#a few years down the line when they get 'the talk' they have the same reactions lmao

[jupiterpilgrim]

Hidden Tracks

Park Choa x male reader

word count: 20K

commissioned fic

The city air is thick with humidity, the last remnants of summer clinging stubbornly to the streets as you jog up the steps of the recording studio. It’s your first day working on the album—the first solo project of your career, a clean break from your old group, and the kind of freedom you’ve wanted for years. But freedom comes with pressure. Every decision is yours. Every song, every note, every little thing will be under scrutiny.

And then, there’s her.

Park Choa. A legend, at least to you. You grew up listening to her, admiring the effortless way she played with melodies, the honeyed warmth of her voice. Even now, After all these years out of the industry, she’s still got that same magic, that same effortless charm. It was a surprise—a good surprise—when she agreed to participate in the project. After all: who wouldn’t want to work with someone like her?

Unfortunately, you’re late. Not horribly, just enough to feel guilty about it. A couple of messages had come through in the group chat—nothing mean, just a casual “Where you at?” from the producer and a thumbs-up emoji from Choa herself. Still, first impressions matter, and you really want to make a good one on her.

The hallway leading to the studio is lined with framed records, gold and platinum plaques from some of the biggest names in the industry. You try not to think about how, in a few months, one of these could be yours—if everything goes well.

You push open the door, stepping inside, and the first thing that hits you is the warmth. Not just the temperature, but the atmosphere. It’s cozy, a little dim, the kind of place where music doesn’t just get made—it breathes. The producer, an older guy with graying hair and an easygoing demeanor, glances up from his seat at the massive console. A couple of engineers are fiddling with the settings, and in the middle of it all, sitting on a worn leather couch with a guitar on her lap, is her.

Choa.

Up close, she’s even smaller than you expected. Petite, with delicate features and that unmistakable aura that some idols—or ex-idols—just have, like they belong in front of a camera, in a spotlight, in the center of everything. She’s dressed casually, ripped jeans and a slightly oversized sweater, but she makes it look effortless. Her hair is dark, barely grazing her shoulders. It's a bit messy, like she just ran her fingers through it, but it somehow manages to look stylish, and when she looks up at you, there’s a brief pause, a quick once-over, before she smiles.

“You’re finally here,” she says, her voice smooth, carrying just the faintest hint of amusement.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Got caught up in traffic.” It’s a lame excuse, but at least it’s not a lie.

She waves it off like it’s nothing. “No worries. We just got started setting up.” She nods toward the empty spot next to her. “Come sit. Let’s talk.”

You move across the room, the couch sinking slightly under your weight as you drop down next to her. She smells good—clean, a little sweet, like vanilla. Up close, she’s all soft curves and smooth skin, the kind of woman who doesn’t need to try to be attractive. It just happens.

The producer claps his hands together, drawing attention back to the session. “Alright, since you two haven’t worked together in person before, let’s just go over the basics. We’ve got a solid tracklist sketched out—about half the songs are yours, half are collabs, and a couple will be just Choa. Sound good?”

You nod, glancing at her. She’s watching you, expression relaxed, but there’s something else there—like she’s sizing you up. You wonder what she’s heard about you.

“Fine by me,” you say.

“Good,” the producer continues. “We’ll start with the first duet track, see how your voices blend. Get a feel for each other’s styles.”

Choa plucks at the strings of her guitar absently. “Have you heard the demo?”

“Yeah, a few times. Your voice sounds incredible on it.”

Her lips twitch, just slightly, at the compliment. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

You clear your throat. “So, how do you want to do this? Warm up first?”

She nods. “Yeah. We can run through the harmonies, see where we need to tweak things.”

She shifts on the couch, turning toward you, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you are. The studio isn’t that big, and the couch is even smaller, so when she moves, her knee brushes against yours, warm through the denim. She doesn’t pull away.

The first few runs are technical, focused. She leads, you follow, adjusting where needed, blending where necessary. But then something shifts. The harmonies start to click. Her voice melts into yours, or maybe it’s the other way around, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like just a warm-up anymore. It feels like something else—like a connection forming, something tangible in the air between you.

She notices it too. You can see it in the way her eyes flicker up to yours in the middle of a note, in the way she leans in just slightly when your voices meet. It’s not just good. It’s effortless.

The producer grins. "Damn. That’s nice.”

You exhale, grinning a little. “Yeah. Feels right.”

Choa tilts her head, watching you again. “You’re a natural at this. You must have worked hard to get here.”

There’s no arrogance in her voice, just curiosity.

You nod. “Yeah. I had to. My old group… things didn’t really work out.”

“Creative differences?”

“Something like that.”

She hums thoughtfully, fingers still idly strumming her guitar. “Well, their loss.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but coming from her, it hits differently. Like it means something. Like she sees something in you.

The studio hums with a low, steady energy as you and Choa work through the song. It’s just the two of you now—well, the producer and engineers are still around, but they’ve settled into their usual rhythm, fine-tuning levels, tweaking instrumentals, mostly letting you two figure out your chemistry. And it’s there. Undeniably there.

Your voices complement each other in a way that doesn’t feel forced, doesn’t feel like some industry suit shoved you into a room and told you to make a hit. It just clicks.

After a while, Choa stretches, rolling out her shoulders with a quiet groan. “Alright, I need a break. My throat’s getting a little dry.”

You watch as she gets up, heading over to the mini fridge in the corner. She crouches down, giving you an unintentionally nice view of her curves, before grabbing a couple of water bottles. When she straightens up, she tosses one your way. You catch it, cracking it open with a nod of thanks.

She flops back onto the couch next to you, unscrewing her cap, taking a slow sip before speaking again. “So, I gotta ask.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“Why me?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“This collab. Your first solo album. You could’ve worked with anyone, but you picked me.” She leans back against the couch, tilting her head slightly. “I’m not even an idol anymore. There are plenty of younger, more popular people you could’ve asked.”

You frown slightly, sitting back as well. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She raises a brow. “Come on. Don’t act like you don’t get it. The industry’s obsessed with fresh faces, hot new talent. I’m not some viral rookie with millions of followers. Hell, I barely do music anymore.”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” you say, and the words come out more sincere than you expect. “You’re talented. Always have been,” you continue. “I grew up listening to you. Your voice, your style—there’s something about it that just sticks with people. With me.” You shake your head slightly. “I didn’t want to work with just anyone. I wanted to work with someone I actually respect. Someone whose music I believe in. And to me, that’s you.”

She doesn’t smile, not really, but you see it anyway. In the way her shoulders relax just a bit, in the way her fingers toy idly with the cap of her water bottle. The way her gaze lingers on you now—longer than before, softer in a way that makes your pulse pick up just a little.

“You’re full of shit,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.

You grin. “I mean it.”

Another pause. She tilts her head, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“You’re an interesting guy,” she says finally.

You let out a small laugh, trying to shake off the sudden nervous energy in your chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She hums, taking another sip of her water. “Guess we’ll see if you’re still this charming after a few weeks of working together.”

“Are you doubting me already?”

She smirks. “Just keeping my expectations realistic.”

There’s something playful in her tone, but beneath it, you can tell—she’s pleased. Maybe even a little flattered. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You look down at the water bottle in your hands, twisting the plastic slightly. “Well, guess I’ll just have to prove myself, then.”

Choa chuckles, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. Enough compliments. Let’s get back to work before the producer starts wondering if we’re actually doing anything in here.”

You nod, clearing your throat, forcing yourself to focus. But as she moves closer again, picking up her guitar, you can still feel the weight of her gaze on you. And now, for some reason, it’s making you a little nervous.

—

The weeks pass In a blur of late nights, endless takes, and an easy rhythm that settles between you and Choa like it was always meant to be there. At first, it was just work—figuring each other out musically, learning how to blend your voices, adjusting to her style while she adapted to yours. But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

She complements you, and you complement her. It’s natural. Effortless.

The studio doesn’t feel like a workplace anymore; it feels like a second home. A place where things just click, where the tension of proving yourself fades, replaced by something more instinctual. She gets you in a way that most people don’t—not just as a singer, but as an artist. She never holds back when something isn’t working, calls you out bluntly when you’re overthinking a note or hesitating on a line, but she’s just as quick to push you forward when you get stuck. And it’s not one-sided.

“You’re overcomplicating that run,” you tell her one evening when she’s spent the last ten minutes nitpicking a verse.

She gives you a look, narrowing her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re thinking too hard. Just sing it how you feel it.”

She huffs but tries again—and when it comes out smoother, more raw, she glances at you out of the corner of her eye, like she doesn’t want to admit you were right.

This is how it’s been. Comfortable. Easy.

So when, after another long day in the studio, Choa suddenly turns to you as you’re packing up and says, “Wanna grab dinner?”—it catches you off guard.

You pause, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Now?”

She shrugs. “Why not? It’s late, we’re both hungry, and I know a good place.”

It’s not like you had other plans. Probably just heading home, eating something mediocre, maybe passing out in front of the TV. This is better.

“Yeah, alright,” you say.

She doesn’t look surprised that you agreed, just nods, pulling her jacket over her shoulders before leading the way out.

—

The restaurant is small, tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t have found on your own. It’s got warm lighting, intimate booths, a quiet murmur of conversation. Not fancy, but not some hole-in-the-wall either. Just… comfortable.

Choa greets the staff like she’s been here a hundred times, and you get the feeling this is one of her regular spots.

“You come here a lot?” you ask once you’re seated.

She nods, picking up the menu. “Used to, at least. Not as much these days.”

You glance around. “Doesn’t seem like a place idols would get mobbed.”

“Exactly.” She smirks. “Back when I was still in AOA, I’d come here to get away from all that. No one ever bothered me.”

There’s something in her tone—not quite regret, but something close to nostalgia. You get it. Even though you left your group on your own terms, you still miss certain things. The camaraderie, the feeling of knowing exactly where you belong.

The conversation stays easy as you order, mostly sticking to music—expectations for the album, what the next few months will look like, the inevitable media buzz when people realize how well you work together. But as the night goes on, as the food arrives and the first glass of wine is poured, something starts to shift.

The way she leans In a little more when she talks. The way her fingers toy absently with the stem of her glass, tracing idle patterns. The way her eyes linger on you just a fraction longer than necessary.

And then, after another sip of wine, she tilts her head slightly, watching you with a small, amused smile. “You’re different than I expected.”

You raise a brow. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

She chuckles. “Good, I think.”

“You think?”

She shrugs, swirling the wine in her glass. “When we first started, I wasn’t sure what to expect. You’re younger, you came from a group—it’s easy to assume you’d be… I don’t know. More arrogant, maybe.”

You smirk. “You thought I’d be full of myself?”

“A little.” She lifts a shoulder. “A lot of guys your age are.”

“Fair. But I try not to be an asshole.”

She laughs, and the sound is warm, genuine. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Another sip of wine. Another flicker of something in her gaze, something that makes your stomach tighten just slightly.

“So, what about me?” she asks after a moment.

You blink. “What about you?”

“What did you expect?”

You glance at her, and for the first time tonight, you feel slightly off balance. Because she’s looking at you differently now—like she’s testing something, pushing the conversation into new territory.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I guess I thought you’d be more… serious?”

She smirks. “Do I not seem serious to you?”

“You do. But you’re also…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “You don’t take yourself too seriously. You’re fun. I like that.”

She hums, tilting her head. “So you like me?”

It’s a simple question, but the way she says it—the slight tilt of her lips, the teasing lilt in her voice—makes your pulse skip.

“I mean—yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “You’re easy to be around. Not a lot of people in this industry are.”

Her smirk lingers. She swirls her wine again, watching the way the liquid clings to the glass before taking another slow sip.

“That’s good,” she murmurs.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of how close you are in the booth, the way her knee brushes against yours beneath the table.

“You know,” she says after a moment, voice lighter now, playful, “the fans are gonna lose their minds when they see us together on tour.”

You huff a laugh, grateful for the change in subject—even if you can still feel the warmth of her gaze. “Yeah. I can already see the headlines.”

She grins. “Should we mess with them?”

You raise a brow. “Mess with them how?”

She leans in slightly, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume. “Hmm, maybe give them something to talk about.”

Your throat goes dry.

She’s joking. Probably. But the way she says it, the way she looks at you, makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“You’d enjoy that, huh?” you say, keeping your voice steady.

She smiles against the rim of her glass. “Maybe.”

And just like that, you realize something.

This isn’t just dinner. This isn’t just two coworkers unwinding after a long day.

Choa is flirting with you.

And judging by the way your heartbeat picks up, by the sudden heat creeping up your spine, you don’t mind it one bit.

The wine keeps flowing, and Choa keeps flirting.

At first, it’s subtle—little things, the way her eyes linger on your mouth when you talk, the way her fingers toy with the rim of her glass, slow and deliberate. But as the night stretches on, the words start getting bolder, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” she says, resting her chin in her palm, elbow propped on the table.

You chuckle. “I’d hope so. Kind of my job.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s not just good, it’s… mmm, how do I put this?” She taps a finger against her lips, pretending to think. “It’s the kind of voice that makes people feel things.”

You tilt your head. “People?”

She smirks. “I meant me, obviously.”

And fuck, she says it so casually, like it’s nothing, like she’s not staring right at you with those dark, knowing eyes, watching the way your throat bobs when you swallow.

The air between you is getting heavy, weighted with something unspoken but understood. It doesn’t help that the wine is making everything feel just a little too warm, your pulse just a little too fast.

And then she leans back, a slow, satisfied look spreading across her face. “You know, I heard a rumor about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She takes another sip, watching you over the rim of her glass. “Something interesting.”

Her tone tells you everything.

You already know what she’s talking about.

There was a day, when you were still part of a k-pop group, early on in the recording process, when you showed up to the studio wearing a pair of pants that were… well, too damn tight. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time—until you noticed the way a few staff members were whispering, glancing at you, their expressions torn between amusement and something else. It didn’t take long before a few pictures surfaced online. Nothing scandalous, but enough to start the whispers. Enough for people to start talking.

And apparently, Choa had heard.

“Interesting, huh?” You take a slow sip of your own drink, matching her energy. “Should I be curious about what exactly you’ve heard?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know. Do you think the rumor’s true?”

You set your glass down with a quiet clink. “Maybe.”

That word lingers between you, crackling like static.

Choa lets out a soft hum, like she’s pleased with that answer. She doesn’t push further—not yet—but the way she looks at you now, the slight curve of her lips, the heat in her eyes? You can tell she’s thinking about it.

And that thought alone is enough to make your skin feel tight, your heartbeat a little erratic.

Eventually, the conversation shifts, but the tension never fully leaves. It simmers beneath the surface, humming with potential, making every glance, every subtle touch of her knee against yours under the table, feel like a spark.

Then, as the night starts winding down, she exhales, stretching slightly. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you say, watching her.

She studies you for a moment, then, as if making a decision, says, “Let's go to my place.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not phrased as a question. Not tentative. Just a statement, casual but firm, like she already knows you’ll say yes. And fuck, she’s right.

You nod. “Okay.”

—

Her apartment is warm, comfortable. Not overly fancy, not the sterile, perfectly curated aesthetic that some celebrities go for. It feels lived-in—cozy, personal, like a place someone actually enjoys being.

Choa steps inside first, toeing off her shoes, taking off the jacket, stretching slightly. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, then glances back at you. “Take off your shoes.”

You do as she says, stepping further inside, taking off your own shoes, your pulse still running a little too fast. The heat from the restaurant hasn’t faded, and now, in this smaller, more intimate space, it feels even stronger.

She walks toward the couch, sinking into it like she’s done this a thousand times, and pats the spot next to her. “Sit.”

It’s not a command, not really. But it feels like one.

You sit.

For a moment, everything is quiet. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, but in here, it’s just the two of you. The only sound is your breathing, hers and yours, slightly uneven.

Then she shifts. Just enough that her knee brushes yours again.

You inhale sharply.

She notices.

Her lips twitch. “You okay?”

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah.”

A slow nod. Then she leans in, not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat of her body. “You sure?”

It’s a tease, a test, and god, you’re barely holding on.

Your fingers twitch against your thigh, every nerve in your body screaming at you to close the space between you.

But she’s playing with you. And you’re letting her.

“Choa,” you say, voice lower now, rougher.

She smiles. It’s lazy, knowing. “Hm?”

You swallow. “You’re messing with me.”

She tilts her head. “Am I?”

Your jaw clenches. “Yeah.”

She hums again, considering. Then, finally, she shifts closer. Just a little. Enough that you can feel her breath against your jaw.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

You nearly lose it right then and there.

Your hand moves on instinct, fingers grazing her thigh, gripping lightly. Not enough to push—just enough to let her know that if she keeps this up, you won’t be able to hold back.

She doesn’t pull away.

If anything, she leans in more.

Her lips are inches from yours, her gaze locked onto you, dark and unreadable. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the tension winding tighter, tighter—

Then, finally, she whispers, “I think you should kiss me.”

The moment your lips crash into Choa’s, she melts against you, but there’s no hesitation—she knows exactly what she wants, and she’s not shy about taking it. She moves fast, climbing onto your lap like it’s where she belongs, straddling your thighs, rolling her hips the second she settles against you. The heat of her body, the teasing friction, the way she breathes into your mouth as she grinds—it all hits you at once, hard and fast, sending a rush of blood straight to your cock.

She feels it immediately.

Choa pauses, just for a second, her breath catching as she shifts, pressing her hips down more firmly. A slow, knowing smirk curls her lips. "Oh," she murmurs, voice dropping to something low and teasing. She rolls her hips again, deliberately dragging herself over the thick length straining against your pants. “I feel that.”

Your hands tighten around her waist. “Keep moving like that, and you’re gonna feel a whole lot more.”

Her smirk deepens. “Good.”

She does it again, rolling her hips in slow, torturous circles, pressing down harder this time. The friction is perfect, her warmth seeping through the layers between you, and fuck, you can already feel how wet she is, how easily she glides over you.

You grab her—hands on her ass, fingers digging in—and lift her clean off your lap. She gasps, legs wrapping instinctively around your waist, but she doesn’t protest. If anything, she likes it, her fingers curling against your shoulders as you stand, carrying her like she weighs nothing.

“You’re so fucking small,” you mutter, gripping her tighter.

“And you’re so fucking big,” she breathes back, shifting against you, pressing herself closer.

You don’t waste any time getting her to the bedroom.

Her back barely hits the bed before you’re both reaching for clothes, stripping down piece by piece, discarding them onto the floor without care. Her sweater, her jeans, the lacy little bra. Then, finally, those tiny panties, slipping down her thighs as she watches you, lips slightly parted, breath already coming faster.

And then it’s your turn.

You shove down your pants, your boxers, and the second your cock is free—thick, hard, aching—Choa lets out a sharp inhale.

For the first time, she actually pauses.

Her dark eyes widen just slightly as she stares, her tongue flicking over her bottom lip. “Fuck,” she breathes, sitting up on her knees.

You stroke it once, lazily, smirking down at her. “That’s what you do to me.”

She exhales shakily, then, with absolutely no hesitation, slides off the bed onto her knees.

The sight of her there—small, perfect, looking up at you with those pretty lips slightly parted—sends a fresh jolt of heat through your body.

Her fingers wrap around the base first, her touch firm, exploratory, like she’s testing the weight of it in her hand. “Mmm,” she hums, satisfied, then drags her thumb over the tip, smearing a bead of precum before flicking her gaze back up to you. “Gotta make it nice and wet for you, huh?”

And then she leans in, dragging her tongue up the entire length, slow and teasing, before finally wrapping those soft lips around you.

And the moment she takes you in, it’s like the world narrows down to just the two of you. Her mouth is perfect—wet, warm, and so tight you can feel every inch of her as she starts to move. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease, just takes you in like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s been thinking about it as much as you have. And fuck, the way she looks up at you, her eyes dark and focused, her lips stretched around your thickness, it’s enough to make your knees buckle.

She starts slow at first, her tongue dragging along the underside of your cock, teasing the sensitive spot just below the head. Her hands grip your thighs for balance, her nails digging in just enough to make you hiss. You can feel her breath, hot and uneven, against your skin as she works you, her mouth moving with a rhythm that’s both deliberate and hungry. She’s good at this—really good—and it’s not just the technique, it’s the way she seems to enjoy it, the way she hums around you like she’s savoring the taste.

But then she takes you deeper, and you can feel her struggle. Your cock is thick, too much for her small mouth, and she gags a little as she tries to take more of you. She pulls back, her lips slick with spit, and you can see the faintest hint of tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she seems determined, like she’s not going to let your size intimidate her. She adjusts, tilting her head to take you at a better angle, and then she’s back on you, her mouth working harder, faster.

You can’t help but groan, your hands tangling in her hair as she bobs her head, her lips sliding up and down your shaft. She’s not just sucking you now—she’s devouring you, her tongue swirling around the head every time she pulls back, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard. The wet sounds are obscene, filling the room, and you can’t stop watching her, can’t stop thinking about how surreal this is. Choa, the woman you’ve idolized for years, is on her knees for you, her mouth stuffed with your cock, and she’s not holding back.

“Fuck, Choa,” you mutter, your voice rough, your grip tightening in her hair. She hums in response, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through you, and you can’t help but push her head down, guiding her to take more of you. She doesn’t fight it, just relaxes her throat and lets you slide deeper, her nose pressing against your stomach as she takes you as far as she can. She gags again, but this time she doesn’t pull back—she stays there, her throat working around you, her eyes watering as she looks up at you like she’s daring you to take control.

And you do. You can’t help it. The sight of her like this, the feel of her mouth around you, it’s too much. You start to move, your hips thrusting gently at first, then harder, fucking her mouth with slow, deep strokes. She lets you, her hands gripping your thighs tighter, her nails digging in as she takes every inch you give her. Her throat is so tight, so warm, and the way she looks at you, like she’s enjoying this as much as you are, it drives you wild.

Her small mouth struggles to take all of you, but she doesn’t seem to care—if anything, she’s determined to prove she can handle it. Her tongue swirls around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard, and you can feel the tension building in your gut, your cock throbbing in her mouth. But just when you think you might lose it, she pulls back, your cock slipping from her lips with a wet pop.

She looks up at you, her lips swollen and glistening, her chin slick with spit. She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells you she’s not done. Not even close. She stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and then she’s climbing onto the bed, her movements slow and deliberate. She gets on all fours, her ass in the air, and fuck, the sight of her like that is enough to make your cock twitch. She glances over her shoulder, a sly smile playing on her lips.

“It’s ready for you,” she says, her voice low and teasing. “But not there.” She reaches back, spreading her cheeks slightly, and your breath catches. “I want you to fuck my ass.”

“Wait, what?”

She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “You heard me. I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you. That big, thick cock of yours… I want to feel it in my ass.”

You stare at her, your mind racing. This isn’t what you expected—not even close. But the way she’s looking at you, the way she’s presenting herself, it’s impossible to say no. And fuck, you don’t want to. You step closer, your hands resting on her hips, and she lets out a soft sigh, her body relaxing under your touch.

“You sure?” you ask, your voice rough.

She nods, her hair falling over her face as she looks back at you. “I’m sure. But…” She pauses, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re gonna have to get me ready first.”

You drop to your knees behind her, your hands spreading her cheeks, and the sight of her pussy and asshole, glistening and waiting for you, is enough to make your mouth water. You lean in, your tongue dragging along her slit, and she lets out a sharp gasp, her hips pushing back against your face.

“Fuck,” she mutters, her voice trembling. “Your tongue… it’s so long.”

You grin against her, your tongue flicking over her clit before diving back in, lapping at her pussy like you’re starving. She’s already wet, her juices coating your tongue, and the taste of her is intoxicating. you can feel her trembling, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you work her over, your tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles.

But you’re not done. You pull back slightly, your tongue trailing lower, and she lets out a soft whimper when you press it against her asshole. She’s tight, so fucking tight, but you don’t stop. You lick her slowly, teasingly, your tongue circling her rim before pushing inside. She moans, her hips rocking back against your face, and you can feel her body relaxing, opening up for you.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “Your tongue… it’s so fucking good.”

You hum against her, the vibration making her shudder, and you keep going, your tongue working her asshole until it’s wet and loose, ready for you. She’s moaning now, her hands gripping the sheets, her body trembling with every flick of your tongue. You can feel her clenching around you, her pussy dripping.

You pull back, your lips brushing against her ass as you look up at her. “You ready?” you ask.

She nods, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck me.”

You stand up, your hands gripping her hips, and you can feel the tension in the air, the anticipation building between you. She’s ready—and so are you.

Your breath Is ragged as you grip the base of your cock, watching the way Choa spreads herself open for you, her ass so tight, so fucking inviting, you almost can’t believe she’s offering it up like this. She glances back at you over her shoulder, smirking despite the flush painting her cheeks. “You ever done this before?” she asks, her voice thick with heat, teasing but curious.

You swallow hard, running your free hand over the curve of her ass, feeling the way her skin is soft but firm beneath your palm. “No,” you admit, gripping yourself tighter.

That seems to excite her. Her smirk widens just a little, and she rolls her hips, pressing back against you. “Good,” she murmurs, almost like she’s pleased to be your first.

You spit into your palm and slick it over yourself, watching how the head of your cock shines as you press it against her tight entrance. You can feel the resistance immediately—her body clenching instinctively, hot and unyielding. You grip her hip with your other hand, steadying yourself, pressing forward just a little.

Choa hisses, fingers gripping the sheets. “Shit, you’re big.”

That makes something primal in you twitch. “You sure you can handle this?”

She laughs breathlessly. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Slowly, carefully, you push forward, feeling the tight heat of her stretch around you, inch by inch. She’s tense at first, her breath catching, but she doesn’t stop you—if anything, she pushes back, forcing herself to take more of you.

“Fuck,” she groans, dropping her head onto the mattress. “God, you’re really—” Her words cut off into a sharp inhale as you sink another inch inside.

You grip her hips tighter, watching, transfixed, as your cock disappears into her inch by inch. “You’re so tight,” you growl, barely able to breathe.

“Yeah?” Her voice is strained, but there’s amusement beneath it. “That a problem?”

“Hell no.”

You give her another inch, groaning as you feel her body adjusting, the way she clenches and trembles around you. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much, the tightest thing you’ve ever felt.

“Relax,” you murmur, rubbing slow circles into her hips, trying not to lose yourself completely.

She exhales shakily. “I’m trying.”

And then, finally, you bottom out.

Choa shudders beneath you, her breath hitching as she goes still, adjusting to the feeling of being completely filled. You can feel every twitch, every flutter of her body trying to accommodate you.

“Jesus,” you whisper, your hands tightening on her waist.

She lets out a weak laugh. “Now that,” she breathes, shifting slightly, “is a fucking stretch.”

You groan, rolling your hips just a little, testing. Her answering whimper sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your whole body tensing.

“You okay?” you ask, even though the way she clenches around you is making it impossible to think straight.

She nods, biting her lip. “Give me a second.”

You do. You stay still, hands gripping her hips, feeling her breathing slow, her body adjusting to you.

And then, finally, she pushes back.

“Okay,” she whispers, tilting her head slightly. “Move.”

And fuck, you do.

At first, it’s slow—tentative thrusts, shallow, letting her body adjust to the stretch, to the way you fill her completely. But she takes it, every inch, breathing through it, and soon, you can feel her start to relax, to loosen.

The change Is gradual but undeniable. Where she was tense before, now she’s opening up for you, her body accommodating you, molding around you.

Then, she shifts, pressing back against you with more force. “Harder,” she breathes, and that’s all it takes.

Something snaps in you, and you grip her hips tighter, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, harder this time.

Choa gasps, her back arching, but she doesn’t stop you. She meets your thrusts, her breath coming faster, more ragged.

And then you really start to move.

You fuck her deep, your hips snapping against her ass, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. It’s raw, primal, completely consuming. You can barely think, barely breathe, lost in the way she takes you, in the way she feels around you—tight, hot, perfect.

“Holy shit,” you groan, gripping her tighter.

She moans in response, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her whole body shuddering beneath you. “Yes,” she gasps. “Fuck, don’t stop—”

You weren’t planning to.

You move faster, your thrusts growing harder, rougher, dragging her body back against yours with each deep stroke. She’s a mess beneath you, moaning, panting, pushing back to meet every single thrust like she needs this just as badly as you do.

You can’t even believe this is happening. This was supposed to be just music—just an artistic collaboration. And now you’re here, buried balls deep in Choa’s ass, fucking her so hard you can hear the bed creaking beneath you.

You reach forward, fisting a handful of her hair, tugging her head back slightly. “You like that?” you murmur, your voice low and rough against her ear.

Her answering moan is wrecked. “Yes,” she breathes, her body trembling.

You smirk, thrusting harder, making her gasp. “Never would’ve guessed you were into this,” you mutter.

She laughs breathlessly, even as you fuck her so deep she’s struggling to form words. “Never… would’ve guessed you’d be this good at it,” she manages.

That makes something dark and hungry coil in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on her hips, pounding into her harder, deeper, chasing that unbearable pleasure building between you.

You’re already addicted to the way she feels, the way her body clings to you like she never wants to let go. Every time you pull out, she tightens up like she’s trying to keep you inside, and every time you slam back in, she lets out this little broken gasp that’s driving you insane.

And fuck, she’s wet. You can feel the slick heat of her coating your cock, hear the obscene, messy sounds filling the room, mixing with the slap of skin on skin, the headboard knocking lightly against the wall with every deep stroke.

You tighten your grip on her hips, rolling your hips with a slow, deliberate grind that has her toes curling against the sheets. She’s taking it so fucking well, and you can tell she loves it—loves the stretch, loves the way you fill her, loves the way you own her in this moment.

Then, between gasping moans, she admits it:

“I’m an fucking anal whore,” she breathes, voice high and trembling. “God, I love it so much. I fucking need it.”

Your brain practically short-circuits. Your hands tighten on her waist, your cock twitching inside her at those words, that filthy little confession.

“You need it, huh?” You thrust deeper, pressing in to the hilt, grinding against her, making sure she feels you. “This tight little ass addicted to getting fucked?”

“Yes,” she moans, pressing her forehead into the mattress, panting. “Yes—fuck, your cock is the biggest I’ve ever felt, baby, I swear.”

Something about the way she says it, the way she moans baby like she means it, makes you snap.

“You’re really asking for it,” you growl, lifting a hand. “A slut like you deserves to get her ass slapped, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” she gasps, glancing over her shoulder at you, her eyes glassy with pleasure. “Do it. Slap my ass. Please, baby.”

You bring your palm down with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the room, and the way she moans at the impact nearly makes you lose your mind.

“Mmm—fuck, yes!” she cries out, pushing her ass up, offering it to you, wiggling her hips like she’s begging for more.

You groan, feeling her clench tight around you. “Shit, you really like that, don’t you?”

“Yes! More—please, baby, more—”

Goddamn. This woman is gonna fucking ruin you.

You spank her again, watching the way her skin reddens under your hand, the way she shudders beneath you. She’s moaning so much now, so fucking loud, her voice breaking, her body trembling.

She’s completely lost in it, completely yours.

“Harder,” she begs, voice breathless, desperate. “Fuck me harder, baby, I’m so close—”

You grip her hips, dig your fingers into her soft skin, and oblige.

Your thrusts become brutal, relentless, fucking into her with deep, powerful strokes that have her screaming. You’re gone, completely lost in the feel of her, in the sound of her moans, in the way she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing she knows.

“You’re so fucking tight,” you growl, leaning over her, pressing your chest against her back, letting her feel your weight. “You love this, don’t you? Love getting your ass fucked like a dirty little slut?”

“Yes!” she sobs, her nails clawing at the sheets, her body shaking. “I love it, baby, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You’re not stopping. Not until you’ve fucked her through it, not until you’ve made her cum on your cock.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” you murmur, gripping her waist tighter, grinding deep before pulling back and slamming forward again.

She sobs out something that’s barely a word, barely a sound, just a high, broken moan that tells you everything.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “I’m so—so fucking close, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

The idea of making a woman cum just from taking your cock in her ass? It’s got you rock fucking hard, making you thrust into her harder, deeper, determined to push her over the edge with nothing but your cock filling her up.

“You gonna cum on my dick?” you growl, slamming into her, watching the way her back arches, the way her whole body shudders.

“Yes, yes—fuck—” Her voice is wrecked, barely holding together, and you can feel it happening, the way she tenses, the way she gasps, freezes—

Her whole body locks up, trembling, her mouth open in a silent, choked-off cry before she shatters. She’s cumming, her body wracked with wave after wave of it, her walls clenching around you in tight, pulsing spasms that make your cock throb inside her.

Her voice is high, almost shocked, like she can’t believe how hard she’s coming, how fucking deep you are, like you’re reaching places inside her no one else ever has.

And then you drive into her one last time, deep, pushing as far as you can go—

And she screams.

Loud. Raw. A desperate, uncontrollable sound that makes your whole body ache with the need to cum, makes your stomach tighten, your balls throb, makes you want to fucking ruin her.

She collapses forward, chest heaving, body twitching in aftershocks, her legs weak, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. You stay inside her, still hard, still aching, but you give her a moment, running your hands down her sides, pressing soft kisses against the back of her neck.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “That was—holy shit—”

You smirk against her skin, feeling that hot rush of pride swell in your chest. “First time cumming like that?”

She nods weakly, still catching her breath. “Yeah,” she whispers, almost in awe. “Normally I—I have to, you know, touch myself too. But fuck, baby—you—you made me cum just from that—”

Damn right you did.

You smirk, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. “Guess I’m just that good.”

She huffs a small, breathless laugh, her body still trembling slightly from the aftermath. “Cocky bastard,” she mutters—but there’s something in her voice, something warm, something satisfied.

And then—before you can react, before you can process, she moves.

One second she’s lying there, breathless and wrecked, and the next she’s pushing up, flipping you onto your back, her small body straddling yours, hands pressing against your chest to pin you down.

“Your turn,” she purrs, and fuck, the way she looks at you—sweaty, flushed, her hair tousled, her lips parted, her smirk—it makes your cock twitch in her hand, already positioning it at her entrance.

You barely have time to breathe before she moves, rolling her hips, slow and deliberate, making you groan as she grinds against you, taking every inch, every thick, aching inch of your cock inside her.

“Jesus, Choa,” you hiss, gripping her hips, your fingers pressing into her warm, sweat-slick skin.

She smirks, placing her hands over yours, sliding them up her stomach, over the taut, toned muscle of her abs.

“You like that?” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. “Like how tight I keep this body just for you?”

Your fingers trace the soft sheen of sweat on her stomach, feeling the flex of her muscles beneath your palm. “Yeah,” you admit, voice rough, full of heat. “Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good—”

She hums, pleased, rolling her hips again, dragging her nails lightly over your chest as she rides you.

And fuck, the way she moves—

It’s mesmerizing.

The way her small, fit body moves atop yours, the way she lifts herself only to drop back down, taking you to the base, grinding her hips to make sure she feels every inch. She’s so fucking tight, so hot around you, and the sight of her like this—flushed, sweaty, her small frame working you like she’s made for this—has you gritting your teeth, trying not to fucking explode inside her right then and there.

“You like watching me, baby?” she teases, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that have you twitching inside her.

You groan, gripping her waist tighter, your fingers digging into her soft flesh. “Yeah,” you pant, unable to look away. “Fuck, yeah.”

She moans, throwing her head back, her hands sliding up her own stomach, over her perfect tits, her fingers brushing her hard, sensitive nipples.

“God, you feel so good,” she breathes, moving faster now, her hips snapping down onto you, taking you deep, making you groan, making your abs tighten.

Choa has you right where she wants you—flat on your back, sprawled across the bed, her toned, petite body perched on top of you, squeezing you so tight it’s fucking heaven. Her thighs flex as she rides you, every movement controlled, deliberate, her muscles working in perfect rhythm as she grinds down, making sure you feel every single inch of her.

“Fuck,” you groan, your hands finding her waist, gripping her hips, trying to ground yourself in something—but she’s already ahead of you, already setting a pace that has you reeling, already taking charge like she owns you.

She smirks down at you, her hair messy and wild, sticking to her sweaty skin. “What’s wrong, baby?” she purrs, rolling her hips in slow, taunting circles, dragging you through her tight, wet heat with devastating precision. “Too much for you?”

“Shit—” Your fingers dig into her waist, but she doesn’t let you control a damn thing. She lifts herself up, her thighs flexing, her muscles tightening as she takes you, and you see it now—how fucking fit she is, how much strength she has, how easily she moves on top of you like she could do this all night.

And fuck, maybe she will.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she murmurs, watching your face as she drops down onto you again, taking you so deep you swear you see stars. “You like that? Like watching me fuck myself on your cock?”

Your breath hitches, your stomach tightening. “Jesus, Choa—”

“Answer me,” she demands, rolling her hips, gripping your chest for leverage, her nails digging in just enough to make you hiss.

“Yeah—fuck, yeah, I love it,” you pant, barely able to breathe, barely able to think with the way she’s working you.

She grins, pleased, and then she really starts to show off.

She plants her feet on the bed, her thighs flexing as she lifts herself up completely, keeping just the head of your cock inside her. And then, with perfect control, she slams back down, her ass meeting your thighs with a wet slap that makes you groan.

“Fuuuuuck,” you choke out, your vision going white for a second.

She smirks, does it again, and you damn near lose your mind.

She’s fucking athletic—her movements sharp, precise, powerful. She’s using every ounce of strength in her small frame to milk you, to ride you with the kind of stamina only someone who really knows what they’re doing could have.

“You’re so fucking big,” she breathes, her hands pressing into your chest, keeping you pinned. “God, I can feel you stretching me—fuck, I think I’m getting addicted to this.”

Your cock twitches inside her at those words, and she moans, grinding down, rolling her hips, making you feel every inch of her.

“Shit,” you groan, your fingers tightening on her waist. “You’re fucking insane—”

She grins, tossing her hair back, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, owning you, using your cock exactly how she wants. “Oh, baby,” she purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

She shifts, leaning back slightly, her hands sliding down your stomach, using her own core strength to control her balance as she rides you with a speed and intensity that has your head spinning.

“Holy shit—”

She laughs breathlessly, sweat dripping down her chest, her toned stomach tightening with every bounce. “God, you feel so fucking good,” she moans, biting her lip, tossing her hair back. “I can’t believe I haven’t had this before—fuck, baby, how have you been hiding this cock from me?”

You can barely breathe, barely fucking function, not when she’s like this, not when she’s dominating you so effortlessly, so perfectly. You can feel the power in her thighs, the control in her movements, the way she’s making you unravel without breaking a sweat.

“Choa,” you rasp, barely holding on. “Fucking hell—”

“Mmm,” she hums, rolling her hips, watching you come undone beneath her. “You’re so cute when you’re struggling, baby.”

You groan, your body shaking, your hands sliding up to her abs, feeling the heat of her sweat-slick skin, the definition beneath your fingers. “Fuck, you’re strong—”

“Of course I am,” she breathes, leaning down, pressing her lips against yours, swallowing your gasps as she fucks you. “I work hard for this body, baby. Gotta stay tight. Gotta stay fit. And now…” She smirks against your lips, rolling her hips, making you groan. “Now you get to enjoy it.”

She pulls back, her eyes gleaming, her smirk full of pure, smug satisfaction. “Tell me how good I feel,” she commands, rolling her hips with a slow, deep grind that makes you see stars.

“You feel fucking perfect,” you choke out, barely coherent.

She moans, throwing her head back, her pace quickening again, her thighs working hard as she slams herself down on you, taking you to the hilt over and over again.

“You’re so fucking deep,” she gasps, her voice high, desperate. “So fucking thick—I can feel you in my stomach—”

Your hands fly to her waist, gripping her as tightly as you can without bruising her, your cock throbbing inside her at her words.

“Fuck, Choa—”

“Mmm, I love hearing you moan like that, baby,” she teases, leaning down, licking the sweat from your collarbone, her tongue hot against your skin. “You love this, don’t you? Love having me ride you like this?”

“Yes,” you groan, barely holding on. “Fucking yes—”

She smirks against your skin, then sits up again, planting her hands on your chest, her nails digging into your skin as she starts riding you hard with wild, unrestrained energy, her perfect little body working you like she was made for this. Her thighs are flexing, her toned stomach tightening, sweat glistening on her skin as she moves with expert control. And fuck, the way she moves—rolling her hips, grinding deep before slamming down again, her breathy moans growing louder, needier, rawer—has your whole body on edge.

“You feel so fucking good,” she gasps, her hands trailing up her own body, her fingers squeezing her perky tits as she bounces on your cock. “God, I knew it would be like this.”

Your brain barely registers what she just said, too lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat gripping you so fucking perfectly. “Knew?” you manage, your voice ragged. “What do you mean, baby?”

She grins, biting her lip, her eyes dark with lust as she slams herself down onto you again, making you groan. “You think I joined your album for the music?” she teases, tilting her head, her hair falling over her face. “Baby, I had my eye on you from the first day I saw you in the studio.”

Your whole body twitches at that, your stomach tightening, something dark and hungry stirring inside you. “Really?”

Choa moans, tossing her hair back, her hands squeezing her own breasts, rolling her hips in slow, deep circles that have your cock throbbing inside her. “I knew I wanted you the second you walked into that room,” she breathes. “You looked so fucking good—so confident, so talented. And all I could think about was finding a way to get you alone, to see if you were as good in bed as you are in the studio.”

“Jesus fuck,” you growl, your fingers digging into her waist, gripping her tight as she works you over, as she owns you with those words.

She giggles, leaning forward, her lips ghosting over your jaw, her breath hot against your ear. “And now look at you,” she murmurs, grinding down hard, making you shudder. “Flat on your back, letting me use you just the way I wanted to since day one.”

“Fuck, Choa—”

“You like it?” she purrs, her tongue flicking out to tease your earlobe before she sits back up, her hands sliding down her stomach, her fingers tracing the slick heat between her legs before she cups her own tits again, squeezing them, moaning at the sensation. “You like watching me take you like this, baby?”

“Yeah,” you groan, your whole body on fire. “Fuck, I love it. You’re so fucking sexy, Choa—”

She moans, pleased, rolling her hips again, dragging you deep, making sure you feel every inch of her. “Mmm, I love hearing you say that,” she purrs, her nails raking lightly over your chest. “Love knowing how much you want me.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp wave of pleasure surging through you, your balls drawing up. “Fuck—”

She feels it instantly. The way your cock twitches inside her, the way your grip tightens on her hips.

“Oh,” she breathes, slowing her pace just slightly, smirking down at you. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby?”

You nod, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “Fuck, yeah—”

She grins, and then, without warning—

She stops.

You whine at the sudden loss of movement, your whole body on the brink, teetering on the edge of release, but she just smirks, lifting herself off of you, making your cock throb in desperation.

“Not yet,” she purrs, her voice dripping with something dark and teasing.

“Fuck, Choa—”

She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around your slick, throbbing cock, giving it a slow, teasing stroke, her touch just light enough to make you twitch. And then—

She adjusts, shifting her body, tilting her hips, and presses the head of your cock against her ass.

Your whole body goes tight at the realization, your breath catching as she smirks down at you.

“I want you to cum in my ass,” she whispers, her voice sultry and commanding. “Think you can handle that, baby?”

Choa sinks down onto you again, taking your cock back into her tight, sinful heat, and fuck, you swear she gets even tighter every time. Her round ass presses against your thighs as she settles fully, rolling her hips with slow, controlled precision, her breath coming in short, teasing pants as she watches your reaction.

“Mmm,” she hums, running her hands down her own body, over her toned stomach, down to where you’re joined. “Still feels so fucking good.”

You groan, gripping her waist, feeling the flex of her muscles beneath your fingertips as she moves. “Shit, Choa—”

She smirks, lifting herself up again, just enough to tease the head of your cock against her stretched entrance before dropping back down, taking you to the hilt in one smooth motion.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily at the overwhelming sensation.

She moans, pleased, her nails raking lightly down your chest as she starts to move faster, bouncing on your cock with practiced ease, each movement precise, deliberate, devastating.

“You like this?” she purrs, rolling her hips, grinding down hard before slamming herself back down again. “Like watching me take you like this?”

“Yeah,” you groan, barely able to form words, barely able to think with the way she’s squeezing you, milking you.

She giggles breathlessly, tossing her hair back, sweat glistening on her skin as she picks up the pace, bouncing harder, faster, determined to wreck you. “Mmm, I can tell,” she teases, glancing down at where your cock is stretching her open, watching the way you disappear into her over and over again. “You’re throbbing so much inside me, baby. Getting so close, aren’t you?”

“Fuck—” Your fingers dig into her waist, desperate for something to ground you, desperate to keep yourself from completely unraveling right then and there.

She moans, tilting her head, biting her lip. “Good,” she purrs, rolling her hips in deep, slow circles before slamming down again. “Because I am too.”

Your breath catches. "Shit—”

“I’m gonna cum,” she gasps, her pace turning frantic, desperate, her breath coming in quick, ragged moans as she rides you faster, harder, her whole body shaking with the force of it. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

Your whole body tightens, your stomach tensing, your cock throbbing inside her as her moans get louder, higher, rawer. “Choa—”

“Cum for me,” she begs, her voice high and desperate. “Cum for me, baby, please—I need it—”

You groan, barely able to hold on, barely able to do anything but feel as she bounces on you, taking every inch, her body shaking as she gets closer, closer—

“Fuck, baby, your cock is so big—so thick—”

Your head spins, your balls tightening, your orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. “I’m gonna cum—”

“Me too—” she gasps, her hands gripping your chest, her whole body tensing. “Cum with me, baby—please, cum inside me—”

And fuck, you do.

Your whole body locks up, your vision going white as you explode inside her, thick ropes of hot cum flooding her, filling her so deep she screams, her back arching, her eyes rolling back as her own orgasm crashes over her.

“Oh my fucking god—”

Her walls pulse around you, milking you for everything, squeezing you so tight it’s almost unbearable. You groan, your hips jerking up into her as more thick, hot spurts shoot deep inside her, so much that it overflows, spilling out around your cock, dripping down between her thighs.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, collapsing forward, her forehead resting against your shoulder, her whole body trembling as she feels you pulse inside her, releasing the last few weak spurts, filling her up completely.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your harsh breathing, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

Then, finally, she exhales, pressing a slow, satisfied kiss against your neck.

“Mmm,” she hums, nuzzling into you. “You really know how to make a girl feel good, baby.”

“Fuck, I don’t even know what to say, Choa,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her. “You’re… amazing.”

“You don’t have to say anything, baby,” she says, voice relaxed, breathing slowly against your body. “Let’s just stay like this for a while… while I feel your cum leaking out of me."

—

The thing about secrets? They never stay just in the dark.

At first, it’s just the sex. Weekly meetings that start behind closed doors, your bodies tangled in sheets, your mouths locked together in desperate, greedy kisses. The hunger between you is impossible to ignore, the chemistry too raw, too real. But somewhere along the way, between the heat of her skin and the sound of her breathless moans, between the nights spent in her bed and the mornings where she lingers just a little longer before letting you go, something changes.

It stops being just about fucking.

It spills out of the bedroom, slipping into the studio, into the music itself.

It starts small. A lyric here, a melody there. Subtle. Something in the way she sings a line, the way your harmonies blend together just a little too smoothly, like you were made to complement each other. Then, one day, you write a song—about her. Not obvious, not explicit, but anyone who really listens will hear it. The want, the secrecy, the way her body feels against yours, the way you can’t get her out of your head.

Choa notices immediately.

“You wrote this?” she asks, sitting beside you in the studio, listening to the raw demo play through the speakers.

You glance at her, shrugging casually. “Yeah.”

She hums, tapping her fingers against her knee. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

You smirk. “What do you think?”

She shoots you a dry look, but there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“Neither are you,” you counter.

Because you’ve noticed it too.

The way her songs have started changing. The lyrics she’s been writing, the little additions to the album—nothing obvious, nothing that could incriminate either of you, but the clues are there. The new songs don’t just fit the album’s original concept anymore. They’re something else entirely now.

They’re about you and her.

The producers were hesitant at first—changing the tracklist, altering the theme—but once they heard the demos, they didn’t argue. Something was working. The songs were better this way. Realer.

So the album is evolving, taking on a new shape, and no one knows the truth except the two of you.

And that’s when the idea hits you.

It’s reckless. Bold. Something that could backfire spectacularly if you fuck it up.

But it could work.

One night, after a long studio session, when it’s just the two of you left in the dimly lit recording booth, you bring it up.

“I want to record something,” you say, leaning against the console, watching her from across the room.

She stretches her arms over her head, her cropped hoodie riding up just enough to tease a glimpse of smooth skin. “We’ve been recording all day.”

“Not like this.”

She raises a brow. “Then like what?”

You pause for a second, then, keeping your voice casual, say, “I want to record us.”

Her head tilts. “Us?”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice. “Our sounds. While we fuck.”

That makes her pause.

Her expression is unreadable at first, lips slightly parted, dark eyes watching you carefully.

“Are you serious?” she asks after a beat.

“Yeah.”

Choa exhales, running a hand through her hair. “You do realize how risky that is, right?”

“Of course.” You keep your gaze steady. “But I know what I’m doing. I can mix it into the music—make it blend, camouflage it. Just enough that it’s there, but not obvious.”

She bites her lip, considering.

“Think about it,” you say, voice dropping lower. “A song about a secret relationship, with our actual sounds woven into it. A message no one but us will understand.”

Her breath shudders slightly, and you know she’s thinking about it now. About how dangerous it is. About how fucking hot it is.

There’s silence for a few seconds. Then—

“Alright,” she murmurs. “Let’s do it.”

—

The studio is dimly lit, only a few soft LED strips casting a moody glow over the equipment. The microphones are set up, levels adjusted, everything primed for what you’re about to do.

Choa stands in front of you, her petite frame outlined in the low light, her breathing already a little uneven.

“This is insane,” she mutters, but there’s a flicker of excitement in her eyes.

You step closer, hands settling on her hips. “Yeah,” you agree, smirking. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

And then you kiss her. It starts slow—teasing, deliberate—but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The second your hands tighten, the second your tongue sweeps against hers, Choa melts. She presses into you, small hands gripping at your shoulders, her body already moving against yours. Your fingers slide under the hem of her hoodie, skimming over her skin, and she lets out the softest sound against your lips.

Perfect.

The mics are on. Recording. Capturing every breath, every gasp.

You guide her back, pressing her up against the mixing console. She’s so damn small compared to you, so easy to maneuver, her frame fitting against yours like she was made to be there. When your fingers slip past the waistband of her shorts, dipping lower, she exhales sharply, head tilting back.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice a little breathless.

The mics pick it up.

You grin against her skin. “That’s what I want.”

She shivers as your fingers tease lower, her breath hitching when you press against her. Her hips move instinctively, a soft moan slipping out, and fuck, you know how good this is gonna sound in the mix.

It escalates quickly after that.

Clothes come off, hit the floor, forgotten. The heat between you builds, fast and urgent, but not careless—you’re aware of the mics, aware of what you need to capture. Every movement, every breath, every sound—

Choa’s nails dig into your shoulders as she gasps, her back arching off the console. “God, this is so fucking risky—”

“That’s what makes it hot,” you murmur against her throat.

And it is.

Because later, when the track is mixed and mastered, when the producers listen back, all they’ll hear is a smooth, sensual instrumental, layered vocals, a subtle echo of breathy sounds beneath the beat.

But you and Choa?

You’ll hear everything.

And no one else will ever know.

—

With the album finalized and the buzz growing, it was time to shoot the music video for the lead single. The song—smoldering, intimate, dripping with the tension of a secret relationship—demanded visuals that matched its energy. The label wanted something polished, something sexy without being too obvious. You and Choa had other ideas.

The concept meetings were long, filled with back-and-forth discussions about aesthetic, mood, narrative. Some of the early suggestions were generic—a standard “lovers in the city” storyline, slow-motion gazes, dramatic lighting. It was fine, but fine wasn’t enough. You wanted something real, something that matched the slow-burn heat of the track.

After a few brainstorming sessions, the final concept came together:

- The MV would be shot in a blend of film-like vignettes and raw, grainy handheld footage, capturing the feeling of stolen moments—glimpses into a relationship that exists behind closed doors.

- Some shots would be in a dimly lit motel room, curtains drawn, the atmosphere heavy with a hazy, golden glow. Choa would be lounging on the bed, fingers absently tracing lyrics in a notebook, while you, sitting on the floor with your guitar, glance at her in quiet admiration.

- There’d be scenes in a recording studio, mimicking the real-life intimacy of late-night sessions. Close-ups of lingering touches, stolen glances in the booth, the unspoken tension of two people pretending nothing’s happening when the air between them says otherwise.

- Street shots, filmed guerrilla-style—walking down an empty alleyway, brushing past each other but never fully touching, the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

- And then, the final sequence: a long take of you and Choa facing each other in the dark, lit only by flickering neon. She’d reach for you, hesitate, and then you’d pull her in. It wouldn’t be a full-on kiss—just the breath of one, lips barely touching, before the screen cut to black.

It was subtle. Implied. But everyone would feel it.

The shoot itself was intense.

Being in front of the camera together, knowing what had been happening off camera—it made every scene feel too real. The tension wasn’t faked, the chemistry wasn’t forced. When the director called “cut,” Choa would look at you with that knowing smirk, as if she could read your thoughts. And she probably could.

By the time the final edit was finished, you knew it was going to cause chaos.

And you were absolutely fine with that.

—

Once the previews of the MV dropped, everything went exactly as expected.

The internet exploded.

Fans dissected every frame, analyzing body language, theorizing about hidden messages in the lyrics. Some of them picked up on the way your hands lingered on Choa’s waist a little too naturally, how her eyes flickered to your lips during one of the longer shots. Some speculated that the entire video was autobiographical—based on real experiences rather than just the fictionalized romance of the song.

You and Choa never addressed it directly.

You let the mystery build.

Meanwhile, the label scheduled a quick promotional tour—press events, live performances, fan meets, a handful of TV and radio interviews. It was part of the rollout, but to you and Choa, it was another challenge: maintaining the façade of just collaborators while the world picked apart every interaction.

The first few Interviews were easy—basic questions about the songwriting process, how the collaboration came about. You both kept it professional, talking about mutual respect, artistic chemistry, how well your voices blended. But as expected, the real questions came soon enough.

You were sitting side by side at one of the bigger televised interviews, microphones clipped to your shirts, the host smiling knowingly as he leaned in.

“So, I have to ask,” he said, flipping through his notes. “One thing fans keep pointing out is your, uh, undeniable chemistry. How did you two manage to bring that into the music so naturally?”

Choa let out a small laugh, tilting her head slightly. “I think it’s just that we work well together. It’s easy when you have someone who gets what you’re trying to do.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I think from the start, we had the same vision for the album. So the chemistry you hear—it’s real, but it’s more about how we complement each other artistically.”

The Interviewer didn’t look convinced. “So you’re saying it’s all professional?”

Choa smirked slightly, shifting in her seat. “I’m saying the music speaks for itself.”

It was the perfect non-answer, leaving room for speculation without confirming anything.

The real moment, though, came a few interviews later.

A different host, a different show. You and Choa were more relaxed this time, the back-and-forth between you easier, more natural. And then—

“Now, I have to bring this up,” the interviewer said, grinning. “The age difference. You’re 20, and Choa, you’re 34. That’s a big gap, at least in industry terms. Did that affect your creative process?”

You and Choa glanced at each other.

The pause was barely noticeable, but the moment your eyes met, something passed between you—an unspoken understanding, a flicker of amusement.

Then, Choa tilted her head slightly, considering. “Honestly?” she said. “I think it helped.”

The interviewer raised his brows. “Helped how?”

You jumped in. “I mean, obviously, we have different experiences, different perspectives, but I think that’s why it worked so well. Choa’s got this incredible depth to her artistry because she’s been doing this longer—she knows how to tell a story in a song in a way that just hits.”

Choa smirked at you. “And you bring that reckless, young energy that makes everything fresh.”

You huffed a laugh. “Basically, yeah.”

The interviewer nodded, intrigued. “So no weird mentor-student vibes?”

Choa rolled her eyes. “God, no. He’s his own artist. I wouldn’t work with him if he wasn’t.”

The interviewer grinned. “Sounds like you two push each other.”

You smirked. “You could say that.”

But the truth?

The age difference wasn’t a barrier. If anything, it made things more interesting.

And as the tour continued, as the performances got hotter, the interviews got bolder, and the lines between work and whatever was really going on between you and Choa blurred even further, one thing was becoming increasingly clear—

This wasn’t just an album rollout.

This was something else entirely.

The press tour rolls on, and with every interview, every talk show, every single moment you and Choa spend in front of the cameras, the tension gets thicker.

It’s Inevitable.

Every night on this tour, every hotel you’ve checked into, every time she came to your room in the middle of the night. The moment the door locks behind you, her hands are on you, her mouth is on yours, and you’re stripping each other down like you can’t wait to feel skin on skin again. The sex is raw, desperate, like you’re making up for every hour you have to spend pretending none of this is happening.

And then, the next morning, you step out in front of the press, looking too well-rested, too at ease with each other, sitting too close on every talk show couch, finding excuses to touch—a casual hand on a thigh, a knee brushing against a knee, a playful tug on a sleeve. It’s subtle enough to be deniable, but not subtle enough to go unnoticed.

One of the first big ones is a late-night talk show, the kind where the host is a little too comfortable getting into personal business.

You and Choa sit side by side on the couch, the studio lights bright, the audience hanging on every word. The host leans in, smirking like he already knows he’s about to start something.

“So,” he says, flipping through his cue cards dramatically, “you two have been spending a lot of time together, huh?”

You and Choa exchange a glance.

She smirks. “I mean, yeah. It’s a collaboration. That’s how albums work.”

The audience chuckles, and you shake your head with an amused huff. “What, were we supposed to record it separately over Zoom or something?”

The host laughs. “Alright, alright. But be honest—there’s gotta be some moments where you get sick of each other.”

Another glance between you.

Choa leans into the mic, voice smooth. “Not really.”

The host raises an eyebrow. “Really? Not even a little?”

You shift slightly, your knee bumping against hers. “I think we get along too well, actually.”

Choa nods, her smirk deepening. “Yeah, it’s a problem.”

The host grins, picking up on the tone. “Oh yeah? And how exactly is that a problem?”

There’s a beat of silence—just long enough for the audience to get it, for a few scattered whistles to break out. You can feel Choa looking at you, her body warm next to yours.

You smirk. “Let’s just say… we have a very productive working relationship.”

The audience loses it.

Choa laughs, tilting her head, shooting you a look like she’s debating whether she should kick you under the table or encourage this.

The host raises his hands. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything, but—”

“Sure you’re not,” Choa deadpans.

He grins. “I just think it’s interesting that the album turned out so good. Like, there’s something extra in there, y’know?”

You chuckle, leaning back slightly, drumming your fingers against your thigh. “Passion.”

Choa nods, still smirking. “Exactly. We care about the music.”

Neither of you say anything explicit. You don’t have to.

But the host just sits back, shaking his head. “Man, you two are dangerous.”

The audience cheers again, and you and Choa just sit there, smug as hell, loving every second of it.

A few days later, another show, another set of questions.

This time, the age gap comes up again.

“So, Choa, you’re 34. And you,”—the interviewer turns to you—“are 20. Does that affect the way you guys work together?”

You already know the internet is going to eat up whatever you say next, so you pause, glancing at Choa first.

She quirks an eyebrow, waiting for you to answer.

You grin. “If anything, I think it helps.”

The interviewer leans in. “How so?”

You shrug. “I mean, she’s got experience.”

Choa stares at you for a second. You know what you meant. She knows what you meant. But fuck, the way the audience reacts—

Loud whoops, scattered applause, laughter—

Choa sighs dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He means musically.”

You smirk. “Of course. What else would I mean?”

She shakes her head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

The interviewer, barely holding back a grin, says, “So, you like working with someone older?”

You nod. “Yeah. She knows what she’s doing.”

Another wave of cheers, this time mixed with laughter.

Choa leans forward, pointing at you. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You just grin wider. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And that’s how another round of fan theories is born.

Every single clip from these interviews goes viral.

- "The way they LOOKED at each other when the host asked if they ever get tired of each other… we lost, guys. They’re definitely fucking.”

- "The age gap question was a TRAP and he walked right into it and somehow made it worse. I love him.”

- "‘She’s got experience’—HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING.”

- "This is a controlled burn. They WANT us to go crazy.”

- "At this point, just announce the wedding, idk.”

And as the tour keeps going, as more interviews stack up, as you and Choa keep teasing the hell out of the press without ever confirming anything, the tension only builds.

Because every night, after playing it cool in front of the cameras, you’re back in another hotel room with her.

And there? There’s no need to hold back.

—

The tour is finally over.

It’s been a whirlwind—city after city, stage after stage, interview after interview. The music is a success, the controversy even more so. You and Choa had played the game too well, pushing just enough buttons to make people talk, to keep the rumors alive. The way you touched each other during performances, the loaded glances in interviews, the teasing, the non-answers. It was deliberate. And it worked.

Now, it’s time to celebrate.

You and Choa end up in a small, dimly lit bar, tucked away from the usual industry spots, just the two of you in a booth with a bottle of something strong between you. The music is low, the atmosphere warm, and the alcohol flows easily.

She’s sitting across from you, swirling the liquor in her glass, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. The dress she’s wearing is dangerous—black, sleek, hugging every curve, cut just high enough on her thighs that your eyes keep drifting lower.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in slightly, “the last few months have been fucking incredible with you.”

She raises a brow, lips quirking. “Yeah?”

You nod, tilting your glass toward her. “Yeah.”

She hums, taking a slow sip before setting the glass down. “I feel the same way.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes dark and lidded. “You’re an amazing boy.”

Your grip on your drink tightens slightly. “Boy, huh?”

Her smirk deepens. “Mmm. Well, you are younger than me.”

You scoff. “You never seem to mind when we’re in bed.”

That gets you a soft laugh, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “Touché.”

The drinking continues, and so does the flirting. Her foot brushes against yours under the table, lingering. Her gaze flickers down to your mouth when you speak. Your hand finds her knee at one point, testing, pressing lightly against her thigh—and when she doesn’t pull away, when she shifts slightly, pressing back, you know exactly where this night is going.

By the time you leave the bar, both of you are warm from the alcohol, the tension practically humming between you.

You take her back to your hotel room.

The moment the door closes behind you, you let your eyes rake over her properly, your gaze dragging over the curve of her body, the way the dress clings to her like a second skin.

“Fuck, you look so fucking hot in that,” you murmur, voice rougher now, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Choa exhales slowly, clearly pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She steps closer, just enough that her fingers brush against your chest. Then she leans in, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “You wanna see what’s underneath?”

Your jaw tightens. "Yes."

And just like that, she starts stripping.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She keeps her eyes on you as she slides one strap of her dress down her shoulder, then the other, letting the fabric slip down her arms, down her torso, pooling at her feet. The lingerie underneath is delicate—lace, barely there, her body taut and perfect beneath it.

Your cock twitches in your pants, already hard, already aching, and she notices.

She smirks. “That didn’t take long.”

You exhale sharply, tugging at your own shirt, yanking it off before shoving down your pants, leaving you in just your underwear.

Her eyes drop to the obvious bulge straining against the fabric, and she bites her lip.

But you don’t let her comment.

Because the second her panties hit the floor, the second her bra slips from her shoulders, you step forward, grip her waist, and drop to your knees in front of her.

You press a slow, heated kiss to her stomach, just below her ribs.

Then another.

Then lower.

Your hands slide up her thighs, fingertips pressing into soft skin as your lips trail down—toward her heat, toward the place that’s already warm, already waiting for you.

And when you glance up at her, when you see the way she’s looking down at you—lips parted, chest rising and falling a little faster—

You know she wants this just as badly as you do.

The second your tongue touches her, Choa shudders.

You can feel it in the way her thighs twitch, in the way her breath stutters in her throat, the soft gasp that slips past her lips as she fists a hand in your hair. She’s already warm, already wet, already so fucking ready for you.

You start slow, dragging your tongue up her slit, tasting her, savoring the slick heat of her. Your hands grip her ass, squeezing, pulling her closer as you press deeper, licking into her with long, slow strokes.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her hips shifting instinctively toward your mouth. “God—your tongue is so fucking long.”

You smirk against her, flicking your tongue over her clit in teasing little circles, feeling the way her body reacts—the way her thighs clench, the way she tries to hold still but can’t, already too sensitive, too worked up.

“You love this,” you murmur against her, voice muffled by the heat of her.

She exhales sharply, her fingers tightening in your hair. “Obviously,” she says, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

Like you ever would.

You press your tongue flat against her, dragging slow, deliberate patterns over her clit, alternating between sucking lightly and teasing her with gentle flicks. Every time you change the pressure, she reacts—her breath hitching, her grip on you tightening, her thighs trembling around your head.

You love this.

Love the way she tastes, love the way she sounds, love the way her body melts under your tongue.

But then she whimpers—high and desperate—and fuck, that does something to you.

You need to take this further.

You grip her ass tighter, your fingers digging into soft flesh as you lift her.

“Oh my God—”

She barely has time to process it before she’s off the ground, her legs wrapping around your shoulders on instinct. “Are you serious—”

You are.

You’ve got Choa hoisted up, her petite frame nothing in your grip, legs dangling over your shoulders as you bury your face in her pussy. She’s light as fuck, and you’re flexing hard, showing off, holding her like she’s weightless. Her scent’s all over you, hot and slick, and you’re devouring her—tongue lashing wild against her clit, lips smacking messy and loud.

“Holy—fuck—”

She clutches your head, her fingers tight in your hair, her thighs squeezing around you as you devour her.

And fuck���she’s so wet, so hot, so perfect against your mouth.

Her thighs tremble against your ears, slick and hot, muscles flexing each time your tongue flicks against that perfect spot. She’s weightless in your grasp, hoisted up like she belongs nowhere else but in your arms, your hands gripping her ass to keep her steady. Choa’s head falls back, hair spilling, her lips parted on a breathless moan that turns into something closer to a whimper when you suck harder, pulling her clit into your mouth and swirling your tongue around it.

“F-fuck—oh my god—” Her nails scrape at your shoulders, uselessly trying to hold onto something, anything, but there’s nothing she can do except take it. Her legs twitch around your head, heels digging into your back, but she’s not trying to get away—hell no, she’s pushing herself closer, rocking her hips forward like she wants to drown you in the mess she’s making.

“You’re so fucking strong,” she chokes out, voice ragged, barely holding together. Her hands claw up to her tits, grabbing them hard, fingers sinking into the soft flesh like she’s gonna lose it if she doesn’t hold on. “Shit—nobody’s ever—fuck—done this to me!”

Her words hit you like a shot of adrenaline, and you growl into her, the sound buzzing against her swollen clit. She yelps, sharp and desperate, as you flick your tongue faster—sloppy, ruthless—then clamp your lips around that sensitive little bud and suck. Hard. Deep. Like you’re trying to rip the climax straight out of her soul.

Her moans turn Into screams, high and jagged, her tiny body locking up in your hands. You feel it—her thighs clamping around your skull, trembling so bad you know she’s teetering right on the edge. Your fingers dig into her ass, bruising the soft curves, yanking her tighter against your face. She’s got nowhere to go—pinned, helpless, and she fucking loves it.

“You’re gonna—oh fuck, baby—!”

That baby cracks something feral in you. You snarl into her dripping heat, tongue plunging deep inside her, twisting just right, then dragging back to her clit. You suck again—merciless, starving—like you’re gonna eat her alive.

She breaks.

Her whole body seizes, thighs crushing your head so tight her screams get muffled in your ears. Her back bows, nails rake bloody trails down your shoulders, and she’s cumming—hips bucking wild, uncontrollable, like she’s possessed. She’s loud as hell, a raw, shattered mess of sound, too far gone to give a shit who hears.

You don’t let up. You won’t. You keep sucking, keep lapping at her, dragging that orgasm out ‘til she’s drowning in it. She’s thrashing now, gasping, legs quaking, hands shoving at your head—but it’s weak, sloppy, like her body’s too wrecked to fight.

“Too much—fuck, I can’t—!”

Bullshit. She can. You know she can take it, knows she’s never been pushed this far, never had someone wring her dry ‘til she’s just a shuddering, pleasure-soaked shell. Still, you ease off—just a little—slowing your tongue to lazy, heavy strokes, letting her crash back down in shaky, panting sobs.

When you finally pull your face away, your lips and chin are drenched, glistening with her. She’s a goddamn wreck—skin flushed red, chest heaving, mouth slack with these soft, broken whimpers as she stares at the ceiling, dazed, like her brain’s still catching up.

You shift your grip, lowering her slow to the bed. Her legs are useless, jelly, twitching with little aftershocks as she sprawls out. You press one last kiss to her inner thigh—slow, deliberate—and she jolts, a hoarse little cry slipping out.

“You okay?” you ask.

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting her head to look at you through half-lidded eyes. “Okay?” she echoes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this okay.”

You chuckle, brushing your lips over her stomach, trailing upwards, slow and lazy. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Choa hums, reaching up to card her fingers through your hair. “You did,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, warmer. “And I think I might be obsessed.”

You smirk against her skin, then press a lingering kiss between her breasts before finally settling between her legs, taking your time, letting the moment stretch, letting the anticipation coil tight between you. Choa is sprawled out on the bed, her hair a mess against the pillow, her skin flushed and glowing. She’s still catching her breath from what you just did to her, but there’s hunger in her eyes, a need that hasn’t been satisfied yet. And you plan to satisfy it.

Your hands trail up the length of her body, slow and deliberate, tracing over her soft, smooth skin. You start at her thighs, feeling the heat still radiating from her, then move up, over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, until you reach her stomach.

Your fingers spread wide over her toned abs, pressing lightly, feeling the firmness beneath your palm. “Fuck, you’re hot,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything, your thumb sweeping slow circles just above her navel.

Choa bites her lip, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Yeah?” she breathes, arching slightly into your touch.

You grin, leaning down to brush your lips against her skin, your breath hot against her stomach. “Yeah,” you say, voice thick with heat. “This body drives me crazy.”

Her breath hitches, her fingers twitching against the sheets, and then she smirks—lazy, teasing, but her voice is nothing but warmth when she whispers, “It’s all yours.”

Something about the way she says it, so simple, so fucking confident, makes your blood burn hotter. Your cock twitches, already achingly hard, already pressing against her inner thigh. You shift slightly, angling your hips just right, and let the thick head of your cock slide against her entrance—just enough to tease, to coat yourself in the wetness that’s already dripping down her thighs.

Choa’s breath stutters. She twitches beneath you, her hands gripping the sheets, her thighs pressing tighter around your hips. “Fuck,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Don’t tease me—”

But you do tease.

You roll your hips, dragging the length of your cock against her, sliding up and down, letting her feel every inch but not giving her what she really wants. You watch her face closely—the way her lips part, the way her brows knit together in frustration, the way her body reacts to the way you touch her.

“Tell me,” you murmur, pressing the tip against her, just barely pushing inside before pulling back again. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Choa groans, her head falling back against the pillow, her fingers digging into the sheets. “So bad,” she gasps, rocking her hips up, trying to get more friction. “Baby, please—”

You chuckle, enjoying the sight of her like this—needy, desperate, fucking begging for it.

“Not sure I believe you,” you taunt, teasing her entrance again, watching the way her whole body tenses at the sensation. “You gotta beg a little more, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, you’re evil,” she whines, her thighs trembling around your waist. “Please, I need you—need you to fill me up, stretch me out—”

That makes your cock throb.

Her hands fly to your shoulders, nails pressing into your skin as she pulls you down, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice barely breathless, desperate, wrecked.

“Baby, please,” she moans. “I need your cock so bad, I—fuck, I can’t wait anymore, just fuck me—”

Gripping her waist, you tilt her hips up slightly, line yourself up, and in one slow, smooth thrust, you push inside.

Her mouth drops open.

“Oh my god—”

Her walls stretch around you, tight, so fucking tight it makes your vision blur for a second. You groan, low and rough, your fingers digging into her hips as you bottom out, feeling the way she clenches around you, pulsing, squeezing you like she’s never taken something this deep before.

Choa gasps, eyes wide, lips parted as she stares up at you in shock.

“Shit,” she breathes, her hands flying to your arms, gripping tight. “You’re so fucking big—”

And then she looks down.

She sees it.

Right there, in the middle of her stomach, a faint bulge pressing against her lower abdomen every time you move.

Her breath catches. “Oh my god, baby, I can see you inside me—”

Something about the way she moans those words makes you lose your goddamn mind.

“You like that?” you grunt, rolling your hips, watching the way that bulge moves, the way it presses against her skin with every deep thrust. “Fuck, Choa, you’re so fucking tight—”

She whimpers, nails raking down your back, her legs wrapping around you tighter. “Yes, I love it, I love feeling you this deep—baby, fuck—”

Your rhythm picks up, faster, harder, your hips snapping against her as you fuck her into the mattress. Each stroke is deep, each thrust dragging against every sensitive spot inside her, making her writhe, making her cry out, making her completely lose herself under you.

The alcohol makes everything sharper, more intense. Every touch, every sound, every sensation is amplified, and neither of you can hold back. She’s moaning uncontrollably, her voice breathy and wrecked, and you’re growling against her neck, whispering filthy things in her ear, telling her how fucking good she feels, how perfect she is around you.

And then—

“Look at yourself,” you murmur, grabbing her hand, pressing it against her lower stomach. “Feel it.”

Her breath hitches. She spreads her fingers over the bulge, gasping as she presses down lightly, feeling exactly where you’re filling her.

“Holy fuck,” she whimpers, her body shuddering. “You’re so deep, I—I can feel you in my stomach—”

That sends a shockwave of pleasure through you, makes your thrusts grow erratic, desperate. Your hips snap harder, your pace ruthless, and she takes it, moaning, gasping, begging for more.

“Don’t stop,” she pants, legs locking around you, her heels digging into your lower back. “Please, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” you growl, voice strained. “Never stopping.”

She’s trembling beneath you, her body arching, her nails digging into your skin like she’s trying to anchor herself.

You’re fucking her deep, every thrust sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through both of you, the heat between your bodies unbearable. Choa’s legs still locked around your waist, her nails raking over your back, leaving streaks of red in their wake. She’s moaning, breathless and wrecked, but still—still—she finds the strength to demand more.

“Harder, baby,” she gasps, her voice breaking around the words. “Don’t hold back—fuck, make me cum.”

And fuck, how are you supposed to deny her when she sounds like that?

You grip her hips, pulling her down onto you as you thrust harder, your pace going from deep and steady to ruthless. The headboard slams against the wall with every snap of your hips, the mattress creaking under the force of it, but neither of you care. The only thing that matters is the way she feels around you—so fucking tight, so perfect, like she was made to take you.

“Shit,” you growl, leaning down, your mouth hot against her ear. “You love getting fucked like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, her breath hitching. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close—”

That’s all you need to hear. You’re done playing. No more slow rolls, no more teasing drags. Your hands clamp around her narrow waist, fingers digging in so hard you know you’re leaving marks—red, angry imprints she’ll feel tomorrow. You pound into her, relentless, your cock slamming against every tender spot inside her, stretching her open, owning her. Each thrust shakes her whole frame, her petite body jolting under you like she’s made for this, made to break.

“Oh my fucking god—!” Choa’s scream rips out, high and wild, her back bowing off the bed. Her nails claw into your forearms, scraping bloody trails down your skin, sharp enough to sting, deep enough to mark you back. “Yes—fuck, yes—just like that, don’t you fucking stop—!”

Her desperation lights you up, a guttural growl tearing from your throat. You don’t stop—you can’t. You go harder, faster, hips snapping with brutal precision, the wet smack of skin on skin filling the air, loud and filthy. Your fingers slide down, finding where you’re joined, her pussy soaked and pulsing around you. You press your thumb to her clit—swollen, slick, begging for it—and start rubbing, quick and rough, tight circles that make her sob.

She’s unraveling, fast. Her thighs quake, her breath catches in sharp, frantic gasps. “Baby—” she chokes out, voice breaking, body trembling like it’s about to snap. “I’m—oh fuck, I’m so fucking close—!”

“You gonna cum for me again?” Your voice is a low, ragged snarl, barely holding it together yourself. You can feel it—the heat coiling tight in your gut, your cock throbbing inside her, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. But this isn’t about you yet. It’s about her. About wrecking her.

“Yes—fuck, yes—!” Her words dissolve into a whine, high and needy, her eyes squeezing shut as her head thrashes against the pillow, hair sticking to her sweat-drenched face.

You don’t let up. You keep that punishing rhythm, fucking her straight through the buildup, your thumb pressing harder against her clit, grinding it now, ruthless, fast, until her whole body locks up.

She shatters.

Choa’s scream is raw, guttural—a sound that tears from her chest as her body arches off the bed, spine curving so hard you think she might break. Her walls clamp down around you, tight and pulsing, milking your cock in waves so intense it nearly pulls you over with her. You feel it all—her heat, her slickness, the way her pussy grips you like a vice, like she’s trying to drag you deeper even as she falls apart. Her legs shake violently, toes curling, heels digging into the mattress as she rides it out, hips jerking against you in frantic, uneven thrusts.

Her nails rake down your back now, leaving fire in their wake, and her breath comes in short, broken sobs—half pleasure, half overwhelm. “Baby—!” she gasps again, voice wrecked, barely audible over the blood roaring in your ears.

You don’t stop moving. You grind into her, slow and deep, dragging out every shudder, every twitch, watching her lose herself completely. Her abs flex tighter, the bulge of your cock still visible, shifting under her skin with every roll of your hips. Her chest heaves, perky tits bouncing with each ragged breath, nipples hard and dark against her flushed skin. Sweat beads on her collarbone, catching the dim light, and her lips part, swollen and red from biting them raw.

She’s a fucking mess—beautiful, ruined, trembling through the aftershocks. Her thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles jumping under her skin as she collapses back against the bed, spent, boneless. Her hands fall limp to her sides, fingers twitching like she’s still reaching for something, anything, to ground her.

You slow down, just enough to let her breathe, but you’re still buried balls-deep, still rock-hard, aching inside her. The heat of her, the way she’s clenching around you even now—it’s torture, the best kind. Your hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tries to pull air back into her lungs.

Her eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with pleasure. She looks up at you, dazed, lips curling into a slow, crooked smirk that’s equal parts exhausted and cocky. “Still hard for me, huh?” Her voice is hoarse, scratched raw from screaming, but there’s a spark in it, a challenge.

You let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, your grip tightening on her hips. You drag her against you—slow, deliberate—letting her feel every inch of you still throbbing inside her, the slick friction making her whimper despite herself. “Yeah,” you mutter, voice rough as gravel, thick with need. “Still hard. Still not fucking done with you.”

Her smirk falters, eyes widening just a fraction as you shift your weight, pinning her harder against the bed. You pull back, almost all the way out, the tip of your cock barely inside her, and she whines—a soft, broken sound that tells you she’s not ready for it to end either. Then you slam back in, deep and sudden, and her head snaps back, a fresh cry tearing from her throat.

You lean down, mouth crashing against hers, swallowing her gasps as your tongue dives in, tasting the salt of her sweat, the heat of her desperation. Her hands find your shoulders again, nails biting into your skin, pulling you closer even as her body trembles beneath you.

Choa moans sweetly, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw before pushing lightly against your chest. “Stand up.”

You blink, still dazed, still lost in the feel of her. “What?”

She smirks, licking her lips, and there’s something dangerous in her eyes as she moves to sit up. “I said, stand up, baby.”

Your pulse spikes.

You do as she says, straightening, your breath uneven, your cock still slick and throbbing. Choa slides off the bed, moving slowly, deliberately, until she’s kneeling in front of you, her hands trailing up your thighs.

She looks up at you through dark lashes, her lips still swollen, still glistening. “Let me clean you up,” she murmurs.

You barely have time to react before she leans in, her tongue flicking out, warm and wet as it drags up the length of your cock. Your jaw clenches, your hands fisting at your sides, struggling to keep it together as she takes her time, licking you clean, savoring the taste of herself on your skin.

“Mmm,” she hums, her tongue circling the head, teasing, tasting, before she finally wraps her lips around you, sinking down—

Your breath shudders out of you. It’s supposed to be clean-up, just her licking you clean, tasting herself on your skin, but fuck—Choa doesn’t do just anything. She’s got her mouth stretched around you, sucking slow, deep, like she’s savoring it, letting her tongue flick over the sensitive spots she already knows drive you crazy.

“Fuck,” you groan, your hands twitching at your sides, resisting the urge to just grab her hair and guide her exactly how you want. But she’s taking her time, teasing you, her tongue swirling around the head before sliding down the length, making a mess of you, her spit mixing with the slickness already there.

You’re getting wet, and it’s only making you harder.

Choa hums around you, her throat vibrating, and fuck—she’s enjoying this, really enjoying this. Her hands stay light on your thighs, steadying herself as she bobs her head, taking you deeper each time.

And then—

She goes for it.

One smooth, practiced motion, and she takes you down.

Your cock sinks into her throat, inch by inch, until her lips are flush against your base, her nose pressing against your lower stomach. The heat, the tightness, the way her throat constricts around you—it’s perfect, fucking perfect, and you let out a ragged growl, your fingers twitching with the need to move.

She holds herself there, breathing through her nose, her throat working around you, adjusting. Then she pulls back, just enough to take a breath, spit connecting her lips to your cock, before she does it again.

Deep. Deeper.

“Shit, Choa—”

You can’t not react to that. Your hand moves on instinct, tangling in her hair, holding her there just a second longer, letting her throat squeeze around you before guiding her back. She gasps through her nose but takes it, eyes fluttering shut, her jaw slack, her throat stretched around your size.

The control slips before you realize it’s happening.

You move her.

At first, it’s just your grip in her hair, guiding her down, pulling her back, letting her take the rhythm you want. But then—fuck, it’s too much, too good, the way her lips stretch around you, the obscene wet sounds she’s making, the way drool is already dripping down her chin. You start moving faster, your hips joining the motion, pushing deeper, fucking into her mouth in slow, deliberate thrusts.

And she lets you.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull back—if anything, she welcomes it, her hands gripping your thighs, steadying herself, letting you take control.

Her throat is so fucking tight, so wet, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth, her lipstick smeared, her mascara smudging just slightly from the effort.

“You’re taking it so well,” you groan, tightening your grip, guiding her down again, deeper this time. “Fuck, Choa—”

Her moan vibrates around you, wrecked and eager.

Then something snaps.

You don’t think. You don’t hold back, fingers twisting hard into the strands, yanking her head still as you fuck her face. No hesitation, no gentleness—just raw, greedy thrusts, shoving your cock deep into her throat, chasing that tight, slick heat that’s driving you insane. Her gag reflex kicks in, a wet choke vibrating around you, but she doesn’t pull away—she leans into it, letting you use her, letting you ruin her.

Her eyes flick up, glassy and wild, pupils blown wide, tears prickling at the corners—not from pain, but from the sheer fucking intensity of it. She’s a mess—spit spills from her lips, glistening trails dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor between her knees. Her cheeks hollow out with every thrust, her throat squeezing you so tight it’s almost too much, and it’s perfect.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” you rasp, voice scraping out of you, thick with lust. You can’t stop staring—her flushed skin, sweat beading on her forehead, the way her jaw works to take you, the obscene bulge of your cock sliding down her throat. Her mascara’s smudging, black streaks smearing under her eyes, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

She blinks up at you, dazed but burning, that spark in her gaze cutting through the haze. She’s not just taking it—she’s loving it, reveling in the way you’re unraveling her, the way you’re losing yourself in her mouth. Her nails dig into your thighs, sharp little crescents biting into your skin, leaving red welts you’ll feel later. Her whole body shudders with each thrust, her tits bouncing slightly, nipples incredibly hard.

“You love this, don’t you?” you growl, slowing just a fraction, dragging your cock back across her tongue, letting her taste every inch of you. The heat of her mouth is unreal—wet, sloppy, coating you in her spit—and you feel her hum, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you. Her hands grip tighter, nails scraping now, dragging slow, deliberate lines down your thighs like she’s marking you back.

Then—fuck—she nods. With your cock still buried in her throat, her head bobs just enough to answer, lips stretched wide, spit bubbling at the corners. That little move—her saying yes without pulling off—snaps the last thread of your control. Your breath shudders out, ragged and loud, chest heaving as you thrust one more time, slow and deep, letting her throat clench around you, soaking you in her slick mess.

You pull back, abrupt and rough, your cock slipping free with a wet pop. A thick strand of spit stretches between her lips and the tip, glistening in the dim light, snapping when she gasps for air. Her chest heaves, breaths coming in short, wrecked bursts, her mouth red and swollen, lips shiny with spit and pre-cum. She’s trembling, knees shifting on the floor, thighs pressed together like she’s aching down there too.

Her tongue darts out, slow and deliberate, licking the mess from her lips—swiping across the bottom one first, then the top, savoring it. Her eyes lock on yours, dark and heavy, and she smirks, a crooked, satisfied little curve that says she knows exactly what she’s done to you. “Mmm,” she hums, voice hoarse, scratched raw from your cock. “Now that’s a thorough cleaning.”

You groan, wiping the back of your hand over your mouth, trying to breathe, trying to think.

But then she shifts on her knees, tilting her head, her smirk deepening.

“You still haven’t cum yet, baby,” she purrs, running a teasing hand over her own stomach, down to her thighs. “Guess I’ll just have to let you fuck my ass instead.”

Your entire body tenses.

Your cock throbs.

The hunger in her eyes, the teasing curve of her lips, the way she says it—like it’s nothing, like she’s been waiting for this, like she wants it as much as you do—

“Fuck,” you breathe. “I was missing your ass.”

Choa just giggles, licking her lips again, dragging her nails down your thighs before moving to bed, shifting onto all fours, tilting her hips up, arching her back—presenting herself like an invitation you’d be a goddamn fool to refuse.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes dark, sultry, teasing.

“Come on, babe boy,” she murmurs, wiggling her hips just slightly. “What are you waiting for?”

Your jaw clenches. Your breath catches. And then—you move.

You position yourself behind her, hands gripping her hips, your cock already throbbing at the sight of her—Choa, on all fours, back arched just right, ass raised, offering herself up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And by now, it is natural. You’ve fucked her like this so many times during the tour—stolen moments in hotel rooms, backstage dressing areas, nights where she was too impatient to wait until after a show.

And yet—fuck—it never gets old.

She wiggles her hips slightly, teasing you, and you can’t resist reaching out, grabbing a handful of her ass, squeezing it tight before giving it a little shake.

Choa giggles, glancing over her shoulder, her hair falling into her face. “You’re obsessed,” she teases, voice warm, playful.

You smirk, running your hands over the soft, round curves. “Damn right I am. Look at this ass—so fucking juicy.”

She hums, pleased, shifting her weight slightly. “I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmmhmm. I see you staring when I wear tight shit,” she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re not exactly subtle, baby.”

You huff a laugh, kneading her ass with both hands, spreading her just slightly. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all,” she purrs, pressing back against your touch. “You can look all you want, baby. It’s yours.”

And fuck, if that doesn’t send a bolt of heat straight down your spine.

Before you do anything else, you have to taste her.

You lean in, slow, deliberate, letting her feel your breath first—hot and heavy against her bare cheek. She shifts, a tiny twitch, and you drag your long tongue over the curve of her ass, slowly, teasing, tasting the salt of her skin. It’s smooth, soft, warm under your lips, and you take your time, tracing the shape of her before dipping lower. Her breath hitches, a sharp little sound that cuts through the air, and you smirk against her, pressing your lips harder, kissing the sensitive spot just above where she really wants you.

“Oh—fuck,” she whispers, voice thin and shaky, her back arching hard, pushing her ass higher like she’s begging for it.

You don’t give it to her right away. You tease instead, flicking your tongue just around her tight little entrance, circling slow, letting the heat build. She’s so fucking responsive—every twitch, every tremble ripples through her, her thighs quivering like she’s already on the edge. You can hear the sheets rustle as her hands claw into them, knuckles white, her breath coming faster now, ragged and uneven.

Then you go in. Your tongue presses flat against her, wet and slick, lapping at the tight ring of muscle with slow, deliberate strokes. She jolts, a choked moan spilling from her lips, and you growl into her, circling faster, teasing the edges before pushing the tip of your tongue just inside. She’s so goddamn tight, clenching instinctively, but you keep working her—long, deep licks, then quick flicks, tasting her, opening her up.

“Baby—!” Her voice cracks, high and desperate, her whole body shuddering under you. “Oh my fucking god—!”

The way she says it—half plea, half curse—lights you up. You hum against her, low and rough, the vibration sinking into her, and she whines, her hips rocking back, chasing more. Her ass presses harder against your face, cheeks soft and warm around you, and you can feel her relax, giving in, letting you take her apart. Your tongue dives deeper now, long and thick, pushing past that tight resistance, fucking into her slow and steady. She’s dripping—sweat, spit, her own arousal slicking down her thighs—and you love it, love how messy she’s getting, how raw this is.

You pull back just a fraction, enough to see her—ass glistening, pink and puckered, trembling under your touch. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” you mutter, voice gravelly, thick with want. Then you spit—a fat, warm glob landing right on her hole, dripping slow between her cheeks, mixing with the mess you’ve already made. It’s filthy, obscene, and her whole body jerks when it hits, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.

“Shit—!” she cries, her hands fisting the sheets tighter, dragging them into wrinkled clumps. Her legs shake harder now, knees sliding wider on the bed, opening herself up even more. You dive back in, tongue lashing over her again, spreading the slickness, working it into her. She’s loosening up, bit by bit, her tight little hole softening under your mouth, and you can feel it—the way she’s starting to crave what’s coming next.

Your hands grip her cheeks, spreading her wide, thumbs digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave red marks. She whimpers, a broken little sound, and you press your face deeper, nose brushing her skin, tongue fucking into her with wet, sloppy thrusts. The taste of her—raw, sweaty, mixed with your spit—floods your senses, and you groan into her, the sound muffled by her heat.

“Please—” she gasps, barely coherent, her voice wrecked and needy. “Baby, fuck, I can’t—!”

You know what she wants. She’s not saying it yet, but her body’s screaming—hips grinding back, thighs trembling, ass clenching around your tongue like she’s already imagining your cock. You pull back again, slow, letting a thick string of spit trail from your lips to her hole, watching it glisten in the low light. Her back’s arched so hard her spine’s a perfect curve, sweat pooling in the dip above her ass, and her breathing’s a mess—short, shallow pants like she’s drowning in it.

“You ready for me?” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your chin slick and shiny with her. Your cock’s throbbing, hard as steel, pre-cum beading at the tip, and you stroke yourself once, slow and firm, just to take the edge off.

She nods, frantic, head turning so you catch the side of her face—lips parted, cheeks flushed red, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Yes—fuck, please,” she breathes, voice hoarse, desperate.

You smirk, leaning back in to give her one last swipe—a long, slow lick from her hole up the curve of her ass, savoring her shudder. She’s prepped, wet, open, and fucking begging for it. You’re not done tasting her—but now, it’s time to claim her.

You stroke yourself again, once, twice, spreading her with one hand as you line up, pressing the head of your cock against her entrance.

“You sure, baby?” you murmur, teasing her just a little, dragging the tip up and down.

“Yes,” she says immediately, her voice breathless, impatient. “Give it to me.”

And fuck, you do.

You press forward, slow at first, letting her stretch around you inch by inch, feeling every tight, perfect inch sink into her.

“Jesus,” you groan, gripping her waist, steadying yourself. “Still so fucking tight—”

“Mmmm—” Choa’s fingers dig into the sheets, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “F-fuck, baby—”

You push in deeper, your cock throbbing at the way she clenches around you, the heat of her body pulling you in. “You’d think after all the times I’ve fucked this ass, it’d be looser,” you rasp, dragging a hand up her back, gripping the nape of her neck. “But you’re still so fucking tight, baby.”

“Because it’s yours,” she gasps, rocking her hips back, trying to take more of you. “Made for you—only want you, baby—”

Fuck.

She knows exactly what to say.

You groan, gripping her tighter, then start to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in, letting her feel every thick inch stretch her open.

“Oh my god—” she chokes out, her body trembling. “Baby, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah?” you grunt, squeezing her ass with both hands, watching the way your cock disappears into her. “You still addicted to it?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, pressing back against you, desperate for more. “So addicted—I need it, baby, need you to fill me up—”

That makes your cock twitch.

You start moving faster, picking up the pace, gripping her hips as you drive into her, each thrust deeper, harder.

“Fuck, baby—” she gasps, her voice high, shaky. “Harder—please, baby, I can take it—”

And you give it to her.

Your rhythm turns ruthless, your hips snapping against her, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room. You grip her waist, holding her steady, watching the way she takes every inch of you like she was made for this.

“Holy shit, baby—” she moans, her body rocking forward with every deep thrust. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” you growl, tightening your grip. “You love getting your ass fucked like this?”

“Yes—yes, baby—fuck, I love it, love it so much—”

Your hand moves to her lower back, pressing down just slightly, forcing her into a deeper arch. “You’re so fucking filthy,” you groan, watching the way your cock stretches her open, the way she clenches around you every time you push in. “Taking me so well, baby—”

“All yours, baby,” she gasps. “Fuck me—harder—please, I want to feel it tomorrow—”

And fuck, that does it.

Your grip tightens on her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, anchoring her in place as you drive into her, deeper, harder. The way her body responds—the way she trembles, the way she clenches around you, the way she gasps like she can barely take it but still needs more—only fuels you.

“F-fuck, baby—” Choa’s voice is a wrecked, breathy mess, her face buried in the sheets, her back arching beautifully beneath you. “So deep—so fucking deep—”

“Yeah?” you murmur, voice low and rough, leaning over her, pressing a hand flat between her shoulder blades to keep her locked down. Her back arches under the pressure, ass tilting higher, begging for more. “You love this shit, don’t you? Love having your tight little ass wrecked by my big fucking cock?”

“Yes,” she moans, voice high and needy, cracking around the edges like she’s already losing it. ���Fuck, I love it—love being so fucking full of you—” Her words spill out fast, desperate, her breath hitching every time you shift inside her. She’s an anal whore through and through, a size queen who lives for this—lives for the stretch, the burn, the way you split her open.

That’s it. Your restraint’s gone, shredded to nothing. You grab her hips with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and yank her back onto you, slamming your cock into her ass so deep the bedframe groans under the force. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes—sharp, wet, filthy—mixing with her breathy whimpers that turn into full-on moans, loud and uncontrollable. The headboard bangs against the wall, a steady thud-thud-thud that matches your rhythm, and you don’t give a fuck if the neighbors hear.

“Oh—oh my fucking god—” she gasps, her fingers clawing at the sheets, twisting them into knots as she tries to hold on. “Baby—fuck—it’s so good, so fucking good—” Her voice is a mess, breaking apart, barely holding together as you pound into her. She’s gone, lost in the stretch, in the way you’re railing her ass like it’s yours to ruin.

You smirk, loving how she can’t even string a sentence together, how she’s just a whining, moaning puddle under you. Her thighs tremble, knees sliding wider on the mattress, opening herself up more, letting you hit even deeper. You can feel her clenching around you, tight and hot, her body begging for it, screaming for you to push her over the edge.

And then—fuck—she loses it completely. “Make me cum!” she screams, voice raw, splitting open with need. “Baby, fucking make me cum—I need it so bad—please—”

That snaps you.

You growl, low and feral, grabbing both her wrists and wrenching them behind her back, pinning them in one hand. Her shoulders lift, chest hovering off the bed, and you’ve got her locked—helpless, totally under your control. You slam into her ass, deep and brutal, burying yourself to the hilt with every thrust. The angle’s perfect, your cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her, stretching her so wide she’s shaking.

“Oh—fuck—” she sobs, head tipping back, hair sticking to her sweaty face, mouth gaping as she gasps for air. “Yes—yes, baby—oh my god—yes—” Her moans break into jagged whimpers, her whole body quaking every time you bottom out. You can see her ass ripple with each thrust, cheeks bouncing, skin turning pink from the impact. Sweat drips down her spine, pooling in the small of her back, and her thighs are slick, trembling so hard she’s barely holding herself up.

“You wanted it?” you snarl, voice rough, strained from how fucking good she feels—tight, hot, gripping you like she never wants to let go. “You fucking demanded it?”

“Yes—baby—yes—” Her words are a chant, frantic, spilling out between sobs and gasps.

“Then fucking take it.”

You go harder, ruthless, hips snapping with punishing force, your grip on her wrists tightening until you feel her bones shift under your fingers. She’s completely at your mercy, body jerking with every thrust, ass swallowing your cock like it’s made for this. She’s an anal slut, drooling for the size, for the way you’re tearing her apart, and you can hear it in her voice—raw, wrecked, loving it.

“Oh my god—oh my god—oh my fucking god—” she chants, her voice climbing higher, breaking apart as her body starts to shake harder. “I—baby—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

That’s all you need. You fuck her straight through it, driving deep, relentless, feeling her ass clench tighter, her whole body seizing up. She’s cumming—hard—her scream ripping through the room, loud and jagged, her back arching so far her spine looks ready to snap. Her toes curl, heels digging into the bed, and her walls clamp down around you, pulsing, milking your cock as her orgasm tears through her.

“Fuck, baby—” she sobs, voice shattering, “I’m cumming—I’m fucking cumming—”

You don’t stop. You keep pounding, rolling your hips hard, dragging it out, making her ride every wave until she’s a trembling, whimpering mess. Her thighs give out, knees slipping, but you hold her up by her wrists, keeping her impaled on you. She’s gone—eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, drool leaking onto the sheets as she gasps and shakes, her ass still twitching around you.

“Shit—shit—oh my god, baby—” Her voice is hoarse, barely there, breaking into soft, pathetic little cries as the aftershocks hit. You slow just a fraction, keeping your cock buried deep, letting her feel it—letting her feel how you’re still hard, still throbbing inside her wrecked ass.

You’re close now, teetering on the edge, her tight heat pushing you there. “Fuck, Choa—” you growl, letting go of her wrists. Her arms flop down, useless, and she collapses forward, chest heaving, ass still up, still stuffed with you.

You stay there, buried in her, catching your breath as your cock twitches inside her ass. She’s panting, skin flushed dark, muscles jumping with little tremors. You pull out slow, watching the way her hole gapes for a second before clenching shut.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes, voice shot to hell, dazed and slurry. She shifts, wincing slightly, then laughs—a soft, breathless sound, pure satisfaction. “That was—shit, my throat hurts from screaming so much…”

But you’re not done with her. It’s like a goddamn animal’s taken over, this clawing, desperate hunger gnawing at your gut, screaming for more of Choa’s tight little body. She’s already a wreck—sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, thighs slick and shiny from everything you’ve done to her, trembling like she’s barely holding it together. But fuck, she’s still so hot, those wide, hazy eyes locked on you, lips parted, chest heaving, but still with breath for more. You grab her wrist, yanking her up from the bed with a growl that’s all need, no patience. “Come here,” you rasp, voice thick and rough, dragging her into you like she’s yours to command. She stumbles, legs shaky, but she’s grinning—breathless, giddy, totally into it.

Before she can catch her breath, you scoop her up, hoisting her into the air like she’s nothing. She squeals, a sharp, startled “Holy shit—” cutting through the room, but her legs snap around your waist on instinct, locking tight. Her hands clutch your shoulders, nails biting into your skin, and she’s laughing, panting, “You love showing off, huh? Fucking hell, I love it when you’re like this.” Her hips roll forward, teasing, brushing her soaked pussy against you, and it’s like a jolt of electricity straight to your cock—still hard, still throbbing, ready to ruin her all over again. She’s light as fuck in your arms, petite and perfect, and you can feel the heat radiating off her, smell the mix of sweat and sex clinging to her skin.

You don’t waste a second. Gripping her thighs—fingers sinking into the soft, slick flesh—you line her up and sink her down onto your cock, slow at first, letting her feel every goddamn inch as her pussy swallows you whole. She’s dripping wet, a hot, slick mess that takes you so easy it’s obscene, and you groan deep in your chest, the sound vibrating through you both. Choa throws her head back, moaning loud and shameless, the noise bouncing off the walls—“Fuck, fuck—yes—” Her voice is wrecked, high and needy, breaking apart as you fill her up. Her nails dig harder into your shoulders, leaving red crescent marks, and her breath stutters, hot and fast against your neck as you start moving. You’re fucking her right there in the air, holding her up like it’s nothing, bouncing her on your cock with every thrust, and she’s completely at your mercy—clinging to you, gasping, moaning your name like it’s her lifeline.

“You like this?” you rasp, voice gravelly, rolling your hips up harder, slamming into her deep enough to make her cry out—a sharp, jagged “Yes—fuck, yes—” that’s half-scream, half-sob. She’s nodding like crazy, fingers twisting into your hair, yanking at the roots as her body arches into you, tits pressing against your chest. Her pussy’s burning up around you, clenching tight, slickness dripping down your thighs, soaking you both. Every bounce makes her tits jiggle, makes her ass slap against your hips, and you can feel her losing it—walls fluttering, breath hitching, so fucking close to falling apart again. She’s a mess of sounds now—whimpers, moans, little gasps that spill out every time you drive into her, and it’s driving you wild, pushing you closer to the edge.

“I’m so close,” you groan, your grip on her thighs tightening, fingers bruising her soft skin as you pound into her harder, your whole body screaming for release. You’re drenched in sweat, muscles burning from holding her up, but it’s worth it—worth the way she’s trembling, the way her pussy’s gripping you like a vice. Choa catches your words, feels the tension in you, and she knows exactly how to break you. Her lips brush your ear, hot and shaky, voice dripping with lust as she whispers, “Cum inside me, baby. I want it all. Give it to me.” Her walls squeeze you tight, a deliberate little clench that makes your vision blur, and fuck—that’s it. That’s the match to the gasoline.

Your control snaps like a cheap fucking string. You growl, low and primal, and start slamming into her with everything you’ve got—no holding back, no mercy, just pure, desperate need, fucking her into oblivion, hips snapping so hard the sound of skin on skin is deafening—wet, sloppy, obscene. Her moans turn into screams— “Yes, yes, yes—fuck—just like that!”—sharp and broken, her nails raking down your back, leaving fire in their wake. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—fill me up, baby, I wanna feel it all!” she cries, her voice raw, begging, and it’s like a drug, sending you spiraling. You grip her tighter, hands sliding to her ass, spreading her cheeks as you drive deeper, harder, faster—every thrust shaking her whole body, making her tits bounce, her hair swing wild.

She’s meeting you now, rolling her hips down onto you, desperate and greedy, taking everything you’re giving her. Her thighs quake around your waist, her breath’s a mess of gasps and sobs, and you can feel it—her pussy’s pulsing, her whole body’s trembling, she’s right there with you. “Gonna cum,” you rasp, voice shredded, your body coiling tight, every muscle locked and ready to blow. “Do it,” she begs, her voice a wrecked whisper, “Cum inside me. Give me everything.” Her words hit like a punch, and that’s the breaking point—your whole world narrows to her, to the heat, to the need.

You bury yourself deep—one last, brutal thrust—and explode. A guttural groan rips from your chest as you cum, hard and unrelenting, thick ropes of it pumping into her, filling her pussy to the brim. It’s intense, overwhelming—pulse after pulse, wave after fucking wave. You’re shaking, hips jerking with every spurt, and Choa gasps, her walls milking you, squeezing every drop as she shudders in your arms. “Oh my god—fuck—” she whimpers, her head dropping onto your shoulder, her body going limp as she feels you flood her.

But it doesn’t stop. Your cock keeps twitching, another hot load spilling deep inside her, and she moans again, softer, wrecked— “So much, fuck, you’re still going—” Her fingers dig into your shoulders, clinging to you as you keep cumming, stuffing her so full it’s leaking out around you, dripping down her thighs, smearing between you both. You grunt, shoving her back against the wall, pinning her there as you roll your hips slow, working every last bit into her. “I’m gonna make sure you’re fucking full,” you growl, panting against her neck, still riding the high, still lost in the primal rush of claiming her.

When it finally fades, when you’re finally spent, you ease up, pulling back just enough to look at her. She’s a goddamn sight—pinned against the wall, chest heaving, skin flushed red, sweat dripping down her collarbone, hair a tangled mess. Your cum’s leaking out of her, thick and white, trickling down her inner thighs, pooling on the floor, and it’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen—proof of how hard you just wrecked her. You slide out slow, watching her pussy clench one last time, trying to keep you in, and more spills out, a sticky mess that makes her shiver.

You set her down gentle, back on the bed, and she collapses, boneless, legs splayed wide, still trembling from the aftershocks. She’s panting hard, blinking up at you with those dazed, satisfied eyes, a slow, lazy grin spreading across her swollen lips. “Holy shit,” she breathes, voice hoarse and slurry, “Best tour ending ever.” Her hand flops to her stomach, then lower, brushing the mess between her legs, and she giggles—soft, fucked-out, totally blissed.

“Shit,” she murmurs before spreading her legs slightly, her fingers dipping lower, then pulling back. A thin string of cum stretches between them, glistening under the dim bedroom light. “Look at this. You really did fill me up.”

Your cock twitches at the sight. You’re still sensitive, still recovering, but fuck, the way she’s playing with herself, teasing, showing you exactly how much you’ve given her—it’s enough to stir that deep, primal hunger all over again.

You reach out, catching her wrist before she can smear it away. “Let me see,” you say, voice rough, still laced with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Choa hums, letting you take control, her eyes dark and hazy as she watches you. Slowly, you slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, pressing inside just enough to feel how warm and soaked she is. She gasps, her body twitching at the sudden intrusion, still sensitive from everything you’ve done to her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, biting her lip. “Still so full…”

You smirk, dragging your fingers back out, coated in thick, pearly white. Holding them up between you, you watch her reaction, teasing her, seeing just how far she’ll go.

Choa’s eyes flick from your fingers to your face, then back again. And then, with deliberate slowness, she leans forward, lips parting.

She takes them into her mouth.

The sight alone is enough to make your stomach clench, your body screaming to go again despite the exhaustion settling into your muscles. She moans softly, swirling her tongue around your fingers, her lips hollowing as she sucks, tasting every drop of what you’ve given her.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, mesmerized by how fucking sensual she is, how naturally she takes it, how much she seems to enjoy it.

She pulls back with a soft pop, licking her lips, her eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Mmm,” she hums, tilting her head. “Tastes like you.”

Your jaw tightens. Fuck. You reach down again, pressing your fingers against her entrance, gathering more, watching the way she shudders at the overstimulation. She’s so sensitive, so raw, but she doesn’t stop you.

You bring them up again, and this time, she grabs your wrist, guiding them into her mouth herself. She takes her time, tongue flicking between your fingers, sucking slowly, teasing. Her eyes never leave yours.

“Jesus,” you mutter, your body tensing, already feeling that deep, slow burn of arousal creeping back in.

Choa grins, finally releasing your fingers with one last, deliberate suck. “Like watching me clean up after you?” she teases.

You shake your head with a chuckle, running your thumb over her swollen lips. “You’re gonna kill me,” you murmur.

She laughs, stretching her sore limbs, her body still trembling slightly from how hard you wrecked her. “You can handle it.”

You exhale, letting the moment settle, letting the intensity fade into something quieter, something softer. You collapse onto the bed beside her, muscles aching but satisfied. She shifts closer, draping herself against your chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns over your skin.

For a while, neither of you speak. Just slow breaths, the distant hum of the city outside, the warmth of tangled limbs and shared exhaustion.

But as time goes by, you notice something changing. You can feel it—like there’s something on her mind she’s not saying. You glance down at her, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

She hesitates, biting her lip, and you know right away that whatever it is, it’s serious.

Finally, she sighs. “I was just thinking… about us.”

"Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She traces a slow circle on your chest, eyes still focused on where your skin meets hers. “You know this whole… secret thing? It’s kinda exhausting.”

You let out a low hum. “You’re telling me.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her expression thoughtful, almost hesitant. “What if… we didn’t hide it anymore?”

You blink, surprised. “You serious?”

She shrugs, like she’s trying to play it off, but there’s a tightness in her jaw that tells you she’s worried about your reaction. “I mean… it’s not like people haven’t already guessed. We basically fueled half the rumors ourselves.”

You chuckle. “Yeah. We’re pretty bad at being subtle.”

Her lips quirk into a smile. “You’re the worst. Always touching me during interviews. Looking at me like you’re gonna rip my clothes off the second the cameras are off.”

“Can you blame me?” You grin. “You’re the one who kept putting her hand on my thigh every time someone asked about our chemistry.” She snorts. “You loved it.”

“Damn right I did.” You squeeze her hip lightly, pulling her closer. “But for real… you wanna go public?”

She hesitates again, but then nods. “Yeah. I’m tired of pretending. And honestly? I like being with you. More than I thought I would.”

That makes your chest tighten in the best way possible. You tilt her chin up, making her look at you, and the softness in her eyes just about floors you.

“I like being with you too,” you admit, voice low. “A lot.”

She smiles, and it’s that genuine, unguarded kind of smile that she only shows when it’s just the two of you. “You know it’s gonna be fucking insane if we do this, right? The fans, the media… they’re gonna lose their minds.”

You shrug, smirking. “Let ’em. They were gonna find out eventually. Might as well give ’em something real to scream about.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah. Just really fucking into you.”

Choa leans up and kisses you, slow and sweet, her hands framing your face. When she pulls back, she’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of nerves there too.

“You’re not scared?” she asks softly.

“Terrified,” you admit with a grin. “But I’d rather deal with that than keep pretending I’m not yours.”

Her cheeks flush at that, and she huffs out a breath. “God, you’re gonna get me in so much trouble.”

You just smirk, pulling her on top of you and wrapping your arms around her waist. “Trouble’s kinda our thing, don’t you think?”

She laughs, leaning down to kiss you again, deeper this time, and you can feel her relaxing against you. Whatever’s coming next—whatever chaos this is gonna cause—you’ll deal with it together.

[https-murdock]

trust me - matt murdock

summary: when you finally get your dads best friend alone, you take your opportunity.

word count: 1,281

warnings: ⚠️ smut, dbf!matt (it’s own warning), age gap (not stated but legal obvs), oral f!receiving

note: heyyy i wanted to put this out to battle through the writers block howeverrr im gonna write either a part 2 or a separate dbf moment cause this one ain’t that gooood sorry :( learning to put the plot in my smut lol <3

maybe it’s because he’s your dads best friend.

you’ve known him for a few years. when he and your dad started working together on a case that crossed both of their paths, they bonded and he started coming over more, and with you living at home for a while this meant you saw him each time.

you can’t help but wonder if you’re seeing it right when you catch him listening to you potter around over your dads shoulder, that smug little smirk gracing his lips again. or the uncomfortable shuffle he does when you tell your dad you’re going on a date. you can’t help but think he may just feel the same as you do.

but you leave all those feelings aside, all those wondering thoughts because that could never happen.

sometimes you can even see his cross necklace, and you almost giggle when you realise how unholy you are for thinking about your dads best friend this way.

they’d known each other years, their relationship building while you were away at school, seeing matt when you came home during breaks or for a couple visits. there was always something in the way his voice had that drawl… the way you had to press your legs together for some form of release even just from a lingering hug. so, when your dad said he was going away for work, you saw your chance.

“i’m going away for a couple days, matt is only across the road if you need him. no messing around while im gone.” your dad had said, and he had no idea what that phrase meant to you when matt was in the same sentence.

seeing your opportunity, you ‘accidentally’ leave your key inside the house after your dad leaves… giving you no other option but to go see if matt has a spare - and you know he doesn’t.

you notice the way your heart flutters, the way it sits differently in your chest as you’re approaching his front door, and you take a second to question whether this is a bad idea, when the door opens for you.

“oh, sorry sweetheart i didn’t realise you were there.” he smirks, and you wonder how he knows it’s you so quickly - matt knows it’s because he recognises that perfume that makes him painfully hard every time he smells it.

matt knows it’s a shared feeling. he can smell you from so far away, and sometimes it feels like he could taste your slick in the air after you hear him talk.

but matt could never cross that line… could he?

“it-it’s ok, i left my keys inside the house but my dads away for a couple days. you don’t have a spare key do you?” you try to speak with your voice straight, tone as it normally would be, but the more you try the more you begin to think you’re making it worse. “oh uh, no i don’t.” he says, and you both stand there in a moment of silence, both wondering what to say next to ease the tension.

“stay here. i have a spare bed you can take ‘till your dad gets back.” he says, and part of you wonders if he is annoyed like he seems, or if he’s just hesitant to let you closer.

“are you sure? i’ll keep out your way, unless you don’t want me to?” you smirk, wanting to see what pushing this a little further would get you.

“you’re trouble.”

—

“we really shouldn’t do this.” he mutters to himself, letting you slip off his dress shirt as you straddle him. “why? who’s gonna know?” you whisper into his ear, feeling his hands mould to your skin as you leave hot kisses down his neck.

“if your dad found out the way i’m touching his daughter, i would loose my head.” he grunts, flipping you so your back sticks to his leather couch. “trust me, we’ll be fine.” you confirm, gasping when he starts kissing your inner thighs.

you toss your head back, basking in the heat his lips bring to your skin, feeling the way they move closer to where you so desperately need him to be. his calloused hands finally grace the waist of your panties, dragging them painfully slow down your legs, tossing them somewhere behind him.

“fuck, wanted to taste this pussy for the longest time.” you’re unsure whether he’s talking to himself at the point, as his head lowers toward your slick.

“p-please, fuck.” the words come out as stutters, almost unintelligible as you wait to be given what you need.

finally, even though isn’t sure why, he lets his trust in you take over. licking a broad stripe up your glimmering folds and groaning to himself at the taste, matt grinds his boxer-only-clad body into the couch, searching for some release.

“god you’re so desperate for this, aren’t you sweetheart?” he chuckles from in between your legs, strong beard rubbing against your skin as you finally let your hands weasel their way into his hair. “so desperate.” you say, and the words tumble out so quick you can’t help the blush that rises on your cheeks.

“little slut, getting this wet for your daddy’s best friend, huh?” he drawls, his voice low and scratching as his lips finally wrap around your clit, a gentle suck making your legs clench around his head.

as you finally feel the exact touch you’ve been asking for, you realise that you’ve both fallen way too deep into this to back out. “i see the way you-ah, fuck, see the way you look at me,” you begin, trying to speak full sentences and failing with his tongue working the way it is, “i know you want this just as much as me.”

there’s a short scoff between your legs, but no reply as you find two of his fingers inside your walls with no build up, the hairs on your body standing up as your moans drift further. “smart mouth isn’t so loud when you’re about to come, huh?” he smirks, wet beard glimmering in the light from his windows.

that’s when it hits you like a train, his fingers still working you through your high, and his hips still grinding into his couch in search of a hint of you.

“holy shit.” is all that leaves your mouth as he sits up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. matt lifts his fingers, fresh with your slick, to your lips - and as you open them and take them in, relishing in the taste of yourself, he says “we should stop now, before it goes too far.” and your heart sinks at the realisation he’s being serious.

“do you not trust me?” you ask him, smirking at your own words from earlier, unsure whether you even trust yourself to keep your feelings separate.

“trust my best friends daughter? not sure if that’s a smart idea, sweetheart.”

tags 🏷️

@lambmurdock @parker-murdock @silas-aeiou @audreyclimbs @pupmurdock @millennial-birkin @poeticbookwormcat

[rarepairdumpster]

WWI AU

Pairing: Viktor/Silco (Arcane) Rating: M C/W: Nurse Viktor, Soldier Silco, Period-Typical Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Post War, PTSD, the boys get a pupper

Viktor volunteers as a nurse after his disabilities prevented him from being drafted. He hates the war, hates all the needless violence, but if he can help ease the suffering of even one man....then it's good work. 

Silco is brought in to the "hospital" where Viktor works, face half-obscured with blood-soaked bandages.

Viktor being the first source of warmth and tenderness that Silco has experienced in the long years since the war began. 

At his most delirious, Silco thinks Viktor might be an angel sent from God. 

Especially at night when the warm glow of the lantern sways into the ward when Viktor comes to check on the men.

Silco's certain Viktor is an angel when he kneels beside him, holding up the lantern so the light reflects in his eyes. 

"There will be more morphine coming in the morning shipment," Viktor says softly, changing out the cool cloth on Silco's head, hoping to reduce the fever. 

"I'll make sure you get some."

Silco can't stop the little sigh that escapes him when cool fingers brush over his feverish skin, his hair. He feels himself mellow against the ratty pillows and mattress, despite the pain that seemed to pulse through his whole body, despite the awful heat that made his clothes stick to his skin

Viktor smiles. "You're very lucky, you know." 

He brings his hand down and grabs hold of Silco's, even though the soldier's skin is clammy and his grip is weak. 

"I hope I'll get to hear the story one day," Viktor rubs his thumb against Silco's hot skin.

"Lucky," Silco murmurs, blinking his one visible eye tiredly. The quiet gloom that surrounds them beyond the scope of the small lantern is  what gives him the hazy courage to continue. "Yes, to be greeted with such a beautiful face before I die."

Because Silco knows infection and illness kill more soldiers than bombs and bullets do

Viktor flushes, used to hearing soldiers call the other nurses beautiful, but there were only a few that had ever said that to him. 

"I hope to greet you many more times," Viktor says, taking his hand from Silco's and reaching up to smooth his damp hair back.

Silco smiles tiredly, but then winces as it pulls at the mangled side of his face.

Viktor winces in sympathy; having changed his bandages a number of times, he knows how gruesome the wound is.

"Soon." Viktor's hand lingers over his hair. "Things will be better soon."

Silco just sighs and falls back into a hazy sleep, comforted by the cool touch of Viktor's hand.

Fighting off the infection is hard battle. Silco spends weeks under his care, getting better, and then getting worse, in a vicious cycle.

During that time, Viktor visits his bedside as often as he can. Reads him his letters. Articles from any newspapers the hospital manages to get their hands on. 

And they talk in small bursts at night under the lantern light. 

Viktor is surprised and delighted to learn they're both from the same shitty town.

As Silco starts to truly improve, Viktor finds himself a little melancholy. While his job is to make Silco and the rest of the men well enough to either return home or to the front lines, it hurt him knowing Silco was bound to be leaving his care soon.

Now half-blind, Silco gets discharged from service and is sent home when he starts to improve too much to be kept in hospital.

The day Silco is set to leave, Viktor comes to see him off.  He wants to hug him so badly, but he knows that wouldn't be appropriate, so Viktor just offers his hand.

Silco takes his hand in both of his and squeezes just a little.

"When the war is over, and you're free of this place," Silco says quietly, "come find me."

Viktor can feel his cheeks flush a little when he nods, and misses the warmth of Silco's hands when he finally has to let them go. 

He watches as the truck takes Silco away, waiting until he can't see a speck of him in the distance.

It's two long, bloody years before Viktor is able to return home. Thinking of Silco keeps him sane, but as the time goes on, Viktor starts to accept it as a fantasy that was never meant to be. There was no doubt that Silco had already moved on and forgot about him, so why couldn't Viktor do the same?

Viktor tries "dating", or as much as he can when he's elbow deep in bloodied soldiers crying for their mothers and praying to a god they're not really sure exists after all this horror.

He's tired when the war ends. He's not sure the tiredness will ever fade. But at least he gets to go home. At least he gets to wash blood from his hands for the last time.

There's no relief even on the long train ride home. Bloody faces flash through Viktor's mind as he tries to replace them with views of the mangled countryside. 

It's only when he steps off the train that he can seem to get a fresh breath, one that doesn't have the aftertaste of death. He can't even manage to look up from the ground until he hears a familiar voice.

"Vitya?"

Viktor whips his head up and its like the world stops.

Silco.

Silco, standing about 30 feet away, at the other end of the station. Wearing nice civilian clothes, reminiscent of a banker or some such position. His hand is giving idle scritches to a dopey-faced dog.

Viktor starts to tear up, because he didn't think he'd ever see the man again, even knowing the two were from the same crappy place.

Viktor knows it's risky as he turns towards Silco. 

He knows people might talk as he drops his bags and awkwardly runs towards Silco, closing the distance. 

He doesn't care as he wraps his arms around Silco's torso and buries his face into the man's neck, leaning on him as his cane hangs in the crook of his elbow. 

"You remembered me"

"I could never forget you," Silco can't help but wrap his free arm around Viktor and sigh into Viktor's hair. "I've been here for every train since the war ended."

There is some comfort in knowing that there are other reunions happening at the station. Boys, and men, all crying. Hugging mothers, fathers, wives, children. 

Maybe no one will notice two men hugging a little more closely than usual.

Silco is the one to finally pull away, smiling as he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and uses it to dab Viktor's cheeks. 

"I'll put a kettle on at home and we can talk," Silco suggests. 

Viktor nods. His parents had passed just before the war, and that was one of the reasons he joined the nursing effort. He didn't really have anywhere else to go.

Silco goes to retrieve Viktor's bags while Viktor and the dog get acquainted.

The drive back to Silco's home is so relaxing, with the dog resting its head on one of his legs, and Silco's hand resting on the other.

Viktor had dreamt it would be like this, back when he was nursing Silco. He had almost forgotten.

When they arrive, Viktor's glad that Silco's cottage is a good deal away from the village, on its own land, away from prying eyes.

Viktor catches Silco's hand before he can disappear into the kitchen after dropping Viktor's bags in the front room.

Silco looks back at him.

"I..." Viktor swallows. "I missed you. Every day."

Silco turns and grabs Viktor's elbows. "My angel," Silco smiles. "I've spent every moment I've been home preparing and hoping I'd be honored with your presence again."

When Silco leads him into the kitchen, Viktor learns that Silco used part of his ration books to collect things that Viktor had mentioned he liked in passing during their conversations.

Viktor picks up a jar of his favourite jam from the counter. He feels himself tear up as he stares down at the label.

Silco takes the jar from him and sets it back down before tilting Viktor's face up with gentle fingers.

"Now, I hope you'll allow me the pleasure of something I wished for since we met," Silco whispers just above Viktor's lips. 

Viktor reaches up and grabs the lapels of Silco's jacket, closing the rest of the distance between them. He wasn't going to deprive Silco or himself any longer.

Silco forgets about making tea entirely, his hand now sinking into soft hair as he crushes Viktor close, devouring the fuck out of his mouth.

His other hand drops to rub over the curve of Viktor's lower back

Viktor's never been kissed or touched like this, and he lets out a soft gasp as Silco's hand presses him closer.

Silco pulls away softly, trailing from Viktor's lips to his jaw. "Do you still want tea, darling?"

Viktor shivers at the breath that tickles his ear. "Tea can wait."

Silco reaches down and hoists Viktor's legs up as Viktor gasps then chuckles. He carries him through the small cottage to the soft bed in a room in the back of the house. 

Silco lays Viktor down and takes off his shoes, then sits on the edge to remove his own. They each shed their outer jackets, and Viktor pulls Silco down into the bed just as he's divested of it.

They spend the rest of the day kissing lazily as Viktor drifts in and out of sleep, exhausted from travelling. Silco only gets up a few times to keep house and feed the dog, but stays with Viktor as much as he can, still amazed he's really there.

Silco soothes his hands over porcelain skin and soft hair as often as possible, making up for lost time.

Sometimes, during these long two years, he'd thought perhaps he'd imagined the angelic nurse that had so often sat at his bedside in that terrible place.

The PTSD nightmares set in during the nights that follow, with Viktor trembling and weeping in his sleep, dreams filled with bloodied faces and limbs as soldiers grab at him and beg him to please don't let them die please please please please

The nights he dreams of Silco perishing from the infection are the worst. 

Silco has to crush him close and assure him that he's alive, that he's fine, that Viktor saved him each time.

By comparison, Silco seems relatively unaffected by the war. 

Until the first time a car backfires while he and Viktor are out and about. And Viktor gets the wind knocked out of him as Silco tackles him to the ground, protecting him from "enemy fire"

Viktor has to hold him close and remind him that they're not at war anymore. 

Their dog begins to notice when one of them might be having panic attacks and helps them through it.

At first, it takes a long time to come down from that protective panic, but between Viktor and their dog, Silco starts to recover faster over time. He never gets 100% better, but he improves by a lot.

Silco starts keeping a journal, filled with recollections from the war, and macabre poetry about his experiences. 

One poem about the sense of drowning in mud and rain and blood makes Viktor cry

They still live a full life and later, end up taking care of an orphaned girl from the village who was bright and witty, and too many people saw as a problem.

Arch + Woods

[strngehorizons]

Talk

Sam x reader

Summary: You and Sam have been friends for years, but something has always lingered beneath the surface. It takes one Hozier song and a lot of pent-up tension to realize that you both feel the same way.

Heavily inspired by both this photo of Sammy and the song Talk by Hozier, but very lightly edited. Mostly just pure self-indulgent filth, I'm sorry

Warnings: cheating (oopsie), unprotected sex (I'm terrible at this so if it needs other warnings, someone pls tell me)

Your phone started vibrating in the cup holder as you pulled onto Sam's new street. You reached your thumb across the steering wheel to press the Bluetooth button before slowing down to read the address numbers neatly printed across the mailboxes out your tinted windows.

"Helloooooooooo?" You drew the word out, eyes still scanning for the house number that Sam had texted you hours earlier.

"Hey kid," Sam's raspy voice rang out through your car speakers, making you smile. "How far away are ya?"

"Hmmmm, about 10 houses," you answered, unexplained anticipation building like a lump in the back of your throat.

"Perrrrrrfect," he drawled. "I'm in the backyard, so just come through the gate at the side when you get here. Rose, get away from that!"

You heard a clatter in the background, before you heard Sam's quiet "fuck" come across the phone line. You giggled to yourself, surmising that the bouncy puppy had knocked something over.

"Gotta go. See you in a minute, kid." Sam hung up on the call before you could get another word out. It didn't matter, you were pulling into his lengthy driveway anyways. As tall pines surrounded the car on both sides, you thought about the situation you were heading into.

You and Sam had been friends for a few years. What started as acquaintances quickly blossomed into friendship when you realized how much you had in common - you had started cutting your teeth in Nashville as the administrative assistant to the head of Sam's record label, so you were often around the offices during meetings and the studio during recording sessions. As the months passed, and you memorized the guys' coffee orders, you had begun to build favour with the four of them. Sam had taken a particular liking to you during one of the label's industry dinners, picking your brain about music and movies and everything in between. The two of you had a friendship that couldn't be explained to anyone but you, and you had learned to ignore teasing comments from the other guys long ago. Your boyfriend, and Sam's girlfriend, were far less immune to the sensitivity of the other boys' teasing - your boyfriend didn't particularly care for Sam, and Sam's girlfriend didn't really care for you. You had tried to hang out as a foursome multiple times, but it usually ended with you and Sam in a conversation that the other two just couldn't relate or contribute to.

So, much to their dismay, you and Sam had resorted to hanging out every once in a while without the two of them. It made for awkward nights when you returned home to your boyfriend, but you knew that you had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing had ever happened with Sam, and you were certain that nothing ever would. Your miniscule crush on Sam was suppressed into the deepest depths of your soul, because you were certain that he would never feel the same way. And there was no point in ruining your friendship, or your current relationship, for something that would never happen.

All of this is what brought you to the top of Sam's new driveway, bottle of wine and housewarming gift on the backseat, ready for a night to just hang out and exist together.

You gathered all of your items from the car before stepping out and grabbing your packages from the backseat. The car door slamming shut alerted Rose to your presence, and she started barking from the backyard.

You wandered towards the sound at the side gate that Sam had mentioned, taking in the beauty of his new house as you walked. The house had a rustic quality to it, and it definitely looked like it belonged in the woodland neighborhood. Sam had moved out of the hectic rush of Nashville's east side, and had chosen to settle about 30 minutes out of the city in a spot closer to the Tennessee mountains. The new property definitely seemed to be more his style, laid back and surrounded by nature just as you always pictured him to be.

You reached the gate, shuffling the items in your arms until you freed one of your hands to unlatch it. You were greeted by a bouncy puppy, smiling as you reached down to pat the top of Rose's head. She pranced next to you excitedly while you walked further into the yard, spotting Sam across from the inground swimming pool. He was kneeling on the stone patio, leaning back so that he was almost sitting on his bare feet. Spread out in front of him was an array of soils, plant pots, and orchids. He looked up when you approached, giving you a coy smile and making the effort to stand to his feet.

"Well, well, look who it is..." His smile spread across his face even bigger when you slid your sunglasses up into your hair like a headband. Sam walked closer to you, reaching out to take the items from your arms. You were suddenly glad that you had so many things to carry - it meant that there was a buffer in between you and Sam for the time being. You always felt awkward meeting up with him or saying goodbye when you had nothing in your hands... the two of you made a subconscious effort never to let physical touch linger too long, and you had never once hugged Sam in the years that you had been close friends. It was part of the reason why you felt your crush was not reciprocated - the man in front of you now clearly wanted nothing to do with touching you in any capacity.

Your mind brought you back to the present before you could spiral too far, and you turned to follow Sam as he walked towards the back door of the house. You spotted a broken terra cotta pot on the table next to the door.

"Is that what Rose broke?" You asked, pointing to the table.

Sam just laughed. "You heard that, huh?" You nodded, catching Sam's eye while he opened the door. "Yeah, she's a menace..."

Sam trailed off as you both entered his new space. Spread out in front of you was a sizeable kitchen, complete with a tiled island in the centre and a double oven on the far wall.

"Holy shit, Sammy," you lamented as you took in the room. He was smiling while he placed the items you had brought on the counter, turning around to put the bottle of wine in the fridge. "This is incredible!"

"You think so?" He asked, suddenly appearing self conscious. "I mean, it's been such a big change and I'm so happy, but.... sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision by moving out here."

"I think it's amazing," you answered honestly. "It's so peaceful, and just so... you."

He smiled so big at your statement that it showed off all his teeth, his plump lips pulling back in the most beautiful way. You cleared your throat and gestured towards the doorway that led to the rest of the house.

"But I want the full tour," you prompted, feeling butterflies erupt in your stomach from the way that Sam's eyes were studying you. He did this sometimes when the two of you would hang out - studying your every movement, down to the twitch of your nose or the slight crinkle between your eyebrows when you realized what he was doing. It felt like he was trying to decipher your deepest secrets, and there were definitely thoughts within your brain that you didn't want him to clue into. You had reached a careful balance of thoughts and actions over the years of being his friend, and the only time you felt the facade crack a little bit were times when he studied you like this.

You blushed under his intense gaze, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear at the same time. This movement seemed to break his trance, and he suddenly remembered who he was and what you were doing.

"A tour, right! Follow me, I'll give you the grand tour..." Sam trailed off as he started walking out the kitchen doorway, reaching up to touch his fingertips to the door frame on his way out.

He gestured wildly as he toured you through the rest of the raised bungalow, taking you through the hallway that separated the bathroom and three bedrooms from the main space. One of the bedrooms was being used for art supplies and paintings, and another was being used for music equipment and instruments. He passed by the third bedroom door casually, raising a hand as you walked by.

"This is the master bedroom, where the magic happens, yada yada yada..." he trailed off, trying to remain nonchalant while he watched you peek your head through the doorframe. The room held the glow of the late afternoon sun, and the king bed that rested in the center was covered in dark green bedding and orange pillows. A mid century modern dresser stood against the far wall, with a framed picture of Rose on top next to an intense looking speaker system.

You ducked your head back out of the doorframe and turned your attention back to Sam in the hallway. "Wow, your room is very zen," you remarked, carrying on down the hall.

"Thanks... that means a lot, coming from the 'zen queen'," he joked. "The only thing I'm really missing from the old place is my plants," he continued, "but that's what I was starting to work on when you showed up."

"Well don't let me keep you from your important planting," you jested. "I'm sure I could find something else to do with my night if you want to continue..."

The hurt look that flashed across Sam's face at your comment caught you off guard briefly, but he quickly recovered.

"Actually, I was waiting for someone to show up cause I need some help. So I'm going to put you to work," he smiled. "Consider it repayment for the big fancy dinner I'm going to cook you later."

"It doesn't count as repayment if you haven't cooked the dinner yet, Sammy."

"Fine, prepayment, whatever..." he rolled his eyes as the two of you bickered your way back to the kitchen. He continued walking back to the door that led to the backyard, while you stopped next to the island.

"Want to get some wine poured while I run outside and grab something?" He asked, pointing to the cupboard next to the fridge. "Glasses are in there, and the opener is in the drawer above the dishwasher. I'll be right back." He gave a mock salute before slipping out the door.

You got to work on pulling wine glasses out of the cupboard Sam had pointed out, retrieving the bottle of wine you had brought from the fridge and twisting the top off. You poured two generous glasses, taking a sip from one while you watched Sam open the back door again. He was carrying a mess of rope and plant pots, placing everything on the tiled counter of the island before reaching for his wine glass. He hummed to himself, glancing over to where the bottle rested on the counter.

"You didn't need the opener?" He asked, swishing the wine around before taking a small sip.

"Sam." You leveled him with a look. "I learned my lesson with bottle corks years ago, remember? I've been using twist-offs ever since."

"Right, right, how could I ever forget?" He chuckled to himself, no doubt lost in the memory of you trying and failing to get the cork out of a wine bottle and smashing the whole thing on the middle of your kitchen floor. It had been a party at your apartment, and that spill had led to a days long argument with your boyfriend. He thought you had done it on purpose for attention. Sam had been the one to run to your pantry for extra paper towels, carefully bagging the broken glass and walking it out to the apartment building's dumpster before returning to the party. His girlfriend had watched the interaction with shifty eyes, but you were just thankful that he had taken over the cleaning. Your hands had been shaking too badly to risk having anywhere near the broken glass.

Sam took a longer sip of his wine, trying to clear the mildly unpleasant memory, and gestured to the materials he had brought in from outside.

"So I have these macrame plant holders," he started, "and I want to hang them in front of the kitchen windows. But I think it's a two person job, cause someone needs to hold them up while the other person drills the hooks into the ceiling."

You nodded as he spoke, following along with his plans. "Whatever you need, Sammy boy," you hummed, grabbing a macrame rope from the counter. He went to fetch the drill while you dragged a kitchen chair over to the first window frame.

"I think if you stand on the chair and hold up the hook, I can reach it with the drill since, ya know, I'm taller." He gave you a smirk.

"Congratutions on being tall," you rolled your eyes. "Can't relate," you added.

"I know you can't," he smiled down at you smugly, pressing the drill's button and whirring the machine in his hand while stepping closer to you.

You took steps backwards as he took slow steps forwards, until the backs of your legs hit the kitchen chair you had placed by the window pane. Sam held eye contact with you as you swallowed the nervous lump in your throat. Suddenly, he reached his free hand out to hold in front of you. You took it slowly, stepping up so that you were standing on the kitchen chair. You reluctantly let go of his hand once you were steady, wishing that you could have lingered longer with his touch on yours.

In your new positions, Sam's face rested at the height of your sternum. He reached up easily with the drill, to the place where he wanted the plant holder to hang from, and started making a preliminary hole. You watched his careful hands as they smoothed away the excess drywall dust, moving out of the way for you to reach up with the hook. You attached it into the ceiling, twisting the screwed end in to secure it and actively trying to ignore the way that you could feel Sam's exhaling breath landing on your slightly exposed chest. The closeness of his breathing made you wobble on the chair, losing your balance only slightly before Sam's free hand reached out to your hip in an effort to steady you.

"Careful," he rasped, watching you turn the screw the last couple of times before removing your hands from the ceiling. His eyes met yours when you brought your hands down to your sides, snatching his own hand away from your body as if it had touched an open flame.

"You good?" He asked, reaching out a hand for you to hop down from the chair. You just nodded, letting your feet hit the floor again and dragging the chair over to the next window opening in order to repeat the process.

The two of you worked in silent tandem, repeating the movements twice more to cover off all of the windows in Sam's new kitchen. When the last macrame holder was screwed in, you dragged the chair back to the table in the breakfast nook while Sam retrieved the potted plants from where he had left them on the island. You watched silently as he maneuvered the pots into the holders, adjusting the plants so that their leaves hung down between the ropes.

When he reached up to do the second plant pot, you realized that his black button up shirt had ridden up towards his belly button. A light dusting of hair trailed over his tanned skin and led into the confines of his pants, making you blush and turn away to your wineglass. You gave your head a slight shake to ward away the thoughts you were having about your friend - you tried to turn your mind to your boyfriend, wondering what he was doing at home right now. The problem was, you didn't really care.

"There," Sam proclaimed as he finished fluffing the leaves on the last plant. "That feels a little more like home to me." He smiled at your handiwork, and then turned to smile at you.

"Looks great," you agreed, nodding into your wine glass as you pushed it to your lips once again. Your cheeks were starting to feel flushed - you'd downed a fair bit of the alcohol while waiting for Sam to finish adjusting the plants.

"You know what would make it feel even more like home, I bet?" You asked, raising your eyebrows in Sam's direction.

"This will be good," he deadpanned in return.

"A record! You do have your player hooked up already, don't you?" Your eyes betrayed your excitement - Sam had the best record collection of anyone you'd ever met.

"Uhhh, duh!" came Sam's response, grabbing his wine off of the counter and waving a hand behind him for you to follow into the living room.

You settled onto Sam's pink velvet couch, the numerous throw pillows instantly engulfing you and making you sink into the cushions. You placed your wine glass on the coffee table in front of you while you took in the room in more detail than you'd been able to on your brief tour earlier.

The room was large, easily accounting for Sam's piano that stood in the corner. Across from the couch was a fireplace, a large screen TV hanging above it. The left side of the room is where Sam stood in front of a vintage looking sideboard. The cupboard of the unit stood open, and Sam was shuffling through the extensive record collection hidden inside. His record player stood proudly on the top of the walnut coloured piece of furniture.

While he searched for the perfect album, you took another sweeping look across the room. You noticed that the only photos in frames were of Rose and Sam's family. The only knick knacks around the space were the ones that Sam had brought home from touring the world. Your breath caught as you made the realization - you had yet to see anything belonging to Sam's girlfriend in his new house. On the one hand, it was his house... so it made sense that all the items would be his. On the other hand, they had been together for years at this point... you thought for sure that there would be some items of hers laying around, or at least some photos of them in the frames around the room.

"Uhhh, Sammy?" You started, stomach turning over as you anticipated asking a dumb question.

"Whats up?" He responded casually, finally choosing a record and flipping the cover over between his long fingers. He dumped the record out of the sleeve into his hand, placing it deftly on the turntable and dropping the needle onto the edge. You watched in a quiet trance as the beginning notes of Hozier's Wasteland Baby album began to play.

Sam turned around to you with his eyebrows raised, silently wondering if you were going to continue.

"It's just..." you didn't know how to phrase the question you wanted to ask. "I don't see any of Kayley's stuff around here. Or any pictures of you guys. Did I miss something?"

Sam huffed a small breath through his nostrils, settling into the couch beside you.

"I mean, we broke up if that's what you're asking."

You felt a jolt of electric energy shoot through you as you processed his words.

"What? When? We were with you guys like a month ago and everything seemed fine!" You blurted out, trying to process the new information.

"Okay, that was over a month ago, thank you very much," Sam mumbled. You threw him a look in response. "We just... we were on different pages. She assumed that me moving here meant that she was moving in, and I just... I wanted space. When I set her straight on the fact that she wasn't moving in here with me, she suggested that we see other people." He cleared his throat and glanced over at you. "Actually, she suggested that I see you instead."

Your mouth popped open in shock as you struggled to regulate your breathing. "Why on earth would she suggest that?" You mumbled, already knowing the answer. People had teased you and Sam about your natural chemistry for years. But it didn't matter, you had a boyfriend that you lived with and had loved for years. You loved him, right? Yes, you reminded yourself. Yes you did. At one point. But did you still? It didn't matter. Just because Sam suddenly found himself single didn't mean that he wanted to be with you. He hadn't ended his relationship. He would have still been with her, willingly, if she hadn't broken up with him.

All of these thoughts tumbled through your head as you and Sam maintained eye contact across the couch. He was studying you closely again, trying to peer into the depths of your thoughts and monitoring any twitch of movement on your face. The weight of his gaze was intense, and you were the first to look away.

You leaned forward to pick up your wine, taking a big gulp before setting the glass back down on the table. "Well I'm sorry to hear that, Sammy. I know how much you cared about her."

"That's true," he hummed. "I did care about her. But did I love her? I'm not sure."

You stared down at your hands, wracking your brain for something to say in return.

"Oh well, it's probably for the best," Sam continued with a sigh. "She was never really supportive of our friendship anyways. And she couldn't accept the fact that you aren't going anywhere. You're in my life for good, kid. I hope you realize that."

You glanced up, meeting the intensity of Sam's brown eyes while he took a big sip from his own wine glass.

"Trevor doesn't like it when we hang out either," you responded. "I'm pretty sure he thinks something is going on between us." You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of the assumption.

Sam let out a chuckle beside you. "I kind of gathered that," he laughed. "That dude looks like he wants to beat the shit out of me every chance that he gets."

You smiled too at that, knowing that Sam was only partially joking, and leaned back further into the plush pillows of the couch. The soft sounds of Hozier floated over you as you let your eyes close for a second.

"Sammy, these speakers are amazing," you mumbled out, eyes still closed.

"They're nice, huh? Want to see something cool?" You felt the couch shift beside you as Sam stood up, and when you opened your eyes he was standing in front of you holding an outstretched hand in your direction.

"I always want to see something cool," you replied with a smile, taking his hand and letting him pull you up from the comfort of the couch.

Sam kept a hold of your hand as he pulled you down the hallway that led to the bedrooms and the bathroom. He took a sharp turn into his bedroom, dropping your hand once you made it through the doorway and walking over to flick the power switch on the speakers that sat atop his dresser. The same Hozier song that was playing from the record in the living room boomed through the bedroom speakers.

"Holy shit, they're all connected?!" You asked excitedly. Sam just nodded at you, smiling at your reaction.

"Pretty cool, huh?"

"The coolest, Sammy. You're pretty much the coolest person I know," you smiled.

You sat down on the end of his bed as the final notes of Shrike played out through the speakers. Sam had been hovering near the dresser, but he slowly made his way over towards you while the first chords of Talk played out through the house.

You had spread your arms out behind you, propping yourself up on your hands while leaning back slightly to watch Sam as he approached. He stopped in front of you, stepping in between your slightly parted legs. His presence loomed over you in a way that made you short of breath. You held each other's stare as he took another small step forward, now crowding you slightly. You held your breath as the chorus of the song started.

I won't deny

I've got in my mind now

All the things i would do

So I'll try to talk refined

For fear that you'll find out

How I'm imagining you

As Hozier's words hung softly in the air around the two of you, Sam slowly brought his hand up to your face. He ran the pad of his thumb over your closed lips, catching slightly on the plumpness of your bottom one while he dragged his finger over it.

You swallowed thickly, leaning back even further and craning your neck up to maintain eye contact. The position allowed for your neck to be completely exposed, and the slow drag of Sam's hand followed the curve of it until his fingers lightly wrapped around your throat.

He leaned forward even more, making you almost horizontal on the bed, and whispered against your lips. "This song has always made me think of you."

It felt like fireworks were going off in your brain. What did he mean? Did he think of you in the way that you thought of him sometimes? Was he willing to risk your friendship for this? Were you willing to risk your relationship for this?

The alarm bells in your head were silenced by one simple thought that overrode all the others - you would go anywhere and do anything for this man in front of you, consequences be damned.

He brought your attention back to the present by lightly squeezing his fingers around your throat.

"Just say the word and I'll stop," he whispered, his breath fanning across your parted lips. "God, I need to know how you taste. You've been driving me insane for years..."

His voice trailed off as he leaned in impossibly closer to you, watching closely for the slight nod you gave before he finally covered your lips with his. He pressed himself further into you, letting go of your throat in favour of holding himself up with an arm extended next to your head. His lips parted slowly, inviting your tongue into his mouth and pushing back with his own to deepen the kiss.

Your moan was stifled against Sam's lips, but he seemed to take it as encouragement to kiss you even harder. You leaned back onto your elbows, eventually falling to your back as Sam drove you even further into the bed. Your hands skated their way up Sam's torso, pausing to undo the few buttons that had been done up on his shirt, and eventually they found their home in the hair at the base of Sam's neck. You gave a light tug to the strands, earning a deep groan from the man above you that vibrated against your lips. You couldn't help but smile against his kiss, making him pause and pull away from you for a moment.

"You have no idea how many times I've had to hold myself back from doing that," Sam admitted quietly, ducking down to brush his nose back and forth against yours a few times.

You smiled, adjusting yourself on the bed underneath him and lightly thrusting your hips into his. You could feel how hard he was already, even throught the layers of clothing separating you two.

He groaned again at your movements, reaching up to grasp your wrists before bringing them back down to pin against the bed above your head. He held you there for a moment, running his thumbs over the delicate skin on your wrists.

"Show me," you whispered. His eyebrows knitted together in silent question, not understanding what you meant. "Show me what else you've wanted to do to me," you clarified, daring him to make another move.

A devilish smirk appeared on his lips before he leaned down to nuzzle his lips into the skin between your neck and your ear. "As you wish," he mumbled.

Sam's lips began tracing a pathway from the side of your neck down to your sternum, pausing briefly to have you lift your shirt over your head. He began working back down, hovering his lips low on your hip bones while he shimmied your shorts down and off your legs. Lying beneath him in just your bra and panties for the first time, you didn't have time to be self conscious. He let out a shaky breath as he ran his hands delicately up your sides, taking his time feeling the smooth skin and admiring you in a way that he had never had the privilege of seeing.

His eyes traced up to your face while his hands made their way to your bra, keeping eye contact as he pulled the cups down to expose your nipples. They immediately pebbled in the cool air of the room, and Sam's glance down to them made him release a quiet whimper. He immediately leaned in, taking one into his mouth and suckling harshly. You let out a cry at the feeling, arching your back and tossing your head back into the mattress. Your hands reached down to hold the sides of Sam's head, holding him in place as he continued running his mouth around your chest.

He released the first nipple with a pop, and made his way over to the other side to repeat the process. His movements were quickly reducing you to a whimpering mess beneath him.

You arched your back again, bringing one hand down from the side of Sam's head to reach between you. You were desperate to feel him, desperate to make him feel as good as he was making you feel.

You slid your hand into the waistband of his linen pants, gliding over his smooth hips before wrapping a hand around his hard cock. As soon as you made contact, Sam's lips left your nipple and he rested his forehead on your sternum, breathing heavily.

"Fuck," he breathed out, trying to control himself.

"Is this what you always thought it would feel like?" You whispered into his hair, sliding your hand back and forth lightly. You collected a bead of precum from the tip, running your thumb along the underside and silently marveling at how big he was.

"Fuck no," he shook his head, lifting slightly to look down in between you at where your hand disappeared into his pants. "This is so much better." He looked up into your eyes, leaning forward to kiss you before continuing. "The amount of times I've jerked off and wished it was your touch..."

He trailed off as you smiled, somewhat proud that you weren't the only one pining in your friendship over the years.

"I've thought about you too," you admitted, continuing the slow movements of your hand.

Sam reached up to pinch your nipple lightly. "Hmmm," he mumbled, stumbling over his thoughts while your thumb ran around his tip again. "What did you think about?"

"Mostly how badly I wanted to feel you inside me," you blushed. "And I had a feeling you had a big cock."

"Oh my god," Sam sighed, dropping his forehead to rest on yours. "Are you gonna take it all?" He rasped, making you gasp and arch your back again as you nodded.

"Can I suck it first?" You whispered, biting your lip while you guaged his reaction. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, bringing a hand up to hold onto your throat again.

His thumb migrated over your chin and into your mouth, where you rolled your tongue over it and sucked softly. Sam drew in a shuddered breath, keeping his eyes locked to where his thumb disappeared into your mouth. You felt him throb in your hand, becoming impossibly harder.

"Fuck, as much as I would love that..." he spoke slowly and quietly, "I don't think I'll last very long. Next time," he whispered into the thick air between you. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at the mention of doing this again.

You smiled around his thumb in your mouth before he withdrew it, drawing away from you completely and moving to stand above you at the end of the bed. The elastic of his waistband snapped against his tan skin as he stood, your hand slipping out of his pants in the process. He slowly stripped while he stared you down from his position at your feet, throwing his shirt, pants, and boxers off to the side of his room.

You brought your hand up to your mouth as you watched him, licking away the salty precum from your fingers. Your eyes closed briefly as you savored the taste of him and you let out a satisfied hum. From the end of the bed, you heard a groan that made you open your eyes.

You had a perfect view of Sam standing between your bent legs, his own hand working slowly over his cock.

"Holy fuck, kid," he whispered. "You like the way I taste?"

You nodded at him with heavily lidded eyes, grinning at the effect you were clearly having on him. Your hands trailed down your own body, enjoying the way that Sam's eyes were following every move, until they reached the elastic band at the top of your panties. You made a point to slide them down slowly over your legs, bending your knees at a ninety degree angle so that you could slide them off completely. You tossed them to the side of the room where they landed with the pile of clothing Sam had already created, and planted your feet flat on the bed. You let your legs fall open slightly, intentionally giving Sam a sneak peek of your pussy.

He let out another strained groan above you, shaking his head as he moved to wrap one hand around each of your ankles.

"I think you're trying to kill me," he said softly. Your giggle turned into a yelping sound as he yanked you closer towards the edge of the bed, using his grip on your ankles to fold your legs back. He leaned over your lower half, eyes stuck on the way that your pussy was spread out just for him.

"Keep your legs just like this," he ordered, trailing his hands up to your calves and then to your knees as he spread your legs even wider. He kept his hands over your knees as he leaned down closer to your center, letting a trail of spit dangle from his mouth to land on your pussy.

You clenched around nothing as his saliva landed on you, and Sam was studying your body closely enough that he caught the subtle movement.

"You like that?" he questioned, eyes briefly flickering up to meet yours. You nodded in response, swallowing audibly while your gaze followed Sam's right index finger moving towards your core.

You gasped and tossed your head back into the duvet as his finger rubbed a slow circle over your aching clit. Again, you clenched around nothing while your head lifted slightly to look at Sam.

"Please," you whimpered, trying to maintain your composure.

"Please what, baby?" Sam teased, keeping his touch light. "You want me to fill you up? What do you want, my fingers or my cock? Use your words, sweetheart."

You groaned at his words, lightly thrusting your hips up into his hand in an effort to gain more friction from his finger that was still slowly circling you.

"I don't care, Sammy," you whispered. "Please, just do something. You're driving me crazy..." The last part of your sentence left your lips on a whine, desperate for Sam to touch you.

"Shhhhh, baby, it's okay," he soothed, dragging his finger down towards your entrance. "You can have my fingers for now, baby. Got to make sure you're nice and stretched out for me..."

His voice trailed off into a groan when his index finger slipped into you. You cried out at the sensation, thrusting your hips upwards once again to draw him in further.

He slowly drew his finger out of you before plunging it back in, repeating the pattern until you were writhing underneath him and begging for more.

"You want another?" Sam questioned softly, eyes glued to the spot where his hand connected to your body.

"Please, Sammy," you whispered desperately.

"You sound so pretty like this," he mused, removing his finger and rubbing it over your clit before bringing two back down to your entrance. "Deep breath, baby girl. You're so tight, I don't want to hurt you..."

You followed his instructions and inhaled deeply, accepting the added intrusion with ease. His fingers curled into you as you clawed at the duvet, desperate for something to hold onto.

"Sammy," you moaned out on a whisper. "That's so good. So good..." You trailed off, closing your eyes and turning to bury your face into the bedding underneath you.

Your eyes were ripped open again as you felt another string of saliva land on your clit. You watched as Sam's free hand left its resting place on your knee and began rubbing over your core. The combined sensation of both of his hands working over you drove you closer to the edge, and you clenched down hard around his fingers.

"Think you can cum like this, baby?"

"Mhmm," you nodded, hands reaching to pinch your own nipples. "Keep talking to me, Sammy. I love it when you talk to me..."

"God, you're so fucking good," Sam rasped, leaning over you more closely and letting his eyes trail over every inch of your body. "You're so fucking tight, and wet, I just know you're gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock..."

You clenched around his fingers again, making him moan out on his next breath as he started pumping them faster into you.

"Come on, baby, give it up," he coaxed. "I can feel it, you want to let go so badly. Make a mess of me, sweetheart, come on..."

His left hand moved faster in circles over your clit while his right hand drove his two fingers into you faster and harder. The edges of your vision started to blacken as you felt your hips lifting off the bed, pausing there while your eyes pinched shut and you cried out. You rode the waves of pleasure until you stopped seeing stars, Sam's eyes glued to your face the whole time.

"I could watch you do that every day for the rest of my life," he whispered, slowly withdrawing his hands from your core. He smoothed his hands around to your hips, working his way up over the soft skin at your sides and working his thumbs over the peaks of your nipples.

Your eyes slowly opened as you melted into the soft movements of his hands, humming to yourself and taking in the sight of him above you.

One of his hands left your body, and you watched him wrap a fist around his own cock that had been left to obscenely bob between you. You licked your lips when you spied a drop of precum glistening at the tip.

"Sam," you whispered, reaching out to grasp his torso. You pulled him closer to you in the process, your hands gripping the smooth skin of his abdomen.

"Are you ready for me, baby?" he questioned, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours while his hand continued its subtle movements between you.

You nodded, moving his face with yours in the process. You angled your face up slightly, tilting your lips towards his. He took the hint, capturing your mouth in a heated kiss as he moaned against you.

When you broke apart for a breath, you whispered against his lips. "Fuck me like you do in your dreams, Sammy..."

He let out a whimper, threading his free hand into your hair and taking a step even closer to you at the foot of the bed. His sudden closeness caused the tip of his cock to grind against your clit, and you cried out.

"There it is, baby," he rasped, continuing to rub himself against you. "That's how you sound in my dreams..."

With one more slant of his hips, he lined up his cock at your entrance. He slid in inch by inch, watching your face intently as your mouth dropped open and your eyes rolled back. He smiled, knowing that the intensity of the feeling was mutual, before pulling back slightly and slamming his hips back into yours.

Sam straightened his posture slightly, leaning back to watch where he disappeared into you. His hands wandered down your sides, coming to rest at your hips just above the crease where your legs start. Once he had a grip on you, he started moving with more intent. He pounded into you relentlessly, watching your tits bounce with every snap of his hips. The grunts escaping his parted lips matched the whines escaping yours, and the two of you were completely lost in one another.

"That's it, baby," Sam panted, nuzzling his face into your neck. His lips left a trail from your collarbone down to your nipple, where he latched on like his life depended on it. After sucking it harshly for a few seconds, his lips let it go and he licked softly over the peak. He let his tongue trace across the center of your sternum as he repeated the process with your other nipple.

"Sammy, please," you cried, fingers threading into his hair and keeping his face pressed into your chest. He was still moving his hips at a bruising pace, his cock swelling inside you even more as he listened to you beg.

"I've got you," he whispered into your chest. "Just let it happen, baby. Give up another one for me, you know you want to..."

You were nodding along with his words as he spoke, convincing yourself to just let go. You felt the orgasm blooming inside you but held yourself back from the edge.

"It's too much, Sammy," you cried, tears rolling out the corners of your eyes. "It's too strong. It feels too good. I - I -..."

He lifted his head from your chest, moving one of his hands up from your waist to wipe away the tears on your face. Still, his length pounded into you with no reprieve.

"I told you, baby, I've got you," he consoled you. "Just let go, it's gonna be so good... soak me, baby, come on," he was mumbling against your cheek, practically begging you to make a mess of him.

A few more strokes of him inside you had the feeling bursting out of you like you'd never felt before. You felt the evidence of your orgasm raining down over Sam's length and pooling on the blanket under your ass. You opened your eyes to find Sam already looking at you, a smile on his face as he admired your flushed skin.

"That was fucking hot, baby," he grunted, the efforts of his powerful thrusts wearing on him. "We're gonna have some fun with that in the future," he grinned, winking at you. You smiled back at him, reaching up to trace your hands over the smooth skin on his chest.

"That's never happened to me before," you admitted sheepishly. "You just make me feel so fucking good, Sammy. So good..."

You felt his cock swell again as he thrusted into you more sloppily, and you could tell he was close.

"Where do you want me to cum, baby?" he breathed out over your cheek.

You didn't hesitate. "Inside. Please Sammy, inside," you begged, desperately wanting him to fill you up.

Sam traced a hand over your hair, smoothing an unruly strand out of your face. "Gladly," he whispered, using one hand to grip your chin so that he could guide your face towards his.

He pulled you into a deep kiss, grunting as he faltered in his thrusts and spilled into you. He slowed his hips significantly to avoid the overstimulation, but you were caught up in the feeling of fullness that his orgasm had provided. You moaned against his lips, and he eventually broke the kiss to lean his forehead against yours. You were both panting, trying to catch your breath and trying to hold onto the magic of the moment.

Sam gave you a lopsided smile, his kiss-swollen lips pulling back to expose his perfectly white teeth. He once again reached up to move a stray strand of hair away from your face.

"That was incredible," he whispered, the smile spreading even wider across his face.

"As good as you imagined it would be?" you questioned, raising an eyebrow at him with a grin.

"Better. So much better," he replied without hesitation. "Fuck, it's like you're made for me," he continued, kissing over both your cheeks and the tip of your nose. You giggled, clenching your pussy around his softening cock and reminding both of you that he was still resting inside you.

"I'm gonna pull out now, baby," he whispered as a warning.

You brought a hand up to the side of his face, rubbing over the stubble on his cheek. "I hate this part," you admitted quietly.

"Me too, sweetheart," he replied softly, turning his face slightly so that he could lay a kiss into your palm. He rocked his hips slowly, drawing his length further out of you on each backwards movement until he pulled it out completely.

You hissed at the sudden feeling of emptiness, but your discomfort was short lived as you registered Sam's hands gliding down your body to the tops of your bent knees. He held your legs open, eyes glued to your cunt where he watched in awe as his release trickled out of you.

He reached down, running a finger through the mess he made and bringing that same finger up to your lips. He watched expectantly as you wrapped your lips around his finger, lapping up his cum and swirling your tongue around the digit to ensure it was clean.

"Fuck," he whispered, watching every miniscule movement of your lips. "I think we just unlocked a new kink of mine," he admitted.

You smiled as he removed his finger from your lips. "I'm into it," you grinned, wrapping a hand around Sam's arm and pulling him down to kiss you. "We've got time to explore all the kinks you can think of..."

"Fuck, I can't wait baby," he replied against your lips, pausing to kiss you again. "You're staying here with me tonight," he whispered. "We'll get some dinner, drink some more wine, maybe do this again..." he trailed off, painting the picture of a perfect evening.

You froze as you remembered the boyfriend waiting for you at home. Sam seemed to read your mind, reaching up to stroke your hair as if he could physically remove the thought from your mind. "Don't think about him. Don't think about anything. We'll stay in this bubble for tonight, and we'll deal with the rest tomorrow."

You nodded slowly, eyes tracing over Sam's beautiful face. "I guess if I don't go home tonight, that kind of ends things." You both let out a chuckle at that.

"It would," Sam agreed. "Is that what you want?"

You hummed in contemplation. "Yeah, I think it's time. Is that what you want?"

"I want you. All the time, forever. I always have, since the day I met you. So yes, I think you should stay here with me and leave him for good."

You smiled at Sam's admission, nodding in agreement.

"Does that sound like a plan?" he asked, smiling down at you.

"Sounds like a great plan," you agreed.

The two of you moved to get up from the bed, Sam tossing you a spare set of clothes from his dresser that were more comfortable than the clothes you had worn to his house. You pulled on the too-long sweatpants and the long sleeved Paul McCartney tour shirt that hung far past your wrists while Sam pulled on black linen pants and a grey cashmere sweater. You shared a goofy smile before you followed him out to the living room, where you cracked open a new bottle of wine and Sam placed an order from the local Chinese food place.

With a belly full of Chinese food and wine, and a heart full of promises of the future, you fell asleep tangled in Sam's arms on the couch while The Force Awakens played in the background.

You felt his lips in your hair as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "Goodnight, my love," he whispered.

[fandomrewrites]

Legends Chapter 1: Conscription Day

Hello everyone, Welcome to the Fourth Wing. Please read my post on the disclaimer/authors note before reading this chapter. I hope you all enjoy this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it! Please let me know if you want to be added to a taglist. As always constructive criticism is welcomed.

Chapters 1-3 in Fourth Wing Pairings: Xaden x Younger Sister, Liam Mairi x Best Friend Warnings: Violence, Death, Swearing, Spoilers from the book series Word Count: 6,492

Legends Masterlist

I bonded a blue daggertail. Her name is Sgaeyl. I think she'd like you. - Recovered correspondence from Cadet Xaden Riorson to (Y/N) Riorson

It's conscription day, and being a marked one means joining the rider's quadrant whether we want to or not. Lucky for me, I've always loved dragons and knew I wanted to bond one even before the Tyrrish Rebellion. Call me crazy, but flying on a dragon that you have an irreplaceable bond with, that sounds like something to live for.

Plus there's a bonus for me today, after being separated for 5 years, I finally get to see my older brother again. Navarre separated every separatist child that had a sibling, not wanting them to be together and potentially plan another uprising. My brother, Xaden, and I kept in touch through letters of course, but haven't had the chance to see each other since they split us up. His first year in the quadrant was the worse since first years aren't allowed to send or receive letters at all. They claim it helps support wing loyalty but I think it's just about control.

I'm dressed in a tight black tank top and skin tight black pants with a pack filled with only necessities. I have a few daggers strapped to my thighs and ribs as well, one of which has Tyrrish runes on the hilt. My father, Fen Riorson, also known as 'The Great Betrayer' gave me the dagger when I was 13. It's the only type of dagger that can kill Venin. Most people believe Venin are just a fairy tale but they're real and incredibly dangerous. My long black hair is dyed with bright rainbow underneath and is in a high bun, a few wisps of hair loose around my face.

I look around me, then glance up at the tower I'm about to climb. I slowly smile, wondering how quickly I'll be able to find my brother. When I look back to the people around me, some tend to be glancing at my rebellion relic on my left arm, mine's the second biggest out of all of them, it starts at my wrist and stops at the base of my neck. I roll my eyes when I see people scowl. Navarrian's judge too quickly, if only they knew what was really out there.

I quickly join the line behind a blonde boy. He gives his name to the scribe taking roll call. Beside the scribe is a rider with a rebellion relic. I smile when I realize who it is. "Next," The rider calls out. He looks up, his eyes meeting mine, and smiles, "(Y/N) Riorson. It's good to see you. You look good."

I reach down to pick up the quill and write my name, "Thanks Masen, you do too. It's really good to see a familiar face."

"You're brother will be happy to see you. He's made Wingleader."

"Good, he deserves it. I'll see you up there." Masen nods as I step past the table. The girl behind me taking my place. I slowly start up the stairs behind the blonde boy, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.

"Sorrengail as in...?" I hear the girl behind me ask. I turn around to see who she's talking to. The girl directly behind me has high cheekbones and an oval face. Her dark brown hair is worn in several rows of short braids that just touch the dark skin of her neck. She looks to be about the same height as me.

The girl behind her replies, "Yep." She's petite, her skin is pale and her eyes are blue, or maybe green? The thing that gives her away though is her hair. She's brunette but the ends are silver. Her hair is styled in a braid to keep it out of her face. It sits like a crown at the top of her head.

"The general?" The blonde guy in front of me turns and asks.

"The same one." The general's daughter replies.

"Wow. Nice leathers, too."

"Yeah, you look hot." I say, smiling at the girl. Most people would think since her mother killed my father I would hate her, but that's just not me. Don't get me wrong, I can't stand her mother. But we are not our parents.

"Thanks," She blushes, "They're courtesy of my sister."

"I wonder how many candidates have fallen off the edge of the steps and died before they even reach the parapet," The woman behind me says.

"That's a morbid thought," I mutter, but crack a smile.

"Two last year. Well, three if you count the girl one of the guys landed on." Sorrengail answers.

"How many steps are there?" Asks the girl between me and Sorrengail.

"Two hundred and fifty." The four of us walk in silence for a few minutes.

"Not too bad. I'm Rhiannon Matthias, by the way."

"Dylan," The blonde ahead of me replies.

"Violet." The youngest Sorrengail introduces.

The three turn towards me, "You'll find out soon." I smile. I don't want Violet to get the wrong idea about me after she finds out my name. I could give her just my first name but I'm not sure if she'll recognize it, so I'd rather not say anything. I notice her glance at my rebellion relic, curiosity written on her face.

"I feel like I've been waiting my entire life for this day." Dylan says, bringing the attention to him. "Can you believe we actually get to do this? It's a dream come true."

A smile lights up mine and Rhiannon's faces, "I can't fucking wait." Rhiannon says, "I mean, who wouldn't want to ride a dragon?"

"Do your parents approve?" Dylan asks, "Because my mom's been begging me to change my mind for months. I keep telling her that I'll have better chances for advancement as a rider, but she wanted me to enter the Healer Quadrant."

"Mine always knew I wanted this, so they've been pretty supportive. Besides, they have my twin to dote on. Reagan's already living her dream, married and expecting a baby." Rhiannon says, she glances back at Violet, "What about you? Let me guess. With a name like Sorrengail, I bet you were the fist volunteer this year."

"I was more like volun-told." Violet replies. We all nod in understanding. "What about you," She looks at me, "Or is that something else we can't know yet?" We've caught up to the guy in front of us, he has light brown hair and tanned skin. He doesn't turn when he hears us approach, instead he continues to focus on the steps in front of him.

I laugh, "My mom hasn't been around since I was 8 and my dad died during the rebellion." I gesture to my relic, the guy in front of Dylan tenses. "I can't say much about my mom but I don't think my dad would had wanted me to join. He was Infantry, wanted my brother to join like him and I think he would had been happy with me joining any other quadrant. But it's been my dream to bond a dragon since I can remember." I shrug. "So even if I wasn't, how did you put it? Volun-told, I would still be here today."

"You were forced into the riders quadrant?" Dylan asks.

"Yeah, all marked ones are required to join. It was a deal made for us to survive instead of dying alongside our parents." I pause, "I think they were hoping we'd be killed off here, but lots of marked ones have become riders, so jokes on them." The guy in front of Dylan finally turns around, his eyes land on my relic causing his glare to harden. He looks disgusted but I just roll my eyes.

There's an awkward silence before Violet changes the topic back to riders perks, "Riders don't get way better perks than other officers." She says to Dylan, "Better pay, more leniency with the uniform policy." She trails off.

"And the right to call yourself a supreme bad ass," Rhiannon adds.

Violet nods in agreement. "Plus, I've heard that riders are allowed to marry sooner than the other quadrants." Dylan says.

"True, right after graduation." Violet replies. "I think it has something to do with wanting to continue bloodlines."

"Or because we tend to die sooner than the other quadrants." Rhiannon says.

"Exactly, we need to actually make it the three years in the quadrant first," I continue.

"I'm not dying." Dylan says confidently, he pulls a necklace from under his tunic, there's a ring dangling from the chain. "She said it would be bad luck to propose before I left, so we're waiting until graduation." He kisses the ring before tucking the chain back under his shirt, "The next three years are going to be long ones, but they'll be worth it."

I keep my mouth shut but something in me screams that it's not going to turn out alright for him. I admire his confidence, hell I'm confident I'll be fine. But talking about the future so far in advance feels like you're asking Zihnal to give you all the bad luck in the world.

"You might make it across the parapet," The guy behind Violet sneers, "This one here is a breeze away from the bottom of the ravine." Violet and I simultaneously roll our eyes.

"Shut up and focus on yourself." Rhiannon snaps. The top of the tower comes into sight. The clouds look gray and there is a breeze, it's going to start raining any minute now. I can't tell how windy it actually is until I step forward, pass the enclosed walls. The brunette in front of Dylan just started across the parapet, slow and steady.

I eye the three Riders taking roll call, one is instructing Dylan and another is writing the names down but my gaze is locked on the last one. I immediately notice his relic, his black hair, and tawny skin that matches mine, and a smile stretches across my face. Before I can say anything to him Dylan turns towards us, '"See you three on the other side!"

I nod in acknowledgment then my gaze snaps back to the rider with the relic, a smirk is on his face when my eyes reach his. I run up to him and give him a big hug. "I've missed you so much, Xaden!"

He laughs, "I have a reputation to uphold, you're ruining it," He mutters, but he still wraps me in a hug just as big. We pull away and he checks me over, "You've grown a lot since I last saw you."

"Well duh, I was 15." I roll my eyes.

Xaden's eyes narrow, we have the same gold-flecked onyx eyes, "Same attitude though. You ready, (Y/N)?"

I nod confidently, stepping up to the other rider, "(Y/N) Riorson." The riders eyes flicker between me and my brother, "Yes, we're siblings."

Behind me I hear Rhiannon, "You ready for this Sorrengail?"

Xaden's gaze snaps to Violet, I roll my eyes knowing he's going to have to say something to the petite woman. "Sorrengail?"

Violet doesn't answer, so Rhiannon nudges her, "Violet?"

"You're General Sorrengail's youngest."

"And you two are Fen Riorson's kids." Violet counters looking between Xaden and I.

"Your mother captured our father and saw his execution."

I sigh, "Xaden-"

"Your father killed my older brother. Seems like we're even." Violet replies. If only she knew he was alive.

Rhiannon looks at me, "He won't do anything, right?" She asks.

"No." I shake my head.

"You all right?" Rhiannon asks Violet.

Xaden glances at her then me, "You guys friends?"

"We met on the stairs." Violet replies, "All of us."

"Interesting."

"Are you going to kill me?" Violet asks, she glances between my brother and me.

The sky opens up, rain pouring over us. A scream comes from the parapet. We all turn our heads to see Dylan slip. I knew something was going to happen, I just didn't know it would be this quickly. He catches himself, hooking his arms over the stone bridge, his feet scrambling for something to grab onto. "Let go of your pack!" I call out to him.

"Pull yourself up, Dylan!" Rhiannon screams right after me.

But Dylan loses his grip on the parapet. He falls, his body disappearing from view. The guy in front of him, has turned around, watching where Dylan falls. "Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it for me?" I hear Xaden say to Violet. He turns back to me, "Don't you dare die out there. I just got you back."

"Please, I can skip across and still be fine. Maybe do a little spin?" I smirk at my brother.

Xaden glares, "Don't test anything. Especially not in this weather."

"Yeah, yeah. See you later. Can't wait to meet Sgaeyl." I turn towards the girls, "Good luck. Hope to see you both on the other side."

I step up onto the soaked parapet, the wisps of loose hair whipping in my face. I take a step and put my arms out to the sides to keep my balance. If it wasn't rainy, I would had been fine walking without my arms out for balance, but my shoes don't have a good grip which I realize after just a few steps. I slowly kneel down, untying my right boot and taking it off. I slowly stand up, boot in hand, and take one step forward so my left foot is in front of me. I bend down again, untying my left boot, taking it off and holding it in my other hand.

Once I'm standing up at my full height I notice the brunette is still standing on the parapet, facing me. "Dude, are you going to continue?" The guy smirks at me, he slowly takes a dagger out of a sheath at his ribs. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me." I mumble to myself.

I tie my shoelaces together, then place them over my neck like a scarf to free my hands. I reach for my dagger that's strapped to my thigh. "Last chance to continue before I kill you." I yell at the guy. He's bigger than me but there's no way I'm dying here. Not today.

The guy scoffs, "I'd like to see you try." He beckons me forward. So, with nothing else to do, I charge. I'm quick, quicker than what he thought I would be considering the look on his face. I fly over the wet stone, once I get close enough, I drop into a slide. Before he can block me, I kick my leg out, he falls to his back with a heavy thud, the air knocked out of his lungs.

I stand up quick, he tries to lift his dagger up to protect himself, but I kick his arm. The unmistakable sound of bone snapping can be heard over the pounding rain. His dagger falls out of his hand, dropping to the ravine below. I bend down over him, dagger held to his throat, "Should had walked away when you had the chance." Before he can beg for his life, I slit his throat, I wipe the blood off my knife with his shirt then I search his sheaths for anymore daggers, placing them in my own sheaths, before I push his body off the parapet.

I stand up straight again, noticing blood on my hand, I wipe it off on my own shirt and double check my sheaths. I look ahead of me, noticing that I have about ten more feet before making it to the other side. Ten more feet before I can become a cadet. I square my shoulders, raise my head high, then continue across like nothing happened.

Once I take my last step off the parapet, I turn to the rider sitting beside the scroll for name call. She has red hair and a crossbow attached to her back, "Name?" She asks.

"(Y/N) Riorson." I smile.

She snorts, "Should have known."

The male rider next to her looks me up and down, noticing the boots around my neck, "Can't say I've ever seen someone cross barefoot. Or kill someone that quickly on the parapet."

"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything." I remove the boots from around my neck then look away from the rider. I instantly make eye connect with someone I haven't seen in 5 years. He's under an overhang, keeping out of the rain. His blue eyes connect with my onyx ones, a smirk on his face. I run towards him and jump into his arms, boots gently bouncing off his back. "I missed you so fucking much, Liam."

Liam and I have been best friends for years, his mother Colonel Mairi worked with my father during the rebellion. He was also fostered with my brother. Liam and I wrote letter's to each other often, especially when Xaden went into his first year in the quadrant. We promised each other that we would wait for the other after crossing the parapet, wanting to see each other as soon as possible.

"I missed you too, (Y/N)." He pulls back slightly, still holding me in his arms. "Crossing the parapet barefoot and did I hear that guy say you killed someone?" He shakes his head. He reaches lower, picking up my legs to lock them around his waist.

"What are you doing?" I smile at him, but keep my arms and legs locked around him. "And yes I killed someone, he was trying to kill me first, I gave him the option to walk away but he didn't listen."

"Carrying you to a bench," He answers my question before continuing to talk about the candidate I killed, "I'm guessing he didn't realize who you were if he challenged you."

"I can walk, you know." I reply, rolling my eyes. "And you'd be correct, he saw my relic but didn't know anything else."

"Yes, but the ground is gross and you have no socks or shoes on." He stops in front of a bench, gently placing me back on the ground. "Sit." I sit, watching as he kneels in front of me, reaching for my boots. He unties the laces so they're no longer together, "Already getting death threats." He mumbles under his breath.

"I can also put on my own shoes." I smirk. I choose to drop the conversation about the guy I killed unless he asks me more questions.

"I know. But why should you when I'm here?" He smiles.

I sigh as he lifts my left foot to put my boot back on. "You're too good to me."

"Just treating you like you deserve."

"I don't know. I think this is a lot."

Liam shakes his head, "Absolutely not. You deserve to be treated like a fucking Goddess. So that's exactly how I'll treat you." I blush at his words.

"Well at least stop looking at me like that." I say as he puts my left foot down and picks up my right. His blue eyes are soft, he's looking at me like he's seeing the sun for the first time in years.

"I can't help it. You're beautiful. And I haven't seen you in 5 years."

"I look like a mess right now." I wave a hand indicating my hair which is messy from the wind and rain.

"You always look beautiful to me." His smile lights up his face.

"Stop. I'll have to marry you if you keep saying all these nice things to me." I roll my eyes, but the smile on my face tells him I'm not annoyed.

"Then I'll have to thank Zihnal, because luck would surely be on my side if I get to marry you." I giggle, causing his eyes to light up. He squeezes my thigh, "All set." He stands up, hands stretched in front of him to help me up.

I kiss his cheek once I'm at my full height, "Thank you, handsome."

"You're very welcome," His eyes scan my body, making sure I'm alright, "Are you okay? That guy didn't hurt you, right?"

I shake my head, keeping one of my hands in his, "No, he didn't even get one hit in. Now come on. I gotta make sure the girls I met on the stairs made it." When I get back to the parapet I see Violet and Rhiannon hugging. I let go of Liam's hand, making my way to the girls, "You guys made it!"

"We did!" Rhiannon yells back, pulling me into a hug. Violet hangs back clearly unsure how to act around me. "Thank gods you're okay! Your brother looked about ready to murder that guy when he saw you start to fight. I seriously thought he was going to start crossing and interfere, but you ended everything so quick he didn't have a chance."

"The guy was underestimating me." I shrug, "He thought because he was bigger he could easily over power me, clearly that didn't work." I then gesture towards Liam, "This is Liam Mairi, my best friend." Liam smiles, waving at Rhiannon and Violet.

Rhiannon smiles back at Liam, she then turns her attention back to Violet, looping an arm through hers, "We need to switch our shoes back."

"There's a bench right over-"

I'm cut off as a tall figure in rider black pushes past Liam and I, moving towards the youngest Sorrengail, "Violet?" He looks her over, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Good to see you too, Dain." Violet replies, her knees give out once the sentence leaves her mouth.

"Damn it, Violet," he mutters. He wraps an arm around her, helping her stand straight. He moves her to the bench that Liam and I just left. Rhiannon, Liam, and I exchange looks before following.

"I'm going to be sick." Violet whispers.

"Head between your knees," Dain replies. The two clearly know each other. "It's the adrenaline. Give it a minute and it will pass." He finally turns to the rest of the group, "Who the hell are you guys?" He eyes mine and Liam's rebellion relics.

I glare at him as Rhiannon answers, "I'm Rhiannon... Violet's friend."

Dain's eyes linger on me and Liam. "I'm Liam Mairi." Liam introduces.

"(Y/N)." I say, not giving him my last name.

"Full name, cadet." Dain growls.

I roll my eyes, "(Y/N) Riorson. Asshole." Liam's lips quirk up, fighting a smile.

Dain's glare hardens at my name, "Listen to me. Violet is fine. And if anyone asks, then tell them exactly what I said, that it's just the adrenaline working out of her system. Understand?"

"It's no one's business what's going on with Violet," Rhiannon retorts. "So I wouldn't say shit. Especially not when she's the reason I made it across the parapet."

"You better mean that," Dain's eyes flicker back to Liam and I.

"Like Rhiannon said, it's no ones business. So I won't say shit." I reply, Liam nodding in agreement.

"Why are you even here, Riorson? We're in formation. You can't kill her."

I roll my eyes, "If I wanted Sorrengail dead, I would had pushed her off the stairs the minute I realized who she was. Who the fuck are you anyway?"

"He's one of my oldest friends," Violet replies, slowly lifting her head.

"And a second-year rider, Cadet. Show some respect."

"I'll show some respect when you earn it." I snap back. Dain glares but focuses back on Violet. They have a whispered conversation. Rhiannon, Liam, and I hanging back.

"Vi, do you trust this one?" He asks Violet, nodding towards Rhiannon and leaving Liam and I out of the question. Violet nods, causing Dain to turn towards Rhiannon, "I'm Dain Aetos, and I'm the leader of Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing." No wonder he's bossy. Still doesn't mean I'm going to respect him if he's being a judgy ass just because of my last name.

"Parapet should be over in the next couple of hours, depending on how fast the candidates cross or fall. Go find the redhead with the roll - she's usually carrying a crossbow - and tell her that Dain Aetos put both you and Violet Sorrengail into his squad. If she questions you, tell her she owes me from saving her ass at Threshing last year. I'll bring Violet back to the courtyard shortly."

Rhiannon looks at Violet in reassurance. Violet nods. "Go before someone see us," Dain orders. When Rhiannon leaves Dain looks back at Liam and I.

"Don't worry, I can tell when I'm not wanted." I roll my eyes, at the taller boy. Before leaving I turn back towards Violet, "I really am happy to see you made it." I grab Liam's hand once more pulling him away.

"Becoming friends with a Sorrengail?" Liam asks.

"She's not her mom. And according to her she didn't even want to be here. I need to find Bodhi." Liam nods, "Did you want to come with?"

Liam shrugs, "Sure, haven't seen him in a while. Might as well say hi."

Liam and I look around the group of cadets, and gently elbow our way past people to try and find my cousin. Just like Xaden and Liam, it's been 5 years since I've seen him so I'm definitely eager to catch up. It's only his second year, so last year I didn't get to keep in contact with him. Xaden, of course, let me know how he was doing and that he bonded a green swordtail named Cuir. "I know you said that guy didn't hurt you but how are you feeling? He was the first person you killed, right?"

"He was," I confirm, "But I feel fine, it's not a big deal. I knew coming here, especially with my last name, it was going to be kill or be killed. And I quite like living so I don't really have another option." Liam nods, but still keeps a close eye on me. He's always been protective, despite knowing that I'm completely capable of caring for myself.

As we walk through the crowd, my eyes land on Eya, who is a second year and my foster sister. "Eya!" I call out. Her eyes snap to me, a giant smile showing on her face.

She stops talking to the woman next to her and wraps me in a big hug. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. Have you seen Bodhi?"

She shakes her head, leaning back to look me over, "He should be around here."

"I'm fine. No need to look me over like that."

She rolls her eyes, "Your balance was always the best but you can't blame me for being concerned." Her eyes narrow on the spot of blood smeared into my shirt, "Is that blood?"

"It's not mine. And I'm alive. That's all that matters right now."

Her eyes widen, "It's not yours?"

Before I can reply, strong arms wrap around me from behind, "There you are! Thank gods you're okay!" I recognize Bodhi's voice instantly, he backs away, grabbing my shoulder's to turn me around so we're eye to eye. "I was hearing rumors that you were attacked on the parapet. Are they true?"

I smile, "Yes, they're true. Yes, I'm fine. Yes, I killed him. The blood is his, not mine. Any other questions I missed the answer too?"

Liam adds on, "Don't forget you were also barefoot."

"What happened?" Eya asks, bringing my attention back towards her. So I retell the story about the guy glaring at me when he found out I was a marked one and how he waited for me on the parapet so I couldn't cross and my only option was to kill him.

"He didn't even know your last name?" Bodhi questions. I shake my head, "Fuck, I know we're targeted but..." He trails off.

"I knew coming here I was going to be targeted, even worse once people know who I am. I'm not dying at the hands of another cadet. If I die here, it's going to be because the dragons decide I'm not worthy, but gods do I hope that's not the case."

He nods, "Always the smart one. But we all got your back. You're not alone in here. Imogen and Garrick will be happy to see you again. And of course there's us three," He nods towards Eya and Liam, "And Xaden. We won't let anything happen to you."

I smile brightly, "I know, but no need to worry about me, like I said, I have everything handled. And gods am I excited to see everyone again. I was lucky to be with Eya in our foster home but it's nice to have all of you back." Because marked ones can only be in groups of three or less, Liam leaves me alone with Bodhi and Eya. He hugs me goodbye, reassuring me that we'll talk again soon. For the next two hours I sit with Bodhi and Eya, waiting for the last of the cadets to cross the parapet. Xaden is the last to cross the parapet once all the cadets have crossed over. He stops to say something to the redhead, then moves away, towards the front of the courtyard.

"Looks like we're about to start, get over there with the other first years, we'll see you later." Bodhi pulls me into a quick hug as he speaks. As soon as Bodhi lets go, Eya hugs me too. I smile one last time at them before I turn and head towards the group of first years.

I spot Rhiannon first, moving to stand beside her. I flash a quick smile at her, Violet, and another girl that I haven't met yet, then face forward. "Three hundred and one of you have survived the parapet to become cadets today," Commandant Panchek starts, "Good job. Sixty seven did not."

The girl I don't know whispers to us, "I heard this is just a stepping stone for him. He wants Sorrengail's job, then General Melgren's."

"General Melgren's?" Rhiannon whispers back.

"He'll never get it," Violet says just as quietly, "Melgren's dragon gives him the signet ability to see a battle's outcome before it happens." Except for when there's four or more marked ones in the battle, but I don't tell them that. This is why only three marked ones are allowed to be around each other at a time. Not that we actually listen to the man who killed our parents. "There's no beating that, and you can't be assassinated if you know it's coming."

Panchek continues, "As the Codex says, now you begin the true crucible! You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. If you survive to Threshing, and if you are chosen, you will be riders. Then we'll see how many live to graduation."

There's a pause before Panchek continues, "Your instructors will teach you," he swings a hand to indicate the professors. "It's up to you how well you learn." He then points at us. "Discipline falls to your units, and your wingleader is the last word. If I have to get involved... You don't want me involved."

"With that said, I'll leave you to your wingleaders. My best advice, don't die." Panchek walks off stage and a brunette woman takes his place.

"I'm Nyra, the senior wingleader of the quadrant and the head of the first wing. Section leaders and squad leaders, take your positions now."

Second and Third years gather at the front, I see Garrick standing among them, he's a section leader for fourth wing. "Sections and squads." Violet whispers. "Three squads in each section and three sections in each of the four wings."

"Thank you," Rhiannon whispers back, I already knew this thanks to Xaden.

"First Squad!" Nyra calls out. "Claw section! First Wing!" A man close to the dais raises his hand. "Cadets, when your name is called, take up formation behind your squad leader."

The cadet with red hair that took our names once we got off the parapet stands in the front with her scroll and starts calling out names. The asshole that stood behind Violet on the stairs, Jack, gets placed into Third Squad, Flame Section, First Wing. Tara, the girl standing next to Violet that I never got the name of, is called into First Squad, Tail Section, First Wing. Rhiannon and Violet are placed together in Flame Section of Second Wing, Dain's Squad.

Liam gets called for Second Squad, Tail Section, Fourth Wing. I'm not called until Second Squad, Flame Section of Fourth Wing. Though no surprises there when I see Xaden is Fourth Wings wingleader. Once the final name is called the wingleaders get into a heated discussion. Once the argument is settled, Nyra calls out. "Dain Aetos, you and your squad will switch with Aura Beinhaven's. Except for Cadet's Scarlett McCall and (Y/N) Riorson. You two will stay where you are."

I stay put as the rest of my former squad moves to Second Wing and Rhiannon, Violet, and Imogen, who I just spotted for the first time, head my way. I send Imogen a quick smile, she squeezes my hand as she passes by to stand behind me. "It's good to see you." She whispers.

"You too," I whisper back. Unlike Xaden, Bodhi, and Liam, throughout the years after the rebellion I still saw Imogen. Our foster parents were friends and lived close to each other which made it easy for the two of us to stay in contact.

Nyra and Xaden exchange a look before Xaden takes Nyra's place. "You're all cadets now," Xaden starts, "Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by Codex not to kill you. But just because they can't end your life doesn't mean others won't. You want a dragon? Earn one."

Most people cheer but I keep my mouth shut, there's nothing to celebrate yet. "And I bet you feel pretty bad ass right now, don't you, first years?" There are more cheers. "You feel invincible after the parapet, don't you?" Xaden shouts, "You think you're untouchable! You're on the way to becoming the elite! The few! The chosen!" Xaden reminds me of dad, he knows how to hold the attention of a crowd. Knows how to be a leader.

As people cheer, wing beats can be heard getting louder, growing closer. "Oh gods, they're beautiful." Rhiannon whispers from ahead of me. A smile grows on my face as I see the navy blue dragon, that must be Sgaeyl. And damn, is she gorgeous, they all are.

A few cadets scream as the dragons land on the side of the walls, steam blows across us, as Sgaeyl swings her head in an elegant, lethal sweep. There are three dragons in shades of red, two in shades of green, one brown, one orange, and Sgaeyl, the lone blue. One cadet in third wing makes a run for it. I can't help but roll my eyes, he can't seriously think that he'll actually make it. The red dragon on the left opens its mouth, revealing huge teeth. Fire erupts along its tongue incinerating the fleeing cadet.

Two more cadets run and two more blasts of heat fill the air around us. Seventy dead now. After a pause and no more cadets running, Xaden speaks once more, "Anyone else feel like changing their mind? No? Excellent. Roughly half of you will be dead by this time next summer." The formation is silent except for a few sobs, Xaden's eyes scan the crowd, pausing on me, "A third of you again the year after that, and the same your last year. No one cares who your mommy or daddy is here. Even King Tauri's second son died during his Threshing. So tell me again: Do you feel invincible now that you've made it into the Rider's Quadrant? Untouchable? Elite?" No one cheers this time.

A blast of warmth, hits the side of my face. I blink, glancing sideways at Sgaeyl. She breathes in my scent, she must know that I'm Xaden's sister. My mouth quirks up into a smile, eyes trained on her. The dragons, and probably the older cadet's, want us scared. But I was born for this, I'm ready. I'm not dumb enough to be overly cocky, I know shit happens and there's a chance I'll die any day now, but I refuse to go down without a fight. I'm determined to make it to graduation. And even longer than that.

"Because you're not untouchable or special to them." My eyes flicker back to Xaden as he points to his dragon, "To them, you're just the prey."

*_*_*_*_*_*

Before bed I meet with Xaden one last time in the courtyard. He throws an arm over my shoulders in a one armed hug, "Who did you reunite with after parapet?" He asks.

"Liam, Bodhi, and Eya." I pause, "And briefly, Imogen. I know you didn't switch my squad because of me, but I'm happy you did."

"It's none of your business why I switched your squad. My room is on the third floor, last door on the left. I have it warded so only you and I can get in. If you need me, try there first." I nod as he pauses, "I also want to warn you, don't let Aetos touch your face. I don't know why he would try with you but just in case I want you to be aware."

"What's up with Aetos?" I question.

"He's a memory reader. It's supposed to be classified information so don't go telling anyone but you need to know."

"Well, I'm pretty sure he hates me, but if he tries I'll break his arm before he can lay a hand on me."

"Why do you think he hates you?" Xaden's eyes narrow.

"I called him an asshole and said the only way I would respect him is if he earned it."

The right side of Xaden's lips twitch into a smile, "Of course you did," he sighs. "Try not to piss him off more, he's your squad leader."

"So? You can just get me out of trouble. You're my wingleader."

"And show bias? No way."

"Well what's the point of me being in your wing if you don't even help me out." I cross my arms, "I bet I can get Garrick to defend me against Dain."

"Yeah, you're probably right about that. We both think he's a dick, now get to bed. I'll see you tomorrow morning." Xaden dismisses me, but before he walks too far away I call out to him.

"Xaden!" He turns around to look at me, "Tell Sgaeyl I think she's badass." Xaden chuckles, shaking his head, then continues down the corridor.

[torra-and-the-toons]

The credit sequence of D.I.A.P.E.R. is so funny, I can't 😂😂

[i-love-ptv]

Stacy’s Mom Has Got It Goin’ On ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣

Pairing: Husband!Rafe Cameron x Soccer-mom!Wife!Reader

It’s not easy being a soccer-mom, especially when dads hit on you at every game as if you’re not married to Rafe.

Wc: 1,596

Fluff, Protective Rafe making an appearance, kinda pushy guy (idk what to say)

An: I’ve really wanted to write a fic based on this song, and this idea randomly popped into my head so! Am I using the names I wanna name my kids? Yes, yes I am.

Not proofread tbh

Feedback always appreciated lovelies!! xx

“I’ll be back, ‘mkay doll?”

You hum in acknowledgement, eyes peering back at the field after looking up.

Your husband, Rafe, leant down and places a firm kiss on your forehead.

“Yeahhh, Daddy’s gonna be back, baby.” Rafe coos at your two year old, who was sitting on your lap, babbling freely while peering at him with her big doe eyes.

Rafe walks off the bleachers in search of the concession stand to buy food for the three of you.

You brush your hand over your young daughter’s head, making sure her somewhat oversized hat is still covering her head entirely. Her hand wraps around your index finger.

It was oddly humid today, if you continued moving, you’d break a slight sweat. You can't even imagine what your daughter—Stacy must be feeling, running around on the large grassy field under the beaming bright sun.

You were proud of your baby girl though, nonetheless. And so was Rafe, of course.

You shout loudly when you notice the game is about to start, bellowing out a “Go Stacy!”

Stacy’s eyes easily found yours, for you and Rafe would always sit in the same spot on the bleachers.

Her eyes were slightly wide due to your shout, despite you and Rafe always cheering for her during her games.

She’s motioning for you to ‘shh’, putting her fingers to her lips before getting into her position.

“Which one’s yours?” You hear to the left of you, the unknown voice makes you tear your eyes away from the field.

You smile shortly at the unfamiliar man next to you, “Number 22.”

You can’t help but notice how he’s rather scruffy looking, an odd contrast to your upkept husband with his neatly buzzed hair.

“Mine’s number 13.” He says, flashing his teeth at you.

You gasp and shoot up a little, making you look down at your daughter on your lap. “Valerie’s yours? Oh she’s just the sweetest!”

The man chuckles, looking deeply in your eyes. This makes your eyebrows raise, slightly in confusion, but mostly in discomfort.

He hadn’t done anything out of the norm, you’d randomly talk to the other moms around too, but something about him made you uncomfortable.

“My name's Brandon, and yours?”

You introduce yourself briefly, before turning back towards the game.

His eyes dart to your left hand, looking for a ring, for any indication that you belong to someone else. He smiles sharply when he finds your fingers bare. This goes unnoticed by you.

Little does he know, you do have your ring on, just around your neck.

Your biggest fear was your youngest accidentally pulling off your ring, resulting in you losing it. Or, even worse: it pokes her eye or something of that nature.

You suppose you could be considered a ‘Helicopter-mom’ at times, simply going to the extremes to make sure your kids are happy and healthy at every point in time.

Rafe is the exact same way, maybe even a little worse. But you knew he was just protective, he loves this life that he has with you, since he had no idea the two of you would’ve been together for so long.

You had started dating Rafe when you were 18 and he was 19. It was good for the first few months, disregarding the few arguments that you had. But then, you had caught Rafe doing cocaine.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to shake the look on his face from your memory.

You weren’t supposed to be at the party, you said you were busy filling out college applications.

So when he was mid-line, and he saw you standing there all dolled up, watching him with glossy eyes, he felt his heart shatter into pieces.

You weren’t supposed to find out, he wanted to keep this away from you, to keep you close to him.

He promised that he would try and stay sober for you, but eventually he’d give in every time the opportunity was in front of him. This resulted in several arguments, and surprisingly, a break up.

But things are different now. You both are in your 30’s, you got married, and of course, had two beautiful babies together.

Rafe knew he’d be crazy to fuck things up now, when he has the perfect life right in front of him.

Speaking of which; you’re really starting to wonder what the hell is taking him so long just to get some goddamn hotdogs and drinks.

You’re bouncing your knee anxiously, which makes your daughter giggle. You wish she wasn’t finding this amusing, but you know she can’t help it.

“Well who’s this cute girl, huh?” The man coos, tickling your daughter’s side.

“Her name is Noelle.” You huff, your mood quickly shifting due to this stranger touching your daughter.

He lets out another chuckle, you wish you never had to hear it again. “Sounds like you’re quoting Teenage Dirtbag to me.”

You give him a pointed look, you’re really getting sick of his pestering. “That’s where I got it from.”

Abruptly, the crowd starts cheering madly. You look around and see Stacy's team celebrating briefly; they had just scored a goal.

You cheer and clap, grabbing Noelle’s chubby hands and making her raise her arms wildly while giggling with her.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could-” Before Brandon could finish his sentence, none other than Rafe Cameron comes stomping up the bleachers, huffing and puffing angrily.

He sits down and sighs, “God, I’m sorry babe. The line was so long! I swear I’m going grey right now.”

“And I missed the goddamn play!” Rafe exclaims. He looks over at you and immediately goes quiet once he sees those wide baby eyes that look at him curiously.

“Da?” Noelle mutters, reaching her tiny hands towards Rafe’s larger ones.

“Yeah. Da’s here babygirl, do you want your food? Huh sweet girl?”

Rafe hands you your food, setting his food aside so he can put Noelle in his lap. He begins to split half his hotdog in pieces for her.

You glance to the left, you notice Brandon looking like a fish out of water.

Rafe is the CEO of one of, if not the biggest business company around. And Brandon had just borderline harassed his wife, who was holding his child.

Brandon sneers at the two of you in silence while the game continues, nearly boiling at the fact that he couldn’t have you.

Your head is laying on Rafe’s shoulders, you’re rubbing circles on Noelle’s shoulder as she settles down.

“Everything alright babe?” Rafe asks, trying to peer down at your face.

You untuck your necklace with your wedding ring from your shirt, fiddling with it. “Yeah, now that you’re here Ray.”

There’s silence between the two of you for a few seconds.

“…What does that mean?”

You hesitate to answer, but you do regardless, “Nothing! It’s just uh..That guy next to me, was kinda like hassling me I guess.”

This makes Rafe straighten his back.

“He do somethin’ to you doll?” Rafe questions in a whisper. You know you have about 30 seconds to try and calm him down before he’s banned from every soccer game left in the season.

“No, okay? I’m fine, it’s cool. I need you to calm down Ray.”

Rafe’s nose is flaring, “What about Ellie? Did he touch her?”

You feel your throat closing up, your heart is damn near pounding out of your chest.

You don’t say anything to Rafe, but that look in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

You grab his bicep, trying to keep him grounded. Even though he’s changed, some parts of him haven’t.

Rafe speaks lowly in your ear, but not too much to frighten you in any way. “I’ll take care of it, okay? Don’t worry y’pretty little head about it.”

Rafe presses a firm kiss against your cheek, then presses a softer one to your lips.

After 30 more minutes, and 2 more goals, Stacy’s team wins.

You and Rafe cheer loudly, letting out “That’s our baby girl!”

You meet Stacy at the bottom of the bleachers, holding Noelle in your hand as the littlest claps her hands between Stacy’s face.

You’re too busy congratulating your daughter to notice Rafe pulling Brandon aside while his daughter, Valerie is off talking to her friends.

Rafe puts a firm hand on his shoulder, “Hey man.”

Brandon lets out a nervous laugh, “Hey there, Rafe Cameron, right?”

“Yeah, let’s keep this short. I better not see or hear you talking to my wife again, do you hear me? I don’t give a shit what happened.”

Rafe continues shortly, “And keep your fucking hands to yourself, if I find out you touched my either of my daughters again, I swear to God himself I’ll put you under.”

The two men are holding eye contact, one looks with confidence and borderline rage, while the other looks with fear.

Rafe walks down the bleachers, meeting you and your girls.

“You were amazing out there sweetheart!” Rafe smiles while pulling Stacy into a bear hug.

“Jesus dad, you’re crushing me!” Stacy laughs with a slight wheeze.

Rafe ruffles her hair and puts his arm around your neck.

“All good to go?”

You nod your head, and with that, the four of you begin to walk to Rafe’s parked car.

Rafe realizes that this isn’t the first time you’ve been hit on at a soccer game, or anywhere in fact. And this definitely won’t be the last.

Cause everybody’s in love with Stacy’s mom.

[arkangelo-7]

I’m sure someone’s already headcannoned this, but Bruce having pet names for the Batkids? Man, those are his babies—you can bet your ass he has pet names for them. He might not be the type of man to show much affection beyond a shoulder pat or the occasional forehead kiss, but he’s determined to parent the crap outta these orphans, and pet names are an easier medium to show that he cares.

Dick is both “chum” and “sweetheart” depending on the context. When Bruce is feeling playful and comfortable (the easy, “your mine and I’m just happy to be here with you” kind of love), he’ll stick with “chum” and Dick absolutely loves it. But when Dick’s sick or has a nightmare or got injured during patrol? It’s sweetheart. It’s default mode for Bruce, because seeing Dick in pain brings up so many raw, intense emotions (Bruce gets scared, goddamit) that it’s easier for him to say “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay, just keep your eyes on mine,” then it is to say “I’m so terrified that I’m going to loose you, I love you, you’re my everything.”

Jason is“Jaylad.” But it’s less of the name that’s important and more of the story behind it that is. For the first few months that Jason was in Bruce’s care, Bruce didn’t dare call him anything other then his name, in fear that he’d scare him away (he was already so distrusting, so hesitant, so fearful whenever Bruce talked to loud or moved to fast or got upset), but at the same time, he’d seen how pleased Dick had been at being called “chum” and wanted to bestow a similar endearment on Jason. But—he didn’t want to go to far. So instead of calling him “lad” like his own father had once called him, Bruce calls him “Jaylad.” It’s a little more impersonal, but it makes Jason more comfortable. (But when Bruce cradled his son’s broken body he said “no, darling, not you, don’t leave me—” because just how Dick is “sweetheart,” Jason has also always been “darling.”)

For Tim… it’s more complicated. He shoved his way into Bruce’s life and he’s forever grateful, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Jason and Dick. He sees Tim as his son, of course, but their relationship was built on the darkest, most despairing part of Bruce’s life. But even in that terrible season, Bruce would look over at Tim working on a case or cleaning his suit and say, “Good job, sport.” It doesn’t happen often, but Tim is “sport.”

Cassandra is “love.” Bruce has never said it to her, aloud, but he knows Cass can read him well enough to hear the unspoken endearment, to see how much he longs to protect her, bring her joy, fill her heart with all the love she’s filled his with.

Steph is “duck.” And not necessarily because Bruce decided that it was, but because 9 times out of 10 he finds himself screaming, “Robin, get down!” because Stephanie will not for the love of God follow his orders, and end up right in the line of fire. To save time he eventually just started saying “Duck!” It keeps Steph from getting whacked to high heavens and saves Bruce (another) heart attack, but over the years it’s also become somewhat of a ritual to say “duck” whenever Steph walks in the room. Bruce secretly wants to call her “ducky” (which is what his mother called Kate), but he’s never worked up the nerve.

Duke is “kid.” By the time he’s in the family, Bruce has loosened up and lightened up, especially with everyday affection (which is to say, he’s not avoiding it like the plague). He’s quick to say “Good job, kid” whenever Duke had an accomplishment or ask “how are you today, kiddo?” when they see each other in passing in the Batcave.

Damian, lastly, would never allow Bruce to call him anything other then his name. But every once in a while, Bruce can get away with saying “son.” And it’s the best thing in the world.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SIX

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care; drug and alcohol addiction;

Rafe had been clean for the past three years.

Over the course of the year, things between him and you had been smooth sailing. 

It was almost easy, something he wouldn’t have believed a few years back when everything he touched seemed to go up in flames. There’d been a time when he was just too much—angry, impulsive, doing all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.

He’d been selfish, reckless, it was intense, way too intense, and when you fought, it was like you were both throwing grenades, just waiting to see who’d blow up first. You’d pushed him away, he’d pushed you harder, and you’d both crossed lines that should’ve never even been close.

Eventually, both of you learned to talk instead of shouting, learned when to back down instead of pushing buttons just to get a reaction. You’d gotten better at letting each other breathe. He’d pull back when he felt himself getting heated, and you’d do the same.

It wasn’t perfect; sometimes you’d still get into it, still end up in an argument that felt like old times, but it was different. There were no more lines on the bathroom counter, no disappearing at all hours. 

Until Ward died. 

Rafe didn’t know what the fuck to feel when he got the news. He knew what he was supposed to feel, right? He’d done it before with his mom, now it was his dad’s turn. The man who had raised him, the one to teach him everything he knew about how the world worked, even if it wasn’t pretty. 

Ward was a hard man, a strong man. The kind of guy who commanded respect, even if he didn’t always show it the way others might expect. But that’s the thing, he was a man of respect. 

To Rafe, that meant something. Everything. 

Ward had shaped him, he couldn’t just forget that, couldn’t act like that wasn’t important.

At first, you were there for him, no question. 

He knew you hated Ward, you barely tolerated the thought of him even existing in the same room as you. You spent those first few weeks with him, making sure he didn’t spiral back into the shit that nearly destroyed him. He needed the support, even if he didn’t always know how to ask for it.

You were there, holding it down. You got through it, the late-night talk, but then, you started getting distant.

At first, it was subtle—small things. He’d catch you looking at him like you didn’t quite get him anymore. You’d pull away when he needed you to listen, when he was ranting about Ward, and even though you tried to hide it, Rafe could see the dissociation.

He pretended he didn’t sense it, tried to tell himself you’d come around. 

After all, this was his grief, and no one else was going to understand it the way he did. His dad had been everything to him—maybe not in the way you thought he should’ve been, but that was just the reality of it.

For the first time in years, it felt like you weren’t there with him. It didn’t make sense to him how you couldn’t see it. 

Ward had been a tough guy, sure, cruel sometimes, but he was also a provider, a father who tried to teach him how to survive, even if it didn’t always come wrapped in the right way.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was the only father Rafe had ever known. He was gone all of a sudden and that was what had hurt the most—knowing he’d never get the approval he’d always been chasing, even when he was clean, even when he was doing better. There was no fixing that. 

He wanted to mourn in peace, but no one seemed to understand why Ward still mattered to him, not even Sarah.

Three weeks after the funeral he spent his days surrounded by a few bottles of scotch he’d stolen right out of his dad’s stash. Who was gonna stop him now, anyway? He almost laughed. Three years clean. Shit, that was something, wasn’t it?

He’d had people telling him he wouldn’t make it three weeks, let alone three years. Shit, his dad sure didn’t think he’d get this far. Only you.

Rafe squinted at the amber liquid swirling in his glass, then leaned back in the worn leather of his dad’s old armchair. It felt weird being in here, in his chair, in his office, breathing in that persistent smell of old cigars and varnish.

After the whole “funeral”, with everyone looking at him like he was a wild animal about to snap, this was the only place he could sit without someone judging him.

If you’re so clean, why are you drinking yourself half to death? He took a slow sip, letting it burn down his throat. 

It wasn’t like it used to be, that high that hit fast and hard, and didn’t care if it broke him apart.

This was different, a slower, quieter process.

Besides, he was in control this time. Just a drink, he told himself, fingers tightening around the glass. No powder, no pills. That was progress.

So what if he had to take the edge off? Who wouldn’t, if they’d just said goodbye to their only living parent and had to look at their younger sisters crying like that? 

He was practically swimming in alcohol. Rafe knew he was overdoing it, but he didn’t care.

Every time he saw himself— on a window, mirror, whatever—he had a drink in his hand, and something about it just felt terrifyingly right.

Grounded.

Nobody understood him; they just kept looking at him with that worried face, like he was on the verge of losing it like he used to when he was younger. Maybe he already had.

You watched him—really watched him—and yeah, he could tell you were pissed. He saw it in that little wrinkle between your eyebrows every time he took another sip. But you didn’t say anything. 

Even Wheezie was on his case in her quiet way.

She was hanging around, throwing out old jokes and trying to make him smile, but he barely reacted. She was looking at him like she was scared, as if he was some stranger she was trying not to set off. And he hated that—God, he fucking hated it. So he kept his distance, hoped she would back off, let him get through this his way.

But then came that night at the beach bonfire, when everything changed.

He probably shouldn’t have gone, but he needed to get out and feel normal again—even if that just implied showing up and pretending, he was fine. He dragged you along, flashing that cocky grin you could see right through, but you followed anyway, probably just to keep an eye on him. He could feel it—the way you were watching him, worried as hell, that just made him want another drink.

Half the people were staring, too. Waiting to see if he was gonna go off, if he was back to the same volatile Rafe he used to be, the one they loved watching spin out. And just when he thought he could ignore it, some random pogue, scruffy, half-drunk, threw out a comment loud enough for the whole group around him to hear.

“Guess Ward Cameron finally found some gold he couldn’t buy his way out of, huh? What was he thinking, running off to some country where people don’t just take bribes? Practically killed himself.”

It took everything in him not to lunge right there, but he was too plastered to keep the anger off his face. He pushed his way over to the guy, hands clenched into fists.

“You got something you want to say to my fuckin’ face?”

The guy shrugged, muttering something under his breath, people were looking now, everyone watching to see if he was finally going to give them a show.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was shoving him back, hard enough that the dude stumbled, beer splashing out of his cup. The crowd around them stirred, murmurs, but nobody did a thing—they were just staring, waiting to see the blood spill. He felt tempted to hurt someone, felt that cameron fury crawling up his throat.

It didn’t matter that he was twice as drunk as he should be; all that mattered was the way his father’s name was rolling off this nobody’s lips.

He felt you grab his arm, long nails digging hard enough to pull him back, he jerked his shoulder, trying to shake you off, but you weren’t letting go.

“You’re gonna waste your time on him?”

Rafe gritted his teeth, but you didn’t give him a chance to argue. You hauled him back, forcing him away from the guy, who was still standing there with that smug look plastered on his face. 

“Get out. Now,” you urged him, voice calm but with the tone that even he didn’t want to test. He glared at you, mouth opening to argue, but you didn’t let him get a word in. “Rafe. Now.”

You were mad at him.

It was enough to knock some sense into him, and he let you reel him away, but not before you turned back.

“And you,” you called out, enough to silence the chatter around you. “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.” 

There was no bluff, no hesitation, and Rafe watched as the pogue’s smug expression dropped instantly, eyes widening as he realized you were dead serious, your family’s name always had an impact around town, old money and all.

As you dragged him to the car, he muttered that he didn’t need you playing bodyguard, but you ignored it, taking him out of the spotlight he hated but couldn’t seem to avoid.

His head was spinning, his blood boiling, and he couldn’t even look at you, not with how angry he felt.

By the time you pulled up to his house, you got out, guiding him inside with that hard, that silent determination he both hated and admired in you. 

You were there, right behind him with that look on your face—angry, disappointed, like he was missing something big, as if he was the one who didn’t get it.

He stumbled into the bathroom, holding himself against the sink, and before he could even catch his breath, you turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in his face. He jerked back, sputtering, wiping it with the back of his hand. When he looked at you, his anger burned again.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped.

“My problem?” you scoffed head already shaking, “Are you serious?”

“You don’t get it,” he growled, barely controlling the rage, the shame—everything. “You don’t know a fuckin’ thing about him. I had the right to defend him.”

You took a step forward, finger pointed at your chest, “Don’t I? Because I remember standing in this very house, watching him tear you down every chance he got. You’re so busy mourning this man who treated you like shit, that you’re pushing the people who care about you away. It’s not just me. It’s everyone.”

Rafe laughed bitterly, the sound humorless. “Oh, here we go,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the sink, gripping the edge hard enough to make his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t you dare roll your fucking eyes at me,” you retaliated, stepping up beside him. “I stood by you through all of it, I’m not gonna stand here and watch you kill yourself because of him. He’s the reason you felt like you had to be so perfect all the time, why you’re always trying to prove yourself to people who don’t deserve it. And now he’s gone, and you still can’t see it. You’re still trying to be good enough for him!”

He didn’t look at you, didn’t want to see the indignation—or worse, the pity—in your eyes.

“Just stop,” he muttered, but you were past listening.

“No, I won’t stop. I can’t. I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself again. You’re better than this.”

He suddenly pushed himself away from the sink, and turned to face you, his blue eyes practically black with a hurt that was older and deeper than either of you could touch.

“You don’t get to stand there and tell me what I deserve.”

“I know what you deserve.” 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes again, though his face had gone a shade paler. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” he sneered. “Think you know what’s best for me? Get off your high horse.”

“You’re damn fucking right I know better than you do, I’m not the one who’s drowning every night in some pathetic tribute to a man who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

He could feel it now, the bitterness you’d been hiding for weeks. It wasn’t just about him drinking himself stupid. It was everything—every fucking thing you’d been ignoring, it had festered between you two while you pretended things were okay.

“You’re the one who’s just tired of me, of everything that comes with me.”

You took a step back, eyes narrowing, but you didn’t flinch.

“What?” Your rage momentarily dialed down, the sound gurgling, “You think I’m tired of you? I’ve been here this whole time, trying to make you see the truth, but you won’t even look at me. You won’t let me in. You’re too fucking blind to notice.”

His breath was shaky, too fast, but he didn’t care. “So now I’m blind, huh? I didn’t see you sneaking out the door when I needed you? I didn’t notice how you pulled back, how you stopped giving a fuck about me? You’re just waiting for me to give you an excuse to leave.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he wasn’t done.

“You don’t get it! I didn’t need you to fix me, I needed someone to stay. But instead, you—" His voice cracked, the anger choking him up, "Instead, you started to make me feel like I was a b-burden. Some mess you had to clean up. How am I supposed to deal with that, huh?"

You were shaking your head, your eyes had already been filled with tears, your chest suffocating.

“I’ve been here. I’ve been standing right next to you, waiting for you to pull your shit together. I didn’t walk away. You did.

His stomach churned, as if you’d taken every inch of space in his chest and twisted it, just for fun. The worst part was, he couldn’t even argue with you. Not really. He had been so wrapped up in his own shit, so obsessed with keeping everyone out, that he hadn’t even seen how far you’d already gone.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to make this about me,” he spat, the words ugly in his mouth, it felt like they were scraping their way out of him. “You don’t get to make me the villain in your story just because you’re tired of playing my fucking hero.”

“I’m not trying to play the hero!” you screamed, stepping closer, your eyes were cold. “I’m trying to help you see that you have to fix this. Not me. Not anyone else. But you. And if you’re so fucking broken you can’t see that, then maybe you really don’t need me.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Rafe could feel his heart racing, that agonizing coil in his chest, but he couldn’t stop.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, voice quieter, but just as venomous.

He turned his back on you, walking to the door. The sound of his boots clamped against the wood floor like a countdown.

“Maybe I don’t. Grab your shit and go.”

"Don’t you fucking—" you snarled, but he was already moving, grabbing your jacket off the hook by the door and throwing it your way, “You know what? Fine. Maybe I will.” You shoved that stupid thing on, hands shaking as you yanked the zipper up. “Don’t come running back in two days like you always do. Don’t come crawling back.”

Rafe paused, hand on the doorknob, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking.

He didn’t turn around, didn’t look back at you.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”

“Good. Because I stopped feeling sorry for you a long time ago,” you replied sharply, every syllable punctuated with weeks of resentment. “What I feel now? That’s just disappointment.”

You watched his shoulders lock up; his whole body wound so tight it was like he was one wrong look away from completely losing it. He didn’t turn around either, even as you slipped out the door, but he knew.

That was it.

Two moths later, almost three, he was standing in front of the ER pacing like a complete fucking idiot after you passed out in his arms earlier.

He’d told himself he’d stay away, make it easy for both of you. 

That shitty plan had gone down the drain once he saw you speed away at that party with absolutely no regard for your safety or Topper’s. He’d seen that wild look in your eyes before—the one that said you were about to burn it all down. Or when your dad’s gala came around, and he couldn’t sleep properly knowing he wasn’t going to be there that year, knowing how you spiraled every time you had to step on that stage.

He had stupidly thought that maybe, one day, you two could still be friends. But today? That shit blew up in his face, for the second time in the span of a week.

He forgot what you could invoke in him when you were standing merely an inch away. He promised himself that he’d moved on, forced to consider that the love of his life might not be someone he could spend his lifetime with. Maybe you weren’t meant for each other.

But how the fuck was he supposed to act when the girl who had been everything to him was hurting? 

No, no, no.

Sofia was what he needed.

Someone who didn’t know shit about his past, who didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer. She hadn’t seen him the way you had, hadn’t been there through every drunken rant and punch he’d thrown at the wall or someone’s face, hadn’t heard him rail against his dad or drag himself back from one of his darkest nights. 

She hadn’t called him a fucking idiot when he chose to throw his father’s ashes on the ocean. She wasn’t going to call him a coward for it. She didn’t have a clue about any of it, and that was supposed to be what he wanted.

He looked up at the ER doors for the millionth time in the past hour, his fingers clenched around his jeep keys so tight they left marks on his hand.

It was over between you two. He’d make sure to keep the fucking distance, two whole months. If he didn’t give you enough closure, you’d hate him faster and you’d both get over it. 

So why the fuck was he about to set the whole hospital on fire as he watched John B’s beat up twinkie pull up to the parking area? It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. 

Of course you’d call her, his own sister—his father's favorite.

Sarah had always been the golden child, Ward’s little angel who could do no wrong, while he was the family screw-up. Even now, you’d picked her, just like Ward would have. 

He didn’t think before he moved, closing the distance between him them in seconds. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He barked right up in her face, daring her to explain herself.

Sarah didn’t back down, though. She just looked up at him with that same cool, level expression she always had whenever he tried to get a rise out of her. 

“I’m here because she called me.”

“She called you?” He scoffed, eyebrows pulling together in disbelief. “You? She called you?” He took a step closer, “So what, you’re her savior now or some shit? Why the hell would she call you if I’m right here?” His eyes narrowed, searching her face like he couldn’t believe it. “Are you kidding me?”

Sarah threw her hands up, a look of pure exasperation on her face.

“Are you dense, Rafe? You’re with someone else! Why would she want the guy who broke her heart to drive her home?”

He blinked, thrown off. “I broke her heart? She broke mine!” He laughed, but it was harsh, bitter. “I did us a favor. We were just—”

“Oh, right. A favor?” Sarah cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm. “That why you’re pacing out here like a goddamn lunatic?”

“Go away. I’m driving her home.”

She stepped closer, her voice steely as she looked him dead in the eye.

“No. She called me, she wants me here. Not you. So do yourself a real favor and go home before you do something even more stupid.”

A breathless chuckle escaped his lips, “She already hates me, Sarah. What’s the fucking harm, huh?” He threw his arms out, as if daring her to come up with an answer that would hurt less. “What’s one more screw-up on top of everything else?”

“You’re real dumb if you believe that. But if you wanna make it worse, then by all means, go ahead. You’ll just prove her right.”

He stayed rooted in place, chest heaving, the conflict ripping him to pieces. His hands shook, his throat tight with words he couldn’t even begin to understand.

But Sarah had already turned her back on him, heading toward the entrance.

“Walk away,” she warned him, looking over her shoulder, “That’s the only thing left for you to do right now.”

Rafe didn’t know why the fuck he listened to her.

It was as if his body had already made that decision for him, understanding that if he didn’t leave right then, he’d end up doing something stupid—something even more fucked up than what he’d already done. His tongue was locked in place, a curse on the tip of his pursed lips, but it never came. 

His feet wouldn’t move, his hands stayed at his sides, and that tightness in his throat wouldn’t let him get a single word out, not one that would make any fucking sense. He hated that. Hated that you still had this kind of control over him.

Hated that he just…felt like something was wrong.

You hadn’t been this frantic, so impulsive since he had to take you home after your sister passed. He didn’t want to remember that night—you damn near threw yourself out of his truck.

But he couldn’t ignore the memory, the desperation on your face, the screams, the fight in his grip as he pulled you by your shirt back inside.

He’d felt like he was holding on to something breaking apart in his hands, something he couldn’t fix but couldn’t let go of either. He’d seen it again in your eyes when he’d caught you earlier at the beach clean-up, the way you’d tried to dodge his stare, voice cracking, legs wobbling when he mentioned the hospital. 

Rafe still felt like he’d swallowed shattered pieces of glass every time he thought about you. And if he could just push it down, if he could just get through one fucking day without looking back, maybe he’d start to forget you.

His feet were glued to the hospital pavement, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. If you were about to crash, if this was anything like before…He didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do.

He had no reason to stay, you’d made it clear as day. He was supposed to be gone—out of your life for good. You’d told him you didn’t need him, he told you he didn’t need you. So why the hell was he still standing here? 

Perhaps because he remembered the last time he’d let you walk out, the way he’d watched you disappear, thinking he was doing the right thing—giving you the clean end you’d both needed.

Maybe that made him sick to his stomach now, thinking of you in there with Sarah, telling his sister things you wouldn’t say to him, letting her be the person he once was to you.

But you’d called her, not him. You’d picked Sarah to be here, and that hurt like a bitch, but it was what he’d asked for, wasn’t it?

This was what he deserved. He told you to grab your shit and go, forced you to leave because that was supposed to make it easier.

He’d impulsively made his choice the minute he’d wrapped his arm around Sofia, pulling her close in front of everyone who’d once known he was yours. He’d talked himself into it. It was the right call, moving on was the only way to finally get you out of his system. 

He was the one who decided it’d be easier to act like he forgot you than to actually try. He thought he could make it easy—pain-free.

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked back toward his Jeep. He gripped the door handle so hard he could break it in half if he wanted to, feeling his knuckles strain.

If he let go, if he closed that door and stormed inside, he’d just be right back where he started.

He stared at his reflection in the window, his hardened face staring back. His pulse was pounding in his temples, his gut twisting and turning as he tried to bury it all six feet under—the need to just go to you, to hold your hand or yell at you for making him care so fucking much.

He finally released the death grip he had on the door handle, forcing his fingers to relax, his knuckles still throbbing. He slid into the driver’s seat, the cold leather you’d help him choose, mocking at his skin as he slammed the door shut.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the car into drive, the tires screeching as he peeled out of the parking lot.

He drove like he was being hunted down. He wanted to get as far away from that place as possible, praying the miles between him and you would stop the churning inside him. 

You’ll just prove her right.

He hated her for saying it, hated Sarah for knowing exactly what buttons to push. 

As he rounded a curve, his headlights swept across Topper’s house. Rafe cut the engine and stalked toward the backyard. Topper’s sprawled-out form on a reclining chair, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses somehow still on evenly.

He stomped up and smacked the end of his chair.

"Wake the fuck up."

He jolted, nearly tumbling off the chair, ripping his sunglasses off and squinting up at him. “Jesus fucking christ, dude, ever heard of calling ahead?”

But Rafe didn’t answer. He just paced, hands in his growing hair, digging into his scalp like he could rip the frustration out of his skull. Topper sighed, propping himself up on one elbow, he didn’t even look at him, just kept muttering to himself, biting his lip, pacing.

“What the hell happened?”

Finally, he stopped, “I need you to find out what’s wrong with your cousin,” he muttered, not wanting to admit he cared enough to ask.

Topper blinked, brow furrowing. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with her?”

Rafe only shook his head, hands on his hips as he stared at the ground. “I don’t know, okay? She just…she’s acting off. And I can’t—I’m not supposed to care, Top. I’m not. I’m with Sofia now, alright? But she’s still…” His voice trailed off, as he scrubbed a hand down it.

Topper tilted his head, eyeing him knowingly.

“Right, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll figure it out.”

If Sarah Cameron didn’t walk through that hospital door within the next three minutes, you’d lose all the courage you’d summoned over the last hours. Or was it just an hour? You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, the IV needle taped uncomfortably into your arm. 

Your fingers curled into the thin blanket draped over you, and you wished—desperately—that you didn’t feel so…empty.

Ten minutes later, she strode in with a glance at the door, as if she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get there on time. The relief on her face when she saw you was reassuring but it only made the confusion in your chest heavier.

She was so different from Rafe, yet still looked so much like him. She sat in the chair by the bed, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to gauge just how bad it was.

“Hi.”

You swallowed, blinking up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay.

“Thanks for coming.” 

“Of course,” She reached for your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, hesitating for a split second before giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?” 

You felt a laugh bubble up, “Not even a little.”

She let out a small breath and nodded, squeezing your hand again. “I figured,” she said quietly, and you appreciated that she didn’t pretend to have some miracle answer, “I made him leave.”

She’d made him leave.

You could imagine his face distorted with anger.

You wondered if he’d put up a fight or if he’d just walked away,  giving in to his sister in that infuriating, self-pitying silence he’d perfected.

You weren’t going to ask, the less you knew, the better.

“Good.” You were relieved, but it felt bittersweet, “I didn’t want him here.” 

Except your voice shook, like it simply had to let her know you were lying.

You’d been telling yourself for so long that you didn’t need him—that you didn’t want him anywhere near you. But the second you pictured him there, waiting… God, you hated yourself.

Hated that tiny, pathetic part of you that still wanted him to care, even if it was just a sliver of anything that wasn’t anger or flat-out ignoring you.

“He threw a hissy fight, but don’t worry. He’s not coming back.”

You nodded, half in agreement, half in frustration, “He never listens.”

“Especially when it matters,” Sarah added, rolling her eyes. “I swear, sometimes I think he just likes to make things worse for himself. And everyone else.”

You recalled the sound of his footsteps trailing yours earlier, the way his hand had hovered near you when you swayed, the wild look on his face when you told him to back off. He had seemed…hurt. Like he wanted to fix something he’d already smashed to pieces.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

She respected that—she wouldn’t insist. There was a lot to unpack when it came to Rafe, but you didn’t need to go there right now. She could tell.

"Okay. Do you want to tell me why you called me and not Topper?”

There wasn’t any judgment in her tone—just plain curiosity, confusion. And you couldn’t blame her. If the roles were reversed, you’d be asking the same thing.

You had to bite your lips to avoid crying for the hundredth time that day. You hadn’t planned on telling someone the biggest secret of your life in a public space, or after nearly having a mental breakdown.

Not like this, with the IV in your arm.

"I—" you started, the words tangled in your throat. "I don't trust him," you admitted quietly, "I don’t trust him with this.”

This.

You turned your head to look out the window, the late afternoon light pouring through the blinds, but it never touched the void you felt inside. 

“He’s too close. He wouldn’t get it. I needed someone who could just… not be involved, you know? I mean—You’re still his sister but—”

Sarah’s already frowning, interrupting your pitying party, “Sweet girl, you don’t have to explain your reasons to me. I’m listening either way. I don’t know what’s going on, but I get it, I understand why you’d want to keep him out of this.”

“You’re the only one I can trust to keep this a secret,” you confessed, “If anyone finds out—if Rafe finds out—it’s over. I’m not ready for that.”

A shadow crossed Sarah’s face, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t ask questions about what you meant—about how Rafe had ruined things before. She didn’t need to. 

“I won’t tell him,” Sarah promised, her grip tightening on your skin. “It’s safe with me. I’ve got your back.”

You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly.

This was hard, harder than anything you’d ever done before, and that was saying something considering all the shit you went through when your family died. She had no idea what you were about to say, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it would change everything between you—between you and her, and you and everyone else.

"Sara, I—" The truth choked you once more, cutting you off. You couldn’t breathe.

Your chest felt vacant, something was missing, something that you didn’t know how to fix, but you had to say it. It was the only way out.

“Are you—" she started to ask, but you quickly shook your head. You could hear the hesitation in her voice.

"Just… just let me tell you,” You begged, pushing the words out before you lost them. “I-I’m pregnant,” you finally blurted out, as if confessing it all at once could make it easier.

But it didn’t. 

You didn’t dare look at Sarah right away. 

Your eyes were stuck on the ceiling, blinking rapidly, you didn’t need her to see how much this was breaking you or how terrified you were. You could feel her eyes on you now, and your hand clenched around the blanket, your knuckles white from the lack of circulation. 

Then, slowly, Sarah squeezed your hand again, she was giving you a moment to breathe, even though you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

“Rafe’s?” she asked quietly, confirming what you already knew she understood.

You nodded, not needing to say it aloud; she could sense the truth in the way your chest hitched, how you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes.

“God,” Sarah breathed out, "And you... you want to...?"

You nodded again. She wasn’t asking if you were sure; you could hear it in the hesitation of her question. She was asking if you were ready to make the choice.

“I don’t want this,” you choked out, the tears finally breaking free. “I can’t have it, Sarah. I can’t. I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure I even know what I want anymore," you spit the doubt out with the brokenness you felt, wiping the traitorous tear that traced down your cheek. "I don’t know what to do."

“I’m here. Whatever you need, however you need to do this—I’m here,” she promised, making sure you wouldn’t float away.

“I can’t… I just… I don’t want him to find out,” you managed between shallow breaths. “If he knew, he’d… I don’t know what he’d do. Maybe it’s stupid, but I don’t want him to look at me like… like he owns me something.”

Sarah nodded, not a hint of judgment on her face, “He won’t know a thing from me, I swear. He’ll never have any say in this, not unless you want him to. This is your choice, no one else’s.”

You didn’t know you’d been holding your breath, but it came out all at once in a shaky exhale.

“Thank you. I just… I didn’t know who else I could ask.”

“Hey,” she said, her voice gentle. “This? This is exactly what I’m here for. I’ve got you, no matter what.”

The empathy there, the way she held space for all your broken pieces.

“New Mexico’s clinic rules… they won’t let me go through with it alone. They said I need someone with me.” You took a shaky breath. “I can’t imagine anyone else but you there, Sarah.”

“Then I’ll be there,” she said, without hesitation. “I’ll get the tickets, we’ll go together. And if you feel like breaking down, then break down, because you don’t have to keep any of this in anymore.”

Her words broke something in you that had been holding everything so tightly. The relief, the gratitude— “You’re really… You’d really do this for me?”

“Of course,” she murmured, pulling you close so your head rested against her shoulder, her fingers brushing through your hair soothingly. “Sweet girl, I’d do this a thousand times over.”

“I mean—he’s your brother. I don’t want to mess things up between you two even more.”

She sighed, giving a small, sad smile, almost like she’d been waiting for you to say that. “You think he’s my priority right now? Don’t you worry about me and him, we always figure it out. Trust me, I’m used to it.”

“He might hate me for this. And if he takes that out on you…” You couldn’t finish.

“Listen to me,” she sighed, “I’m here because I care about you. Rafe and I, we’ll always have our issues—he’s stubborn, and he thinks he has all the answers. But that’s our problem. He’ll never have a say over what I do or who I’m there for. Especially not with this.”

You swallowed hard, “I don’t want you to regret it.”

She gave a wry laugh, brushing a piece of hair back from your face. “You don’t have to protect me from him, remember? He’s my brother, yeah, I love him despite all our shit, but I’m not here for him right now. I’m here for you.”

“You’re sure?” you asked, the question a whisper, almost childlike. You were afraid of the answer, terrified she’d eventually pull away.

“Of course I’m sure,” she replied, tilting your chin so you’d meet her eyes. “Whatever’s going on with Rafe will figure itself out—But right now, you need someone who’s all in, no strings, no doubts. That’s me. You focus on you. I’ll handle him.”

You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, “I don’t think he loves me anymore,” you admitted, almost hoping she wouldn’t hear it, “I was so mean when your dad died.”

When you finally looked up, Sarah was watching you with a sad smile, one that made your heart hurt in both comfort and ache. “You really believe that?” she asked quietly, and you could hear the disbelief in her voice as if it was so obvious to her, something you couldn’t see.

You nodded, swallowing down the sting in your throat. “He doesn’t want me, not really. He’s…he pulled away. Like he’d rather hate me than be close to me. He’s with her.” 

The words tasted bitter, and made you want to hurt him twice as bad, but there was finally some relief in saying it out loud.

She sighed, looking down for a second, almost like she was thinking how to tell you something that hurt her to admit.

“I don’t think that’s the problem,” she murmured, with a knowing sadness. “I think the problem is that you two will never stop loving each other. He’s still hurting from dad’s passing, he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to stop loving you. And you—you’re here, angry that he loved my dad so much, hurt that he left, trying to protect me from him, still worrying about me when you should be focusing on yourself. You’re scared he doesn’t care anymore, and he’s scared you don’t need him at all."

Your lips quivered, your heart about to leap out of your throat, your tongue darted out, briefly brushing your lips.

You weren’t sure you should say it out loud, but maybe you had to. “We’re better off without each other, aren’t we?”

“You’re allowed to be someone without him, and you’re allowed to find out who that is.”

You were slipping, falling back into that spiral of guilt and shame, the one that told you maybe this was all you were good for. Maybe Rafe was right to break things off, perhaps he’d realized that, in the end, you weren’t worth fighting for.

And shit, you hated yourself for still caring. For still wanting him to want you, even though you knew it was poison. Even though you knew that being with him, needing him, was only dragging you both down.

“Thank you.”

And as you sat there, in the stillness of that room, with the sunlight dimming outside, you felt that maybe someday you’d be able to trust yourself too. To believe that you were worth more than the heartache you’d come to accept as your own.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[demilypyro]

So I've seen a few too many people on twitter talking about The Kiss Scene from the new Scott Pilgrim anime. People saying it's fetishistic and indulgent, people calling it male gazey, etc. And while the kiss itself is certainly a bit exaggerated, I felt like writing a bit about why I disagree, and why context is important, like it always is. But it basically turned into an extended analysis on the metatextual treatment of Roxie Richter. So bear with me. It's a long post.

What really matters about this scene is not the kiss itself, but what precedes it. Not even just the fight scene just before it, but what precedes the whole anime series, really. And that's the Scott Pilgrim comic book, and the live action movie. Because in both, Roxie is a punchline.

She's a joke. Her character starts and ends with "one of the exes is actually a girl, I bet you didn't expect that." Jokes are made about Ramona's latent bisexuality, the movie especially treating it as funny and absurd, and her validity as a romantic interest is entirely written off by Ramona as being "just a phase." There's a fight scene, she's defeated by a man giving her an orgasm which implicitly calls her sexuality into question (come on), and the movie just moves on. It sucks. It really, really sucks.

The comic fares a little better. It never veers into outright homophobia like the movie does, and while the line about Ramona having gone through a phase remains, Roxie actually gets one over on Scott when Ramona briefly gets back with Roxie. But Roxie is still only barely a character. Like all the other evil exes, she's just a stepping stone towards the male protagonist's development. She barely even gets any screentime before she's defeated by Scott's "power of love." But Roxie stands out, since she's the only villain who is queer, or at least had been confirmed queer at that point (hi Todd). In a series that champions multiple gay men in the supporting cast, the single undeniable lesbian in the story is a villain. She's labeled as evil, made fun of, pushed aside in favor of the men, and then discarded. Her screentime was never about her, or her feelings for Ramona. It was about the straight, male protagonist needing to overcome her. And that was Roxie Richter. An unfortunate victim of the 2010s.

Fast forward to current year, and the new anime series is announced. Everybody sits down to watch the new series expecting another retelling of the same story, and.... hang on, that straight male protagonist I mentioned just died in the first episode. And now it's humanizing the villains from the original story. And there's Roxie, introduced alongside the other evil exes in the second episode, and she's being played entirely straight, without a punchline in sight. No jokes are made about her gender, no questions are made of her validity as one of Ramona's romantic interests. The narrative considers her important. In one episode, she already gets more respect than she did in either of the previous iterations of Scott Pilgrim. And this isn't even her focus episode yet... which happens to be the very next one.

The anime series goes to great lengths to flesh out the original story's villains and to have Ramona reconcile with them. And I don't think it's a coincidence that Roxie gets to go first. While Matthew Patel gets his development in episode 2, Roxie is the first to directly confront Ramona, now our main protagonist. This is notable too because it's the only time the exes are encountered out of order. Roxie is supposed to be number 4, but she's first in line, and later on you realize that she's the only one who's out of sequence. She's the one who sets the precedent for the villains being redeemed. She's the most important character for Ramona to reconcile with.

What follows is probably the most extensive, elaborate 1 on 1 fight scene in the whole show. Roxie fights like a wounded animal, her motions are desperate and pained. Ramona can only barely fight back against her onslaught. Different set-pieces fly by at breakneck speed as Roxie relentlessly lays her feelings at Ramona's feet through her attacks and her distraught shouts. And unlike the comic or the movie, Ramona acknowledges them, and sincerely apologizes. And the two end up just laying there, exhausted, reminiscing about when they were together.

Only after this, after all of this, does the kiss scene happen. Roxie has been vindicated, she has reconciled with the person who hurt her, the narrative has deemed that her anger is justified and has redeemed her character. And she gets her victory lap by making the nearest other hot girl question her heterosexuality, sharing a sloppy kiss with her as the music triumphantly crescendos.

It's... a little self-congratulatory, honestly. But it's good. It's redemption for a character who had been mistreated for over a decade. And she punctuates the moment by being very, very gay where everyone can see it, no men anywhere in sight. Because this is her moment. And then she leaves the plot, on her own accord this time, while humming the hampster dance. What a legend. How could anything be wrong with this.

[bi-writes]

ok but soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine. (18+)

you share his trauma. his stress. his anxiety. you do not know who he is, and yet you know the pain of a thousand punches because it's the only feeling he has ever given you. you know the grueling ache of abandonment and the terrible neglect of abuse and the disgusting amalgamation of all your worst nightmares before you even turn 20. everything that he gives you feels aggressive, like it burns, and he only ever gives you reprieve for so long until you just feel it all over again.

it makes you tired. it makes you sick. at first, as a girl, all you wanted to do was comfort him. you wanted to know who he was so you could kiss the cigarette burns that you feel and soak up the blood you know he bleeds.

but as you age, you begin to hate him. you hate him because he does this to you, he hurts you, doesn't he know that he's hurting you? doesn't he know that everything he feels, you feel tenfold, doesn't he know that the terror and the horror of everything he witnesses weighs down your chest, makes you feel like you're drowning over and over and over again?

for a few years into your adulthood, everything is quiet. you feel little except the ache in his back he never tends to, the creak of his knee joints that he refuses to stretch out. you wish you knew him so you could scold him for it, but you curse at a ghost. sometimes you think about doing something to get back at him--you think about carving a FUCK YOU into your arm, about throwing yourself in front of a bus just so he can fucking understand that his entire life is one fucked-up cycle of pain and misery and horror, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

you can't hurt him. you just can't.

and then, the real pain begins. it brings you to your knees, this pain. you scream, you wail, because it feels like you're being carved from the inside-out. your face burns. your chest heaves. you feel like your ribs are breaking, you can't breathe, you claw at the invisible wounds that your soulmate must be wearing, and you beg him to stop, you beg him to let me go--just fucking die already--please, please, please--

those weeks haunt you. the torture he endures, it is branded to you. you wear no scars, and you never lost any blood, but the phantom flesh that you know is gone follows you in your sleep and never shuts up. it talks, it snarls, it eats at your insides. even when he heals, you are never the same. you wake up from nightmares that you know you share with him. you look over your shoulder for the predators you know he has encountered, and you cry yourself to sleep over the loss of something that you can't even decipher because you have no idea who he is or what he buried to feel this way inside.

he's sick. he's twisted. he's a walking corpse, he has no redeemable qualities, he is selfish and mean and cruel, and you hate him, and if it wasn't for the pain that you would feel, the first thing you would do when you saw him is drive something right through his heart to finally stop the undying infection he spreads to everything that he touches.

you know it is him when you finally meet him. you would know him anywhere; you’d know him just by the scars alone who he is because you remember what it felt like when he got them. when you eye the sleeve of tattoos along his left arm--the fucked, shitty, sunburnt art that made it impossible for you to finish your university exams. the faded, grey circles that line the other, ones you recognize being from the burning cigarettes that you would smell when you closed your eyes. and when he removes his mask briefly, you recognize the scar that cuts above his lip and strikes through his eye--that one left you reeling on the bathroom floor particularly loudly. you thought he might be blind if it wasn't for seeing the darkness of both of his eyes.

you start to cry. you start to cry because as soon as he realizes who you are, as soon as you see that flicker of knowing flash across his eyes, all of the hatred and the anger and the poison that plagued you for all this time vanishes. everything you fought so hard to feel, all the misery you wanted to bestow upon him for making your life a living hell, it's gone.

because the universe is cruel, the universe has done what it has done, and it has made this singular person just for you, and against everything you believe, you know that you love him, and you hate yourself for it, and you hate the universe, too.

you have endured. but maybe you endured so he didn't have to. maybe you endured so that he could have this, the feeling that he feels right now, that feeling of sudden relief.

he slides a large hand over his chest, flinching slightly. he blinks, understanding suddenly that he's feeling your joy, your elation. when you shuffle your way over to him, breaching the conversation the men around him are having, you ignore their confused stares as you fling yourself into his chest.

ghost forces you against him, trapping you to him. he practically chokes, tangling a gloved hand into your hair, and you sob into the warm skin of his neck as he hoists you into his arms, into his lap. you don't pay attention to the curious voices around you, you just bury yourself into him and cry. his body is the evidence of all that has happened to him, and you aren't angry anymore because you're relieved.

he's real. he's alive. he's here. he's okay.

when you pull back to look up at him, you blink away the tears that are falling fast down your face. he stares down equally as intensely, drinking in the sight of those big, wet eyes. when he smooths a big hand down your face, he grumbles when he realizes what you are, how you know him.

he never realized this was what he and his soulmate shared. you in your life had never felt pain like he had--he had no idea what he was doing to you. he had no idea what you were surviving at the same time.

he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours, and your lips tremble as you cup his cheeks and hold him close.

it feels wrong to feel this kind of comfort, but he does anyways. he thinks, maybe, that perhaps the only reason he survived was because of you.

because there was someone else, far away, that loved him enough to keep him breathing. even when he thought it was over.

[brokenmenswhore]

I hate to do asks but like just imagine this! At hogwarts there is a group that’s kinda like a polyamorous relationship but just for s*x and it’s like slytherin and gryffindor students and they decided they wanted someone from like a year younger so they start to slowly talk to innocent reader to get them comfortable around them before starting to get touchy with her (maybe she is a hufflepuff? That’s my house)

i’m a hufflepuff too 🫶🏻 thanks for feeling comfy enough to send me this ask if you don’t usually like doing that!

a proposition | poly!marauders

#1

pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader (james, remus, and sirius, featuring alecto, dorcas, evan, lily, and mary)

warnings: none!

a/n: i don’t even realize my sirius favoritism until i proofread a poly story and i’m like damn okay then WHORE

a proposition: masterlist

────── ☾ ──────

Everyone knew about it.

Even though it wasn’t spoken of in the presence of the students not involved, everyone knew about it.

It wasn’t exactly a polyamorous relationship, because a relationship implies more than just physicality, which is what it was. It was purely for sex.

It was started, of course, by Sirius Black. He had a casanova reputation, and after a while, he started looking to the same group of girls when he was in the mood. His best friend, Remus, unknowingly slept with quite a few of the same girls, and a lot of those girls slept with each other.

James didn’t have as much sex as his two best friends, but he quickly became involved. After a while, a group was established.

All of the students involved knew one another well, and were all somewhat close friends that had not romantic desires toward one another, but unashamed lust. It was a sex positive group, and was essentially just a group of students who fucked each other whenever.

Despite the unofficial, non-relationship standing, they all agreed to only have sex with each other. If they wanted to add someone into the group, they all had to agree to it. So, in a way, it was a relationship, but, in a way, it wasn’t. There wasn’t really a label on what it was, but it worked for them.

Everyone in the group was in the same year at Hogwarts, so they all related to each other well.

However, a few of them began to crave something new- someone not so in line with everyone.

Everyone sat in the Gryffindor common room at an hour late enough that most others were asleep. James sat on the floor, his back resting between Dorcas’s legs as she played with his hair, tying small braids from the curly strands.

“We wanna bring something up,” James said.

“We’re doing we’s now?” Sirius scolded, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“I just mean, there’s something Dorcas and I talked about, and now I’m talking about it with all of you,” James clarified.

“Fair enough, what’s up?” Mary asked.

“I’m wondering how everyone here would feel about inviting someone new into the group.”

Everyone looked around the room at one another, attempting to gage the energy of everyone else before speaking their own opinions.

“I vote we should bring in someone younger,” Evan added.

“Younger like what? Like wouldn’t that be weird?” Remus asked.

“No, idiot, like a year under us,” Evan retorted.

“Where the fuck are we gonna find someone a year younger than us who would be down to do this?” Mary questioned.

Sirius flicked a spark off of his cigarette, clearing his throat and sitting forward a bit. “I have someone in mind.”

“Has everyone been trying to scope out prospects? Am I the only one who hasn’t thought about inviting in anyone new?” Alecto asked.

There was another shared look, and everyone shrugged. They had all thought about a change.

“Who’d you have in mind, Sirius?” Dorcas brought the attention back to his statement.

“There’s this hufflepuff a year below us, seems super innocent though,” Sirius said, taking a quick hit of smoke, “blushes every time I look at her.”

“Is she hot?” Remus asked.

“No, I’m proposing we all fuck her because she’s not hot,” Sirius snapped, his voice laced with evident sarcasm.

Sirius told them your name, and a few of them already knew who you were.

“She’s super cute!” Dorcas exclaimed, “I’m super down for that. Anyone disagree?”

Everybody was on board with the idea.

────── ☾ ──────

“Go on, then.”

James turned to Sirius and Remus, saying, “why does it have to be me? You go do it.”

“Fine,” Sirius replied, “Remus, go talk to her.”

Remus threw his hands up. “What happened to being set on making James do it?”

Sirius shrugged his shoulders. “She’s not gonna be sitting at that table forever. You nervous or somethin’?”

“No,” Remus quickly replied, “this is just, I don’t know, weird.”

“How’s it weird?”

“Because I’m about to go interrupt the poor girl in order to talk to her with the intention of later asking her to fuck me and all my friends,” Remus explained, “I don’t know, it’s just a weird thing to do.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I can’t stand you two,” Sirius said, flicking a spark off of his cigarette and walking over to you. He sat down across the table from you, watching you intently as you scribbled notes off a textbook.

You didn’t look up because you didn’t even consider that he was sitting near you for a reason.

“Hey.”

You looked up, and Sirius was looking directly at you. The familiar tint of red crept into your cheeks. “Hi.”

He took a drag of his cigarette, kicking his feet up onto the table. “Seen you around quite a bit.”

You couldn’t help but stare at his lips as they wrapped around the cigarette.

“We do go to the same school,” you quipped, smiling to show it was lighthearted.

Sirius smirked, happy you were responding well to him. “I usually don’t get on with anyone that isn’t in my year.”

“Why talk to me then?” you asked.

“Don’t know,” Sirius said, swinging his feet off the table and leaning his torso over the table a bit, “guess somethin’ just caught my eye.”

He knew his flirtations would make you blush, and they did just that. You smiled as you tilted your head back down, pretending to look over your notes in an attempt to calm yourself.

Sirius’s smile only widened watching you squirm under his gaze. “Whatcha studying?”

“Fwoopers,” you responded, “but understanding seems to evade me sometimes.”

“You know who’s super smart? My friend James.”

“Wh-“ before you could even stop him, Sirius signaled over James, who approached you with Remus in tow.

“This is James, James, say hi.”

James sighed. “I’m not a dog, Sirius, unlike some people.”

“Funny,” Sirius retorted, “do you think you could help my new friend with some Care of Magical Creatures work?”

“Oh, I don’t- I’m all good, I-“

“Course,” James lit up, sitting down directly next to you, “lemme see.”

He pulled the textbook toward him, familiarizing himself with what you were reading as Remus took a seat next to Sirius.

You watched a few girls walk past your table, shooting you dirty looks when they noticed that the boys were otherwise occupied with you. Sirius, Remus, and James has grown to be quite popular, and them speaking with a random, younger Hufflepuff was odd. Remus noticed your shift in energy.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just- I’m a year under you, I can’t do your schoolwork for you or anything.”

Sirius furrowed his brows in confusion. “Why would we want you to do our schoolwork?”

“I don’t know, is that not why you’re all talking to me?”

James diverted his attention from your textbook, looking at you in understanding. He felt a pant of guilt for springing everyone on you at once, and a pang of sadness for the fact you didn’t think they would actually want to talk to you just because.

“You forget James is top of his class,” Sirius said, but James didn’t think the mood called for quips. He shot Sirius a look, taking over the conversation.

“We’re sorry if we came off a little strong,” he started, “we all just wanted to say hey. We see you around a lot and think you’re cute, it’s as simple as that.”

“Oh,” you said, suddenly turning weak.

Sirius was smiling and relaxing back into the chair, amused to high hell with how innocent and blushy you were from such a small little compliment. He was so happy he suggested you.

────── ☾ ──────

The following day, Remus and Lily caught you walking down a corridor during your free period.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” you asked, directing the question toward Remus as they caught up to you.

“Didn’t feel like going,” Remus said, nonchalant.

“You can’t just not go,” you laughed, assuming he wasn’t serious.

“Be careful with this one,” Lily said to you, gesturing to Remus, “he’s a horrible influence. You wouldn’t have caught me dead skipping a lecture last year. He can be very persuasive.”

Something about the way she said it made you swallow hard, suddenly extremely aware of your presence and appearance.

“I’m Lily,” she finally introduced herself, throwing a piece of hair behind her shoulder. She was beautiful, and you became self conscious in her vicinity.

You didn’t respond, just smiled, so she took the opportunity to continue. “My friends and I are all headed to Hogsmeade later. You’re welcome to join if you want!”

“You’d want me to join?” you questioned.

“Don’t be silly, why not? Remus will be there too, and a ton of other really cool people.”

You contemplated your options. You had no reason to believe that Remus and Lily were not genuine in their invitation, and you were excited at the prospect of new friends. “Sure,” you responded.

Lily squealed and gave you a small hug. “I’ll go tell everyone you’re coming!”

“Why would you need-“

“Bye!”

Lily scrambled off down the hallway, leaving you alone with Remus.

“She tends to get excited,” Remus explained, “she’s the friendliest people-person I know. Can get quite annoying, actually.”

You giggled at his statement, and he took the opportunity to brush his hand against yours. You took it as an accident, so you didn’t even react, but then he intertwined his fingers with your own.

You didn’t retract your hand, but instead looked to where yours met his, and then looked at him. He continued looking forward, walking alongside you and not acknowledging what he did. He wanted to see if you would pull away on your own, but you didn’t. It felt comfortable.

You got ready for your trip with your new friends alone, since all of them were in Gryffindor or Slytherin and stuck to their respective common rooms. You caught Lily and Mary outside of their common room, and you walked with them down to Hogsmeade.

Now that you were outside of the castle walls, you noticed a shift in how everyone acted with one another. They were all very touchy, making sexual innuendos at each other and allowing themselves to have fun without restriction.

You followed as they immediately went to Honeydukes. Alecto informed you that Sirius had a serious sweet tooth, and always made everyone go there as the very first stop on their trips. No one complained, though, because they all wanted to anyway.

As you all exited the shop, Dorcas made a show of sucking her lollipop, staring Evan in the eyes as she did so. You felt your cheeks go hot, almost feeling like you saw something you shouldn’t have.

The next stop was the Three Broomsticks, and James saw your confusion as you reached the entrance.

“You okay?” he asked you.

“Yeah, just- didn’t you all just get a whole bunch of sweets?”

James laughed, “and?”

You smiled toward him. “Fair enough.”

“We don’t like to shy away from the pleasure of life, darling,” Dorcas said, imitating a very english accent. Everyone laughed in unison at her impression.

You all crowded around a table, and you remained silent, your hands in your lap for fear of obstructing the space Sirius had to your left and Mary had to your right.

You listened intently as everyone joked and talked about their current courses and professors, when suddenly a question was directed at you.

“So tell me, which professor do you like the least? I just know it’s Professor Bins. I mean, you’re crazy if you don’t say Bins,” Lily said.

“If I had to pick, sure,” you said.

“He’s never done anything to drive you crazy?”

“I mean, there was this one time he assigned so much work over the holiday that someone threw a desk out the window,” you started.

“Wait what? What exactly happened?” Lily asked, enthusiastic that you were finally opening up.

“It was just all textbook readings and analysis, especially about the Ministry and MACUSA and all that, and he said it had to be done by the time we came back from holiday. A few students protested, and he just got more and more angry until someone stood up, picked up a desk, and chucked it out the window. It happened so fast I don’t think anyone had the time to levitate it before it hit the ground.”

Everyone chuckled at the story, and you felt at ease now that you were becoming more and more comfortable with the group.

“And did he…”

“Faint from sheer stress? Oh absolutely,” you added, smiling as you spoke, your posture adjusting to mimic your growing comfort.

You didn’t catch it, but Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, nodding their heads upward at one another as Sirius gently placed his hand on your thigh.

Your body jolted a slight bit as you flinched, startled by the unfamiliar feeling. Sirius immediately pulled his hand away, but you turned to him, and spoke low enough that only he could hear. “It’s okay, you can leave it there.”

Sirius put his hand back, resting it low on your thigh. As time went on, and you continued talking, he began to rub his thumb on your leg. It felt unfamiliar, but soothing and intimate.

Of course you were attracted to the people at the table: they were all insanely attractive and kind to you, but you hadn’t felt this feeling before. Someone was touching you, and so intimately, and it was doing something to you.

Sirius began to slowly creep his hand upward, rubbing your inner thigh under your skirt, only a few inches away from your most sensitive area.

You shuddered and your breathing hitched in your throat, but you didn’t stop him.

You were suddenly snapped back to reality when you noticed everyone watching you. You looked around the table, slightly embarrassed and slightly confused.

“We have a proposition for you,” James said.

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[cherry-coffees]

Silk Ribbons and Captured Hearts

Caitlyn x girly girl!reader

cw: 2K words | no warnings, just Caitlyn and her lovely femme <3

-----------------

Caitlyn is infatuated with you.

Your relationship with Caitlyn is somewhere on the line between acquaintances and friends, running in the same high circles. Your family, much like the Kirammans, is respected and known within Piltover. You've met Caitlyn on many occasions: galas, banquets, other fancy events your parents had dragged you to. 

Most of your time spent together had come from conversing casually at events, or during council meetings whenever you both had been waiting for your parents to finish their work. You’re a few years younger than Caitlyn, so she had offered to help you with any work you had been doing at Piltover Academy. You were a good student as well, matching her intellect. Caitlyn, despite trying to focus on your homework, would find her gaze drawn to you. Watching your eyes light up whenever you talked about something you were interested in, a small, unconscious smile gracing your lips, had easily captivated her.

That was when you were both younger, though. Now, she can't help but take notice of the beautiful woman you had become. All short skirts and fitted tops, sundresses and carefully chosen accessories, you’re like a warm sunbeam that Caitlyn can’t draw her eyes away from. 

It all starts with Caitlyn going shopping in the main streets of Piltover, and she steps into a local boutique filled with cute clothes and handmade jewelry. It's not really her style, but her eyes catch on a stand filled with silk ribbon, and it reminds her of the ribbons you occasionally wear in your hair. And oh, you'd just look so pretty in that shade of purple and-

She leaves with three of them.

A few days later, you’re at a statue unveiling of some old general in Piltover’s army, and Caitlyn sees you again. And fuck you just look so pretty in your white maxi skirt and cropped tank that shows off just a hint of midriff, and Caitlyn can’t stop staring. She finally gets herself together, glancing down at the lavender silk ribbon in her hand. Should she give it to you now? Should she wait? What if you didn’t like it? Worse, what if you don’t like her even after figuring out she’s smitten with you?

Caitlyn immediately clams up, deciding it’s better to give it to you anonymously. She darts off to the area where everyone’s bags and coats are under the guise of finding something she had forgotten in her bag. Once there, she grabs a notepad from her own bag and writes a note:

I thought this would look lovely on you. 

Yours,

Anonymous 

After attaching it to the ribbon and quietly slipping back into the crowd, Caitlyn can’t really focus on the ceremony. She tries, she really does, but the sound of your casual laughter in conversation unwillingly draws her attention. She also tries not to eye you when you politely make conversation with Caitlyn’s own parents, but, well, she’s long since given up on that one. Maybe she’ll have better self-control in the future.

______

Any thoughts of self-control die the moment you step into the coffee shop where Caitlyn is sitting with Jayce. Because you’re just so beautiful, wearing some lavender sundress and sandals and holy shit is that-?

Caitlyn’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the silky lavender ribbon in your hair — the one she had bought for you — tied around two pigtails hold your hair half-up. She can’t tear her eyes away, even as you step up to order and smile brightly at the barista. So much so that Jayce turns around to see what she’s looking at before turning back to her with a puzzled expression. “Uh, Cait? You good?”

She snaps her jaw shut, nodding tightly. “Yeah,” she lets her eyes linger on you for a second longer. “Everything’s perfectly fine.”

Jayce glances in your direction once again before a knowing smile dawns on his face. “Oh,” he turns back to Caitlyn, eyes smug and teasing. “You like-"

“Shut up,” Caitlyn hisses, glaring deeply at him, half because she doesn’t want you to overhear this and half because she doesn’t want Jayce to have another thing to hold over her. 

Jayce just raises his eyebrows, taking a sip of tea as if waiting for her to explain.

Caitlyn just sighs, glancing down at her own pristine teacup. “I- how can I not?” She mumbles, glancing at you. “She’s, well…perfect.”

________

And because you just had to go and look so ridiculously, effortlessly, beyond gorgeous in the lavender ribbon, of course Caitlyn has to go and buy five other colors. Because who is Caitlyn if not willing to spend her seemingly endless amounts of money on the little things her love crush likes. A tiny part of her also preens at seeing you so happy to wear something she gave you, as if she’s subtly showing everyone that you’re hers. But she’d never admit to that, of course.

And every time she manages to slip you a ribbon, she leaves another tiny note.

These suit you so much, I thought it would be a shame not to have more.

I think this color will look so nice with your hair.

Please take these ribbons as my way of telling you how beautiful you are.

Your ribbon collection continues to build: baby pink, forest green, crimson red, the lightest grey that reminds you of clouds on a cozy winter morning. You smile every time you find a new one in your bag, keeping the notes safely tucked away in a small box in your closet. You read them from time to time, gently tracing a finger over the words as if you can feel the affection they convey. 

Experimentally, with all this ribbon, you don’t confine it to just your hair. You tie it around your ankle, thinking it looks cute (Caitlyn agrees, smiles way too long when she sees it on you in passing). Then, around your wrists: a pair of bows. And when you show up at her house to drop off something from your family to the Kirammans, Caitlyn’s eyes go wide when she catches sight of the ribbon carefully tied around your upper thigh — just peeking out from the short skirt you’re wearing. 

Holy fucking shit is all Caitlyn manages to register in her mind. She doesn’t pay attention to whatever you’re talking about with her mother. She just pays attention to the gift she gave you, a symbol of her, tied around your thigh. She’s highly tempted to step forward and grab the end of it, untying it just to replace it with her hand and squeeze-

Pull yourself together.

And she does, barely. Manages to mumble out a few weak words as you depart, missing the smug smile that graces your features as you turn to leave. Misses the way you turn a little faster than necessary so your skirt spins and she gets another view of the ribbon wrapped around your thigh. You leave, Cassandra goes on with her business, and all is normal again.

You’re a strong presence in Caitlyn’s dreams that night.

______

And then one day, there’s a knock on Caitlyn’s office door, and she calls an official-sounding “come in” only for you to enter. Caitlyn stands up a little too quickly, clearing her throat and straightening her uniform. She moves out from behind her desk to face you. “This is- uh- a surprise,” Caitlyn murmurs, eyes flitting to the navy blue ribbon laced through your high ponytail, your hair half up. She’s sure she hasn’t bought you a navy ribbon yet.

“My father sent me to ask if the gala for your mother’s birthday next week will still be in your ballroom?” You ask, shifting nervously. It’s a simple question, one that you don’t really need an answer to.

Luckily, Caitlyn is too distracted to notice. She just blinks, forcing her mouth to move. “Um, right. Yes, it’s going to be held there.”

You nod, your eyes locked with her piercing blue ones. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry for the interruption, I just happened to be nearby and he, uh, wanted to know.”

Even still, Caitlyn only half registers your weak excuse. Her eyes narrow at the ribbon. It’s different than the silky ones she’s bought you: thinner and less shiny. So, instead of formulating one of her usual, sensible responses to you, she can’t help but let her curiosity spill out. “Your ribbon.”

“My-" you touch your hair lightly. “My ribbon?”

“Where is it from?” She asks, flatly. For the past weeks, the only ribbon you've been wearing has been the ones she's been giving you. Was this an old one of yours? Did you buy it recently? Or is it from someone else? Something in her chest tightens at the last idea.

She’s not prepared for the smile you flash her. “Well” you sigh, tilting your head a little as if the answer is obvious. “I thought that since my anonymous gifter keeps buying me ribbon, I should have one in her color.”

…

Wait.

It takes a second of blank staring before Caitlyn’s jaw drops. “You-" she stumbles in her wording — an extremely rare occasion she’s been taught to avoid. But all her composure is lost with you.

“Me,” your smile holds a hint of satisfaction that Caitlyn kind of just wants to scream at. Or kiss off your face. Either one.

“You knew?!” Her tone is incredulous, like she’s been so secretive that she can’t conceive how you found out she was the one gifting you these ribbons. “How?!”

“First of all, I know your handwriting. Remember how you gave me corrections on my schoolwork when we were younger and our parents had council meetings?”

“I-" Caitlyn stutters, a hue of pink dusting her cheeks. 

“And second,” you continue, not quite done. “You haven’t been very subtle about it. You seem to forget something in your bag at every event we’re at together, and then the ribbon happens to appear in mine after you come back.”

Caitlyn’s quiet for a few moments. “Oh.”

You smile. "Yeah, oh."

Caitlyn's blue eyes meet your own, devoid of her usual composure to show her slight nerves. "So...?" her voice is almost anxious.

"So," you repeat, gently reaching up to touch the navy ribbon in your hair again. The one that perfectly matches her navy Enforcer's uniform she's wearing right now. "I wore this...for you."

Caitlyn takes a shaky breath, heart pounding. "Does that mean-?"

She's cut off by your soft lips against her own. Your kiss is gentle and chaste, just a peck, and she barely has enough time to process what's happening before you pull away. "I like you," you say, your smile turning shy.

Caitlyn blinks at you, dazed. She's normally always so in command, so in control of her every action — whether that's in her Enforcer duties or her sharpshooting competitions or just her life in general — but with you, all hope of control always seems to fade. 

She steps even closer to you, gently reaching out a hand to trail along your cheek. "I like you too," she murmurs, and this time, you fear you're the one that's losing your composure because her gaze looks so loving and tender that it makes your cheeks burn. 

And when Caitlyn kisses you again, deeper this time, you allow yourself to sigh against her lips. She kisses you as if you're something fragile, something to be treasured and cared for. And you know, in that moment, that she'll do anything for you.  That, if you asked for the moon, she'd personally find away to fly amongst the stars to take it for you. 

"Are you mine?" Caitlyn asks the second she pulls away with a gentle nip to your bottom lip that makes you shiver. 

"I always have been," you mumble, letting yourself bury your face in her shoulder to hide your flushed cheeks. 

And Caitlyn just smiles, her arms snaking around your waist to pull you against her chest. "That's all I could ever ask for, darling."

[yeyinde]

(sighs dreamily) i loooove the way you write fucked up and gross simon. the size kink and somno drabbles have been living rent free in my mind for almost two weeks now. the recent stalker piece was also so deliciously terrifying, i actually had a dream/nightmare today that was a mixture of stalker!ghost and not-dog!soap 😭

are you planning on writing any more for either of those?

ahhh thank you!!!! this had me wondering how i could maybe blend the two and this happened.

stalking. HEAVILY implied noncon somno. size difference.

Simon decides your dog, your baby, needs a man in the house. and since you like to call yourself his 'mama,’ then it’s only right that he becomes the daddy both of you need.

Your dog does not like strangers.

He's a rescue and the sort of life he lived until now, until you, is mostly a mystery. You found him on a rainy day, panting under your awning - a gnarled mess of matted fur glued to bone. Too skinny to survive another winter. You took him in right away and gained his trust. His love. But whatever he had left to spare (lots, it seems) is strictly reserved for you. Everyone else is a threat, a worry. Even the vets he's known since you found him all those years ago still get the same wary glances, the same growls then they lean in too close to whisper something in your ear.

He's just—special. The sweetest thing ever when it's just you. Your baby. People joke—slightly nervous—that he treats you like his mother. Following you closely with his big, glossy eyes tilted up to stare at you. Loving. Cuddly. Rests his big head on your lap at night with a great, big sigh. Tired from a long, hard day of protecting his house from squirrels and the stray delivery driver.

But when it comes to others—anyone, really—he’s aggressive. Territorial. All the vets and trainers say that it's his breed. That he just needs to be trained. Exposure therapy. Behavioural. And it works for all of two weeks before he's back to his stubborn self. Snapping at anyone who gets too close to you.

You post warnings on your fence. Your front door. Take precautions when you walk him. Warn anyone who gets close that he doesn't like anyone. Full stop. No exceptions. And it works. Helps ease the stress. He still goes to therapy. To training lessons. But he's smart enough to trick them into thinking he's learning.

And it's fine. People can't get too close to you. To his house. His territory.

Or so you thought.

But he's been acting strange lately.

You caught him barking at something through the fence a few months ago; spittle flying from his muzzle as his lips peeled back, snarling and vicious. If the fence wasn't reinforced, you think he would have broken it down to get at whatever was behind it.

It continued like this for a few days. Each time you went to check and see what was there, all you find is littered cigarettes. The teenage son of your neighbour, you think. He likes to hide in the dense woods so his parents can't find him. You'll talk to him about it later. Ask if he can do it a little further away from the fence so he isn’t disturbing Baby. 

As the days grow, his growls and snarls diminish before stopping outright. In the interim, your unease grows.

It's small—at first. 

He wants to be outside more. Always whining at the back door, scratching at it with his paw. When you let him out, he runs right to that spot by the fence. Sits down, and just stares. When you go out to look, there's nothing there. Just a dark, sprawling coppice. Cigarettes on the ground. But something catches his attention. Keeps it. Holds it.

He leads you to that spot sometimes, too. Nudges you with his big, furry head to your thighs. Shepherding you to the fence, and then sits back, clearly preening. Proud.

"You're mama’s silly boy, aren't you?" you coo, scratching his ears. It must be the neighbour. Maybe a stray deer wandered by. You catch a flash through the tree line. Twin puddles of black peering through the tangled weeds. Your dog perks up, looking towards it. A deer, you think. A stray buck. You huff, patting his head. "Made a new friend, huh?"

But you can't shake the feeling that something else is out there. That something is staring at you.

Nothing, you tell yourself, fighting off a shiver. It's fine. Fine. He sneaks off at night sometimes. You hear him playing in the hallway. Wandering around the house. The tack-tack-tack of his nails against the hardwood as he walks back to your bedroom lulls you back to sleep. You feel the bed dip. Something warm against your back. You sigh, melting into the sheets—

There's nothing to worry about.

He'll protect you.

But the next morning, you find him locked outside. The patio door shut. The deck is dried from the sun, but his fur is wet. It rained last night. You drifted in and out to the patter of it on your window. The soothing weight of his body curling around you—

He must have gotten out in the morning. Rolled around in the grass. But when you put him in the tub later to scrub the rainwater off of his cost, his belly is dry.

It's nothing. He was in bed with you last night. It's fine. Fine. Everything is easy to explain away as coincidence. Nothing usual. The feeling of being watched. The missing food from your fridge. The creaks of the old house at night. Things shifting around—keys missing only to turn up somewhere else. Rodents chewing through your landline. 

The panties you shed, tossing into a corner before getting into the shower going missing—

They’re just—lost in the wash. You must have thrown the leftover food away when you cleaned earlier and forgot. The lingering scent of cigarettes. Smoke in your bed. The cloying scent of loam, humus. Fresh dirt. The stains on your bed. The strange smear in the gusset of your panties when you peel them apart.

Something thick, firm between your thighs—

Fine. You tell yourself. Everything is fine. At best, it's a gas leak. At worst—well.

Baby will protect you. 

Always. 

But the next day, he brings his favourite toy to the back door, asking to be let out, and this isn't—

It's not normal.

He's possessive over his toys. Keeps them on his daybed and refuses to let anyone touch them. Only you. He doesn't bring the. Outside, either.

But when you peer outside a few minutes later, the toy is lying by that spot near the fence. He's sitting down, tail wagging. Happy. Excited. It continues like this for the next few days. He brings his toys to the fence, coming in later, licking his lips. When you brush his teeth at night, you smell something gamey on his breath. Meaty. 

Getting out of bed a few hours later and playing in the hallway. Going to sleep with you at night, but somehow getting out in the early hours of the morning, waiting for you on the patio when you remember the huff of his breath over your neck less than an hour ago—

No. You're just—

Getting the time wrong. It's fine. He'll protect you. He doesn't like anyone but you.

You hear footsteps in the hallway at night next to the click-clack of his nails. When you jump out of bed to check, it's just him. Sitting by the back door, head craned over his shoulder when he heard you coming. His favourite toy is sitting on the ground in front of him. You fight a shiver. The feeling of eyes burning into you churns your stomach.

"I'm going crazy, sweetheart," you coo, but feel the threads of your sanity begin to snap one by one. "But you'll keep me safe, right?"

His tail wags. You pretend not to notice the gap in the patio door. Opened just a crack. You shut it, forcibly telling yourself to remember to close it next time and fight the memories of locking it before settling on the couch to watch old re-runs. You drag him back to bed, burrowing your head into his fur, listening to the thud-thud-thud of his heart in your ear. 

When you dream that night, it's of a big, scarred hand making its way between your thighs. A rasping, masculine voice in your ear commanding you to be good—

You wake up with your thighs sticky, wet. Your cunt pulsing. There's an ache there; a sting. It twinges when you move, tapering into a sore throb as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, woken up by the strange dream—fingers between your thighs, a head resting on your belly, calling you a good girl—and a noise.

A low murmur comes from the living room. You wince with the first several steps, forcing yourself to ignore the uncomfortable feeling between your thighs. The wetness that drips down your leg, some of it already dried, sticking to your skin. It’s fine. You just had a—

A wet dream.

—everything is fine. Fine. Your heart lurches. Lodges in your throat. Each beat feels like a fist against your tissue trying to break down the prison of your flesh to flee. 

You slowly inch toward the hallway, the sound, making excuses for the fear that curdles in your belly. The itch in the back of your head that calls you stupid. Demands you go back to bed. To sleep. You’ll wake up in the morning to Baby slobbering over your chest, drooling as the time ticks away in a slow crawl towards his usual breakfast. 

It’s tempting. The sleep congealing in the corners of your eyes, weighing heavy—molasses-thick—over your sense of awareness: cobwebbed in that strange, uncanny realm of sleep and wakefulness; hypnagogia turning shadows on the walls into human shapes. The whisper of wind into the brassy drawl of a voice. 

Through it all, the prickle rears. Says something isn't right. Hasn't been right for a while now. It's fine. Everything is—

It doesn't make sense at first. Your brain tries to wrap around the images your eyes feed it. Untangling the dizzying sense of confusion that runs along your hindbrain like a jagged knife; grazing tissue, scraping over nerves. The picture comes together quickly. There's no misinterpreting the shapes.

A man is lounging on your couch. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. The remote is held in one hand as he lazily flicks through the channels on your television screen. The picture of ease. So relaxed, so comfortable in your space, that you begin to feel a little bit like an intruder. A voyeur peering between the curtains.

This feeling is reinforced when you peel your eyes away from the horrifying mask on the man's face—a black balaclava—and find your dog lounging beside him. Resting with his head over this stranger's thick thighs. His head perks up when you approach, tail wagging, but he doesn't get up from his spot. Content to bask in the half-hearted attention the man doles, a hand buried in his fur. Dragging over his ears. Down his back. Monotonous flicks of his thick wrist, nearly the same width as the barrel of a baseball bat.

And that just trembles down your spine in the worst way.

He's the same height as you are sitting down. Takes up two cushions on the couch with his absurd bulk. Massive, you think. And then it all rushes through you. The knife slips into your cognisance.

There's a man in your house. Petting your dog,

your dog who tries to bite the same vet he's had for years. Who trusts, who likes, no one but you—

You make a noise. Something strangled in the back of your throat. Muffed, unable to escape through the clot of your heart getting there first. It tangles around your pericardium and is too late to take back. To swallow down. 

It doesn’t matter, though. 

The man has been watching from the beginning. 

Dark eyes (a dark, black flash between the leaves—) drill into you. Staring. That familiar, unease feeling is back again, creeping up your spine. It's been him the whole time, you know. The thing behind the fence. Must be. The same brand of cigarettes you found on the opposite side is sitting on your coffee table, right beside his feet.

His chest expands with his inhale. You smell stale smoke. Something wild. The scent of the forest after a summer's rain shower.

"Finally up, are you? Thought you were gonna sleep all day." His voice is deep. Brassy. The growling roll of an approaching thundercloud. You shiver. Jerk back, but—

Baby growls.

He's never done that before. Never barked. Never snarled. Never nipped.

But right now, his teeth peel back, muzzle wrinkling as he lifts his lips. And you know it's playful. Seen this look on his face when you throw the ball across the yard. It's just him being his silly self. He won't attack you. Won't maul you. 

The man lifts his hand and your dog limbers up. Shakes. He jumps off the couch and trots toward you. Nothing is threatening in the way he moves. It's the same lumbering gait, the same happy wag to his tail, but he moves himself around you. Stands between you and the only escape.

"Baby—?"

"Taught 'im a few tricks," the man drawls conversationally—like he wasn't a stranger in your house. "Got a good boy on your 'ands. Jus' needed a bit o'trainin'—”

He snaps his fingers and Baby moves. Bumps his head into the back of your thighs. Pushing you. Nudging you toward the man. It’s so horrifying familiar that you find yourself moving without a thought. Following along. 

"He jus' needed a man in the house, didn't he? A father figure—" 

You're going to be sick. Think you would have been already if your heart wasn't lodged tight in your throat, keeping everything down. 

The man lifts his hand. Curls his fingers. 

"C'mon, mommy," he taunts, voice a derisive roll. "Come sit on Daddy's lap. It's movie night tonight."

Baby pushes you forward happily, tail wagging, wagging—

Happier than you’ve ever seen him as this stranger reaches out, grabbing your waist and hauling you onto his lap. You think about fighting immediately, struggling to get out of his hold, but he moves back and the unmistakable, blunt press of a gun sends shivers rolling down your spine. You still instantly. Back drawing tight. Fear is a wet, hot pulse behind your ribs. 

“Don’t fight it, birdie—” You feel the warm, damp press of his mask against the shell of your ear. The ridges of his lips move beneath the fabric as he speaks. 

You hear him inhale, drawing in the scent of your shampoo—your fear: an oily thick miasma pooling behind your ears, against your nape—and feel tears pool against your lashline when a surge of familiarity wells up at the solid, firm weight of his chest against your spine. His thigh slips between yours, spreading them wide over the arch of his muscle. Limp, dizzy, you fall back into his chest when he pulls you in, slotting a burly arm over your ribcage. Locked in tight. A shackle. 

“Ain’t go’ nothin’ t’worry about,” he continues, hips shifting. Moving. And—

It’s a not gun. You know it isn’t. When you whimper, it throbs—

There’s the echo of a groan in his voice when he huffs, lips pursing into a kiss. “Nothin’ at all. C’mon, Baby—” 

And Baby obeys eagerly, jumping up on the couch beside him. His snout is warm, wet, when he presses it to your arm, sniffing. Please, you think, staring into his eyes as tears swell, pooling down your cheeks. Please—

But the man lifts his arm, and Baby circles the cushion before falling against his side with a deep, content sigh. Hope is snuffed out of your chest in an instant. The man’s hand falls to his head, rubbing his skull affectionately. 

“Good boy.” Baby perks. His happiness is a palpable thing that swells around you as he melts, eyes slipping closed. “Gonna be a good boy while mum an’ dad spend some time together, ain't you, boy?”

His arm tightens around your waist. Chin notches over your shoulder as he shifts back, legs kicking out to spread your thighs further apart.

"Now," he drawls, hand sliding down to the mess between your thighs. You shiver against him, toying with the idea of running, fleeing—but he must know. Senses it, maybe. He lifts his hips, pressing the gun into your spine. A threat. A warning. But with the way he swallows you up—broad chest closing in on you, trapping you on all sides—you know it's futile.

He has you.

Your submission makes him purr.

"Baby's sleepin', so now let daddy take care'o mommy—"

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 8: Nobody’s Son, Nobody’s Daughter

You hate how weak you are, sometimes.

That a text can ruin your whole day.

>> Hey. I hope you’re doing well. I miss hearing from you.

You’re fuming. Absolutely fuming. In under fifteen seconds you’re on your feet, face hot and heart pounding as you stomp across the old wooden floor.

“I’ll be right back.” You grunt to Johnny and Kyle, ignoring their wide, confused eyes and fast walking past them and out the back door.

The sun is up for longer now, only just beginning to set. It’s hot and hard to breathe, which only makes you more pissed off. Your skin prickles and blood rushes in your ears. You hate the way your hands shake. Your boot connects with the dumpster hard. It hurts, but you’re too pissed to really care. You just need it out of your system - the metal sending a ringing, gong-like sound bouncing around the back alley as you repeatedly slam your foot into it.

How dare he?

Miss hearing from you? YOU?

He ignores you for your whole childhood and teenage years - didn’t even try - and he misses hearing from you!? Couldn’t ever remember your age or grade when you did see him and he hopes your doing well!? Blew you off for his other kids for years and he fucking misses you!

How the hell did he even get your new number? Your mom, probably. The traitor. Fuck.

“Think that bin’s ‘ad enough, bird.” Simons voice startles you. He glances down at the dent you somehow managed to make. Your foot throbs when you put it back on the ground, shifting your weight onto the other one. One of your toes is bleeding, you think. You hand feel it soaking into your sock.

You look away, face hot from embarrassment now. “Didn’t know anyone was out here…”

Simon takes you in for a moment. Usually you don’t mind it - his intense silences - but right now it feels like being dissected. Like he’s pulling your skin back to reveal that squirming, tar-like creature aways simmering just a layer beneath. The pathetic little worm you try so hard to cover with a functional facade.

“Smoke?” He tilts the pack toward you. You wrinkle your nose - it’s a shit brand - but at the moment you wouldn’t care if it was made of actual shit as long as it had nicotine.

You pick one out and plop down on the weird curb that lines the opposite side of the alley. Simon sits beside you, raising his lighter toward you cupping his hand around the little flame to light your cigarette. It’s intimate, in a way, and if you had the emotional elasticity for it you might have blushed.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks after a few drags.

You shrug. “Dads suck.”

Simon hums. “That they do.”

“It’s just like-“ You make an exasperated sound and run your fingers through your hair. “Like if you’re not around for fuckin’ twenty years, you don’t get to act upset when I don’t want to talk ever. Just because now I’m the one that set the boundary. It’s stupid. It’s mean.”

Simon nods along as you ramble, your voice trailing off eventually. You both sit there quietly, for a moment. This is the type of silence that you don’t mind. Enjoy, even. Just existing together. At first you thought he hated you, or just didn’t like much of anybody, but you’ve come to theorize that he’s the same as you. That he gets stuck in his head, too. It’s nice, having someone to sit with without the need to entertain them. To preform.

Your lip quivers even as you attempt to stop it by sinking your teeth in. A killing blow. It doesn’t work. You bury your face in your hands. “I don’t know why I’m crying…”

“Because you’re hurt.” Simon bluntly replies. It’s soft, though. As soft as a voice like his can be.

“He doesn’t deserve it.” You sob, messily wiping at your eyes. Your eyeshadow is probably smudged to hell now but you can’t bring yourself to care. Hopefully the others don’t ask about it.

An arm wraps around you, tucking you close. The surprise of it almost knocks you out of your crying fit entirely. Simon isn’t touchy. With anyone. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his eyes forward while he takes a long drag, but that arm remains around your shaking shoulders with you pressed to his side.

It’s quiet, as it usually is when you close up with just Simon. The others took off for the night. Johnny said something about a date before dragging Kyle off arm in arm. They must have set up some kind of double date for the evening. John’s last appointment had to reschedule so he knocked off early as well. It’s nice, really, to be alone in the shop with Simon. He lowers the music, helps you with sweeping and the trash. Tells you the newest joke from wherever the hell he gets them. Popsicles, you think, based on his sweet tooth and the quality of pun.

“C’mon. We’re takin’ a field trip.” Simon tilts his head toward the street past the turn to your apartment. He still insists on walking you home, even if the sky is still relatively bright.

You look up, frowning. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

You follow him down the quiet street. It’s warm and muggy as you go. You keep glancing up at Simon, waiting for some sort of tell. Some hint at where he’s leading you. In the back of your mind, you become innately aware that Simon is probably the only man you’d follow this blindly.

You nearly knock into him when Simon comes to a sudden stop. “Here.”

You look up, squinting at the tacky sign in what you can only describe as “intense manly man” font. Bold, blocky letters in bright orange with faux cracks scattered through the letters.

TANTRUM TANK

A mixture of stunned and curious leaves you quietly following Simon in. You press the spot between your brows to dissipate the confused frown. The lobby is pretty basic with a few decorations that mimic the style of the sign. Cracked facades and black walls. The room is lined with plastic chairs and a couple safety posters reminding patrons not to hit each other with the bats. A large television screen flashes between images of people in hazmat suits smashing various garbage and debris, pausing on a menu of times and prices.

“Simon!” A man appears behind the counter, face bright. “Here for your usual hour?”

Simon steps up to the counter, nodding in your direction. “Actually, I’ve got a plus one.”

The man’s brows raise and he looks you over, giving you ashort, polite greeting. You nod and smile back, pretending like you know why you’re here at all. You just watch as Simon briefly chats with the clerk who obviously knows him well. He’s a regular here, then. He doesn’t give anything away, just makes some brief, perfunctory small talk before taking a key and waving you after him. Why’d he bring you here, of all people?

Your heart skips at the thought of Simon wanting to do something with you, though. He brought you here because he wants to hang out - in his own way. He must do this with the other boys, too. Maybe one of them bailed on him or something. Part of you wonders if he didn’t want to come alone, but that doesn’t sound like him. Plus, you can’t say that its’ at all out of character for him to decide something and just do it with no other communication. You also can’t say you mind much. Not with him.

“You come here with the others a lot?” You ask as you follow him back to the room.

“No.”

You frown. Oh.

The two of you lapse into silence as you put your things away into designated lockers. There’s a sort of interim room before the actual rage room with storage and a few stacks of protective gear in various sizes. Simon’s quick about it. Practiced. He slips on the protective plastic suit quickly while you grunt and struggle with unfolding it. Your hair crinkles with static as you finally get the mass of plastic unfurled and step into it. Of course the one that fits you around is too damn long. At least the gloves fit.

“Simon?” You murmur, finally finding your voice - as weak as it comes out. “Why’d you bring me here?”

He looks you over for a moment with that same steady gaze as before. You’ve never felt seen like you do with Simon. Even with the others… they don’t see to the core of you like he does. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Some pathetic little part of you left over from your misunderstood teenage years.

“I ’ad a pretty shite father.” Simon says as he zips up his suit. “Taught me a lot of anger. I didn’t- I don’t want to be like ‘im. Don’t want people t’be scared…”

You stare, wide eyed, frozen in place. As if any movement would disrupt this new found honesty - would frighten the man away from confiding in you. It’s sudden and far more than you’ve gotten out of him in the months you’ve known each other. It’s too special to risk.

“Sometimes you’ve got t’get it out of your system. Better than breaking your foot on a skip.” He snorts, stepping forward and carefully pushing a pair of safety glasses over your eyes. One hand runs over your hair just for the briefest moment; another lightly pats your cheek before he turns on his heel, grabbing one of the bats hanging on the wall and making for the door.

You stare after him, shell shocked by both the admission and uncharacteristic physical touch. You involuntarily reach up to trace your fingertips over the cheek he touched.

Don’t want people to be scared…

A part of you breaks in the back of your mind. The obvious, unsaid ‘of me’ sits heavily on your tongue. Some distant image of what he might have looked like as a child. Small and blonde with those big dark eyes… You gulp down a tight breath and follow after him, just a little too close to crying at the implication.

Simon gestures toward a crooked, half broken office desk. “Ladies first.”

And oh, if that first swing wasn’t the best release you’ve had in a long, long time.

A/N: Sorry for being inactive the past couple weeks, I could literally write a novel with how much as happened irl🙃

Anyhoo next part y’all are getting lots of Price because that homecoming skin has got me fucked up