My Angel Princess

Josh O'Connor!!!!!!!!!!!

im about to fucking climax in the pyjama aisle of sainbury’s because yet again they’ve absolutely smashed out a bean flicking collection of pjs

OMNOMNONMONMONMNOMNOMNONM

let's be friends | tashi duncan x reader (patrick zweig x reader)

warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating

It starts with a look.

Not a dramatic one. Not a sweeping, heart-stopping, violins-in-the-distance kind of look.

Just a glance. Too long. Too soft. Too knowing.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in Patrick’s living room, a beer in one hand, your chin tipped back with laughter—warm and open and a little too loud—over something Art said that wasn’t even that funny. The TV flickers in the background. Someone’s half-finished drink sweats on the coffee table. The room smells like takeout and fabric softener. And Tashi watches you laugh like it’s something private. Tashi’s on the couch behind you, sprawled out like she owns the place—because she kind of does. And when you tilt your head to glance up at her, something in her expression sticks.

It’s not surprise. Not amusement.

Interest, maybe.

And then it’s gone.

You blink. You sip. You look back to Patrick, who’s started ranting about some guy on the challenger circuit who swings like a puppet.

But it lingers. A seed planted.

---

The first time you met Tashi, she barely looked up from her phone.

You’d just started seeing Patrick—two dates deep, that giddy sweet spot where everything is effortless and full of potential. He brought you to a casual post-practice dinner with Art and Tashi, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t them.

Art had been polite. A little cold, but not unkind. Tashi had nodded at you once, then gone right back to whatever was happening on her screen.

You weren’t offended. You were the new girl. You were used to that.

But later that night, she’d called you smart. Offhand. Like she’d been listening the whole time.

After that, you started seeing them more. Group hangouts. Drinks after matches. Late nights in Patrick’s apartment where everyone ended up on the couch together, legs tangled and shoulders pressed close.

Tashi was magnetic without trying. Loud in bursts. Quiet in corners. She made fun of Patrick constantly. She never complimented you directly, but she remembered your favorite lollipop flavor, which bar bathroom had the clean mirror lighting, which playlist you always skipped the third song on.

At first, you thought she just liked knowing things.

Then you started noticing the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

And the way your stomach flipped every time she did.

You told yourself it was fine. You were just becoming close. Girls got intense sometimes. Friendships could blur at the edges.

But the edges kept blurring.

And she never did anything about it.

Until she did.

---

One night, Patrick’s out getting another round, and Art’s halfway into an argument with the bartender about the definition of a double.

Tashi leans in close. Not too close. But closer than she usually sits.

“Do you always stare that much?”

You freeze. Your beer is halfway to your lips.

“I—what?”

She’s smirking. Lazy. Crooked. Her knee bumps yours.

“I’m just asking,” she says. “Because if you do, I could get used to it.”

You blink. The music is too loud. The lights too warm.

Then Patrick’s back with drinks and a stupid grin, and everything rearranges again.

But you’re not the same after that.

Neither is she.

And you both know it.

---

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens in moments. Small, dumb ones.

You start riding with her even when Patrick offers. You ride with her on slow mornings and fast ones, in silence and with music blaring. You ride with her because it’s easier. Because it feels better. Because it’s starting to mean something, even if you won’t admit it. You find yourselves pairing up on game nights, trading insults and high-fives that linger too long. Fingers brushing. Knees knocking. Looks held for just a beat too long. You steal sips of her drinks. She steals fries off your plate. You start texting her things that don’t need responses. She starts answering them anyway.

She starts calling you by your last name, in a voice that’s always teasing, always warm. You start finding excuses to touch her—grabbing her wrist to show her a song, brushing hair out of her face like it’s natural.

One night, you fall asleep on her shoulder during a movie, and when you wake up, she’s still there. Arm around you. Her fingers tangled lightly in the hem of your shirt.

Neither of you mention it.

But the next day, she texts you a selfie from her car, lip gloss perfect, eyebrows smug, with the caption: still waiting on my cuddle review.

You laugh harder than you should.

You send her a voice memo back. “Four stars. You run hot and you snore.”

She sends another photo immediately. This one’s worse. Or better. Her middle finger is up. Her lips are still curved in that smile you’re trying very hard not to memorize.

Five stars now? she asks.

And maybe it’s just fun. Maybe it’s just harmless.

But it doesn’t feel harmless when she watches you in group settings like you’re the only one there. It doesn’t feel harmless when you dream about her hands. When you wake up aching.

It doesn’t feel harmless when she shows up to a hangout in a tank top that’s definitely not for the weather, and you can’t stop staring.

And it definitely doesn’t feel harmless when she catches you.

When she licks a little melted ice cream off her thumb and says, without looking up, “You know, you’re allowed to want things.”

You don’t answer.

But you want.

God, you want.

And that’s the part that starts to ache.

Because Patrick is good. He’s kind. He kisses you like he means it and holds your hand like he’s proud of it. You like him. You really do.

But every time his lips find yours, every time his hand slides across your back and pulls you close, there’s a flicker of something traitorous at the base of your skull.

What would Tashi taste like?

It’s not a conscious thought. It’s not even loud. It’s just there. Present.

And when you open your eyes after a kiss, gasping, dazed, flushed from how sweet he always is with you—there’s still a name pressing soft against the edge of your thoughts.

And it isn’t his.

---

One night, it’s just the two of you. Rain tapping against the window, some old movie playing quietly in the background. Patrick’s hand finds yours where it rests on the couch cushion, fingers linking with yours like he’s done it a thousand times.

He kisses you slow, soft, like he wants you to feel how much he means it. And you do. You kiss him back, warm and grateful, even as something coils in your chest.

When you pull apart, he smiles against your cheek. “I’m really glad you get along with them,” he says, voice low. “With Art. With Tashi.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

He laughs a little. “Tashi’s hard to impress. But she likes you. You know that, right?”

You swallow. You try to keep your voice even. “Yeah.”

“She told me she was glad we were dating.”

That makes your chest clench in a way you can’t explain. Your heart aches, confused and guilty.

Patrick presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re my favorite person. And I think it’s kinda cool that my favorite people are becoming friends.”

You close your eyes.

You wish that was all it was.

---

It happens on a night that feels like any other.

You’re at her place. Music low. A bottle of wine cracked open even though you both swore you were only staying in for a quiet night. There’s a half-hearted movie playing, and she’s sitting close enough that your knees touch. Not in a dramatic way. Not even on purpose. Just enough to feel it.

You're laughing at something she said—something ridiculous and small, and the sound sticks in the air between you. She watches you for a second too long. And you feel it.

Your stomach turns over. The kind of flip that’s not new anymore, but still dangerous.

She shifts on the couch, facing you more fully. Her fingers drum lightly on the stem of her wine glass. You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Your mouth keeps moving, but your brain is stuck on the way her eyes flick down to your lips.

The tension stretches—taut and humming and painfully quiet.

And then she says your name.

Soft. Careful. Not a tease. Not this time.

You stop.

Tashi leans in. Just a little. Enough.

“Tell me to stop,” she says.

You don’t.

So she kisses you.

It's not rushed. It's not wild. It’s gentle. Testing. The kind of kiss you give when you’ve thought about it too many times to pretend you haven’t.

You gasp against her mouth before you can stop yourself. Her hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

And when she pulls back, she doesn't move far. Just enough to murmur—

“Don’t you wanna?”

Your chest rises too fast.

And you nod.

You really, really do.

She kisses you again, deeper this time. Her hands are on your waist, sliding under your shirt, fingers spreading across your skin like she’s trying to memorize you by touch.

You moan—quiet, shocked by how fast it unravels you. Tashi catches it with her mouth, her tongue slipping past your lips with such practiced ease it makes your thighs press together.

“You always this easy to kiss?” she whispers, tugging at your shirt. “Or is it just me?”

You breathe out a laugh—shaky, dizzy. “It’s you.”

She grins against your skin. “Thought so.”

She’s pushing you back onto the couch before you realize it, hovering over you with one hand braced beside your head and the other sliding down your body.

When her hand slips under the waistband of your pants, your hips buck. You gasp again, louder this time, and she watches you—eyes heavy, lips parted, like she’s starving.

“You gonna let me?” she asks.

You nod, too fast.

She hums, pleased, fingers slipping lower, slow but deliberate. The first press of her thumb to your clit has you whimpering.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“God, you sound good,” she mutters, kissing your neck, your jaw, your cheek. “Been thinking about this every time you wore something tight and acted like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you gasp.

Tashi laughs. “Liar.”

And then she’s inside you, two fingers curling just right, and you’re gone—hips rolling, back arching, her name a broken whisper on your lips.

She takes her time. Watches every twitch, every breath. Brings you right to the edge and holds you there, kissing you slow until you’re trembling beneath her.

“Let go,” she whispers. “Come on. Let me have it.”

And when you do, it’s with a cry you couldn’t hide if you tried.

You collapse into her, flushed and panting.

And she kisses your shoulder like she's done it a billion times before. Maybe she has. Just not in real life.

---

After that night, nothing feels casual anymore.

You don’t talk about it. Not directly. But the way she touches you changes—more often, more deliberate. She stands too close. She doesn’t look away as fast.

And you let her.

You let her every time.

But it twists something sharp in your stomach when you see Patrick. When he kisses your cheek or brings you coffee or grins like he still thinks he’s the only one who gets to make you blush.

You can’t meet his eyes when he says, “Tashi says we should all hang out again this weekend. You in?”

You say yes.

You always say yes.

But it feels like lying now. Even though it technically isn’t.

Technically.

You think maybe you were fine until the second time it happened. The second time Tashi kissed you like she couldn’t help it. The second time she made you come with her mouth on you and a growl in her throat.

Because this time, when it’s over, she doesn’t move.

She stays. Curled up behind you on the couch, hand splayed on your stomach like she belongs there. Like she wants to be there in the morning.

You lie there wide awake, her breath warm on your neck, and you realize something you really didn’t want to know.

You’re not the only one who caught feelings.

And now it’s harder to pretend.

Tashi holds you like it means something. Like it has meant something. And you let her, night after night, long after the tension gave way to touch.

But something shifts in the quiet. In the way she presses her face into your neck when she thinks you’re asleep. In the way her fingers twitch when Patrick texts you.

You start noticing things.

Like how she doesn’t meet your eyes when she says his name. How she jokes about him less now. How she touches you softer after.

It should make you feel wanted.

Instead, it makes you feel split down the middle.

Because Patrick’s still sweet. Still good. Still smiles at you like you’re his whole world.

And you keep smiling back.

Even as part of you starts to wish he wasn’t in this picture at all.

---

It happens by accident. And then, almost instantly, it doesn’t feel like one.

You're at Patrick's. All of you. A lazy Saturday stretched too long, half-dressed in your comfiest clothes. Tashi’s curled in the armchair. You’re on the floor with your back to the couch, between Patrick’s knees. He's absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair while watching something dumb on TV.

And Tashi says something—something that makes you laugh. You throw your head back, and she catches your eyes. The smile she gives you is soft. Real.

Patrick notices.

You feel his fingers pause against your scalp.

“You two have been really tight lately,” he says, not accusing, not suspicious. Just curious.

You freeze.

Tashi shifts, unfazed. “She’s fun,” she says. “You did good.”

Patrick hums. “I mean… yeah. You’re both fun.”

There’s a beat.

Then he says it.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Your heart stutters.

“Thought about what?” you ask, even though you know.

He leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice low. “You and her. Together.”

You don’t speak.

You feel the way Tashi goes still across the room.

Then Patrick adds, quieter—

“If I walked in on something… I wouldn’t be mad.”

He squeezes your shoulders once. Just once. Then gets up to grab more drinks.

And the silence he leaves behind is electric.

You look at Tashi.

She’s already looking at you.

And there’s no hiding now.

---

He brings back beers and popcorn like nothing happened, and you pretend for a while. All of you do. The show keeps playing. The room keeps breathing. Patrick settles back into the couch behind you like the air hadn’t just changed.

But then you stand to stretch and say you’re gonna help Tashi grab something from the car.

There’s nothing in the car.

You don’t even make it to the door.

The moment it closes behind you, she grabs your wrist and pulls you in. Mouth on yours. Desperate. Sharp. Messy.

You kiss her like it’s your last chance.

“Is this what you want?” she breathes against your lips.

You nod. Hard. “Yes.”

Then Patrick’s voice calls out from the other room—“You two making out in there?”

Silence.

You look at her. She’s breathing hard, lip bitten, pupils blown wide.

Then he steps into the hall.

Patrick sees you both—disheveled, pressed together, the heat still clinging to your skin like fog.

He smiles.

“About time,” he says, and walks toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t. You expect tension. Jealousy. Confusion.

Instead, he kisses you. Then her.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “just ask if I wanna watch.”

And when Tashi grabs his shirt and pulls him in, you realize this is happening. Not a fallout. Not a crisis.

Just heat.

Just yes.

And when the three of you stumble into the bedroom, laughter and tension and hunger all tangled up in your mouths and hands, you think maybe it was always going to end like this.

Messy.

Beautiful.

Loud.

Tashi’s mouth is on yours again the moment you hit the bed, her hands already dragging your shirt up, exposing skin she’s seen but never rushed. Patrick’s behind you now, his breath hot at your ear as he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it off like it’s a ribbon, not a barrier.

“Pretty,” he says, voice low and rough, as his fingers graze down your spine.

Tashi kisses your shoulder. “We know.”

Clothes hit the floor like they’ve been waiting. Hands overlap. You don’t know whose grip is tighter, whose mouth is lower, only that you’re unraveling fast and you haven’t even been fucked yet.

Patrick slides down first, tongue slow and sinful between your legs, while Tashi kisses you through every twitch of your body. When he moans against your clit, it sends a shock straight through your spine.

“Jesus,” you gasp.

“Not quite,” Tashi whispers, fingers sliding into your mouth as she watches you fall apart. “But close, right?”

It doesn’t stop. It just layers. Hands, lips, sounds, heat. You feel Patrick’s cock brush your thigh as Tashi pulls you into her lap, and when you sink down onto him, it’s all dizzy, all stretch and pleasure, with her mouth right at your ear.

“You’re so fucking good like this,” she purrs. “Look at you. Perfect.”

You ride Patrick with Tashi’s hands on your hips, her mouth on your neck, all three of you lost to it, to each other.

And when you come again, it’s Tashi who whispers you through it, and Patrick who groans into your skin like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear the sound you make falling apart between them.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You don’t care.

It ends in breathless laughter, bodies tangled, limbs sticky and flushed.

And when you finally open your eyes, they’re both still there.

Watching you.

Touching you.

Smiling like they’ve always known.

Like this was never a mistake.

And somewhere on the floor, someone’s sock is inside the popcorn bowl. Patrick swears it’s not his.

No one believes him.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

Hello beautiful women in my phone

im going to kiss you on your incredible, beautiful brain

Good Luck

This is basically the beginning of The Atlantic City Story verbatum, with you as Jane, and some differences + personal touches. Because of this, you don't need to have seen ACS to understand what's going on (in my opinion). Just a little thing I wanted to write to warm up my ACS writing muscle since I plan to write for Arthur more in the future.

SFW

2.3k words

If you haven't seen it, Arthur has a gambling addiction, and you participate in gambling at a casino. Reader (Jane) grows up with an implied neglectful and sometimes abusive mother, and there are flashbacks to this childhood. Reader is in a strained marriage. I picture you being around Arthur's age and married young instead of Jane's age in the movie.

It felt like you’d caught him; finding him out there, sitting in the quiet rain on a lone bench, the streets abnormally still for the city. Maybe it was like tunnel vision, all that you could hear or see was him, whoever he was.

The rain made dashes in the air like stitches, straight diagonal lines cutting through to the asphalt, illuminated by the single streetlight by the fence. The grass behind it looked like it went on forever, like an ocean you could swim through if you wanted. You’d never seen the sky so pitch black, the light pollution of the city sucking the light from the stars like parasites. The streetlight was the only star in the sky, strong and bright and sturdy. There under the starlight, just a little to its left, was the one bench. One star, one bench. It was curious. Even more so that on that one bench was him, that man from the roulette table. Him alone, under the star and under the rain, staring off into the ocean and lightless night.

It was a rash decision, one you couldn’t help but make. There was always something wrong with you and you’re well aware of that– self awareness must count for something– but knowing that you have a tendency to fuck things up didn’t stop you from fucking things up again.

When you were a kid you’d run away regularly, packing your little school bag with the things your small mind deemed the most important (a change of clothes, a juice box, your favorite toy, some sidewalk chalk) and sneaking out the back door of your childhood home. It was easy when all you had to do was wait for your mother to drink her favorite juice and fall asleep by the TV, oblivious to the program and to your footsteps creaking the floorboards. When the screen door was shut and it was just you and the cicadas, your little feet ran, carried you as far as they could take you.

Down the block and through the grass, running and running until your legs gave out. Then you’d choose a tree to sit under, catching your breath under the summer sun and pull out the juice box you’d packed. Drinking it slow, letting it sit on your tongue cause you knew that you wouldn’t be able to get another one out here on your own. In the meantime, you’d watch ants crawl beneath blades of grass, earthworms crawl around the gargantuan stones in their paths, birds land on the branches above you. You could hear those cicadas sing and the birds caw and the worms slither in the dirt, and all you could think of is “I wonder if she’s noticed yet.”

Now you were running from your home. Not the one with the box TV and the drunken mother on the floral sofa, where your presence and lack-thereof were felt the same, but the one you’d grown to call yours. It was modest and it was owned, and it was all thanks to your husband Michael. You’d never be able to afford it without him.

When he’d be gone, for work or for play, you found yourself revisiting those times under the trees. Wondering how long you’d really be there until a neighbor found you or a patrolling cop who thought it strange to see you there, alone. Had it been minutes? Hours? Surely not days, never a full one. You were never that lucky. Even now. The day would end and you’d look up from your thoughts and find Michael home, and eventually he’d end up on the couch asleep, the TV flashing frames on the wall.

You don’t really enjoy gambling, if you’re being honest, so you’re not quite sure what led you to Atlantic City. Maybe it was the lights, maybe it was because it was so far away from that couch, The hotel bed was admittedly nicer than your own. The bathroom was also nicer, much larger than the one back home, the mirror spanning wide across the wall above the double sink. Drying your hair from the rain, you mind stayed on the man on the bench. How his eyes weren’t quite at the roulette table, how his hands fidgeted with the chips. They were strong, his hands, the skin smooth and uncalloused or scarred. His fingers long and nervous, always moving against something or each other. You’d watched his hands almost the whole time you were there. You kept picturing those hands as you got ready for bed. How they worried, how they gave up when he didn’t win and left for the rain.

The bed’s so much emptier without someone on the other side. Michael, is he asleep on the couch again? Has he noticed? The tears fell freely, there was no one there to hide them from tonight. In the quiet, the never ending quiet, you almost missed the sound of his breathing behind you. Almost. You noticed he wasn’t there, you always did.

It’s hard to sleep with a mind like yours, but you managed.

There’s a nice view from your window, a perfect one of both the sea and the pier. Just to the corner peaked the ferris wheel, big and silent and unmoving. You’d smoke on the balcony if you had a pack with you. There at your bedside your phone finally buzzed, and from here you could see the contact name pop up. Maybe you should check if they sell any at the gas station a block down.

They do.

It’s quickly stuffed into your coat pocket, leaving straight from the gas station to the casino, your phone still back in your room. There’s something appealing to you in that loud, depressing trap. The ringing machines, the clicking sounds of chips on tables and balls spinning to determine someone's fate, the shuffling of cards and nervous laughter of the patrons. This could be their shot, the temporarily embarrassed millionaires. One more time, pull the level one more time. Play the cards one more time. Toss the ball one more time.

What really led you there was him, the man with the hands and no name. Something told you that he would be there again today.

He is. You spot him at the same roulette table, in the same hat and shirt but dry now. The jacket he wore last night is gone, though. Last night you watched, so today you decided to play. Observing silently at the table was weird, anyway, so you set down two twenties. Surely losing that won’t hurt as bad. Pink chips totaling forty dollars slide to your end, the head of the table, and you find your own fingers flipping them with worry. So is he. He’s watching the wheel with this almost acceptance that he won’t win, yet he’s clearly still here, still trying. How long as he been there? He puts down his number, then the other participants, and you just choose a random one. You’ve never done this before, having no clue if this is a game of chance or skill but you can only assume the former. You bet 44. He bet 24.

The wheels spins and the ball is tossed. Round and round and round forever. The casino feels so loud, it’s like you can hear every anxious prayer to whatever higher being will have mercy on them today. There’s a machine a ways away that rings loud, someone shouts at another one about it being rigged. The dealer is reminding people no more bets, not until it lands. He takes a breath, hitched and ready to release when it’s allowed, but he doesn’t. He holds it, never taking his eyes off the ball. You never take your eyes off him.

“Six. Black and even.”

It takes him a moment to let it go. Someone else won, another woman at the table, and the dealer hands her the chips. You do it all again, and when you place your bet on twenty-six, he does too.

The ring of the ball falling into place sounds like a dim bell. Everything else goes quiet when you hear it, and this time you let your eyes hopefully fall to where it spins and stops.

“Twenty-six. Black and even.”

Someone at the table stands and leaves and you find a smile growing on your lips. How unexpected. You were ready to lose again, you were alright with it. It felt good. He finally looks away from the table, letting another breath go. Looking up, catching your eye and dropping it, you see the hint of a smile on his. When he speaks you’re surprised.

“Thank you.”

You’ve moved to stand next to him, next to the wheel, as the dealer hands you your chips. “Me?”

“Yeah, you had the twenty-six.”

You don’t really think about it when you move to the newly empty seat next to him, removing your coat and hanging it on the back of it. “I guess I’m lucky.”

Again. This time, several numbers: Thirty-six, three, twenty-nine, eleven. He places them on the same spots you do, like you’re his good luck. The bets are set, the wheel spins again, and your eyes fall back to his hands. They’re closer now, and maybe you’re confident enough to think they worry a little less as they still on the table.

He properly looks at you when it lands, the corner of his mouth pulling up. His hands grip the edge of the table slightly before letting go, tapping the green fabric on it proudly. He’s got a pretty smile when he lets it. Maybe you are lucky.

“Thirty-six. Red and even.”

When you’d come home it was always a mess. Whether it was a neighbor or a cop, your mother would open the front door with her unbrushed hair and bitten lips and stained nightgown and scold you right there in front of them. “Fuck, kid. How many times I gotta tell you to stop running off? I can’t sleep five minutes without you trying to kill yourself and worrying the neighbors. I got work, you know.”

She worked long shifts at the bank and then the diner, trying to make enough for the two of you. She was always tired by the time she got home. You always had to walk to and from school, pack your own lunches, learn how to do the laundry yourself. She always said she just needed a minute to relax, give mommy a minute to relax and she’ll be right there, but that minute would stretch until she had to get ready for her shift the next morning.

“My feet and back are damn tired and I don’t have time to follow you around this house, watching if you’re gonna go off and get hit by a car. I hope you have a kid like yourself one day, you’ll finally understand how hard I’ve got it. Get to your room.”

You’d lie on your belly on the floor, tracing patterns into the old carpet of your bedroom. There wasn’t much to do. Toys were expensive. You had a few, sure, but not the ones in the commercials that would play. Hot Wheels with customizable racetracks and big Barbie Dream Houses and shiny little action figures with movable arms and legs. You had Legos that the kid next door stopped playing with, and a hand stitched doll your mother made, your teddy bear from infancy, and a bike that’s had a flat tire since last spring.

There was a small bookshelf by the door with books you either finished reading or didn’t care for, some stolen from your mother’s room that confused you and spoke about things you’ve never heard of. Behind the dresser that you’d move, there were crayon drawings on the yellowed walls you’d sometimes add to before moving the dresser back. When you didn’t want to do that, it was back to lying on your stomach and tracing on the carpet.

Sometimes you’d hear kids next door playing, yelling at the other to pass the ball or to watch their cool trick. You’d look out your window but they’d always be just out of view. It was like a radio show with no dial to switch stations. Then you’d smell the cooking coming from downstairs and hear the knock at your bedroom door, and your mother would pass you your plate. She’d sit there on the floor in front of the bedroom door with hers, and there you’d eat in silence.

The next day, your mother would have forgotten about it, and you’d already start wondering about how far you could get next time.

He doesn’t play Poker, says there’ll always be someone there smarter than him. “I’m not smart but I’m smart enough to know I’m not gonna be the smartest.”

Hearing that, put that way, makes you laugh. You guess he has a point. It’s not about skill. You don’t need skill to have luck, you suppose. You either have luck or you don’t, and you’ve thought until now that you’ve had none. You like how he puts it: “With roulette it’s all chance. It’s just you and the universe.”

The chips are turned to cash at the counter. $900 for him, $950 for you. Considering your starting bet was forty, you feel pretty good. Good enough to stop. He chooses to stop today, too. It’s like he walks lighter down the hall with the cash in his pocket. He offers to take you to a cheap diner he knows, like a celebration of your win. Taking his good luck out to dinner, and he doesn’t even know your name.

He almost floats across the floor. You think about him just the other night, under the rain, under the single stranded star. He’s a different man with money in his pocket, that much you can tell of the stranger. Your phone is still on the nightstand back in your room, but you know by now that Michael’s stopped calling. Stopped trying. You wonder when he noticed.

He tells you his name is Arthur.

A Night Over

an: enjoy this cute picture of mike because i literally finished this like 2 hours ago and spent so long worrying about making it aesthetic i stopped caring

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He brushes past you as soon as you open the door, barely even a wide enough space to squeeze a body through. You huff, turn around just in time to get knocked into by his overstuffed messenger bag. It’s the same one you recognize from kindergarten cubbies and middle school lockers. 

“Well, hello to you too, Connor.”

You’ve done this all before. You recognize the sound of his body against the couch cushions before you see it, back turned to him to pull some blankets from the coat closet by the front door. You can feel his eyes, though, the way you always can. Intense in everything, even just in observing you move through your home. The home he’s been to more times than he can count on both his hands. He can’t help but to be fascinated by you, though, no matter how many times he’s been around you, bombarding his senses until the only thing his brain has a concept of is his existence relative to yours. 

He keeps a bag packed for nights like these, nights that are more frequent than they should be, and have just been growing more persistent. There’s a tone to his father’s voice he knows too well. Not necessarily anger, but a growing displeasure at everyone and everything around him, including the son that ruins his Facebook family photos and general public image of being a perfect, upper-middle class suburban family. He wouldn’t mind being in a miserable family if everyone agreed on the best way of doing it, but they still clash in that sense. So disjointed they can’t even find the same ways to hate each other, hate themselves.

You sit on the coffee table across from where he rests, hands clasped in your crossed thighs. There’s no need to talk about it anymore. The argument, the topic it took, isn’t the issue. It’s not what drives him out of his house at odd hours of the night to seek refuge in yours. It’s the feeling that if he stayed, there would be no escaping the idea that maybe, just maybe, his father is right. That he is ruining things. Sure, he’d internalized that feeling since birth, thinking and feeling it before his father could confirm he shared the same opinion, but it still hurt to know that he wasn’t his daddy’s little boy anymore. Now, he was the son that could’ve been better, should’ve been better with the resources provided to him. But he’s not normal in that sense, never has been. He wishes he could hit himself on the head hard enough to knock loose whatever is festering in his skull until it comes out his ears. Whatever neurochemical imbalance, whatever parasitic thought, whatever version of himself nestled its way in. 

You unclasp your hands, find your palms redder than they’d started, grabbing at his ankles to place them in your lap. 

“You can sleep in my bed, you know. Your back will thank you.”

You say absentmindedly, beginning the minutes long task of unlacing those scuffed, softened leather boots he always wears. They’d been a product of saved-up birthday money and weeks of not smoking, and he couldn’t help but to feel a little proud for having done something semi-responsible with himself. And now here they are, in your lap, sprinkling wet dirt onto your skin. It’s the same offer you’ve been extending his way for months, held in your palm like it’s fragile, like it means more than just a bed. He never takes it, curls your fingers back over it, nudges your hand back to your side. He means well. He means not to impose the way he does everywhere else. He knows how few places he’s truly welcome. He knows that the best one is wherever you happen to be. He won’t lose it, or he loses himself. But he can’t impose where he is invited. Welcome at all times. Your home is his home, because he doesn’t have one otherwise. Here he is wanted, and he just won’t let that be. 

You curl the undone laces around your fingers, watching the coils turn your skin just that little bit paler under the strained blood flow. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he tends to do. You can feel his eyes follow the movement, whether it’s yours or the lace’s, you can’t quite make out. You look back up at him through weary eyes, the time of night clear in each fleck of color. It’s fairly late, but not late enough for you to look so worn. You’ve been tired for ages, and no amount of laying beneath woolen blankets has been able to rejuvenate you. Remarkably, there aren’t any real bags beneath your eyes. The one way you could cry out for the help you’d so desperately like without verbal confirmation of being anything less than mundane, and you can’t even supply yourself with it. How pathetic. He recognizes the look in your eyes, the plea for him to help himself so you can live vicariously through it. Feel better for having done something. He doesn’t give in though. 

So fine. He can have it his way. Boots are tucked beneath the couch, left to drip onto the wood beneath them. They can rot the whole house away for all you care. You squeeze yourself into that sliver of space he isn’t taking up, face to face so closely that it feels like this is the first time you’ve seen him at all. His left eye has a little spot of brown in it, stuck in amongst blue. A black sheep. He looks behind your head to the wall. It seems easier. He’s met with a framed photo of the two of you. No such thing as an easy way out. So, he does what he does best. Watches. Watches you move some humidity-frizzed hair from his face as if it won’t fall right back where it was, watches you attempt to get comfortable with the singular foot of room allotted to you, watches you pretend the proximity isn’t what makes your eyes look far away and yet so concentrated. He can’t point that part out, he’s sure he looks the same. He watches you sleep, too, for a while. Features softened, smushed, unfurrowed by stress. You look your age this way. You’ve shed years of forced maturation in a single shallow breath. He doesn’t feel it’s an invasion if it’s something beautiful to look at. Artistic, even. Biblical. He shivers, pretends it’s from the cold, the rain, the dampness of his clothes. You hadn’t actually put any of those blankets you’d grabbed to use. He doesn’t want to move. He can feel your heartbeat if he focuses enough like this, breath mixing with his own on your exhales. He thinks it’s almost kissing. It’s better. It’s nowhere near enough. He looks to the ceiling, then back at you. He smiles. Maybe someday he’ll say the obvious. Maybe someday he can impose. But for now feigned relative indifference will do. You know he cares more than he says. You will wake up rejuvenated.

if you haven't gotten sick of seeing me on your timeline, i'm not doing it right. i'm like a challengers fan fiction cold sore! i'm not sure if i like this, but then again, i say this about everything i've ever posted and still make it publically available. i hope it's cute and just yearny (??) enough because what is a challengers fan if not a yearner? i will probably post something again in the next 24 hours maybe less so.. who's ready for a patrick fic? patfic. woah... hope you enjoy and feel free to leave tips and critiques as per usual<3

Societal conventions of platonic relationships are boring, and that’s why you all rejected them. I mean, sure, every time you said that you weren’t dating one of them the response was always “You know you can tell me anything, right?” but seriously! You’re all just very good friends. Best friends, more accurately. So, yes, you helped each other out. That’s what friends are for. Patrick needs a fake girlfriend for one of his parents’ parties? You and Tashi are on it. Art wants a date to some tennis gala? You’re all jumping at the chance. It’s not like it’s hard to fake something like that, because you’re all close already. A kiss on the cheek and a hand on the waist are essentially nothing. You wouldn’t bat an eye if it happened outside of one of those contexts, either. So it’s fine when it does, and it doesn’t make your heart race.

It also never bothered you to admit that they were incredibly beautiful people, because that’s just a conclusion that you can draw by having eyes. Even without your little set up, you’d certainly feel that way. So Tashi’s birthday party, which she’d dragged you all to some club you can’t legally be in for, was fine. It was fine that Tashi was dancing with her arms outstretched above her head like a prayer, slightly offbeat to the timing of the song, and yet still so in place. She’s dancing like she forgot there’s always eyes admiring her, skirt swaying around her long legs, eyes closed like she’d absorb the moment if she concentrated enough. And she looked gorgeous, the way she always did. Which you’re allowed to say, because best friends always support their best friends. And sure, when she opens her eyes and waves at you from her spot on the floor you start giggling despite having had nothing to drink, but it’s because you’re happy for her. It’s extra fine that Patrick soon comes up to join her, large hands to sharp hip bones, and they start swaying like one unit, and they both look lost in one another until suddenly they’re lost in you. You don’t bristle when Art leans into your side and mumbles that someone ‘looks really good, huh?’ and you don’t quite make out if the sentence started with ‘he’ or ‘she’.

It’s fine when Tashi pulls you up to some makeshift platform of a stage for karaoke, screaming the lyrics just a bit too loudly into the microphone, and clinging onto you for dear life. There’s a second mic hanging limply to your right, but it’s been deemed unnecessary because she’d insisted on pulling you close and sharing the one in her hand. From this close, you can smell the perfume she’d chosen for the night, which you note isn’t her signature, and the faint coconut of her shampoo. You can make out two sets of smiling eyes from the same shitty table you’d claimed, nursing drinks in calloused hands that still manage soft touches. 

It’s fine when you get a little solo and you manage to squeak out a few notes, voice thick with nerves and lack of proper use, and feel the way that three people’s worlds have stopped to take in each sound before they pass. They’re committing you singing to memory, and you’re not sure what’s telling you as much, but you know it’s true. It’s fine when the song’s over and Tashi leads you back to the table with a hand on your lower back, and her fingers are so long that your mind drifts without your permission, and your steps become a bit more rigid than they’d usually be. 

It’s fine when you’re pressed between Patrick and Art in the rented limo Patrick had arranged using his parents’ money, and two different hands meet your thigh, and you can just barely feel Patrick’s pinky grazing the hem of your skirt. It’s fine when Art begins feeding you praise like it’s his life’s goal to make you drown in it, because the compliments sound sweeter in his voice, so you can take that sickening butterfly flutter in your ribcage and crush it under the stiletto point of your heel. 

It’s fine when you’re all laying on dew-dampened grass somewhere near Patrick’s apartment, staring up at the sky, and the crowns of your head are all touching, because there’s a need to not acknowledge the obvious, and a deeper need to indulge in it. There’s a voice in the wind that’s rustling Tashi’s hair and creasing Art’s shirt that’s telling you to just give in to yourself. You wonder if it’s only talking to you. It’s fine when you turn to look at Patrick to find he’s already looking at you, and he’s got the wonder in his eyes you see on people gazing into a Van Gogh. He’d take staring at you over any painting in a heartbeat, he’d tell you if you asked. 

It’s fine when you find yourself in Patrick’s bed, goosebumps littered across cold-air-kissed skin, with your back to Tashi’s chest, and she’s cradling your head like it’ll fall off if she doesn’t hold it up herself. You find yourself liking the feeling of Art’s lips scattering feather-light kisses across the inside of your thighs. You lean further back against Tashi when she starts cooing some kind of praise you’re too hazy-minded to make out, but it sounds nice with the inflections of her voice, demanding but soft. You don’t mind watching Patrick’s lips connect with Tashi’s, then with Art’s, because you can focus in on how their bodies melt and their fingers bend. You can pick up on each little click of a broken kiss, and each sigh of a newly formed one. The night’s some kind of haze of warm hands, adoring eyes, and wandering lips with glints of white teeth that you can’t quite put in place. What you can definitively say is that it felt like coming home. It felt like sleeping in your bed for the first time since you’ve been away, and it molds around your shape like you hoped it would. It feels like falling asleep with Tashi’s hair in your face and a pool of Patrick’s drool building atop your stomach and not caring. It feels like getting a kiss goodnight from Art because he’s just as naked and giddy as you are.

It’s fine to admit to yourself that you’re in love when you don’t want to be. Love apparently didn’t care that you wanted a step-by-step plan, a playbook, a set of rules to follow. Love didn’t care that you’d been planning on keeping things simple, because lack of acknowledgement means lack of potential rejection. Love didn’t care because love is like a mother, it knows what’s best for you, even if it’s less than pleasant to sit with. But love was deeply breathing against your neck and snoring a little too loudly. Love was going to wake you up at sunrise to make them all hangover cures, should they need them. Love was going to let you fall asleep and dream about it, just to wake up and realize it’s still there.

OHHHH MY ANGEL BABY :(

Happy Challengers Anniversary #1 !!!

I present to you: Tashi Duncan’s Diary

Click for better quality

Author’s note

This is an interpretation exclusively based on the character.

I didn’t add much about Art or Patrick because it’s also a point of view where Tashi was only 18. A girl trying to figure out who she was —just like they were— and trying to build a life she could be proud of.

Before anyone tried to define her.

Some things she already knew: She wanted more. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be herself.

This journal is my interpretation of that Version of Tashi.

It’s not perfect—it’s personal.

It’s a glimpse of her, through my eyes.

Thanks for reading. <3

what is wrong with you

connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess

french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!

hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. here’s the connor one first 🤭 umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty… don’t hate me

tw: depression, suicide

—

the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume you’re always happy.

like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.

but you know better.

and so does he.

connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you don’t mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.

he looks over, slow and suspicious.

you offer a half-smile and a joint.

“world’s ending,” you say, as explanation.

he shrugs. “cool.“

you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.

“you don’t seem like the type, you know,” he says finally.

you raise an eyebrow.

“to sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.”

you laugh. “give it time.”

when the stars come out, you’re still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big things—just breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just… not be this person.

he blinks. slow, languid. “same.”

and it’s stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and it’s the first time you feel understood in forever.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

he turns to look at you, like the moon’s caught in his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna like you.”

a pause.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“okay. good. me too. but like… don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. i’m pretty popular.”

you grin. “oh yeah?”

“oh yeah.”

the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.

—

you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just… by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.

at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.

he nods at you. you nod back.

it’s stupid. it means everything.

eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.

like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like they’re birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless it’s disappointment wearing a polo.

how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.

“they love her,” he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. “like, it’s easy. natural. with me, it’s like—i have to earn it. and even when i do… it’s not enough.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.

later, you say, “my mom makes me smile in photos even when i’ve just had a panic attack.”

and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole fucking world.

you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.

one day, he mutters, “i’m supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe they’re right.”

you tilt your head. “do you want to be?”

he hesitates. “not always. not really.”

“then don’t be. be whatever you want with me.”

he stares at you like he’s waiting for the punchline. it doesn’t come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.

he starts texting you. a lot.

everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.

until it finally snaps.

you’re curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars don’t have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.

he’s lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.

“do you ever feel,” he says, “like you were made for sadness?”

you comb your fingers through his hair. “maybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.”

he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile.

you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.

instead, he says, “i love you.”

quiet. like it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

your heart stutters. the world stills.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.

he kisses you, and it’s slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee he’s always got and something saltier—regret, maybe, or all the things he can’t say out loud.

his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like he’s checking if you’re real.

you are. you lean into him like gravity’s made of need.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer—not desperate, just aching.

the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale you’ve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didn’t look away.

you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.

—

friday, no text.

saturday, nothing.

you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.

you try calling. voicemail.

you tell yourself he’s just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.

but not like this. never this quiet.

by monday, he’s not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.

his car isn’t there.

your texts pile up.

you start asking people. zoe doesn’t answer her phone. neither does his mom.

your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?

no.

he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could be—

you call again. straight to voicemail.

you leave one more message.

voice shaking.

tears falling.

“connor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.”

—

eventually it’s confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.

a hushed assembly.

teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that don’t stop anything from hurting.

no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.

and now he’s gone, and you can’t say any of it without sounding insane.

you’re back in uniform the next week.

lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.

people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like

“wasn’t he that angry kid?”

or

“i didn’t know you even talked to him.”

and you nod. and you smile.

and inside, something is rotting.

you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.

pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.

your bedroom walls are too quiet.

his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,

but you can’t listen to it anymore

because his voice feels like a knife now.

you try to tell your mom you’re sad. she tells you to take a bath.

you try to tell your friends you feel like you’re drowning. they say, “we miss him too,” but their voices don’t crack the same way yours does.

that’s because they don’t know. they don’t know you loved him. they don’t know he loved you.

they don’t know that when he died, he took something from you you’ll never get back.

and now you’re stuck.

stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore.

stuck cheering for teams you don’t care about.

stuck pretending your heart didn’t break in the backseat of his car.

stuck waiting for a text that will never come.

you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.

still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.

but he’s not. and the worst part?

no one noticed he was your whole world.

and now you’re expected to keep spinning.

taglist of my connor friends

@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019

:( i love him im gonna crumple him up

bodyguard | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, this is a blurb

It almost ends in silence.

That kind of silence that isn’t soft or thoughtful or pregnant with meaning—it’s thick, charged, bitter. The kind that fills a car when one person wants to speak and the other refuses to be heard.

Patrick’s hands are clenched on the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Jaw tighter than it needs to be. You’re staring out the window, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Not crying. Not yet.

The fight—if you can call it that—wasn’t loud. It never is with him. Just a deflection here, a shrug there. You asked a simple question. Something like "How are you, really?" Something like "Let me in."

And he did what he always does. Shut the door.

You almost got out when he pulled into your building’s lot. Almost left him there, sitting in the blue wash of streetlights with his hands still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

But something in you stayed.

Because even in the worst of it—even when he’s all teeth and armor—you can see the boy behind the racket. The one who’s tired of being hard all the time.

So you twist in your seat.

He’s still facing forward, and you can see it—the crack in his armor. The set of his shoulders isn’t quite as stubborn. His grip on the wheel is no longer furious, just tight. Like he’s not sure if he should let go.

And you know this version of him.

You’ve seen him at ten—spinning, sharp-tongued, manic with energy he doesn't know where to put. You’ve seen him on the court, teeth bared, eyes wild. You’ve seen him explode and implode all in the same hour.

But you’ve also seen him at zero. At nothing. The mornings he can’t get out of bed. The press days he skips and blames on jet lag when really, it’s the weight in his chest.

You know how to read his silences. The kinds that ask you to stay even when he won’t say it out loud.

You’ve never wanted to fix him. You’ve just wanted to be there. Wanted to be the one thing in his world that didn’t want anything from him.

You speak softly, like you’re talking to a wounded thing. “Patrick, I’m not trying to fix anything.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“I just wanna know what’s going on in there,” you add, tapping lightly on the side of your head. “You don’t have to make it nice. You don’t even have to make it make sense. I just… want to know you’re here.”

Another pause. This one stretches.

He finally exhales through his nose. Barely audible.

“I don’t talk about shit like that,” he mutters. “Never have.”

You nod. “Yeah. I figured.” You shift, turning to face him fully. “But you let me be here. Every time. So either you want something real, or you don’t. And if you do... I need you to stop pretending you're alone.”

That lands. You see it in the way his fingers loosen on the steering wheel.

And then he finally looks at you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

You blink. “What, talk?”

He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. “Yeah. That. All of it.”

“Then don’t talk,” you say. “Just let me in.”

And that’s when you move.

You lean in slowly. Not to comfort. To reach. You press your mouth to his—soft, sure, no hesitation. He responds like it hurts. Like it heals. Like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart.

Your hand slips into his hair. His jaw slackens. The car windows fog.

It’s not a rush. Not at first.

But soon you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, the console digging into your thigh and neither of you caring. His hands settle on your waist, unsure.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper against his jaw. “Just let me be here.”

And when you grind down, he gasps like he’s breaking.

You kiss him again. Deeper. Messier. Like a promise made with tongue and teeth and breath.

You press your forehead to his and say, “Let me take care of you.”

And when you rock your hips again, when his hands grip you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever held, he lets you.

For once—he lets you.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are heavy, lips parted, chest heaving. You guide him gently, tugging down the waistband of his sweats, freeing him fully. He’s already slick in your hand, the head flushed, and his breath stutters as you shift your hips.

“Can I?” you murmur.

He nods—almost frantic—and you line yourself up with shaking fingers.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow and devastating. Your breath catches at the stretch, the fullness, the feeling of him beneath you, inside you, finally here. His hands clutch at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The car is too small for this, too cramped, but it doesn’t matter. Your bodies find rhythm anyway. A language made of friction and breath and everything you’ve never needed words for.

The smell of his cologne has long faded under the weight of everything else—sweat, sex, and the faintest trace of smoke from the ashtray by the gearshift. There’s a lipstick-stamped cigarette butt half-buried beneath a crumpled parking receipt. He hasn’t cleaned this car in months. It smells like late-night drives, like sweatshirts in the backseat, like every fight you’ve almost had and every kiss you didn’t mean to give.

The cracked vinyl seat beneath your knees sticks to your skin. Somewhere in the background, the faint click of the hazard light ticks like a metronome. The windows fog faster than you can clear them. The Honda rocks with every roll of your hips.

The ceiling liner droops slightly overhead. The rearview mirror is useless now, fogged over and tilted sideways from where his elbow knocked it loose.

None of it matters.

You’re the only thing that matters.

He curses when your hand returns to where your bodies meet, when your fingers circle just right. You smile, not teasing, just full of something fierce and warm and steady.

“Let me take it,” you whisper. “All of it. Just for tonight.”

His head falls back. His mouth falls open.

You keep going until he’s shaking. Until he’s saying your name like it’s the only thing left that’s his.

When he comes, you hold him there. Through it. Around it. Until he’s panting against your neck, hands still gripping your hips like they’re his last prayer.

You follow a heartbeat later. The kind of release that steals your breath, curls your toes, and makes your chest ache.

And after—you don’t move.

You just breathe. Let the sweat cool. Let the quiet settle.

You press your palm flat against his chest and feel it thudding wildly beneath your skin.

You don’t ask him to say anything. You don’t need him to explain.

You hold him the way he’s never let anyone hold him—without expectation, without question.

Like softness is a shield.

Like love can be a place to rest.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow