#?? sounds like if you did that to white noise

[rhyrhy]

Never Yours, Always Hers - A.A

Toxic! Abby x fem reader

⚠︎ Warnings: substance Abuse, emotional, psychological, (no physical!) Public humiliation (r!), sexual content!, Grief and trauma, harassment (r!), Manipulation, Wealth & Privilege, Obsession. Just overall darker themes! 10.3k words

✉︎ Authors note: Low-key exposing myself with my guilty pleasure of toxic! abby, But I write plenty others if this isn’t your cup of tea! otherwise enjoy!

⤷ Pt 1/2 - MDNI! - Mlist

Sweet Abbigail,

A smile of white, her parents adored. Large family portraits of the cutest little girl in the middle, freckles dotting her nose, a Burberry cardigan always a bit too big for her. Abbigail was a mommy’s girl through and through. Her mother, picture-perfect in her small doe eyes, was the epitome of grace. Abby always strived to be just like her. soft, sweet, and always under control. But behind the rose-colored glasses, cracks began to show faster than she’d ever expected. 

✈︎ The first time she saw it, she wasn’t quite sure why her mother would always take so long to make her father’s tea in the mornings. She’d wait her turn at the large dark oak dining table, her small hands clasped together as she watched cartoons, polished silverware reflecting a little girl desperate to have breakfast with her mommy like every other morning. But there was a stillness to the house that morning; Abbigail didn’t understand it at first, not until she noticed the way her mother’s eyes would linger a little too long on the kettle before she’d pour the tea. The silence was only being filled with the sound of a spoon clinking the sides of the mug. Sweet Abbigail learned to stop asking questions before they even formed in her wondering mind. 

✈︎ Her nights were no better. She’d toss and turn in her bed, the muffled screams and quiet chatter from her parents’ bedroom echoing down the large hallway. angry whispers and harsh tones seeping through the walls. It was an ugly rhythm, one she eventually learned to ignore.

✈︎ Growing up, her Elementary school was no better either. The principal stood in front of her, holding up a cut braid. The girl, some brat named Jessica Baldwin, just had to make fun of Abby’s artwork in class. Questioning her choice of colored glitter. 

“I’m just kidding, it’s a joke.” Jessica giggled, turning back to her project. Purple crayon in hand. 

Yeah, She didn’t find any of it funny. Watching Jessica’s dark braid taunt her as she faced forward. Her blue irises darted to the supposed ‘kid-safe’ scissors in her small fingers. That day, in a blur, Abby had absolutely pulled Jessica’s hair, snipping off her braid with said scissors as the class erupted in chaos. Her small hand covered her mouth to hide a small laugh threatening to add to the noise.

“I didn’t do it, Daddy. I swear!” Later that day after two phone calls. Abby begged, her voice trembling as she stood at the principal’s desk.

Her parents barely believed her, but they didn’t exactly punish her, either. They just… didn’t get it.  They never did. Her father’s brow furrowed in disbelief, while her mother’s eyes seemed too tired to even care.

✈︎ The name that had once been laced with sugar felt like a slap in the face. She hated it. She hated how her father would say it with that soft, adoring tone, as if nothing was wrong. Abbigail, he’d coo, always with that gleam of love in his eyes. But that love felt empty now. So, now in her high school years she had zero tolerance for it.

“Jesus… do you need me to spell it? It’s A-B-B-Y” she snapped, her voice sharp, filled with a venom she didn’t even know she had. “Stop fucking calling me that.”

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ Throughout high school, Abby dealt with a lot of internalized homophobia. She would scold herself whenever she felt flustered around pretty girls, her heartbeat pounding in her chest when close friend Nora would redo her hair during class.It only became more apparent after her first time with a guy. They made out for what felt like two seconds until he got way too eager, and let's just say she vowed to never let a man stick his penis anywhere near her again.

✈︎ She knew she wasn't the girliest. She played tennis, had short finger nails, and manspread when she sat. But even with that under her belt, she would dismiss her feelings toward girls as a phase. At least that's what her father called it when she brought home Alessia Forbes, senior year. They'd shared a kiss behind the bleachers in 10th grade, and it forced Abby to face the music. Opening the door to becoming more comfortable in her skin and how she dressed, Abby started to embrace what felt right. She wasn't a fan of makeup or dresses. pants were much more convenient.

✈︎ Alessia, unfortunately, much like most in Abby's life, didn't stick around long. Abby should've known, though. Alessia's eyes always wandered when other girls were around-especially when Ellie Williams was in proximity. At Eastside Preparatory, bullying, fighting, or even petty beefs were immediately reported. They had a reputation to uphold, matched only by the ridiculous tuition parents paid. Abby couldn't stand Ellie, though. She didn't intentionally steer her girlfriend away, but she needed someone to blame.

✈︎ Abby was always quick to anger, and when Ellie-someone who pushed all her buttons— called her out on her behavior, things went south quickly. The two got into a physical fight that was so violent Abby had to transfer schools to avoid it tarnishing her record.

“Abbigail, what the hell were you thinking?!” Her father asked, arms crossed.

“A fight? You think we spend all this money for you to act like a barbarian while you’re supposed to be learning?” her mother scoffed.

Abby didn’t answer. She just stood there, jaw clenched, arms crossed over her chest like she could physically hold in all the things she wanted to say. Because what was the point? They wouldn’t listen. They never did. She wanted to tell them that Ellie started it, that she had no choice but to defend herself. That it wasn’t her fault she lost her temper. But she knew they wouldn’t buy it. Not when they’d already decided she was the problem. So she let them lecture her, nodding at the right times, staring at the floor when they threw around words like disappointment and irresponsible like they were facts written in stone. Flashes of that green-eyed bitch. causing her to dig her nails into her palms. By the time they were done, East Bench, Salt Lake, was already in the past. New York was an adjustment.

✈︎ Columbia was bigger, louder. People walked fast, like they had somewhere important to be, never sparing her more than a passing glance. It was a far cry from the bubble of private school back home, where reputations were currency and whispers traveled faster than wildfire. Abby liked that. She liked that no one knew who she was. That she wasn’t Abbigail Anderson, the hothead who got kicked out of Eastside Prep. Here, she was just another student.

✈︎ Her father had pulled some strings to get her in—of course he had—but Abby actually wanted to prove she deserved to be here. She kept her head down, went to class, and lifted at the gym in the evenings. It kept her from thinking too much. From remembering how things ended back home. She told herself this was good. That it was a fresh start. How much of her life she abandoned like it was nothing. It didn’t matter now.

✈︎ A new group of friends, her gold-plated Cabernet on her belt loop every morning, and hair breezing behind her. It was enough. Until it wasn't. Pushing herself into her studies and sports to keep her parents happy. She wasn’t sure if she was, though.

And that only deepened with the loss of her mother. But it’s what led her to you.

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ Growing up, money was never a concern. Your parents liked to call it being “comfortable,” but in reality, your lifestyle was far beyond that. Their status placed them among the elite, working closely with others in their sphere—the world of wealth, class, and the quiet sin of greed.

✈︎ Your father, a renowned real estate developer, owned Wilson & Co. Properties, a firm responsible for some of the most extravagant hotels and high-rises in the country. Your mother, a former corporate lawyer turned philanthropist, ran the Wilson Foundation, a charity often praised for its generous donations yet quietly criticized for its selective philanthropy. So naturally, you found yourself with a golden spoon resting on your tongue.

✈︎ And then there was Jerry Anderson, a man you’d seen in the circle your father had. CEO of Anderson Biomedical, a medical research company specializing in ‘cutting-edge’ treatments for neurodegenerative diseases. He was as respected, a man who knew how to turn science into profit. The only thing he couldn’t save or hook up to more machines to buy time? His wife. 

“Sarah Anderson dead at 42”

“Anderson Biomedical CEO Faces Scrutiny After Wife’s Shocking Death”

“Gone Too Soon: Socialite Sarah Anderson’s Mysterious Passing Sparks Questions”

It was everywhere. Sarah, She was beautiful; every photograph you’d seen looked almost airbrushed. Probably due to all the Botox, but she was striking regardless. Little did you know she’d passed those beautiful features to a young woman who’d flip your world upside down. A recantation of her flesh. blue eyes that reminded you of the waters of Navagio during your holiday in Greece. Golden brown-blonde strands that seemed to always fall in place. Pink lips that always sat in a small pout. A jawline that you’d probably cut yourself on if you ever got the chance to run your fingers along it. That work of art was His daughter, Abigail fucking Anderson; The first girl your parents approved of, And the worst breakup of your life.

✈︎ You first spotted her in your all-black long-sleeve dress and roses in hand, head hung in respect. Her mother’s funeral. You felt out of place as you’d only met Jerry a few times at galas, but your family went. Everyone did.?It was sickening how many news outlets sat outside, pushing microphones in their faces. They were trying to grieve for God's sake. But conspiracies about their family always ran high. But the rumors had already spread like wildfire. The whispers in the halls, the hushed voices behind gloved hands. Sarah tried to poison him, you know. Slowly. Over months. Some said Jerry caught her before it was too late. Others claimed he staged the whole thing to cover up his own sins. Money laundering, apparently. It was a ridiculous theory—one you brushed off as gossip from people with too much time and too little to lose. But the one that made you pause? Abby’s last girlfriend left traumatized. You didn’t know the details, only that she left town suddenly and never looked back. No one could agree on what happened. Some swore she was just a jealous ex who wanted revenge. Others claimed she was scared. But Abby? She never spoke about it. Never gave the rumors life. You told yourself none of it mattered. Because when you saw her standing there, shoulders tense, trying to keep herself together under the weight of a hundred scrutinizing eyes, you didn’t see a monster. You saw a girl who had just lost her mother. It was ridiculous, you felt. Empathy, something your mother said you held ‘too much’ of. And it’s exactly what led you to next to her, the eulogy ringing out into the large room.

A droplet streamed down the freckled cheeks next to you.

You felt guilty for being so focused on how her brown eyelashes stuck together as they dampened with tears. the whites of her eyes pink. Her jaw tightened, an obvious strain in her body. The way her black dress shirt clung to her toned arms. The small bump on the bridge on her nose. Beautiful. The spitting image of her mother. Sandwiched between your families, Her knee pressing against yours. Yup, Your heart rate was definitely faster than usual. When—Your hand seemed to move on its own.

Her blue eyes flicked over the girl sitting next to her. Her first glimpse of you, a small sympathetic smile on your lips. Arm offering her a Kleenex to dry her face. You tried not to furrow your brows when she just …stared at you. You aren’t sure what possessed you to do it, but your fingers moved. Gently soaking her tears of salt into the tissue. Patting along her sharp features. A small thank you left her lips before she turned back to the next family member speaking.  Later that day. You found her sitting on a bench. Fidgeting with the ends of her hair.

“You look just like her. She was beautiful,” you said, offering Abby another tissue. She didn’t take it. Instead, she exhaled a shaky breath and leaned into your hand.

“She would’ve liked you,” she murmured, voice thick with grief. You stilled, taken aback, a small flush creeping up your neck. You weren’t sure what to say, so you just patted her face dry once more, letting the moment settle between you. One of many interactions to come.

✈︎ You and Abby felt like two magnets, always drawn back together no matter how much space was between you. At gatherings, in crowded rooms filled with bodies, your eyes would meet and every time, she made sure you felt like the only person in the world.

✈︎ She charmed you completely. Abby had a way of making you feel seen, like she was peeling you apart layer by layer just to admire what was underneath. Every compliment was so specific, so deeply personal, it felt like she had memorized you. She gave you gifts you mentioned in passing, sent good morning texts before you even had a chance to wake up, and called you just to hear your voice. “You make me feel normal,” she admitted one night, after sneaking you away from a party into the cool night air. and you clung to it, to her. not realizing how much weight she placed on you. You barely noticed the way she inserted herself into your world—how effortlessly she made you friends with Manny, how she reconnected with Nora and brought Jordan, Leah, and the rest of their circle into your orbit. These were the children of wealth and influence, kids who knew their parents would clean up any mess they made. Late nights blurred into early mornings spent in dimly lit bars, luxury penthouses, and hidden corners of clubs where their last names meant everything.

One night, Abby pulled you away from it all. Away from the noise, away from the people. She kissed you hard against the wall of her apartment, hands roaming like she was trying to memorize you-mapping every inch the way she did with her words. She was intense but careful, treating you like something fragile yet untouchable all at once. It was the first time in a long time that something in her life felt real. And it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

“Abs…” you breathed out. Her body engulfing was heavy like a weighted blanket. The feeling of her hands roaming your body, pure worship. Your head beyond spinning.

But Abby only pulled you closer, like she couldn't stand even a sliver of space between you. Her tongue slid into your mouth, desperate, like she was staking her claim. Fingers tangled in your hair, pulling, twisting— holding you there like she was afraid you'd disappear if she let go. It was heated, consuming. You'd never been tangled up like this before. And you never wanted it to end.

The gifts, the attention, her touch in all the right places. Abby made you feel like the center of the universe. And you needed it. She broke the kiss, panting, eyes dark with something that made your stomach flip. She looked at you like you were something holy, something made just for her. Her hands roamed your back, fingertips tracing patterns, memorizing, claiming.

"Fuck, I need you so bad," she breathed, voice thick, raw. "Now. Like right now."

And later, as she lay beside you, her arm wrapped around your waist like she could keep you tethered to her, she thought back to the past. To the girls who expected her to take the lead, to do all the work, to prove herself in a way that always left her feeling hollow. But this? This was different. You wanted her, you gave as much as you took, and it made something inside her tighten, coil, and refuse to let go.

Not now. Not ever

✈︎ Abby had her ways of getting what she wanted. It was never outright. never something you could point to and call unfair. Just little things. Offhanded comments that made you second-guess yourself. “You still hang out with her?” she’d say, half-laughing, half-serious. “I swear she has a crush on you.” Or, when you mentioned grabbing lunch with a friend she didn’t particularly like; “Must be nice to have all this free time,” Abby mused, flipping through her phone. “Wish I didn’t miss you so much when you’re gone.” It was always playful, never an argument. But over time, you found yourself hesitating before making plans. Weighing whether the fun was worth the look Abby would give you later. The passive sighs. The casual, “Oh, you were with her?” that left you feeling ridiculous for even trying to defend yourself. Then there were the things she didn’t even have to say.

────୨ৎ────

Like the way she leaned into you one night, cheek pressed against your shoulder as you scrolled through your camera roll. You loved moments like these. You just had no idea the chaos it would later awaken.

“Who’s that?” she asked, voice laced with casual curiosity.

“Hm? Her? That’s Dina, I met her through a friend.” You paused your scrolling, finger hovering over the screen.

“Wait—wait, go back. That picture.”

“This one?” You swiped back to a group photo—just you, Dina, and her girlfriend, who had tagged along that day.

“Pfft. Ellie. Offf course,” she scoffed.

“You know her girlfriend?” you asked, glancing at Abby.

“Our fists do,” she muttered. “She’s the reason I had to leave East Bench.”

“Oh.” You blinked, unsure what to make of that. You were years behind that, you felt.

“Just… be careful around her,” she added. “Girlfriend’s a bitch. She might be too.” She teased, bumping your arm.

“Hey! She’s nice. And you need to let that go. Grudge-holding ass,” you laughed, shoving her shoulder.

“Hey yourself, I have my reasons!” she chuckled, shoving you back.

✈︎ Dina was fun, always finding the best overpriced boutiques with hidden gems. The kind of girl who always had a spare hair tie when needed. It was a shame she started canceling on you more often. Eventually, she even unfollowed you on social media. You wanted to reach out. had you said something wrong? Forgotten a birthday? But she was just a new friend. You’d make more. At least, that’s what your doting girlfriend told you when you came to her upset about it.

“Go ahead. Say you told me so,” you sighed after explaining what happened.

“What? No.” Abby tilted her head, her expression unreadable, like she… already knew. She patted your shoulder, then looked up at you with a bitten back laugh.

“I told you so.”

“Abby!” you groaned, rolling your eyes. You two spent the rest of the day joking about it but it still hurt. Lingering subconsciously.

✈︎ What you didn’t know was that Abby had already decided you didn’t need Dina. You certainly didn’t need Ellie, either. Maybe she found Dina’s number while you were sleeping, sent a few texts telling her to stay away. Maybe she didn’t. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was you leaning back into her, letting her hold you, telling her how much you appreciated her. How much you loved her.

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ God, she loved hearing you say it. The way you said it with no hesitation, holding eye contact, voice sending jolts through her body. It also didn’t matter the time of day or what you were doing. she needed to hear it. Yes, even when she was knuckles deep, listening to you whine and moan.

“Tell me you love me, baby,” she murmured, lips brushing your ear.

“Let me hear you.”

And when you did, breathless, pleading, her grip tightened.

“Louder, baby—uh huh, yeah, you fucking do.”

But how could you pick up on small things like that when your eyes were busy rolling to the back of your skull. This was love, passion, protection. she made sure it was drilled into your head.

────୨ৎ────


“No, baby. Not that one,” Abby said, shaking her head as she nodded toward your closet.

This was the third outfit she’d vetoed. You loved your sweet girlfriend—you really did—but moments like this made you want to strangle her. It had become a small pattern, one you were only now starting to pick up on. The way she’d tug down the hem of your skirt, make you do a slow spin before you left together, double-checking that you were covered in all the places she swore were only for her eyes to see. Your lower back. Too much cleavage. A glimpse of midriff. None of that.

And when she wasn’t subtly adjusting your outfits, she was replacing them altogether. Gifts—so many gifts. Gorgeous, expensive pieces that were impossible to turn down. Each one came with a sweet little note, the kind that made you feel silly for even questioning it. “Saw this and thought of you, pretty girl.” Or “Can’t wait to see you in this, baby.”

✈︎ Yes, the skirts were longer. The shirts—silky, high-necked, modest—were all designer.  Chanel, Burberry, Prada. And when winter came, she surprised you with the exact brown and black fur coat you’d shown her on Pinterest months ago. The excitement had nearly erased the lingering thought in the back of your mind. You began to think, maybe it wasn’t about keeping you warm. It was about keeping you covered. Pushing that aside, you’d buy her pretty things in return, but you noticed she preferred more intimate gifts. Like the stocking you made her on your first Christmas together, the one where you said “I love you” for the first time. Or the scrapbook you created, filled with candid photos of the two of you through the seasons. watching the backgrounds change from snow to rain to red leaves and to blooming flowers.

✈︎ She kept all of them. I mean, all of them. Even the tissue you patted her face with after her mother’s funeral. Yes, she kept that too. You didn’t know until one day, while you were cleaning up for her. something you rarely did since she was a bit of a neat freak. You saw the napkin, obviously used. Before you could throw it out, she took it from you. You blinked, unsure, but assumed she was going to dispose of it herself. Little did you know, you had made a much bigger mark on her than you realized. That day, she was staring at you, as if she were seeing her future. Did she ask you about any of her plans? No, of course not. She figured you’d be happy as long as you had her. Thoughts like that felt obscene in her mind. What she did ask, though, was:

✈︎ “You’re happy, right?” She whispered, tilting your face to hers, always satisfied with whatever answer you gave.

✈︎ “Oh, you remembered…?” She’d smile when you recalled even the smallest details of your time together.

✈︎ “You still love me, right? Even if we don’t always talk about it?” Yes, yes, and yes. No wasn't a word you had the heart to say to her. To your Abby? Your sweet partner, it was always yes. Even if you didn’t want to say it. It was never no. So today when she asked you to get dressed to go out with your circle of friends for a night on the water. You did exactly that.

────୨ৎ────

“Seriously, Abs? Do you even want me to go? You keep saying no to my—”

“That one is good.” Abby cut you off mid-sentence, her eyes flicking up and down your outfit, finally approving. You’d been playing dress-up for what felt like an hour, but it was never enough. You’d given in, slipping into something a bit more modest than you wanted, yet you couldn’t fight her.

“I’m convinced you want a nun for a girlfriend.” You sighed.

She stepped up behind you, hands firm on your hips as she leaned in, her chin rested your shoulder. Her voice was low. “Not a nun. Just Don’t want anyone else looking at you like that.” Her grip tightened slightly. She exhaled, her breath warm against your skin. “Just want you for me, that’s all.”

You felt too covered up for a late-night boat ride with friends, though. But you pick and choose your battles, right? If she was happy, you’re happy. You ended up tying the shirt to a crop when she wasn't looking. You loved your body; you were allowed to show it off occasionally.

Hand in hand, you drove to the port in Abby’s Jeep. The ride was quiet, too quiet. The engine hummed beneath the silence, and you kept your gaze fixed on the city lights outside, knowing it was easier than looking at her.

The glow from the dashboard reflected off her jawline, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips when you reached for her hand.

“Damn, what took you two so long?” A voice called out from the dock as you stepped onto the weathered wood. A man waved, his playful grin highlighted by the glow of the dock lights. Jordan, his thick black eyebrows furrowed, watched as you and Abby approached the small group.

You wanted to joke about Abby making you change a hundred times, but you knew better. That would only earn you a sharp look and a night of passive-aggressive silence. So instead, you just blamed it on traffic and stepped onto the Boston Whaler 285 Conquest, once owned by Abby’s grandfather, now repurposed for nights like these. Luxury, fun, and just enough recklessness to remind you all that nothing bad could ever really happen to people like you.

“Hell yeah, I brought the booze!” Leah’s voice rang out from the helm.

“Someone started early,” you teased, watching her twirl—bottles of something dark in each hand, her laughter cutting through the night.

✈︎ They had originally been Abby’s friends, but now they felt like your own. If Abby didn’t approve of someone, that meant they weren’t worth keeping around anyway. So this group of seven was plenty. Loud, wild, indulgent, always pushing the edge just enough to keep things interesting.

✈︎ First-world problems, boring galas, the bullshit drama of people you’d never really have to deal with—it was all fair game for ranting and laughing about, the alcohol keeping everything light and meaningless. Conversations blurred into one another, champagne bubbles mixing with cigarette smoke, the sharp tang of expensive whiskey clinging to every word.Someone was always telling a ridiculous story, exaggerating details just enough to make it funnier. Someone else was always half-draped over another, limbs tangled, faces flushed, a careless kind of closeness that came with privilege and too many drinks. The air smelled like salt water and perfume, luxury cologne, and the lingering haze of a freshly lit joint.

Abby smirked as you clung onto her, sinking into the plush cushions beside her. The boat glided over dark waters, the surface rippling like liquid ink, only touched by scattered moonlight. The engine’s steady hum mixed with laughter, the clinking of bottles, and the occasional squeal from someone almost losing their balance.

Across from you, Leah stood at the bow, gripping something long and thin.

“Is… that a fishing rod?” Abby called out, raising an eyebrow.

“Fishing? Dude, it’s pitch black!” Jordan laughed, shaking his head.

“What? I saw it, so I picked it up. No late-night snack?” Leah grinned, holding it up like she was about to reel in something huge.

“Ha ha,” Jordan scoffed. “C’mon, babe, sit down before you fall.”

“Yeah, Leah, seriously,” you added, casting a glance around. Everyone had collectively coated their stomachs with alcohol at this point. The boat swayed gently, but in your mind, everything still felt steady. Safe.

“Fucking party poopers,” she whined, stumbling as she made her way back.

The music pulsed through the speakers, vibrating under your fingertips as you traced circles over Abby’s knee. Someone passed you a drink, ice clinking against glass. The wind was salty and cool against your skin, and for a moment, everything felt weightless—just another night, just another story to laugh about in the morning.

Then before you could ground yourself, A deafening crack—wood splintering, metal twisting, the sickening crunch of fiberglass giving way as the world lurched violently forward. The force of it stole the breath from your lungs before you even hit the surface.

Bodies slammed against seats, railings, and the deck. Someone cried out—a sharp, guttural sound swallowed by the pure chaos. The boat groaned in protest, the hull splitting open as water rushed in, swallowing everything in its path. The night, once filled with laughter and careless drunken chatter, twisted into something unrecognizable. Screams pierced the air, panic rising like a tidal wave.

Then came the water.

A crushing, merciless cold that seized your body, shocking the breath from your lungs. It pulled you under, the weight of the crash dragging debris and bodies into the abyss.

Your vision blurred—dark water, fractured moonlight, hands reaching, grasping, then slipping away. And then, Leah was gone. But that wasn’t the name being screamed. It was yours. A shaky voice, frantic and desperate—Abby’s. Calling for you over and over.

The cool of damp grass pressed against your cheek, your vision swimming as you groaned and clutched your arm. A deep gash ran along the length of it, a sheen of red seeping through torn fabric, dark and wet against your soft skin. Tears blurred your vision—shock, pain, it was so fast. Overwhelmed. You gasped, struggling to sit up. Every muscle in your body ached, but you forced yourself to take in your surroundings. The front of the boat was completely smashed in, glass and debris scattered across the shoreline. The others were stumbling to their feet, coughing, calling out to each other in shaky voices.

“…I’m here,” you called out. “Abs... I’m right here.”

Abby all but collapsed beside you, grabbing your face with trembling hands, her wide eyes scanning you for injuries. You barely had time to process before she was pulling you against her, burying her face into your hair, the scent of her shampoo thick in your nose. The others were shouting now.

“Where’s Leah?”

“Leah!” Jordan’s voice cracked as he stumbled forward, scanning the dark water. “Leah, where the fuck are you?”

Panic settled over the group like a thick fog, replacing the drunken laughter of earlier with frantic movement. Flashlights from scattered phones cut across the water. Someone ran toward the wreckage, their footsteps crunching over broken glass and debris.

“She was right here—”

“Did she fall?”

“Fuck, fuck—she was just standing here—”

The shouts became more urgent, the terror in Jordan’s voice making your head spin even more. But Abby—Abby wasn’t looking at the water. She wasn’t calling for Leah.

She was looking at you.

Hands gripping your waist, scanning your face, as if making sure you were still there.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered, ignoring the chaos, her fingers brushing the blood on your arm. Her expression was unreadable—shock, concern, something else beneath it all. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Abby—” you wanted to bud in but She was already moving, hands fumbling for her phone, fingers trembling as she dialed. You could barely hear her over the panic, but the moment the call connected, her voice was sharp and urgent.

“Dad—” her breath hitched, her grip on you tightening. 

You barely registered the clipped response on the other end before she pulled the phone away, her face paler than you’d ever seen it. It was always the same with Abby. The moment things spiraled, the second the world tipped out of her control, her first instinct was to call her father.

✈︎ It didn’t matter what it was. A failed exam in school? Jerry. A bad breakup? Jerry. Someone disrespected her at some pretentious gala? Jerry. Even when she swore she could handle things on her own, her fingers always twitched toward her phone, her father’s number burned into her muscle memory. Maybe it was because she never really had to deal with the consequences of her own mistakes. Not when Jerry was always there to smooth things over, to fix what needed fixing, to make things disappear. It was almost like magic, the way he worked—whispers in the right ears, money exchanged behind closed doors, a well-timed favor cashed in. And now, even with something as devastating as this, Abby wasn’t thinking about what they’d done, what it meant. She wasn’t thinking about Leah. About the cold, dark water swallowing her whole. She was thinking about Jerry. About how he would clean this up, the way he always did. And maybe the worst part was that she was right.

Minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness. Jerry was already on the phone when he stepped out of the car, his expression unreadable, his voice a low murmur as he barked orders to someone on the other end. The moment he hung up, his sharp gaze flicked over the wreckage and the group of panicked, bloodied young adults before settling on Abby. Without hesitation, she moved toward him, her grip on you unrelenting.

Jordan wheeled around, panic-stricken. “What? No, we have to find Leah—”

Jerry barely spared him a glance. His tone was clipped, final. He turned to Abby. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Someone snapped. “We have to do something!”

But Jerry was already moving, grabbing Abby’s wrist, looking at you expectantly. “This isn’t something you want to be involved in,” he murmured. “Trust me.” The air felt thick, suffocating. Jordan was still screaming Leah’s name. Someone was sobbing. And Abby—she wasn’t arguing. She squeezed your waist, voice soft but urgent. “We have to go.” Your heart pounded as you looked between her, Jerry, and the chaos behind you. It didn’t feel real. None of it did. And then, as if deciding for you, Jerry pulled Abby away, guiding her toward the car. You hesitated—just for a moment—before Abby’s grip tightened on your wrist.

“Come on, baby. Please.”

And against every instinct screaming at you to stay, you followed her. You closed the door behind you. Letting your head fall against the leather seat. 

The car ride was filled with Jerry’s own interrogation.

You’d never been a witness to the Anderson back-and-forth before. But tonight, sitting in the backseat, still processing the night’s events, you had front-row seats. Jerry’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his voice sharp, slicing through the tense air. “You tell me what the hell happened.”

Abby was hunched forward in the passenger seat, still damp, her blonde hair clinging to her skin. She wiped a hand down her face, her breath unsteady. “It was an accident,” she muttered.

“An accident?” Jerry repeated, voice thick with disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Abigail. Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

Abby’s jaw clenched. “What was I supposed to do? Just let them call the cops? Let them search the boat?”

Jerry exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was holding back from snapping completely. His voice lowered, even more dangerous now. “And what exactly would they have found?”

Silence. Abby didn’t answer. Not right away. Her fingers tapped against her knee, a nervous tic you’d noticed before. You could almost hear the gears turning in her head, weighing what to say, how much to admit.

Finally, she swallowed. “I handled it.”

Jerry let out a humorless laugh. “No, you called me. And now I have to handle it.”

From the backseat, you sat frozen, hands gripping your lap, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Abby hadn’t even looked at you since you got in the car. Hadn’t reached for your hand, hadn’t asked if you were okay. All her energy, all her focus, was on damage control. And maybe that was the difference between the two of you. Maybe this should’ve been your warning sign. You were still thinking about Leah. Abby was thinking about herself.

────୨ৎ────

“Tonight: Leah Cross’ Death—Inside the Boat Crash That Killed NYC Teen”

“Leah Cross’ Family Settles for $15M Over Boat Crash”

“Jerry Anderson Ce—”

The TV screen flickered, then went black.

You turned your head just in time to see Abby hovering behind you, the remote still in her hand. The news channel was gone. Erased. Leah hadn’t just disappeared that night. She’d been thrown into the current. Her autopsy said she most likely died on impact, but you couldn’t shake the memory of her on the boat, twirling on the helm, throwing her hands up and yelling, “This is my shit!” to every song that played. The image wouldn’t leave. It haunted you. Your parents couldn’t get ahold of you that night—your phone had been tossed into the summer waters. But Jerry reassured them you were fine. He didn’t mention the 12 stitches in your arm. He definitely didn’t mention the alcohol, the panic, the way everyone had been too wasted to process what happened. Just fine.

That night never left you.

Maybe it was shock. Maybe fear. But you never asked Abby about the conversation in the car. Your sweet Abby had just been protecting you. That’s what she always said. You both had reputations, things on the line. That’s what she repeated every time you even looked like you were thinking about it. Jerry had shoved money down the Cross family’s throat. And they took every penny. You knew silence had a price. But family?

Abby hated when you brought it up. She made sure your arm was fixed up, kissed over every bruise. Whispered reassurances against your skin. And yet, here you were. Rolled onto your side, away from her Night was always the worst. Too much room for your thoughts to catch up to you. Too much room for questions.

“Abs…?” you murmured, rolling onto your back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Yeah?” Her voice was hesitant, guarded. Like she already knew where this was going.

You swallowed. “Do… do you think about that night? Leah, she—”

Abby exhaled sharply, already shaking her head. “Why are you bringing this up again?” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. “We’ve been over this.”

“Abby, we didn’t even stay that night—”

“That was the right call,” she cut in, sitting up against the headboard. “We weren’t gonna stick around for the cops to start pointing fingers. What would that have done? Made you feel better?“

You swallowed hard, something bitter catching in your throat. “You aren’t even listening to me!” You pushed yourself up in bed, turning to face her fully. “You just keep shutting me down like I’m supposed to forget about it.”

Abby’s jaw clenched. “And what exactly do you want me to say?” she shot back. “That I think about it every night? That I see her face every time I close my fucking eyes? Because I don’t. I can’t. You shouldn’t either.”

✈︎ The words hit like a gut punch. Cold. Dismissive. Final. Just like every other time you tried to talk about it. Like your grief—your guilt—was an inconvenience. You stared at her for a long moment, something in your chest curling tight, twisting into something ugly and unfamiliar. Abby wasn’t going to hear you. She never did.

✈︎ And maybe… she never would. That was the moment you felt it. That stiffness inside you. The thing that slowly, quietly, began to push you away from her. She apologized later. Reassured you she was protecting you. But it didn’t feel like it. Her tone, the way she dismissed Leah, someone she claimed to love. it didn’t sit right. That night, you laid there, stiff in her arms as she curled around you, locking you in place. But it didn’t feel like her. The sheets felt cold. Her warmth wasn’t comforting anymore. The arguments only escalated. Until one day, you couldn’t take it anymore. You walked out her front door and didn’t look back. It hurt. Stung worse than anything else. But you had to grieve properly. Refocus on school. Reconnect with your family. Make your own friends. Find mental clarity. Space from Abby. The not-so-sweet Abby you once knew. But you were her lifeline. And when four days passed without a word from you, Abby’s fingers itched to have you back in her proximity. She texted once.

6:10PM Abby: Hey. You good?

Again.

6:40PM Abby: I know you’re mad, but can you just text me back? Please?

Again.

7:26PM Abby: Are you really ignoring me right now? C’mon, babe. Talk to me.

7:28PM You: Need space rn abs.

Then came the desperate text.

7:29PM Abby: Space Tf? Seriously?

7:29PM Abby: You can’t just disappear on me. You know that, right?

7:30PM Abby: I’ve done everything for you. I’ve kept you safe. And now you’re shutting me out?

────୨ৎ────

The messages kept coming. The words more frantic. More clipped. As if she couldn’t stand the thought of you being anywhere but within reach. She needed you. You couldn’t just disappear. Not after everything she’d done for you. This wasn’t how it worked. You never told her no.

And that wasn’t going to start now.

✈︎ Abandonment. It was the one thing Abby couldn’t stomach. Her mother was gone. Her father was present in name only. And now, you weren’t answering your fucking phone. She gritted her teeth, staring at the ceiling as her phone lay discarded beside her, the last unanswered text staring back at her like a slap in the face. She knew Leah’s death had shaken you. She’d seen it in the way you flinched at the sound of water slapping against the docks, how your fingers traced the scar on your arm absentmindedly when you thought no one was looking. And she got it—really, she did.

✈︎ But what she didn’t understand was why you were acting like this. Like she was the one to blame. She’d explained it to you a million times. She wasn’t trying to be cold. She just didn’t want you getting in trouble, ruining your life over something you couldn’t change. Did you think your parents would still approve of her if they knew everything? If you’d stuck around that night and let the police twist the truth? She had protected you, the way she always would, and now you were punishing her for it.

It wasn’t fair, this wasn’t fair. She was in love with you. All of you. That meant it was her job to protect you, to keep you safe, to make sure no one—no thing—could ever come between you. Because you weren’t just her girlfriend. You were hers. So fine. She’d let you have your space, your stupid fucking distance. You’d answer eventually.

You always did. Except you didn’t. And despite how much you hated the hollow, gnawing ache in your chest, you didn’t let yourself pick up the phone. At first, it was easy. Ignoring her texts, pretending you didn’t hear your phone buzzing at night. You told yourself it was necessary. That it would get better.

✈︎ But then came the flowers. The notes slipped under your door. The gifts left where you’d find them, small and expensive. Diamond jewelry – “I hate seeing you upset, baby. Let me make it up to you.” reminders that she was still there. That she wasn’t going to let you go so easily. And the worst part? A small, broken part of you didn’t want her to. But you had to, right? Because if you didn’t, Abby never would

✈︎ So, you started pulling away. Slowly, at first. Ignoring texts a little longer. Making excuses when she called. Telling yourself that if you could just create enough distance, she’d get the hint. She didn’t. Instead, she adjusted. Became more careful. Gave you space but never let you forget she was waiting. That she was patient. That you’d come back.

And your parents? They only made it worse.One night, as you walked into the dining room, your mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Honey, these flowers are beautiful.”

Your father barely glanced up from his plate. “She’s a good kid. Second chances are important.”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t have to ask where they came from. The same white roses Abby always sent, of course. You gripped the back of your chair. Bit your tongue. They didn’t know the full truth. Maybe they knew about the boat crash, maybe they didn’t, but even if they did, you weren’t involved, so why would they care? Abby was still Jerry’s daughter. Still the golden girl in their eyes. And the comments kept coming. Little reminders, subtle nudges that told you exactly where they stood.

“You never frowned this much when Jerry’s daughter was around,” your mom added, shaking her head. “You two were always so happy together.”

✈︎ Were. Past tense. Like they thought this was just a phase. Like they were waiting for you to snap out of it and come to your senses. It wasn’t like you wanted her to stay away. The notes on the gifts made your stomach churn with guilt. But then you’d remember the red flags being waved in your face, and you’d try to stand firm. try to hold your ground on this. And maybe that was why, when Abby invited you to dinner, you didn’t fight it as hard as you should have. Your mother’s voice in the back of your head, the same tired excuse about your father’s business dealings and not ending things on bad terms. So you accepted. Maybe you thought one last dinner would make it easier. That sitting across from her, hearing her laugh, remembering all the good things, would make it clear if you needed to step away fully. And at first, it was sweet.

The restaurant was dimly lit, quiet. Abby had picked your favorite place, ordered your favorite before you even arrived. She looked good, too—too good. Dark button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to tease the curve of her forearms. For a while, it felt normal. Comfortable. Maybe even right. Until it wasn’t. Until the conversation drifted back to her. To you. To the space you had put between you.

Abby exhaled, swirling her drink in slow circles. “Can we just… stop pretending?” she asked, voice low. “I know you miss me.”

Your stomach knotted, but you kept your voice even. “Abby—”

“You preyed on me, you know that?” she cut in, leaning forward. “At the funeral. When I was grieving.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You saw me at my lowest and took advantage of that. Made me think you actually cared.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “And then, what? The second things got hard, you ran?”

You stared at her, heartbeat pounding in your ears. It was a trick. A test. Another way to shift the blame. to make you doubt yourself, make you stay. Preyed on her? The self-doubt hit fast and hard. You didn’t intentionally worm your way in. You saw a girl who had just lost her mother. You offered an ear, a shoulder. She kissed you first, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t even know how to respond. But you did know this was only proving that you needed time away from her. From this person she was turning into.

The conversation escalated. Her voice sharper, her expression harder. The way she twisted her face in disapproval when you tried to defend yourself. Finally, you forced the words out.

“I think we should take a break.” Her jaw clenched. You expected a fight. For her to argue, to beg, to do something. Instead, she leaned back, nodded once, and signaled for the check. And for a while, you thought that was the end.

But then Abby stopped calling. Stopped texting. Stopped begging.

No gifts. No notes. Just… silence.

And somehow, that was worse. So much worse. It felt so wrong to not be near her.

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ At first, the silence was a relief. But then the relief faded, leaving something else in its place. Something that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts late at night when you stared at your phone, knowing there would be nothing from her.

✈︎ It felt so , so wrong. Abby wasn’t the type to give up so easily. She fought for what she wanted, always. And that was the part you weren’t ready to admit: some small, irrational part of you wanted her to fight for this. For you. To prove something, even if you didn’t know what. But she didn’t.The silence stretched on. Days turned to weeks. And slowly, that unsettling feeling morphed into something heavier. The weight of your parents’ expectations, the whispers about Jerry’s family, the things left unsaid between you and Abby. it all started to spiral. You told yourself it was for the best. That this was what you wanted. But then why did it feel like losing? Why did the silence feel heavier than the arguments? Why did it twist something deep in your chest, leaving you restless, unable to sleep, unable to think without wondering if you had made the right choice.

You weren’t in the right headspace for this, not really. Not for concerts, not for crowds, not for meeting new people. But when Riley sent the invite, tickets already bought, practically begging you to get out of your own head, you said yes. Not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t trust yourself alone with your thoughts.

The music was loud. The bass pulsed through the floor, through your body, drowning out everything else. Riley dragged you through the crowd, weaving past bodies until you were close enough to feel the heat of the stage lights. And then there was her. A tall brunette, leaning in too close, brushing her shoulder against yours. Laughing at something you barely registered.

“What?” You yelled back.

“I said you’re hot! Love the outfit!” she shouted over the music, leaning down to your ear, breath warm against your skin.

Jessica. She introduced herself at some point during the night, though you barely remembered when. Her body was close, her presence easy, effortless. The kind of girl who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to take it. When her hands drifted lower under the guise of friendly, you didn’t stop her. She was pretty. Willing. A distraction.

So you let her press against you from behind, her lips grazing the side of your neck. Let her hands roam, fingers mapping over you like she already knew where you needed them.

✈︎ You weren’t easy. But girls need love too. And maybe, for one night, that was enough. Her touch wasn’t like Abby’s. it was different. More room to flip the script, softer, hesitant in ways you weren’t used to. You had to guide her hands sometimes, shifting her touch when it wasn’t quite right, tilting her chin when she kissed you. But you weren’t sober, so you just leaned your head back against the leather of her passenger seat and tried to stay in the moment. Tried not to notice how it didn’t feel like enough. You groaned in frustration when your orgasm took much longer than it ever did before. Even your vagina had a mind of its own. And it was wondering to the woman you desperately didn’t want to think about.

Afterward, Jessica lit a cigarette, rolling the window down as she stretched her legs out. The orange glow of the ember flickered as she took a slow drag, exhaling into the night. You watched, silent, waiting for the feeling to settle in your chest. Some kind of satisfaction, some kind of relief. It never came.

Instead, she turned to you, smirking. “You wanna hear something funny?”

You hummed in acknowledgment, still staring out the windshield. Praying she didn’t notice that your moans were definitely a bit more exaggerated.

“When I was a kid, some girl cut off a chunk of my hair.” Jessica huffed.

That made you glance over. “What?”

Jessica laughed, tapping ash out the window. “Yeah. Just, snip. Right in the middle of class.” She made a cutting motion with her fingers, grinning. “It was long, too. My mom loved my hair. Always brushed it out for me, made a big deal about it. And then this girl, out of nowhere, just—” She mimicked the sound of scissors slicing through the air. “Teacher freaked. My mom cried. The whole thing was a mess.”

You frowned. “Damn. Why’d she do it?”

Jessica shrugged, flicking her cigarette. “She wouldn’t say. Just sat there, holding the hair like it was hers now.” She laughed again, shaking her head. “I had to get it all cut short after that. Sucked.”

You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together. Something about the story sat oddly in your chest, but you couldn’t put your finger on why. Maybe it was because you could picture it too clearly the quiet, unspoken possession behind a simple, irreversible act. Maybe it was because, in a different time, in a different place, you could have seen Abby doing the same thing. You pushed the thought away. That would a crazy assumption, right?

Jessica reached for your thigh again, fingertips brushing just above your knee. You let her. Not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t have the energy to move away. The truth was, she wasn’t Abby. She didn’t kiss you like she meant it. She didn’t make your breath hitch, didn’t pull you under in a way that felt intoxicating.

And yet, despite everything, you still felt the pull. Going back to Abby would be a mistake. So why did it feel like you were already slipping?

You let Jessica be enough for the time being. Focused on your own life. Separate from Abby.

She turned out to be sweet. A little clingy, but not in a way that suffocated you—just in a way that made it easier to let her fill the space Abby left behind. And even if the sex wasn’t mind-blowing, it was good enough to make you forget, at least for a little while. You weren’t sure if you were ready for another relationship anyway.

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ Jessica was easy. Simple. No complications, no expectations. at least, that’s what you told yourself. You let her be enough for the time being, focused on your own life, separate from Abby. It was nice, in a way. Being with someone who didn’t come with sharp edges, who didn’t push or pull too hard. Someone who let you lead. Even if the sex wasn’t the same, even if you sometimes found yourself zoning out when she kissed you, even if her touch didn’t spark anything close to what Abby’s did. You made do.

✈︎ You tried. You really did. But there was something hanging over you that you couldn’t shake. It lingered, always present, like a ghost at the edge of your mind. It hindered you from fully indulging with Jessica like you used to, made it harder to pretend she was all you wanted. And she wasn’t stupid.

Jessica laughed, head thrown back as she wiped tears from her eyes. “Wait—you dated that psycho?”

Your stomach twisted. “She’s not—”

“Oh my god, babe.” She shook her head, grinning. “She definitely is. Didn’t she break some girl’s ribs in highschool?”

“That’s just a rumor.” Your voice was quieter than you wanted it to be.

Jessica snorted, slumping against the couch. “I mean, I get it, I guess. She’s hot, in a scary kind of way. But, babe, that’s—” She stopped. Her smile faded just a little as she sat up, studying your face. “…Wait.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Is that why you’ve been off?” You stiffened. Of course she noticed.

“Her?” Jessica scoffed, shifting on the couch.

“No—I don’t know—”

“You don’t know?” Her voice toned in disbelief. “I’m all over you, and you’re telling me you’ve been thinking about another girl?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jessica exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Jesus Christ.”

✈︎ Guilt became your newfound friend. Because you couldn’t deny it. You were thinking about her. And now you were defending her. Even after everything. Even after all the reasons you had to stay away. And that wasn’t even the worst part of it all.

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ Why? Because Abby could hardly contain the burning frustration bubbling in her chest as she tossed the racket aside. The sound of it hitting the ground was too quiet, a dull thud compared to the storm she felt rising in her. Why was this so fucking hard? For the fourth time in a row, the tennis ball hit the net and rolled off, mocking her with its perfect imperfection. She wiped a hand across her face, trying to shake the thought from her mind, but it lingered like a bad taste. You.

Her grip on the racket tightened again, knuckles white, the tension in her body palpable. Goddamn it, she cursed under her breath. A harsh exhale left her lungs as she turned away from the court, storming off without a second glance at Jerry, who called after her with that same disappointed tone.

“The hell was that?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. There was nothing to say. Not when her thoughts were consumed by you, by the space you’d put between the two of you. You were still out of reach, and the thought of you letting someone else slide in made her stomach twist in knots. The anger surged again, hot and sharp. Her visor felt suffocating now, like the pressure of it could crack her skull. It had been months, and you hadn’t come back. Months. And what was worse? You’d moved on. Blocking her was one thing, but seeing you move on? That was the thing that twisted the knife.

She slumped down on a bench nearby, the air heavy in her lungs, suffocating her as she dug through her phone. The screen glowed back at her, an endless stream of images and memories. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, flipping through photos, each one a reminder of a time she thought she still had you. Your laughter, your warmth, your body beneath her hands.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she zoomed in on one picture. You, pressed against her, eyes sparkling. “Let’s see how long you can keep ignoring me,” she muttered, to herself. her finger tapping on the screen. She posted it without hesitation, not caring how it might make you feel. She just needed you to know. she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

────୨ৎ────

✈︎ You had been getting looks all morning, but not like this. The stares felt different—more calculated, more curious. Something wasn’t right, but you couldn’t place your finger on it. You brushed it off, shoving the unease down as best as you could.

✈︎ Until you finally gotten home, phone buzzing in your hand, and opened Nora’s message. The second you saw the notification, your stomach dropped.

(Pic is not to represent the readers physical! Just for story’s sake)

────୨ৎ────

“Please, tell me that is NOT my ass on the timeline right now,” you said, barely holding it together as the panic crept up your throat. Embarrassment flooded your veins.

On the other side, Nora stifled her awkward laughter, but you could hear the amusement in her voice. “Then I won’t say it.”

The tension snapped. You were dressed, yes, but that picture? It was never meant for the world. Not like this. Not for her followers.

“…It’s a good picture at least?” Nora ventured, trying to ease the tension, but you could hear her holding back a laugh.

You stared at the screen in disbelief as your phone nearly slipped from your hands. Comments started rolling in. Some teasing, others thirsty. Your stomach twisted tighter with every line. And then you saw it—at the top of the post—Abby’s username, clear as day.

You didn’t think. You just pressed call.

The phone rang twice before she picked up, and you didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“Are you fucking serious, Abbigail?!”

Abby’s voice was rough, thick with the frustration she couldn’t hide. “What the fuck else was I supposed to do? Gifts? Ignored. Saying please? Ignored. I’m blocked on basically everything!”

“I don’t know, space! Like I asked?”

“It’s been months!” Your breath caught in your throat as the anger and hurt pressed against your chest, but Abby’s voice dropped, and something softer—something hurt—slipped through. “It’s been months.” She repeated.

The words hit harder than you expected. You could hear the raw edge in her voice, the cracks forming in her tough exterior. “It’s like you hate me now,” she murmured, quieter, almost like she didn’t want you to hear it. “All of me. Us.”

And just like that, you felt your defenses crack.

[muzansfangs]

Il nome mio nessun saprà (no one will know my name).

Starring: The Salesman x f!reader; mention to Seong Gi-hun x f!reader (platonic relationship); mention to Cho Sang-woo;

Format: multi-chapter story;

Warnings: nsfw, panic attack, anxiety, fear of being stalked, mention to gagging and masturbation, dacryphilia, vaginal fingering, language, vaginal sex, hair pulling, slight degradation kink, manipulative behavior, loss and grieving, dom!salesman, sub!reader, lying to the partner, the salesman has told the reader to call him Gong Yoo;

Plot: Before you knew it, you were the prisoner of a castle made of lies he sugarcoated with his charm, dates and the fleeting feeling you had someone to count on. You were content with your life, grateful you had found yourself someone to grow attached to amidst the chaos. He taught you to play ddakji, only for you to end in his bed. How naive you were, how sad it was you did not know his job actually consisted in bamboozling people by playing the same game in the underground. Too bad those people did not find themselved undressed, if they lost the match.

masterlist | previous chapter | to the next chapter

[𝟎𝟎𝟐] 𝐇𝐢𝐦, 𝐚 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲.

The dull and insistent sound of an object repeatedly banging on a solid surface was your good morning kiss. Your heavy eyelids shot open and it took you a few seconds to rationalize you were not sleeping anymore. The sound continued, your eyebrows furrowing, as you pushed yourself up on your elbows. Was someone knocking on the door?

The door. Right. Your eyes darted on the entrance and your brain began to function. Why was the door tinted black? White. It should have been white. This was not your bedroom. Your eyes flickered across the room, so minimalistic and luxurious at the same time. Yes, it definitely was not your room.

Well, awesome! Apparently, you had fallen asleep in that man’s house then. When, though? How? You remembered the intimate interaction, then you recalled nothing but small fragments of a senseless conversation you had had. Your face heated up instantly, fingers uncomfortably tugging down the sheets draped over your body and, much to your horror, you ascertained you were wearing your dress but not your underwear. Instead of being secured to your hips, the flimsy item was laying on your side.

Your eyes grew round, bare feet touching the carpeted floor, before you padded towards the source of the irritating noise. With your heart pounding in your chest, hard enough to steal your breath, you rapidly tried to fix your hair and opened the door. There he was, the hot gentleman who had offered you an expensive vintage Chianti and faked a relationship with you not to cause your face to be printed on the newspapers under the dreadful word ‘missing’.

You stood before him, nervously pushing the skirt of your creased dress further down, wide-eyed and full of questions. It made him smile and your heart dropped in your stomach. He was already dressed up, hair neatly combed, head tilted to the side, as he stared down at you seemingly amusedly.

“I was starting to get worried. Are you feeling better?” he asked you, somehow not sounding that much concerned about your well-being. If any, his remark was unnecessarily overly sarcastic. Then again, you were still feeling kind of drowsy. Your perception of the surroundings was absolutely not reliable at the moment.

You rubbed the back of your neck “Uhm, yeah, I think I’m fine. — you replied, leaning against the doorframe to formulate the first of the million of questions bombarding your mind — What exactly happened yesterday night? I mean, how did I end up in the bedroom?”.

He quirked his dark eyebrows up, a small pout exalting his plumped lips as he then invited you to follow him with a wave of his hand. Why did he look so good, even when he was clearly pitying you and your poor state? It was not like you were experiencing an attack of amnesia. What troubled you was you had blurry fragments of conversations, or events playing on repeat in the back of your mind. Obviously, you needed help to put the pieces together.

Reluctantly, you followed him to what you assumed was the kitchen. Upon crossing the threshold, were you really that shocked to land your eyes on a set of splendid forniture? You almost felt bad for climbing on one of the stools but, after shooting an apologetic glance at him, you did. Once you had taken a seat at the immense island, the man reached his hand up to the cupboard to grab a small plate and cup.

“How much do you remember, dear?” he inquired, nimble fingers opening a sugar bowl and settling it on the kitchen island before your droopy and soft eyes.

Not much. You remembered you two had kissed, that he had fingered you until you had reached your climax, then you could recall him calling you by your name before you started sobbing in his chest, blinded by the fear of the stalker knowing details of you no one you actually knew had been informed of. You truly wished you had not insulted him, or maybe even jumped at his throat during your rampage. Something in his eyes made you think the opposite.

You chewed on your lower lip, the sound of the percolator alluring you to dwell in distant memories of the Sunday mornings spent with your grandparents at their house. If you closed your eyes, you were still able to vividly evoke the scene unfolding in a familiar routine you loved. The sour aroma flinging all around the living room, when you sat on the sofa sipping on a cup of coffee with your grandmother, was one of your dearest memories. A core one, indeed. And, unfortunately, one of the things you missed and could not have back. Life did not really fight fair with you.

“If I said, or did something unpleasant to you, I’m deeply ashamed of it. I’m sorry. — you began then, watching the way he checked his wristwatch on his right wrist, eyes zeroing back on you in a split second — For an instant, when you called me by my name, I’ve assumed you were my stalker. I told you how I got the informations about Mr. Cho, right? I think someone is following me around, or messing with me, I don’t know. I think this is affecting me more than I like yo admit” you ranted, propping both of your elbows over the counter and palming your forehead in distress and an ounce of genuine remorse. You really had went bonkers yesterday night, had you not?

He did not answer immediately. Probably, he let a couple of minutes pass. Enough for your coffee to be ready.

“It is only natural to become a tad paranoid in such stressful situations. I have nothing to forgive you for” he crooned, flashing a tight smile at you, deftly turning off the boiling ring and grasping the percolator to pour the hot liquid in the cup.

Your eyes were transfixed on him, on the way he appeared to be so perfect he almost reminded you of a robot. He must have been hiding his flaws masterly. He could not be impeccable that early in the morning. It was frustrating. Yet, he was not kicking you out of his house. He was not offended in the slightest. Actually, he was making sure you ate breakfast and that you had fully recovered.

You missed someone doing that to you now that there was no one else in the world left to oh-so-annoyingly look after you.

“Tell me what I’ve said, please. You can’t act like it’s okay. I’ve been an awful guest and—”.

“You haven’t. What I saw, what you did, my dear, was nothing more than a girl having a meltdown. Now, stop apologizing and … — he pushed the cup towards you, his everlasting smirk greeting you once again — Drink up your coffee. You can serve yourself with the right amount of sugar”.

You stared at him dumbfounded, hesitantly grasping a small silver spoon to collect some sugar and drop it in the boiling coffee to sweeten its strong taste. You felt his piercing gaze on you all the time, almost studying each movement you made. The air was electric as you blew on the cup to cool it down. There was still so much you craved to know, so many questions you yearned to ask. Your eyes betrayed you for he tilted his head to the side and rested the opened palms of his hands on the smooth surface of the counter, leaning slightly forwards.

“Something’s clearly troubling you. Care to explain what?” he inquired smoothly, dark eyes capturing your gaze and breaking the unbearable silence asphyxiating you.

You took a sip of your coffee, holding the cup tightly between your hands “I was wondering if… — you began, but your words somehow failed you and you cleared your throat to encourage yourself to speak up — Why am I not wearing my underwear? Did we cross the line?”.

He shook his head, hand reaching out to draw a cowlick off of your face. The gesture seemed tender, albeit his eyes were sharp and cold as those of a shark “No, we did not. However, maybe I shall let you know the reason you are not wearing them resides in your will to continue what had started in the living room. I dissuaded you, though. I did not think you were in the right state of mind for it” he explained, not batting an eye when you choked on your coffee at the embarrassing revelation.

What the Hell did you do? Did you really freak out that much? Did you make a fool of yourself in front of the man you were attracted to?

You felt your cheeks heat up, head turning to avoid meeting his intense gaze. You somewhat had a feeling he was enjoying seeing you under pressure, but his behavior puzzled you. He was not pesting you. This man was downright direct, a smooth talker, oozing confidence and cockiness like an overflowing sink. Despite that, he did not take advantage of you. He was still treating you with due respect. You appreciated this, but you were now asking yourself how you were supposed to look him in the eye again after listening to what had happened a few hours ago.

The situation you were in had clearly taken a tool on you. It did not matter that you had stopped looking for your father. You were still tangled in a web of uncertainity, pain, loneliness and now fear. The fear of some psychopath playing with your fragilities, helping you out from the shadows, keeping an eye on you. Letting you know you were being watched and, just because he was not harming you, it did not mean he was not going to hurt you.

“Thanks” you murmured, eyes downcast, as you drank up the remaining coffee and hopped down from the stool, hell-bent on making your getaway from him as soon as humanly possible.

His hand latching around your wrist halted you. You shuddered, finally flicking your eyes up to meet his penetrating gaze. He was not smiling this time. He was too damn serious, as he stared you down the way a famished hawk pinned a mouse on the spot before pecking its skull and killing it in a instant. Were you supposed to he afraid? Was he merely trying to reassure you nothing detrimental had happened, when you were out of your mind? What game was he playing? What if he was going to hurt you, to kidnap you?

He held your gaze, circling the kitchen island before stopping in front of you, his grip on your wrist still firm but gentler now.

He was tall. Too tall for you not to crane your neck up to look at him “Hold on. — he said, thumb stroking your wrist soothingly —May I, at least, accompany you home?”.

You parted your lips, a small sigh of relief escaping your mouth as you realized he really did not mean any harm. He was the same gentleman who had protected you at the train station, the same man who had charmed you at the discotheque. Also, you felt safe, going out with him. A lift home would have not hurt you.

You smiled softly “Are you sure I am not ruining your plans for the day?”.

“You are my plan for the day, dear”.

Fuck. Here he was bewitching you again with his silver tongue. You could not help yourself, but chuckle “Really now? Are you hitting on me again?”.

He grinned, fingers finally releasing your wrist “Would you mind, if I were?”.

Your cheeks flushed up, head shaking imperceptibly, jumping into the unknown at the faintest taste of affection, of genuine attention and concern. You had sealed your fate and you had no idea of what awaited for you at the end of the road. Salty tears, the metallic taste of blood staining your teeth, tickling your tongue.

“I wouldn’t”.

You had forgotten the enthralling feeling of dolling up for someone, of dressing up to impress someone. Since he had made it an habit to drop by your dorm to pick you up for romantic dates in places you could have never afforded in your entire life, you had begun to put an unreasonable amount of effort to meet his expectations. Your were finally flourishing. A month of dating and he still had not gone beyond sneaky kisses and sensual make-out sessions in the back of his car. This man was unique, a mystery to uncover. You still knew too little about him to say you had learned enough about his life to trust him blindly. Gradually, though, he had even started to open up about himself.

And you treasured those small informations.

You had learned not to ask too many questions about his job, or private life, when he had told he worked undercover for the Government. At your silent pleading of knowing his name, he had begrudgingly given you one, but had also made it loud and clear it was not his real name. Gong Yoo. At least, you were now going to whisper that name when his lips nipped at your jugular, while he palmed your breasts through the fabric of your clothes.

You were not the type to change for a man. However, you were now far from the scared little girl who had taken a plane all those months ago and moved to South Korea with nothing but an immense sense of loneliness and the incapability to smile. You were not alone anymore and you cheerfully smiled in his company. Everyone you had grown attached to had noticed the transformation you were going through, asking you what had happened, if there was a man in your life, or if you had met your father.

All you did to quench their thirst was saying you were dating a man, nor details, neither hints about his persona left your mouth. This was the plan he had come up with to ‘protect you from potential enemies’. Your mutual agreement to keep your relationship top secret had been a wise choice. Gong Yoo seemed reserved and, on the other hand, you were not enthusiastic at the idea of people gossiping about your sentimental life. Not to mention he was right about the risks of a delinquent going after you for simply be associated with him.

He cared about you. Your safety was his top priority.

It was a Friday night, when he surprised you yet again. You were slow-dancing in his living room, one of his hand delicately resting on the small of your back, the other holding yours up, when he brought his mouth next to the shell of your ear. It was hard thinking straight, when he touched you like that.

“Do you like playing games?”.

His question left you stunned for a few seconds, your lips curving into a smile, but you refused to lift your head up and look at him. Your cheek was stubbornly glued to his chest, eyes closing as Riccardo Cocciante’s voice lulled you in a heartbreaking song your mother used to love. Distant summertime memories of car rides with you two singing along with the singer flashed before your eyes. Somehow, thinking about her, about your past life, when you were in his company, did not hurt as much as it did when you were alone. He was a placebo coursing through your veins.

“What kind of games?” you whispered, his lips slithering up and grazing the top of your head affectionately.

“Games. Did you play games, when you were a kid?”.

You chortled “Well, I did, of course. — you replied, craning your neck to inspect his face — Why are you asking me that?” you queried, a knot forming between your eyebrows as he smiled down at you charmingly, large hands leaving your body to cradle your face.

His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, his jovial smile pulling the strings of your heart with such an expertise you thought you were a puppet in his hands “Because I do. — he chimed, watching your eyes light up in curiosity — And I may or may not have come up with a way to spice things up tonight” he drawled, tilting his head to the side to assess the way you seemed to glow in glee and trepidation. Admittedly, you had been dying to bring your relationship to the next level. To be completely honest, you had been taken aback by his old-fashioned way of courting you. Albeit, you obviously did not mind it.

He did not seem to be in a hurry. He savoured each and every encounter you had had up until now. When you seemed to be particularly ecstatic about the outcome of your dates, he indulged into inappropriate steamy activities, even publicly. But he never crossed the line of burying himself deep into you, of nestling himself in your warmth. He mostly focused on your pleasure, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, shoving three digits into you, asking you to dry-hump his thigh until you orgasmed on his slacks.

You did not really mind taking things slow. It was a breath of fresh air, it was therapeutic.

Still, you knew he had a freaky side. You had caught glimpses of it, when he seemed to be on the verge of gripping your hair and force his throbbing cock in your mouth, while he was on the brink of reaching his climax. You had witnessed to the way he struggled to last, whilst touching himself, at the sight of you wearing a gag and pretending to beg for your life to feed his fantasy. You played along in his wicked, perverted scenarios. After all, it was nothing too extreme and you had to admit a certain curiosity tickled your ego.

“Oh, I see. Then show me” you stated, his dark eyes flitting towards the couch as he gestured for you to take a seat and proceeded in disappearing behind the door leading to the bedrooms.

In a matter of seconds, he was back, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he stopped in front of you. Raising his hands, he showed two paper squares at you. What was that supposed to mean? Did you have to pick a color?

“Uhm, what… I mean, besides choosing a color, what do I have to do with that?” you voiced your thoughts, instinctively reaching your hand out to snatch the red tile from his hand. He sighed, lowering his gaze thoughtfully, as if reality was dawning on him all of a sudden.

“I beg your pardon, I have forgotten you are not familiar with Korean games. This is called ‘ddakji’, a popular game among kids. — he explained, straightening his back and motioning for you to stand up — The rules are pretty simple: you settle your tile on the floor and the opponent has to flip it with his one. Before we get serious, I will show you how it is done” he offered, crouching down to put his blue tile on the parquet and retriving the red one you had picked from your hand.

You made space for him, watching intently the way he took aim and hastily, precisely, almost like a sniper, he hurled the red tile to the floor. The blue tile was flipped around, the smack of the impact echoed in the living room, catching you off guard for a second. He made it look so easy. If only you had had the chance to practice before, your chances to win would have increased.

You hummed, nodding your head, as you bent down to pick up the red tile “I got it. I think we can start, but that’s a tad unfair. — you pinpointed, shooting a side-eye at him, as he repositioned his blue tile on the floor — I have never played ddakji before. I will keep on failing miserably and you are going to gloat about your victory for days. You play dirty!”.

He smirked, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks “Playing dirty, huh? You have no idea how dirty this is going to get”.

You faltered, lips parting, as you connected the dots. Oh, this was what he meant by ‘spicing things up’, was it not? Nevertheless, you refused to play until he explained exactly what he had in mind.

You clicked your tongue, cocking your head to the side “Oh really? Interesting. What is on stake? What rules have you come up with?”.

Gong Yoo quirked his eyebrows up, leaning down towards you just enough for his hot breath to waft over your face “You may not know ddakji, but you surely know a thing or two about ‘strip poker’, am I right? — he tested the waters, his gaze trailing down your body shamelessly — What if we apply the same scheme to ddakji? You lose, you take something off. The one who gets naked first will sadly lose” he offered, watching you regret every single decision you had made until now.

You were not against the idea of letting him pounce at you. You ached to finally feel him inside of you, to hear him animalistically grunt as he ruined you for anyone else coming later in your life. To say you were bittered by your lack of choice, though, was an understatement. You were not a sore loser. This one was just not a fair fight. You were destined to lose, to succumb, to yield to him like you were not capable of defending yourself. Impotent, yet cunning, you eventually nodded your head and prepared to play the first round.

Four rounds. If you lost four rounds, you were done for. You should have not worn a simple sundress. How were you supposed to know he was going to scam you into a round of strip ddakji, though?

“I’m in” you agreed, before you took a sharp intake of air and transfixed your gaze on the blue square at your feet. You could do it. You just had to concentrate, put the right amount of force into it and flip that thing around.

Without thinking too much about it, you did it. You smashed your tile against it and, much to your surprise, it flipped the other successfully. If it was not for the music playing in the background, a still silence blanketed the room. You stood there in shock, he stared at the tiles on the floor as if you had just robbed him of his dignity. He looked almost offended, his eyes meeting yourself as he shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders made you feel like you should have apologized for what you had just done. You did not, though. You had earned your victory. Maybe it was just luck, maybe you were going to lose the following four rounds and he was going to win. It really did not matter, did it? You had won and you were not going to belittle your skills to console him.

“Congratulations, ma’am” he told you, clearing his throat and busying himself with repositioning the tiles optimally to play the second round. His voice sounded mechanical, almost as if he was used to praise people who won. How absurd it was.

The smack of your tile being flipped made you flinch and you felt your mouth going dry, as you slipped off your shoes, instead of your dress. A loss is a loss, right? But you had to choice to decide which item was going to be removed first. Why not claiming your rights?

“Wise choice” he observed pointedly, eyes raking over your form. The atmosphere was gradually shifting, the tension thick and the hunger burning in his eyes enveloping you like an incendio. He was eager to defeat you, but so were you to prove him he was not in total control. You were playing a game you had not even heard about before and, apparently, you were not even too bad at it.

You had a feeling it was going to be a wild ride.

You swept your tongue out of your mouth, tasting your cherry chopstick in the process of moistening your bottom lip. After a couple of dates with him, you had given up on the feminine urge to paint your lips properly with your favorite lipstick. You had literally walked around the dormitory with a smudged lipstick making you look like you were cosplaying the Joker.

“You sound disappointed” you teased him, glancing at him briefly, arm raising above your head to calibrate your aim. You had won once, why not doing it twice?

“Actually, I am glad you have decided to start from the shoes. If you had removed your dress right away, I would have been tempted to break the rules and I am not the type to do that” he promptly replied, your grip around the edges of the square in your hand tightening significantly. Did he really have such an high self-esteem and inflexible moral code imposing him not to deflect from rules and principles?

You took a deeper breath, squinting, before slamming your tile against the blue one. You won. Again.

A joyful smile crossed your face “Woah, I think you ought me a ‘thank you’ for having won again, then. I am preservating your morals” you replied, a smirk curving his own lips as he reached his hands up and unknotted the necktie with ease, discading it carelessly at his feet.

As he grasped his blue tile, he shot you an immodest look, sending shivers down your spine you even failed to camouflage “Probably, but I will obviously stick to the rules, dear. Correct me if I’m wrong. It really doesn’t matter, if I’m going to lose this game. — he paused, eyes darting down on your red tile, before he furiously flipped it around, making it clatter ominously on the parquet — It’s irrelevant who ends up stripping naked first. In the end, you are going to let me screw you anyway”.

You fingers twitched at your sides, brain registering his words in slow motion. He had won, you had to remove an item. But he was undeniably speaking facts. This game meant nothing. It was just another way to spend time, before you spread your legs for him. Finally, you dared to think as he stared at you expectantly. Your dress. You should have logically removed your dress first. This was what everyone at your place would have done, what he expected you to do. Imagine how surprised he was, when you instead showed him you still had the upper hand. Your cheeks were on fire, heart thrumming against your ribacage violently, when you shamelessly locked eyes with him.

Your hands slipped underneath the skirt of your dress, fingers hooking around the waistband, pulling at it until the underwear rested around your thighs. Then you began to kick them off, not granting him a glimpse of yourself to him. Not yet. Were you really going to make him work for it? Of course, you were.

“You are so arrogant” you whispered, arching your eyebrows as you stepped out of the poor excuse of underwear you had chosen for the night.

His jaw tensed and, considering the prominent tent in his slacks, you had aroused him enough to cause a strong physical reaction from him. You felt victorious in that very instant. Especially, when he pulled his gaze away from you forcefully, battling with the beast inside of him howling for you.

“Stai giocando con il fuoco ¹” he muttered.

“Who doesn’t like to get burned?”.

And you did get burned. You won again, you watched him unbutton his shirt, you basked into the celestial sight of his sculpted body, of his rock hard abs and board shoulders. But he won too. And, dear God, how much it costed you unhooking your bra from underneath the dress and remove it in that ‘magical way only women knew’. It angered him. You were purposefully starving him.

So much that his intense gaze made you falter and you lost the fourth round. His tile mocked you, his dark eyes devouring your curves now clouding over, as he stepped closer to you, deliberately leaving no room between you two. You held your breath, your hands reaching for the hem of your dress to pull it over your head, but he stopped you.

“Let me unwrap my prize” he chided you, timbre dropping a few octaves and prompting you to press your thighs together. The ache between your legs, you could feel it perfectly, and you were going insane. You needed relief, you need him to touch you.

You raised your arms up, above your head, eyes fluttering closed and focusing only on what you felt. On the way his fingers had already gripped the skirt of your dress, slowly dragging the fabric up your body, exposing your upper thighs, your intimacy, your hipbones. You shuddered, when his knuckles grazed over your ribs, your mounds, the hardened nipples. You refused to meet his gaze, not until you felt the rustle of the dress landing somewhere in the room.

It was only them, when you lowered your arms, that he grasped your chin and commanded you to open your eyes “Look at me”.

It sounded like a plain order, devoid of any emotion, but his words rang in your head like a love confession. You obeyed, eyelids lifting and focalizing him. Your head was spinning, the world a blurry, multicolored landscape around him. He had become the center of your gravity.

His thumb pressed onto your bottom lip, playing with it, toying with you like a cat would with the small animal weeping between its claws. What was the difference between you and the meal of a stray cat? You had willingly chosen your fate. You had a choice to flee, but you did not want to.

“Would you believe me, If I told you I want to fuck you in so many places I don’t know where to start from?” he said, towering over you as he glided his hands down your back, encircling your hipbones to pull your body closer to his. Your breath hitched, eloquence abandoning you when his lips were bruising yours. When had he begun to kiss you? You could not tell. You really could not and it was maddening how you only came back on Earth when he had you straddling his waist on the couch, just like the night it all started.

He cussed under his breath, when the pads of his fingers glided down your slippery folds, earning small whines from you. The stretch of his fingers into your warm channel was ever so pleasant. He was a fiend, a devil who knew the seven deadly sins and had made lust his favorite one. His other hand slided behind your neck, tongue swiping over your lips to taste you.

“Tell me, have you ever been with a man before?”.

“You should know by now I’m not a virgin” you breathed out, hands sliding over his pectorals the moment he curled his fingers into you. You squeled out in bliss, toes curling, pelvis rocking back and forth to seek your orgasm.

He chuckled, a rare sight “I’m talking about the age of your partners. — he clarified, depriving you of your climax and reaching his hands down to unbuckle his belt and unzip his slacks — I think you just mingled with boys your age. But it is fine, I like to think you are still convinced twenty seconds is all it takes for someone to cum” he mockingly commented, squeezing your hips to prompt you to cling onto him, which you did without hesitation.

His unhinged words made you bury your face in the crook of his neck, shielding your face from his lascivious gaze. He was smirking, your lack of silence speaking volumes as he stood up, hooking his hands benath your thighs to hold you up against him. His slacks were hanging loosely around his hips, the sound of his unfastened belt clinking with each step he took sounding both gloomy and promising for the incoming event. Up in the sky, parading to the adamantine gates of Heaveb, or swimming into the scorching, boiling lava of Hell. Which was the path you were going to take?

Your back hit the soft mattress, his hand splayed over your midriff to keep you in place. You saw him tucking his free hand in the pocket of his slacks, drawing out his watter.

“Don’t move” he warned you, before his hand left your stomach, fingers trailing down towards your belly to keep you on your toes.

You were not really suprised he kept some condoms in his wallet. A few years ago, you had been warned most of the men who do this are huge red flags. He was not an exception, you knew it. However, you did what he said. You did not run away, you did not shift your position, you watched him rip the package open with his teeth and remove his pants, all the while feeling your mouth salivate like that of a starving dog.

“Tell me, dear, do you want me to fuck you?” he asked you, sitting on the edge of the bed, at your side.

“Is that even a question?”.

You did not anticipate his hand grabbing a fist full of your hair, forcing you to bend towards his lap. His other hand held the condom between his fingers, pressing it against your mouth. You shot him an inquisitive gaze, evidently demanding an explanation to what he was doing.

“Then use your juicy mouth to roll this down my cock” he instructed you impassibly, a glint of unbridled lust twinkling in his dark hues.

You felt almost degraded. Your mouth opening to protest, but you bit your tongue and took it as a personal challenge. You could do it, right? It was just a game. It was sex, nothing you could not deal with. You had even put a gag in your mouth to let him jerk off at the sight of your saliva dribbling down your chin.

“I’m not doing this just to please you. Take it as my way to… Show my gratitude for that night at the station” you said, softly taking the ring between your lips and pinching the tip of the condom to ensure there was no air in it. He stiffened, an inaudible groan erupting from somewhere deep in his chest, when you tugged the condom down his shaft. His grip on your hair intensified, a wince ripping from your throat, but you refused to pull away until you reached the base. Only then, he abruptly pulled you off of him.

“Oh really? You want to show me how grateful you are to me? Alright, ride me then. — he rasped out, lips lingering over yours, as you sucked in a sharp intake of breath — Fuck yourself on me”.

There it was. His most pervert side gleaming in the dimly illuminated bedroom, flickering in destructive lapilli shot from a volcano. In that moment, you felt like a helpless slave, witnessing to the fatal event cascading over the city of Pompeii. You had no where to go, no one to look for. You accepted your end, fiery eyes glinting in pride, heart pounding against your chest so hard you struggled to concentrate. You straddled him, your hand lining the bulbous tip of his cock to your sappy entrance. He held you close to him, hands firmly planted on your hips, fingernails biting your skin to hurt you.

You choked out a strained moan, when you gained enough courage to lower yourself down on him. The burning sensation made you utter out inchorent words he failed to understand.

“Cazzo²— O my Gosh…” you whimpered out, pausing to let your gummy walls adjust to his girth. It had been a while since you last let someone humour you among the bedsheets. To be frank, you did not recall anyone be that big. You felt it all, stretching you open inch by inch. Sweat began to bead your forehead and you cried out in a strangled moan that was sloppily swallowed by his mouth.

He was far way more controlled than you were, but not totally unaffected. His jaw clenched, before his hands squeezed your ass roughly, hips bucking up to impale you fully on his shaft. You whined, eyes growing round in soppy sight that made him hum in amusement.

“What is it? What are you trying to babble out? Are those compliments to my size?”.

“Kind of, those were cusses”.

He grinned, squishing your cheeks together and planting a kiss on the tip of your nose “Really? Let’s make a bet. I will fuck you so good that, by the time I am done with you, you will forget your mother language. Oh, the Hell with that… You won’t speak anymore” he crooned, making you roll your eyes.

“Let’s see”.

Gradually, you raised yourself, shuddering at the feeling of his length rubbing against your warm walls. It felt overwhelming. He was overwhelming. Was this what it meant to be with an older man? Feeling safe, but on a precipice. Was it not an addictive but destructive feeling? It was too late to retaliate. You needed him and you needed him badly, until your bones broke, until you were a writhing mass of sweat laying on his bed.

You lowered yourself back again, a breathy moan echoing around you. Soon enough you set a good tempo, steady and passionate. Your hands cupped his cheeks, your forehead pressed against his.

“Fuck! Just like that! There it is. — he encouraged you, breath uneven, hair disheveled, as he thrusted to meet your movements — Let it out, darling! Let your anger out, your pain too. I can take it, I can handle it for you”.

No. No. This was bad.

He should have not said that. Flashes of your adventures in the search of your father, of your talk with Mr. Cho, of the day you saw your mother close her eyes for the last time ran through your hair. Your nails scraped down his back, scratching, your teeth gritting as your pace got faster, but more desperate. He knew what he was doing.

“Don’t do that” you adminished him, whining when he bit down on your jugular.

“Doing what?”.

“Making me believe I can count on you”.

“But you can count on me. I’m here for you”.

You could not tell if he was lying, or not. You clenched around him, inner and velvet walls squeezing him up to the point he grunted out in pleasure. You lost the track of time, the moment he shoved your face down on the pillow and made your spine arch for him. Your eyes closed, lower lip wobbling as he thrusted back into you.

Unlike yours, his pace was brutal, punishing, but you loved it. You enjoyed the way he had his hand enclosed on the back of your neck to pin you down. You reeled at the feeling of his cock hitting your sweet spot hard enough to prevent you from talking anymore. You climaxed a few seconds before he did, your body aching and your mascara ruined. You heard him groan, stilling his movements and he was done. Your body ached and you were too tired to talk. All you heard was him taunting you one last time before he collapsed next to you.

“I told you I would have deprived you of your voice”.

Recruiting people was monotonuosly easy. Tracking down them, finding out informations about their life that would have messed with their head was even easier. It had been so long since he had enjoyed recruiting someone. Let alone slapping them.

But this was, this fucking man, had triggered something into him.

He failed, he smacked him harder than he had ever hit anyone in his entire life. The moment he had decided to be a asshole with the wrong person was the moment he had decided this bastard did not deserve redemption. He did not deserve jail, but death. Presumptuous and a felon. How could he deem himself in the position to mistreat a person in need?

Smack.

The clattering of the glasses on the concrete were music to his ears.

“Again” Cho Sang-woo declared, composing himself quickly, ignoring the curious passerby who was horrified by the scene unfolding in a public area. He was more than glad to comply to his request.

Welcome to the games, Cho Sang-woo, player 218.

Author note.

Hello there! Thank you for the attention you have reserved to the first chapter of this story. I wanted to publish the second part sooner but life got in the way! I love to read your comments and impressions, therefore do not refrain from expressing your opinions! You could say things are going up (but the reader doesn’t know they are actually going down, poor little star). Anyway, I hope you don’t mind I have decided to give the Salesman his actor’s name. I came up with the escamotage of ‘he gave you one but warned you it is not his real name’. Deal with me! Also, if you wish to be tagged in the next parts, please I need to read in your bio your age! ✨

P.S.: the song they were listening to was “Era già tutto previsto” by Riccardo Cocciante. For a better experience, here it is:

Thank you again,

Luce.

VOCABULARY.

1. Stai giocando con il fuoco: you are playing with fire;

2. Cazzo: in this specific context, ‘fuck’.

CREDITS FOR THE DIVIDERS: @cafekitsune

TAGS: @axesfordays @apookalypse @trentknd

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day fourteen: "i love you."

ᰔ pairing: javier peña x reader

ᰔ summary: when the party's over, who do you call for a ride home? your good old fashioned lover boy.

ᰔ author's note: happy valentine's day! much love to you all 🥹💙 i can't believe this series is already halfway through. i'm thinking about making a din or oberyn series, along with some one-off ficlets. tbd, but until then, fourteen more days left to find love

ᰔ content warning: f!reader, fluff, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of bar setting

"Babe, are you sure you wanna leave so soon? We still have three more places to hit, then we're going dancing!" One of your girlfriends pouted as you nodded. It was hard to hear her over the loud noise of the bar.

Your girlfriends celebrated Galentine's Day every year with a bar crawl. Sometimes there was clubbing afterwards, which you rarely ever missed out on.

"I think the drink from that last place really did me in," you admitted. "I'm gonna call for a ride, but I'll text you when I get home."

As much as you loved the themed drinks and free covers to get in, tonight just wasn't the same. It wasn't anything specific. Your friends had made the whole night fun with conversation and company. Work had been getting to you, but the drinks made the sharp sting in the back of your mind ebb away with every sip of some hot pink concoction.

"Alright, baby. Be careful, okay? We love you!" Your friend kissed your cheek before she scampered back to the bar. From where you stood, you were in viewing distance of your friends for your safety. They watched as you stood at a nearby payphone and slipped a few quarters in.

You dialed the number you knew like the back of your hand. It rang twice before the other line picked up.

"Peña."

With a small sigh of relief, you hugged yourself.

"Hey, baby. The offer to pick me up still on the table?" You asked. You already knew the answer, which was confirmed by the sound of keys jangling in the background.

"I'll be there soon, cariño. Where are you?"

You turned back towards the bar and read the name, followed by the street he needed to turn down. Javier promised he would be there in no time.

True to his word, Javier's white mustang pulled up to the curb you stood on after fifteen minutes. You waved to your friends at the bar and blew a few kisses before you turned back to the car.

Javier hopped out of the car and slipped his jacket around your shoulders. Without missing a beat, he opened your car door for you before he helped you in.

You weren't sure if it was the drinks or Javier, but your head felt as if it was swimming. The two of you had been dating for a few months, and he had gone above your expectations, or at least what you had expected after the last few men you had dated. He was always the one to hold the door open, or keep you tucked at his side when places got too crowded.

As soon as Javier sat in the driver's seat, you leaned over to kiss him. He was a bit surprised, but he didn't miss a beat as he kissed you back. His hand cradled the side of your face, and you leaned into his warm touch.

"Thanks for picking me up," you murmured as you pulled away. Javier's hand lingered, his thumb brushed against the curve of your cheek.

"Of course, mi vida. I thought you would have called later," Javier admitted. He pulled his hand away to grab the steering wheel as he guided his car back onto the road. Once down the road, his hand found your skin again, this time on your inner thigh. It had been the spot he always rested his hand, but the tequila haze made your skin prickle where there was contact.

"I tried to stick it out. I really did," you sighed. "The drinks were good and I had so much fun with the girls. I just, I was ready to go home." You tried to pick up when had played through the radio. No doubt, it was some cassette tape of the four bands Javier actually listened to, but the music was too low for you to pick it up.

"No need to explain yourself. You know I'd rather keep you all to myself." Javier squeezed your thigh as his sentence finished. He looked to you while stopped at a red light.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, the sight before too good to look away from. Javier was bathed in the glow of the red light, an earnest expression on his prominent features. Before the light had changed, you leaned over and kissed him quickly.

"I love you, Javi," you whispered before you pulled away.

"I love you too," Javier returned. He admired you, the soft look in your eyes and sweet smile on your lips. He was so distracted, he almost didn't notice the light change.

The trip back to his home took no time, which you were thankful for. As he had before, Javier opened your door for you and took your hand to help you out of the car. He escorted you inside with his hand on your back. He always had a hand on you in some way, and it meant more to you than you had realized.

You shedded Javier's jacket off and hung it by the door, followed by your heels being kicked off. A sigh of relief slipped from your lips once both feet were firmly planted on the ground.

"I'm going to shower, if that's alright." You turned to Javier, who had lit a cigarette. He took the first puff and nodded.

"I'll get it started, mi vida. Get your clothes," he told you. When you started to shake your head, to argue that you could do it yourself, he began to walk out of the room.

"Javi—"

"Go get your pajamas." It wasn't harsh– instead an endearing command. You watched as he stalked towards the bathroom, determination written all over him.

Instead of protesting, you concede and gather your clothes. Sure enough, the shower is ready for you by the time you stepped into the bathroom. You thanked Javier with a kiss before you stripped down and stepped into the shower.

Once you were cleaned and curled up with Javier in bed, you closed your eyes. It had been a fun day, but you knew why you wanted to go home. Out of everything you had experienced in life, nothing beat this. Wrapped in Javier's arms, surrounded by warm blankets and a content feeling in your chest.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Javier broke the quiet. You looked to the clock and read that it was just past midnight. You leaned over and kissed him softly.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

[taniamunson]

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 ; ex-boyfriend!eddie x fem!reader

summary: After rehab, you return to Hawkins to find that nothing has changed… except you. And Eddie Munson.

warnings: Substance abuse, depression, mental health struggles, rehabilitation, family tension, past relationship drama, possible triggers for anxiety or trauma.

‼️ I don’t speak English perfectly, my native language is Spanish, and although I’ve taken many classes, my English is not perfect. I’m sorry if it sounds too “formal” or if something is unclear, please feel free to correct me. Thank you. ‼️

━─━────────━─━━─━───────

The first breath of air in Hawkins hits you with a weight you didn’t expect. There’s something about this town that feels dense, as if the air is mixed with memories you’d rather leave buried. Everything here is steeped in what you were, what you did, what you lost.

As your mom’s car stops in front of the house, you feel like time has frozen in this place. Nothing has changed. The paint on the fence is still peeling, the mailbox is still crooked, and the window in your room still has the small crack in the corner they never bothered to fix.

The only difference is how you feel seeing all of it.

Your mom turns off the engine and looks at you, a smile that’s a little forced.

“Ready?”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t know what to say. Ready for what? To pretend everything’s fine? To face the stares of people who think they know who you are? To return to the place where everything fell apart?

You grab your backpack from the back seat and get out of the car. The house smells the same as always: old wood and a hint of cheap perfume your mom insists on spraying everywhere. It’s a familiar smell, but instead of comforting you, it makes you feel like you’re in someone else’s house.

Your brother is in the living room, playing with the chain of his lighter, though he’s not smoking. He looks up when you enter and studies you for a second before letting out a dry laugh.

“Wow, you survived.”

Your mom smacks him on the arm, but he just shrugs. You don’t react. It doesn’t bother you, not even a little. He’s always been like that: indifferent, a bit of a jerk, but not with bad intentions.

“Are you hungry?” your mom asks, changing the subject too quickly.

He shakes his head, and you head upstairs, feeling his gaze follow you until you disappear down the hallway.

When you push the door to your room open, the smell of dust hits you like a punch. Someone made the bed and put some of your things away, but not enough to make it feel different. You still have the same blanket with a small cigarette burn in the corner, the same lamp on your nightstand with the busted bulb you never replaced, the same shoebox under the bed with memories you’d rather forget.

You sigh and drop your backpack to the floor before lying down on the bed.

You’re home.

But you don’t feel like you belong here. A small part of you would’ve preferred staying in that stupid hospital, though another part of you hated it.

The center had white walls, that clinical shade that made you feel like you were in a hospital instead of a recovery center. Each day had a strict routine: wake up early, group therapy, individual therapy, activities to “reconnect with yourself,” bland meals, more therapy.

The first weeks were unbearable.

Withdrawal hit you like a train, with headaches, insomnia, and an anxiety that made your skin feel like it didn’t belong to you. You cried more than you’d like to admit. You hated every second. But the worst part was the loneliness.

There was no noise to distract you, no way to escape your own mind. And when there was nothing else to focus on, you realized how much you’d ruined your own life.

It wasn’t until one of the therapists asked you a simple question that everything clicked.

“If you went back to Hawkins tomorrow, what would you do differently?”

You didn’t know how to answer. Because you weren’t sure you’d do anything differently.

Your family? They’ve been acting strange. They look at you too much, as if they’re waiting for you to do something. Your mom tries too hard to be affectionate, your dad is showing interest in your life, your brother is holding back from making “too cruel” comments.

It’s not that they didn’t pay attention before, but it was never like this. They were never the type to ask questions or try to get involved in what you were doing. Before, you could go days without exchanging more than two words with them.

Now, suddenly, they’re acting like a normal family.

And that’s what bothers you the most.

Because it means they see a problem with you now. That they think they need to watch you. That they feel guilty.

They don’t mention what happened. They don’t mention the overdose in the school bathroom, the ambulance, or the weeks you spent in that chlorine-scented center. But every word, every gesture, every glance is filled with something that was never there before: caution.

As if you were a ticking time bomb.

And as if that weren’t enough, you can’t sleep.

You toss and turn in bed, but your mind won’t shut off. Tomorrow, you go back to school. To the hallways that felt like a prison. To the same faces that saw you at your worst.

To the possibility of seeing him.

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that could push the thought away.

You don’t want to think about Eddie Munson. You don’t want to remember his voice shouting at you that night, the last time you spoke before everything went to hell. You don’t want to remember the expression on his face when he realized you were pulling away, and you definitely don’t want to remember the cassette you left at his house, the one he probably threw away the second you disappeared from his life.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. To calm down.

Tomorrow will be the real test.

Tomorrow, you’ll know if you can really do this.

Or if Hawkins will drag you back.

[honestlyanowl]

can you do alphabet jinx smut headcanon?

Sure can!

(REQUESTS ARE OPEN)

Content: head cannons - suggestive mentions, light nsfw, slight spoilers if you squint? Strap use, fingering, switch!jinx, switch!reader.

( NA - no answer )

♡ A: aftercare - I feel like Jinx would have the move tentative aftercare; you wore sore? She would give you the best massage. You were sweaty? The bath would be filled to the perfect temperature. You were tired? She’d have the sheets changed and ready to cuddle.

♡ B: bondage - In the beginning Jinx would’ve been reluctant, she didn’t entirely like the idea of restraining you into submission, especially if it meant leaving rope burns over you.

So, on the occasions you would try it out, she’d use a soft silk, and never tied the knots very tight, leaving you with decent moving space.

You hadn’t entirely brought up the idea of switching the roles, but considering you’d usually tug her braids to keep her in place, perhaps the rope would be a nice alternative.

♡ C: cum - it was definitely a surprise when the usually white sticky substance leaked from Jinx… a shiny pink?

You never though shimmer affected that much of her.

Though it had its perks, sometimes if you ate her out, the diluted drug would give you a brief high.

♡ D: dick - During Jinx's her little time in Piltover every once in a while, would bring little things home for you, and one time, it happened to be a pink dildo.

Sex stores weren’t very common in Zaun due to their low storage on supplies, including silicon.

So if she wasn’t always able to bring these little things back, the classics always worked. That, or she'd make something for you from scratch!

E: NA

♡ F: focussed - Jinx is the type of girl to be dead silent when she’s topping you, tongue poked out the side of her mouth whilst she curled her fingers into you, fully concentrated to make sure you felt good.

♡ G: grounding- However, when Jinx was on the receiving end, she would be constantly zoning out, eyes dazed and her brows furrowed. In fact, quite often she'd have her hand held in yours, and you'd give it a gentle squeeze whenever you noticed her slipping, grounding her in the moment when needed.

H: NA

I: NA

J: NA

♡ K: kinks - I see Jinx as a masochist, she'd beg you to hit her, be on her knees pleading for you to wrap your hands around her little neck. Even going as far to carve your name into her thigh. Though, you'd have to patch her up afterwards; usually with colourful bandaids.

L: NA

♡ M: moans/noise - Jinx is incredibly loud during sex, no matter what you did. You looked at her a little too intimately? You would hear her breathing hitch. You tugged her hair? She'd basically cry out. You brushed over her clit? She'd be downright sobbing! Just imagen the lewd sounds she'd make when you actually did something.

N: NA

O: NA

♡ P: pillow princess - I will die on the hill that when Jinx is underneath she is a total, obvious, pillow princess. Almost never paying attention to you when all her focus was the way she felt. How could you blame her when she was so sensitive? Every little bit of touch on her little clit sent her into a turmoil of moans and sweet noises. Her eyes would shut, and she'd forget about checking up on you, a habit you often reminded her of.

Q: NA

R: NA

♡ S: switch - Usually Jinx was on top, it stroked her ego perfectly and allowed her to feel like she had some sort of control. It also took the weight off of your shoulders on having to appeal to her complicated needs. But on the times Jinx was under you, she'd be an absolute nuisance. Kicking you, squirming away from you, closing her legs around your hands when you were trying to touch her. She would make sure she was a brat, until you had to go as far as claw your hands into her hair and yanking it until she slacked against you.

♡ T: toys - This one's pretty obvious, Jinx would totally make her own, if not buying or better yet- stealing them from Piltover. She'd use the resources she had and make them! This sometimes meant modifying her prosthetic too, attaching prototype vibrators to the fingertip or using the spare plastics or silicon she had laying around for a faux cock.

U: NA

V: NA

W: NA

X: NA

Y: NA

Z: NA

- Owl 🧸

[qwanderer]

Experimenting with handpicked gif palettes. This is a 15 color palette, but looks nothing like the auto-generated "optimum" palette from the same source file does:

because the algorithm isn't prioritizing the same things I would prioritize. It just wants to keep everything as close as possible to the original colors. That sounds good, sure, but at 15 colors it doesn't look very good.

My priorities were to keep the vividness of the brightened sequence, to put as much detail as possible in the face and important features, and to reduce jarring patches of dithering.

Here's how I went about it:

First I picked five colors I thought might be useful:

I put the test palettes into an undithered gif, so I can see exactly where it's finding similar colors and how many colors are in play in a given area. I can tell that more colors in the face area will make a lot of difference - the pink color is taking up too much space in an area where I want the most detail.

(I did test these five colors with dithering as well, but it's eyestrain city with that much contrast in the dithering, so I won't subject you to it here.)

So I added a nice marigold:

The pink is still too dominant, especially early in the gif.

I added a gray blue to try and get more detail on the low end, and to serve as a cool neutral for all areas of the gif, and added a second red:

That pink is still pretty dominant, but there is much more detail in the face now! The background has also got more going on.

I started darkening the deep green here to increase contrast with the gray blue.

I tried darkening the pink to see if the lighter colors would bleed into the face more, but it mostly pushed out the darker colors, so I also added an orangey tone:

There's a lot going on in the face now! But there are still a lot of areas that are Just Pink (or more like puce now) so I added another, more neutral tone in the value range of the orange and puce:

That's a lot of nice color layering in the face! Every part of his face in every frame has some color differentiation.

The neutral is very neutral, though. It's not quite what I'm looking for to keep the vividness and contrast.

I pushed it back in the pink direction, and somewhere in here I also added an indigo color to add depth to the shadows, although it's not showing up much:

I liked that! So I tried dithering with this palette:

Pretty good! But the noise is still distracting, especially on that patch of wall above the backpack.

I picked a couple of neutrals from that area specifically:

Those neutral gray greens really dominate, but there's still good differentiation in the face.

So with dithering:

That's pretty great! OH. Except the lantern. The lantern light is now an expanse of taupe.

So I added white:

TOO WHITE TOO WHITE go back a little!

(changed the white to a pastel yellow:)

And that's the finished product!

[entitled-fangirl]

White noise.

Jason Todd x deaf!reader

Summary: the reader loves music. Jason finds himself slowing liking it too.

Masterlist

..........................................................

Jason had never been a music guy.

He liked it enough. It was okay. But she loved it.

The irony of it made him shake his head at the thought.

She had loved music since she was young. She was always singing some tune, humming along and she went about her daily chores.

That's when he decided he liked music.

And his favorite part was when she didn't know she was doing it.

She was currently folding the laundry, setting it across the couch in assorted piles. She had her hearing aids in, her phone connected to them. So, while he couldn't hear the actual song, he could guess it from her humming alone.

Entirely amused, he leaned against the doorway from the hall with a cheeky grin.

Finishing the basket, she turned, pausing at the sight of him. She fished for her phone, pausing her music and waiting for the outside noise to come back. "I was being loud, wasn't I?"

He shrugged, pushing off the wall. "I don't mind."

"That means yes," she groaned.

He chuckled and stepped over to her, plucking the basket away and tugging her against his chest. "You can play it out loud, if you want. You're really not gonna bother me, baby."

She sighed, resting a cheek on his chest, ignoring the crumpling sound against her ear. "Hard for you to plan badass missions while listening to Harry Styles."

He grinned. He had guessed it was Styles by her humming. "Don't care. Listen to whatever you want. You're not a hindrance, you know."

"Compromise?"

His smile grew. She always did this when worrying about only getting her way. "Fire away."

"What about like… relaxing noises instead. Like white noise, or… rain or something?"

"White noise? What the fuck is that?"

"It's like… just sound. I don't know. I've never given it a try."

His hand ran through her hair, twirling the strands. "Alright. Why not."

She grabbed the remote to the TV, pulling up the first white noise YouTube video that came up. They patiently waited for the ads to play through. 

The sound of static filled the room, the video playing away.

They both stared for a while, trying to decide if they liked it or not.

Finally, Jason nodded. "Yeah. Compromise. That's fine." He dipped his head down and gave her a brief kiss before disappearing back in his little lair (the office in their tiny apartment).

His desk was lined with maps and papers that had his  scribbles across them. He had his next mission scouted out, large circles in various places across the city. She'd bought him a pack of markers last Christmas and by god, he was gonna use them. So each Wayne had a color assigned to them.

He spent the next hour hunched over that desk until he could feel the tension in his shoulders. He stretched, groaning at the pop that came with it. The video had stopped playing in the next room, and she had yet to turn it back on. He assumed her hands were full, or she was simply busy, so he took it upon himself to go look.

But she hadn't reacted at all. She was still folding the next load of clothes like nothing had happened. 

"Baby?"

No answer.

Her goddamn hearing aids were setting on the sofa.

He sighed and walked to her carefully, placing a steady hand to her back to let her know he was there. He reached over her with the other to pick up the aids. 

He twirled one between his fingers and gave her a look.

She sheepishly smiled and grabbed them, putting them back in.

He gave her a minute, waiting for her eyes to light back up at the feeling of sound coming back to her. "Thought you wanted to listen to this?"

"Sorry, Jace. I tried. I really did."

"What's going on with you?"

"It's just…" She sighed, grabbing the remote. "The frequencies were… messing with my hearing is all."

He held his hands up. "Then why didn't you turn it off? You just decided not to hear at all over playing your music like I told you to in the first place?"

Her eyes turned guilty. "I just thought maybe you were enjoying it."

He gave a dramatic sigh, like he truly didn't understand. 

"I really am sorry, Jason," she clammed up. "I didn't think-"

"-Woah, woah. Easy, baby. I'm not mad at you." He tipped her chin up. "You think I'm mad at you?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know."

He couldn't stop the grin working up his face. "Well. Keep those in. I'll figure this out." He took the remote from her, flipping through things until he got to their music app. 

And played her favorite album.

"There. Perfect."

"It'll bother you-"

"-It won't."

She grabbed at the remote, and he held it further out. "Love you."

She huffed, "Jason-"

"Say it back."

"Give me the remote-"

"-Say it back," he teased again, stretching his arm higher. 

"Ugh, fine. I love you. Or whatever." She gave up, crossing her arms and pouting.

"I know, baby." He leaned in, giving her a kiss like he had an hour ago, then disappeared, taking the remote with him.

She wanted to keep being mad. But she wasn't. She wasn't at all.

Especially with her favorite music playing.

...

The next patrol, Jason found himself humming.

"Dude," Dick laughed, "Are you humming Harry St-"

"Shut up."

...........................................................

[veganeggz]

You Look Lonely: Hiromi Higuruma x Reader

Entry for @slvttyplum #fruitvendorevent // Prompt: “We're dating?? Since when??” Summary: Cyberpunk-AU! Oneshot. Hiromi finds what he was scared to look for. Content Tags: sexworker!reader, masturbation mention, implied sex, mention of mental health struggles and death, and use of smoking.

10:15:01 PM.

You take a long drag of your vape, closing your eyes as you did so. The vapors rolled down your bionic-implant lungs. It didn’t even matter if it tasted cheap. You didn’t feel like running around in Watson looking for a better smoke shop. Not while the Tygers were causing chaos in the district. The fuckers knew better than to think twice about getting near Mox territory.

Your new little boyfriend drew your attention back to the holo-call. He was already flustered by the way his tires skidded. You raise a brow, a dazzling smile on your pretty face, as you watch the Corpo straighten himself out. Hiromi came to a stop, his wide, dark eyes meeting yours. He was already blushing, and that gorgeous head of hair of his was a tad out of place.

“Wait: We’re dating? Since when?” He asked. His eyes widened further as you licked your lips. An effect you continue to have on him.

“Why not, Hiromi~? You always seem to do everything ‘except fuck me.” You said with a wink. You crane your neck to show off the Doll Chip. Being a doll paid your bills. It was a job for you. You were fine as hell, and people were willing to pay for a chance to come fuck you. 

Hiromi, however, was an odd one. You recall leaving your log-in on purpose, at the net booth, for him to stumble upon your portfolio. The Corpo had been dragged to Japantown while you were out shopping, and you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted him, and the way he behaved, it was clear he wanted you.

A shared kiss outside some shitty diner.

The noises he’d make when he felt your ass grind against his crotch at the nightclub.

His eyes widening as you’d walk by wearing that see-through plastic outfit that stuck to the curves of your body.

But—He seemed to balk at the idea of going through with what he wanted. It was frustrating, the way he’d send you home in heat. You sometimes spent late nights touching yourself, imagining what it would be like to get dicked-down by Hiromi. A juicier, more realistic outcome, was to wonder if he would prefer to be the one ridden.

“That—Ugh, that doesn’t mean we’re dating. I…” He shook his head with a slight frown, creasing his handsome features. “I didn’t think you’d want to be with someone like me.”

It sounded like bullshit coming from him. You exhaled, blowing a large cloud of white smoke. Your eyes catch onto the door opening. A coworker, a fellow Mox, was just finishing her shift at Lizzie’s. You gave her a small smile to acknowledge the passerby before continuing the conversation:

“Hiromi, don’t do that. Don’t you start with that ‘You deserve better’. I don’t give a fuck about that gonk shit. I just mind my business and get my Eddz. It’s Night City for fucks sake. Look, come on…Hiro, let’s squash this, ‘alright? I’m craving sushi. Sending you deets now.”

Your eyes light up again to text Hiromi the location of that sushi bar by the harbor. Much to his little pout, you added that ‘It’s a date!’.  ..........................................................................................................................

When Hiromi showed up, your face fell. He looked better over the holo-call. He usually wore a suit fit for a defense attorney. That black and white, sleek Neo-Militaristic suit made him stand out in Watson district with the style’s luxury substance over style design motif. The charm came from his dishevelment in working long hours on court cases. Now, he was just… wearing the common, lower class style of Entropy. 

He couldn’t meet your eyes. Something happened, but he was keeping his lips shut. He slumped down next to you as he looked over the gray, artificial selection of “sushi”. You tried to close your agape maw, and offer a smile, but silence got the better of you.

“...I can’t believe you eat this.” He murmured as he hesitated to take a plate. He was getting used to being just, well, a nobody to everyone around him. It didn’t take away from the fact he was always ‘Hiromi’ to you. You bumped shoulders with him to tease.

“You’ll get used to it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were in deep shit. You know you could call me, right?”

Hiromi rubbed his neck to hide his growing blush, “I didn’t have to. Having a Mox with me would’ve made things complicated. I’ve just been caught up in the motions after getting blacklisted.”

Fuck—He shouldn’t even be alive right now. He could’ve been zeroed, and you wouldn’t know it. It hurt, the way he was self-imposing his isolation. You grab him by the shoulder to make him look at you. Hiromi was being such a gonk. It was stupid. It was bullshit. Hiromi’s shoulders tensed up as you stared at him with tear-stung eyes.

“Are you that afraid of me, Hiromi?”

His eyes widened at the thought. He didn’t want to hurt you. He didn’t want to lose you if he could help it. If being lonely was the best outcome, then he was going to do that. But—

You give his shoulder a squeeze, “Hiromi? Is that a yes, no, maybe so?! Please, answer me—”

He leans in to cut you off with a kiss. He wanted more from you. You felt yourself close your eyes as you softly sighed against his lips. He held you close as he tilted his head, that big nose making you giggle as he clumsily bumps it against you. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’ve been selfish, and cruel to leave you lonely. I want you. I do. I want you more than I was willing to admit.”

It was frustratingly impossible to remain mad with him. Not as he kissed you again and again. He scooped you up with the intent to get out of here. Hiromi had nothing but time to make up for not taking care of your shared needs and desires. One you were more than happy to take being able to taste, to feel him inside of you.

In a place like Night City, there is no future to be had. This city devours hundreds, upon thousands of souls, all of whom with names and faces forgotten about if they weren’t Legends. One thing was certain, although Hiromi had to start his life again, he had a future with you.

[megapteraurelia]

sibling!bokuto. | 2

a/n | he is smarter than i give him credit for, but stupid bokuto is my spirit animal and will forever be written as such (at least in this series)

“KOUTAROU!”

the house suddenly fell silent, even though there had been laughter and yells just before. the sudden stillness settled heavily over the air and the taste of fear was faint in the air. 

no response from your brother. absolutely none. 

if you hadn’t heard him screech about something senseless and probably silly just a couple seconds ago, you would have thought he truly wasn’t there. after all, having bokuto koutarou make no noise is impossible. the fourth of newton’s laws of motions dictated that where koutarou went, chaos followed.

so, you decided to pay him a visit.

slowly, you stamped your way to the living room, where you had heard him last. him and some of his friends from school; some guy who kept apologising to you about your brother’s antics, which you found highly unnecessary since you knew exactly the type of person koutarou was, as well as some other guy who seemed to pathetically be full of himself (it didn’t even work). 

you found two of the three sitting on the couch, junk food strewn on the table in front of them, empty bottles of iced tea and half-drunk soda standing on coasters that you knew akaashi had put underneath the glasses, because koutarou never would. that was partly why your mom loved having akaashi over, you mused.

unsurprisingly, though, no sight of your brother.

“hey, younger bokuto-san,” akaashi waved at you from the couch, and konoha also shot you a grin at seeing you. absentmindedly, you murmured a hello back, eyes swiping over the chaotic living room to find a certain white-black haired individual. 

it wasn’t hard to find him. 

koutarou never had any new hiding places even though you told him that you found him all the time; all his brain cells were needed to survive day by day, so he barely used them for anything else. school could attest, at least. 

your eyes zeroed in to the dining table set up on the right wall, and the feet peeking out from behind the farthest chair. he wasn’t completely visible, but because he continuously forgot how big he actually was you could see the tip of his spiked hair peer out, the curve of his shoulders, his feet. 

“koutarou,” you said again, your voice hard.

he didn’t move, but the hair trembled. konoha’s muffled laughter cut through the air, and akaashi sighed out, shaking his head, mumbling something about koutarou having it coming for him.

“oh, it seems like my dearest brother isn’t here,” you still stared at the spot where he was hiding, but spoke to his friends, “well, if he isn’t man enough to face me — “ his hair perked up at that and you knew you had him, just another…push: “ — then i suppose i just have to make him understand in a different way.”

“what’s that then, younger bokuto-san?” akaashi’s voice sounded void of emotion, having already mediated enough times between you two to know the spiel and the dramatics between you both, disinterested as he drank his soda, slightly regretful at his indulgence. 

“easy!” you pointed at koutarou’s hiding place, pointed hard at the person hiding behind the furniture, willed your entire annoyance into it, “i just have to throw away all his photocards that he hid in his bird of prey nature book!”

like an explosive, bokuto koutarou jumped out from behind the chair, his finger pointed back at you accusingly; deep baritone  of his whiny as he cried out, “that is so cruel of you! how dare you?! girls’ generation did nothing to you!”

“here we go,” konoha cackled gleefully, hand coming down hard to clap akaashi’s shoulder. the latter looked like he was contemplating his existence hard, more so than usual.

“no, but YOU did. how dare you eat my last yoghurt?! you don’t even like the flavour??”

koutarou had the decency to blush, but his eyebrows shot up until they disappeared in his hairline, anyway, looking at you like you were stupid. again. would anybody really question you or mind if you were to clock him one right now? 

“no, but i was hungry? have you ever been hungry in your life before? why would i not eat when i’m hungry?”

“because it was mine.”

“i’ll buy you a new one,” he shrugged, a grin on his face as if that solved anything.

you narrowed your eyes and akaashi stared at his drink as if he would rather be anywhere else but konoha was loving it, “liar. you never bought me any of the food you stole from me.”

“okay, hold on a moment,” he said seriously, his hands held up in the air like a timeout, “i’m not a thief. we spoke about it, remember? mom forced you to tell me that my hair colour doesn’t make me into a robber.” 

he aggravated you, so you lied to him, “i lied.”

“no, you didn’t!” he gasped, eyes wide open and he looked to akaashi and konoha for help; a louder burst of laughter from the latter, wheezing as his hand slapped akaashi’s shoulder again, and this time, his friend, wincing from the hits, decided to step in, “bokuto-san, you’re not a robber. there’s no need to worry about that, though you should apologise for taking your younger sibling’s food without asking because that’s not very kind.”

koutarou gripped his hair tightly between fisted hands, a constipated look on his face as he tried to understand the many different opinions and facts thrown at him, “wait, i’m so confused now. what’s happening, what am i now?” an idiot, all three of you thought, deadpanning.

[bloodycotton]

Broken Hearts Killer

This is something for Chandler Manning, way darker than i thought but what else could it happen when i was watching "My bloody valentine"? And i hope you spend a happy valentines day <3

So here is something where reader is the one obsessed with Chandler and would do anything for him.

TW: not smut as i still dont know how to write that jdjd but there are some as graphic violence, gore, stalking, obession, and shit like that

You took a shaky breath and banged on the table, causing the glasses to sway and spill on the carefully arranged table, staining the pretty white tablecloth with red wine. 

“He wouldn't say that!” you shouted, fixing your pretty eyes on the frightened man across the table, tied to a chair, weak from the blow to the head delivered by the woman in the pink dress. 

The man tried to speak, but the words were slurred, weak, and his voice was confused, his voice sounded far away as if he was straining to formulate the words, most likely with a concussion. “Please... I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go.”

The pain in his head was excruciating, a constant throbbing that reverberated in his skull like a drum. Every movement, no matter how small, made him nauseous, and the light in the room seemed too bright, almost blinding.

The man who physically resembled Detective Manning whimpered and cried, his heart pounding furiously in his ribs, a prisoner of fear and despair, he knew deep down inside that she would kill him for not being him. 

“Your eyes aren't the same colour either.” You were upset by the small detail that the man in front of you had green eyes and not Detective Chandler Manning's lovely chocolate colour. The bound man let out a muffled whimper, as if asking with difficulty what he was referring to. The sounds tripled, the clicking of your heels, the dripping of wine on the tablecloth, even the sound of his own breathing were deafening. His head throbbed with every noise, as if someone was hammering his brain from the inside.

You straightened up, walking slowly around the table, your heels clicking on the floor with a hypnotic rhythm. He tried to move his hands, but the restraints cut off his circulation, and every attempt to free himself only made his headache worse, and the rubbing of the ropes against his skin had already left red, painful marks.

“Chandler Manning has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Brown, warm, like melted chocolate. But you…” You stopped in front of him, leaning in again. “Your eyes are green. Cold. False.”

The man tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat. His eyes, those green eyes you disliked so much, filled with tears.

You sighed, as if disappointed, standing behind him with his hands on your shoulders. “You don't understand, do you? He's perfect. And you... you're just a cheap imitation.”

With a fleeting movement of his hands, you grabbed a handful of his black hair and the man began to drown in his blood, his eyes unfocused as the carmine red stained that white shirt from the slash in his throat and her delicately coloured dress. The smell of iron flooded the room, mingling with the sweet scent of wine spilled on the tablecloth. 

With a sigh, you dropped the man's torso to the table, with a wet, grotesque sound of his body slamming all over it, wiping your hands where blood hadn't splattered on the broad back of the man's shirt.

“It's not you” You watched the television where the detective of your dreams was giving a press conference about the ‘Broken Hearts Killer’. What a nice name they had given you. But the main thing, was that he was talking directly to you. 

“Chandler…” A dreamy sigh escaped your lips, moving closer to the screen. His words echoed in your mind, each syllable a confirmation that he understood you like no one else, that he knew what you did for him. 

“We are close to catching the ‘Broken Hearts Killer’” Detective Chandler Manning said as he stared into the camera, his brown eyes and bushy eyebrows furrowed just the way you liked it.

You smiled, a shiver of excitement ran down your spine, he was talking to you, he was looking for you. 

When the detective was no longer on screen, you looked down at the table, at the man's limp body on the table, blood still dripping slowly onto the formerly white tablecloth. With a sigh, you walked over to the kitchen and picked up a sharp knife, your mind already working on the next step.

“You can't stay here,” she muttered, as if the body could hear her. “You have to disappear.”

After a few hours when you had already got rid of the man, you washed your hands removing all traces of blood, then you sat down at the kitchen table and started working on your next move. 

You pulled out a Valentine's Day card decorated with hearts, roses and one of those silly phrases, where inside you wrote a riddle, neat and elegant handwriting. 

At the end, you stamped a kiss on the paper with wine red lipstick, the same shade you had used that night. Then, you took the man's heart, wrapped it in silver paper and placed it in a box of chocolates, it was pink with a black ribbon, you stepped back and looked at your creation, the box of chocolates with the heart inside, the pretty ribbon and the card in it. 

The next day, you took the package to a post office, who sent it to Chandler's office address, making sure there was no trace of your identity.

“I hope you enjoy it, Chandler, my love,” you murmured as you left the office, a smile playing on your lips. 

Chandler was in his office when he received the package, wary, as it was rare for him to receive anything on any holiday. Carefully, he looked at the card that was stuck in the bow of the mysteriously heavy box of chocolates.

“What the fuck is this?” he grunted, lifting the box gingerly. It was heavier than he expected, and something inside it was moving slightly.

“Red as passion, beats without end,

I’ve stolen them all, but you can’t comprehend.

One by one, I keep them with care,

Guess what they are? I’ll give you a pair.”

Chandler frowned, feeling a shiver run down his spine, suspicious. The kiss on the paper, printed in wine-red lipstick, struck him as disturbingly personal, but curiously attractive, it had been a long time since anyone had sent him anything like it.

And no one could compare. 

When he opened the supposed box of chocolates and saw the silver paper wrapping an object, his hands trembled and his teeth clenched.

“FUCK!” Chandler screamed, the metallic, old, metallic smell of blood hit his nose, with jerky, exalted movements he rose from his seat causing the chair to hit the floor of his office hard. The pretty box fell to the floor along with its grotesque contents with a wet sound. 

Chandler took a deep breath, trying to control his anger, but it was impossible. He slammed his fist on the desk, making the objects jump. “This is a fucking joke!” 

Chandler reached for the heart, his fists clenched and his breath hitching. “Who the fuck does he think he is?” he muttered, his voice full of rage, horror and disgust, it was obvious who had sent him, after all, he was the only person crazy enough to do something like this ‘The Broken Hearts Killer.’

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. “I need the whole team here right now!” he shouted, hanging up before the person on the other end could answer.

Chandler's team gathered in his office, examining the package and the human heart. Forensics confirmed that the heart belonged to a recent victim, a man who had been reported missing two days earlier.

“This isn't just a crime,” Chandler said, staring at the card. “It's a message. And I'm going to make sure it's the last one.”

The riddle haunted him. He read it over and over, trying to decipher its meaning. “What do you mean by ‘One by one, I keep them with care’?” He muttered, running a finger over the words and the kiss stamped on the card. 

Chandler always knew the killer was meticulous, in previous murders he would extract the heart from his victims and place a red rose in the chest cavity as a tribute to the love and lives he had taken, that was his signature. 

And no one knew what he did with the hearts, until now, but where were the others?

Chandler Manning entered the morgue with a firm step, but with an uneasy feeling he couldn't shake. The smell of disinfectant and death hit him immediately, but he was used to it. What he wasn't used to was the idea that someone was playing with him like this.

The forensic examiner, a middle-aged Asian man, led him to the table where the body of the latest victim lay. “Here it is,” said the forensic examiner, lifting the surgical drape that covered the corpse.

Chandler looked at the body, and immediately felt a shiver run down his spine. The man on the table was strikingly similar to him, the same build, the same type of hair, even the shape of the face was similar. But there were subtle differences: the eyes were green instead of brown, the nose a little wider, the jaw a little more defined. 

“What the hell...?” muttered Chandler, leaning over to examine the body more closely.

The coroner watched him with curiosity and concern in his eyes. “You noticed, didn't you?” The man on the metal table was almost a carbon copy of the detective. 

Chandler didn't answer right away. His mind was working at full speed, connecting the dots. “Do you have pictures of the other victims?” he finally asked.

The doctor nodded and handed him a folder with the photographs and files of the previous victims. Chandler went through them one by one, and with each image, his unease grew. All the victims resembled him, but with slight differences: different coloured eyes, lighter or darker hair, slightly altered facial features.

“This is not a coincidence,” Chandler said, closing the folder tightly. “The killer is choosing these people because they look like me.”

The forensic scientist arched an eyebrow. “You think it's personal?”

Chandler did not respond immediately. His mind was busy processing the information. “It's not just personal,” he finally said. “It's obsessive.”

(...)

You had been watching him for a long time, always from afar, hidden in plain sight, like just another person in town, studying his habits, routines, his every move. You knew it wasn't yet time for him to discover you, but you couldn't resist the consuming desire to see him, to feel him close, to sense his presence, even for a few minutes. 

So that night you dressed carefully, choosing something low-cut, pretty and undeniably you. “Just a glimpse,” you muttered to yourself, adjusting your hair in front of the mirror. “I just need to see him up close.”

You knew Chandler was going to be in a bar, whenever he was stressed he always went for a drink at the same place, and that's where you were going to be, after all the stress you put him through today, it was obvious.

You saw him enter the bar out of the corner of your eye, he looked tired and stressed, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and you had to take a sip of beer to cool down, his mere presence made you feel things. 

The place was half full, with the low murmur of conversations and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. Chandler headed straight to the bar and sat down on one of the empty stools, next to a beautiful woman.

Holding back the urge to look at him and smile like a fool when you felt his warm and imposing presence next to you, you took another sip, trying to ignore him, but knowing that every fibre of your body was watching his every move, your heart pounded, but keeping calm you pretended to be lost in thought. 

He ordered a whisky on the rocks, and you couldn't help but watch him from the corner of your eye. Every movement of his was mesmerising: the way he ran a hand through his hair, the tired sigh that escaped his lips, the way his fingers circled the glass. It was perfect, so perfect it was almost painful to watch.

You couldn't resist, “Rough day?” You smiled sweetly at him. 

Chandler looked at you, a little surprised by the interruption, but he didn't seem upset. “Yeah, you could say that,” he replied, taking another sip of his whiskey, the sound of the ice in the small glass and how his throat moved as he swallowed was a little distracting.

You smiled, playing with the rim of your bottle. “I've had one of those days myself. Sometimes a drink is the only thing that helps.”

Chandler nodded, looking down at his glass. “I guess you're right.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, but you didn't want the conversation to end so soon, determined to keep it going. “What do you do that stresses you out so much?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Chandler looked at her again, this time with a little more interest. “I'm a detective,” he replied, without giving too many details.

Your heart skipped a beat at those words. “Detective,” you murmured, as if testing her title on your lips. “That sounds interesting. Any big cases at the moment?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if considering how much to share. “Yeah, something like that,” he finally said. “A complicated case.”

You nodded, as if you understood. “Well, I hope you solve it soon, Detective. It must be hard to deal with that all the time.”

Chandler smiled slightly, appreciative of the comment. “Thanks.” He was somewhat dry in response, but, he was hypnotic, his voice rough from the alcohol, and his manner dark and imposing. 

After a while, you returned home, where you were finally able to drop the mask of normality you had been wearing all night. The cool night air hit your face as you walked, but you couldn't stop thinking about him. Of Chandler.

Every step you took echoed in your mind, as if you were replaying over and over again the moments you had shared with him in the bar. His deep voice, his brown eyes that had looked at you with that mixture of weariness and curiosity, the way his fingers had encircled the glass of whiskey. It was all so perfect, so him.

“Detective,” you murmured again, tasting the word on your lips as you opened the door to your house. It sounded so good, so powerful. It was as if that title was part of his essence, something that made him even more irresistible.

As you walked in, you shed your coat and sat down on the sofa, staring into the void as your mind wandered back to that moment in the bar. “Rough day?” you had asked, and he had answered you. He had spoken to you. To you.

You smiled, feeling a shiver of excitement run down your spine. 

You stood up and walked over to the mirror, looking at your reflection. “It's you,” you said to your image, as if you were talking to Chandler. “It's always been you.”

You sat at your desk, where you had pictures of Chandler scattered all over it. Some were newspaper clippings, some were screenshots of his press conferences, and a few you had taken yourself from afar. They all showed his face, his brown eyes, his serious expression.

(...)

Some time later when the broken-hearted killer had given no sign of life, but Detective Chandler hadn't stopped working on the disturbing case, day and night in his office and in the morgue, looking at files over and over again, the card with the kiss and the riddle he had no idea what it meant. 

His office was in chaos: piles of messy folders, photos of the victims strewn everywhere, and the box of chocolates stained with the blood of the human heart still in an evidence bag, a constant reminder that the killer was toying with him.

Chandler sat at his desk, his eyes bloodshot, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. His tie was undone, his shirt wrinkled, and his face showed the ravages of several sleepless nights.

“What the hell do you mean?” he muttered, staring at the riddle on the card. “One by one, I keep them with care...? The hearts?”

Suddenly, the door to his office opened without warning, and a woman walked in. She was a middle-aged FBI criminalist with shoulder-length, flowing brown hair and a look that denoted years of criminal profiling experience.

“Detective Manning,” the woman said, closing the door behind her, “We need to talk.”

Chandler looked up, irritated by the interruption. “Who the hell are you?” he growled, his voice rough and laden with frustration.

The woman did not seem intimidated. "I'm Agent Christina Rossi, FBI. I've been reviewing the ‘Broken Hearts Killer’ case, and there are a few things we need to discuss."

Chandler leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “Great. Another expert coming to tell me how to do my job.”

Christina ignored the comment and sat down across from him, placing a thick folder on the desk. “I've been analyzing the killer's patterns, and there's something that doesn't fit the typical profiles I've seen before.”

Chandler frowned, looking at her skeptically. “And what's that?”

Christina opened the folder and pulled out several photos of the victims, along with forensic reports and maps of the crime scenes. “All the victims are men who look like you, Chandler. It's not a coincidence. The killer is choosing these people specifically because they look like you.”

Chandler leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the photos. “I know that. But why, what's in it for him?”

Christina stared at him, as if measuring her words. “Chandler, I think the killer is in love with you.”

Chandler was silent for a moment, processing the information. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh. “In love with me? What the hell does that mean?”

Christina sighed and began to explain. “It's a kind of obsession. The killer doesn't just admire you, they idealize you. He's eliminating people who look like you because they don't meet their standard of perfection. To the killer, you're the ideal, and no one else can compare.”

Chandler rose from his chair, walking to the window with his hands on his hips. “This is... disturbing.”

Chandler nodded. “I know. But it makes sense. The victims are almost replicas of you, but with slight differences: different coloured eyes, slightly altered facial features. The killer is looking for perfection, and you are that perfection for him... or her.”

Chandler turned to her, his expression full of disbelief. “Her?”

Christina nodded again. “It's possible. Although most serial killers are men, this kind of romantic obsession and meticulousness in the crimes suggests a female profile. Also, the fact that the killer sent you that package with the heart and the riddle is a distorted declaration of love.”

“She's in love with you”

[industria-adastra]

[PMMM] And so, I fell in love alone - CHAPTER TWO: i can't grant your wish for freedom anymore

Summary: and so, Scheherazade dreamt for a thousand and one nights, and was saved out of love.

Pairing: Kriemhild Gretchen/Akemi Homura

Note: Happy Valentine's Day, have some horror yuri! This became a lot longer than I expected it to be. Mostly because I ended up putting in a lot of symbolism and imagery than I expected to. Also, here's the ao3 link.

TW: It's entirely implied but chapter two is a lot more violent and contains implied highly dubious to non-consent in the second-to-last scene, so read at your own risk. If you do not want to read about an unhealthy relationship featuring Homura's sanity being chipped away, do not read this fic.

Prev

-----

Homura should’ve pulled the trigger.

Should’ve, could’ve.

Had to. 

She didn’t.

Because she was weak. Because she was stupid. Because, because, because— 

Because she had done it once, but couldn’t bear to do it twice, with Madoka’s smile still seared behind her eyelids, with the churning in her stomach every time she saw her alive and so ordinarily happy. Every time she reversed the clock, the ghosts of the future past would always be there, strangling her with not “what-ifs,” but “already done”. 

And so, the gun had only shaken in her trembling hands, slippery and cold. Rain thundered down upon her, white noise rang in her ears, and the pressure had crushed her down to the mud. Her breaths had come out heavy, heaving, quickening bit by bit. Staring at the pulsating, crystalline egg, she tried to re-orient herself, with clammy palms and bloody nails raking across the gun’s metal as she shifted her grip. With a weak cry, and a gulping sob, she roughly aimed the gun once more, holding her breath as her gaze met with a shining pink. Her finger was poised on the trigger, ready to fire (not true, not true; it was as straight as possible, almost as if it were running away).

Of course, she knew how this story would end. Knew how it would always end from now on.

She didn’t pull the trigger.

A starry kaleidoscope exploded into view before her eyes, bright and painful like a distress flare. Bright and loud like a gunshot. 

Bang! Homura woke up. Eyes wide, breathing quick. As always, she was surrounded by stolen military goods, bomb-making materials, and dirty food packaging. As always, the clock’s never-ending tick, tick, tick echoed in the still space, louder and louder. Every tick gradually sounded deeper and deeper, more akin to a knock, knock, knock. Or maybe it was the thump, thump, thump of heavy footsteps, stalking closer and closer. Homura didn’t dare move, didn’t want to move.

She wanted to sleep; fatigue having sewn her to the bed. Sprawled out with heavy limbs, she tried to do just that. Homura’s eyes closed as she took slow, deep breaths, letting herself be lulled into unconsciousness again.

-

Soft hands gently threaded through her hair, separating the damaged strands and braiding them in practised movements. Not too loose, but not too tight. Madoka had always been so careful with her hair; combing it from the bottom rather than roughly dragging it through from the top; never yanking at it. In timelines where they had been closer, Madoka would sometimes gift her a bottle of shampoo and conditioner—always the same brand, the same combination of rose and sweet almond oil. In later timelines, it was one of the reasons why Homura felt like she could bring herself to shower.

Homura could hear Madoka humming as she worked, the same old tracks from ClariS, recently released just a few days ago. Hearing her, Homura was content to stay silent with her eyes closed, to listen and bask in her contentment. As she did so, sometimes Madoka’s fingers would glance across her nape—later on, her back—making Homura shiver ever so lightly every time they did so. 

All too soon, Madoka’s hands left her hair. The weight of her braids rested on her back as perfectly halved sections. Homura allowed herself a moment of silence before opening her eyes and turning around to thank Madoka.

No one was there.

-

“Ding-dong!” The doorbell rang. Abruptly cut out of her dreams, Homura groggily didn’t recall having invited Madoka over this time round. It was still too early to do that. (No, no, it’s too late to do any of that now). Maybe it was an NHK salesman. Maybe it was a cultist. Maybe it was her current neighbours, either that detective and his blond roommate on the right side, or the tired office worker on the left. The detective was always so nosy and always so annoying to evade. He probably figured out about the bomb-making at one point, but at least he didn’t call law enforcement on her. It was annoying enough having to evade them once.

“Ding Dong! Ding Dong! Ding Dong!” It rang again and again, all too loud and disruptive, screaming for her attention. Something scratched at the doors, “scritch scritch scritch”, carving divots into the wood, making its presence known. She ignored it. It continued to ring, continued to scratch, and Homura went back to trying to sleep. A pillow over her head might do the trick.

She needed to go to school tomorrow. Mami had saved Madoka and Sayaka from the familiars today. The Incubator would start recruiting them soon. Same old, same old. It would be more energy efficient to just sleep until then.

Homura closed her eyes.

Someone knocked on the door.

(Don’t open that door)

-

Homura found herself on a stage, surrounded by looming trees, feet bound by soft ribbons and satin, clothed in princely finery. Music flowed through the air, gentle on the strings, and airy with the woodwinds. Something called to her, a keening cry from beyond. So, she followed, one cautious step at a time, until white feathers started to fall, until the shining moonlight began to illuminate her path: step by step, all the way to an open lake. 

Its dark waters reflected the starry sky, illuminating the stage as watery candles, backlit by the enormous full moon. In the centre of it all was—

Madoka.

Madoka. Madoka. Madoka! Homura immediately ran towards her, a stunning vision of white feathers and tulle, as elegant and poised as a swan. Madoka was there, dancing underneath the stars. She rushed into the murky waters, uncaring of any potential danger that could lurk beneath them. Homura continued to reach forward, despite every step of hers plunging her deeper into the lake, dirtying the fine clothes on her with the mud of her obsession. Madoka, Madoka, Madoka! She was right there, just within reach! Homura stretched out her hand, fingertips just about to brush Madoka’s skirt.

And for a sudden moment, she fell, down, down, down, pulled into the water even as she struggled and continued to reach forward. Her arms flailed, touching nothing but the watery abyss, the sea of dead and dying stars. She was slowly running out of air, about to drown— Until a pair of hands burst into view, yanking her out of the water with a dramatic splash. 

It was Madoka, gentle and kind, smiling, and picturesque. She was clothed in an iridescent white, her feathers shining akin to an oil slick. As she guided her to stand on the water, Madoka’s hands slowly started to slip away, gliding over Homura’s palms and fingers, before they finally left. One, two, three, four. Homura watched, entranced, as she turned around to raise her arms to the fourth position. 

Madoka began to dance, sometimes with sharp movements cutting through the air like a knife, sometimes slow and controlled, like a rattlesnake waiting. She would spin, thirty-two fouettés dedicated to her; She would lean forward, leg extended in a grand battément. But sometimes, in between all the strength, Madoka’s movements were soft and delicate as she called to her. 

And so, when Madoka’s hand reached out to Homura, outstretched, confident, and waiting, she did not hesitate. 

When their hands touched, Madoka smiled, a triumphant stretch of her lips as she pulled her forward into a pas de deux. As Homura stared into those bottomless rosy-pink eyes, she smiled back, sure and happy. 

Faintly, she felt a swan song ring through her mind.

-

When Homura woke up, all was silent. Like a brief respite, the calm before the storm. Nothing could be heard, and nothing could be felt. Lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her head felt like it was floating within water, heavy and pained by an incessant buzz at the sides. She didn’t want to move. She should move. She shouldn’t move.

(Why?)

It’d be better if she moved. Everything would end if she did. She needed to go to school soon. But it was nighttime. She promised her she would. Her limbs were so heavy… Homura’s fingers twitched at her sides, and she rolled over to skim her fingers across the sheets. They were almost refreshingly cool, soothing to her feverish state. She flexed her hand, then in the next moment, clawed her fingers into the bed. White noise dominated her mind.

(Promised who? Promised what?)

(Madoka)

A tick passed. A tock went by. In a sudden movement, Homura swept her legs off the bed, controlled by some sort of unknown drive. (Ma-do-ka, Ma-do-ka) Her feet lightly landed on the cold wooden floors, bare and unprotected. Silently, she walked towards the door, stopping only inches away with a hand resting on the handle. Perhaps she should turn it, perhaps she should leave it. She moved to grip it, before a sudden “Ding Dong!” shocked her away. 

It was as if something had started to press down from above, cornering her from the sides. Stock still, a sort of animal instinct suddenly seized her mind, and Homura didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. One wrong move, and she’d be pinned to the ground like some live butterfly specimen. Her eyes were fixed on the door, waiting, waiting. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

And then, silence.

Something warm trickled down her nose. Licking her lips, the taste of bitter iron coated her tongue. Homura stared at the door. She summoned that bullet, wrapping her fingers tight around it, tight around a memory, a promise.

Drip.

Drip.

Drop.

Vaguely, she thought she saw an eye—bug-like and huge—pressed to the peephole, almost about to touch the glass.

(Don’t open it.)

-

She’s falling. 

In the blink of an eye, she’s plunged into a sea of red, cold, and freezing, tasting of salt and iron in her throat and filling her lungs with dread. Homura could do nothing but choke out air bubbles, automatically clinging on to her humanity despite knowing better. Something pushed and something pulled, dragging her deep, deep down into the darkness below, swallowing her whole. 

In the blink of an eye, Homura found herself garbed in nothing but white cloth, overwhelmingly starched and cold. Staring at the ground, she noted that beneath her was marble, veined with gold and shining. Her nails slipped into one of the lined cracks, and the gold broke, brittle in her hands. Nails flaked with dust, Homura turned her gaze upwards, looking straight into tens of thousands of eyes, with dilated pupils, pink irises, and widened eyelids, staring right back, fixated upon her. They surrounded her, observing her in the way a predator might before it went for the kill.

She doesn’t dare utter a sound.

In the blink of an eye, Homura’s trapped in a cage; large hands encasing her from above and below, rigidly locked together. Raised above the ground, she had a bird’s eye view, the best seat in the house. Gazing outwards, Homura saw nothing but sickly white. Surrounded by nothing, Homura was alone. Green-black dust dirtied her hands, irritating her skin. No matter how hard she rubbed, it would not be wiped away, nor would the cloth stain. 

Seven cries pierced the silence.

In the blink of an eye, Homura found herself staring down at the end of a banquet table. The sounds of cheerful revelry echoed throughout the room, with faceless figures raising their chalices up high. With their jerky, erratic movements, blood-red wine spilt out of their cups, staining the fish and bread, and splattering the table. They feasted and danced and sang, babbling melodies to be mixed into a cacophonous symphony. Arm in arm, hand in hand; they were joined together as a mass.

Suddenly, at the head of the table, a wet, fleshy sack burst into existence, giant and awful to behold. Something writhed within it, pink and violent against the pulsating walls. 

For a moment, all was still. And then—

Faceless revellers started to swarm around it, nails tearing at the meat, chewing away at the skin; a swirling vortex of ravenous beasts, tens of thousands splitting it open in their manic haste. With every bite, their euphoria increased, and they feasted and sang praises to their idol of flesh. Slowly, a figure emerged, dripping amniotic fluid and stained with blood, giant and terrible to behold, reaching for the stars. She grabbed at the walls, digging Her fingers into the stone. 

The sun was black, and the moon was red, but there were no more stars in the sky.

They clawed at Her feet, garbed in robes dripping blood, gorging themselves like pigs. Savage and instinctive, they scrabbled at the floor like dogs, squealing and screaming at each other to create a discordant melody. Insane with desperation, they clambered over and fought each other, so intertwined until there was nothing to be seen but writhing flesh.

Homura watched alone in her cage, spellbound by the grotesqueness of it all. She watched as the figure started to lean towards her, Her chest splitting, peeling into two, a chrysalis unleashing the monster inside. Leaning back, Homura’s body tensed in waiting. Slowly, surely, a pair of rose-pink eyes bored into her and greeted Homura with a seductive smile, crawling towards her as Homura shifted backwards. With every inch forward, that being—naked and newly born—stained the floor with a tar-like sludge, something pungent and rotting.

Eventually, Homura’s back hit the boundaries of her cage, and numerous hands slithered around her, trapping her in place. Her heart battered away crazily in her chest, so rapidly that Homura felt as if she might throw up. Closer and closer, that being came, trailing spindly fingers over her shins and like an iron trap biting into her thighs. They were as close as two separate beings could be, nose to nose and chest to chest, skin upon skin, pressing down with all the weight of a dying world. 

Its breath stank, too hot on her skin. Its hands were cold and uncomfortable, gliding up her sides to cup her jaw, to laugh at her before forcing a biting kiss, open-mouthed and vomiting something down her throat, uncaring as Homura choked and sputtered, drool spilling out from the sides of her mouth. Her stomach churned, and bile rose in her throat, worsening the nauseating taste in her mouth.

Its hands lowered and lowered and lowered down, digging into her sides before going further down—

Seven horns blared successively, and Homura closed her eyes tight. 

And tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter—

The sound of a swallowing gulp rang in her ears.

-

Her eyelids snapped open, showing dull violet. Her breaths came out in short, quick rasping bursts, intensifying in frequency and pitch before Homura’s hands scrambled to her neck and her thumbs pressed down. With a jolt, her breathing started to even out as she took deep, long breaths. Nothing could come to her mind, and Homura stared blankly at the dark ceiling.

(Don’t think about it. Don’t remember it. Don’t remember it. Don’t remember it—)

Suddenly, the doorbell screamed. “Ding Dong! Ding Dong! Ding Dong!” The walls rattled as something heavy, something great, slammed against the door, over and over and over and over and over and— Almost as an automatic response, Homura wrenched her blankets over herself, burrowing her head underneath the pillows. She could ignore it. She had to ignore it. It was morning. No sunlight darted past the closed blinds, and no birdsong could be heard. The windows were still locked shut, and she had installed blackout curtains when she moved in.

(Ignore it.)

Something sharp scratched against the glass, like nails on a chalkboard, a screeching, ear-splitting sound. They curled inwards, splitting away at the structure. Heavy thuds came from above, or maybe from below—Homura couldn’t tell, with her head buried underneath the sand. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. She needed to go back to sleep. (She’d be safe there, probably, definitely, surely)

It was all so loud, buzzing in her ears, hissing at her ears, a wailing-screaming cacophony of voices calling, calling, calling. A scramble of radio static zapped through her mind, jostling out memories of a failure too big to ignore, too late to reverse.

Then, cutting through like a guillotine, a bell tolled, heavy, heralding. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

And then, all was silent.

“Homura-chan?” Madoka’s voice warbled, seemingly just behind her door. “Aren’t you going to let me in? I’m so tired.”

Don’t open the door. Don’t open it. Not now, not today, not ever. Her subconscious screamed at her, wrenching clawed nails into her mind, desperately trying to drag her away. Back away, back away, keep the door locked, keep the door shut. She bit her wrist, cracking the bones, wanting to sever sinew, hiding beneath her blankets, unable to let herself slip up.

(But it’s Madoka, Madoka, right there, right there.)

“Homura-chan?” Her words repeated in Homura’s head, echoing, and bouncing around, multiplying layer by layer as their poison seeped into her mind. “Won’t you let me in? Aren’t you tired of being alone?”

Her legs betrayed her, stumbling out of bed, knees slamming against the floor. They dragged her out, step by trembling step towards the front door. Homura clutched tightly at her injured wrist, trying to feel some sort of jolting pain, something that would stop her, if only for a moment. Despite her efforts, her legs continued to march on, one by one, until she stood only inches away once more.

Her hand shook as she fought to not reach out.

(It’s not her. It’s not her. It’s not her You Know It’s Not Her.)

“Homura-chan?” Her voice boomed, gentle and foreboding. “Please, let me in. Don’t you want to see me too?”

Homura’s fingers brushed against the door handle, slowly descending until they wrapped tightly around it.

(I do, I do, I do)

“Madoka?”

“Yes.”

(I want to see you again)

Homura opened the door.

[afroscribble]

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[lxnarphase]

𓇼 FUCK HER, FLIP HER, BEND HER BACKWARDS !

❤︎₊‧⁺...synopsis : the church always says sex for pleasure is a sin, and nanami kento is a man of the lord. but fuck, if his wife isn't worth sinning for. wc: 4.3k

❤₊‧⁺...cw : n. kento x fem!reader, religious themes, traditionalist views on sex and marriage, loss of virginity, missionary to mating press, breeding kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, nanami loses himself in your pussy, slight cum play, dirty talk

❤₊‧⁺...lunar's note : am i unintentionally coping with religious trauma? possibly but it is fun :33 anyways based of this! forgive me if my writing is a bit rusty, it's been a while but enjoy !!

the two of you have spoken about eventually having children many times, but knowing the steps it took...it kept you both pushing it back, knowing eventually you'd both be ready.

after speaking with doctors, asking for advice from the church, and having you grumble about the neighbors who welcomed a cute baby girl, the two of you figured it was time.

you did your best to act normal all dayl, trying not to seem to nervous or too excited as you went about your chores for the day.

it may just be an act to procreate, but...it's still your first time with nanami. you want it to at least feel special.

there was nothing in the bible that went against that, right?

well, you have plenty of time to overthink since it seems that your dear husband will be at work late. to pass the time, you wait upstairs in your shared bedroom, the TV on as a distraction.

you're so stuck in your own world that you don't even notice him in the doorway before he clears his throat, leaning in the doorway. "oh! hi, honey, welcome home!" you go to stand up, but he holds up a hand, making you stop before you can get up from the bed.

it's silent, aside from the noise from the TV, and you can feel your stomach flip in anticipation.

has...has he always looked that handsome?

he continues to stand by the door, still not making eye contact. "you said it...starts today, correct," nanami questions, focused on undoing the straps of his watch. it shouldn't be attractive, it's such a simple task...yet it has your stomach doing flips as you nod.

"mhm, my, uh...ovulation starts today." it's such a weird thing to say, it just makes everything feel so...clinical. but that's how it's supposed to be, right? those who use sex for pleasure instead of procreation are sinners, or whatever the reverend at the church says.

"mm."

slowly pulling it off, he sets the watch on the dresser before shutting the bedroom door

"good."

dear god in heaven, you think to yourself, struggling to swallow the saliva pooling inside your mouth as he starts to undress. please forgive me for such inappropriate thoughts about my husband.

he removes his suit jacket—black today, it seems—placing it carefully on his desk chair, followed by his cufflinks and tie. his shirt is next, each button popping to reveal his strong, well-maintained physique.

you have to stop yourself from pumping your fist in the air for getting so lucky with such an attractive man as your husband. too busy ogling him like a horny teenager, you miss him undoing his belt before tugging them down and stepping out of his boxers.

once you do realize he's fully undress, you blush hard once he approaches the end of the bed—it took everything out of you not to stare at that...monster hanging between his legs, dear lord—and climbs onto it, making his way to hover over you.

his eyes roam up and down your body, taking in the pretty silky night dress you had on. It’s a soft blue with lacy white trim with little intricate flower designs.

modest, yet sensual.

"this is new," he comments, voice low and sultry. you can't help but wonder if he meant to sound so...so...

you don't find the correct word for it, but this new tone lights a fire in your stomach that has your r thighs squeezing together just a little bit.

"well, i figured it was an important night...you know, finally popping our cherries a-and starting a family?"

it's a weak attempt at humor, your voice clearly giving away your nervousness. you just pray that he ignores it.

a soft hum leaves him, his fingers playing with the intricately designed lace trim. the idea that you want to make this whole ordeal special, that you want to give yourself to him wholly, and that you want to swell with his child...

it pleases him greatly, a small smile touching his lips.

"well, aren't you sweet, my dearest?"

such simple words, yet they relieve so much tension from your shoulders. you can't help but smile back before a little gasp falls from your lips when his hands start to lift the dress up. his hands, they're so big, so hot on your skin.

It's a struggle to remember that this is for the purpose of producing offspring and nothing else, but you try, you try so hard.

but when you hear the hitch in his breath at the realization you didn't have anything else underneath the dress after he pulls it over your head, it's hard to remember.

the thought just about completely leaves your mind at the way nanami, your usually put-together husband, looks so hungrily down at you, a look you've never seen before in those pretty hazel eyes.

his gaze lingers on your body for a moment, mouth opening before shutting instantly, preventing himself from saying something he'd likely regret.

calm down, kento, he reminds himself, taking a second to clear his mind. this is for the purpose of family, not sinful and carnal desires.

even so, he's drinking in the sight of you, unable to stop his hands from rubbing up and down your sides, the soft skin of you, his wife, warming his palms. all his.

"gorgeous," he mumbles, unaware he even said it.

the moment you feel his leaking cock brush against your leg, a thought occurs to you.

neither one of you has a single idea of how to do this.

sure, you both know enough about putting it inside and moving, but that was about it. is there something else you should do? things you should say, places you should touch to aid in the process?

they never explained the actual process of sex in church, and lord knows your mother and father would've keeled over and died instantly if you were to ask them.

'it comes naturally when god deems it your time' the reverend stated once during a sermon. you fight back a frown, realizing that man probably had even less of an idea of how to do it.

however, the feeling of his tip nudging against your slit rips a gasp out of you, bringing you back into the present.

"are you alright? you left me for a bit there," nanami asks, his brow furrowed in worry. if you weren't ready, he was willing to back off. he may want to fulfill this important aspect of marriage, but...not if you don't want it.

"n-no, i'm okay! just...wondering how all of this is going to work out," you softly reassure, giving a weak giggle.

he can't blame you, he isn't very sure either. but as the man of the house and as your husband, he didn't plan on letting you worry. he would do all the work, you just needed to lay there looking so pretty, so soft, so...he realizes he's doing it again, letting his mind wander to places it shouldn't.

"just...j-just relax, we will figure it out as we go along."

with your silent nod, nanami starts to push his hips forward, hissing silently when he realizes the wetness that greets him.

you were this aroused just from...talking?

the thought of scolding you for letting your mind wander crossed his own, but...it would be hypocritical when his cockhead is dribbling precum all over your soft mound.

you choke out a noise of pain when his cock finally notches onto you and starts to push inside. sure, your wetness helped get the tip and the few inches after it inside, but just that is already too much for you, and you're expected to take all of it?!

you do your best not to move, not really sure what you should be doing. you'd be a good wife and bear with the pain if you had to, your nails digging into the pillow under your head as you braced yourself for the rest of his cock.

but this is absolutely unbearable, how do other women bear with this and have 6 or more children?!

a flicker of concern flashes through nanami's eyes at the sound you made, and he stops moving forward. he may be a bit mean sometimes, but he wasn't cruel.

if you both are going to go through with this, he is not going to make you suffer and nor is he going to force you to endure a painful experience.

no true man of god would do such a thing.

"breathe, don't hold it in," he instructs, his voice somehow calm and collected. one of his hands laces with yours, hoping to provide some sort of comfort as his lips brush against your forehead. "i've got you, darling, the pain will pass, just...tell me to stop if it gets too bad. don't hold it in."

giving a soft nod, you try to match his breathing, your body relaxing and making it easier for nanami to slip the rest of himself inside, a near silent sigh escaping him. the tightness and initial resistance that greeted him nearly made him moan, his cock twitching violently inside of you.

something about the physical feeling and knowledge that you saved yourself for him like you promised years before you both got married sent a surge of possession and pride, knowing he has such a loving and faithful wife who is so willing to give herself up to him like this...he can only hope you feel the same knowing he saved himself for you and only you.

so, as a 'reward'—and totally not because he fears you'll strangle his cock off with how tight you are—he's so gracious to you, not moving to let you get used to the stretch and feel of him inside, the room silent except for your matching breathing.

a few moments go by, and you should feel embarrassed when you feel slick drip out of you and down your ass. the realization that your dearest husband, one of the most faithful men of the church, is letting his cock soak inside of your hot cunt makes you whine a little, slick walls fluttering around him.

he's so fucked.

"a-ah...i'm going to move now," he warns, taking your sudden noise as a good sign. nanami shifts his legs just a bit before giving an experimental thrust, his brow furrowing as he slowly finds a rhythm.

the feeling of your hot and gummy walls is absolutely intoxicating, divine, nothing he's ever felt before.

this is what it felt like?

this is what he waited for?

fuck, it felt...it felt so good.

too good.

for you, the pain completely melts away, and you silently thank god and the angels above for giving you a merciful husband who is so kind as to wait for you to loosen up around him.

little do you know, he would rather kill himself than start moving when you're still adjusting to the pain and stretch.

his gentle movements make you all but melt under him, your eyes fluttering at the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.

no wonder your parents preached about saving yourself until marriage, and thank the heavens you listened.

the very thought of feeling this way with anyone but your kento puts a bad taste in your mouth.

meanwhile, nanami chants prayers in his head over and over again as he tries his best to focus on the 'true' purpose for this.

the sticky, wet, and gooey sensation of your plump cunt sucking him, practically weeping each time he pulls out is just unfair.

the poor man, he's fighting so hard to maintain his composure, to not succumb to the base instincts that those soft moans of yours are beginning to stir within him.

"s-shush, darling," he grits out, hips still following his slow, deep pace. "don't...don't make such noises," he all but pleads, voice tinged with a huskiness that betrayed his growing need for you.

“i-i’m sorry! just, it...feels good, y-you feel good, feels s-so good,” you whisper, hands coming up to cover your mouth and stifle those sickeningly sweet noises.

but of course, that isn’t enough because each push and pull of his cock stirs your drooling cunt, filling the room with wet, filthy squelching sounds.

nothing about this is holy, nanami thinks as he grits his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets next to your head.

look at her.

those soft, muffled noises are truly music to his ears, his pace morphing from the slow, deep grind into a faster pace as your soft body gives into the pleasure.

so wet, so damn tight around my cock., like she never wants to let me pull out.

"k-kento, y-you're goin' too deep, i-i can't be quiet, s'too much!"

messy little pussy, 's beggin' for cum, needs it, needs to feel my tip kissin' her cervix as i pump load after load into her womb.

he knows what that little voice is, and no matter how much he wants to claim that it’s the sound of demons pouring their sinful words into his mind, he knows that it's his thoughts, fueled by those dirty little noises that she can't hold back.

how pitiful, how sinful, doesn't she know she's going against all the teachings they've heard preached every weekend in their church?

doesn't she know she's giving into lust?

doesn't she know her pretty sounds are making his dick throb, painting her insides with his hot, gooey precum?

"hush, 'm not going to t-tell you again, you...you need to be quiet," he growls, the command lacking its earlier authority.

nanami also knows lying is a sin, and he's doing a damned lot of it right now as he tries to convince himself that you need to stay silent. after all, this—this is just a process of giving you both a child, just like you wanted, and nothing else.

but he's lying to himself.

he needs you to be quiet or else he'll lose it.

the poor man is barely holding onto his restraint, and these sweet noises pouring from your mouth aren't helping at all.

"y-you make this so difficult sometimes, my dear..." his voice is rough with need and desire, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. "but, by god, you're...you're. absolutely. exquisite."

he punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his hips into you in a way that has the coarse hair on his crotch to rub against your clit. the pleasure it gives you is electric, your legs coming up to squeeze his hips as you try to grind with him.

his words, his simple praise only makes you hiccup his name, crying out louder as your watery eyes roll back as your needy cunt squeezed down on his fat cock.

you're such a sweet thing, trying oh-so hard to mute your sounds. each snap of his hips is all but driving you insane.

“i-i can’t, ken, y-you don’t understand, i-it feels so good, i-i’m so full! you’re pressing against all the good spots, kentoo, i-i love you s' much, b-but i can't!”

be a good fucking husband and do what you were made to, nanami kento.

his teeth dig into his bottom lip, trying to hard to ignore that temptation purring in the back of his mind.

the voice is so much louder now, echoing throughout his mind and muting any prayers or pleads to be mindful of the sanctity of this whole process.

fuck her. give her what she needs, what she deserves.

but it's too fucking hard, he can't his hips are speeding up, his strong hands moving to grip your thighs, unaware of how they start to anchor behind your knees.

breed your pretty little wife and give her a baby like she deserves.

with a deep groan, nanami finally loses all control, fingers digging into your supple thighs to push them to your chest and practically folding you in half.

this new angle has him openly moaning like a dirty whore, allowing him to plunge even deeper into your tight, gummy walls, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each and every deep thrust.

"k-ken, kenny, k-ken," you sob, tears catching onto your lashes as your entire being is assaulted by the endless pleasure your husband is giving you. he doesn't even look like your kento anymore, his pupils blown so wide that you can barely see the ring of greens and brown of his iris.

"f-fuck. 's all your fault, you know that," he hisses, eyes narrowing as he weakly glares down at you. but you can see the hearts in his eyes as he gives in to the pleasure.

his dark eyes bore down into yours, the wet plap plap plap plap of his hips slamming into yours almost overpowering his voice. "if y-you just stayed quiet like i asked, w-we wouldn't be here."

a little spurt of wet gushes out of you, making his fall forward into the juncture of your neck with a groan at the dirty noise it makes,

"god, i-i can feel it, y'know? can feel this sticky pussy—such a dirty little pussy—makin' such a mess. saved it jus' for me, didn't you, baby? mmhm—fuckin' hell, 's tight—thank you god f' giving me such an angel of a wife." nanami is huffing nonsense against your neck, pounding into you with a force that has the bed creaking loudly.

if you weren't being fucked stupid, you would be worried he was about to break the bed.

"you can keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, b-but you jus' had to have the noisiest little cunt."

he's so mean, but it only serves to make you gush even more, the way juices pour out of you and only make the already filthy noises even nastier.

"she's talkin' to me, baby, y'hear it? i'm...i-i'm gonna breed you," he manages to whine into your ear, pulling away to press his sweaty forehead against yours.

his tongue, so pink and pretty—you want it in your mouth, want to taste it want to feel it against yours—runs over his top lip as he watches drool drip down the corner of your mouth while you nod brainlessly.

nanami's never felt so dirty, so unhinged, but it feels so right, feels so fucking good. he never wants to leave your pussy, never wants to pull out, this is where he belongs, buried deep inside you as his cock pumps load after load right into your tummy, giving you what you need, what you deserve.

"yeah? you want that? i'll give it to you, baby, promise, 'm gonna be a good husband a-and knock you up, gonna make you a mommy."

that has you keening, tears pouring down your cheeks at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. you know you're close, but it's different.

it feels different, feels too much, there's pressure you've never felt before from the few times you'd cave in and play with your puffy, swollen clit in the shower when you waited for nanami to get home from work to kiss you to sleep.

no, you feel like you are about to fucking explode. "ken, i-i can't, 'm gonna—s-something's coming," you try to warn, your hands fisting in his hair as you tug and tug and tug.

the pull of his hair makes him moan like a slut, it sounds so fucking good. his eyes are rolling back before he rushes to comfort you, pressing soft little open-mouthed kisses against your lips.

you don't need to fight it, you just need to give it to him, give him what he needs.

"shh, shh, don' cry, y' look t'pretty, honey. l-let it happen, cum for me, i've got you, angel, cum for me s-so i can fill you up," he coos, his hips growing erratic as he feels your silky walls starting to fluttering around him, feeling you teeter on the edge of release.

he shifts, just barely, just enough to better position himself to fuck deeper into you. but that slight movement has his cock smushing against something soft and spongy that makes you sob, growing softer and more pliant under him, and you know you are done for as all you can do is wail his name.

"please, pretty girl, cum for me, show me how good 'm making you feel, soak my cock, c'mon, you can do it."

with a loud mewl that nearly has nanami soaking your walls in cum, you dig your nails into his biceps as you finally, finally cum. and you're right, it is different, your cute pussy squirting and creaming all over his dick.

the poor man is choking back a whine, eyes wide in shock as your cunt just gushes slick everywhere, clenching around him like a vice as you cum.

your juices are soaking his cock and balls, splattering against his lower abdomen obscenely. the thought of making you do that again crosses his mind for a split moment before the need to fill you up for being so good overpowers any other thought.

not giving you a break, he continues his unforgiving fucking, ignoring your cries and pleads for him to slow down.

"nonono, shh, shh, shush, you can take it," he coos against your lips, no longer caring if this was sinning or not. all he could think about was the constant squeezing and spasming of your poor overstimulated slit that was milking him toward his orgasm.

you try to squirm away, but the way he has you folded in half has you unable to do anything but accept his stupidly deep thrusts that make you swear you can taste his cock in the back of your throat.

"t-tha's it." he's panting, slurring his words, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. it’s so wet, so messy now, but he can't find it in himself to care.

no, all he can think about as he looks down at you is how you'll have that angelic glow as you grow round with his baby, and everyone will know you're his, that he knocked you up, he pumped you full of his cum, that you're his you're his you're all fucking his—

"f-fuck, honey, i-i can't..." his hips stutter as he does his best to maintain his rhythm, but his own release is barreling down on him. his heavy balls are drawing up tight as they slap against your ass, your juices still pouring out and soaking all of him.

"'m gonna fill you up, 'm gonna pump this—this sinful little cunt f-full of m'cum, angel, gonna knock you up, gonna have you drippin' with me, g-gonna give you a fuckin' baby, shit—"

with a deep, guttural groan, nanami hisses your name as he buries himself as deep as possible, his hot tip kissing your cervix as thick, hot ropes of his potent cum pour right into your womb, hips grinding into you and giving little thrusts as you milk his cock weakly despite your overstimulation.

it's—it's so much, he's still cumming, how was all of this inside of him? you can practically feel it sloshing around inside of you, and you whimper when you feel it gush out around his now softening cock, dripping down your ass onto the bed.

a moment or two passes, and he sits up, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face and looking down at you.

oh.

you sweet thing, you're an absolute mess. you have tear streaks down your cheeks, your lips swollen from him unknowingly biting them between the little kisses he was giving you, a pretty sheen of sweat on you, and...

his eyes trail lower to where his dick is still nestled inside of you, and it takes everything in him to not accidentally thrust his hips a little bit.

it's a creamy, sticky mess, a mixture of his and your cum seeping out your poor, abused pussy.

"o-oh. sorry, my love. i'm...not quiet sure what happened there. i apologize for such...foul language," he mumurs, his hand stroking your hip. "'s okay," you softly coo back to him, your eyes fluttering shut as you try to catch your breath. "i-i liked it..."

but you quickly learn you've married both a man of god and a curious, insatiable bastard who can't help but drag his cum all over your pussy, quickly finding your clit. and the reaction you give him is one he decides he likes, your hips canting up as your soft, oversensitive walls squeeze around his cock again.

"k-kento, that's nasty!"

all you get in response is a grumbling noise in his chest as it takes you weakly slapping your hands against his chest to get his eyes to snap away from your gooey, creamy pussy.

clearing his throat, he looks down at you, that heated look slowly creeping back onto his face. "perhaps we...we should try once more. just to ensure it takes," he states, doing his best to show some semblance of dominance.

but it's impossible when his hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, his pupils blown as he gazes down at your panting form like he's about to devour you whole.

"after all, a...a big family is what god wants from man and woman, right? so we...shouldn't delay and keep trying." his hand trails up your side before finding its way to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh.

his thumb experimentally rolled your nipple, and the way your body reacted, a soft gasp of his name...how is he supposed to explain the feeling he's getting in the confessional booth?

"y-yeah," he gulps, leaning his head down. you can feel his hot breath against your tit, and you swear you feel drool drip onto your breast. "w-we'll keep trying. jus' to make sure w-we do what the scripture asks."

may god forgive him for being such a fucking liar and a damned bad one at that.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[gutsby]

Bigger in Texas

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel won’t fit.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Size kink (seriously, don’t read if you hate big dicks / disgusting descriptions) Penis and pussy pronouns. Virginity loss. Age gap. Praise kink. Daddy kink. Joel ‘hung like a fucking horse’ Miller is a soft dom and also a good teacher. Competence kink (?)

Note: Somebody made a fic challenge to use penis pronouns, and I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. If y’all find them please show them this and tell them I love their brain 🫠

Update: @sp00kymulderr you’re a legend for this. Dick pronouns are engrained in my brain, and I’m forever grateful.

Word count: 2.3k

This wasn’t the life Joel Miller had pictured for himself.

The dead coming back to roam the world and eradicate most of its population, for one. The cold. Finding his baby brother way out here in Wyoming with a wife and a child on the way. The looks he was getting these days. It’s not like he’d asked to get mixed up with a girl your age. It just happened. And since damn near every-fucking-thing that had “happened” to him since outbreak day fifteen years back had been bottom of the barrel, full-blown nightmare territory, the second he saw a good thing fumble across his path, he’d seized it—you.

You, who were young enough to be his daughter.

You, who’d never seen a man fully before meeting him.

You, who hadn’t squeezed so much as a finger in herself.

But much like his past, Joel Miller was a sordid and sick kind of man, and he had the cock to prove it: presently weeping precum at the site of your softest, tightest hole, smearing the pearly-white slick through your folds with a sound so sweet it was nauseating. Begging for entrance.

“Oughta have a boy your age pop your cherry, kid.”

It was simple.

“Ain’t right havin’ a man my age all in your guts.”

And true.

The head of his cock made another wet, sickening noise through your folds, and as though instigated by the sound, your eyes flitted to the source. You smiled.

“Probably. But I want you,” you answered. Soft.

Joel got harder, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. His gaze joined yours, and the sight nearly finished him.

Beneath him, your legs had spread wider, showcasing that perfectly glistening seam alongside the head of his cock. He looked huge. Or you looked small. Or perhaps it was both, and he was old, and he really shouldn’t be doing this at all, but then his hips stuttered a bit and his length pushed in. Joel hissed and seized the headboard.

It wouldn’t even go in. The tip just stretched the rim.

“Baby, fuck—” Joel whimpered.

“He’s so big.”

Three little words from your lips, and it almost did him in.

Again.

You wriggled your hips and flashed another happy grin.

“He wants in, daddy. I can feel him pulsin’ like I am.”

You volleyed a look up to Joel as if to say, ‘So that means we’re ready, right? Will you let me have him?’

And, strangled by guilt as he was, Joel couldn’t resist.

He let his big, bulbous, leaking head sink in the tiniest bit, and he let out a groan. Your walls were so tight. This was him, too—his tip was oversized, just like the rest of him—and when it notched in an inch, Joel could see the pain flash quick in your eyes. His hips moved to retreat.

But then your heels were lifting and digging in his ass, and though strained, your voice made it out, weakly:

“Don’t, daddy. I want him.”

Joel couldn’t dream of refusing.

And his vision blurred more at that word, him.

“I-I know. He wants you too, baby—”

Another quarter-inch.

“—so, so bad.”

“Daddy!”

Joel had to blink to try and wake from his daze. His tip was so warm, hugged so perfect and snug and wet, that he didn’t even realize that was all that fit. He was stuck.

You whimpered again.

“‘S’too big, daddy. Just make him go in.”

Your eyes rolled with indignation and overwhelming pleasure alike, and your hips squirmed again. This time, you tried to nudge him in deeper, but your body simply wouldn’t budge; you’d reached the widest part of him.

“Honey, it’s—”

“Hurtin’! I need you inside me.” you cried, impatient.

“Just takes a little time to get there, darlin’—”

“Well, get to it, then. A tip ain’t enough.”

Joel’s face flushed. He might’ve been forced to bite back a laugh under any other circumstances, but this was your virginity. His bed. Your naked bodies, together, tonight.

He wasn’t about to rush it now and fuck everything up.

“This tip’s about to paint your pretty insides white and make you wait til next week to try again if you keep it up.”

That made you go still.

You shook your head while Joel released the headboard from his grip and took your hip in it instead. He grunted.

“Sweet pea, you gotta see—” he resumed, voice low, “—it won’t feel good for you or me if I just…push right in.”

You sighed, feeling his hold tighten.

“Tongue and fingers only do so much. You gotta learn.”

You whined, digging your feet in deeper when his tip drew back to your entrance. Looking a bit squeamish.

“Be brave…and patient for me.”

From the look in your eyes, Joel could tell you probably hated him right now. That was just fine. He adjusted his hips to a more comfortable place, and then he pinched your hip bone. He nudged you back, and he let you wait.

Then, right when you opened your mouth, he sank in.

Joel thrusted with only his tip, the size of a small lime, and he fucked your hole gently. Back and forth. Shallow.

It did enough. You squeezed both his forearms.

“Oh, daddy.” Your bottom lip trembled as you said it.

With his free hand, Joel smoothed your hair back.

“Yeah, what is it, baby?” he murmured, dulcet as ever, “Thought you said the tip ain’t enough for you, sugar.”

His words came slow. His strokes were delivered quick, though tenderly. Your brain appeared to be in a fog, or a trance, as your chin dipped down toward your chest, and you watched him breach the first inch of you repeatedly.

“Curious little thing.” Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle now.

“He’s so…” you trailed off.

You squeezed his arms, and he squeezed your hip back. He let you watch him fuck you with only his tip, and when your head began to tilt back from the strain, he reached up with his other hand and held the back of your neck. He felt you clench at that, and you both groaned.

“So…big,” you finished, eyes glazed.

“I know.”

This went on for the longest time: Joel stretching the first precious inch of your pussy with the head of himself, you watching and breathing deeply, whimpering occasionally, and him holding at the nape of your neck like a softer touch might lose you to him forever. Was this teaching? When you clenched again, he reckoned it was.

“That’s it, honey. Watch her swallow me.”

“Stretches real pretty for the tip, doesn’t she?”

“Bet she can’t even fit another inch of this cock.”

Suddenly, your head was jerking up under his hold.

Eyes flaring with a hot, juvenile kind of anger: “I can!”

Joel clicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth and pretended not to hear. He also had to feign indifference when your walls tightened and all but choked his head and a wave of new pleasure surged up through his body.

“She can, Joel, I’m serious!”

Another two seconds of this and Joel sensed he might see tears. Though his gaze had trailed up to yours, and the look in his appeared stern, deep down, he was just as quick to want to cave. He just hid it better than you did.

“You think so, sweet pea?”

“I know so. I need it.”

“Need him?”

“Y-Yes.”

How sweet you seemed. How naive you must be.

Joel might’ve been mean, but he wasn’t cruel. He also liked teaching lessons as much as he enjoyed showing you the way, so in the next second, he obliged. He took the last shallow thrust of his tip and sank into your cunt.

As he filled you, you whined. It only took an inch or two.

“Da-a-ddy. Please.”

You must’ve been begging for lenience. Joel retreated.

Then, much to the man’s surprise, you kicked your feet. Not in relief but in protest, shaking your head up at him:

“Put him back. Please. D-Deeper.”

It was as though Joel’s brain had exited through the back of his head and all rational thought escaped him, for the moment. The only voice he heard was yours. It was pleading. And in between your legs, you were soaked.

So drenched to allow him another inch. Then another. Then another. Joel fucked in gently and felt a seismic wave of pleasure seize his limbs—and likely yours, as well. It was as though in two blinks, you’d forgotten the pain altogether. You were suffused with need instead, eyes wincing and lips curling and sounds leaving your throat like an animal in heat. Want him deeper, please.

Joel sawed back and forth with just those five or so inches and made you writhe underneath him. Felt you clamp down on his thick, slippery cock and heard the remnants of your shared arousal making sounds as your body accepted him. Stretching wider. Getting wetter. Bringing him closer to the edge with every breath.

“She’s doin’…so good f’me,” Joel told you, brainless.

His thumb drifted to your clit. He rubbed it gently. No sooner had he finished the first circle around that nub when your hips were stirring again—this time incensed.

“Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, thumb insistent. When his eyes met yours, he was surprised to find them wet this time. Tears pooling and streaking down to your temples while your body bounced gently beneath his thrusts. A whimper trembled out, and Joel slowed.

He could tell from that look you didn’t want him to stop, though. It just felt so good. So, instead of dropping his pace too much, Joel cupped your chin in one hand, and with the other, he kept thumbing at your clit. Humming.

“Poor thing’s never had something this big in ‘er, huh?”

You shook your head. Cried a little more.

Joel kissed the tears on one side, lips smiling as he did.

“I can tell, baby. But she’s taking it so well.”

“Y-Yeah?”

His hips sped up a little. The thrusts were still shallower than they normally would be, given your state, but they seemed to be working well enough. You winced again.

Joel kissed the other side of your face to take more tears.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, “Openin’ up real nice for daddy.”

It was like his words worked as well as his thumb on your clit. You whimpered again, lips parting a little wider now, and the sound that came out was as desperate and feverish and fuck-drunk as Joel had ever heard it.

“S-Say it again,” you pleaded.

“Say what?”

“That he’s…stretchin’ me open. Makin’ me his.”

The soft, slick resonance between your body and his seemed to amplify even more—you were getting wetter, and Joel’s thrusts all but shook the bed with their force.

His eyes darkened when he felt you tighten again.

“Yeah? You like hearin’ all the filthy fuckin’ things your daddy’s doing? The way he’s breakin’ you in for him?”

You nodded. Your throat constricted with a moan.

And, just when a fresh set of tears seemed to be close on the horizon, Joel lowered himself to you. He held you to his chest, hips working relentlessly, and he watched your face screw up in pleasure. A trace of pain surfaced again, but it was soothed with a kiss. Joel grinned against you.

Between your thighs, his cock was throbbing with a feeling just as big. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Hurting and aching and needing as you were, he had to make sure that you would cum first.

When his cock grazed a fleshy, sensitive patch inside your walls, he knew it wouldn’t take much. He went on:

“C’mon, sugar. Daddy’s split you open on his cock so nice, least you can do is cum for him. Can you do that?”

His nose brushed yours. His thrusts sped up. You nodded, quickly, and when he shifted in the bed with his thumb still on your clit and his lips and his stubble grazing your mouth with every push of himself, he felt it.

It was a small pulse, at first.

Joel thought you might be adjusting—clenching—again, when the lips that were trembling against his own parted more. Your arms wound around his neck, and suddenly the throb of your walls around his member got tighter and tighter and tighter. One more second and your cunt might’ve squeezed the hot, sticky seed right out of his body and flooded your insides with it, but then came release. The ‘o’ of your mouth let out a shriek, at last, and your body went soft around him, beneath him, whining in turn, ‘Daddy, daddy, please’ while the muscles once taut and unflinching gave him reprieve. Fluttering repeatedly.

Joel fucked you through it. He talked you through it.

He stroked your hair, and he held you tight. Called you his sweetheart, pretty thing, perfect girl, you’re doin’ so good f’me. Keep going. That’s right, cum all over daddy. He told you to take what you needed, and without another word, he felt just that. Your cunt spasmed around him, and you consumed every inch he gave and drank every drop of spend shooting out in thick spurts.

You fell boneless on the bed when all was said and done.

You looked happy, and that made Joel even happier.

He stroked your cheek, and you leaned into it, clearly drained while your gaze held his in a weak sort of look.

It was soft. Loving, even. It could’ve been romantic.

Then Joel’s hand slipped down to the nape of your neck again. Your muscles were limp, like all the rest of you, but somehow, he was able to hold you up. Tilt your chin a bit.

Make you peer down between your shaking legs, where his cock was still sheathed inside you—partly, anyway.

Your eyes widened. Joel grinned.

“You did great, baby. Ready for the other half of him?”

can y’all believe this image is what inspired this fic HA

it’s only Thursday i’m sorry 😔

[hislittlesparklejumpropequeen]

Watching you

Hwang In-ho x female!reader.

Summary: In-ho sees you and his brain chemistry changes. A/N: in reader’s pov he’s referred as Young il. Sorry if it’s confusing. Warnings: Obsessive and possessive behaviour, masturbation, stalking, perverted opinions, murder, blood, kissing, mentions of arousal, mentally and physically vulnerable characters, dubious consent, non-con touching, manipulation, sadism, dacryphilia

W/c: 3,5k

It was strange that he kept his eyes on you more than anyone in the games. The moment he saw your shaking figure among the crowd of people in the green suits, he felt his breath get stuck in his throat. You were looking around with eyes that were full of fear, hands wrapped around yourself and holding back tears as others started an argument in the middle. You listened as someone complained about his shoes being so expensive, and someone asking for his phone, an old lady argue with her son and guards answering the players’s questions with patience.

He kept his eyes on you as the first game started. He saw your eyes widen when someone was shot right in front of you, and he watched you as you realise the seriousness of the game you accepted to take part in. Gi-hun was interesting to him, yes. He was searching for them, for him have been for years now. And he was brave enough to come back to the games just to find who was behind them. He respected his determination. Yet there was something about you that he could not name. Something captivating. Something that shifted things in him, made his skin sting in ecstasy as you nearly moved when the doll turned around. You looked around with those innocent eyes and blood of someone flowing down your cheek, he felt his trouser tighten. A small, tingly sensation took over his loins and made him frown in confusion. He had never taken a liking to a someone, let alone a little, fragile thing like you.

When he found the video of you playing ddajki with the recruiter, he felt himself get harder and harder as he watched you spill tears in pain every single time you received a hard slap on your cheek. The camera captured the noises you made as your body was falling backwards with every single slap. The recruiter hit you hard and In-ho wandered if you would sound the same when he pounded you hard on his bed. He took his mask off and palmed himself trough his trouser as he kept replaying the video over and over again. When he was finished spilling his seed into his palm, he wished that was your mouth wrapped around his tip instead.

When the first game finished and your number and picture still shone bright on the floor, you voted for ‘X’ and expected everyone to vote same as you. Yet you were so wrong when the last player 001 and all others voted ‘O’, causing all of you to stay in this hellhole. You felt tears fill your eyes as some people were cheering with victory in front of you. You sat down on one of the beds at the front and hugged your legs with disappointment. As you were thinking what was going to happen next, you felt someone sit next to you.

“I’m sorry, I thought staying was the best option.” Said the man who was looking at you, watching your tears flow down your flushed cheeks. You looked at his number and saw 001 in bright white font. He was the person who voted last and made the decision. You sighed and shook your head.

“It is not only you, sir. Half of us wanted to stay.” You said as you pointed at the people who had the ‘O’ banners on their right side. He did not look at the direction you were pointing at, he kept his eyes on. You were so pretty when you cried. He wandered how beautiful you would look when you were overstimulated with his fingers in you. He felt his cock twicth when you looked at him again. Your lips were plump, and the tip of your nose was red. He wandered how your tears would taste like.

“We have a winner here. I thought we could use this for our advantage.” He explained as he pointed at Gi-hun who looked very troubled not so far away from you. Your eyes were on the last winner when you felt the man beside you stand up and take few steps towards the player 456. Yet he stopped mid way and looked back at you, as if he was waiting for you to follow him. And for some reason you wiped your tears away and followed him like a lost puppy as he walked towards the previous winner of the games who was already accompanied by few guys who kept asking him questions.

And the small group was formed with two of you joining them. You did not know much about others, did not trust them meanwhile player 001 was confident and comfortable talking to them. When he sat down next to Gi-hun, his eyes pointed at the small space next to his feet, so you sat down there. Being close to him brought you a sense of safety. He was the first person who approached you in this mess of a place with kindness. You did not know him, didn’t know his name or why he was here. Yet there was a look in his eyes that made you want to stick beside him.

When everyone went to sleep, In-ho looked at your resting form. You were wrapped in the thin blanket and was curled up into a ball. He looked at your curves that were visible from the tracksuit, his mouth watered. You were so frightened and powerless. You needed someone to protect you in the games. Someone who would look after you, make sure you make it alive. He knew what humans were capable of doing in a place like this. People were going to go mad and hurt one another viciously. Would he be able to just stand and watch if you got hurt?

Your soft whimpers and cries brought him back to reality. When you woke up from your few hours of sleep drenched in sweat and tears flowing down your cheeks, he crawled to you, in the darkness of the hall. He reached out to you, from the metal bars of the beds, and held your shoulder. You squirmed in fear and was about to scream until a large hand covered your mouth.

“It’s me.” He whispered to your ear as his whole body was pressed against your back, other arm wrapped around your shoulders. He was towering over you, as you felt sweat drops make their way to your neck from your temple.

He let go of your mouth, but his touch did not leave your body when he moved to sit next to you. He was close, his breath hitting your face and neck when he looked at you with observing eyes that did not give any feelings away. His touch made your heart beat fast and quicken your breaths, yet you did not want him to stop holding you.

“Bad dream?” He whispered, his voice is low yet deep enough to make your insides shake. You nodded when tears filled your eyes again. The images of dead bodies all over the playground haunted you since the moment you came back from the game as winners. You didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, but you felt like he would not mind seeing you cry.

He nodded along with you, almost like a grown up talking to a little kid and mirror her moves to befriend her. When he saw your bottom lip tremble and eyes full of fear scan the hall of people sleeping, he felt his loins burn in need. The face you made when you were scared and felt alone was enough to make him cum in his underwear without any touch.

Without hesitation he brought your body closer to his own and his arms embraced your shaking form with mercy. You buried your face into the crook of his neck and wrapped your smaller arms around his waist. He was warm. Very warm that you felt your fingertips burn over his body. When you breathed in and out in the crook of his neck, all In-ho wanted to do was throw your body back into the bed, rip those clothes off of you and ravage you in front of dozens of people without any care. The though of fucking you, turning you into mass in front of them, giving them a show as he claimed you, sent shivers down his spine.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, your crying voice reaching his ear as he tried to hold back a smile at your situation. You were so helpless that you were crying in the arms of the man who was the reason why you were still here. He was a stranger, who had the potential to do anything. Yet here you were, quivering against his chest and making his member throb in need.

“I’m here.” He said. And you had no chance but trusting him.

———————

The next game you were automatically given the Gong-gi game as the only female in the group. Yet your hands were shaking when it was your turns to play after player 390 completed his part successfully. When you missed two times, you were so sure you were going to die and worse, be the reason for everyone’s death in your group.

He watched you panick, drop the pebbles and fail to catch them midair. Everyone around you was getting inpatient and scared naturally. Even tho he loved the way you were struggling and feeding into his twisted desire, he could not let you die. He held your waist and stopped the trembling of your body. You looked at him under your lashes that were wet with your tears and went back to work once he gave you a reassuring smile. With that you managed to catch all the pebbles in your palm and passed the round.

It was then, you felt something was off, when it was his turn to play his own game. The top kept slipping from his hands or landed wrong on the floor that was covered in the blood of eliminated players. You wanted to step back yet could not because of the ties when he started to scream in anger and slap himself. There was a crazy, off-putting look in his eyes. It was less uncomfortable when he was looking at you, yet it was still there. His eyes made your skin crawl and stomach twist in sickness. You did feel safe around him. But not like you would feel safe with a family member, a friend, or a lover. It felt like he was a wolf who claimed a lamb, kept her on his chest and waited for right moment to eat her.

When your group managed to survive and go back to the hall, he kept to you close. His hand was on your back, leading you to your bed. When it was mealtime, he gave half of his food to you, telling you to not to worry about him when you tried to reject him. He watched you until you finished all your food. After all of you exchanged names, he watched you talk to player 388 about his time in marine and watch you laugh when he was talking excitedly, telling everyone how prideful he was about his military service. He watched your tears dry up as you listened to the conversation that was flowing in the group. Your smile made his stomach twist and his jaw clench.

Your hopes once again were shattered when people voted for “O” more than “X” and decided to continue playing the games. Young-il wiped your tears away and convinced you to get some sleep for the night. You could only relax and fall asleep when he sat next to you on your bed and caressed your head as he decided to stay awake. He looked extraordinarily strong to you. He did not need to sleep, gave his food to others, calm people down when everyone was scared, raged and pass the games like it was nothing. Most importantly, he held you close no matter what. Did not mind you cry and fail and fall. Maybe it was a sense of guilt he felt, for making you stay in the first round of voting, you thought.

——————

Next morning he held your hand when everyone was taken to the new game. It was mingle. Your group had decided to stay together. You were grateful that they had take you in and did not leave you alone. You all took your place on the platform and started to spin as the song was playing. You felt his hand get tighter around yours, reminding you that he was here with you.

10

You ran as fast as you can and took deep breaths when all 10 of you finally managed to get into a room. The sound of lock made you jump slightly. You saw Young il’s eyes on Gi-hun as he pulled you under his arm. The images of him looking at Gi-hun since the moment you met him lingered on your mind until the woman who claimed to be a shaman started to speak loudly in the middle of the room. As you waited for gunshots to stop and doors to open, you could not help but wonder the reason behind Young il’s weird behaviour about Gi-hun. He seemed to get along with him. Seemed to respect his ideas and experiences about this place. They seemed to understand one another, somehow. Yet that unexplainable look in 001 eyes was making you shift uncomfortably in your place.

Until last round, you had no chance but sticking beside Young il. As you entered rooms and people kept dying outside, you became more paranoid. And when it came to the last round, Jeong-bae asked how many people it was going to be this time. Without hesitation Young-il answered.

“2.” And it was it. When the song stopped and the platform stopped spinning, Young il held your hand tighter than before, and started to run to closest room. As you were trying to catch up with his pace, someone bumped into you, causing you to lose your balance and stumble midway. Young il turned around immediately and wrapped his arms around your waist. He lifted you like a piece of feather and made his way to the yellow door that was already opened by a guy. Young il pushed you into the room and threw the other guy away from the door. When you scanned the room, your eyes were met with pair of foreign eyes.

“Out.” Young il said sharply to the other man in the room.

“We were here first.” The man said, his voice cracking as he was shaking in fear. Person behind the door tried to open it. You pushed your back against the door and held it with all of your strength. There was not much time left, and you were afraid that all of you were going die in this room.

Young il grabbed the man and locked his arms around his head. As they scooped to the floor, his arms got tighter around the player 343’s neck. You were still holding the door and preventing the other player to get in. For a second Young il’s intense gaze met with yours and you couldn’t look away.

He looked into your eyes, showing no emotion or weakness as the man he was choking started to turn purple. Your breath got stuck in your throat, your knees were shaking, and your palms were getting sweaty with the scene taking place in front of you. As there were few seconds left for the countdown, Young il twisted the man’s neck. The sound of bone cracking filled the room along with the sound of door locking behind you. He kept his eyes on you, as he tossed the dead body of the side.

The lifeless body of player 343 laid on the ground and the gunshots filled your ear. The screams of people scratched your brain, and you finally managed to close your eyes. He had killed someone in front of you, broke his neck with one swift motion and he had no emotion on his face as he did it. Your heart was beating so fast that you thought it was going to fail at some point. Then the images of him came to your mind. When he knocked down player 124 and 230 as he looked down at them with those emotionless eyes, when he carelessly slapped himself in the second game, when he looked at Gi-hun as if he wanted to strangle him when he thought no one was looking, when he pushed everyone out of his way to get both of you to safety during the mingle game and now when he killed someone.

“Open your eyes.” He breathed out, his breath hitting your face. Suddenly you felt his warmth surrounding you and him towering over your head. You slowly opened your eyes and there he was. Looking down at you, his eyebrows lifted up and with a mocking look in his eyes. His face was close to yours. Yet it did not feel comforting and safe like it did a night ago, when he was comforting you after a nightmare.

“What did you do?” Your voice was shaky and sounded terrified as you tried to look at the dead body that was in the corner of the room. He did not let you look away with his fingers finding your chin and holding it tight. He held you with those hands that just took the life of someone. You felt chills going down your spine.

“I made sure that we survived.” He whispered without breaking eye contact with you. You could hear soldiers cleaning up the mess outside of the rooms.

“You killed him.” You tried to shake his touch away, yet he didn’t let you. Instead, he got closer, until you were trapped between him and the door. His hot breath made your skin tingle, and his touch made you wanna cry.

“Yes.” He said, and his lips touched your cheek that was wetted by your tears. His lips planted a soft kiss onto your skin. The kiss made you feel dizzy and your knees weak.

“For you.” He continued. His words made you freeze in your spot. His lips traced over your skin like a ghost and reached the corner of your lips. “Only for you” He kissed the side of your mouth, softly, gently, with mercy. You wanted to rip his hands off of you, and run away. The floor beneath your feet was slippery with the blood of eliminated players. If you slipped and fell, would he let you go?

“All for you.” His lips found your chin, then your nose, then your other cheek. He did not rush or hold you harsh enough to hurt. Yet knowing that he had just killed someone with those hands made you wanna throw up.

Your tears dropped to his lips, and he licked his lips as if he was dying over thirst. And when he made eye contact with you again, it was the first time you saw a clear human emotion in his eyes. An emotion he did not try to hide or was afraid to show; yearning. You did not know if it was for you or winning. In both cases, it terrified you to your very being.

“Stop!” You said as sobs filled your mouth and he pressed his forehead against yours hard. You felt him shake his head, his arms wrapping around your fragile, little body compared to his strong form.

“I will give you everything you want, you need.” He said and pressed his lips against yours. Without waiting, his tongue made his way into your mouth, forcing your lips to open up for him. You felt the dizzy feeling take over your head. Your ears were ringing, your mind was foggy as he kissed you harsh, deep. There was no power left in your body, so you just let yourself to his arms.

His teeth crushed against yours and he was biting every corner of your lips until he drew blood. The irony taste filled your senses, made you jump. You did not know if it was you bleeding or him. But there was blood everywhere. Covering your tongue, your lips and staining your chin as your shared spit escaped from the corner of your lips. You felt your body burn all over. Your back was arching like a cat to get any closer to him, and there was a soreness between your legs that made your clit throb. You felt shame fill you and guilt making you wanna cry out. Instead, you kept kissing him, devouring him, eating him as much as you could.

You whined and pushed your head towards him when he parted your kiss with the sound of lock. The door was opened. The third game was finished. There was still a dead man in the room. Your mouth was covered in blood, making you look like you just feasted on someone. And his eyes were on you, watching you.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3

a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3

”what are you listening to?”

your seat is close to the heater. 

it was nothing but a lucky draw, really. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks when you transferred, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching on to the chair in the very back, right by the window, right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes. 

so there you sit. a warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs. your feet tap and tap, on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, spinning like a planet in orbit.

through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones covering your ears, safe and snug, muffling all noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.

”… hey. did you hear me?”

gojo is being particularly chatty, today.

out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.

with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. meeting his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.

”what are you listening to?”

you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy ear cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper. 

it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.

gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.

with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.

”… do you like music?”

the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.

then he gives you a shrug.

”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”

ah.

your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.

silence overtakes you both, once more. 

”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”

(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)

before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats. 

on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street. 

and then he’s strolling away.

gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.

but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams. 

”page 27, from the top.”

your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.

but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.

without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.

nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.

then he’s leaving, again.

that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.

though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.

(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)

the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.

but now you wish you had.

(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)

with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.

”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”

you nod. 

geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.

”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”

…

you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.

”… what kind of music does gojo like?”

silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.

then he parts his lips.

”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.

”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”

you can’t help but deflate, at that.

geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”

a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him. 

”… huh?”

”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”

…

(you haven’t got a clue.)

geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”

(… that’s a good question.)

he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing. 

thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.

”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

but that’s where he’s wrong.

satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour. 

geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.

when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world. 

that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…

(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)

”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?” 

geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.

… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.

”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.

”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”

geto rewards you with a full smile.

”don’t mention it.”

spring is closer than you thought.

it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw. 

in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.

”did you bring your card?”

your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence. 

it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.

”huh? was i supposed to?”

”… are you kidding me?”

you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers. 

someone taps your shoulder.

geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.

a silent cue.

he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.

and then you realize what he’s done.

gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing. 

more importantly…

it’s just the two of you, now.

you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.

”… that’s so unfair.”

gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.

”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”

you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.

he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.

”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”

”… mm.”

from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again. 

”… i can buy some for you, though.” 

(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)

he clears his throat.

”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”

you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out. 

”… why?”

it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.

(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)

gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.

gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does. 

”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”

another series of blinks. 

gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.

”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”

you stay silent.

he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be. 

geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.

(why do you think that is?)

gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so. 

(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)

geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway. 

if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?

would that be okay with you?

(words that should be left unspoken.)

”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —

” — i don’t listen to anything.”

gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.

he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him. 

”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”

you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down. 

”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”

the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.

but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.

white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side. 

if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.  

”i see!”

a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.

”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”

a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.

(… if you can even call it that.)

geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.

”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”

”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.

you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.

spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.

you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter. 

you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay. 

”i’ll take it things went well, then?”

geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.

you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.

”i’m glad.”

the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.

”won’t that moron get cold?”

ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing. 

you’re wondering the same thing.

geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders. 

”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”

you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.

an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”

… another tilt of your head.

geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.

”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”

ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe. 

ah.

gojo can keep himself warm.

the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…

(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.

gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)

…

you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks. 

as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.

in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.

spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in. 

(but you aren’t worried.)