the house. You were never here -- Vecna tricked him. He breathes hard, looking around while the vines snake around, searching for him. "Okay, okay baby," you say hurriedly, watching him while he starts to hyperventilate. You raise your voice to get through to him, "Honey you gotta take some deep breaths for me, okay? Can you hear me?" Max and Lucas come back, smacking the tape into the radio and fastforwarding until Marc Cohn's Walking In Memphis crackles through the speakers. They both heave breaths while the song plays, leaning over the table to settle down from running. "You hear the song, honey?" you ask, "Can you hear it? Talk to me, Steve." You reach your hands up, sliding slowly up his chest to rest your hands by his jaw in a soothing touch. But for Steve in the Creel House, the vines have found him, slithering up his chest and around his neck, tighter and tighter against the wall. He tenses, big hands coming up and grabbing your wrists with a grip so tight you whimper. "No, shit, shit, shit! Fuck! STOP! NO! I CAN'T!" he panics, gasping for breath while his nails dig into your forearms and drag painfully downward why he tries to pull you away. "Ow, ow baby, hey, you're hurting me," you yelp out. He doesn't stop, eyes switching from tightly closed to open and unfocused while he reaches up to your biceps, clawing at them in defense. You reach out a final time. "Honey, honey, please, it's me," you say, tears balancing on your lower lashes while he rises, taking you with him. He handles you real rough, grabbing you by the shoulders and throwing you to the ground with a loud thud. And god does it hurt.

"HEY!" Eddie's voice booms out, gruff and loud like the rumbles of thunder outside. He gets behind Steve, pulling his arms close to his chest while Steve struggles against him. Erica and Mike hurry toward you to help you slowly up off the floor. You reel at first, wanting to run back to him. "Stay in front of her Wheeler," Ed warns, "You all stay right there." You stand behind Mike with Erica who takes your hand tightly in hers. You feel the pulse of pain in your arms when you look down -- gouges and deep scrapes, the blood shines in the line of the kitchen. You shake your head out of it and watch on as Eddie and Dustin do what they can to help -- the song continues to play in the background. "No, no," Steve whimpers, twisting his wrists in Eddie's grasp to break free, but in this state Eddie is stronger. He pulls him close, Steve back to his chest while they sink back down against the cabinets. "Shh," Eddie soothes, still holding him tight, "We got you, just listen -- you're in my kitchen. You hear the song playing?" Steve grunts, thrashing while Eddie hugs him tighter to him. "Steve, listen, listen to the song," Dustin says, "Focus on me and Eddie's voice, listen." Steve struggles, less intense than before, "Shh, shh, it's okay Harrington," Eddie soothes, rocking him slowly back and forth. "They need me," Steve cries weakly, breaths slowing while he pulls again at Eddie's hold, "Gotta save 'em..." "Steve," Dustin says again, getting closer. He rubs his shoulder slowly, pressing his thumb into the joint, "We're safe, all the kids are safe." "Safe..." he repeats back. Eddie sighs a little in apprehensive relief, letting go of one wrist to run a hand over his head, turning Steve's face into his chest and holding him close. "That's right, Steve," Eddie says softly, "Safe." 'Saw the ghost of Elvis, on Union Avenue, Followed him up to the Gates of Graceland And they watched him walk right through...' Steve can hear the lyrics, warbled and tinny in the Upside Down. 'Safe, safe, safe.' Echoing through the walls -- it gets dimmer. 'Now security they did not see him, They just hovered round his tomb...' Dimmer and dimmer. 'Almost over buddy, I can tell, we're right here. You feel Henderson?' A soft warm rub on his shoulder, the lyrics to the song, Eddie's voice. The sound of vines fade away, he hears the rain, it fades to black. "Walkin' in Memphis..." Steve whispers, half confused, while his eyes open and focus -- squinting in the light of the kitchen. Overwhelmed he looks around while the room tilts on it's axis. He grips Eddie's leg tightly to steady himself, he's breaths picking up again. "It's okay buddy, it's just us," Eddie says again, "You with me?" Steve nods, face cracking while he lets out a broken sob. You can only watch while Eddie flicks his eyes up at you in another warning to not come closer yet. Dustin let's go while Eddie starts to hoist him up, wrapping Steve's arm around his shoulder while he helps him to the guest room down the hall. "C'mon big boy," he says gently, "Let's get you some rest."

Things feel a little quiet after Eddie comes back from the guest room, he's tense -- no longer having fun the way he was before. His eyes are dark while he heads outside into the rain to have a cigarette. Lucas turns off the stereo and The Party sits back down at the kitchen table for a moment to decompress. They silently take out of the Magic the Gathering cards and start to set up again, Erica joins them seamlessly. When things seems a semblance of stable, Nancy gets up and takes your hand and leads you to the bathroom, "Let's check you out, alright?"

You sit on the toilet seat cover while Nancy takes out a first aid kit from under the sink. You listen while she hums the climax of Whitney's 'I Have Nothing' quietly, searching the medicine cabinet for some Bactine for your cuts.

"Are you okay?" she asks, taking both of your hands to outstretch your arms, she turns them to see the damage -- she tries to hide her face of disappointment but it's clear.

"I'll be fine," you say softly while she wipes down the gouges and scrapes, "I can take care of it Nance."

"No, you just -- just let me," she says softly. The Bactine stings -- so does the way she looks at you -- pitifully. You hear Eddie's boots clomp down the hallway before he shows up at the door frame of the bathroom.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks -- you wish people would stop asking. They only ask when they see him lose control. You do this all the time, you take care of him all the time.

"I'm okay," you repeat, "A little banged up, but y'know. It's okay."

"Does he do that alot?" Eddie asks, his jaw clenching, "Does he hurt you a lot?"

"This is one of maybe...I don't know -- four times he's gotten physical with me during an episode," you explain, "And you all know about them."

"Does he hurt you when he's here?" Eddie asks, tapping at his temple.

"No, Ed, don't be ridiculous," you sigh, exasperated that he'd even ask.

"Steve's not like that, Eddie," Nancy says, "We've been over this." "Well, here's the thing Nance," he starts, tense, "We're ten years out of this shit and no matter how bad my shit got I've never put a hand on you like that. Ever." "Eddie --" "No, no, listen," he says, "I don't like that, and I especially don't like that happening in my house in front of my pregnant wife." "And what would you like me to do about it, Ed?" you snap, "I can't -- fuck -- I can't fucking fix him for you." "I'm not asking you to fix him," he says back, a pain deep in his chest coming through with his voice, "I'm asking you to be sure that you still want to be a part of this -- your wedding's what -- October? You really wanna be worrying about this?" "For better or for worse, right?" you ask back, choking on the lump in your throat, "That's the promise." Eddie tucks his lips in, his own eyes getting teary while he scans the gouges that Nancy carefully puts bandaids over. "Ice your hip and shoulder for the first couple days," he mutters, biting the edge of his them, "After a fall like that. Then heat." You nod, quietly murmuring a thank you. "S'what my mom used to do," he says under his breath. Eddie scans you slowly one more time, swallowing hard before pushing off the door frame and walking back down the hall. You hear their bedroom door click closed in the distance. "You know how he gets," Nancy says, "Stuff like that y'know -- that's hard for him." "I know." She takes a washcloth, running it under cold water before squeezing it out. Droplets fall on the fabric of her light purple maternity shirt, leaving dark people marks on the top of her belly. She hands it to you. "Here, for his head," she says softly, "In case he's not all the way back yet."

You creep slowly into the guest room, seeing him laying on his stomach with half his face buried in the pillow. His sculpted arms tucked under it to give him something to hold. "Baby?" you ask quietly, "You awake?" He nods with his eyes closed and you look him over -- big hulking man who needs to be held. He hates it but you can't help but love him for knowing he needs it. You put the wet face cloth on the side table, sliding down next to him while he moves over to his side. In one swift motion you've replaced the pillow -- arms wrapping tight around your waist and up your back, one hand molding over your shoulder. He hides his face in your neck and you can feel his tears on his lashes and cheeks. His shoulders shake while he cries for a while, cold sweat damp on his shirt and the back of his neck. You never check how long he cries for – as long as he does. “I’m here,” you say softly, nails grazing his scalp in a steady swipe, “I’m right here.” You adjust a bit in his hold and you feel his grip tighten slightly, a soft whine of desperation leaking from his throat. “Don’t go, please,” he begs softly. “M’not going anywhere big guy,” you soothe, “This wedding’s already put us ten grand in the hole. Where would I even go, now?” You hear a soft ‘tsss’ come out of him, a tug of a smile against the skin of your neck where he hides. 

“Oh, is that funny?” you joke, still coasting your fingers through his hair. He groans, letting his arms let go of you so he can sit up, you can see the tension in his body still. Steve looks down at you with tear stained cheeks and tired eyes, beckoning you forward with his fingers. You sit up for your thank you kiss, his warm palm cupping your cheek while he holds you gently in place. He kisses once slowly, then twice, three times – holding the last so you know he means it. When you break away he rests his forehead against yours, offering a few shallow breaths. You stand up off the bed while he sits off the edge of it, standing between his thighs. 

"Did I hurt you?" he asks softly. He asks after every episode ever since he did hurt you back when you first started dating. A swift smack to the arm that stung for a solid twenty minutes afterward with the amount of power he put into it. It welted. He cried for hours. He wrote you love letters every day for a week. 

You nod, showing him the scratches and bandages on your arms, "I think you thought I was a vine or something. You threw me. Like, to the ground. It was pretty hard."

His lower lip quivers, "No, no, no." “No, Steve,” you assure, trying to calm him, “It’s okay, you didn’t know. It’s alright, I’m alright. It was an accident.” 

His face contorts while the tears start again, his big hands reach out to your waist, pulling you close to him, "It's not okay, it's not alright."

His voice raises an octave while he cries, "I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay, Stevie, shh," you whisper to him, he pulls you in tighter, body shaking while pressing his nose against your cheek.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he cries, sniffling, "You know I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't," you say back, your own cry getting caught in your throat. He sniffles again, leaning back to face you, both of his hands cupping your cheeks, his thumbs rubbing the apples.

"I love you," he says with a depth and intensity that makes the lump in your throat give way. You cry with him and it breaks his heart, "I love you so much honey, you know I’d never…"

You nod, trying to calm your cry the way he was able to calm his -- so used to swallowing it up even though you'd beg him not to.

"I – shit – I have to tell you something," he says softly, hands sliding from your cheeks back down to your waist and then your hips. He looks down at the small triangle of mattress between you and the apex of his thighs.

"What's up, Steve?" you ask, running your hands through his hair again soothingly, "What is it?"

He lifts his head up, eyes shutting at the comforting touch, but when he opens them he looks defeated -- guilty, "I haven't been taking my meds at night. I was -- was flushin’ them cause I just -- baby, I don't know. I can't keep depending on this shit."

"Steve."

"I know," he nods, "I know...That's why -- that's why my shit's getting worse."

"You're not just taking this stuff to take it," you say, cupping his cheeks, "It's to keep you here. It's to keep you with me."

"I know," he repeats, voice cracking again, "I'll call my shrink tomorrow I promise. I'll get back on track. Fuck -- I'm sorry -- and I'm -- I'm sorry I was so mean to you this morning."

"It's okay," you nod, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You drop your hands and rub his shoulder, "I think we should go home, alright? We can get on the couch for the night and just rest."

"Okay," he says quietly, nodding. He slowly gets up off the bed, a little dizzy, using you for support. You both slowly walk out of the bedroom, Nancy peeking around the end of the hall.

"Everything good?" she asks.

You smile at her, "Yeah, I think we're gonna head home."

She smiles tightly, heading into the kitchen where the rest of the group still sits, eating and talking. Their heads turn when you both come into view -- soft eyes and smiles.

"I'm okay, guys," Steve nods, barely able to meet their gazes, "It's fine."

Nancy approaches you with a few tupperwares filled with food and dessert, "We'll get the cooler back to you on Tuesday."

"Don't worry about it," you smile, gathering the tupperware in your arms. You watch as the group gets up one by one to give Steve a hug goodbye. Their movements are slow and controlled, warning touches on his shoulders beforehand to remind him ‘It’s just me, it’s just my arms, I’m hugging you’. Soft mumbled words of support, nothing too loud – don’t startle each other. Wraiths of the friendship they all shared earlier. Rehearsed reactions to all of their sensitive needs – if you’ve seen one episode, you’ve seen all of theirs. And you had, once or twice. “I’ll get a copy bound for you,” Erica says while she hugs him. “You make me so proud, Sinclair,” he smiles. Nancy walks you both to the door and you turn, “How’s Ed?” “He’ll call later,” she nods, a look behind her eyes that matches yours. You hug goodbye, share quick reminders about food for the baby shower and a few crafty decoration plans before heading to the car with a very tired Steve. The rain patters on the hood of the Lexus while you both sit in the leather interior, this time with you in the driver's seat. He rubs at his temples with his eyes closed while you rifle through your purse for a sandwich baggie of emergency migraine medicine. “Here,” you say, handing him the pill, “Before it starts to get bad.” “Hmm,” he grumbles in agreement, popping it in his dry mouth to suck it down.  “We’ll be home soon, okay?” you say, hand coming down on his thigh reassuringly, “Just close your eyes for now.” 

He takes the tupperwares when you get out of the car, fishing his keys out of his back pocket while he does. His strides are long while you hurry up behind him, following him into the house only to bump into his back while he’s stopped by the thermostat to turn on the air. “Sorry,” you say softly. “S’okay,” he replies back, barely above a whisper. He puts the food in the fridge while you head upstairs to start a shower, a ritual you’ve both come to learn well after days or nights like these. You take out the good soap, the shower oil, all the aroma therapy you can to get him to ease up. Anyone else watching you get things ready would assume it was about to be a very sexy time for you. On the same coin, these showers are probably the most intimate moments you have with each other. He comes in as the room starts to steam and you help him ease off his polo, you start on the buttons of your dress while he takes off his jeans and socks. He helps with your bra, both of you shedding your underwear at the same time before you step in. Steve soothes almost instantly, his muscles relaxing under the hot stream, sighing further while he gets soaped up. You don’t have to be in there with him, but you do. He needs you so close so he doesn’t float away. His favorite part comes near the end, sitting in the flow of the shower together while you wash his hair. His eyes flutter closed while your nails scratch and massage him – he swears his hair is even thicker than it was before with all the blood flow you encourage. You wash his hair twice, then deep condition, holding him to your chest while you wait the five minutes it takes to settle in. He leaves soft kisses on your collar bone, on all the marks he left on you in Nance and Eddie's kitchen. He holds your hand, so you can’t float away. You both end up on the couch afterward, the leather groaning beneath you both while you lay across the deep seat cushions, you lay on your back, he lays on his side against you. The heat of his bare chest warms you through your oversized sleep shirt. His soft sweat pants tangle up with your bare legs. You let whatever’s on TV play – reruns you guess, you’re thinking about too many other things. “How’s your head, baby?” you ask while his eyes shut, leaning on your shoulder. “S’fine, better,” he says, he lifts your hand and kisses your fingers before placing both his and your hand on your chest over your heart. The ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dum lulling him to sleep. You half watch TV for however long until your own eyelids get heavy. You click off the TV and opt to turn the stereo on low, just so he doesn’t get lost while he sleeps.

You wake up to oldies, music your parents would listen to on records in the living room growing up – songs that came out a few years before you were born. Oldies. It's dark outside but you can still hear the rain. Steve’s already awake, just watching you while his hand smooths back and forth over your sternum. “You snored,” he says. “Good,” you reply quietly. You both snort out breathy laughs, feeling the warmth of his lips as they smoosh against your cheek. “How you feeling?” he asks, hand coming up to rest on your cheek, sliding down the side of your neck. “A little banged up,” you say, “Might bruise.” “M’sorry,” he says again, a tinge of guilty pink tinging his ears. “It’s okay,” you repeat for what feels like the thousandth time in the past six hours. “You looked really pretty today,” Steve says gently, almost sheepish, “I should’ve told you.” “You looked really handsome,” you say back, “But you were kind of being an asshole so I didn’t want to tell you.” “You should’ve told me, it probably would’ve cured my PTSD,” he says seriously but sarcastically, “Could’ve saved the entire afternoon if you just said how good I looked. Prob’ly wouldn’t have had an episode.” “You’re such an ass,” you laugh, smiling. He leans in to kiss you and it’s the kind that makes you too weak to stand. That kiss got him a second date, it proved that they said about old King Steve in highschool. On the stereo, Sherry Baby bleeds into Unchained Melody.

His hand reaches up under your neck to tilt you up toward him, tasting your tongue with his, guiding you with his kiss, “Angel…” he murmurs. He breathes through his nose while he keeps his lips pressed to yours, desperate to stay here in this moment, attached to you. “Steve,” you say softly, breaking away, “Stevie…” “Please,” he whispers, nuzzling your nose slowly, “Please.” “Lemme take care of you.” “I…” your thoughts trail off while he kisses your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot just by the hinge of your jaw. He waits for your soft sigh, the tilt of your hips towards him – your allowance. He grins when he hears the air pass your lips, the realignment of your spine beneath him while he settles between your squishy thighs. His hands travel south, pushing up the hem of your big t-shirt to your waist, holding you there for a moment while his kiss takes over your mouth again. He tugs your cotton panties down, breaking the kiss while he sits up on the couch to slide them off your ankles. Steve looks down at you with an expression that makes your breath catch in your chest, serious – with supple lips, needy eyes. He leads himself back down again, big hands sliding down the sides of your thighs over your hips to your waist again. Instinctively, your legs spring up to wrap around him while his hips align with yours, feeling his strained cock in his sweats against you. “Jesus…” he whispers again, eyes fluttering closed. He buries his face in your neck while you rock slowly against him, the pressure and friction against the underside of his erection sending low volts through his body. “Mm-mm,” he grunts, shaking his head ‘no’ while mumbling, “It’s supposed to be about you.” “Well stop dangling it in front of me then,” you giggle quietly, he giggles too. The smile sends you reeling, his pretty teeth, the way his nose scrunches. He leans forward again to kiss, he just can’t stop kissing, can’t stop tasting your lips, feeling you against him. Steve’s hand reaches down to pull himself out of his sweats, pushing the waistband to the tops of his thighs while he uses the other to push one thigh out off the couch. “You ready f’me?” he asks huskily, tip dragging slowly from the pool of slick at your opening up in between your folds. He lets his thumb run in slow circles over your clit while he waits for your answer, your slow nod while you lean your head back on the arm rest gives him the okay. He eases himself in slow, the tip pushing past your opening with some resistance. “Open up a lil’, honey,” he mumbles quietly while he guides the tip in again, “Open up for me.”

Your little gasps float out of you and into the fuzzy part of his brain, gliding down his spine. You angle your hips upward, one thigh up against the couch cushions and the other dangling over the edge, spread as wide as you can. He holds himself above you with one arm, the other aiding in pushing himself further in, the tip finally breaching your core. He keeps guiding, slow back and forths while you ease open for him – taking him in, inch by inch. “Oh yes, mhm,” he groans to himself softly, “Thass–hmm-that’s it, angel.” He let’s go when he’s three fourths in, crowding over you, forearms on each side of your head while he strokes slowly to start – getting you used to him, accommodating his size. “That’s good?” he breathes. “Ye-yeah,” you breathe back to him. His mouth latches to yours again, feeling him guide your hands up beside your head, lacing fingers while he presses you deeper into the couch cushions. He keeps his strokes slow and deliberate, feeling every ridge of you inside, how you suck him in and hug him tight in place – but how he feels isn’t nearly as important. It’s the way your brows contort, the way you bite your lip, your whines into his mouth while he kisses you. Each slow thrust makes you coat him in a new flow of slickness. “C’mere,” he says into your jawline, letting go of one hand to sneak behind you at the waist, pulling you flush to him. The new angle makes you let out a whine while he hits a spot deep inside you, he grunts at the reaction, the feeling of you taking him in. His pace picks up the smallest tick, face centimeters from yours – your noses brush, lips barely touching while his amber eyes keep steady on yours. You let out short huffs, little whimpers every time the head of his cock pushes deeper with every roll of your hips. “S’nice, hm?” he asks, brows slanting, softening. “Mhm,” you squeak back, “S-so good, honey.” Your legs pull in again, socked heels resting on the top of his butt while he sighs at the change in pressure. “Thassperfect, god,” he hisses out, head dropping down to your chest, pressing sloppy kisses above your breasts while he gathers himself. He groans into your neck while wet warmth tightens over him, soft velvet walls coaxing him closer and closer to the edge. 

Steve’s shoulders flex while he balances on his forearms above you again, your forgotten hand taken by his, fingers interlocked. His face inches from yours while he looks at you, the way your eyes flutter, the soft parting of your lips, the high pitched  ‘Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn,’s coming out of them — you’re so beautiful.

“So pretty,” he says to you, huffing a breath into a smile, “So pretty, baby.” 

You kiss him a thank you. You see him swallow when he breaks away, his eyes getting glassy. 

“S’gonna be okay,” he assures, nodding down at you, nose to nose, “We’re gonna be okay.” Slow thrusts  between statements. 

“Gonna get married,” he says, a groan flowing right down into your mouth while he kisses you, “Gonna be just like Ed and Nance, right?” 

You nod while his thrusts get more passionate, deeper.

“Yeah? That’s nice?” he asks, “Marry you? Take you just like this after the wedding?” 

“Yeah,” you gasp back, “Yes, Stevie.” 

“Give you a baby?” he asks in a low whisper into your skin, lips pressing against your cheek, his strong nose dragging against your cheek bone, “Give you so many babies. You want that?” 

“I want that,” you nod, face pinching while you feel yourself building up and up in a slow churn. 

“You want that?” he asks again, coming back to hover over you — tears in his eyes, “You want that with me?” 

You nod to each other while he embraces you in an old movie kiss, wrapping himself around you, pressing him to his chest while his thrusts get purposeful, controlled. 

“I love you,” he pants into your ear, “I’m yours, m’all yours.”

“I love you, too,” you rasp back, free’d fingers interlocking in his hair. He gets leverage on his knees, the leather of the couch squeaking under him while he repositions. Soft smacks of skin between you echo in the living room against the backdrop of the low stereo.   “Oh my god, Steve,” you moan out, “You’re – oh god you’re so deep.” “So deep, angel, Christ–” he huffs, trying to make a mental note of this position so he can remember it for October – really make it stick. His thought process stifled when your nails drag down his back, making his passionate thrusts quicken – a signature cocky smirk flick across his lips. “Mmm, that feels good honey?” he asks – he knows the answer. Your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, tears glazing over your eyes while he feels you pulse over him. Thank god the couch was leather. Watching you bathe in the afterglow of your orgasm he works you toward the second with ease, chasing his pleasure with each soaking thrust into you – so nice like this, so pliant – his little ragdoll. When he cums it’s deliberate, spilling inside you with your eyes on each other. You give one another breathless kisses, bodies interlocked, sticking to the couch in new found exhaustion. The phone rings. Neither of you get up to answer it. ‘BEEP. You’ve reached the Harrington residence – Did you forget my last name isn’t Harr– If you’re calling before October 1997 then it’s not just the Harrington residence yet but – whatever you know what I mean. Leave a message, we might call ya back.’

“Hey Harrington it’s Munson, um, just making sure you’re okay, man. Sorry I disappeared for a little bit there. Love you, call me back when you can. Bye.” 

thanks for reading. <3

[yawnderu]

My life is falling apart - could you write how Ghost might save reader from her emotionally abusive and toxic husband? I thank you, maybe one day I'll have someone like Simon.

Whoever you are, I'm here for you if you need to talk. Stay strong sweetheart, this too shall pass. 💖

CW: Emotional abuse, toxic relationships, hurt/comfort, protective Simon Riley.

Simon had sneaked his way into your life with the same stealth he uses on missions— a man who barely spent any time at his apartment and was always away for what he said was just ''work''. The same man who after a few conversations, started bringing you small gifts from his missions, always something different that he thought you'd like.

Simon isn't dumb— far from it, he's always aware of his surroundings and throughout the years, he knows how to read people well. That's why it breaks him to see the way your smiles now came accompanied with a nervous look in your eyes whenever your husband was home, despite you and Simon simply being friendly towards one another.

Whenever he was back at his apartment, he started listening more and more. Paying even more attention to you, ear pressed against the wall while he listened to your husband berate you for a plethora of reasons, all of them more absurd than the other, the truth heavy on his shoulders, weighting him down like Atlas holding the sky.

Oh, how he wanted nothing more than to go inside your house and ravage your husband the same way he does so casually in the battlefield— but he can't. Simon Riley is not Ghost. Simon has to lay low, to ensure both his safety and yours, so he starts planning. Planning how to approach the issue, how to get you out of the situation and understand you better. He'd never admit it, but he spent the entire night reading the experiences of other married women when it comes to abusive marriages, restless dreams full of ideas on how in the bloody hell he'll get you out of this.

He waits until the next day once your husband leaves for work, waiting out five minutes that feel eternal just to make sure he doesn't come back. Unmasked and with very faint stains of eye black that he never seems to be able to fully remove, he knocks on your door. You answer with teary eyes, sniffling softly as you try your best to give him a small smile, yet he can see the pain. The same pain he saw in his mother's eyes his entire life.

''Simon!'' You greet, moving aside so he can enter your house, closing the door behind you as you both go to the living room.

''Would you like a cuppa?'' You offer and it takes him a few seconds to decide, ultimately nodding his head. Maybe this will be easier if you're both having a nice, warm drink. You come back minutes later with a tray and some crumpets, something you started buying when he casually mentioned liking them.

''Thank you.'' He takes a sip of the perfectly made chamomile tea, done the way he loves it— with two teaspoons of honey and hot. You give him a happier smile, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a secure blanket, a far cry from your marriage.

''Love...'' He begins and your full attention goes to him, noticing his serious tone and pensive expression.

''There's no easy way to say this, but with this place having thin walls, I sometimes hear things I shouldn't.'' You immediately know what he's talking about, but before you can apologize on behalf of your husband, he keeps speaking.

''You deserve so much better.'' He puts his cup down, eyes looking down to his hands— the hands he keeps ungloved just for you, the hands that are protected by his skull gloves whenever he's out in missions, so he can come back to you free of sin. He sits down next to you, one of his arms wrapping around your back reassuringly.

''Why are you still with him?'' There's a hint of desperation in his tone, thin eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. You want to look away, but his brown eyes are almost hypnotic. So expressive, so telling whenever words aren't enough.

''I... I don't know.'' You reply with honesty, tone strained as you hold back tears and try to dig into your brain for any reasons you're with the man, yet nothing comes up. ''I don't have anywhere else to go to.''

Your words hurt him as much as they hurt you, looking at the potential you have that is being wasted on some ungrateful wanker who berates you for the smallest things.

''Run away with me.'' He suggests in a spur of the moment and before he can even process his own words, a small giggle escapes your lips. He raises an eyebrow as he looks down at you, curious as to what's so funny. Your giggling stops when you notice the expression on his face.

''You're serious?'' You ask carefully, not wanting to make a fool of yourself despite knowing he'd never joke about something like that.

''I'm serious, love. We could go somewhere far away from here, safe. You can leave all of this behind, just say the word.''

''I...'' He can see your hesitancy, his warm hand rubbing circles on your back while the other one holds your hand, thumb rubbing the back of your hand reassuringly.

''What if he finds me?'' It's the first question that comes to mind, not wanting to deal with more of his abuse if you ever manage to get away.

''He won't, doll. I can promise you that. I'll get some of my mates to watch out for you when I'm busy at work, if it helps you.'' He knows it will, and he already has highly trusted friends from the 141 in mind to watch out for you whenever he goes on solo missions.

It took almost two hours of convincing before you agreed, and that's where you are now. He's helping you inform the police about your situation and why you're going away, just in case your husband tries to report you missing.

Most of your belongings were left at the house, but... it surprisingly doesn't bother you. It'll be a new beginning, the same furniture that has witnessed years of abuse is now left behind, only a few clothes inside his car while you both leave the police station. You take a deep breath, the warmth of the sun washing over your skin as you close your eyes, a sincere smile on your face for the first time in years.

''Thank you, Simon.'' My angel, my savior.

[juniperss]

Soft!Dallas Winston Headcanons

A/N: This was originally written on my main account a few years ago but I decided to move it here since I don't change this URL as often and it makes easier to find my writing! A/N 2: It's been a while since I wrote these so I'd like to think that I've improved somewhat since then!

Dally isn't new to winning girls over, how to get them to blush and feel like they swallowed a butterfly, but he is new to expressing genuine softness. It takes the right person to warm him up and get his tough exterior to melt and takes very little for that wall to be built back up.  It's foreign to him on so many levels that he's not sure if he's doing right so be prepared for him to fumble a bit (though he won't ever admit that he fumbled anything).

He's not really scared of PDA and actually takes a lot of pride in showing you off. Full on kisses, butt tap/slaps (feel free to return those btw), and wrapping his arm around your waist acts as both a warning/display that you are is his partner, but also allows him to keep you close by him. He tells you later into the relationship that having you next to him acts like an anchor, you keep that in mind now.

However softer forms of PDA do make him slightly uncomfortable such as temple kisses, holding hands, cuddling, etc. He likes (and needs) to maintain his “tough greaser” exterior and those softer moments don't go hand in hand with it. So if anyone besides the gang is around he's pretty guarded.

If you play with boy's hair he's going to die a little. At the end of the day when he plops down onto the couch at the Curtis's and leans his head onto the back of couch, you run your fingers through his locks you can physically feel him melt into the cushions. There's something about the tugging of his hair, your fingers scratching his scalp while listening to you talk to the guys makes him feel secure.

Dally is basically a cat in a sense; he's very selective in who he likes, really doesn't seek out affection and isn't super keen on showing that he likes it, but he's not going to complain if YOU are the one who initiates it. He might pretend to be annoyed if the gang teases him but does he pull away his hand away from yours as you lace your fingers together? Hell no!

While we're on the topic of hand holding.....this boy has soft hands? Even with the work he does and all the fights he gets into, he somehow manages to keep his hands softer than expected. They're strong though and usually covered with bruises and the occasional cuts he acquires from various fights and scrapes he finds himself in.

The first time you helped him take care of his cut up knuckles he couldn't stop watching you. You can bet your ass he was flirting with you the entire time you were gathering the disinfectant and band aides but the moment you actually took his one hand in both of yours he shut up and stared. Had that dumb puppy dog look in his eyes that you found incredibly distracting to the point you had to ask him to stop it (he won't let you ever live that down)

Really really realllllyyyyyy loves if you hold one of his hands in both of yours. He thinks it's cute? And no he doesn't know why.

Has and will fall asleep on you at any given moment if you are seated next to him. In the car regardless if the gang is there or if it's just the two of you, on the couch, on the floor, if you're tucked into the booth in an empty diner. Probably has dozed off while you two hung out at the junkyard one night

Is the type of boyfriend who climbs through your window instead of just knocking on your front door. He might claim it's because your parents don't like him (might be true), but he just likes the look on your face when you see him tapping on the glass.

Please for the love of god let this boy be the little spoon. Dally really is a loner and besides the gang he's been alone for quite a while. He's emotionally guarded and lacked the support he needed growing up to show that it's okay to talk about his emotions. So one his bad days he gets angry, doesn't really know how to express that other than getting into fights whether those are physical, verbal, or both. At the end of the bad day, once he's patched up and calmed down, he just wants to lay down with you and feel you wrap your arms around him and press your chest against his back.  

[the-bi-space-ace]

Okay I’m going to talk about cutting off Crosshair’s hand because while I know plenty of people see a lot of symbolism in it and think it was a good decision I have things to say about it.

I have CPTSD which has a lot of different symptoms. One of them is trembling or shaking. There’s a lot of complexities tied up in it but I’m not going to go into more detail because it’s not a fun thing to talk about.

What I liked about Crosshair’s trauma was that it impacted him not only mentally and emotionally but also physically. It’s very representative of what it’s actually like dealing with symptoms from something like PTSD and CPTSD (there are differences between these two that I won’t go into rn). I loved that we got to see a physical symptom of something psychological. It’s so rare that it’s handled well. Because yeah meditation and safety will help, certainly, but oftentimes it’s not the end all be all. I’m safe. I’m protected. I take care of my mental well being. But I still have symptoms that say the opposite. Because it’s not as simple as ‘no longer in the bad situation therefore the symptoms will stop’. I’ve made my peace that it’s lifelong and, honestly, Crosshair’s symptoms would be lifelong as well.

Cutting off his hand…

Here’s the thing.

The show really makes it seem like cutting off his hand is something he needed to move forward. He needed to be rid of the symptom because it was a physical reminder and it was holding him back from moving on. Cutting off the hand means no more shaking which means he’s healed. No more shaking hand=no more trauma. He can finally move on with his life.

And to that I say ouch.

There’s been plenty of times my symptoms are inconvenient to myself or others. Times when I wish I could just make it stop. Times when I’m terrified that it’s holding me back and I’m screwed up and that’s all I’ll ever be: broken. There are plenty of times I know people wish i could just knock it off and get over it and cut it out but that’s not how it works. Like I said. I’ve made peace with this thing that’ll be with me forever.

It was refreshing to see him try to adapt to dealing with it instead of ignoring it or trying to get rid of the part of him that was hurting. I loved that. It was such a freeing thing to see. Someone who will live with the hurt and the symptoms and it doesn’t make him any less. It just makes him have to do life a little different.

I hate that they cut off his hand. I hate that it wasn’t handled with any sort of nuance or delicacy. And I hate that this thing that made me so proud of him, so proud to share something with him, just got cut off for… what? Shock? To ‘fix’ him?

If we had gotten more time with the loss of his hand maybe I’d feel differently. Hell, I’d love to see how Crosshair adapts to losing his hand, see how he learns to accommodate. It would give him and Echo something to bond over and talk about, finding healing with each other. I think this could’ve been done well. I’d still be on the fence about it but I would’ve held my breath and saw how it played out.

I fully expect people to roll their eyes at me here. I expect that people will say that I just don’t get it or that this isn’t what they intended. I’m sure this isn’t what they intended. At least I hope it isn’t. But what they intended doesn’t change how insensitively this was handled after a whole season of him unpacking his hurt and trying to learn to adapt to it. No one reacted to it, not even Crosshair, and we got no unpacking of what happened. I’m not happy with this but it is what it is I guess.

[miraclewoozi]

DRIVE. - l.c

DRIVE -- or, the night you realise it's actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place.

pairing : chan x fem reader. content : fwb > lovers. angst, smut (MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT), fluff. more or less in that order. they’re both dumb as hell. not explicitly put in any detail but this was written with a more 70s vibe in mind so feel free to bear that in mind when thinking of the car/tech/styles etc if u like. w/c : 7.8k warnings : lots of swearing. it’s all a big fuckin misunderstanding because i am a whore for that. weed & alcohol mentioned (neither party is drunk or high at the time of this taking place). mentions of past cheating (neither mc or chan are the cheater). some pov switching because i said so. let me know if i've forgotten anything. proofread exactly once so if there's a typo, no there isn't. SMUT TAGS UTC.  notes : dino. get the fuck off my ass. i’m so serious i am not strong enough to handle the very real feelings i have for you. go away.  notes 2.0 : i listened to halsey’s drive for some inspo for this & took that as the title, so feel free to give it a listen if you want!

SMUT TAGS : dom!chan. car fuckin', making out, hair pulling, grinding/dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, dick riding, marking/scratching, unprotected sex (make good choices), overstimulation, multiple orgasms. praise. chan calls reader ‘baby’ & ‘sweetheart’. he’s a BIG talker during sex (sorry).

You’re not stupid. You heard his car pull up outside your house almost an hour ago. 

Since then, at random intervals ranging anywhere between thirty seconds and five minutes, there have been clinks of a thrown stone at your bedroom window, a piece of the gravel that lines your driveway. Each time, it makes your jaw tense, makes your fingers tighten in the bedsheets you pulled all the way up to your chin in a foul mood at 8pm. It’s been the same now for almost two weeks — you’ve been getting home from work, showering the day away, eating your dinner and retiring to your room as early as you possibly can. Your roommate tried to find out what was wrong around day three but you very promptly shut her down — she’s since learned that the best she’s getting out of you currently is a dismissive wave of your hand or some kind of a grunt. She joked one evening that it was like she’d adopted a teenager; you scowled so violently that she went to her room. 

Hardly any of your other friends have seen anything of you, either, despite the fact that several have come knocking to check if you’re all right. 

You’re very much not all right, as it happens. This is perhaps the most upset you’ve ever felt, and that’s going quite some way. The angriest, too. It’s worse than when that middle aged woman threw her entire bucket of popcorn at your head when you gave her salty instead of sweet, and you were picking kernels out of your hair for the rest of your six hour shift. It’s worse than when your nasty supervisor ‘forgot’ you were in the bathroom and ended up locking you inside the cinema overnight, because you didn’t have your own set of keys to get out and the people whose numbers you remembered weren’t answering their phones. 

It’s somehow even worse than when a summer crush from a few years ago broke things off by telling you that he already had a girlfriend back home and that you were basically just a means to pass the time and get his dick wet. God, and you thought that was the lowest you could possibly be.

Here you are, though, so far beyond all those things it would be comical, if it didn’t hurt. Chan has really done a number on you, and you’re not sure how you ended up getting so emotionally involved in your situationship with him that this is what you’ve been reduced to. For days now, you’ve been swallowing back tears of frustration (both with yourself and with Chan), rolling around in your bed night on night, unable to get to sleep because all you can think about is him.

Him, and the way he sounded genuinely horrified when his friends asked about the ‘movie girl’, and he laughed, ‘God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen’. It was impressive, how quickly your face fell, in no way aided by the squealing giggles that rang through the house as a very, very drunk girl came running out of the living room and shut herself in the toilet, drowning out a chunk of the conversation you were listening in on. Somehow, it hurt even more when he went on to say ‘besides, there’s… someone else’. 

And when you have managed to drift off after hours of staring at the walls and the ceiling, hearing those words on a loop on your fed up brain? Of course he’s been in your fucking dreams, too.

In your defence, all you were trying to do was use the mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen he and his friends were standing in, readjusting your top to cover the hickey that he had so kindly left on your collarbone just the night before. It wasn’t as though you sought him out to listen in; it was a coincidence. And okay, fine, maybe you should have walked away when the conversation turned to the topic of Chan’s love life. Maybe you should have not crept closer and held your breath to be able to hear them all better. Maybe, even, you should have stayed around long enough to ask what he meant by it then and there instead of hopping in a taxi and going home without saying goodbye to anyone. 

Hindsight really is a beautiful thing.

Never gonna happen. Well, Chan seemed quite happy to ignore the fact that it already had happened. Several times. At least four of those being in the very car currently on the street outside your home. The car he’s used on countless occasions to drive you up to lovers’ lookouts in the dead of night, letting one of his many mixtapes play through the tinny speakers, where he’d kiss you breathless and cradle your face between his palms, as his fingers would delicately explore beneath your clothes, as his broad shoulders would slot between your thighs, as his hips rol–

And maybe you aren’t stupid, but Chan seems determined to prove that he sure as hell is. He came to pick you up from work the day after the party like nothing had happened, and couldn’t figure out why you said you would rather walk home in the rain than get in with him and stormed away without any further explanation. Then, he showed up on your doorstep on the morning of your day off with your favourite coffee and a breakfast bagel, asking if you could talk. He still didn’t realise what he’d done to upset you, so you slammed the door in his face. Finally, just earlier today, he ran after you in the mall, persistent as you’ve ever known him to be, and laid a hand on your shoulder when you didn’t turn around to just the sound of his voice calling your name. 

You pushed him off so hard he almost fell over. 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!” You had barked, shrugging your shoulders to try and realign your jacket. “I don’t want to talk to you. What’s not clicking?”

His face resembled that of a scolded pet when he took a step back and frowned at you. “I just wanted to–”

“I don’t care what you want, Chan,” you spat. “Give it up. I’m done.”

You could see the desperation swimming in his eyes as he scrambled for what to say and your heart felt like it was being weighed down all the way into your stomach. You supposed that was the part of you that was causing all this ache in the first place, and further that it was to blame for your current state of misery. But you steeled yourself and stood your ground nonetheless. He wasn’t going to win you over with puppy eyes and a pout. Not this time.

In his silence, you only then noticed how hard your breaths were coming, each slow and long but still dangerously unsteady. You lowered your voice, top lip curling at him as you muttered, “You’re embarrassed of me enough to lie to your friends? Fine. I don’t give a–… but shit, next time, tell a girl that to her face instead of behind her fucking back.”

It’s been seven hours, and you keep replaying the last thing he said to you as you stormed away (how his voice got quieter when he realised you weren’t turning back; how he sounded so hoarse, so sorry). 

‘I’m sorry if I hurt you - I— I never meant to.’

If. If. If. Were you not making it completely fucking obvious that he had, most definitely, hurt you? Part of your brain is even now starting to go down the route that he’s doing this on purpose, that it’s some twisted sort of damage control, that he hopes maybe if he plays dumb for long enough, you’ll forget what you were mad about or maybe start to second guess what you heard. But if that’s what he thinks, he obviously doesn’t know you very well at all. That’s never going to happen. 

Hell, for someone you were being so careful to keep in the appropriate lane in your head, Chan really has you thinking yourself in circles. You’re sick to your back teeth of him, and his stupid voice and his stupid smile and his stupid –

Clink.

Stupid. Fucking. Stones.

A groan loud enough to definitely catch the attention of your roommate sounds from deep within your chest at this interruption to your spiral and you finally, finally concede. Whatever argument he’s so clearly longing to have at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? Fine. He can have it. If it means he backs off for good, you’ll give him his one last ruck.

You pull the window open none too gently and lean enough through it that Chan comes into view. He isn’t even looking up, you realise, too busy sifting through the driveway trying to find his next little projectile, and you hiss his name to get his attention. It startles him so much that he drops the indiscernible bundle in his right hand. He blindly scrambles to pick it up, those big, earnest eyes gazing at you as if you’re floating in midair before him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask him, trying not to raise your voice too loud but at the same time, needing to generate enough volume for him to hear. He holds the bundle in both hands, now, and they catch the light of the lamp by your front door. Flowers, you register, squinting to try and make them out, your brows furrowing so much that your forehead hurts. 

Black dahlias.

You choke back a laugh. Ah, the joys of fooling around with the son of a florist. Are they all so damn dramatic? (Or does he just know that they’re your favourites?)

Whichever it is, you tell yourself that’s not going to work. You won’t let it. Through gritted teeth, you say, “go away. I’m serious. I’ll call the cops on you.”

He shakes his head, begging as he steps just a little closer so his face is more visible in the amber light too. “Please–” he hurries, biting his bottom lip. “Please, don’t– just… tell me what I did. I want to make it right. Please.”

He never begs like this. In all the time you’ve known him, you swear Chan has said ‘please’ to you fewer times than you could count on your fingers. Which is by no means a bad thing — that’s just always been the very comfortable nature of your friendship, and later, the -with-benefits tag that you ended up sticking on the end. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and fighting not to shiver in the cold nighttime air. Note to self: don’t do a Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the fucking winter without layering up, first. “What does it even matter?”

“What do you mean, what does it matter?” He asks, looking down at the bunch of flowers in his hands, then back at you. “I-... you know I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. Please, just… if I did something–”

“There’s someone else,” you echo, fed up with his pretending. He’s a fair actor, you’ll give him that – he might even have been able to convince you, if you hadn’t already heard the other half of this tale he’s doing his best to spin in his favour. 

His face screws up, thinking he’s misheard. It’s his turn not to understand now. If you’re telling him you’ve met someone else, he’s got questions, because you’d promised to be open and honest with each other if that ever happened, so that you could call things off and go back to being just friends without it becoming a big deal. That was always supposed to be a calm conversation, not… whatever this is. You talked about it, right at the start. But… those are the words you’re saying, aren’t they? And why would you be mad at him if you were the one whose circumstances had changed? 

“What?” he asks, finally. “What do you mean?”

“God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen. Besides, there’s… someone else!” You raise your voice without really meaning to, before swallowing hard and glancing back inside your room. “You said that, Chan. Don’t piss me off by coming here and pretending like you didn’t.”

Chan starts to look like he’s trying to figure out an algebraic equation in his head while only having half the required information; his eyes fall down to the gravel, his lips move without any sound coming out of them, his features tighten until there are definite lines between his eyebrows. Then, it clicks. The lightbulb moment. He slaps one hand to his face and shakes his head furiously, and you just know he’s going to wake up with an ache in his neck tomorrow because of it.

“Oh fuck,” he curses. “No, no, no, no, no – that’s not–”

“What did I just say?” You spit down at him. “Don’t piss me off–”

“Listen!” He shouts, and you gesture with your hand for him to lower his voice, interrupting his flow of thought and rendering him silent for a moment. “Fuck, please. Come down here and talk to me. That’s not what you think it is.”

You’re in every mind to slam your window shut and leave him out there in the cold. It would work if you got out your headphones to drown out the sounds of him trying to get your attention, which you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he would do. And maybe then he’d get the hint; maybe then he would understand that you’re not just some pushover who he can just pick up and play with when it suits him. 

But he’s still holding those fucking flowers like they’re a lifeline, still looking up at you without a single lick of anger on his face. Not stress at having been discovered, which you would have expected him to be swimming in right about now. He looks… kind of beside himself, as if nothing could possibly be worse than what you’re threatening to do.

All this, for you? It just doesn’t make sense. 

“Please,” he says again, quieter, weaker. For the first time, you pick up on the hint of a shiver in his voice, and you swallow. Whether you’re gulping back your pride, or your resolve, or the last remnants of your sensibility, you don’t know. 

Does he deserve for you to hear him out? You’re not sure.

But does he deserve to be stuck out in the cold in just his stupid leather jacket and a pair of jeans? 

With regret, you think, no. He doesn’t.

All you give him is a scowl before you disappear from view entirely, pulling the window closed and drawing your curtains again. Faster than you think you ever have before, you throw on a sweatshirt over your pyjamas, grab your keys, and hurry down the stairs as silently as you possibly can. 

He’s stood in exactly the same place when you edge outside and pull the door closed behind you. Up-close, you can see the tiredness on his face: this is a man who has exhausted himself in worry, you think, and yet he still smiles a little when he sees you in full. He still holds the flowers out for you to take. He still purses his lips and blows out a stuttered cloud of air. Nervous, and not in the way you think he ought to be. So when you walk straight past him and don’t take the dahlias out of his hands, instead standing by his car and waiting for him to unlock it for you, you start to feel overwhelmingly guilty. 

Chan is many, many… many things. But he really isn’t this good of a performer, no matter what you’ve been telling yourself all week. For God’s sake, why is it so much easier to be angry at him when he’s not standing right in front you?

You slip into his passenger side as he fumbles to set the flowers down on his backseat again, and he joins you up front just a few moments later. His hands are shaking when he sets the keys into the ignition. His whole body is. When you cast a real look over at him, the tips of his fingers are pale and his lips are lacking their usual rosy, pink hue. Your own teeth are chattering despite only having been truly exposed to the cold air for a matter of seconds; you dread to think how frozen he must be.

“Are we driving?” You ask to break the silence. Since he got into the car and fiddled with the heating settings to try and warm things up a little, he hasn’t said a word. It’s awkward. It’s horrible. You already miss the comfortable way you’ve been able to sit for hours together, barely talking, just watching the lights of the city and the cars travelling through it. 

You already miss him. Which is a strange thought, seeing as he’s only about ten inches away. 

“If– if you want,” he says, stuttering through the frost in his lungs. “We can go—...”

“Drive, Chan,” you say. It’s not just because you want him to stop falling over his words – which, to be fair, you do. Chan has always been very confident, carrying himself with the air of someone who knows exactly their worth. It’s one of the things you treasure about him. So this? Is fucking weird. But a big part of it is that you know his car will heat up faster if it’s in motion, and right now, you think maybe he’s at risk of losing a finger or two if he doesn’t get some circulation back.

He steps on the gas and the car pulls away from your home. It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his car without there being some sort of music playing, whether that’s historically just been the radio or a tape he put together with the help of one of his older friends. (The tapes that always had your first initial on them. The tapes that he never failed to ask your opinions on when he dropped you home – as if he’d compiled them with only you in mind.) The silence feels jarring and you can hear every rumble of the engine, every squeal of the brakes he definitely needs to get serviced. 

But the car does warm through, and you sigh out relief as the bones in your hands move a little easier, as your fingers curl and uncurl to less resistance from your taut muscles. Chan feels it, too; his body relaxes, his breaths stop coming out in fractions, his face gets some colour back. The timing feels a little less awful when you finally say, “go on, then.”

Chan glances over at you as he drives down an unlit street. Only for a second, like he’s checking you’re still there, before his eyes train back on the road. He’s going to one of your favourite spots. It isn’t a lookout – it’s somewhere completely shut off from the rest of town, hidden by the trees near the railway tracks, somewhere you’ve never had to worry about being seen or heard. Maybe he’s anticipating a screaming match. Maybe he’s expecting something else. Maybe, even, he just cares about how much you love it there. 

“I didn’t know you heard that conversation,” he starts, sheepishly. You want to roll your eyes, reach over and thump him, ask if that makes what he said okay, but you don’t. You stay looking out the front windscreen too. Waiting. “I… all right. I was out of my ass drunk.”

You click your tongue, pressing it afterwards against the inside of your cheek, but again, you stay quiet.

“I don’t think you heard what you thought you heard, though,” he goes on to say. “‘Cause– ‘cause it wasn’t…”

But you can only be quiet for so long in the face of this mess. Especially when he’s apparently working towards a doctorate in beating around the fucking bush. “I heard you tell your friends that it was never gonna happen with ‘movie girl’.”

Chan’s face brightens, and you can’t help but wonder what on Earth is wrong with this man. Why does he find that funny? Why is his chest moving like he’s trying not to laugh?

“And you… thought you were movie girl,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Okay – shit. I’m sorry.”

You look at him properly, now, as he indicates to the right and takes the turn that leads him down the lane to your spot. “What are you talking about?”

“I get it,” he says. “You work at the–... but you’re not movie girl. Not that movie girl.”

“Stop talking in riddles before I get out of this car, Chan. It’s too late for this shit.”

He holds a hand up as if to apologise and settles back against the head cushion, suddenly looking far more comfortable than he did thirty seconds ago. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lips, before sucking in a breath and letting himself go on.

“You’re not movie girl,” he says again, successfully clarifying nothing. “There’s this chick I used to dance with — years back, before… God, when we were in school, like, forever ago. She moved away when we were sixteen.” As he talks, he reaches your destination and sets the car into park, before he unfastens his seatbelt and turns to face you. You do the same, shifting your weight to tuck one leg up beneath you, and with your undivided attention, he goes on. “I ran into her recently. She’s back in town now, I guess. It was like, two weeks—?”

“I’m gonna be all-over grey by the time you finish telling this story,” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “Can you please give me the short version?”

“Not if you want it to make sense,” Chan shrugs. Begrudgingly, you let him keep talking. “She said it would be cool to hang out, maybe catch a movie or do lunch or something — and look, I didn’t know she was asking me on a date, I thought she was just being nice, y’know? Trying to be friends, but… you weren’t working that day, it was when you had that… that stomach thing going on? And I brought you the soup my mom made, remember?”

You nod; of course you remember. At the time, you wondered why on Earth this grown man’s mother was making you food — you asked yourself whether he’d told her about you, or if she thought it was for someone else. In the end you decided he must have just been bringing you leftovers. But you’d been too worn out to start asking questions; instead, after you’d eaten, you let yourself fall asleep with your head in his lap as he patted your hair and hummed his favourite songs. You hadn’t let yourself think too deeply about it since. 

“Anyway. We were sat watching the movie and she, uh,” he glances down at his lap, tips of his ears burning pink. “She put her hand, sorta, on my thigh? And then I was like, shit, I didn’t read this right, like… at all. So I moved it off and she took the hint — and after it ended I said to her, you know, I was flattered, right? But I wasn’t interested. And then I went home and got that soup and—… yeah.”

He came straight to see you. To look after you. Hell, you didn’t even fool around that night; in retrospect, it was all uncharacteristically domestic. And slowly, the pieces you’ve spent days struggling to fit together start to fall into place. It makes sense. The only question that remains is do you believe him?

Well, tell a lie. 

There is one more. 

“You said there was someone else,” you add quietly. 

You’ll die before you admit it, but this is secretly the part that was hurting you the most. 

You can’t even look him in the eye, right now; your cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of even caring. As much as you want to tell yourself that the only reason you’re pissed is just because of the dishonesty, you can only stare at yourself in the mirror and point-blank lie so many times. Someone else. You hate it. 

Just the thought of him seeing somebody else, taking them out on dates, smiling at them, laughing with them, kissing them the way he kisses you, touching —

A shiver runs the length of you and you cross your arms, thrusting your sleeve-covered hands under your armpits. 

Chan takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly, like he’s blowing smoke out of his lungs. “There is,” he admits, nodding slowly, avoiding your eyes, too. “There is someone else.”

“When were you going to tell me?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t respond straight away. You don’t notice, but eventually his eyes do land back at you; it’s only when he clears his throat to get your attention that you look at him long enough to realise he’s quite deliberately staring. His lips are lifted on the right in a lopsided smile, his eyes soft as he reaches across the seats towards you. You stare blankly down at his hand until he wiggles his fingers, and you think briefly that this is the most fucked up ending to a situationship you’ve ever been through. 

You drop one of your hands down and let him hold it, though, staring at his face as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and you wait for him to finally say it out loud. For him to announce that he’s fallen for somebody and that he can’t see you anymore. To put the nail in the coffin. Don’t tell me their name, you think. I don’t want to know anything about them. Please, just don’t.

“For someone so frustratingly smart, you’re really fucking dumb,” Chan says, finally, swallowing around his words and squeezing your fingers. Whatever stoic expression you had forced onto your face at the start of this conversation dissolves into irritation and you snatch your hand away from him again, letting his own fall and collide with a thunk against the handbrake. 

“Oh, sorry that I didn’t realise you were sneaking around behind my back when that’s the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do,” you snap. “God. The only stupid thing I’ve done here is get involved with you in the f—”

“You’re the someone else.”

Oh. 

Oh.

“I’m—?”

“You.”

The admission hangs heavily between you, as does your nonsense, unfinished insult. Neither of you really know what to do with yourselves except sit perfectly still and try to somehow deal with your increasingly dry throats. When Chan moves, it’s only to turn down the heating dial when his cheeks burn a bit too hot; you appreciate it, in part due to the bead of sweat currently running down your back, but you don’t say so. 

“You could have started with that,” you say weakly, wrestling with all your strength to keep even some of your cards close to your chest. It’s not working though. Your attempt to conceal your elation is a bit like throwing a single leaf on top of a bison and calling it camouflage. 

Chan commits to laughing, finally, your sentiment breaking him too. Now, you do crack that smile, albeit mostly just at the sound that comes from him. It’s bright and airy, lighting his whole face up as he drops all the way back and leans against his car door, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to build to a moment! It’s not my fault you hit every branch of the anti-romantic tree on your way down.”

“I am not anti-romantic,” you scoff in protest. 

“Yes — you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“No, you’re just an idiot.”

“Says she who didn’t realise her fuck-buddy had feelings for about six months, Jesus.”

“Chan—” You start, your voice laced with a playful warning. 

“Here I was thinking I was making it completely obvious,” he rambles on. 

“— oh my God, just shut up and kiss me.”

“Dropping hints left and r—” … “Huh?”

He stops short a fraction of a second after you finish, stumped and silent, frozen with everything but a little buffering symbol above his forehead. Kiss me, you said. Chan, […] just shut up and kiss me. All right, you’ve asked him to do that before, but not like this. Not as if you’ll wither away should you not get a taste of his lips this instant. It takes him some time to process it, but he does move in first, eventually. The way he always does, closing the distance between you like he’s been shot out of a cannon, one hand either side of your face, crashing feverishly against your mouth. 

Every now and again, he’ll be happy to let you take charge and set the pace: mostly just if he’s feeling lazy or especially generous. Tonight isn’t one of those times, however. He holds you and kisses you possessively, like you’re his, like this is how he finally gets to lay claim on you, licking between your gasp-parted lips after he moans straight into your mouth. He’s spearmint sweet, edged with that one cherry flavoured chapstick he stockpiles as he grins up against you, rolling his body fluidly with every separation for air, every changing angle. 

He pulls your sweatshirt up over your head and throws it down into the footwell on the passenger side, straight away hurrying to kiss you hungrily again, hands cupping your neck. His tongue is in your mouth once more, there’s no way you could possibly differentiate your breaths from his: you’re one, in every way you can be with your clothes still on, but it’s not enough. 

“Want you,” you whimper as he nips at your bottom lip and pleasure rushes through you from head to toe. 

“You’ve got me,” he groans with his eyes still closed. “I’m all yours.” 

“No,” you insist, whimpering when his cute little nose drags across your cheek until he’s pressing hot kisses to your jawline. “I— fuck—”  He suckles on the sweet spot below your ear and your spine tingles, head tilting to give him better access. “Chan, I want you.”

Chan settles back from you, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now darkened with desire. All he gives you is a singular glance sideways, but you know exactly what he’s suggesting. You nod, breathing deep, biting the inside of your cheek; he turns off the headlights and it’s all systems go. 

There’s a rush to scramble into the back of the car. Chan takes the keys out the ignition and climbs through the gap in the seats; you opt for the less hazardous approach of getting out of the vehicle entirely and re-entering it instead. Not that it bothers him — no sooner is the door closed behind you, Chan’s hands are on your hips and he pulls you on top of him, your leg knocking the dahlias off the leather and onto the floor in the process. You gasp and glance down but he averts your attention with two fingers under your chin, guiding you to look back at him. 

“What? You think this is the last time I’ll bring you flowers?” He asks, capturing your lips as he leans up to you; at the same time, his hands drop low and he starts to slide open the buttons down the front of your pyjama shirt. “Baby, m’gonna get you so many more.” 

You sigh at the affectionate name, at the change in its use; until now, Chan has only called you baby while he’s buried inside you, bruising you inside and out with sharp thrusts and rough-gripping fingers. But as much as you can feel him growing hard against the inside of your thigh while you try to get comfortable, one knee planted either side of his hips, you can’t help but feel as if this time, it means something different. 

(He’s had feelings for six months: it always meant what it does, now. You know that, deep down.)

Somewhere in amongst the never-ending sloppy kisses and constantly travelling hands, you manage to strip both his jacket and T-shirt off him and you’re pressed bare-chest-to-bare-chest with Chan, feeling every little hitch of his breath in his lungs, every thump of his heartbeat, every tiny increase in the temperature of his skin. Your desperate search for friction between your legs has you rolling your hips down against his hard-on, drawing grunts and making him squeeze at your tits when you rock against him the right way. His head eventually drops to your chest and he replaces one hand with his mouth, freeing his fingers to slide down the front of your pyjama bottoms. 

It’s honestly rarer for Chan to get straight to the point than it is for him to tease you a little first, so when he flattens his palm against you and brushes his fingertips over your already aching clit, you let out a squeak of surprise. He shivers, releasing your nipple from between his teeth for a moment; once he’s collected a little more arousal to ease the friction, he continues to rub at the bud, slowly building the pressure inside you.

“No panties?” He asks, struggle clear in the roughness of his voice. 

“I was in bed,” you gasp, eyes rolling back. It’s for the best that it happens out of pleasure, really, because you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself rolling them in exasperation at his remark otherwise. You shuffle a little, lifting yourself up on your knees more, breath hitching when he uses the newly granted space to dip his hand lower and press a finger against your hole. “Please, Chan — this can’t be comfy— just…”

“S’fine” he argues, shaking his head, despite the fact that the angle of his wrist is actually kind of painful, right now. The truth is that he can’t bring himself to care: not when he can smell your fabric softener on the shirt still hanging off your shoulders, the shampoo in your freshly washed hair, all so pretty mixed with the damp scent of your desire. Not when you clench around him as he slides his finger in and out of your cunt. Not when he could get you to soak all the way through these pretty satin pants. 

Your arms snake around his neck as he dips a second finger inside you to join the first. The way your thighs tighten around his hips could — should — be embarrassing, the fact his sturdy lap holds you open enough for your pussy to be toyed with even more so. You almost always do this too music, too — for what might be the first time ever, you can hear every single wet sound your body makes, every hitch of your own breath, every grunt he gives even though he’s not the one being pleasured. 

You don’t even realise how you’re rocking up and down against his hand until Chan licks from the base of your neck to your jaw, smirking over your pulse point and says, “gonna ride my cock this good too, baby?”

And if it was anyone else talking to you like this, you would be embarrassed. Mortified, at being so needy you’re here doing all the work for him. At the cry you give as he splits and scissors his fingers to stretch you out. But instead? You feel another rush of arousal drool out of you as you press your nails into his shoulders and nod, bouncing harder and watching how his bicep tenses up solid with the effort of keeping his arm steady for you to use. 

“Wanna,” you gasp. “Want it so bad, Chan—”

Despite your pleas for this to move further, when his hand pulls back out of the elastic of your waistband, you feel like you could throttle him. The urge ebbs away when his soaked fingers press to your lips and he quirks an eyebrow at you, though — you end up suckling them clean, licking up every trace of your own slick. You lock eyes with him as you do, slumping on your thighs so your drenched core sits right over his tweaking length, the seam of your pants giving just enough friction to your clit for it to feel good as you grind down on him again. 

“Get those off,” he instructs, trying to sound hard and dominant. Which would work, perhaps, if his voice didn’t crack in the middle of the sentence. “Now.”

Even though you’re overcome with a need to tease him, the desire you have to be split open on his length outweighs it, so you do as you’re told and hold it in for later. It’s not easy, but you manage to manipulate yourself in his lap to work the satin down your thighs and past your knees. He helps you tug them the rest of the way past your ankles and feet, shoves them onto the floor — Chan’s hands settle back on your hips and yours skim down his stomach at the same time, fingers grazing over the little hairs that trail from his bellybutton down into his jeans. 

“Can I?” You ask, playing already with his belt buckle. 

He hums assent and you slip it all the way open, tugging as he moves his hips underneath you so you can pull it free from the loops. Between you, you manage to get his jeans unfastened, to pull both them and his boxer shorts down over his ass and to his knees; finally, fucking finally, his cock sits pretty and leaking and free between your stomach and his. It’s getting cold in the car now the heating isn’t on, but you’re already burning up in anticipation for him to ruin you; the way his abs ripple as he takes his shaft into his hand and strokes himself a couple of times to prepare tells you he’s in the same boat. 

It’s like clockwork, from here. You shift into position as easily as you settle into bed after a long day. Chan rubs his tip through your folds, feels the warmth of you and hisses through his teeth with fluttering eyes. Just like always. This never changes. He can’t ever get enough of that first feeling of his cock against your pussy: it’s like the first hit of a blunt, like the first sip of a cold beer, the first full-body stretch early in the morning. He’s sure it’s what arriving at the gates of heaven must feel like. 

You sink down onto him slowly, fluttering around his tip and stilling to give you both a moment to get used to the feeling. He’s thick inside you. Thicker than his pretty, dainty fingers have ever been able to stretch you enough for. Even as wet as you are, you still need to suck a deep breath into your lungs before you can relax your hips further and let your heat swallow him all the way to his base. 

Chan’s head is tipped back in pleasure, he’s biting his lip at the sting of your nails pressing hard into the back of his neck. He loves it, though — loves how the pain shoots in waves down his spine, how it tingles in his brain, how he knows you need to anchor yourself this way or you’ll lose control. He kneads at your ass as you sit against his thighs, listening to you whimpering at how deep he is inside you.

“So fucking tight around me still,” Chan groans, focusing all his willpower into keeping his hips down on the leather beneath him. “Shit, baby — you feel so good…” His neck softens and his head drops forward again as you start to move, rising and falling over and over. He kisses your throat and down to your collarbones while you work up to a rhythm, sliding his palms up your back, hugging you close to him. 

He isn’t even the one putting in the hard work, but within minutes of this, his soft, fluffy hair clings to his forehead. A light sheen of sweat makes him radiant under the moonlight breaking through the trees. He’s breathing heavily, the top of his toned chest painted a soft pink — you don’t think he could possibly look prettier. Not until he cups your jaw with his hands and you look upwards: you land on his smiling face, those plush, swollen lips, his devilish but sweetly glittering eyes. The sight of him, looking at you like you’re some kind of Goddess, makes your pussy tighten and your tiring hips stutter. You slip your pyjama top all the way off your arms and curl your fingers into his hair, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss, through which you’re both just beaming. 

You’ve never kissed him this much. When it all started out, you sort of had a rule against it, but now? Neither of you can stop. As he starts to fuck up into you, taking the reins and letting your burning thighs rest, he keeps your face steady with his hands and freely allows his lips to slide against yours. It’s not refined. It can’t be. Not with how hard and fast his movements quickly become, not with the onslaught of curses and moans and babbled praise coming from the both of you. One particularly sharp thrust makes you yelp out a squeak of his name and he just swallows it down, making a point to keep aiming for— and hitting— that same spot inside you. You’re a mess. 

He could do this all night. When your orgasm bubbles inside you and he starts pinching at one of your nipples, sending you over the edge, he’s nowhere near finished. Even though your cunt massages at his length, throbbing and pulsing through your climax; even though your voice is so high by now that only dogs can hear you; even though you nearly collapse on top of him with almost all your weight in his lap, and he has to work twice as hard to keep this going, he barely slows. He definitely doesn’t stop. 

“You can gimme one more, right sweetheart?” He asks, grunting into your neck. “Always feels so fucking good when you come.” You choke up an ‘mhm’, to which he responds by slipping a hand between your bodies and down to where you’re connected. His thumb presses against your clit again — not moving, just applying enough pressure to make you stutter when you say his name. 

Your thighs are still twitching when you try to lift yourself a little, try to meet his movements as he chases his orgasm too. The “problem” with Chan is that his stamina is otherworldly. You couldn’t keep up if you wanted to. 

“Relax,” he says, tensing his jaw, doing the opposite himself. “Fuck — lie down.”

It’s pretty cramped and hard to move, but you lift yourself off him and only slightly lament at the sudden emptiness between your legs. There isn’t time to get too upset, however: moments after you get comfortable on your back, Chan shoves his jeans the rest of the way down and stands with one knee planted on the seats, lifting one of your ankles up to rest it on his shoulder. He slips back inside you easily then, gripping around your calf to keep you both steady. From the word go, his pace is relentless. You scrabble around for something to hold onto but the entire car seems to melt away; you ball your hands into fists at your sides instead, your eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

“Mm-mm. Look at me,” Chan hums, tightening his grip on your leg. “Wanna see those pretty eyes.” 

You obey, opening your lids to look up at him while he pounds into you hard enough to make the car shake. Over, and over, and over, and over. Rougher. Faster. For how long? Who even knows. All you’re truly aware of is how good it feels. How the windows grow foggy with the  steam of your laboured breaths. How his sweat mingles with your own. 

When his fingers on the other hand get reacquainted with your clit, when he bites down on his bottom lip, when his thrusts start to get messier and more erratic and the veins in his arms start to bulge out, you know he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to tell you out loud. The smirk he wears speaks for itself. 

“Where d’you want it, baby?” He asks you, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. 

“In— mmh, in-…side me—” you stammer, hips jolting as you near your second orgasm to match his first. “Please, Chan — want it all…”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah—”

Well, he must’ve been holding himself back something spectacular, because a few thrusts later you watch all of his muscles contract as he tips over the edge, and you go hurtling with him. It’s all so much. All your nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and your vision starts to blur at the edges; it’s not long before you have to close your eyes to shut one of your overworked senses out, completely. Your muscles are sore. Your throat hurts. Even your lungs ache. 

God, he hasn’t gone that hard in so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can barely speak — it’s going to take you a week to recover from this, minimum. 

He stills deep inside you, feeling his cock throb with the last pumps of his release. Your leg slips off his shoulder and your foot lands down with a thud onto the car’s (thankfully clean) floor; he bends forward to kiss you, still breathing heavily against your lips. You’ve come over completely boneless and reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair again feels like running a marathon at sprint pace. You’d fall asleep right here, right now, if you could, but with sweat cooling rapidly against your skin, you know that’s probably not up there as one of your finest ideas. 

“You really think getting involved with me was stupid?” Chan asks, nudging your nose with the tip of his own. He’s never been less serious than this in his entire life, which stops you feeling too bad when you lightly slap at his rock solid chest and try to push him off you.

“Yes,” you lie, attempting to reach to the ground for your pyjama shirt while he grips your chin and attacks you with tiny little pecks all over your face. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

(Chan chuckles to himself and thinks that he’s quite happy to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, really. He can stay that way, as long as you promise never to stop.)

thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed it - likes, feedback, comments, reblogs are all so appreciated.<3