#it's just cause when i started doing this i like really had to think and there were so many other great eurovision songs that i had to put

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or off-brand gossip girl.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ this is a day late because i was celebrating midsummer with my family yesterday <3 i hope you like it!!

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

"i was gonna go see her, but when i went to our meeting place, she was there with another guy, and left with him. then when i asked her about it, she lied. so i'm pretty sure he's hooking up with him and i'm the biggest fucking idiot on planet earth."

the gears in vivian's head turned, until the small smile on her lips slowly vanished when she finally realized why the story was so familiar. "holy shit." she mumbled, eyes as wide as saucers, "you're him."

"what?"

"you're MalachiConstant."

"how do you know about that?" rafe asked, his breath catching in his throat, "did she... she told you?"

"wait... you know who she is? like, her real identity?" vivian asked, the moment uncomfortably sobering for rafe, the boy looking away, "why haven't you told her?"

rafe sighs, turning to look out at the scenery in front of him, "you wouldn't get it." "well, stop being melodramatic and try to explain it to me." vivian rolled her eyes, making rafe let out a quiet chuckle.

"i'm afraid she's gonna think i'm a douchebag, or something." "she probably will. she can be judgmental." rafe's brows furrowed, "said with affection." vivian rolled her eyes, "but trust me, she judges herself a lot more than she judges anyone else. and trust me, she's not hooking up with anyone. it's adorably pathetic how obsessed she is with you."

"really?"

"i don't think i've ever seen her smile as much as she has after you two started talking. she's not good with guys, or even people in general but she really seems to like you. i have no idea what she sees in you, to be honest."

"gee, thanks." "but she's been overthinking a lot since you've been ghosting her. she's been going crazy worrying that you don't care about her and she ruined… whatever you two have going on. but rafe, i want you to seriously think this through. she doesn't trust people easily, and i don't want for her to have to go through heartbreak. so if you're just gonna… dump her when you get bored of her… please, just… let her be." vivian brought her hand to his shoulder. "cause if you hurt her, i'm cutting your dick off."

rafe let out a chuckle, nodding, "can i… ask you for a favor?" "no promises." "can you just… not tell her yet? just wait a bit until i feel like i can do it." "although i am fond of gossip, it's not my secret to tell." vivian took a chug out of her bottle, "but you should tell her soon. i think she deserves to know the identity of the random guy she's talked online who she's pretty much head-over-heels for. even if it's a douchebag like you." vivian grinned, stepping towards the patio door, "good night, no-longer-mystery guy." vivian's words make the boy snort, "night." he mumbled, the girl leaving the patio, unaware of the girl listening over to the conversation.

you were wrapped up in a blanket, 10 things i hate about you, you and vivian’s shared comfort movie playing on your laptop while angel was in your arms, the little kitty purring as you stroked her soft fur. you looked down at your phone, at all the texts vivian had ignored.

YOU: i'm so sorry.

YOU: i never should've said those things.

YOU: i was hurt and i took it out on you. it wasn't okay, but i hope you know how much i regret it. i miss you.

however, your wallowing in self pity was interrupted when you got a new notification from KildareUChats. you opened the app, your heart beating against your chest when you noticed that MalachiConstant had messaged you after a day of radiosilence.

MalachiConstant: im sorry ive been a dick MalachiConstant: and i miss you MalachiConstant: im drunk but im an idiot

you couldn't help the small smile that took over your lips, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. you kicked your feet against the mattress, letting out a quiet, excited squeal that caught angel's attention, "sorry." you mumbled, pressing a kiss on top of her head, before turning back to your phone, texting MalachiConstant back.

YOU: idiot. ❤️

you woke up to the sound of someone bursting into your room, your heart nearly beating out of your chest, until you noticed the flurry of pink hair entering your room, carrying white boxes that you immediately guessed were donuts.

"jesus, vivian!" you mumbled groggily, running a hand through your messy hair, "you scared me half to death…" "sorry, man." she giggled, putting the donuts down onto your bedside table, "i'm still a bit drunk from a party i went to last night." she crashed onto your bed, turning to look at you.

"i'm sorry about the things i said to you, viv." you frowned at her, your mind still groggy with sleep. the girl smiled, taking your hand in hers. "i'm sorry, too. boys are the stupidest thing to fight about. totally not worth it."

you chuckled softly, "well, speaking of boys…" "oh, god. mystery boy news?" "sorry, we don't have to talk about him if you don't want to." you feel your cheeks getting warm, vivian grabbing the box off the nightstand and placing it between you two; when she opened, your suspicions were proven correct. donuts. "if i'm gonna have to listen to your love life without yacking, i'm gonna need some donuts in me."

RAFE: hey

UNKNOWN: who dis?

RAFE: rafe RAFE: i asked top for your number

UNKNOWN: ok

RAFE: listen, i need some advice RAFE: should i ask her to meet up again?

UNKNOWN: jesus christ UNKNOWN: you asked top for my number for advice on my best friend?

RAFE: pls viv

VIVIAN: fine. then do it loser VIVIAN: and this time don't leave before she can get there. and tell top to not give out my number again.

rafe rolls his eyes and takes in a deep breath, going to KildareUChats, his heart racing in his chest; he types the message and erases it for about a thousand times, before he was finally satisfied with it, pressing enter before he could regret it.

MalachiConstant: hi, i know we were supposed to meet and i kinda fumbled it, but i wanted to ask if you'd be willing to try it again? i get it if it's too late but you can't blame a dude for trying. anyway lmk.

rafe's message was marked 'read' within seconds of him sending it; but several minutes ticked by with no response. maybe you were trying to find a way to let him down easy, or telling him you weren't interested… but soon enough, he got a response.

AnnabelLee: let's do it. monday, at 6pm in front of the fountain?

MalachiConstant: it's a date.

rafe ran a hand through his hair as he reread your message over and over again; he finally felt like he was ready to tell you who he was. even if things change.

monday morning came, but for some reason, you didn't feel nervous at all. if anything, it was like your stomach was bustling with butterflies, and you felt... ready to meet whoever you'd been chatting to online.

your earbuds were in your ears as you made your way towards your first lecture for the day, humming along to fleetwood mac's sara. you spotted vivian and zainab almost immediately, but the two girls didn't seem to notice you, too busy hunched over and looking at something on vivian's phone, giggles echoing around the classroom.

you made your way over to them, and as soon as you pulled your chair back, the two of them looked up at you in complete alarm. you let out a soft laugh, looking between the two with furrowed brows as you sat down, "who died?" but neither of your friends laughed, you started to feel unnerved, "did... did someone actually die?"

vivian and zainab shared a look, before sliding the girl's phone over to you. you picked it up, but as soon as you saw the screen, your blood ran cold. it was a post on KildareUBlindItems, and the subject was 'MalachiConstant'.

"what..."

'overheard at friday's party: football team captain and fraternity president with the initials r.c was telling a certain pink-haired party girl that he's secretly into some chick he met online who he hasn't even met. he goes by MalachiConstant. no one seems to know who the mystery girl is.'

your eyes widened as you re-read the post, starting to put the pieces together... you turned to look to vivian with your jaw clenched in anger, unable to bite your tongue.

"rafe cameron is MalachiConstant? and you knew?"

TAGLIST: @yktayy9669 @tinythebunni @dywho @melalsworld @akobx @samwinchesterisawhore @st8rkey @jjasmiineee @ltristessedureratoujours @a-lovers-card @uselessnewt @lunaleah @letstryagaintomorrow @cinnamqnnlatte @papapoy @kay133sposts @wtfisastiles @butterfly1c @emmiesummers @melodyyybubbles @toomanywhitelies @littl3loveydovey @scne-vampire @alwaysmaybank @mysticbby2009 @luna443 @drewstarkeyswife-7 @flowerluvr @kisselxoll - cont. in com

[crazy-pages]

I'm going somewhere with this wall of text, I promise.

I got a new cat Hazel recently who is very anxious (hyperreactive), especially about my other anxious cat Mighty (avoidant). Hazel has slowly started to become more brave about going out and about, but she's really struggled to warm up to Mighty, despite my best attempts with a very slow month of initial introductions, site swapping, distant introductions, etc.

A while back this bravery morphed into her approaching Mighty, sniffing him tentatively, and then hissing in fear and running away the moment he moved. I tried to limit the behavior and keep them separate when I wasn't around, but it was complicated by her being most at ease when people/bird watching from my porch balcony, which is on the opposite end of the house. She gets anxious if she can't sit out in the sun and do that, so I don't want to cut her off from that. But also her safe place under my bed is on the other side of the house, and if she comes back inside and Mighty is in between her and my bed she freaks out. She was getting less anxious and prone to hissing with time though, so I tentatively let this continue.

Well a while back I decided that I was going to let things continue, unless she took a swipe at Mighty. That would be behavior I didn't want to continue. But, stupidly, I didn't decide what I would do. So one day after coming back inside and finding Mighty in the way, she freaked out and took a swipe at him. And I'm pretty ashamed of my reaction. A friend of mine who had a bunch of cats who do get along told me her policy is to put them in their carriers in front of each other for an hour and I'd tentatively thought that might be a last resort option.

So I connected last resort, not knowing what to do, and that anecdote and put Hazel and Mighty both in their carriers in front of one another. And it was awful. Hazel, already keyed up, was fucking miserable. Mighty wanted to be anywhere else so badly. I'd really fucked up. It was absolutely the wrong context to try that in , Hazel being keyed up enough to swipe at Mighty, Mighty having just been swiped at by a cat for the first time since I got him a year and a half ago. And frankly it just wasn't a good idea for their situation at all.

I'd really fucked up.

So I started working to make it right. I separated them again for 3 days, with a slow reintroduction for the next week after that. I made sure that I was really careful and slow around both of them, and gave plenty of treats. I took the carriers out of sight, then slowly reintroduced them in line of sight, and then closer to them, played with them around them and gave them their treats near them, so they wouldn't develop a bad association. And when they were feeling a bit calmer I'd go to start the same type of sudden movements I'd used to grab them and put them in their carriers, wait for their inevitable negative body language or vocalization and then clearly and visibly back off, wait for them to be okay, then do reconcilatory affection.

In other words, I apologized and made it clear I wouldn't do it again, and tried to soothe the very understandable anxiety I'd caused about my potential behavior. Even though I couldn't talk to them, I should manage that.

And then I had this flicker of thought, that huh, that was probably what my mom felt like some of the times she overreacted or escalated a situation when I was young, in ways that made me miserable or feel trapped. Something was wrong with my behavior, she didn't know what to do about it and been stressed herself, and then she handled a situation with me really poorly. And for a moment that thought was sympathetic.

That was when I realized I couldn't think of a single example where she'd done what I had to make it right with my cats. That our relationship has almost straight up fallen apart multiple times because she often *will not hear* attempts to discuss how this impacted and impacts my relationship with her, and that when she does it tends to be a slow clock to not having heard it again.

She's a really nice woman, honestly. Loved the hell out of me, went an extra mile or ten for me. But there were a few specific issues where she'd been fucked up by how she was raised and just had no idea how to handle it in a good way. And, frankly, with having had to deal with my abusive father the whole time, I'm not sure she had the bandwidth to do better. And all parents fuck up sometimes.

And yet. I could feel the moment in my head, where I could have sympathized with her in a way that excused myself. "Oh haha, wow parenting really is hard, and this is just with cats, I should call her and tell her I'm sorry for criticizing her." Where I could have excused my behavior towards my cats and just let that be because hey, I wouldn't do it again right?

But spending that time attentive to needing to reearn my cats' trust calmed them both down. And it mean that when I started letting my roomba into my room to get around my bed, Hazel didn't freak out too much. She just fled to another space on the other side of the house ... which I noticed and encouraged ... which became a new safe space ... and now she wasn't getting trapped between Mighty and her sense of safety ... and suddenly she could deal with Mighty so much better.

And it was really bittersweet. Because here I was, both conflicted about having fucked up and proud I made it better ... and I absolutely could not talk to my mother about it. Because it was her parenting I'd taught myself to do better than, and she still can't really hear that. And she's never stepped up like that in a way that would let her share my pride, or sympathize with my fuck up in a way that wouldn't be self-absolving.

Point is, we can do better. And should, because this stuff quite literally causes deeper rifts than you might ever know.

love when a mother asks if they have ever done anything to hurt you. ma'am, you will literally never be ready to have this conversation

[redwinelewis]

SHE CHOSE ME | LH44

type social media au

pairing carlos sainz x indian!reader, lewis hamilton x indian!reader

face claim simone ashley

summary in which you broke up with carlos and date none other than the man who stole his ferrari seat.

warnings female infidelity, toxic/hate comments idk i will add more soon

author's note this was requested on my old blog but i never get to fullfil it until now. i hope u see this anon 🙏🏽 also sorry for disappearing. i lost motivation to post.

english is not my first language. all pictures taken from instagram, pinterest and twitter. credit to owners.

masterlist

TWITTER!

INSTAGRAM!

yourinstagram

📍 Bali, Indonesia

liked by iamrebeccad, charlotte2304 and 27,936 others

yourinstagram 🌀📘💙💠🌊

view all 178 comments

user1 y/n pls tell us that popbase was lying 💔💔💔💔💔💔

user2 SHE'S FREE FROM THE VROOM VROOM GUY WE CHEER

user3 being single looks good on you 🥹

user4 use me as "we miss carlosy/n" button

user5 i refuse to believe that my parents are no longer together

user6 carlos needed you and you abandoned him

user7 user6 girl what

user8 i've always had a bad feeling about her ever since they started dating and my guts were right

user9 reminder that you people have no right to be upset about someone else's relationship and that you need to think before commenting because some of these comments are borderline racist

user10 geez louise 55 fans are insane

TWITTER!

INSTAGRAM!

f1gossipofficial

liked by ynfan1, carlosfan2 and 7,836 others

f1gossipofficial Lewis Hamilton and his latest rumoured wag Y/N L/N leaving a restaurant after having dinner together in New York.

She had just broken up with Williams' Carlos Sainz Jr after 5 years of being together.

view all 78 comments

user1 wait hold on i kinda see the vision

user2 user1 RIGHT THEY LOOK SO GOOD TOGETHER I MEAN CMON

user3 this is ai btw. i say as they dragged me back to the psych ward

user4 i pretend i do not see ❤️

user5 guys they're just friends y/n and carlos are still together trust (i'm going crazy)

user6 how does lewis keep bagging these baddies bro i mean even carlos' EX???? 😭😭

user7 user6 bold of u to assume that y/n didn't willingly date lewis for his money

user8 user7 oh here we go again with the gold digger allegation

user9 carlos can't handle allat 🙏🏽

user10 user9 a baddie should be with a baddie

f1gossipofficial

f1gossipofficial Y/N L/N at the Lewis Hamilton's Ferrari garage for the 2025 Monaco Grand Prix.

view all 89 comments

user1 and the saga continues

user2 lol she probably found out that williams sucks she broke up with him.

user3 user2 ah yes let's just assume what happened even though it's none of our business shall we

user3 user2 girl you're literally on a gossip page ofc ppl are gonna assume things

user4 she has to keep the dating ferrari driver streak going on somehow

user5 she should be banned from going to f1 races

user6 user5 yall 55 fans should check yourselves into a psysh ward

user7 SHE LOOKS SO GOOD

user8 those who keep talking shit about y/n should really find some hobby cause damn

yourinstagram

📍 Monte-Carlo

liked by carmenmmundt, charlottesiine and 2,827,826 others

yourinstagram weekend well spent in monaco 🏎️❤️

view all 2,927 comments

user1 chat.... it's official i fear

user2 she's free from a vroom vroom guy only to date another vroom vroom guy

user3 user2 HELP 😭

user2 user3 well when it's sir lewis hamilton, nobody can resist ✨

user4 SHE WORE LEWIS' JACKET OH MY GOD

user5 user4 AND HIS CAP!!!!

user6 being a ferrari wag always look good on you ❤️

user7 i can't believe you would do this to carlos

user8 user7 user girl what

user9 finding another man so soon?

user10 user9 user god forbid a woman moves on

user9 user10 she cheated on carlos

user10 user9 and? good for her 🙏🏽

user11 my god these comments ain't it

lewishamilton

liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63 and 5,726,055 others

lewishamilton mine.

view all 15,835 comments

user1 wOAH

user2 THE CAPTION!!!!!!

user3 LEWIS OH MY GOD

user4 IM SCREAMISJDGSJSK

user5 I JUST OPENED THIS APP SIR

user6 yeah the girl is definitely y/n

user7 i wasn't expecting him to post something about this 😭😭

user8 he said "she chose me" ✨

user9 user8 i respect her for that cause why settle for mr four race wins when you can get sir seven times world champion

user8 user9 she saw the opportunity and took it

user10 we love a possessive lewis 🔥🔥

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — no tears left to cry . . . softdom!chris

in which . . . you leave the boy who broke your heart and fall into the arms of the one who’s been waiting to love you right.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , creampie , mentions of cheating , mentions of a toxic & manipulative ex , not proofread!

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #9

it had been a long time since you felt like this.

free.

light.

not entirely healed, no, the pieces were still settling back into place. but, you weren’t crumbling anymore. not crying in the bathroom at 2am over texts you shouldn’t have read. not biting your tongue to keep from speaking. not choosing silence just to avoid another argument you’d lose.

your ex hadn’t touched you in months before the breakup. and when he did, it didn’t feel like love. it felt like control. like you were being tolerated.

but chris?

chris touches you like you’re sacred.

when you were in your previous relationship with your ex, you hadn’t meant to fall into his arms. not at first. you hadn’t meant to cheat. chris was just supposed to be your best friend, someone who understood how broken you felt without asking too many questions. someone who didn’t push, didn’t judge, didn’t try to fix you.

he just…stayed.

stayed when your voice cracked. stayed when you showed up crying. stayed when your hands shook and your smile faded and all you could offer was a tired glance and a quiet, “can you just hold me?”

and when your body started craving something more—something warm and real—he gave you that too. slowly. gently. never more than you could handle.

and now?

now your smile has returned.

your eyes aren’t empty anymore.

you’re laughing again. loudly, carelessly, the way you used to. you’re dressing like yourself, speaking like yourself, taking up space like you were meant to. and chris sees it. he’s the reason for it, and he knows it.

“damn,” he says from across the room, arms behind his head on your bed, eyes glued to you as you tug your hoodie off. “you always this hot or am i just noticing ‘cause you’re finally glowing again?”

you shoot him a look, playful and flushed, and toss the hoodie in his direction. it hits his chest, and he grins, catching it before it falls to the floor.

you crawl into his lap with ease. you’ve done this before, but this time it feels different. you’re not crying, you’re not falling apart, and you’re not begging for comfort. you’re just… here. present. and a little bold, hands braced on his chest as you straddle him in your tiny sleep shorts and your favorite tank top.

his breath catches. not because you’re doing anything wild, but because you’re yourself again.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his hands slide up your thighs, slow and reverent. “not a single tear left. just my pretty girl.”

you smile — really smile — and tilt your head, letting your fingertips graze his jaw. “you like this version of me better?”

“i love every version of you,” he says instantly. “but this one? the one who knows how fucking perfect she is? the one who doesn’t let anyone dim her light anymore?”

he pauses, voice softer now. “yeah, baby. this one makes me proud.”

your stomach flips, warm and dizzying, and your lips press to his without thinking. he kisses you like he’s been waiting for it. patient but eager, firm but gentle. his hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him harder, deeper, letting your hips shift the tiniest bit.

you moan into his mouth when his thumbs press into your skin, anchoring you there. the tension between you simmers, slow and golden, not rushed. he lets you take the lead — for a second. lets you move how you want, chase what you need.

but then his hand slides up your spine and into your hair, and the kiss turns hungry.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“lay back for me, baby.”

you flip over, on your stomach how he always wants you, heart pounding as you sink into the pillows, and he follows—slow and deliberate—his mouth brushing your jaw, your neck, and your shoulder.

“you’ve got no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he whispers, voice thick with something deeper than lust. “been dreamin’ about the moment you finally let me love you like this.”

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hands skating up the backs of your thighs before settling on your hips. “look at you.”

his voice is so soft it’s almost ruined. like he can’t believe this is real.

he leans down over you, chest brushing your back, mouth dragging across your shoulder and up to your ear.

his hand slides up your spine again, slow and warm, and you feel him press against you from behind. a slow grind, no rush. just letting it build.

you arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in your ear.

“that’s it. fuck—feels so good already, baby.”

he lifts your hips slightly so he can pull your silk shorts down, giving your ass a soft slap before pulling your panties down as well. he watches as a shade of delicate pink blooms across your skin.

you can hear him pulling his sweats down, along with his boxers. god, you were so ready. you could never enjoy sex with your ex because he was just…awful. it never felt like love. just tolerance.

chris kneads the flesh of your ass gently, fingertips digging into your skin. he spreads your cheeks slightly, admiring you. “god, you’re so perfect…”

he drags the head of his cock through your weeping folds, coating himself in your wetness. he presses his tip to your drooling entrance, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

you feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. he wants confirmation. you nod, a little too desperately. he grips your hips slightly tighter.

you whimper a little when he pushes himself in, the stretch hitting deep, slow and steady as he settles fully inside you. his hands grip your hips, not too tight, but grounding.

he stays still for a second, just breathing. letting you feel it. letting himself feel it. how euphorically deep he is inside you. how your walls feel stretched and hugging around him. how connected he feels to you in this moment.

“you okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

you nod, flushed cheek pressed to the pillow. “yeah…more than okay.”

he kisses your shoulder again, then starts to move. deep and slow, rolling his hips into yours like he’s trying to learn every inch of you.

you bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whiny moan. your breath’s shaky, but it’s not from nerves. it’s the way he’s touching you. the way he’s talking to you. the way he feels inside you.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “so perfect like this. fuck, i missed you like this.”

you let out a soft moan, your hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laces your fingers together instantly and holds it there—his hand wrapped around yours as he keeps thrusting into you, deeper now.

“you’re glowing, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “you know that? haven’t seen you smile like that in months.”

you choke out a soft laugh, already breathless. “it’s your fault.”

he grins against your skin. “yeah? good. wanna be the reason you never cry again.”

he fucks you like he means it—slow but purposeful, hitting deep with every thrust. his free hand smooths over your back, your waist, your thigh, anywhere he can touch you.

“you feel so good,” he whispers, over and over. “so good. i’ve got you.”

and he does.

you’re not just getting fucked—you’re being worshipped. every sound you make, every arch of your hips, every shaky breath…he’s soaking it all in like he can’t get enough.

and you?

you finally feel whole again. like you’re not just being held, but chosen.

his hand tightens around yours, the one still laced with your fingers, and he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades as his pace starts to build—just a little. enough to make your breath catch. enough to make the heat curl tighter in your stomach.

“you’re takin’ me so well,” he murmurs, forehead resting against your back for a second like he’s trying to keep himself grounded too. “so fuckin’ perfect, baby. like you were made for me.”

you moan into the pillow, trying to stay quiet, but you know better. chris loves hearing you. his free hand slips beneath your body, palm splayed against your stomach, pulling you back into him with every slow, deep thrust. your hips lift slightly, the moderate angle change immediately affecting you.

your thighs start to tremble, and he notices immediately.

“yeah? that’s it. right there, baby,” he praises, voice low and warm in your ear. “you feel that? been holding back for me, huh?”

you nod, breath hitching when he pushes in a little deeper this time, angle hitting something that makes your whole body jolt. chris splays his hand over the evident bulge in your stomach proudly, which encourages him.

“chris—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he groans softly, hips stuttering like he’s barely holding himself together. “fuck, you sound so good… i’m not gonna last if you keep saying my name like that.”

you turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him—his flushed face, his damp curls, the way he’s looking at you like he’s completely gone. completely in it.

the tip of his cock kisses the sweet spot inside of you relentlessly, causing ropes of pleasure to curl in your lower stomach, right where his hand is splayed.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, voice shaky. “please. don’t stop.”

he doesn’t.

his rhythm stays steady but more intense now, deep enough to make your toes curl, to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. well, not exactly silent. the sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, quiet and messy and desperate. and all the while, chris is talking to you.

“i’ve got you,” he keeps saying, like a mantra. “you’re mine. so good for me. so fuckin’ beautiful like this.”

his hand dips lower again, brushing your clit, slow and purposeful, and your hips jerk at the touch, making chris groan.

“you gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he asks softly, like it’s something sacred. like he’s asking permission to watch you fall apart.

you nod quickly, the pressure building fast, overwhelming. chris feels your walls pulsing around him. he already knows the answer. “close,” you breathe. “i—so close, chris…”

“then let go, baby. shit—cum for me.”

oh, you do.

your whole body arches, face buried in the pillow as the climax hits, fast and hard, ripping the breath from your lungs. your fingers squeeze his hand so tight he almost whimpers, and his pace stutters when he feels your velvety walls flutter around him.

“shit—fuck, baby, that’s it,” he growls, voice breaking. “so good for me. i can’t—”

he doesn’t pull out.

he buries himself deep, a few more ragged thrusts before he’s right there with you—low groans pressed against your shoulder, his whole body trembling as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to your back, trying to catch his breath, his hands still running down your sides even though you’re both shaking.

he doesn’t say anything for a second.

just kisses the space between your shoulder blades again. and again. and again.

“you okay?” he asks eventually, voice hoarse and careful.

you nod, still breathless. “yeah. that was…”

he hums. “yeah.”

a quiet beat passes, and then he slowly pulls out, murmuring soft apologies when you flinch at the sensitivity. he leaves for a second—just enough time to grab a warm towel and a glass of water—then comes right back, slipping into bed beside you. god, he’s such a sweetheart.

“here,” he says gently, handing you the water and helping you flip over and sit up enough to drink. “take a few sips, baby.”

you do. his hand stays on your lower back the whole time.

once you’re done, he tosses the glass aside and tugs you into his chest like it’s second nature. like this is just what he does now. his fingers stroke your hair. his nose brushes your temple. his lips graze your cheek.

“you were perfect,” he whispers.

you smile, still dazed. “i feel like myself again.”

“you are yourself, baby,” he says. “i just reminded you.”

“you always do,” you say, voice quiet.

he nods, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i’m always gonna take care of you, y’know that?”

you curl into him even more, nose pressed to his neck. “yeah. i know.”

and he smiles—soft and sleepy—and presses one more kiss to your forehead.

“good.”

and with his arms around you, his voice in your ear, and his warmth still lingering between your legs, there’s nothing left to ache over—no heartbreak, no fear, no tears left to cry. just him. just you. just peace.

author’s note . . . sorry this is a lil late! this is one of my favs so far :)

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

© cayleeuhithinknott

[owlcafe]

Please feel free ignore my inane, barely-related ramblings

Perhaps the most memorable conversation of my life was with a bus driver, on the regular route I took home from university when I was a grad student. He and I had both landed a Tuesday graveyard shift, so I was the only person getting on this bus at 10pm or so. The week before, the bus had arrived late, while I was waiting, so this driver had come up to me and asked if I minded if he took his break now - apparently it was timed such that he would entitled to his break either now or after the return route. Without much thought I said something to the effect of "hell yeah brother rest up", for obvious enough reasons. The following week, it was raining, and I was scrambling to find cover in a place where I could still see the bus stop. The bus came early this time, and the driver rode up to the stop and let me on the bus early to get out of the rain. I didn't initially recognise him as the same driver, but apparently it had meant a lot to him that I hadn't flown into a rage insisting I be delivered home on schedule by an overworked and tired driver.

As you do, we got to talking, and the obvious course of the conversation was to ask what had gone wrong in our lives that we were mutually on this godforsaken bus at 10pm on a Tuesday night instead of doing literally anything else. His story was more or less what you expect - it was the best job available to him to make the kind of money you need to support a family these days. My story was simply that I'd signed on for a PhD, and with it a pretty good helping of teaching hours, including the occasional 5-9pm lab class (a process which, incidentally, more or less prevented me from having a driver's licence at the time. Don't worry about the details, but it's important to the story).

At this point, I had just begun the process of emerging from a series of self-loathing spirals - the one that stems from being an autistic child, then the one that comes from simply being 14, then the one that comes from being bisexual, then the one that comes from being non-binary, to the bonus round of growing up in a stereotypically male way while being non-binary and the unique way that makes you feel like your body is betraying you when your hair starts thinning at 19, and and fun and fresh ways these all bleed into each other. At some point in that whole whirlwind, I'd become quite convinced I wasn't going to make it out alive, despite never having any real risk to my life externally or even really internally, so my early to mid 20s were a period of discovering that I did indeed survive and now I needed a plan. This led to me falling into a lot of things just cause they sounded nice. I took a lot of odd jobs because they sounded interesting or paid well, I signed on to the PhD simply because I was asked to by my supervisor and I liked the idea of earning myself a gender neutral title, as if putting Dr [extremely common male name] on my mail was actually going to make people think twice about whether or not I was a man. This all to say, I was in the beginning of cultivating my "just a guy" self-image. It's easier, in that circumstance, to cut away the grandeur and the pompousness, because you can easily recognise them as fake. It's harder to cut away at the ways in which you undermine yourself, hate yourself, discredit yourself, because it feels like humility (and, especially in an emergent and incomplete social justice mindset, it's easy to invoke your privileges with the aesthetic of checking them, but the function of whipping yourself for "not earning" the things that you have, only further centralising your feelings as a member of the oppressor class).

To finally get to the point of all this, whenever you mention you're doing a PhD there's a pretty common social script that happens. The other person says that's very impressive, you bat it off, they say oh no I could never, and then you either make some joke about the absolute buffoons with PhDs you've inevitably met in your time in academia or just laugh awkwardly and move on. The bus driver starts the script normally, with an "oh that's very impressive" and I follow up with the canned response of "oh its not really all that, anyone could do what I'm doing". And then, I remember very precisely, he said "it seems that way to you because you can, the same way I think anyone could drive this bus because I can. But, I couldn't do what you do anymore than you could drive this bus."

And that pierced through it for me in a way that's really stuck with me. If I wanted to do the ivory tower academic thing, I could semantically dissect his statement - I could drive the bus and he could do my PhD, it's more accurate to say that the power structures surrounding us wouldn't have permitted it because I didn't have a licence to satisfy the local laws and he didn't have the educational background to pierce through the veil of graduate school exclusivity. I don't necessarily think it's literally true, what he said, but it was very powerful to me emotionally at the time. Because, in that moment in the bus at 10pm, we were both just some guy. We'd ended up in different places because of our circumstances, our identities, our choices, but we were still just some guy. In that moment, I had the same capabilities and limits as he did, just distributed differently. And for me, I'd spent most of my adolescence and much of my early 20s desperately projecting this ideal of like. A renaissance man, I guess? I needed people to believe that I was perfect, unlimited, infinitely skilled but also unflinchingly humble, lest they detect the parts of me that I assumed they would hate (because I hated them about myself). That someone I'd never really met before could so precisely and sincerely cut through it all, simultaneously denying me my instinct to degrade myself and reminding me that I am indeed subject to many and varied limitations, denying me even the privilege to bemoan that of course I can achieve these things because I'm white and middle class and so on, so I'm really not that remarkable. It really affected me. It brought me to a new level of being just some guy, and really helped me calibrate my vision of myself.

Obviously, it didn't fix everything in that single moment, but it helped me build a new frame I could use to look at things. If I started to feel shame or fear over not being able to do some particular thing that I wanted to do or felt compelled to do socially, I could remember that moment and how my path in life has given me limits as well as possibilities. And that's kept both halves of my ego in check ever since - I don't feel that I'm somehow entitled or should naturally have "lesser" skills on account of having access to "greater" ones (I can run advanced stats like nobody's business but I still can't drive a car), and I also don't feel the guilt and shame of not having certain skills that are considered basic because I have other skills that I've developed instead (yes I can't drive a car, but I can run advanced statistics).

I am once again just yapping with no real purpose but this idea really strikes a chord with me I guess. I just wanna say these things cause I want to. I don't particularly feel that there's untold wisdom or anything, it's a pretty milquetoast case of this whole thing occurring, but if anything I guess I feel compelled to pass on the wisdom I got from that bus driver that night. For better or for worse, we're all just some guy.

i really do believe that the answer to a lot of people's self hatred is not to try and reassure them that they are wonderful and okay and enough, but instead to remind them theyre a completely unremarkable regular ass person who is not the center of the universe or especially important so why would they expect themselves to be some superhuman savior. like there really is a kernel of out of control self importance at the heart of thinking youre an evil lazy piece of shit. because why would you expect you be anything but just like some guy. if you wouldnt expect the guy who works at the vape shop or your mailman or whatever to be able to do something then why would you expect yourself to? youre just some random ass person. its fine

[abbysreal-wife]

⊹ ࣪˚Playfighting with Abby goes to far

”Baby, enough seriously I have to work” Abby inbetween laughs.

You specifically have been messing with her all day. Abby has been trying to brush it off in a playful manner, slightly pushing you away, laughing and giggling along with you.

It’s annoying now.

Abbys smile slowly started to drop at feeling you still poking her.

“Stop it.” Her tone was demanding. You could tell she was annoyed now but you still poked and touched her.

Her breaths were deep, long.

Then she finally looked away from her computer.

“you wanna play that game? Fine.”

Before you could process what she meant your were already being thrown to the bed.

“Abby, that hu—“ your sentence was cut short form her pouncing onto of you, the weight of her body crushing you.

Your hands were now pinned above your head as Abby caught her breath. The grip on your wrist wasn’t strong enough to keep you glued to the bed so you broke out.

Bad idea.

You began to kick and push her off of you, she kinda just sat there, enjoying you struggling beneath her.

“Ok, ok, enough” you were starting to lose breathe from her weight.

Abby shook her head “no, keep going, you wanted this right?”

Your giggles and laughter stopped as you started to actually try and get her off of you.

Suddenly she fought back, her hits weren’t real, or hard. But, it’s Abby, look at her.

she was laughing now not realizing your eyes starting to gloss over as your brain short circuited.

“Abby, seriously get off of me”

In Abby’s ears that sounded like “Abby, please keep going”

Then a was slap landed to your face.

It started to sting.

Like really bad.

In an instant Abby climed off of you roamed your face with her calloused hands.

“Oh my goodness baby I am so so sorry I didn’t mean to actually hit you” her rambling went on and on “sometimes I just don’t know my own strength and i really need to work on that, I am so sorry for that.. I never meant to hurt you”

Abby started to self reflect on her own decisions.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind it didn’t hurt that bad” you choked up trying not to let the tears fall from your eyes.

“What do you need from me? A hug? Kisses? Space?” Her anxiety was over powering her right now.

“Space, please” your voice cracked.

She just nodded her head in agreement, and exited the room.

2 hours later…

You and Abby haven’t spoken to each other since the incident and it was driving her to absolute insanity. She misssd you, and your voice, and your laugh.

an occasional glance across the living room from the kitchen would be shared but nothing else. No smile. No laugh. Nothing.

“baby?” Her voice spoke softly from behind you.

you paused the Barbie movie you were watching to turn around and face her on the couch.

“Abby, hey..”

the coach sunk down from her weight “can I give you a hug, or do you still a little space”

a smile crept from your lips as you scooted in closer to her taking her big figure in your arms.

“Does your jaw still hurt?” Abby curiously asked before taking your face in her hands.

“Not really” your response brought Abby to a calm— well kinda, you still had a purple spot near your eye, and your lip was still puffy.

Abby sighed “I really didn’t mean to hurt you you know.” You just just pouted “I believe you Abby, stop apologizing.”

Her stomach suddenly started to turn as she thought of your expression when she slapped you.

She hit you.

Then an idea came to her head, and you could see it “what are you thinking in that thick noggin of yours?”

A slick smirk escaped from her lips.

She laid you down and began to kiss down your body.

“I know how to make it up to you”

—

A/N:: short lil sum sum cause that firefighter fic is probs not gonna be out by this week…. IM SORRY GUYS

@graciedollie @liliofabby @lluxentzz @korn-dawg @cloudyorgy @yokedtablet @look-me @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @ellieswife4ever @valeisaslut

[deansbestfriend]

to grow old in. 𐙚 dean winchester

dean winchester x gn!reader

tags and warnings: late series!Dean, fluff, happy ending if you don’t think about the last episode of the series

summary: after cleaning dean up from a rough hunt, he realizes just how much you really mean to him. for the first time, dean admits he can look farther than the next hunt,

The impala engine hummed softly,

like a heart beat you had grown so familiar with. The backgrounds of Kansas twisted and turned in front of you. Your head rested on the window, your fingers idly tracing portions of the car nearest to you: the handle, the window trim, the edge of the leather seat. Meanwhile the day you had flickered behind your eyes.

Hours ago, Dean had come back to the bunker in worse shape than he had left. Had it not been for Sam you believed he would’ve been dead, the thought made your stomach churn and twist in knots.

Dean glances over at you, his side profile outlined perfectly by the setting sun. Even with its bruises, you found it perfect—him perfect.

“You okay?” He asks, voice rough and tired. You asked him to rest but he persisted you come on the ride to escape from the bunker’s air tight walls.

Truth was, you weren’t. Your fingers still trembled, because earlier you had to have the stillest of hands when stitching an open wound on his forehead closed and another on his arm—and the daintiest of touches when cleaning his multiple gashes and scrapes with antiseptic.

“It’s nothing fatal, he’ll live.” Sam had tried to reassure you, while he placed him in front of you in the makeshift infirmary that use to be your room—until you began sleeping in Dean’s.

“I’m fine.” You lie, despite knowing he knew you well enough to catch every curve in the words you spoke.

Baby purrs underneath you both. Like a shared pet that longs to bring its parents together, in a peaceful harmony. Dean’s knuckles graze the gear shift, one hand on the wheel as he takes a slower approach to an upcoming turn.

You hadn’t noticed how far out you two had gotten. It was a secluded neighborhood. Houses with neat lawns and wrap around porches. Enough space from one another to feel alone but not lonely.

The streetlights start flickering on, as if they’re welcoming the two of you. Yet, you weren’t sure what exactly you were looking at. Suddenly, the purring you found comfort in stops. Dean cut the engine in front of an empty plot of land at edge of the neighborhood.

“I’m sorry—if I gave ya’ a scare earlier.” He had a hint of nonchalant speckled between his words but that didn’t make them any less sincere. You remember when he told you for the first time, “I know how my story ends.” You cried in his arms that night.

He hadn’t said it again since then.

Your eyes meet his green ones. He’s searching for something in yours, whatever it was, he found it. His lips pressed into a smile. “Here.” He pressed a kiss against your forehead then slipped from the front seat of the car.

Before you knew it, your door was being flung open, and now you both were standing in front of the grassy, empty, plot of land. The night air began to settle between the two of you.

“I’ve been thinkin’” He starts, both of his hands now shoved in his utility jacket, he leans against the impala’s frame—something you’ve seen him do a million times.

“Oh you have—should I alert the media?” You tease, which brings a smile to his bruised visage.

“No, seriously, Y/N.” He tries to ground himself. You watch his chest rise and fall, as if they’re words he’s building up to say keep catching in his diaphragm. “Someday, you’re gonna want a life off the road.”

He sighed. He was right. Hunting had always been something you felt like something you had to do—not wanted to do. Saving people from their untimely demise, losing friends and family to unnatural causes—it was weighing on you and Dean saw it clearer than anyone.

Yet you kept your longing to be free from this life from him. Masked it with smiles, half-hearted jokes and brash actions. Every day you lived like you had something to lose. You did, him.

You knew had you stepped away you were running the risk of losing the feeling of his skin against yours. Hearing the sound of his laughter. The way he smelled when he’d clean up nice for you.

So you settled. Not for him—because of him.

“Dean..” you trailed off, not sure where his speech was headed but feared it was to push you away.

“I know what you’re gonna say, that you’re fine—ready for the next case or world savin’ hunt—but you deserve better than that. I want you to have better than that.”

His words were carefully articulated but they came as natural as the summer breeze that brushed between the two of you. The same breeze that made the blades of grass in front of you gently sway.

Then you notice his hand sifting in his jacket pocket for something. No longer resting casually, he was searching. He found it with ease. Out came a tan colored paper. It was folded carefully at least four times you guessed.

He handed it to you, and you hesitated to take it from him. But you did. You went to speak as you unfolded each careful crease but your voice betrayed you, cracking before you could utter a word.

Your eyes scanned the paper, over and over again.

PROPERTY DEED.

The top of the page read. Loosely drawn floor plans in the center. The plot of lands dimensions on the sides. Plans for two stories, a wide porch that runs the length of the front, three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and a living room the size of dreams.

Your fingers traced the paper the same way you had done the impala moments ago. Tears welled in your eyes, you looked to him for the answers to the questions you had.

“Dean? What is this?” You asked, your voice thin like if you spoke to loud you’d wake up.

“I told you I’ve been thinkin’.” He grinned. “I know we could do this whole—stayin’ in the bunker, hunting forever but a couple months ago I couldn’t shake the feeling that there’s something more than this. We deserve more than this. And I don’t think I can see you look at me the way you did earlier again.”

He reflected, his eyes falling off of yours towards the end. You could tell he was replaying the same events you had in the car. Your shaky voice, your worried eyes.

You inhale the idea. It’s not abstract or outlandish—it’s possible. That’s what you tell yourself at least. You feel a couple stray tears falling down your cheeks, quickly you shift the paper at the irrational fearing that it’ll dissolve at the slightest imperfection.

“We could grow old here.” He swallows.

He turns to you now, a thumb clearing at the falling tears. “And besides, Sam told me he doesn’t want to hear us through the wall anymore.”

The smile on his face brings one to yours. You even giggle.

“I want that.” You say. “With you.”

He exhales, relief washing over his body language. You take a moment, taking it all in. Your eyes darting from him, to the paper, to the land before you. Your imagination does leaps and bounds. Painting the interior, laughing over pancakes that you probably overcooked, struggling to build a porch swing together—imaging not having to worry about the end of the world.

Up until now any time you had discussed the future with him, it felt as if he created an ocean of distance. If it were more so to protect you than hurt himself by the disappointment of not delivering to your every need.

But this was different.

You hadn’t noticed Dean had moved behind you now, arms around your waist as your back pressed into his torso. He admired the same thing you did, you were sure he was lost in his romanticization of the future himself. Though, he would never admit it.

[raevpng]

only you (pt. 2)

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

masterlist

pt. 1

summary: everyone tunes in when they share a court — paige bueckers and azzi fudd, former team mates, once golden duo, turned wnba rivals. they were the perfect match on court, and no one could deny it. but no one knows what goes on under the surface of competition and rivalry, not even them.

a/n: hey lovelies! in honour of dallas’ win today here’s the second chapter :) idk if i like this but ill edit it when im awake 😭 as always lmk what u think and enjoy <3

there’s a different kind of buzz that you get only after a game is won.

there’s a lazy satisfaction that thrums under your skin, a kind of heavy warmth that settles in your chest and refuses to leave. it’s the payoff. the reward. every late-night gym session, every clean meal, every quiet hour of mental prep finally cashing out into a win. you feel it in your pulse. you feel it in your bones.

and yeah, a little ego boost too.

cause she fucking did it.

azzi fudd beat paige bueckers.

and sure, it wasn’t the first time. definitely wouldn’t be the last. but still. a win’s a win.

and this one? buzzer beater, all eyes watching, three-pointer in her face?

that one deserves a celebration.

and if there’s anything she does well, it’s celebrate.

–

the club was full of bodies, almost as if the world wanted to celebrate with them. the atmosphere was electric, thick with heat and light and bass. bodies press against one another under neon strobes, laughter spilling out over pounding music. drinks are flowing, her teammates were going wild, limbs flailing, voices hoarse from the win and whatever was poured in their shots.

pure chaos, but god she loves it.

she giggled as her teammates reenacted her winning shot, heart warming at how silly her friends were and at the compliments and praises thrown her way.

azzi sat on the high stool near the bar, some fruity vodka in hand, ice clinking softly against the glass as she giggled at some stupid drunken story. her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol or from laughter maybe, braids loosely flowing down her shoulders, cropped top clinging from the warmth of the crowd. she’s loose in a way she rarely allows herself, spine relaxed, shoulders dropped, that tiny smile pulling at her mouth that no one but her closest people ever really gets to see.

aaliyah was perched next to her, long legs crossed as she kept an eye on her best friend while simultaneously getting shit-faced. "this how we party after a win?" she shouts over the music, grinning.

azzi just lifts her glass with a smirk, tilting her head. "damn right."

but then it happens.

just slightly. like a cold breeze slipping in through a cracked door.

somewhere between a sip and a laugh, the energy in the room shifts. subtle – not something you’d notice if you weren’t paying attention.

aaliyah catches it first. her eyes scan the entrance and sure enough, there she is.

standing there, black tee, necklace glinting, arms crossed with a scowl already carved into her face – paige bueckers.

paige and her best friends.

"fucking hell," aaliyah mutters.

azzi doesn’t see her yet. too tipsy, too wrapped up in the buzz of her own victory.

“uh az, wanna get another drink?” aaliyah elbowed her best friend, sensing that whatever the fuck happened on that court was definitely gonna start something if she didn’t do some sort of damage control.

azzi, bless her soul didn’t seem to notice the commotion that they brought in just by appearing.

“hell yeah!” azzi exclaimed, visibly tipsy in the dazed look in her eyes and the heaviness present in her movements.

on the other side of the club, kayla and nika had hurriedly gone to order their first round of drinks, leaving paige to settle in on a booth.

paige doesn't sit so much as she drops. her body is stiff, her jaw tight. she doesn't join in on the laughter. she doesn't look anywhere except across the room.

"oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me," paige mutters, her voice dry, more to herself than anyone else. her friends are laughing and talking around her, but she’s still as stone, eyes locked on the girl at the bar.

because of course she’s here.

because of course she looks like that.

azzi feels it before she sees it.

sees her.

azzi’s head turns. her eyes land on the paige’s.

and whatever it is, maybe the alcohol in pulsing through her veins, or maybe just pure hatred and pettiness. she scoffed before breaking the eye contact.

you wanna look?

go ahead, look.

she let her fingers run through her hair, collecting them on one side to show the expanse of her neck. she moves slowly, as if she knows she has an audience, and leans forward to start a conversation with the guy next to her, laughing softly at his jokes.

it’s calculated. measured. sharp-edged.

paige doesn’t move from her spot, arms still folded tight over her chest, jaw clenched. she watches azzi lean back, lets her head tip, exposes her throat to the crowd and the lights and the man beside her.

it makes something in paige’s chest clench.

because paige? she knows the difference between real and fake. and this? this is azzi performing. dancing. flaunting. and she hates how easily she falls into that rhythm. how effortlessly she makes herself look untouchable.

she knows that she’s moving different now.

more exaggerated. more fluid. hips swinging just a little wider. hands brushing against shoulders, fingers playing with straws in drinks.

she’s performing.

and as some guy with a smirk too deep and hands too brave neared, azzi embraced it. she let him get close, let herself smile in the way she knew reeled others, let her arm rest on his shoulder as his putrid cologne filled her nose.

she was performing, for who – she didn’t know. didn’t want to.

but this feeling? the feeling of paige’s eyes burning on her back and the guy in front of her looking at her almost in a breathless kind of worship?

she hated how much she adored it.

aaliyah watches the whole thing with narrowed eyes, taking another sip of her drink.

she and azzi had been close during their time at uconn. they remained close when she got drafted to mystics first but ultimately got the closest when azzi got drafted to the same team. and yeah, she saw what everyone else saw – that paige and azzi had been so close to mysteriously never speak again.

but she was observant, always was and always will be. and she recognised the pattern of azzi’s excuses and sudden need to leave everytime paige’s name was even mentioned. yeah, it was probably best to stay clear. she had chalked it up to best friend’s drifting, maybe even a fight.

but now? as she sat there watching azzi move her hips against a guy while paige drilled holes at the back of her head?

she wasn’t too sure.

still, azzi was her best friend. and the guy was very quickly becoming bold and handsy.

she walks over to the younger, voice low in azzi’s ear. “you good?”

“i’m great,” azzi says, a little too fast.

aaliyah lifts a brow. “uh huh.”

but azzi is already back to it, swaying into the beat, laughing at something the guy next to her says, fingers tugging playfully at his collar.

and paige?

she hasn’t moved. she still sat stiffly across the room as her friends drank up and flirted with their own guys perched next to them.

and aaliyah didn’t know whether to laugh or be scared at the lack of emotion in her former teammate’s eyes.

the bass gets heavier. the drinks flow faster. the night starts to blur around the edges. and azzi is buzzing.

her head tips back, mouth open in a laugh, that guy’s hand on her waist now. and she lets him. not because she wants to, but because someone’s watching. she can feel the stare on her like a second skin.

but then the guy shifts.

his hand moves a little lower. he leans in too close, breath hot and heavy against her neck. he says something she doesn’t catch, something that makes her face shift in a flash.

aaliyah sees it.

stands up to protest.

and then suddenly.

“yo.”

paige’s voice cuts through the music like a blade. the music doesn’t stop, but it feels like it does. feels like everyone halted. feels like all the air in the room got sucked out.

azzi’s eyes snap up just as paige steps between them, arm sliding out in one clean, practiced motion, pushing the guy’s chest back.

“back off.”

the guy blinks, surprised. then scoffs. “you serious?”

“i said back off,” paige repeats, firmer. she doesn’t even look at him. her eyes are on azzi.

azzi’s breath stutters.

the guy backs up, muttering something under his breath and disappearing into the crowd. paige doesn’t move. doesn’t drop her arm.

“you good?” she asks, voice tight. like she hates even having to say it.

azzi stares at her.

then her expression changes.

eyes harden. lips part. a slow scoff leaves her chest as she takes a step forward — not toward her, but past her — shoulder brushing paige’s arm in a hard, deliberate shove.

“don’t fucking touch me,” she mutters.

paige flinches like she’s been slapped.

azzi keeps walking. doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. disappears into the crowd, body tense, spine stiff, like the only thing keeping her upright is her rage.

aaliyah stands frozen a few feet away, mouth parted, drink forgotten in her hand.

because damn.

that wasn’t nothing.

that was history unfolding.

–

“paige, you good? what was that?”

paige doesn’t move.

not even when the music swells again, not when the guy disappears into the dark, not even when azzi walks away without looking back.

she just stands there.

chest rising, fists clenched, heart still hammering from whatever the hell just happened.

“paige.”

finally, kayla grabs her shoulder, snapping her out of it.

“what the hell was that about?” her voice is sharp, confused but not surprised. “you looked damn ready to fight that guy.”

“nothing.” paige mutters, eyes now fixed on some random spot on the wall, anywhere but where azzi had just been. “he was being a dick,”

“sure,” kayla says, narrowing her eyes. “but you don’t know him. hell, i thought you didn’t know her that well?”

“don’t need to.”

“be serious. you don’t get in guys’ faces like that for strangers.”

that gets paige’s attention.

her head jerks toward kayla. “she isn’t-” she stops. “it wasn’t a big deal.”

kayla’s brows lift. “uh-huh.”

the rest of the crew starts to gather near the exit, talking about calling it a night. a few throw glances paige’s way — some confused, some amused — but no one says anything out loud. not yet.

someone makes a joke about how paige’s ‘hero complex’ is back.

“you get one buzzer-beater hit on you and you’re back to being in your feelings,” someone teases with a laugh.

paige doesn’t laugh.

she grabs her jacket off the back of the booth and shrugs it on with a grunt, brushing past them toward the door.

“fuck her,” she mumbles under her breath. “bitch acts like she didn’t- whatever.”

“what’d you say?” kayla asks from behind, trying to catch up.

“nothing,” paige mutters again, brushing her fingers through her ponytail as they step out into the cold night air.

the temperature hits instantly — sharp, biting. the kind of cold that finds its way past clothes and into bone. it’s late. the street is mostly empty, cars rolling past slow, bass from the club muffled behind the door now swinging shut.

her friends start peeling off. one calling an uber, two others heading toward their parked car down the block.

paige walks toward hers, head low, keys already in her hand.

until she sees her.

azzi.

standing alone near the curb, phone in hand, thumb swiping across the screen, teeth biting into her bottom lip like she’s too tired to be pissed but too pissed to let it show.

and paige pretends she doesn’t stare at the action for a second too long.

she’s wearing a tiny leather jacket that’s clearly not built for this weather, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders tense. her breath clouds the air in front of her. she looks miserable.

walk away paige. you’ve done enough bullshit for one night

“you waiting for a ride or hoping the cold finishes you off first?” paige calls out.

damn it.

azzi doesn’t even look up. she knows that voice. “oh, fuck off.”

“you’re welcome,” paige mutters, already stepping closer.

azzi sighs and finally lifts her head. “you stupid? i said, fuck off.”

“yeah, you did,” paige says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, eyes flicking to the street. “and yet, still no ride.”

“my uber’s coming.”

“your phone’s dead.”

“lili’s picking me up”

azzi glares. paige stays.

she mutters something under her breath that paige can’t catch.

paige steps closer, standing just a little too near to be comfortable. azzi physically flinches.

“don’t be stubborn. get in. i’ll drive you.”

azzi scoffs full on, like it physically disgusted her. “i’d genuinely rather die in this cold than get in the car with you.”

“great,” paige says dryly, stepping around her and opening the passenger door anyway. “you can freeze your ass off and die dramatically. or you can take a ten-minute drive in silence.”

azzi doesn’t move.

“azzi fudd, age twenty-seven, dies outside bar because she’s fucking stupid.”

“kill yourself.” azzi rolled her eyes, standing up to walk away.

paige grabs her arm, halting her actions.

“fine, sorry. i’ll shut up. i’ll drive, won’t even look at you.”

“paige bueckers apologizing? that’s new.” azzi scoffed, the words bringing a sharp pain to the blonde’s chest.

“az.”

the nickname slips out before she can stop it.

azzi’s eyes flash.

yet she doesn’t yell, doesn’t roll her eyes.

instead, she exhales.

long. slow. tired.

“don’t call me that.”

but she climbs into the passenger seat without another word, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

paige rolls her eyes, walks around, starts the car.

the heater kicks in with a low hum, and they sit in silence, headlights cutting through the empty road ahead.

no questions on where to go, what street to pull into.

for a moment, the only sound is the gentle drum of azzi’s fingers on her knee.

paige sneaks a glance.

azzi’s staring out the window. her lashes are heavy. her expression unreadable.

paige’s knuckles tighten on the wheel.

“seatbelt,” she mutters.

azzi clicks it in without a word.

and they drive.

not a sound exchanged. not a glance shared. just the two of them and the hum of the engine.

because that’s what they are now.

and when they pull up in front of azzi’s apartment, she unbuckles the seatbelt and leaves with a slam of the door.

paige just drives.

pretends like it didn’t bother her.

–

the door clicks shut behind her with a sound too loud for her apartment.

the silence that greets her is deafening — a stark contrast to the pounding music and heat of the club. here, everything is still. too still. her boots echo across the hardwood as she walks further in.

azzi sighs, ignoring the echo in the quiet space around her as she tries to ground herself. the thoughts were too loud, the mess in her head were too messy, her heartbeat in her ears doing nothing to ground her.

warm yellow light spills across the room, as she turned on a lamp. soft and muted, catching on framed photos and trophies and jerseys. reminders. shadows of all the versions of her that used to exist.

god, she wishes life was still that simple.

she walks past a framed photo of the uconn team — paige’s senior year, azzi under her arm as she looked at her like she hung the stars.

back when she still cared.

she slams it face down as she walks by, fishing out her phone as she plops shakily down her couch. jacket thrown hastily over the other side, boots dropped on the floor beside her. she ignored the nagging in her head to clean. couldn’t care enough to actually get up.

her shoulders drop as she sits on the edge of the couch, eyes fixed on nothing, hands idle in her lap.

everything catches up to her all at once.

the win. the shots. the heat. the moment she turned her head and saw her.

her chest feels too tight.

and fuck, she hates that. hates her.

because it should’ve been over. it was over. they made sure of that.

she leans forward, elbows to knees, hands covering her face.

fuck, azzi. get it together.

she groans, dropping her head lower into her hands, letting her fingers push against her scalp like she can physically shove the memories out.

and without thinking, without really deciding, she grabs her phone from her purse, screen lighting up her tired face, and taps the contact already burned into muscle memory.

it barely rings three times before she picks up, grogginess evident in her voice.

“azzi? you okay?”

azzi swallows. her voice is small. “caroline, can you talk?”

there was only the sound of sheets rustling for a beat, caroline sitting up azzi assumes.

“yeah always, what’s wrong?”

azzi presses her lips together, doesn’t know where to start. doesn’t even really want to talk about it. but something in her chest is too full, and she knows if she doesn’t let a little bit of it out, it’ll tear her open.

“i saw her tonight,” she says finally.

caroline doesn’t ask who. doesn’t need to.

“at the club,” azzi adds, eyes glued to the floor. “she was there. with her friends. and i was just- i don’t even know, i was fine, i was celebrating and then suddenly she’s-” her voice cracks. “she was right beside me pushing off some guy.”

silence.

“and i don’t know what’s wrong with me because i shouldn’t care, right?” azzi continues, “this is some stupid shit that happened – what? five years ago?”

caroline only hums, silent but clearly listening.

“and she means nothing to me now. she does.”

“az…”

“no really. i don’t give a shift about her, or what she does, or who she thinks she is.”

“okay.” caroline says softly, almost like a parent gently parenting a child.

azzi leans back on the couch, lets her head fall against the cushion. she blinks hard at the ceiling, like if she stares long enough, the confusion might evaporate.

“azzi, i need you to be honest. do you think she misses you?”

the second the words left her mouth, azzi couldn’t stop the bark of laughter from escaping her lips.

“hell no.”

“azzi.”

“no, caroline. she hates me. probably just wanted to get back at me for beating her tonight.”

caroline doesn’t say anything.

“whatever,” azzi mutters, suddenly tired of the whole conversation. “i don’t care what she feels.”

“you sure?”

azzi only hums, drawing a sigh from her friend.

“well, you know i’m always here for whatever you need, right?”

azzi softens at the words, feeling like she can finally breathe for the first time for the night. “yeah, thanks caroline. for everything.”

“always.”

and then she ends the call.

the screen goes black again. her reflection stares back — eyes glassy, jaw tight.

she sinks further into the couch cushions, lets the silence take her again.

you’re better than this, she thought to herself.

“i’m not doing this shit again.” she said out loud, standing up to walk to her bedroom almost with a new burst of energy.

cause azzi was better than paige. she has to be.

and as she changes to her favourite tee and boxers, shuts the light and lets herself drift. lets herself forget, lets herself rest.

and as she drifts to sleep, thoughts finally quieting, she doesn’t notice the new notification lighting up her phone.

paige bueckers has started to follow you.

[butchpeace]

1. You’re right, the 80% figure was from an old study that didn’t differentiate between those two things. But if you really think they’re correctly differentiating between “true trans” and gender nonconforming kids now, you’re way too naive.

2. If trans people have “literally always been here”, and being trans isn’t influenced by the way cultural norms affect psychology, why have we seen a massive increase in trans identification in young females? Why do I repeatedly hear from young people that they have tons of other kids (mostly girls) identifying as trans in their school class?

Are you of the opinion that there are “fake trans people” and “true trans people”? Interesting if so, considering implying that anyone isn’t “valid” would get you labeled instantly as a terf.

3. Of course every medication has risks. But in a responsible medical system, those risks are constantly being assessed, and treatment with the drug in question is always subject to reassessment and the entire use of that drug could be discontinued when the harm outweighs the benefit. I can see that happening within a few years for testosterone use in females, because there’s new research coming out, and none of it looks good.

But really l’m done with trying to convince people this is bad for us. It’s just common fucking sense that a woman shooting up high doses of testosterone for years on end isn’t going to have good health over the long run.

And can you think of any other case where medications that are understood to be very obviously harmful (to anyone with a developed adult brain) are used on people with a mental illness? Is there any other situation that’s even remotely similar to attempting to physically change someone’s sex in response to them being psychologically distressed? And in situations where the reason for the distress isn’t properly diagnosed and treated?

4. Are you not aware of the informed consent system in the US? For about a decade now, the situation has been that anyone can walk into a gender clinic, have a short meeting with a therapist, and be put on hormones within 2 weeks.

Puberty blockers and hormones for minors have had slightly more obstacles to access, but don’t you think that’s necessary considering the fact that we’re talking about children?

Kids don’t even remember what they ate for dinner the previous week, they’re extremely suggestible because they’re still making sense of the world, and they’re not mentally or emotionally mature enough to process what they’re feeling the way an adult does.

If an adult tells a kid that if they like pink and princesses and wearing dresses, maybe they’re a girl, and starts treating the kid like a girl, what do you think is going to happen in that kid’s brain?

You’ve studied psychology — Do you genuinely think the kid would say “No I’m a boy, I just like feminine things because I’m gay!” We’re talking about pre-pubertal children here. Kids believe what their parents tell them.

If you think it should be easy for any kid to go to a doctor and get put on blockers…I hope you never have children, because you have no idea what children even are, let alone what’s best for their health and happiness.

And in fact, it has been shown that the vast majority of kids who are going through those treatments are same-sex attracted. They quite literally are shooting up gay kids with blockers and hormones, over a supposed condition that no one can scientifically prove even exists.

Even if being “true trans” is real, there are still kids who aren’t trans who are being transitioned at young ages. I know because I’m friends with them. Most consider what happened to them to be a form of child abuse, or medical abuse of a minor that should be illegal. Many of them have lasting health issues caused by blockers and hormones, and the psychological trauma they go through from having these changes happen to them at such a young age is typically immense.

This is a major fucking catastrophe, and if you don’t think something needs to change in order to mitigate that harm, I have nothing else to say to you.

[orellazalonia]

Heyy! Your Bucky hurt/comfort is so well written I loveeee

Could I request Bucky with an established relationship with Reader where she has a panic attack and he holds her because he knows that pressure helps her?

Very specific ik lol, but thought I’d ask!

Have a lovely week❤️

Hello, dear! Thank you for the kind words! Don’t worry at all, the more specific, the easier it is to write. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

Hold Me Still

Summary: You spend the day convincing yourself you're fine, pushing through crowded spaces and overstimulation until the quiet of home cracks you open. A panic attack hits hard and fast, but Bucky comes home just in time, grounding you with his steady presence and firm, familiar embrace. 

Disclaimer: Depiction of a panic attack. Some angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 1.7k+

Main Masterlist

You told yourself you were fine.

You had gotten out of bed. That had to count for something. The sheets had felt a little too heavy that morning, but you pushed them back anyway and forced your feet onto the floor.

The mirror didn’t lie either, you looked tired. But you still managed to get dressed, brush your hair, and even offer a smile to Bucky when he left early for a mission check-in with Steve. You promised to see him tonight. You even meant it.

That morning, the sun was out and the city was loud. It was just another day.

You checked your to-do list over coffee and convinced yourself that staying busy meant staying okay. First, groceries. Then a check-in at HQ with Sam and Nat, followed by a late lunch with an old friend who wouldn’t stop texting. You nodded through conversations, forced laughter at the right beats, added a “mhmm” every few seconds just to pass as normal. The sound of someone slamming a car door too hard made your shoulders jump, but you covered it quickly. Smiled again and told yourself no one noticed.

By the time lunch ended, your heart was fluttering just under your ribs in a way that didn’t feel right. But you blamed the coffee, too much caffeine. Not enough water. Not enough sleep. And still, you didn’t say anything. Not to your friend, not to yourself. You simply kept moving.

The elevator at the compound felt a little too small. The fluorescent lights felt a little too bright. The city’s noise felt a little too sharp. But you kept going. You had one more errand, just one. A trip to the store to grab something Bucky liked, something simple. It was supposed to be a surprise for him and a way to prove to yourself that you were still present, grounded, and good.

You stood in the aisle staring at a row of things you couldn’t name for too long. A kid dropped something nearby and it shattered causing you to flinch. With the loud speakers above, squeaky carts, and the crowded aisles, that was all it took. You ended up leaving without buying anything.

Your skin felt too tight by the time you got home.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound far too loud for such a quiet space. You didn’t turn on the light, didn’t take off your shoes. You dropped your bag beside the door like it suddenly weighed more than your shoulders could hold.

You kept your coat on as you wandered into the hallway without really thinking, like your body was on autopilot. Like some part of you was trying to find a corner, a wall, something solid.

You told yourself you were fine, but your chest was starting to ache. The pressure behind your eyes and in your throat was building quietly and steadily. Your hands were clammy. Your thoughts had started looping, spiraling into themselves like a whirlpool with no center.

So, you sat down on the floor and pulled your knees to your chest. Just to catch your breath. Just for a second. Just until you felt okay again or until it stopped.

The longer you sat there though, the worse you felt. You don’t know when the shift happens.

Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way your thoughts keep circling, tangled like wires you can’t unknot. Maybe it’s how your heartbeat starts thudding faster and faster, not from fear, but from nothing. From everything. From too much.

Your fingers start to twitch. Your legs pull in tighter. Your head is down, but the pressure in your chest keeps climbing like something’s pressing on you from the inside. Breathing becomes a challenge, work. Not a rhythm, more like a stutter. In, half-out, not enough.

You grab at the sleeves of your coat, gripping them and twisting the fabric in your fists. You want something to hold you down, to press you flat until the chaos stops rattling inside you. But there’s nothing. Your vision blurs a little. You’re not crying, but your eyes burn. Your skin feels too thin, too sharp. Every second stretches into something unbearable.

You bite down hard on your lip. You don’t know if it’s to stop the sob crawling up your throat or to keep from screaming. The walls feel like they’re moving. Like they’re watching you.

You want it to stop.

And then you hear it.

The soft sound of the front door opening. A key turning then shoes stepping in. A jacket is shrugged off and dropped by the entry. The sounds are quiet yet familiar. Safe.

You still can’t move. Still frozen with your fists clenched in fabric and shoulders shaking as your breath rasps in panicked little gasps. You don’t call his name. You couldn’t if you tried.

But he knows.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice is gentle and low, somewhere between cautious and worried. Then his footsteps quicken. He rounds the corner and stops when he sees you. No questions. No startled gasp. Just a flash of concern in those blue eyes as he moves straight to you.

“Hey. I got you,” He murmurs as he kneels down in front of you.

Your eyes are wide, body trembling as your chest fluttering so fast it hurts. You hate being seen like this; tangled and messy and too much, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t say “You’re okay,” like you’re not unraveling in front of him.

“I’m gonna hold you, okay?” He says quietly, voice like a tether in a storm. “Just like before.”

You nod barely but it’s enough. And then his arms are around you.

Strong. Solid. Steady. He pulls you into his lap with a strength that never feels rough, never feels forced. Just certain and sure. His metal arm wraps behind your back, the other around your legs, drawing you in until you’re curled completely against his chest.

The moment you feel that pressure. Real, heavy, and grounding, your body collapses into it. Not limp. Just… released. Like your body has finally found somewhere safe to land.

His chin rests on your head, voice low as his breath brushes your hair.

“You’re safe. I’m here. Breathe with me, baby. Just match me, yeah?”

You try. God, you try.

Your breath shudders, breaks and catches. But he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even shift. Just rocks you gently, his hand running slow, calming circles over your back.

You focus on his heartbeat. The feel of his chest moving. The way his grip tightens slightly each time your breath hitches, like he’s holding the fear in place so it won’t swallow you whole.

“Right here,” He whispers again. “Just keep breathing. You’re not alone.”

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

And slowly, the pressure eases. Your chest loosens just enough to let air in without gasping. The shake in your hands dulls. The edges of panic pull back like a tide, leaving you wrung out and quiet in his arms.

You don’t say anything yet. You don’t have to. He just keeps holding you, like he’ll stay right there until the storm is long gone. And he will. He always does.

Your breathing has evened out mostly. Not deep yet. Not calm. But steady enough.

You shift slightly, your hand fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt. Not particularly needing anything, just… holding. Grounding.

Bucky looks down at you, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His fingers trail along your temple, slow and reassuring. There’s no pressure to speak, no push for you to explain. He knows the words come later, if they come at all. He’s learned not to ask for them when the ache is still fresh.

Instead, he asks softly, “Better?” Not as a demand, just a check-in.

You nod.

It’s small, barely a movement. But he catches it, and his thumb brushes over your cheek once, a quiet kind of praise. Like “I’m proud of you.” Like “You made it back.”

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, voice raw.

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Don’t,” He says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No sorries, remember?”

You want to argue. Tell him how heavy you must feel to hold. How exhausting you must be to carry. How hard it is to exist like this some days, quietly broken in ways that only show up when no one’s watching.

But Bucky knows. He feels the tension creep back in your shoulders before the words leave your mouth, and he answers them anyway.

“You don’t need to be fine all the time,” He murmurs. “Not with me.”

The words make something in you sting, ache, and heal all at the same time.

You exhale, a shudder of air that’s more surrender than breath. You nestle closer, pressing closer into the warmth of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean to–” You try again, but he hushes you gently.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He says. “You panicked, but that’s not a failure, that’s a response. You made it through.”

You swallow hard, eyes closing as the warmth of his hold finally starts to chase away the leftover chill beneath your skin.

Bucky adjusts his position just slightly, leaning his back against the wall now, still cradling you. His voice drops, like he’s talking to a scared version of you he met long before today. The version he promised wordlessly and fiercely to take care of.

“You never have to carry this alone. Not when I’m here.”

The weight of those words sinks into you, deeper than the fear ever did. You don’t say anything, but you think he feels your grip tighten on his shirt. Just a little.

Eventually, your body begins to let go though even if it’s not all at once, relaxing muscle by muscle. The adrenaline crash comes soft and quiet, and Bucky stays perfectly still as you start to drift in his arms.

He watches you as your eyelids flutter, as your body finally finds rest. Too tired to be anything but still. And before you fall asleep completely, you hear him say it soft and steady, like a vow.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

And you believe him. Because he always has.

[lowkeyremi]

"Hi," His smooth voice greets over the phone. This is already a bad idea... you shouldn't have picked up the phone.

"Hello, Miya. Is there a reason you called?" Your voice sounds like ice to his ears; his end of the line went silent. He hates hearing that tone directed at him.

He shutters quietly, the sound makes your heart throb, "I'm not Miya. Not to you." Is all he can mutter. His voice sounds broken, more so then when you first answered his call. If he starts to cry, you'll lose it too. Everything is still too fresh in your opinion.

"I don't want to do this— not today." You whisper quietly into the phone. In an attempt to calm yourself down, you glance at things in your living room; the tv, the mug your best friend made for you, the blanket covering your lap, just anything.

"I miss ya so fucking much, please hear me out." Atsumu pleads desperately.

"We broke up for a reason," You offer, trying to remind him why this wouldn't be a good idea.

"Our timing was off— well mostly mine but, baby, I promise I'll always make time for ya." You've heard that before... it was when you first started dating him. Worry took over you, you'd wonder if volleyball would ever make him too busy for you; he reassured you that it wouldn't. Until it did.

"I-i can't go back to being second priority in your life." It was awful.

---

Atsumu had missed so much within your relationship, because he was always working and practicing.

Evenings were the absolute worst. All you had wanted was for him to enjoy meals with you, but you'd often have to set a plate aside for him in the microwave. You found yourself watching movies by yourself, showering alone, winding down for bed on your own, amongst other things. The loneliness started to get to you. After working all day, all you had wanted to see was the man you loved.

The worst part of it all was that he chose to leave you alone. His practices never really ran late into the evening, but he insisted on staying longer in order to perfect something he's been working on or hit the gym after practice.

It was always:

"Hey, baby, so sorry but I'm staying at the gym later than usual."

"Don't wait up for me, I'll be back late."

"Ya don't have to cook, just get takeout since I'll be home late."

"I promise I'll make up for lost time."

You could only handle so much of that. Your last straw was when Atsumu stayed at the gym late despite it being your birthday. You weren't even sure he remembered that it was your birthday.

You stayed up that night, giving him the benefit of the doubt. When he got home, he was confused as to why you were still up; that's when you snapped at him. He snapped back of course, arguing that if he wasn't playing at his best then he'd get behind.

The night ended with you crying, and telling him that you were done, with everything. He didn't believe you at first. Of course he felt bad for forgetting your birthday, but he didn't think it was major enough for you to break up with him.

It all started to get very real, when he came home to you packing up your stuff. He pleaded and begged you to stay, but you couldn't do it. How could you stay for him when he couldn't even see that he was in the wrong? Or try to correct himself for that matter. It was all about Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.

---

Atsumu clears his throat over the phone and sighs sadly, "I understand. I still miss ya though. Didn't realize what I had until I lost ya."

Neither of you speak after his confession, but eventually, Atsumu breaks the silence.

"Well I, I just wanted to tell ya happy birthday, since I fucked that up last year." His voice is so quiet that you could barely hear it.

You were doing so well, keeping composed during this phone call, but hearing him say that caused you to tear up. He remembered your birthday. No, it's not enough to win you back, but it's a start.

"Thank you, Atsumu."

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites without my permission, thanks!

credit to: @uzmacchiato for the pearl banner!!

[unnamedcorvid]

i was relistening to Part 6 and just really love and want to think more about Arthur’s behavior here and the snapshot it gives into his character cause like. This is Arthur before pretty much all of The Horrors. He’s flourishing. Just out of a nice month-long nap and has a new mystery to solve. He’s in his element here! This is what he Does! It’s probably one of the closest peeks we get into what his life had been like before everything, how he did his detective work, all of that. We learn how he goes about his investigations (before any of the post-horror desperation and moral issues hit) and just. This is how he worked. This is what he Did.

and what do we see? CRIMES. this man commits CRIMES. on the DAILY. without a second thought. just acts like it’s totally and completely normal.

this man walks into a store and very casually, matter-of-factly lists off the items he wants. A .45 Automatic with bullets to go along, a flashlight, matches, and a way to force a lock. like. That shit outta put him on a list or something, ESPECIALLY when he’s asked for an ID he says he doesn’t have one, and just. buys a new (fake) one. like. Thank god that clerk was dirty or else he’d be arrested cause what the fuck kinda sketchy shopping list is that? my brother in christ I don’t think there is any legal reason to have a way to force a lock. not to mention that and a GUN

Then he promptly heads off to a recently murdered girl’s apartment, and when finding the door locked, just picks it. Without a moments hesitation. And he does it really fuckin fast too, like. You know that guy’s had a Ton of practice. he did that in like one single second while blind and without control of one hand. he even admits it, says he’s done this many times. this guy’s a fucking menace.

Once inside the apartment (that he broke into. also the apartment of a recently murdered girl, not just dead but MURDERED like. She was KILLED HERE not even a week ago. this was a CRIME SCENE) he just kinda. Rummages around and takes a book. I mean yeah, she is dead, but also. you can’t just break into someone’s apartment and snatch their shit my guy??

and then at the docks. oh my GOD dude. You’d THINK a GROWN ASS MAN would maybe CONSIDER the CONSEQUENCES of STEALING A WHOLE ASS FUCKING BOAT OFF A PUBLIC DOCK IN BROAD DAYLIGHT but NOOO. that’s actually his instant go-to. Can’t get a ride? cool, I’m stealing a boat. there wasn’t even a second of hesitation or deliberation. What to do next? Oh I know. Steal a fucking boat. doesn’t even think of the consequences or that there’s actively people here (and he just gave his name to one), just up and takes it. it’s such a normal thing to do.

anyway all this to say that Arthur Lester Malevolent has always been a feral little creature with no regard for conventional approaches. he’s always been like this. I mean yeah he’s gotten So Much Worse but like. he didn’t start from ground zero either. Even in Part 4, when he needed to distract Kellin, when his first idea to honk the horn on his truck was turned down, his next instant suggestion was SET HIS HOUSE ON FIRE. there is no middle ground with this man. he will always jump straight to crimes without a second thought and I love that for him

[cookie-nom-nom]

Okay one thing I really love about the first episode of Taz Royale is how beautifully the introduction plays to the players’ strengths. Like Travis LOVES a backstory, always has, and so giving him the Past vision gave him the chance to flesh that out for us. Like, Magnus’ pages of backstory when they thought TAZ Balance was going to be a one shot (LMAO) or Devo Mutt Beef still having fairly solid origins even in the ‘guys we’re not doing backstories’ campaigns. And of course Travis pops off with a giant cast of backstory characters to work with, trauma to pull from, and giant character motivation that’s simultaneously tragic and hilarious!

Versus Justin being in the Present. I’m fairly certain in a ttazz for Ethersea he had this discussion about wanting Amber to be a very present character, and preferring the now adventure to a backstory the audience can’t fully engage with. And I think his philosophy on that very much bled through Steeplechase, Justin leans into the improv and building things on the fly. Like the entire Nanofather! So giving him a near immediate present to jump off and immediately launch into establishing personality and a rivalry dynamic that’s immediately relevant and ready to unfold is right up Justin’s alley.

And with Clint, Future space janitor just works really well cause I think Clint usually takes a little time to get a solid grasp of his characters. Frequently he’ll drop a little comment or a scene near the end of the campaign that just utterly reframes my understanding of the character. Like, all of Merle and John but also like the fact he has kids, or Zoox becoming the Mind Melder guy tm. I almost always appreciate his characters more on a relisten. So, having his character start with a vision of a future to build towards (and an INSANELY compelling one at that) is just perfect.

Like, obviously the season just started, but I can just feel Griffin’s years of DMing this specific group and it’s really cool to see.

[theamberparadise]

Hello, This is my first time making a request on your block.

Can you do a NSFW and dating headcannon for Jeff the killer and ticci Toby x Jessica Rabbit like s/o ( separately ) , please

HI HONEY IM SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LATE TUMBLR DELETED MY 2K WORD DRAFT AND NOW I HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN IM SO SORRY

TICCI TOBY AND JEFF THE KILLER X JESSICA RABBIT READER

SYPNOSIS; How would Jeff and Toby react to reader who looks like Jessica Rabbit?

TWs; toxic relationship, blood

A/N; hi hon!! welcome to my blog!! im so sorry this was sooo late tumblr hates me sm, i hope you like this as much as i liked writing it!

ps! i assumed reader is also a killer.

"Seriously, what do you see in him?" "He makes me laugh."

TICCI TOBY

The first time he saw you, Toby was beyond bewildered. Were you real or were you another figment of his twisted imagination?

Nonetheless, his eyes were on you now. And he needs your eyes on him.

His first instinct? Flaunting his muscles at you whenever and wherever he can. Getting a glass of water? His shirt is suddenly off. Fixing yourself in front of the living room mirror? He mutters it’s hot then slowly rips off his jacket. Seeing him during training? He flexes his muscles a bit more.

He thinks this is a widely accepted way of getting girls when really it’s so awkward when he does it.

Second instinct? Getting as close to you as he possibly can just to sniff your scent. Even if you’re just leaning gracefully against a counter, he might walk in, head high, shoulders back while he leans right beside you. Not across, not near, beside. Like there aren't any more spots for him to lean on.

“Toby, hon,” you cleared your throat. “You’re getting a little close.” “Am I?” he cocks his head to the side. “My bad, I’ll move aside.” 

He moves literally three inches away.

His third and final attempt? Leaving you gifts! Although it does leave you confuzzled.

One moment your Versace heels are there, and the next second, you hear your door close and now it’s gone. The next day, you wake up to see your Versace heels back again, with a pair of sword heels from Paciotti– in your size.

More of his gifts would include a sketchy brand of lotion from a drugstore, a cracked eyeshadow palette, and a seemingly used lipstick.

You appreciate his efforts but you couldn’t help but feel perplexed.

Once he notices you haven’t been saying “thank you” to him like you should be, he trudges to your door post-mission holding a bundle of snapped flowers that looked like they were pulled from a couple’s anniversary date (it was) with his breathing awry and ragged.

He keeps his eyes steady on yours. And as soon as you asked what was wrong, he shoves the bouquet in your face, like he didn’t cause you to have an allergic attack.

“Fuh–flowers. For y-you.” You gently press the cloud of petals down. “Okay, Toby– Okay, honey.”

He would still press his gaze onto you like you owed him something (which you did) and after about five minutes, he speaks once again. “Why ha-haven’t you wearing m-my gifts?”

You stay silent, backing away as your heel meets the floor again, your face looking to your side.

You feel his thumb and index gently hold your face in the right direction– where he is, and leans even closer than ever.

“I wa-want you. Do you want m-me t-too?”

Ever since you said yes to him, his ego had been fueled to the MAX.

If somebody even slightly mentions you, he’s on them and joining the conversation he had nothing to do with. “Oh, h-her? Yeah, I pu-pulled her. Not li-like you g-guys can do anything ab-about i-it,” that statement earns Toby a nasty black eye, of which he thankfully didn’t feel, but caused his face to swell for a week. He crawls back to you seeking validation even though it was him who started the mess.

He does anything and everything for you if it means he won’t lose a part of his pride like he did last time with Clockwork. Complaining about the heat melting your makeup off? He’s installing a new air conditioner. Notice a rip in your oh-so-glittery dress? He’s suddenly suitable as a surgeon. Need to detangle your hair? He’s treating it like a frail animal.

It’s the same when you’re on missions together. A rowdy victim scuffs your shoe? “That little sh-shit,” he’s off hacking the poor guy to hell.

He blushes shamelessly when you call him "my boy" or "my good little champ" while pinching his cheeks, makes him feel like one of those guys back in his middle school that would steal his crushes.

And although all of this seems sweet, it doesn’t mean it won’t have toxic tendencies.

His jealousy problems can overwhelm the relationship. He immediately jumps to conclusions every time he sees you hanging out with someone who’s not him. “Why were y-you looking at h-him? You’re not th-thinking of talking t-to him, are you?” “Did you go for a smoke with them j-just now? You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

It hurts, yes, but try to actually pursue another guy and he’ll come crying floods with his knees on the floor, gripping on your dress like it’s his life line.

"Toby, baby, no pulling, please." You try to snag the fabric gently from him. "No, no, no, no, don't leave me-- p-please no, I'm s'sorry," he chokes out, "Never again, hon, please,"

NSFW 

The reason why he takes care of your hair so gently and attentively is because he likes to pull on it whenever he’s fucking you from behind or receiving a blowjob from you. Seeing you wince in pain while you’re so used to being taken care of by him is like cocaine.

He memorizes all the spots you like to reveal in your outfits just by him staring at you for hours on end. He uses this to his advantage and cheekily leaves bites on there.

Purposefully buys you makeup that isn't kiss proof just to see your lipstick stain his lips and his cock. Sometimes, he takes pictures of them and sends them to whoever was bullying him recently.

Have a meeting with the major proxies and need to orgasm in the middle of it? No worries, he’s under your dress sucking your clit like there’s no tomorrow.

Loves it when you wear heels during sex. He cums in his pants by the thought of you stepping on his dick with them.

Once he gets home after a particularly frustrating day of missions, he drops down to his knees and starts humping your leg with his bare cock while massaging your hands and arms through your silky gloves.

He circles his thumb on the seams of your long dress while you give him the best titjobs of his life.

Lives for the idea of you having a wardrobe malfunction in front of him and the other proxies. Lowkey a cuck.

Bites every cellulite line he finds, every stretch mark he finds, kisses every scar you might have and thanks you for even letting him.

Moans a little louder than he’s supposed to when you suck on his adam’s apple.

He finds cumming in your hair so enchanting, seeing milky white beads of his honey absorb into your smooth hair has him groaning.

JEFF THE KILLER

“Holy shit,” were the first words that escaped his mouth when he first saw you. 

I mean, how could he not? Look at you, all shiny and pretty, it’s like you were made by an angel from heaven. He’s seen his fair share of hot supermodels and sexy porn stars, but none of them even come close to a creature as beautiful as you.

His approach for you is… not great.

Catcalling, whistling, and pervy pick-up lines were his first thoughts. “ *wolf whistle* Nice tits, dollface!” “ *imitates animal clicking* Here, kitty, kitty.” “Over here, sweetcheeks!”

He does this especially when he knows others are watching. It’s his twisted way of calling first dibs.

Jeff loves how you play hard-to-get with other guys in a smooth, jazzy way. Even more when you do it to him.

When he feels as if you were ignoring him (which you were) he likes to leave twisted drawings of you taped on your door. Nothing too crazy, just you in your usual outfit of glamour and heels, but this time your boobs are way bigger than they are and your butt is wider than they should be. You figure that it’s how he looks at you.

You crumpled his drawings and threw them away? That’s fine, he’ll just go a little bit further and bring you a severed finger in a ziploc bag with a ring still on it. Surprisingly, the ring is actually a real diamond worth fifty thousand dollars. And it fit perfectly, too!

You thank him a day later and he thinks he’s the sexiest man in the world.

He then takes it even more up the road– weirdly just touching your hair with his grimy hands until you turn around and gently ask him to stop. Taking extreme observation of your face like it’s an art piece. Even stealing your perfume and spraying it on him even though he has never come close to even hugging you.

After Jeff feels like it’s time to go in for the catch, he breaks inside your room while you’re sleeping and hovers over you, caging you with his body. You’re still sleeping, face freshly moisturized and pretty. He lets his ragged, heavy cold breath blowing onto your face to wake you up, and once you do he grins even wider than humanly possible.

“Y’know, you coulda been sleepin’ in my bed.”

Once you said yes, he was on top of the world. He got cockier than he should really be.

He makes uncomfortably loud grunting and throat clearing noises to make everybody look at him and you, with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, beaming wildly like he just caught a bear.

He purposefully makes out with you in public view, not caring about your lipgloss absolutely coating his face

For his bit of toxicity, he isolates you whenever too many people serve as competition.

This stems from his insecurity of not protecting what he should be protecting, so to keep your eyes only on him, he either locks you up in his room or a wide plain full of nothingness.

He ventures and finds you pretty daggers to keep on a garter on your thighs especially if you have a dress with a huge slit, both for show and for protection, even though he’s there beside you practically 24/7.

Goes crazy for you in red. Going out in an all-red outfit for a date? He’s insisting you stay at home.

He lets you use his blood from his mouth slit as lipstick.

Speak to him in that sultry voice of yours and he’s in love forever.

"Jeffrey, baby. Get me my eyelash curler, will you?" "Oh, shit," he groans, throwing his head back. "You sound like sin, sweets."

NSFW

Remember him dragging you back to the house because you wore red? Well, you’re now on the floor, getting plowed into next week.

Also goes crazy for you keeping your heels on during sex, especially when you can’t take it anymore and you’re pushing him off with them, just for him to push your legs up to your ears and fuck you deeper.

He likes it when you keep your dress on while you ride him. It makes the whole thing feel risky– forbidden.

Jeffrey likes you to get messy. One time, you come back from a rough mission looking like utter shit. Hair tangled like matted fur, dress ripped at the seams, stockings ruined, makeup smeared to hell… It took him everything from within to not pounce on you right then and there. Instead, he drags you by the arm, skin bruising under your glove to his bed and makes you look even worse the following morning.

He loves it when you have a full face of makeup and a pretty outfit before you have sex. It’s like a trophy to him– mascara stains on his pillows, your poor dress ripped to shreds on the floor.

Remember your sultry voice? Use it on him when you order him around and his heart will stop. He might cum in his pants without you touching an inch of his pale skin.

He likes making you stumble out of the door, limping out with his cum still inside and your panties in his pocket, leaving you to pray that your dress doesn’t fly up in the wind.

Do you like your bra being stolen from you? I hope so. Because he’s not going to return it after making you strike up a conversation with everyone while your tits threaten to pop out.

He purposefully messes with your clothing, cutting the seams just right so when you put it on it rips at the most ridiculous places. A huge rip from your clavicle to just under your tits. The seam at the slit of your dress lets go when you take a little step.

Loves watching your usually tired and sexy eyes shoot open when he hits that sweet spot.

[auren-zagarra]

I'm sorry but I really need Jamil x virgin reader where they just started dating and Jamil is TRYING to be considerate cause hey normally sex happens only about a month in except my boy is just so repressed that even the most innocent actions get him going cause nobody told him love tends to increase libido

So by the time they actually do it my dude just pounces

ignosce, deus

Content Warning: Jamil x GN!Reader, sex, first time, rough sex, possession. MDNI.

Characters Count: 12864

There is a chasm between love and lust - a shadowed line often blurred in the fever of night. Lust is a hunger, crude and selfish. When one is merely enchanted by the allure of flesh, the soul behind the skin becomes inconsequential. You do not care whether the whispered endearments are lies or truths, you do not wonder if the kiss carries meaning or if the gaze hides sorrow. All that matters is the friction of bodies, the bruising kiss of hips against hips, the raw symphony of breathless moans as the bed groans beneath sin’s weight. It is fire for fire’s sake - consumption without comprehension. But love? Ah, love is a far crueler thing. Love compels you to notice - truly notice. Not just the curve of their lips, but the tremble behind their smile. Not merely the words, but the silences that fall between them. It demands attention to the unseen, the unsaid, the intangible pulse of meaning. When you love, you ache not just for their touch, but for the gentle lift of their laughter, the softness in their glance. You yearn for their joy more than your own pleasure. Love is the beautiful blasphemy where desire and devotion meet - where holy longing dances with unholy want. It is both ache and balm, the altar and the flame. And that exquisite torment, that sacred corruption of the heart was precisely what Jamil Viper felt for you.

He cherished you above all else - a devotion etched into the marrow of his being. Had you merely whispered the wish, he would have fallen to his knees, offering himself wholly without need for persuasion. There was something in your smile - terrible in its sweetness - that stole the air from Jamil’s lungs and conjured dark, honeyed visions of sin. It made him ache to unravel your purity, to drown you in the fevered rapture of his desire, to mark you from within with the sacred poison of his longing. But he restrained himself. He knew that haste was the enemy of delight. To pluck the fruit before its ripeness would only spoil the sweetness, curdle the sacred into something crude. No - he would not defile the sanctity of this yearning with impatience. He chose to wait for you to take the first step, to suffer sweetly beneath the weight of his need, each day a prayer of anticipation. And so, alone in the silence of midnight, he surrendered only to his own hand - his sole confessor, the one witness to his carnal reveries. Fingers slick with longing, he imagined your warmth, your breathless surrender, the way your body might tremble beneath his. Guided by the spirit of Asmodeus, he envisioned not just possession, but tasting your essence as a starving man drinks deep from a sacred chalice.

He spilled himself across the cold sheets - white and warm, a futile offering to a ghost that haunted his every breath. And in that brief crescendo of rapture, as his spine arched and a strangled moan slipped past his lips, he surrendered utterly to the oldest hunger known to mankind. Desire - raw, consuming, divine. Yet the moment always collapsed into silence, and in that silence came the guilt. Heavy. Cloying. Inevitable. He loathed himself for it, for imagining you like that - soft and bare, vulnerable beneath his gaze. He despised the visions of his fingers parting your thighs, the imagined taste of your skin, the phantom feel of your chest rising beneath his trembling hands. It was blasphemy to think of you as both an angel and a temptation, to desecrate you with the wild ache of fantasies. And yet… Fate, with cruel poetry, was already preparing your meeting. Soon, he would find you before him - his delicate little muse, dazed and undone, your form sprawled across his bed like some sacred Renaissance masterpiece. So ready to be ruined, so perfectly awaiting the artist’s hand. And Jamil Viper would wield not paint or brush, but his body, to draw upon your skin the most exquisite hymns of pleasure. 

How could something spun of such fragile silk ignite such infernal hunger? Was it the holy flame of longing that licked at the walls of his heart or the whisper of the devil, slipping between his ribs like a dagger? Jamil Viper no longer sought the answer. For what use had a sinner with purity, when ruin tasted so divine? You were not an object of chastity to him - you were temptation incarnate. A vision so breathtaking it seemed woven not from flesh but from prayer and poison, of a purity he wanted so badly to rip apart. His eyes drank you in as a dying man does his last glimpse of heaven. You were there - bare and luminous, offered like sacrament on silken sheets, your limbs parted in supplication to sin. And oh, what beauty in your undoing - how exquisite the fall of angels when done willingly, with lips parted and no regrets. His lips brushed the curve of your neck, where your pulse beat like a sacred drum beneath that skin delicate as porcelain. That scent was a lullaby and a curse, delicate and damning, pulling him further from grace with each breath he dared to take. His body trembled with restraint, his mind a battleground between desire and devotion. He ached to devour, to paint your soul with his longing, to make you his cathedral and confession. Yet he held his intentions strongly, not for lack of want, but because he loved you too much to desecrate what he adored with brute urgency. But oh, how does one remain a saint when the altar itself beckons, moaning softly in the dark?

You beckoned him closer, as though your very soul had opened its arms in invitation, an offering. His fingers, cold at first like the touch of a ghost, trailed down your trembling form until they reached the soft threshold of your intimacy. There, he began his silent sermon, coaxing from you breathless hymns shaped by a kind of pleasure so foreign, so sacred, it bordered on the divine. Your sighs, delicate and fractured, poured from your lips like incense curling into the high rafters of a cathedral. But he stole them greedily, catching each sound with his mouth - biting your lower lip mid-kiss to quiet the symphony he’d summoned, smothering your cries against the very lips that made you sing. Still, the movements of his hand - measured, rhythmic, dangerously gentle - undid you. The kiss broke as your head fell back in surrender, your spine arching like a bow strung with tension. You were slipping, dissolving into something not quite human. Into a place stitched together from moonlight and madness, where the air tasted like prayer and sin, and your very body trembled like a candle flickering before the divine. A tremor passed through you - delicate and involuntary - as though your soul were weeping beneath the weight of bliss. And then the moan escaped you. It did not belong to this world.

And Jamil smiled.

A dark, yet loving smile, like a priest before the altar, like a man on the edge of ruin. He lowered himself before your open form, the space between you thick with care and lust, as though he were not about to take you - but consecrate you. For in that trembling breath before the fall, you were not lovers. You were soulmates.

At last - after a labyrinth of yearning - he was within you. The sensation struck him like a curse. Your walls, warm and trembling, clasped him in a way no language could ever hope to contain. And Jamil - composed, reserved, master of self-restraint - could do nothing but bury his face against your skin and stifle the moan that clawed up his throat. Even that attempt was pathetic, a soft, broken sound slipping past his lips like prayer escaping the mouth of a heretic. He hated how undone you made him - or perhaps he loved it too much. This was the same man who lived with the grace of silence, who carried the weight of duty every single day. The one whose every step was measured, whose expression rarely cracked. A man forged by discipline, by order, by the necessity of servitude. But not here. Not now. In this moment, you saw not the servant - but the man. A man trembling beneath the euphoria of flesh meeting flesh, of desire shedding its mask and becoming need. His eyes were glassy with disbelief, with awe and his lips parted, not to speak, but to breathe you in, as if your body were the first real thing he'd ever touched in a world built of illusion and obedience.

His hips moved with the gentleness of a man afraid to break something expensive. Each thrust was deliberately measured, as if you were a fawn in the woods and he feared the violence of his hunger might make you flee. His body trembled with restraint, the kind that wraps itself around the bones like chains. And though now and then his movements grew bolder, the collisions a touch deeper, a breath sharper - he still held back. He refused to let himself fall too quickly into the abyss of instinct. But desire… desire is a patient predator. No matter how he tried to keep it leashed, to cloak himself in control, it stirred beneath his skin like a coiled serpent. Your warmth, your sighs, the way your fingers clutched at him like you, too, were trying not to fall - it was too much. You were too much. And he… he was only a man. A man torn between worship and want, between love and the aching need to consume. His hips faltered, stuttering slightly - not from pain, but from the sweet torment of holding back what had long begged to be unleashed.

You saw it, that trembling in his restraint, the silent war behind his eyes. So, with the tenderness of a lover and the mercy of a saint, you reached up and tucked a single lock of his hair behind his ear. A small gesture, yet it shattered him. That gentle smile of yours, so soft, so impossibly kind, was not permission. It was absolution. It told him he could want, could feel, could allow himself, just once, to take. And with that, the moan left him- fragile, involuntary, painfully human. His hands, once trembling with caution, tightened at your hips in the purest kind of desperation - like he feared that once this moment passed, he might forget the very shape of you - the curve of your waist, the softness of your skin beneath his calloused hands. He held you as if memory alone could not bear the weight of this beauty. As if touch was the only way to etch your presence into his soul. Then his rhythm changed. The slow cadence gave way to something deeper, needier. His hips moved like a dance guided by demons, each thrust translating his love in the language of flesh. The speed grew - not wild, but unrelenting. The kind of rhythm that made your toes curl, your spine arch, your mouth open as the ecstasy bloomed deep within your soul. And yet, never once did he treat you like something base or vulgar. No, this was not carnality devoid of meaning. There was fire, yes, but behind it was devotion. He fucked you like a man who had fallen to his knees before a god. You were not a body to be used, but an altar, and he the penitent - offering up every last piece of himself for the chance to taste divinity.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Even as your body trembled beneath him - torn between heaven’s promise and the cruel bliss of mortal sensation - it wasn’t enough for Jamil Viper. No matter how many times you cried out, no matter how many times your body convulsed in climax, pulling him deeper into your silken abyss - he remained starving. He had wanted to be gentle, to savor you like one sips wine from a sacred chalice. But how could he remain composed… when the way you clung to him, squeezed him, begged him without words, made him forget his name? How could he resist, when your soft chest rose to meet his mouth, and the moment his lips found your skin, you pulled him closer - tighter - as though you wished to be devoured? And each time you came undone, each divine tremor of your body writhing in euphoria, he felt only one thing: a satisfaction that bled into need. Not guilt. No, there was no shame in giving you pleasure so sublime it rivaled salvation. He did not blame himself for losing his soul to your body, for offering up his control to the altar of your moans. But still… it wasn’t enough. Despite having poured himself into you again and again - each release a holy desecration, each climax a request to be forgiven by his own mortal sins  - he needed more. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To map your body with his tongue like a cartographer of sin. To learn the dialect of your pleasure with lips, hands, and breath until you were left trembling and wordless, remade in rapture.

This night would not end. It would stretch into eternity, candlelight flickering against sweat-slick skin, a symphony of gasps and broken prayers echoing off the walls. He would consume you with patience and hunger alike, not as a man tasting his lover - but as a beast honoring his deity. For you were no longer simply his beloved, but an obsession. And he… he was your willing sacrifice, destined to worship every part of you until dawn forgot to rise.

[wynterstrawberry]

“Can you stay on the line til I get home?”

The thunderstorm you were driving in was getting worse and somehow your tiredness was increasing. You knew all of your other friends would be asleep but there was one consistent in your life that you knew would be awake right now.

“Hey are you okay?” Sid’s voice answered immediately with concern. He was observant enough to know something was usually up if you called this late.

“Hey I’m okay for now but I took a solo trip and got caught in the storm and I’m fighting sleep. Can you stay on the line til I get home?”

“Of course. What sparked the sudden solo trip?”

“Oh I realized I’m burnt out and thought getting out of town for a bit might help. Didn’t anticipate a storm causing havoc out of nowhere.” You replied with a dry laugh at the end.

Sidney immediately sympathized with you. He understood the feeling of burn out all too well. “Hey why don’t you just come to my house tonight anyway? It’s closer than your house and I don’t think you need to be out alone in the storm any longer than necessary.”

“You’re a life saver Sid. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Sidney kept you talking and made sure you were telling him exactly how far away you were at specific points. Every 8 minutes to be exact. As you got closer into town he would start timing exactly what you should be next to before you could tell him.

As you pulled into his driveway you saw him standing outside waiting for you and your heart melted. He came over with an umbrella over you and he brought your luggage in while getting rained on himself.

You looked out at the rain while Sidney got your luggage inside. And as if he could read your thoughts he spoke before you could. “No. We’re not dancing in the rain and getting sick later.”

“Oh cmon that theory has been proved wrong plenty of times.” You desperately countered back but Sid remained adamant about not dancing in the rain.

You were however pleasantly surprised to see your favorite food in the kitchen.

You motioned to it and Sidney blushed “I may or may have started trying to follow cooking videos during off season. If you get sick from it blame it on YouTube not me.”

He held a chair out for you and the two of you started eating. The cozy atmosphere of his house relaxed your nerves after the hectic drive.

After eating Sidney led you to the guest room where you had slept many times before. “If you need anything I think you know where everything is help yourself or come get me.”

The next morning you woke up to the best smelling coffee that you’d ever smelled. Sidney was looking outside with a cup in his hand. He smiled at you when you came in “look over there.” You walked over to where he was pointing “that’s a rare bird especially for this part of town and this time of year.”

Something about birdwatching with Sidney as he gave random facts here and there made you all the more endeared to him. “I wish we could just stay here like this forever.”

Sidney thought about it for a minute “I mean we could if you really want to. You’re one of the few if not the only person that genuinely listens to my bird facts.”

“Sign me up then.” You both sat in content silence.

“Do you actually want to be with me forever?” Sidney asked out of nowhere.

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him before answering. His gaze still watching the birds out the window until he looked over to you awaiting your response.

The friendship the two of you had was definitely confusing at times. It seemed like a given you both liked each other but were also simultaneously too scared to do anything. Both of you treating the other one like a boyfriend and girlfriend at different times.

“Yes.” You answered and went back to looking at the window a slight fear crept in of what his response would be.

“So do you wanna go on a date tonight?”

“I don’t really have any date clothes with me per se but yes.”

“Then we can go shopping and then eat.”

“You’ve got yourself a date.”