red lipstick smudged on the rim of a soda can. ripped tights, combat boots, chipped black nail polish. olivia rodrigo blasting through her AUX, every lyric feeling like a punch to the chest. she drives too fast, sings too loud, loves too hard. heartbreak fuels her like gasoline, and she wears her anger like a leather jacket—heavy, but undeniably cool.
this is her rocker era—loud, messy, untamed. guitars scream in the background, and so does she. she’s the girl in the crowd, hands in the air, mascara running but not caring. passion burns through her veins, red-hot and electric. she’s done being soft, done waiting. this time, she’s the one breaking hearts.
The room was dimly lit, the air thick with anticipation, bass from the speakers reverberating through the walls. Chris sat in the private section of the club, legs spread, fingers drumming against his knee as he waited. He wasn’t usually one for places like this—crowded rooms filled with strangers watching the same thing, drinking the same watered-down whiskey. But tonight wasn’t like other nights. Tonight was different. Tonight was about her.
Y/N stepped onto the stage, bathed in deep red and purple hues, her heels clicking against the polished floor. The silky robe she wore barely concealed what was underneath, and Chris felt his throat go dry. She was his, but for the next few minutes, she was the center of everyone’s attention.
The slow beat of the music started, sultry and teasing, and Y/N’s hips rolled to the rhythm, eyes locked onto Chris like he was the only person in the room. The way she moved was calculated—every sway, every step bringing her closer, the lace of her lingerie peeking from under the robe as she toyed with the tie at her waist.
Chris leaned forward, his jaw tense, hands curling into fists to keep himself from reaching for her. She was a vision, a walking sin, and she knew exactly what she was doing to him. With a slow, deliberate motion, she let the robe slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving nothing but bare skin and lace in its place.
His tongue swiped across his bottom lip, eyes darkening. He had seen her like this before, had touched every inch of her in ways no one else ever would—but watching her like this, watching her perform, was something else entirely. She was electric, confidence radiating from her with every move.
She dropped to her knees right in front of him, fingers trailing up his thigh, stopping just short of where he was straining against his jeans. A smirk played at her lips as she tilted her head. "Enjoying the show, baby?"
Chris exhaled sharply, his hand finally moving to cup her jaw, thumb brushing against her bottom lip. "You have no idea."
She grinned, leaning into his touch before slipping back, just out of reach. "Good," she whispered, turning away with a sway of her hips, leaving him there, breathless and desperate for more.
soft hands, dirt under her fingernails. waking up with the sunrise, barefoot in the dewy grass. braids tied with ribbons. humming old country songs while hanging laundry on the line. freckles kissed by the sun, cheeks always flushed a soft pink. innocent eyes, full of wonder. soft-spoken but stubborn. stargazing from the back of a pickup truck, dreaming of a love story sweeter than honey. reading poetry under the old oak tree, waiting for something—someone—without even knowing it. gingham dresses, lace-trimmed socks, scuffed boots. a crybaby at heart, but always trying to be strong. delicate but not fragile. longing for something bigger, but never quite sure what it is.
It had been years since Elio Perlman had seen Oliver, and yet, the moment their eyes met, it felt like no time had passed at all.
Elio was walking through the busy streets of Italy, his thoughts preoccupied with the day's errands, when he heard a familiar voice calling his name. He froze, the sound like a melody he hadn't realized he'd been waiting to hear.
“Elio!”
He turned slowly, and there, standing at the corner of a café, was Oliver, his bright, mischievous smile lighting up his face. Elio’s heart skipped a beat, memories flooding his mind—the summers by the lake, the quiet moments shared between stolen glances and soft whispers.
Oliver's smile widened as he walked toward Elio, his steps quick and eager. "I thought I was imagining things," he said, his voice warm, the same as Elio remembered.
Elio couldn’t help but grin, the familiarity of Oliver's presence making him feel lighter. "You look different, but still... you."
Oliver laughed, his eyes sparkling with the same playful glint. "Is that a compliment or a critique?"
“A compliment," Elio replied, his voice soft. "You haven't changed at all."
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the world around them—the distant hum of traffic, the chatter of Italians walking by—but none of it mattered. What mattered was the way Elio felt, standing in front of Oliver again, as if no time had passed, as if they were still those two young souls discovering everything for the first time.
They stood in silence for a beat, both of them unsure of how to continue, but the unspoken understanding between them was enough. Oliver stepped closer, his hand brushing against Elio’s.
"I missed you," he said quietly, his voice tender.
Elio’s heart fluttered in his chest, the weight of the years apart suddenly feeling less significant. "I missed you too."
Oliver smiled, his fingers now gently cupping Elio's cheek. "So, do you have time for a coffee?"
Elio's grin grew, and he nodded, his heart full. "For you? Always."
They walked into the café together, hands brushing occasionally, as if everything had returned to the way it was meant to be—two souls that had never truly let go of each other, even when time and distance tried to pull them apart.
As they sat down, the world outside seemed to fade away. There was just them, sharing this moment, knowing that some connections never fade, no matter how much time passes.
Fluff, Elio Perlman X Y/N (female reader) @sadgir111. Anon's Request
The Italian sun blazed high above, casting golden streaks across the worn cobblestones of the small countryside villa. Every summer, like clockwork, your family and Elio's would retreat to this dreamy corner of Italy, a tradition older than either of you. And every summer, it was the same: lazy mornings, bike rides through the vineyards, and afternoons swimming in the cool, cerulean river.
You and Elio had been friends since childhood, bonded by endless summers spent together while your parents immersed themselves in art, music, and wine. Over the years, you'd grown close—close enough to know that Elio hated olives but loved the way the sea smelled at dawn; that he tapped his pencil rhythmically when lost in thought; that he sometimes stared at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
This particular afternoon, the two of you lounged on the grass, backs pressed into the earth, the sky a brilliant blue canvas above. Elio's arm brushed yours, casual, yet sending a ripple through your skin that felt anything but.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s like?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft, thoughtful.
“What what’s like?” you murmured, turning your head to find his gaze already on you.
“Kissing someone.”
The question hung between you, delicate and heavy all at once. You blinked, a slow, measured moment, as if time itself had taken a pause.
“I mean, we could just... try it,” he offered, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though there was an edge of nervousness in his eyes.
You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, the cicadas' hum a distant backdrop to the sudden pulse of anticipation.
“Just to see,” you whispered, not trusting your voice to be any louder.
He leaned in, hesitantly, giving you space to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. The warmth of his breath mingled with the scent of sun and grass, and then his lips were on yours, soft and searching.
It was supposed to be innocent. Just an experiment. But the second your mouths met, something shifted. His hand, tentative at first, found the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that made your skin tingle. The kiss deepened without either of you meaning for it to, as though your bodies had known something your minds hadn’t quite figured out yet.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, there was a moment of stunned silence.
“That didn’t feel like... just seeing,” Elio murmured, his forehead resting gently against yours.
“No,” you admitted, eyes still closed as you tried to steady your racing heart.
His fingers brushed over yours, tentative but deliberate.
“I think I want to do that again,” he confessed softly, and you smiled, tilting your face back toward his, the weight of an unspoken truth settling comfortably between you.
Summer, it seemed, had just taken on a whole new meaning.
The days that followed were different. Subtle, but different. The easy rhythm of your friendship was still there, but now, there was a charged undercurrent, an unspoken tension that neither of you dared name.
One evening, after another long swim, you both lay on the dock, damp hair dripping onto the worn wood, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of pink and orange. Elio's hand found yours, fingers intertwining without hesitation this time.
“What are we doing?” you whispered, not entirely sure if you wanted an answer.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. “But I don’t want to stop.”
Neither did you.
That night, as the stars blinked to life above the villa, you both knew something had shifted irreversibly—something that no summer, no matter how fleeting, could take away.
The following morning, you woke to the scent of coffee and the distant sound of waves. Elio was already awake, sitting on the terrace with a book in his hands, the early sun casting a golden glow over him. You watched him for a moment, heart fluttering in your chest, before quietly joining him.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice soft and husky, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Morning.”
He closed his book, setting it aside, and without hesitation, he reached for your hand again, as though touching you had become second nature overnight.
“I was thinking...” he started, hesitating for just a beat.
“About?”
“Last night. You. Us.” He looked up, his gaze open and earnest. “I don’t want this to just be a summer thing.”
Your breath hitched.
“Me neither.” The confession tumbled out, unfiltered and raw, and the relief in his eyes was instant, as though he’d been holding his breath.
The rest of the day was a blur of stolen glances, secret touches, and whispered promises. The line between friendship and something more had dissolved completely, and neither of you wanted to rebuild it.
As the days slipped by, the inevitable end of summer loomed larger. But this time, there was a quiet assurance between you. The kind that spoke of more than just fleeting warmth and sun-drenched afternoons.
“I’ll visit,” he promised one night, as you sat side by side on the villa's roof, watching the moon rise. “As soon as I can. I’ll find a way.”
You knew he meant it. And for the first time, the thought of leaving didn’t feel like an ending—just the beginning of something you’d both been waiting for, without even realizing it.
calloused hands, firm grip on the reins. sunburnt skin, sweat-damp curls peeking from under his hat. boots caked in dust, jeans worn and torn from long days in the field. deep drawl, voice smooth like whiskey. rough around the edges, a little too cocky for his own good. never seen without his cowboy hat, never caught without a knife on his belt. knows how to break a horse and break a heart. smells like leather, cedarwood, and trouble. sharp smirks, teasing remarks, but eyes that soften when he looks at her. a wild thing, untamed and reckless—until she comes along, all sweetness and ribbons, making him question if he ever really knew what love was.
They meet on a hot summer afternoon, the kind where the air is thick with the scent of wildflowers and freshly cut hay.
She’s just finished hanging laundry on the line when she hears the rumble of a truck pulling up the dirt road. Her daddy had mentioned a ranch hand coming by to help with the horses, but she hadn’t paid much attention—until now.
Milo steps out of the truck, all broad shoulders and long legs, his white t-shirt clinging to his sun-kissed skin. His hat sits low over his eyes, shielding them from the glare, but when he pushes it up with a rough hand, she swears he’s got the bluest eyes she’s ever seen.
“Afternoon, darlin’,” he drawls, voice lazy and deep, laced with something she can’t quite place.
Her breath catches, but she lifts her chin, gripping the hem of her sundress. “You must be the new ranch hand,” she says, soft but steady.
He grins, slow and knowing. “That’s right. Name’s Milo.”
She watches as he tips his hat, gaze flickering over her with something unreadable.
She doesn’t know it yet, but this is the start of something dangerous. Something thrilling.
Milo Manheim was the kind of trouble that made girls lose their way. The kind mamas whispered about behind lace curtains and daddies kept their rifles loaded for.
And you ? You were the farmer’s daughter. Bare feet in the soil, soft hands from kneading bread instead of baling hay, raised on prayers and the kind of innocence that had no business being anywhere near a man like him.
But that didn’t stop him from looking.
And Lord, did he look.
You felt it now, the weight of his gaze as you stood on the front porch, twisting your fingers in your dress, watching him lean against the fence like he had all the time in the world. Hat tipped low, arms crossed over his chest, boots dusty from the miles he’d walked—and that damn smirk, carved lazy and wicked across his face.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that, sugar,” he drawled, slow and teasing, “gonna start thinkin’ you like what you see.”
Your cheeks burned. “I—I was just making sure you got back okay.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t that sweet.” A pause. Then, a step forward, slow and deliberate, like he was testing just how close he could get before you ran. “Ain’t nobody ever worried ‘bout me before.”
Your fingers curled against the wood railing. “Maybe they should.”
His eyes darkened, something shifting behind the teasing, something heavier. “And why’s that ?”
You didn’t answer, mostly because you didn’t have one. Not a good one, anyway. Not one that explained the way your stomach flipped every time he got too close, or why you couldn’t stop staring at the way his shirt clung to his broad frame, or why your heart thundered in your chest whenever he called you sweetheart in that low, honey-thick drawl.
Milo smirked, like he could hear your thoughts, see the way they were twisting you up. “Darlin’,” he murmured, voice softer now, but no less dangerous, “you don’t wanna play with fire.”
Maybe not.
But with him ?
You just might
taglist: @leisturni, @theyluvivi, @t0riiiis
A/N: AHHHH THX TO @girlyrafe FOR LETTING ME DO THIS AU !! IT'S MY FAVORITE SO FAR !!
He had told you, in his own way, that this would end in ruin. That he wasn’t made for love, wasn’t built to hold something as fragile and sacred as your heart. But you hadn’t listened.
Because when Chris touched you, he did it with such certainty. When he spoke, even the coldest words felt like poetry slipping from his lips. He could cut you open and convince you it was mercy, could destroy you and make it feel like devotion.
You mistook possession for love.
And now, you were paying the price.
“You’re scaring me,” you whispered, voice trembling.
Chris stood in front of you, blocking the door. His expression was eerily calm, too calm. His blue eyes, once your safe haven, now felt like an ocean you were drowning in.
“You say that like I care,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, watching you like you were something small and helpless.
Your stomach twisted. “I know you do,” you insisted, searching his face for any trace of the boy you thought you knew. “You just, Chris, you don’t know how to show it, but I know you love me.”
Something flickered behind his gaze. Amusement ? Pity ?
Love ?
No.
Chris took a slow step closer, forcing you to back into the wall. “You think I love you?” He chuckled, but it was empty, hollow. “That’s cute.”
Your breath hitched. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like, like none of it meant anything.”
“None of it did.”
The words knocked the air from your lungs.
Chris leaned in, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured, “I told you from the start, I can’t love you. But you wanted to believe I could, so I let you.”
Tears burned your eyes. “Then why keep me around? Why not just let me go ?”
His fingers traced your jaw, gentle in a way that made you sick. “Because you’re mine.”
A sob escaped your lips. “No. Not anymore.”
You shoved past him, heart pounding as you reached for the door.
Chris let you go.
And that, that was the worst part.
Not because he loved you enough to set you free.
But because he didn’t love you at all. Because sociopaths are incapable of love.
Matt Sturniolo sees the world in frames, in soft lighting and stolen moments.
His camera is his escape, his way of capturing beauty in a world that often feels too chaotic, too overwhelming. He doesn’t do well with words, but through his lens, he can say everything he never dares to speak out loud.
And then there’s you, his favorite subject.
You weren’t supposed to be. At first, you were just someone who stumbled into his life, someone who happened to be in the right place at the right time. But from the moment he first took your picture, Matt knew, nothing would ever look the same again.
Because through his lens, you weren’t just a person.
You were a feeling.
The soft glow of golden hour. The quiet magic of a rainy afternoon. The kind of beauty that didn’t just exist, it lingered.
And Matt ?
He was completely, utterly, hopelessly obsessed.
Of course, he’d never tell you that. Instead, he’d pretend he just liked taking your picture because you “fit the aesthetic.” He’d roll his eyes when Chris and Nick teased him about the way he looked at you. He’d scoff whenever someone suggested that maybe, just maybe, he was in love.
Because how could he be in love when he had never even said it?
But then, one evening, as he snaps another picture of you, bathed in soft sunset hues, smiling in that way that makes his heart feel too full, you tilt your head and ask:
"Matt, why do you only take pictures of me?"
And for once, he doesn’t have an answer.
Because how does he explain that to him, you aren’t just a picture ?
Stupid. So stupid. You should’ve ignored it, thrown your phone across the room, reminded yourself for the millionth time why this was a bad idea.
But instead, you stared at the message, heart pounding in your ears, fingers hesitating over the keyboard.
Then, before you could stop yourself—
You: On my way.
Bad. Idea. Right ?
And yet, here you were, standing outside Chris’s apartment, your breath fogging up in the cold night air, pulse hammering in your throat. You told yourself you were just going to talk. Just going to see what he wanted, make sure he was okay.
But the second he opened the door, messy curls, sleepy eyes, wearing that damn hoodie you used to steal, you knew.
You were so screwed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice raspy.
You swallowed hard. “I know.”
He stared at you, eyes flickering with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist in the worst (best) way. Then, before you could think, before you could stop yourself—
His hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you inside.
And just like that, you fell back into him.
Into the mess. Into the heartbreak waiting on the other side.
But right now ? With his lips on yours, his hands on your waist, his name tangled in your breath ?
The sound of Matt’s guitar filled the room, the soft hum of the strings a soothing backdrop to the stillness that had settled between you. It wasn’t awkward, not by any means, but there was something electric in the air, something unspoken, a weight that you both carried but hadn’t fully addressed.
You watched him for a while, his fingers dancing over the guitar strings with effortless ease, the faint scars on his hand telling the story of years spent pouring his heart into his music. It wasn’t lost on you how much of himself he gave to what he loved. He gave it all.
As you stared at him, the realization hit you like a wave. This, him, was what you’d always wanted, whether you’d known it or not. His presence, his quiet passion, the way he made everything feel more alive.
“Hey,” you said softly, your voice interrupting the rhythm of his strumming.
He looked up at you, a faint, knowing smile curling at his lips. “Yeah?”
You took a deep breath, gathering the words that had been swirling in your head for what felt like ages. “I just wanted to say something.”
Matt set the guitar aside, focusing entirely on you now. “What’s up?” he asked, his voice full of curiosity and warmth.
You slid closer to him, your heart thumping in your chest as you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against the roughness of his scars. There was no turning back now.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” you began, voice shaky, but filled with purpose. “How we got here. How it felt so... effortless. And maybe that’s because I never thought I’d find someone like you. You’ve been my magnetic force, the thing that pulls me in without even trying. It’s crazy how much you’ve changed my life just by being you.”
Matt’s eyes softened as he listened, but you could tell there was something in his expression that was a little guarded. Like he didn’t want to admit how much you’d gotten to him too.
But you didn’t care. This was your moment.
“My heart’s been borrowed,” you continued, squeezing his hand tighter, “and I’ve always felt a little lost, a little uncertain about everything. But with you? I feel... right. It’s like, all’s well that ends well to end up with you. That’s how it feels, Matt. Like everything that happened, everything I went through, led me straight here.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but you pressed a finger to his lips, shaking your head. “Let me finish,” you whispered.
You took a moment, searching his face, looking for something you could hold on to. “I’m dramatic, I’m over the top, and I probably drive you crazy with all my emotions, but I don’t care. I swear to be true to you, to always be this extra when it comes to you. Because I want you to know how much you mean to me. How much I’m all in. Every part of me. I’m yours.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the space between you two thick with everything you had just said. It was raw, real, and the vulnerability felt almost too much to bear. But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was comforting, the weight of your confession settling into the air like something that had always belonged.
Matt stood up, pulling you to your feet with him, his hand still holding yours, tighter now, like he didn’t want to let go. He looked down at you, his eyes darkened with something that mirrored your own intensity.
“Damn, I should’ve known you were this much of a hopeless romantic,” he said with a smirk, but there was no teasing in his voice. He was soft, real.
“You love it,” you teased back, leaning in just a little closer.
“You’re damn right I do,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I don’t know how I got so lucky. But I swear, everything I’ve been through, everything that’s happened—it led me to you.”
As he pulled you closer, his lips finally met yours with a soft, lingering kiss, you knew in that moment: You had both taken a leap into something deeper. There was no going back. You were in this together, overdramatic, extra, and true. And no matter what came next, all that mattered was the now.
Because in the end, you had found each other—and that was enough to make everything else fall into place.
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