#alone in a cramped universe

[buckyscap]

this part always gets me giggling kicking my feet twirling my hair. when wade kept asking about logan's suit saying he just wanted to bond, logan said "well then talk about something else"

he's practically showing us he's not against talking to wade at all, unlike how he wants us to believe by being so grumpy and telling him to stfu all the time.... that scene really got me going "aw he wants to bond? 🥺" in the theatre

[strohller27]

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[zarameraki]

♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧ 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 ♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mdni 𖥔 sukuna is a mafia kingpin 𖥔 teasing grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 pregnancy trope 𖥔 he'll burn the world for you 𖥔 "my wife" 𖥔 he's a great dad 𖥔 mentions of miscarriage 𖥔 mentions of physical and sexual assault 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 he loves eating you out 𖥔 anal play (yup.) 𖥔 last warning: mdni!

: ̗̀➛ words: 6.0k

: ̗̀➛ notes: no bc i love you all so much. it's insane how much you guys have supported my toji fanfic & and my nanami fanfic. i'll def be writing a part two to both of those masterpieces (yes i have self-confidence). as someone who's always imagined sukuna as a mafia leader, i decided to say fuck it and write it. please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy! (p.s. pregnancy trope>>>)

You never thought you'd be married to Sukuna Ryomen, let alone carrying his kid again. Yet, four years deep into this forced marital mess, thanks to your father owing a hefty debt to the kingpin of the underworld crime syndicate, here you were.

“Look at you, Mrs. Ryomen, radiant as ever!” chirped one of your husband’s associate's wives. You had studied a name list last night, but it all escaped your memory after you passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Sukuna wasn’t keeping a hawk's eye on you like he used to when you first stepped into the public eye. Gone were the days of his glares if you messed up a name. Never once had he laid a finger on you at home, despite your assumption that forgetfulness would earn you a beating.

“Thank you." You forced a smile at the woman, your patience waning as the mayor's birthday party stretched on. It was almost the end of the night, and your feet were protesting from traipsing around in flats. All you craved at that moment was your bed, pronto.

The woman and her husband attempted to capture Sukuna's lukewarm attention through political discussions and expressing gratitude for the illegal artillery shipments from your husband's syndicate. They made no effort to acknowledge your existence by his side.

Your hand rested on your belly, a mere eight months into your pregnancy—a new personal record. The first time you conceived, Sukuna demanded an heir, and you willingly agreed, knowing that the child would provide some distraction in the expansive estate that felt like a cage. Unfortunately, at the two-month mark, you experienced a miscarriage.

Feeling Sukuna's knuckles lightly tapping your back, you straightened your posture momentarily, only to slouch again almost instantly. It was futile. The discomfort of your swollen and cramped belly made it nearly impossible to maintain a poised demeanor in the midst of the party.

Disobeying Sukuna meant facing inevitable death, a fact well understood in his dangerous domain, and you had never dared to challenge that.

"Let's go," Sukuna said, cutting through the incessant chatter of the couple. He didn't grasp your hand, only your fragile wrist, a gesture you didn't mind. Yours was not a typical love; he, Sukuna Ryomen, a most feared monster in the criminal underworld, and you, a sacrificial lamb, a trophy collected three years ago, a means to his heir.

"I'm sorry," you whispered as you exited the venue, heading towards the limousine surrounded by fifteen armed guards under Sukuna's command. "I'm so sorry—"

"Get in the car." He held the door open for you, signaling his guards to disperse and take their positions in the Jeeps parked behind.

Silencing yourself, you cautiously settled into the back seat, and Sukuna joined you, slamming the door with force. His anger was discernible, and the memory of that night, losing your second unborn child to a kidnapping, plagued your dreams. You were uncertain if the nightmares were about Sukuna's wrath upon finding you or the horrors his enemies inflicted on you during your 48-hour captivity.

Sukuna noticed your struggle with the seatbelt and contorted his body toward you. Your fingers released their grip on the belt, allowing him to pull it taut and secure it snugly around your midsection. Click. He withdrew, distancing himself from your face that had been mere inches away.

“Tedious fucking party, anyway,” Sukuna grumbled, his left ankle casually perched on his right kneecap. He always adopted a specific posture, his elbow leaning against something, cheek resting on his knuckles, and his narrow eyes a rich brown that could almost pass for a deep shade of red. He exuded an unrelenting air of intimidation.

"I agree," you unintentionally voiced your thoughts, earning a sidelong glance from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

His attention barely lingered on you as the car roared to life. You breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out your legs and leaning your head back against the seat's shoulder. Your palm absentmindedly traced circles on your belly. Goosebumps peppered your skin from the frigidness in the car, stirring an involuntary shudder.

"Turn on the heater," Sukuna ordered the driver in his smooth, languid baritone.

"Yes, sir."

As warmth gradually surrounded the backseat, you hummed a small "Thank you" and closed your eyes, enjoying a few moments of peace.

Disorientation clouded your senses, and you dispelled it by rubbing your eyes and using your knuckles to prop yourself against the headboard. A couple of contractions ripped through your gut, causing you to groan and hiss through gritted teeth.

The enormous room was devoid of Sukuna, its black silk sheets hinting at the luxury covering you. The fireplace casted a warm glow, and a soft, dim golden light spilled from the lamp onto the floor.

In the first year of your marriage and pregnancy, your bedroom was located three doors away. You were tended to by on-site nurses and doctors, surrounded by an entourage of maids for company. Days were spent aimlessly wandering the estate, occasionally crossing paths with one of Sukuna's mistresses, their curious smirks evident as they exited his room.

The second year brought a subtle shift. You still slept alone, but now there was a surprising addition of joining Sukuna for dinner. Positioned diagonally from him, an air of restrained silence hung above your head. Yet, between the utensils clattering and quiet chewing, Sukuna's glances toward you and your five-month-old belly revealed your anticipation for the impending arrival of your child.

One of your maids had been instructed to lure you into a private conversation in the back garden, and before you could react, a group of men clad in black drugged you and forcibly removed you from the cage, which in that cruel moment felt like a sanctuary.

Most details of the monstrosities forced upon you in that warehouse have been compressed by your mind—the merciless physical and sexual assault endured for hours. They callously bragged that raping Sukuna's Ryomen's wife was a personal victory, cackling like bloodthirsty hyenas as you bled from your legs. In the thick of your suffering, you lost your second child in a pool of your own sweat and feces.

When Sukuna discovered you, when he annihilated every man along with their bloodlines, you were left as a mere shell of a woman, practically lifeless. You've existed as a walking corpse for quite some time now. Following that dreadful night, you attempted every conceivable means to end your own life—drowning, leaping out of windows, creating a makeshift noose from bed sheets and tying them around balcony railings, teetering on the edge—but every attempt proved useless. Sukuna consistently interfered at the last minute, sweeping in and enveloping you in his arms as you wept until unconsciousness claimed you for days.

Therapy provided some relief, as did the medications. Sukuna heightened security measures tenfold, keeping only those workers who served during his father and grandfather's reigns. He moved your belongings into his bedroom, sleeping by your side with a gun beneath his pillow. There were times when you would doze off in the library while reading, only to wake up in his room.

Two years seemed like an eternity in the slow process of healing, both physically and mentally, from the torment that had befallen you. Stepping into the garden was a reminder of the progress you had made, yet the hope that blossomed in your womb now filled you with a different kind of fear.

You needed your baby. Even if it meant risking your own life during childbirth. The only thing that mattered was the precious life you carried within you, and as long as your baby took that first breath, you'd welcome death with open arms.

Sukuna's bedroom door creaked open, revealing his presence.

Mink-colored tendrils of hair obscured his eyes, disheveled from their usual spiked stance. The stark white of his dress shirt was marred by the unmistakable stains of someone else's blood, and a gun dangled casually from his grasp. In the subdued lighting, his facial markings, inked tattoos designed to mask the scars of his tormented childhood, appeared more ominous than ever.

Without acknowledging your ogling, he briskly entered his bathroom.

You slipped back under the covers, pulling the comforter up to your chin, soothing the sharp twinges in your belly. The rhythmic sounds of his shower served as a background melody. Sukuna took an eternity to freshen up, nearly two hours passing before the door finally creaked open. You had kept a close eye on it, lost in your own world and trying to ignore the persistent contractions. No complaints, though – you were at the eight-month mark, and this baby was determined to make its entrance into the world.

Draped in a sleek black silk robe, Sukuna strolled toward his side of the bed, his eyes locking onto yours. "Why are you still awake?" He tilted his head as if studying an unfamiliar creature. He always regarded you with a curious interest, unearthing some new revelations about you.

"Cramps," you whispered in the dimness, even though the first rays of morning sun began to seep through the curtains.

Sukuna strolled to his side of the bed, lifting the comforter to settle down. "Do you take any medication for it?"

You shook your head. "I don't want to take any risks."

"So you're just going to endure the night with a migraine?"

Your husband seemed oblivious to the concept of cramps. He hadn't bothered to educate himself about your pregnancy or even familiarize himself with basic menstrual cycle terminology. You hesitated to bring attention to his title and position, but he was, after all, born from a woman.

How could he not know?

"Answer me," Sukuna demanded, fixing you with a cold, indifferent gaze. How could two simple words carry such a heavy, intimidating weight? Your entire body shuddered, and you swore you felt your child kick in response to his attitude, causing you to clench your teeth.

"Cramps . . . are something women experience during their period and pregnancy. They're sharp, unpredictable pains in your gut and back," you explained, finding a position that eased the cramps and calmed your baby. "It's worse when you're pregnant—like someone attached a taser to your body without a switch to turn it off."

Sukuna's brow furrowed, and he seemed pissed off as if he held a vendetta against cramps. "Will it have any consequence on the baby?"

You were really trying to be patient. “The baby is the reason why.” 

He ran his hands wearily down his face, casting a stern gaze at the ceiling, his breath quickening. "Is there any way to relieve the pain? Besides medication?"

“Well,” you said slowly, “when I first started menstruating, my mother used to place a warm rubber bottle on my stomach.” The recollection of nights spent groaning, tossing, and turning with your hand clutching your stomach brought a smile. After her passing in high school, you found yourself managing the household, dealing with your drug-addicted father, and taking care of yourself all on your own.

"Come here."

Startled, you shifted your focus to your husband, who raised the comforter like a makeshift tent with one arm. "You don't have to—"

"Come here."

With caution, you edged closer, lying flat and holding your breath. Sukuna propped himself up on one elbow, resting his temple on his knuckles while adjusting the blanket up to your neck. His left hand glided up your sweater and settled on your swollen belly.

An immediate sense of relaxation cocooned you, your eyes closing as warmth radiated from his palm onto your skin. The sensation passed through to your child, who quit kicking within seconds, seemingly recognizing their father's touch. It dawned on you that Sukuna hadn't touched you since you conceived, and you hadn't realized the volume of your misery and longing until this moment.

"Feeling better?"

"Mm-hmm." You nestled your face close to his neck. All you managed to whisper, your voice tinged with brokenness, was, "Please, don't let go."

Sukuna responded only with silence.

You'd woken up screaming bloody-mary.

The security team and maids hurried into the bedroom, their eyes widening at the sight of blood staining your clothes and darkening the black sheets. In a swift response, the doctor and her team of nurses rushed in while Uraume, Sukuna's trusted aide, calmly called for your husband from a corner of the room.

In the heat of your excruciating screams, five nurses attempted to guide your breathing and encourage you to follow a pattern. Guards carefully lifted you into a sitting position, and Uraume decisively cleared the room of all men. The doctor swiftly removed your sweatpants and panties, covering your lower region with a sheet, and instructing you to push.

Your body felt numb, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and a black vignette closing in on your vision. Your head swayed left and right, on the verge of dropping if not for Uraume's unwavering support. Despite the intensity of your grip, they held steady, their only reaction being a stream of muttered curses amid the chaotic scene.

"I can't—Uraume—"

"You will, Mrs. Sukuna. You have come this far. Giving up now is not an option."

"I don't want to die," you whispered akin to a prayer.

"You won't," they softly replied. "He won't allow it."

Uraume, a silent figure from the past, now stood by your side, offering support and encouragement. The connection with them had been minimal, limited to the formalities of a marital contract signing. They had simply muttered, “He’s not half as evil as they say,” to you before packing up the papers and leaving you in the room with Sukuna.

The room buzzed with affirmations, reassuring you that they could see the baby's head and urging you to push with each breath.

The sound of the baby's cries stirred you awake.

You snapped to attention at the sweet, reassuring sound, realizing that your baby was close to arrival—alive and ready to face the world. Following two heartbreaking miscarriages and the pain endured as Sukuna's wife, the bearer of his lost children, you were finally on the cusp of welcoming motherhood.

"Two more pushes!" The doctor's voice cut through the air.

"AGH!" A guttural growl escaped your throat as you grappled with the harsh sensations. Your body trembled, and waves of fiery discomfort overflowed through your core as you exerted yourself to bring your baby into the world.

"Come on," Uraume whispered. "You can do this, Mrs. Ryomen."

You let out a powerful cry and strained with effort, bringing forth new life. The baby and you were crying at the exact wavelength, competing against who could be louder. The nurses and attendants, familiar faces from your previous pregnancies, clasped their hands in prayer for a safe delivery. Tears of relief streamed down your face as you pushed for your own well-being.

"Blanket!" the doctor urgently called out, prompting a nurse to rush over with a soft cream blanket. "Push!"

With a final, determined push, the weight lifted suddenly.

The slippery sensation of delivering the child and the immediate release of pressure left you slumping against Uraume's shoulder. As they laid you down, the doctor directed the staff to tend to you while the baby's cries filled the air.

The doctor approached through your hazy sight and gently laid your newborn on your chest. Overwhelmed with emotion, you showered your baby with kisses, tears of joy streaming down your face. Your little one was here. They were finally here.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Ryomen," the doctor announced as the cries of your newborn gradually faded into the background. "It's a girl."

You drifted into unconsciousness.

The soft cadence of Sukuna's voice filtered through the foggy boundaries of sleep, causing you to slowly come back to life.

“Why is this brat refusing to sleep?” you heard your husband grumbling.

With a laborious effort, you rubbed your eyes, summoning the strength to lift your head from the comfort of the pillow. The scene unfolded before you—Sukuna, the most feared criminal, pacing at the foot of his bed, cradling your crying newborn daughter in his arms, unsure of how to handle his little foe.

"What do you want? Food? You don’t have any teeth yet, little miscreant."

"Sukuna . . ." you whispered, a gentle plea for attention.

Your husband's gaze snapped in your direction, relief washing over his features as he realized you were conscious. "Thank fuck." Moving swiftly, he approached and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

His brown-reddish eyes lingered on the delicate scene unfolding before him—the intertwining of your index finger with your daughter's tiny, rattling fist. A calming magic seemed to stem from your touch, instantly soothing the cries to soft sniffles.

"Already playing favorites, I see," he remarked with a teasing tone, a wry smile on his lips.

"I have to feed her." Your voice was hoarse from the relentless screaming during the delivery. A series of deadly wheezes followed when you coughed, frightening your baby once more. Her cries started again, blending with the impatient curses of her father.

He gently placed her in the cradle, his strength used to prop you up against the headboard. The room carried the scent of coconut soap, your body freshly washed, the sheets beneath you brand-new. You were also dressed in a new set of panties and a nursing bra.

"Are you sure you have enough nutrients in your body to feed her?" Sukuna asked, holding your baby girl as you unclipped the front left cup. Rather than wasting your breath on a response, you focused on helping your daughter latch onto your nipple.

You winced once she caught it, then melted back as she started drinking. “I’m fine,” you finally answered. “Body . . . hurts.”

"No shit. You pushed an eight pound baby out of you." Despite the crude sarcasm in his tone, Sukuna tenderly caressed his knuckles over his daughter's cheek.

"Did you want . . . a girl?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, adjusting your baby onto your lap. "I assumed you'd prefer a boy as an heir."

"I'm not my father," he declared, putting an end to the conversation. "She's got your eyes."

Your daughter gazed up at you with a curiosity remarkably similar to yours. You smiled down at her, grateful she had made it. Grateful that Sukuna wasn't throwing a tantrum over the gender of your child but instead cupping the top of his baby girl's head and brushing his thumb across her forehead.

“You got a name for her?” Sukuna asked.

“Yes, but we can brainstorm if you don’t—”

“You carried the child, you birthed her, you will name her. Whatever it is, I agree.”

Something dead stirred inside your chest. Swallowing hard, you shared the chosen name, "Nobara."

He nodded in approval, and as he pronounced her name, Nobara responded with a wailing cry. "Her tantrums will be the fucking death of me." Sukuna took her into his arms again.

"Support the back of her head and rub her back. She needs to be burped," you advised.

He grunted but followed your instructions. Moments later, a tiny burp from Nobara made you chuckle, earning a slight eye roll and a hint of a smile from him.

"I'll take the next few weeks off to help you recover from the aftermath and the stitches," he announced, rising and walking towards his work desk, where he settled into a large leather chair, cradling your newborn.

You nodded appreciatively, easing yourself down.

"Oh, before I forget," Sukuna mentioned as you settled into bed, "I've arranged a new doctor for you."

“Did you fire the last one?”

“I fired at her, yes.”

Your eyes widened. "What? Why would you—? What?"

He shrugged, cradling the back of your newborn's head. "She suggested an additional stitch for you. Said it would make things 'tighter' down there for me."

Your face flushed. “So . . . you killed her?”

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze fixed on you with those penetrating eyes, "I don't need a mere doctor questioning whether I'd still enjoy having sex with my wife after she gave birth to our child."

“But . . . you have mistresses. Don’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “I had mistresses up until . . . ”

Up until the kidnapping.

Sukuna never spoke of the crime after he’d saved you. Instead, he expressed his commitment through actions: sleeping beside you, teaching you how to handle a handgun, keeping a protective arm around your waist at social gatherings. Occasionally, you swore you felt him run his fingers through your hair as you slept.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," you admitted, a voice inside contradicting your words. "Given what my body has been through, I would find myself repulsive for pleasure, too. I understand if you feel disgusted."

Sukuna halted the gentle strokes on your daughter's back and straightened up. "What the fuck did you just say?"

An icy shiver ran through you, momentarily numbing the pain. "I-I just assumed—"

"You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me, wife. It gets under my fucking skin that you'd ever believe I could raise a hand on you. Day and night, every hour and minute, even now, in your presence, my mind is consumed with ways to kill the fear that's taken root in you.” He was infuriated yet vulnerable, with Nobara sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. “Everyone I’ve ever met has done nothing but fear me like I’m a curse on their soul, and while I’m flattered of the monster they’ve painted me out to be, I refuse to let my wife and daughter see me in that light. Do I make myself clear?"

You . . . nodded. 

“And for your information, I had mistresses up until I married you.”

You took in a sharp breath, processing the confession. "But those women—"

"Spies," he clarified, his voice low and steady. "They operate undercover in my clubs, keeping an eye out for potential threats. I haven't fucked anyone since the day I put that ring on your finger." He offered a small, almost imperceptible apology to your baby for cursing.

"Oh."

All you ever heard were twisted stories about the Sukuna Ryomen, a young man who, against all odds, slaughtered his own father to ascend the throne of the underworld criminal realm. Whispers spoke of a chilling childhood, where a mother's desperate attempt to suffocate her son in his sleep. The scars etched into his skin, concealed beneath a tapestry of dark markings, bore witness to the brutal initiation rites inflicted by vengeful uncles. In his domain, everyone prayed to see him buried six feet under.

Which is why you felt sympathy for your husband. He was lonely. Too lonely. Despite all the riches and influence surrounding him, he was stuck in a fortress where danger lurked around every corner. He had no friends, no one he could truly confide in—except perhaps Uraume. Opening up about his emotions wasn't in his nature. He kept the tough exterior, convinced that being a monster, a curse, was the only path to earning respect and recognition.

But just now, when had cut himself open in front of you and bled a human color, he was Sukuna. Your husband. The one who just became a father. A man wrapped in a comfortable robe with his hair combed down and his skin clean of dirt and blood as he held his daughter, as he gazed at you like you two were the only people meant fighting for in his treacherous world.

Sukuna noticed your silence, tuned in to your steady breaths, and lowered his lashes. "You'll ask me to touch you. Not just for the sake of having another child but for your own pleasure. If I'm not around and you need me, you will call, and I'll rush home. If this little brat gives you any trouble, I'll handle it. Hell, maybe I'll let her in on a bit of the family business for a head start."

"No," you murmured, absorbing everything he'd just said. "Not now. I want her to enjoy a proper childhood."

"Is that a demand?" Sukuna tilted his head slightly, another method of asserting authority. Yet, after all he'd shared about dropping everything for you, about making love to you, the fear in you started to dissolve bit by bit.

"Yes," you affirmed. "It's a demand."

A small smirk played on Sukuna's lips as he rose from his spot, circled the bed, and settled down beside you, with Nobara resting peacefully on his chest. Summoning all your strength, you turned to run your fingers over your baby's soft cheek and tiny, parted lips.

“She sleeps like you, Mr. Ryomen.”

“Sukuna,” he corrected, his arm covering his eyes as he breathed with a slightly open mouth. “My wife will call me Sukuna.”

Teasingly, you asked, “Is that a demand, Sukuna?”

His arm shifted low, and his reddish-brown eyes softened, stealing your breath. “Only from my wife and daughter.”

You smiled, closing your eyes. “Goodnight, Sukuna.”

In response, he wrapped his strong arm around you, pulling you close to his side, his two girls snuggled against his body.

In the beginning, you knew you didn't belong in the hell Sukuna ruled. Your father's mistakes, pilfering drug shipments and peddling them locally, had sealed both his fate and yours. With thoughts of fleeing the disgrace your father brought upon your family, you had started packing, desperate to escape the clutches of your old man.

The following night, Sukuna and his henchmen barged into your cramped apartment, wreaking havoc on every piece of furniture. Rocking in the corner of your room, Sukuna casted his shadow over you like the God of Death, bathed in your father’s blood.

Crouching down to your eye level, he tipped your chin up, leaving a splotch of blood. He used the collar of your sweater to wipe it away. In a hushed confession, you revealed the hidden drugs under the sink and floorboards, along with your father's buyer list folded in the cereal boxes. Sukuna grinned and ordered his underlings to retrieve the concealed items. Then, the chilling question hung in the air: "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I'm tempted," Sukuna replied, "but not to kill you." His gaze fixated on your left hand, and he raised it, studying your ring finger. "You will pay for your father's crimes with your life." He held your hand in front of your face. "You will take my last name." His smirk widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Isn't that the cruelest form of death, love?"

Unconsciousness claimed you then, but after seven years of marriage, enduring unimaginable hardships, and finally welcoming a baby into the world, your answer was clear. The true torment wasn't caused by the man you once perceived as a monster but rather by his enemies.

"How am I supposed to know if Mr. Munchkin wants more tea? He's a fucking stuffed toy. Can't talk, you know?"

"Sukuna," you warned, perched on the armrest while busy crocheting baby socks for your little one on the way.

Nobara, wielding a rubber, squeaky hammer, stood up from her seat, giving her father a bonk on the head each time he let out a curse. And you often heard the squeak of the hammer around the house.

Nobara's tiara was slightly askew, frustration evident in her curled lips and bared teeth. She was growing increasingly irritated with her father's lack of understanding about the rules of her tea party. "Mr. Munchkin wants tea, Papa. Give him tea! Give him tea! Give him—"

"Fine, I surrender. Here, you little bastard. Take the whole fu—damn pot." He shoved the plastic teapot towards Mr. Munchkin, a well-loved cat stuffed toy you had gifted Nobara on her last birthday. "Happy?"

"Cup," she insisted, pointing at the tea cup in front of Mr. Munchkin.

Sukuna sighed and poured the water from the kettle into the pink plastic cup.

"Me too," Nobara added, settling back in her kiddie chair. Sukuna had barely taken his seat before she had him on the floor. "Hurry!"

"May I pour for the other toys first, Your Highness?"

"Not toys. Friends."

Sukuna shot you a helpless glare, eliciting a chuckle from you. He filled the table with tea, and Nobara, holding her small cup, clinked it with her father's, followed by her collection of stuffed animals. Sukuna reluctantly mimicked the gesture. Instead of sipping the tea, he downed it like a shot.

“Papa!”

“Sukuna, come on.”

There wasn’t any winning with his girls.

Sukuna reluctantly poured himself another cup, sipping it with an air of royalty that mirrored a princess. Despite his resistance to the make-believe tea party, you couldn't ignore the genuine affection he showed toward his daughter. He would nod attentively when one of the stuffed animals "spoke," laughed along with Nobara, and even beautified himself with a glittering tiara, a feathered pink scarf, and deep purple-painted nails.

Sukuna was, without a doubt, a fantastic father. It came as no surprise that Nobara's first word was 'Brat.'

That night, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her into her bed. Sukuna joked that he’d spent every last bit of his wealth decorating the brat’s room, filling it with the latest toys, and stacking her closet with whatever clothes she laid her finger or eyes on. She was truly the princess of her father’s heart.

"She's asleep," you informed him.

"I'll give her a kiss in a minute. Just need to finish this," Sukuna replied, pouring over his documents.

Letting out a sigh, you shuffled over, rolled back his chair, and settled onto his lap. He continued reading as you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your cheek on his shoulder, peering at him through your lashes.

"I want you," you murmured.

Sukuna paused, lowering his gaze to meet your cheeky smile. "Later."

"It's late."

"I have to finish—" He halted as you began kissing his neck, moving up to his jaw and cheeks, tracing the contours of his face tattoos.

"Please, Sukuna," you whispered near his ear.

How could he refuse you anything when you appeared so stunning, radiating with the joy of expecting another child in your four-month-old belly?

“Take off your robe and get on the bed. Spread your legs for me.” He gave your ass a little smack as you happily skipped away, shedding your clothes and clearing the bed to settle in. With a grin, you opened your legs, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Sukuna stood up from his seat, loosening his robe as he did. He sighed, watching the moisture forming between your legs. Pregnancy seemed to heighten your lusts, and Sukuna was always ready to fulfill your needs.

“What pretty, wet cunt,” he whispered softly, leaning in to kiss your chest, trailing down to your stomach, your hips, your calling clit. 

Over the years, you realized Sukuna enjoyed pleasuring you more than the opposite. He feasted on you like a starved man, whether it happened in the back of the limo, in a guest room during a party, or just minutes before a crucial meeting in his office. He insisted it was his way of relaxing, often pleading with you to spend a full hour on his face as he ate you out and drank every drop of your release. It had turned into a daily routine for him. And for you.

“Oh, Sukuna, yes, yes. Right there—ah!” Your back arched off the mattress when his tongue drove into your hole, flicking and exploring your clamping walls. His mouth was latched to your pussy, sucking it in, his cheeks hollowing rapidly. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips voluntarily grating against his face, his sharp nose rubbing over your swollen clit. 

Sukuna drew back as you came down with a muted cry behind your hand and lapped at the flow of your juices pouring out of you. His lips shone as he leaned over and gently kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself from his tongue. “If I don’t fuck you now, I will die.” 

“Hurry, then.” 

Sukuna pushed himself inside you, and that first wave of pleasure hit you so strongly that you sank your nails in his back and cried out heavenwards. He groaned and grunted, thrusts growing speed, his plump balls smacking against your ass. You loved that he fucked harder, faster, driving you to the brink of ruination. 

After you'd healed from Nobara's birth, he would always make sure to get at least ten orgasms from you. From midnight to early morning, he'd fuck you in every possible position. But his favorite was always missionary, where he could have his eyes on you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, telling him it’s too much, he's too thick, all while using your heels to draw him in even closer.

Sukuna curled his arm around your waist and sat you up on his lap, thrusting up into you as you coiled yourself around his neck. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Your cunt was made for me, love. Your cunt was fucking made for me.” His hand threaded to the back of your head, grasping your hair and drawing your face back so you were looking him in the eyes without wavering, without bowing your head. He needed to know you didn’t fear him when he fucked you like this. It was an unspoken check-in, and when you smiled drunkenly, only then did he let you return to embracing him. 

“Are you close?” you whispered. 

“Not yet. I want to come in your ass.” 

You shivered despite how scalding and sweaty your bodies were. “Do it.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded. “Please.” 

Sukuna dragged you off his cock so you could get on all-fours, raising your ass up for him. He’s only ever been in your sacred spot a handful of times but never finished himself inside it. It appeared that tonight you were both a little extra spellbound.

Mounting himself behind you, Sukuna unfurled your ass and spit on his fingers, stroking the puckered hole. He gathered the creamy liquid dripping out of your pussy to lubricate the spot. His middle finger stretched you out, followed by his ring fingers, pushing in and out until he knew for sure you were prepared for him. 

Sukuna’s steel-hard cock pushed into your tiny hole. The sight of it expanding to swallow his girthy size almost made him come right there and then. He started to move in sluggish movement, grabbing onto your waist. His hips cruised, brushing against your ass, making you impatient and push yourself back. 

“Understood.” He chuckled and dug his nails into your skin, dragging out to the tip and shoving himself inside. Your face pressed into your pillows, crying and trembling as he abused your asshole non-stop. “You’re taking me so well, my love. Oh, fuck, fuck.” He rutted into you like a beast, claiming your body, rubbing your clit from the front, spanking your ass, brandishing you over and over again. 

You both snapped in unison. 

Sukuna sagged over your spine as he bucked in every last bit of his sloppy seed. His lips kissed your shoulder blades, holding you up by one arm. Gently, he pulled out, his cock growing floppy until you flipped onto your back, hair sticking to your sweaty, flushed face, belly slightly swollen, your tits larger in size, his release mingled with yours seeping out from your holes. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispered, cupping your face like he didn’t just fuck your soul out of you. That smirk you’d come to love appeared on his lips. You reciprocated back, stretching out your arms so he could lean down and kiss you sweetly on the lips and cheeks and toss in a praise or two for what a good girl you were as he slid into you again, slower and more intimate with his game. “I fucking love you, Y/N.” 

You smiled against his lips that continuously whispered the three beautiful words and said, “I love you, too, Sukuna,” before sealing it with a long, lasting kiss.

[pucksandpower]

Oscat

shifter!Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: when you see an adorable stray black cat hanging around your neighborhood, you can’t resist taking him in … but there’s just one problem, the cat’s not actually a cat

Oscar Piastri never thought his life would come to this — crouched under a battered kitchen chair in a cramped university flat, ears flattened against his skull, tail twitching nervously as he watches you fumble with a small red collar.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” you coo, your voice soft and coaxing. You wiggle your fingers, the sound of the collar's bell jingling faintly as you shake it. “I promise you’ll look so cute in this.”

Oscar can’t believe he’s let it get this far. One moment, he’s wandering the neighborhood as a cat, enjoying the freedom that comes with paws instead of feet, and the next — this. A crazy girl who somehow managed to corral him into her apartment and is now intent on … he doesn’t even know what. But he knows it’s not good. He considers bolting, but you’re blocking the only exit, and he isn’t sure he has it in him to leap past you without causing a scene.

“C’mon, I know you like the tuna,” you say, holding up a plate with some leftover fish you’d put out for him earlier. “Just let me get this on you, and I’ll give you more, okay?”

He narrows his eyes, inching back under the chair. This whole situation is ridiculous, and he’s thoroughly regretting his decision to stick around after the first time you fed him. But there was something about you that drew him in — a warmth, maybe, or just the sheer determination with which you tried to get him to trust you.

But now you’ve crossed a line.

You sigh, clearly frustrated, and sit back on your heels. “Why are you being so difficult?” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I just want to make sure you’re safe, you know? What if you get lost or hurt? You need a collar, at least …”

Oscar’s ears perk up at the concern in your voice, and he feels a pang of guilt. You don’t know what you’re doing — how could you? To you, he’s just a stray cat, not a twenty-three-year-old Formula 1 driver with a secret he can’t afford to let anyone find out. He’s supposed to be smart, calculated, always one step ahead. Not cowering under a chair because a university student wants to play house with him.

You huff and toss the collar onto the table with a clatter. “Fine,” you say, standing up and crossing your arms. “I’ll leave you alone for now, but you’re not getting any more tuna unless you let me put that on you.”

Oscar’s stomach growls, and he curses his weakness. The tuna had been good — too good, if he’s being honest. He watches as you turn away, heading into another room. This is his chance. He could make a break for it, slip out the door before you even realize what’s happening.

But he hesitates.

Why? He wonders, paws shifting restlessly. This isn’t like him. He should be gone by now, back to the comfort of his flat, where he can shift back and pretend this whole mess never happened. Yet something keeps him rooted in place.

Then, he hears you talking to someone on the phone.

“Yes, I found a stray,” you say, your voice echoing slightly through the walls. “He’s so cute, but I don’t know … do you think I should take him to the vet? Get him checked out?”

Oscar’s blood runs cold. This is bad. This is really bad. He needs to get out — now.

You continue, “I was thinking maybe I could get him neutered too, you know? So he doesn’t run off and get hurt or something … ”

He bolts from under the chair, skidding across the linoleum as he makes a beeline for the door. But before he can reach it, you step back into the room, phone pressed to your ear.

“Whoa, whoa!” You exclaim, dropping the phone onto the table as you rush to block his path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Oscar tries to dart around you, but you’re quicker than he anticipated, and he’s forced to leap onto the counter instead. He glares at you from his new perch, fur bristling in warning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, hands on your hips. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“Yeah, help me lose my manhood,” Oscar mutters under his breath, though it comes out as an indignant hiss.

You frown, clearly not understanding his displeasure. “You’re acting like I’m torturing you or something,” you say, reaching out cautiously. “Just let me put the collar on, okay? Then I’ll leave you alone.”

Oscar swats at your hand, his claws barely grazing your skin. He doesn’t want to hurt you — he just wants you to back off. This is getting too close for comfort.

You pull your hand back, eyes widening in surprise. “Okay, okay, no collar,” you say, trying to soothe him. “We’ll figure something else out.”

But Oscar’s had enough. He leaps from the counter to the windowsill, then down to the floor, and races towards the door again. This time, he manages to slip past you, his sleek black fur a blur as he darts through the narrow opening.

He hears you call after him, your voice tinged with worry, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sprints down the hallway, paws pounding against the carpeted floor, until he reaches the stairwell. He takes the steps two at a time, his heart racing as he finally bursts out into the cool evening air.

Freedom.

He doesn’t slow down until he’s a good block away from your building, his chest heaving as he ducks into the shadows of a nearby alley. He’s safe. For now.

But then he hears it — your voice, faint but unmistakable, carried on the breeze as you step out of your apartment, searching for him.

“Kitty?” You call, your voice trembling slightly. “Where did you go?”

Oscar slinks further into the shadows, his heart twisting with guilt. He didn’t mean to scare you, but he couldn’t let you take him to the vet. He couldn’t let you get too close. But now, as he listens to the sound of your footsteps growing fainter, he feels a pang of something he hasn’t felt in a long time — regret.

“Please come back,” you whisper, and he can hear the tears in your voice. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to help …”

Oscar’s resolve weakens, his tail flicking nervously as he peeks around the corner. He can see you standing there, arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together. You look so small, so vulnerable, and it tugs at something deep inside him.

He shouldn’t care. He’s not supposed to care. He’s always kept his distance, never letting anyone get too close, especially not like this. But here you are, and for reasons he can’t quite explain, he doesn’t want to see you cry.

He takes a tentative step forward, but then stops himself. What can he do? Walk back into your life, let you put that collar on him, and risk everything? Or turn away, leave you behind, and never look back?

You’re wiping at your eyes now, sniffling quietly. “I’m so stupid,” you mutter to yourself. “Why did I think I could just … ugh.”

Oscar’s ears droop. This is all wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t feel this way. But the sight of you, standing there alone, makes him want to go back, to do something, anything, to make you smile again.

Before he can make a decision, you give up and turn back towards the building, your shoulders slumped in defeat.

Oscar watches you go, every instinct telling him to stay hidden, to let you go. But as you disappear through the door, he finds himself inching forward, until he’s standing just outside the entrance, ears perked up, listening for any sign of you.

Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, this isn’t over yet.

***

Oscar can’t help it. He tells himself he’s just checking in, that it’s only temporary. But day after day, he finds himself outside your building, watching, waiting, listening.

It starts with a cautious glance through the window, his keen eyes picking out your silhouette as you move about your flat. The blinds are often drawn, but he can still see enough. Enough to know that something’s changed.

You’re not yourself.

The first day after he ran away, he saw you sitting by the window, staring out into the distance, your face etched with worry. He tells himself it’s none of his business. That he’s done the right thing by leaving. But every time he turns to go, he finds his paws rooted to the spot, his gaze drawn back to you.

And then there’s the phone calls.

Oscar doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he can’t help it when your voice carries through the thin walls of the apartment building. One day, he’s curled up on the windowsill of the flat next door when he hears you talking on the phone again, your voice tinged with frustration and sadness.

“I just don’t understand,” you say, pacing back and forth. “He was here one minute and then gone the next. I’m so worried about him.”

Oscar’s ears perk up, guilt gnawing at him as he listens. You’re talking about him, of course. He knows that. And the fact that you’re still thinking about him, still concerned for his well-being, makes him feel like the world’s biggest jerk.

“He looked healthy,” you continue, your voice shaking slightly. “But what if something happened to him? What if he got hurt or … or worse?”

He winces at the pain in your voice. He didn’t want to scare you, didn’t want to make you worry. But what choice did he have? Letting you take him to the vet would have exposed him — both literally and figuratively. He couldn’t risk that.

“I read somewhere that stray cats have a lifespan of less than two years,” you say, your tone now laced with a mixture of fear and sadness. “I don’t want that to happen to him. I just … I just want him to be okay.”

Oscar closes his eyes, your words cutting deeper than any wound he’s ever felt. He doesn’t want to be the cause of your pain. But what can he do?

Then, he hears it — the soft, broken sound of you crying.

It’s like a punch to the gut. His ears flatten against his head, and he feels an overwhelming wave of guilt and shame. He doesn’t like seeing you like this. No, that’s not right — he hates it. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you, yet here you are, crying because of him.

He tries to walk away, to tell himself that it’s for the best, that you’ll move on and forget about him eventually. But the sound of your sobs echoes in his ears, haunting him, and he knows he can’t just leave it like this.

Maybe going back for a few hours won’t hurt anyone, he rationalizes, pacing back and forth in the alley. He’ll show up, let you see he’s okay, and then leave before things get too complicated. Simple.

But as he sits there, tail flicking with nervous energy, he realizes it’s not that simple. Because the truth is, he doesn’t want to leave. Not really. There’s something about you that draws him in, something that makes him feel … safe.

Wanted.

Needed.

And so, with a heavy sigh, he makes his decision. He waits until the sun sets, the shadows growing long and the streets quiet. Then, he slips through the narrow gap in the window that you always leave open, landing softly on the worn carpet of your living room.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to your chest, your phone discarded on the cushion next to you. You’re staring at the TV, but it’s clear you’re not really watching it. Your eyes are red, cheeks stained with tears, and Oscar’s heart clenches at the sight.

He takes a cautious step forward, then another, his movements slow and deliberate. He doesn’t want to startle you, doesn’t want to make things worse. But as he approaches, you suddenly turn your head, your eyes widening as they meet his.

“Kitty?” You breathe, sitting up straight. For a moment, you just stare at him, as if you can’t believe he’s real. Then, slowly, a smile breaks across your face, soft and relieved. “You came back.”

Oscar doesn’t move, watching you carefully, trying to gauge your reaction. When you don’t make any sudden movements, he takes another step closer, his ears twitching nervously.

You wipe at your eyes, trying to compose yourself. “I thought I’d lost you,” you say, your voice shaky but full of warmth. “Where did you go?”

He doesn’t answer, of course — he can’t. But he does allow himself to move closer, until he’s standing right in front of you, his nose just inches from your outstretched hand.

“Can I … ” you ask, your hand hovering in the air, waiting for his permission.

Oscar hesitates for just a moment before he nuzzles against your palm, his fur brushing against your skin. It feels … right, somehow. Comforting. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as you gently stroke his head, your fingers trailing down his back in soothing motions.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, and Oscar can hear the relief in your voice. “I was so worried.”

Guilt twists in his chest again, but he pushes it aside. He’s here now, and that’s what matters. He’ll stay for a little while, just long enough to make sure you’re okay, too.

You sit back, still petting him, and Oscar takes the opportunity to hop up onto the couch beside you. He curls up next to you, resting his head on your leg, and for a moment, everything feels … normal. Peaceful, even.

“You must have been so scared,” you murmur, your voice soft as you continue to stroke his fur. “Running away like that … I don’t blame you, though. I must have freaked you out with all that vet talk.”

Oscar doesn’t react, but internally, he’s cursing himself. Of course you’re blaming yourself. Why wouldn’t you? You have no idea who — or what — he really is. To you, he’s just a scared little stray cat who panicked and bolted at the first sign of trouble.

“But I’m not going to push you anymore,” you say, as if reading his thoughts. “I just want you to be safe. That’s all.”

The sincerity in your voice hits Oscar like a ton of bricks. He knows he shouldn’t be here, knows he’s playing with fire by getting this close. But in this moment, he can’t bring himself to care. He’s missed this — missed you, even though he barely knows you.

You lean back against the couch, your hand still resting on his back, and Oscar feels a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this way — since he’s allowed himself to feel this way. And as much as he knows he should leave, he can’t. Not yet.

He hears you yawn, the sound soft and tired, and he lifts his head to look up at you. You’re fighting to keep your eyes open, your movements slow and drowsy. It’s late, and he can see the exhaustion etched into your features.

“Guess we both had a long day,” you mumble, your hand coming to rest on the couch beside him as you settle back into the cushions. “I should probably get to bed.”

Oscar watches as you slowly push yourself up, stretching as you stand. He expects you to head to your bedroom, to leave him on the couch for the night. But instead, you glance down at him, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Wanna come with me?” You ask, your voice soft and inviting.

He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows he should stay right where he is, let you go to bed, and slip out the window before morning comes. But the thought of leaving you alone, of returning to the cold, empty streets outside, makes his chest tighten with a loneliness he hasn’t felt in years.

So, against his better judgment, he hops down from the couch and follows you down the short hallway to your bedroom.

You open the door, flicking on a small bedside lamp, and Oscar watches as you move around the room, pulling back the covers and fluffing up your pillows. He hesitates at the threshold, his instincts warring with the pull he feels toward you.

But then you turn to him, patting the space beside you on the bed, and he’s powerless to resist.

“C’mon, kitty,” you say, your voice warm and coaxing. “You can sleep here tonight.”

He pads over to the bed, jumping up onto the soft mattress. It’s warm, inviting, and before he knows it, he’s curled up next to you, your presence calming in a way he didn’t think possible.

You slip under the covers, lying on your side, and Oscar snuggles closer, his body pressed against yours. He can feel your steady breathing, hear the soft rustle of the sheets as you settle in, and it lulls him into a sense of safety he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice already thick with sleep.

Oscar's eyes drift closed, his body warm and relaxed as he nestles against you. He knows he should be on high alert, ready to bolt at any moment, but for the first time in what feels like forever, he allows himself to let go. Just for tonight.

As you fall asleep beside him, your hand resting gently on his back, Oscar realizes he’s found something here — something he didn’t know he was missing. He can’t stay forever, but maybe, just maybe, he can stay a little longer.

Just for tonight.

***

Oscar wakes to the sound of a scream that nearly sends him bolting out of bed. His eyes fly open, his heart hammering in his chest, but the feeling that greets him isn’t the familiar warmth of fur or the safe confines of a small, curled-up position.

It’s a body — a human body.

His human body.

And beside him, you’re staring at him, your eyes wide with shock, your mouth open in mid-scream as you scramble to the edge of the bed, clutching the covers around you like a shield.

“What the — who the hell are you?” You shriek, your voice high-pitched and panicked.

Oscar’s brain stutters to catch up with what’s happening. He glances down at himself, realizing with a jolt that he’s completely naked. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This isn’t happening. How could he have been so careless? He’s been shifting for years, but never like this. Never in front of someone. Never in such a vulnerable position.

“I-I can explain,” he stammers, his voice rough with sleep and panic. He grabs at the nearest pillow, pressing it to his lap in a desperate attempt to cover himself. “Just, um, don’t freak out. Please.”

“Explain?” You repeat, your voice trembling as you blink rapidly, as if trying to wake up from a nightmare. “What the hell are you doing in my bed? And why are you … why are you … naked?”

Oscar’s mind races, the words tangling together in his head. He’s supposed to be good under pressure — he’s faced down race cars at hundreds of kilometers per hour, for crying out loud. But right now, all he can think about is how utterly screwed he is.

“I-I’m not a creep, I swear,” he blurts out, his face flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to — this isn’t what it looks like.”

Your eyes narrow, still full of fear and confusion, but also dawning recognition. You stare at him for a long moment, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Then, slowly, the pieces start to fall into place, and your expression shifts from terror to something else entirely.

“Wait a minute,” you say, squinting at him. “I know you. You’re … Oscar Piastri?”

He winces at the sound of his name. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the words. “Oscar Piastri is in my bed. Naked. And I’m … wait, am I still dreaming? Did I fall asleep watching Formula 1 highlights again?”

“No, no, you’re not dreaming,” Oscar says quickly, shaking his head. “This is real. But I promise, I can explain. Just … can we, maybe, both take a breath for a second?”

You inhale sharply, clutching the covers tighter around yourself as you stare at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. “Okay,” you say, your voice shaky. “Breathing. Breathing is good. But you still owe me a pretty big explanation.”

Oscar nods, taking a deep breath himself to steady his racing thoughts. He’s never had to explain this to anyone before, and now that he’s actually faced with the situation, he realizes just how insane it’s going to sound.

“Okay, so, uh …” He rubs the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to start. “I know this is going to sound really weird, but … you remember the cat? The one you were worried about?”

Your brow furrows in confusion, and you nod slowly. “Yeah …”

“Well,” Oscar continues, his voice trailing off for a moment before he forces himself to say it. “That was me. I mean, I was the cat.”

You blink at him, clearly trying to process what he just said. “Wait. You’re saying … you’re the cat? Like, you were the cat?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, wincing at how ridiculous it sounds out loud. “I’m, um, I’m a shifter. I can turn into a black cat. And I was the cat that you, uh, accidentally … kidnapped.”

You stare at him, your mouth hanging open as you try to wrap your head around this. “So, you’re telling me that the cat I’ve been feeding, the cat that I tried to take to the vet, was actually you? The whole time?”

Oscar nods sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I was just … curious, I guess. But then things got a little out of hand.”

You sit back on the bed, your mind clearly spinning as you try to reconcile the image of the cute, harmless black cat with the sight of Oscar Piastri — fully human and fully naked — in your bed. “This is … this is insane,” you say, shaking your head. “I mean, I believe you, I guess. But it’s just … wow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Oscar says, offering a small, awkward smile. “It’s a lot to take in. And I’m really sorry for scaring you like that. I didn’t mean to shift back. It usually doesn’t happen unless I want it to, but I guess I must’ve just … relaxed too much.”

You laugh, a short, incredulous sound. “Relaxed? You were relaxed enough to just shift back into a human? Wow, I must be really good company.”

Oscar chuckles nervously. “You have no idea.”

There’s a moment of silence as you both try to process everything. Then, you look back at him, your expression softening slightly. “So, you’re really … a shifter? Like, that’s a real thing?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah. I’ve been able to do it since I was a kid. It’s not something I talk about, obviously. It’s kind of a secret.”

“A big secret,” you say, your eyes wide. “I mean, it’s not every day you find out an F1 driver can turn into a cat.”

Oscar blushes at that, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief that you’re taking this better than he expected. “Yeah, it’s not exactly something I advertise. And, uh, I’d really appreciate it if you could keep this between us.”

You nod quickly, your expression earnest. “Of course. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I mean, who would believe me, anyway?”

Oscar lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thank you. Seriously. This whole thing … it’s complicated, and I don’t want to make things harder for myself or anyone else.”

You smile, a hint of playfulness returning to your eyes. “Well, I guess I’m the last person who’d have room to judge. I did kind of … try to get you neutered.”

Oscar laughs, the tension in the room easing slightly. “Yeah, that was … a close call.”

You shake your head, still looking slightly overwhelmed but more at ease now. “I’m sorry for that, by the way. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” Oscar says, smiling. “I’m just glad I got out of there before it was too late.”

There’s another pause, the awkwardness slowly fading into something more comfortable. You glance over at the clock on your nightstand, and then back at him, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“So,” you say, a teasing edge in your voice. “What’s the plan now? Are you just going to stay here or …”

Oscar’s eyes widen as he remembers his current state of undress. “Oh, uh, right. I should probably … get dressed. Do you have, like, a blanket or something?”

You laugh, your initial shock giving way to amusement. “Yeah, hold on.” You reach over to the chair by the bed, grabbing the throw blanket draped over it and tossing it to him. “Here. Cover up before I have to start charging you for the show.”

Oscar catches the blanket, wrapping it around himself as best as he can. “Thanks. Sorry about that. Not exactly how I planned on spending my morning.”

You smile, still shaking your head in disbelief. “This is definitely the weirdest morning of my life.”

“Same here,” Oscar admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, uh, now that we’ve got that out of the way … do you maybe want to grab breakfast or something? With no canned tuna this time.”

You raise an eyebrow, the playful spark back in your eyes. “Breakfast? With a shifter who accidentally ended up naked in my bed? Sounds like the start of a weird romcom.”

Oscar grins, his nerves finally settling. “Yeah, maybe. But, I mean, the offer still stands. We could … talk more. Or not talk at all. Just … eat?”

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’ve always been more of a Ferrari girlie. But I guess I can make an exception this once.”

Oscar chuckles, his heart lightening at your teasing tone. “Well, I appreciate that. I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

You laugh, standing up and stretching, the tension finally draining from the room. “Okay, then. Breakfast it is. But you owe me a proper explanation over pancakes. I still have a lot of questions.”

“Deal,” Oscar says, standing as well, the blanket still wrapped around him. “And, uh, maybe I can borrow some clothes? Just until I get back to my place.”

You smirk, clearly amused by his predicament. “Sure. I think I have some sweatpants and a T-shirt that might fit you. They’re probably not papaya, though.”

Oscar laughs, feeling more at ease than he has in days. “That’s fine by me. I’m not picky.”

As you head off to find the clothes, Oscar takes a deep breath, letting the reality of the situation sink in. It’s definitely not how he expected this to go, but somehow, it feels right. Like maybe this bizarre turn of events was exactly what he needed.

And as he watches you rummage through your dresser, he can’t help but think that, for once, shifting back to his human form at the wrong time might have been the best mistake he’s ever made.

***

Oscar leaps onto the windowsill, his black fur sleek and gleaming in the afternoon light. He peers through the glass, watching you, seated at your desk, hunched over your textbooks. Your hair is pulled back, a pen held between your teeth as you jot down notes with a furrowed brow.

He feels a surge of affection watching you work so hard, but it’s mixed with a touch of mischief. He’s been patient all day, but now he’s had enough. It’s time for a study break, whether you want one or not.

With a graceful hop, he slips through the open window and lands silently on the floor. His tail flicks behind him as he pads softly toward you, his green eyes locked onto your focused expression. He almost feels guilty interrupting you — almost. But then again, it’s been hours since you last gave him any attention, and he’s starting to feel a bit neglected.

You don’t notice him at first, too engrossed in whatever academic puzzle you’re trying to solve. But Oscar is nothing if not persistent. He jumps onto your desk, landing squarely on your notebook, and lets out a soft, insistent meow.

Your head jerks up in surprise, your eyes widening as you take in the sight of him. “Oscar! You scared me!”

He purrs, rubbing his head against your arm, his way of saying, “Sorry, but you’ve been ignoring me.”

You sigh, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays your affection. “I’ve got a lot to do, you know. Finals are coming up.”

Oscar meows again, louder this time, before nudging your hand with his head. He can feel you wavering, your resolve crumbling as you reach out to scratch behind his ears. His purring deepens, vibrating through his small frame as he leans into your touch.

“You’re so spoiled,” you mutter, but there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “You know that, right?”

Oscar only purrs louder in response, nuzzling against your hand. He steps carefully onto your lap, circling once before settling down. You laugh softly, resigned, as you set your pen aside and lean back in your chair.

“Alright, alright. I guess I can take a break for a few minutes.”

He stretches out, making himself comfortable as you begin to pet him in earnest, your fingers trailing through his fur in long, slow strokes. It’s blissful, the way you touch him, the warmth of your hand against his back.

All thoughts of studying fade from your mind as you focus entirely on him, and Oscar relishes every second of it. This is what he’s wanted all day — to be close to you, to feel your affection without any distractions.

Minutes pass, and your strokes become slower, more languid. Oscar watches you through half-lidded eyes, sensing your fatigue. The stress of studying, of exams, is catching up with you, and he knows how much you’ve been pushing yourself lately. He nudges you with his head, encouraging you to relax even more, to let go of the tension that’s been building up.

You yawn, a deep, sleepy sound that makes him purr in satisfaction. “I think you’re a bad influence on me, Oscar,” you murmur, your voice drowsy. “I should be studying, but all I want to do is cuddle with you.”

Oscar’s purring doesn’t falter — if anything, it grows even more content. He watches as your eyelids grow heavier, your breathing slows, and your hand eventually stills against his fur. You’re falling asleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of petting him and the comfort of his presence.

He stays perfectly still, letting you drift off completely. You deserve the rest, he thinks. You’ve been working so hard, and a little nap won’t hurt. Besides, he likes being the reason you’re able to relax like this, to forget about your worries for a while.

When he’s certain you’re fully asleep, Oscar carefully extracts himself from your lap, moving with the quiet grace of a cat. He pads over to the couch, glancing back to make sure you’re still sleeping soundly. Then, in one fluid motion, he shifts back into his human form.

Oscar sighs softly, standing by the couch for a moment as he stretches his arms over his head. It’s been a long day for him too — training, meetings, the usual demands of being a Formula 1 driver. But this is the part of his day he looks forward to the most: being with you, in this quiet, peaceful space that the two of you share.

He carefully lifts you from the chair, cradling you in his arms as he carries you to the couch. You stir slightly but don’t wake, your head resting against his chest as he settles you down on the cushions. Oscar smiles, brushing a strand of hair from your face before he stretches out beside you, pulling you close.

He wraps an arm around you, your body fitting perfectly against his. There’s something indescribably comforting about holding you like this, feeling your warmth seep into him as you sleep. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, closing his eyes as he allows himself to relax fully for the first time all day.

The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you, entwined on the couch. Oscar can hear your steady breathing, feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his. It’s moments like this that make everything worth it — the races, the pressure, the endless travel. None of it compares to this simple, quiet happiness.

As he holds you, Oscar’s thoughts drift. He thinks about how much his life has changed since that day you found him in your bed, how unexpected it all was. He hadn’t planned on letting anyone in, on sharing his secret with someone else. But you … you’ve become so much more than he ever anticipated.

You’re his confidant, his partner, his best friend. And though he’s still getting used to the idea, you’re also the person he’s fallen in love with, slowly and completely. It’s a realization that both scares and excites him, because he’s never had something — or someone — this important before. Racing has always been his focus, but now, you’re a part of his life that he can’t imagine being without.

As you sleep in his arms, Oscar tightens his hold on you, a protective instinct kicking in. He’ll do anything to keep you safe, to make sure you’re happy. And if that means taking any opportunity to spend more time with you, to be there for you when you need him, then that’s what he’ll do.

You murmur something in your sleep, your body shifting slightly against his. Oscar’s heart swells with affection, and he kisses your forehead again, a silent promise that he’ll always be here for you.

Outside, the sun begins to set, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The world keeps turning, the demands of life waiting just outside the door. But for now, in this moment, there’s nothing else that matters. Just you, and him, and the quiet contentment of being together.

Oscar closes his eyes, letting the peace of the moment wash over him. There will be time for everything else later. For now, he’s exactly where he wants to be.

[s-brant]

Three’s Company

When Patrick visits his best friend at Stanford University, Art’s new fling finds herself stuck between two very attractive men.

9k (18+)

Warnings: smut, threesome, unprotected p in v, double penetration, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, they’re all pervs, and strong language.

-

The room is stiflingly hot.

There is no air conditioning in her study/fuck buddy's dorm to keep up with the late April heat that has descended upon Stanford's campus so quickly. Three different fans are plugged into outlets around the cramped living space, yet it does little to keep her body cool enough to feel comfortable.

Sleeping with Art was an impulsive decision. The first time was merely weeks ago after he politely asked if she would share her notes from a class he was absent from. They exchanged numbers to organize the meeting, and she ended up talking to him for the better part of an hour in the dining hall. Although she did not recognize it as flirting—the oblivious little thing she is—he shyly commented on seeing her at one of her gymnastics competitions and refused to let her get dinner with her meal credits. Looking back, his intentions should have been obvious to her, yet she does not think badly of him over it. If anything, she likes how wanted he made her feel. He knew what he wanted and ensured that he got it.

They came back to his room to study—only to study, he claimed with his hands held up to proclaim his innocence—for their approaching final exams.

"Good," she said with a teasing lilt to her voice, slinging her bag onto her shoulder and turning to walk in the direction of his dorm building. "Cause it's way too hot to be doing anything else."

They were both laughing as he set down his racquet bag to unlock the door. It was muffled through the wall, but Patrick heard it just fine from where he was perched on the foot of Art's bed with Tears for Fears playing on the unlabeled CD he dug through desk drawers to find. The sound of a distinctly feminine giggle made his mouth turn up at the corners in a smirk. This will be fun to tease his closest friend over until his cheeks flush pink and he has to hide his face in his shirt.

When the door swung open, the laughter died out as soon as they realized they weren't alone, but it was quickly replaced with wide smiles and warm greetings.

Patrick tried not to look her up and down so blatantly. Instead, he chuckled and said, "Art, you conveniently left out that you had a girlfriend on our last call."

To this, Art set down his bag and tackled him onto the bed, starting a minute-long wrestling match that only ended when they began to sweat from the heat and physical activity. It was then that Art remembered to have manners and introduced her. He scrambled to sit upright on the mattress and met her curious gaze.

"Y/N, this is Patrick. I'm sorry, I forgot what day he was coming."

She smiled.

"It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." A pause, and then she turned her attention to Art. "Do you wanna study another time? I don't wanna intrude or anything."

Before Art could open his mouth to tell her to stay, Patrick aimed one of his charming grins at her, then said, "No, please intrude. I'll just hang out. You won't even know I'm here."

The last sentence caused a disbelieving scoff to leave Art’s lips.

As of right now, as she sits on the chair in front of the desk and the boys share the bed, they have gotten halfway through the study guide they meticulously constructed after one of the two classes they share, but it grew boring once an hour and a half passed. They typically end up getting distracted and make out by now, but with Patrick here, neither of them considers that an option. So, she suggests they take a half-hour break to sit, drink, and talk to allow their brains to decompress from the constant stimulation.

He already had a few beers inside the mini fridge beneath his desk, along with a hard seltzer for her seeing that she finds the taste of beer disgusting but quite enjoys being drunk with him. Also kept in the freezer section of the fridge is a pack of ice pops she bought a few days ago when the heat wave began. They prove to be very useful right now as the midday sun bakes the building alive despite the closed curtains and blowing fans.

The CD has moved onto Nine Inch Nails, and she remains quiet to hear it over the sound of the fans as she holds a red ice pop to the side of her neck to cool herself off. Sometime along the way, both of them had stripped down to their underwear after asking her if it was alright because it was so hot. Patrick joked that he was alright with her taking her clothes off too, which she laughed at while Art playfully shoved him over it. Yet now she isn't laughing. Her small exercise shorts are as forgiving as any item of clothing could be in these circumstances, but the long-sleeve shirt she wore because it was the only clean one left is sticking to her skin.

"So, how did you and Art meet?"

Her eyes open to find Patrick glancing back and forth between them.

"It's a boring story, actually," she says. "He asked if I took notes for a class he missed, and now he's stuck with me all the time."

"No, no, okay, maybe it was boring from her perspective, but I was trying to work up the nerve to talk to her for at least a week before then. I went to one of her competitions and recognized her from class," Art explains. "She won, which wasn't surprising at all."

Although she already knew this, this is the first time he has admitted to it out loud, and her stomach flutters at the idea of him becoming so enamored with her from one glance. The popsicle is sweet on her tastebuds when she raises it to her lips and sucks with her eyes looking between them both. As she expected, Patrick shifts a little in place and looks away for reasons not at all related to how she was looking at them while sucking her popsicle.

She chuckles.

"So, you were just interested in befriending me 'cause I win a lot?"

Her tone of voice is taunting, but they know it's all in good fun. Art is quick to play along, shrugging his shoulders to feign aloofness and taking a quick swig of his beer before responding. Their eye contact grows intense in the seconds before he speaks.

"Well, there were some other contributing factors."

"Mm," Patrick hums in agreement. "I've never seen you compete, but you are really hot, so Art's right about that."

This makes her pause for a second, her gaze shifting to find Art's to see if his friend crossed any lines, but he appears strangely calm about it. What she doesn't know is that he has never had any problem sharing, at least, not with Patrick. They shared a room in boarding school, jerked off together to the same girl, and shared the court together—what was his would always be Patrick's, and what was Patrick's would always be his.

"You're flirting with me right in front of him?"

Art interjects, "I'd be shocked if he didn't."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he's standing up from the bed to get another beer. The dorm room is small, so it only takes a few strides for him to meet her where she sits before the desk and kneels down to open the mini fridge. His left hand braces itself on one of her thighs while the right swings open the fridge door only to find there is no beer left. Rather than complain, he simply grabs one of her least favorite hard seltzer flavors and gives her thigh a firm squeeze before standing up.

The bed creaks beneath his weight when he sits back down on it.

He settles into a comfortable position with his back against the wall and legs spread, balancing the seltzer can on his bent knee. Patrick sits close to him, and she finds it difficult to peel her eyes off the pair of them in their current state of undress. Her gaze mostly lingers on Patrick seeing that she has already explored every inch of Art's lean body in the plentiful amount of times they've hooked up over the past few weeks. But, that being said, she cannot resist looking at Art either. Having two beautiful men laid out before her in their underwear is a treat she never expected to indulge in today. They each have the strong, masculine figures of athletes—showing mostly in their shoulders, biceps, abdomen, and thighs.

When Patrick notices her staring, she turns her gaze to the floor to avoid the embarrassment of being caught. If he did catch her, though, he doesn't call her out for it. Not yet, at least.

With one last bite of her popsicle, she stands from the desk chair to toss it into the small trash can beside his nightstand. It isn't until she lets it go that she realizes how close she now stands to the two of them. Only a foot or so from the bed, her heart begins to hammer in her chest at the proximity.

The way she sees it, she has two options. The first would be to retreat to the desk to let her long-sleeved shirt give her heatstroke while the men get to sit in front of the oscillating fans with their shirts off, or she can strip down to her undergarments and join them on the bed. Needless to say, she opts for the latter of the two.

Y/N lets out an exaggerated groan at the heat and fans herself with her hands for the sake of appearing somewhat innocent in what she's about to do, then reaches down for the hem of her shirt with a huff.

Art and Patrick can do nothing but watch with rapt attention side by side as she pulls the fabric up her torso and over her head. The shirt ends up falling to the floor beside her feet alongside their discarded t-shirts and pants. This leaves her in her most comfortable bra—which is Art's favorite since her nipples can be seen through the mesh material—and a pair of tiny spandex shorts.

Patrick's tongue darts out to wet his lips at the sight of her—almost angelic in her beauty—and tries to burn the image into his mind to hold onto forever. Definitely going in the spank bank, he thinks to himself as his cock begins to harden in his boxers. Beside him, Art has been stunned to silence. Even though they've fucked like rabbits since the first time, he isn't sure if he'll ever get used to seeing her like this. Those shorts hug the delicate curve of her hips, as well as that lovely ass that has been sculpted from years of training as a gymnast, and all he can think of is how badly he wants to take them off.

They sit there, dumbfounded, with their mouths hanging open just enough for her to notice and suppress an arrogant smirk. But to allow herself to smirk would be to reveal her cards, and she doesn't want them to see this as anything other than her innocently trying to cool down. Truth be told, she hasn't thought this through. It's not as though she planned this as she was sitting at the desk. It's more of an impulsive, irresistible urge. And if they will tease her so blatantly with their half-naked bodies, she is entitled to do the same.

"You," she says, jutting her chin in Patrick's direction. "Scoot. I wanna sit in front of the fans too."

Underneath it all, she's thankful that she took the time to do her hair the way that makes her feel the most confident and put a little makeup on. Not that either of them is focused on her damned makeup. No, they're far too busy ogling her figure to notice anything north of her collarbones.

After a delayed second of staring, what she said seems to register within him and spark him into action. He's quick to scoot closer to the end of the bed if it means she'll be inhabiting the small space between them. 

She offers a quiet, "Thank you," and crawls onto the bed, turning around and settling into place with her back against the wall. The cool air generated by the fans blows faintly against the front of her sweat-slick chest, and she can't help but shut her eyes and hum in appreciation of it.

With her eyes shut, Art and Patrick are both scrambling to quietly conceal their growing erections. If they don't, it'll be glaringly obvious when she opens her eyes and sees a tent in their underwear on either side of her. Although the life-long friends don't speak, there's an understanding formed between the two of them. Whatever she allows them to have of her tonight, if she allows anything, they'll share nicely. Patrick knows that if anything happens, he is to assume it is a one-time thing unless she or Art expresses a desire for an arrangement of some sort to be made.

Her eyes open again a few seconds later to find them staring at her.

Breaking the silence, she asks, turning her head left to right to address each of them, "Did your mothers never tell you it's rude to stare?"

Patrick doesn't miss a beat.

"Did you know it's rude to be a tease?"

The sound of Art sucking in a deep breath meets her ears, but she doesn't look away from Patrick. Their eyes are locked, and she can see the mischief present in his. It's almost as if he dares her to do something...like he knows that she wants him just as badly as he wants her. Part of her feels guilty, feeling like she should remain loyal to Art even though they aren't exclusive, but a much more dominant part of her desires it too much to resist the temptation.

"Patrick, don't pressure her. If she doesn't want to—"

Her head turning to look at him halts him in his tracks. The look she's giving him...

Much to his shock, she was a virgin when they met a few weeks ago. He questioned her relentlessly, claiming there was no way someone as beautiful, smart, and talented as her could've gone so long without doing it, but she held firm. It was the truth, he realized after she sheepishly relayed the story of how she made out with a basketball player on Halloween and wimped out before it could go further. That first night, she was a bashful, blushing little thing. He treated her with the tenderness and reverence she deserved, first making her come with his tongue and fingers before fucking her. It was so...intimate. Her nails dug into his shoulders when he made that first, breathtaking thrust into her. Just the thought of it was enough to get him hard the next day, but he knew not to expect anything after how shy she was the previous night. Little did he know, he awakened something within her, and from then on, she would be insatiable.

He almost got whiplash from how quickly she changed from a nervous, flushed-faced girl asking him, "Am I doing this right?" when she got on top to a cock-hungry temptress ready to jump onto him at any moment. Truth be told, he found it so fucking hot. To think that he was the catalyst for this behavior was beyond comprehension. Though Art did well enough in his dating life, Patrick was the one that the girls they liked gravitated toward when they were in school together. But she was his, and he thinks, even now, that he'll always have the satisfaction of having gotten to her first no matter what happens tonight.

Y/N shifts around on the mattress so that she's sitting on the side of the bed opposite the wall, facing them with her hands on her knees and legs tucked beneath her ass. Both boys perk up a little at this, and they watch every minute movement she makes and listen to every breath she breathes with unwavering focus.

She meets Art's gaze first before doing anything. Her brows raise in question, and, in answer, he gives her a slight nod. Those pretty, cherry-stained lips of hers curve into a smirk she doesn't even bother to hide in response to this.

"Have you ever fucked the same girl before?" she asks out of pure curiosity, her tone calm and even. Her hands leave her knees to grab one of their thighs each, slowly rubbing up and down to allow her fingertips to brush the edge of their boxers. "Two guys at the same time is a first for me..."

To say that they are in a state of shock would be a gross understatement. Surprisingly, their mouths are not hanging open, and they aren't drooling at the mere thought of what she's proposing.

Somehow, Patrick finds his voice and says, "No." A second of pause, then—"Is this for real? Like you're not just fucking with us?"

The silence that follows is ripe with tension. All that can be heard is the sound of voices passing in the hallway outside of the dorm room and fans blowing on their highest setting. The hands on their thighs come to a halt at the edge of their boxers, and the softened expression on her face shifts into one of unabashed lust as she looks at Patrick.

In answer to his question, she starts to crawl over to him. Seeing that the mattress is a twin, it doesn't take too long for her to reach him and settle into place on top of him. Her hands slide up to cup his face, forcing him to only look at her when she lowers herself onto his lap. The spandex shorts hugging every inch of her figure do little to keep him from feeling the warmth of her cunt against the bulge that formed the second she took her top off.

That first brush of her lips against his is gentle, as though she has him under a trance, but it doesn't take longer than a few seconds for him to snap out of it. Patrick's hands grasp her hips first to keep her from moving away, then they slide down to knead the soft, supple flesh of her ass as he begins to kiss her back hungrily. The kiss quickly begins to descend from her lips to her jaw until he reaches the soft skin of her neck.

While he nips and sucks at the sensitive spot along the side of her neck, Y/N opens her eyes to find Art staring, unblinking, at the pornographic display before him. The sight of him alone—between his messy blonde hair, piercing eyes, and masterfully structured face—is enough to pull a breathy moan from the back of her throat. One would think that she would get used to the way he makes her feel when he looks at her like that, but she never does.

One of the arms wrapped around Patrick's neck uncurls itself to reach for Art, fingers wiggling to beckon him to her. 

He's already invading her space by the time she whispers, "C'mere, baby."

Art practically melts into the two writhing bodies he kneels beside at the casual use of a pet name from her. The word echoes in the farthest reaches of his brain until it is all he can hear on a loop. Even as she grips the back of his neck and pulls him until their mouths collide, his cock twitches from the memory of her calling him baby.

Patrick continues to suck, lick, nip, and kiss his way down her neck as she slips her tongue into Art's mouth with a groan. He leaves marks behind everywhere he goes with the thought of his friend finding them on her for the next week and a half in mind. It only makes it more thrilling for him to imagine the strange mixture of frustration and arousal that will arise within Art when he rediscovers them the next time they hook up.

Slowly, she is guided onto her back by his mouth slipping down to take one of her nipples into it and his callused hands peeling her shorts, along with her soaked cotton thong, down over the swell of her ass. The freshly washed sheets are soft against her bare back as she lays back and watches Patrick worship her breasts with both his mouth and hands. In the midst of their repositioning, Art took it upon himself to squeeze into the cramped space next to Patrick, slotting himself between him and the wall the bed is pressed against. Without a word of warning, he dips his face down to kiss the breast Patrick is cupping in his hand.

She feels hands everywhere, unsure of which belongs to who. Hands grapple for purchase on her hips, her waist, her breasts, her thighs, and her ass—always moving in search of new territory to claim. Although they have no way of coordinating their actions, they seem to move in sync with one another. The second Art's mouth lowers to kiss down her stomach, which flinches inward at the feeling, Patrick follows. If she weren't so overwhelmed with everything right now, she'd likely laugh at how eager they are to race each other down the length of her body.

Their heads bump every few seconds by the time they reach her parted thighs, but they are too focused on getting a taste of her to care at first. They work with the same synchronized harmony they once had as doubles partners, Art tugging her left leg over his shoulder while Patrick shoves her right up and out until her thigh is flush with her chest. She can't help but silently thank her parents for enrolling her in gymnastics lessons years ago. If they hadn't, this would be a tad uncomfortable.

Finally, Patrick tries to shove Art to the side a little, complaining, "Come on, man, you're with her all the time."

To her surprise, it works for the first moment or so. Art places hot, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thigh as Patrick's tongue makes a broad stroke through her, but it isn't long before he grows dissatisfied with his current role in this impromptu threesome and decides to fight back. He doesn't shove or push like Patrick had, instead, he gently nudges his head against Patrick's until they can share her.

Having Art go down on her alone always feels pleasurable, but having both of their mouths on her at the same time is another sensation entirely. It's indescribable. Spit drools from their lips as they kiss her sodden cunt, taking turns flicking the tips of their tongues against her clit for the sake of hearing her moan over and over. From where she looks down at them, they're nearly kissing each other as they eat her out, and she has to tip her head back onto her shoulders to keep them from seeing her smirk.

When she looks back down, she makes a breathy, gasping sound at the sight of them. Patrick is looking up at her with an intensity no man has ever had when looking at her, not even Art, and there is no ignoring the feeling it stirs in the pit of her abdomen.

"Fuck," she whines and pushes herself harder against their faces, but it's never enough. "More—I need more. Please."

Neither one hesitates. In fact, they seem to form a plan without speaking it aloud. As Art's free hand raises from where it palmed his cock through his boxers, Patrick's lips close around her sensitive, puffy clit and start to suck. The tips of Art's middle and ring fingers brush tentatively against her hole, then, teasingly slow, push inside until they're buried knuckle deep.

The contrast of the men as lovers—Patrick being unforgiving and passionate, Art being tender and desperate—threatens to dizzy her. But Art cannot control himself for too long. He often starts slow and gentle, his eyes flooded with genuine affection for whoever is pinned under his body, then loses his composure the farther things go. By the time he's inside of her, he's almost brutal in how hard he fucks her, and it isn't out of malice, it's out of animalistic lust.

So, as per usual, the pace Art sets to begin with shifts into something harder and faster.

Over the sounds of the fans and music playing on the CD player across the room, a symphony of panting breaths, whines, and wet noises can be heard. It wouldn't surprise any of them if the people who were talking in the hallway could hear it, but it's not like they care right now. 

When she closes her eyes and tries to fall back against the mattress, Patrick stops for a second to murmur, "Don't look away," before getting back to work. Something about the way his voice sounds forces her to submit to his demand without hesitation. There's an edge to it. An underlying promise that he will stop and leave her here to suffer if she doesn't listen, so she does. She watches with a slack-jawed expression at how they work diligently to get her off.

The combined sensations of the fingers pumping into her at a steady, rushed pace and the lips enclosed around her sensitive bud push her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Art slips a third finger in and licks between her sticky folds as Patrick sucks her clit relentlessly. Everything they do is motivated by a dire need to take as much of her as they can, as though they can't quite believe what's happening and want to savor it before they wake from the dream. Seeing their desperation only fuels the fire roaring to life inside of her.

They feast on her the way starving men would if presented with food—humming and groaning in satisfaction at the taste of her on their tongues. Through the haze she's fallen under as a result of the present situation, her gaze lifts from where both of their faces are smushed together between her parted thighs to find that they're both humping the mattress. It seems like they don't even realize they're doing it, which, of course, only makes it hotter for her. To think that she wields enough power over them, that she renders them so useless and needy...

Her brows pinch together at the feeling of Art's fingertips finding the sweet spot inside of her.

"Right there," she breathes out in a shaky voice, hand shooting down to grasp anything she can find for support.

It ends up being Patrick's dark hair that is weaved between her fingers and used as her lifeline, tugging nearly every time Art's fingertips find the spot inside of her that makes her throw her head back on the bed and cry out for them. If they didn't have her pinned down, her hips would be lifting to meet every thrust, but she cannot do anything other than take it. Every breath she takes turns rapid, her chest rising and falling dramatically, as the familiar feeling of her impending release grows nearer by the second.

She says, half warning and half pleading with them, "I'm"—The sentence is cut off before it can be said by a high-pitched moan that makes Patrick moan and Art whimper into her—"Please"—What she's pleading for, none of them know, herself included, but she continues to babble nonsensically anyway—"Ah!"

The hand that isn't pulling on Patrick's hair reaches down instinctively for the hand Art grips her thigh with, and she doesn't even need to ask him for it. He entwines their fingers and allows her to squeeze his hand until circulation is lost as she finally feels the wave that was building within her begin to crest.

It hits her harder than she ever knew it could. 

Everything explodes into a sensation of bliss so strong, she loses herself in it. The only thing tying her body down to the earth is the feeling of the hands on her—touching her, fingering her, caressing her, and holding her hand—yet even that is not enough to keep her from floating away into another world entirely for the first few seconds of her orgasm. The muscles in her legs, so exhausted from being forced into a position like this, shake violently with every wave of pleasure rushing through her, and her walls clamp down around the fingers thrusting into her.

If she could live forever in these fifteen seconds, she would, but it soon becomes obvious to her that there's no chance of that happening. Gradually, the intense sensation starts to recede like the tides, and they are both there to help her ride it out to the very end. But once it fully fades, she wriggles beneath them in sensitivity.

Using the hand wrapped up in his hair, Y/N pulls Patrick's mouth away from her clit with a strength he didn't know to expect despite her obvious athletic background, and when Art notices this, he too slows the rhythmic pumping of his fingers inside of her throbbing heat to a stop. Wary of hurting her, he waits another five seconds before slowly pulling them out.

She has gone boneless where she lays on her back with her eyes shut and chest heaving for air.

Knowing she cannot see them, Patrick cuts his best friend a look and jerks his chin in her direction in a silent urging to check on her. Both men start to move at the same time, crawling over her until they reach her face. While Patrick lies beside her and trails his hand up and down her naked, sweat-soaked torso to occupy himself in the time it takes her to recover, Art licks her arousal from his fingers before grabbing her by the chin.

He asks with a teasing inflection, "You still with us?"

Her eyes slowly open to find them both staring at her, and she cannot help the slight smile that comes to her face at this.

"You guys almost killed me," she murmurs. "I think my vision got spotty for a second there."

They allow her another moment to catch her breath and recuperate in the aftermath of what she endured. She takes turns looking at them as she pants for air, laying with her arms above her head and thighs squeezed together due to her current state of sensitivity.

Patrick is the first to break the silence.

"We're not done with you," he says softly, the hand on her chest climbing up until it cradles the side of her neck. "But you know that, don't you?"

"I'd be a little bummed if you were," she replies.

Her head is whipping around at the sound of Art's voice.

"Only a little?"

She pushes herself up from where she's lying supine on the bed, which is now a mess of tangled sheets and sweat, to smack him on the arm. It's all in good fun, of course, and Art is hardly hurt by the playful blow she landed on him. Giggles escape her mouth as they begin to play fight, swatting and trying to pin one another down with Patrick there to spectate. He encourages Y/N to fight dirty, telling her where to strike, which causes Art to curse under his breath and declare him a traitor.

It ultimately ends with her on top, her legs straddling his hips and hands pinning his wrists to the bed. Based on the faraway, longing gleam in his eyes as he looks up at her, Patrick can tell immediately that she only won because Art allowed her to. Because there is something about being pinned to the bed underneath her that turns him on. And she knows it. It's easy to tell by how his erection presses up against her naked center through the fabric of his boxers.

Suddenly, she comes up onto her knees and moves back until she's hovering over his thighs. Her next words are a soft-spoked explanation for why she's reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

"Too much clothes."

But, to her surprise, another pair of hands comes to her aid in shimmying Art's underwear down his hips and legs. The way Patrick sees it, the sooner he helps her get them off, the sooner she'll take his off. And he isn't wrong. As soon as they get the boxers free from Art's body, the garment is tossed to the side without a care in the world. Neither of them looks to see where they landed, they're far too busy leaning in to kiss each other than keep track of their discarded clothing.

Her left hand is wrapped around Art's cock, pumping at a torturously slow pace, as she pulls away from Patrick with a string of saliva connecting their lips.

"Take those off," she says with a pointed look at his crotch.

To say he is sent scrambling to take off his underwear at her command would be an understatement. If this scenario itself wasn't hot enough to make her cunt throb with a desperate need to be fucked, she'd be giggling at his eagerness. But it's hard to find anything funny when she's faced with Patrick standing, one foot on the floor and his other leg braced against the bed at the knee, with nothing to conceal him from her anymore.

It must inflate his ego to heights it has never reached before to see her tongue dart out to wet her lips at the sight of him. The hand stroking Art falters as she admires Patrick's cock. It's about an inch longer than Art's yet equal in girth, curving up a little toward his hair-speckled, defined abdomen. A drop of precome has dripped from his tip, and she has to dip her head forward to get a quick taste. Those pretty lips wrap around him, not pushing down to take the rest of his shaft into her mouth but remaining where she is, flicking her tongue against the slit where the drops of sticky, pearlescent fluid secrete.

A taste is all she allows herself, though.

Her lips pull off of him with a soft popping sound, and she makes sure to maintain eye contact with him as she licks a drop of pre-come off of her top lip.

She turns to look at Art, then Patrick, then back at Art, asking, "How do you want me?"

Seeing that she was a virgin before she started seeing Art, she figures she isn't qualified to direct this in a way that'll be comfortable for everyone involved. No, if she had to bet, Patrick has the most experience between the three of them—with Art following closely behind—and he will have no problem taking control from here based on how he has acted thus far.

To their surprise, it's Art who answers first. 

Patrick was still in a faraway daze from having her mouth around his cock only to be kicked when he was down by the question she asked. How do you want me? God, it's like she's trying to kill them.

"On my lap."

Art pushes himself up from the mattress and repositions so he sits on his knees in front of them, reaching for her hips to pull her closer without a second of hesitation. Her arms instantly reach for his shoulders to steady herself as she maneuvers into the exact position he had in mind. Buried beneath the music that has become white noise to them and the fans running on their highest setting, he thinks he hears her breath hitch in her throat once she's straddling his lap, the tip of his cock nudging against her clit.

Absentmindedly, she starts to grind against him, coating him in the slick arousal that seeps from her, but it's slow. A tease compared to what's coming next.

"Patrick," he says, his voice unwavering despite the excitement that makes his stomach churn. His hand slides down from her neck, caressing her breast as it passes by at a lazy speed, until he takes hold of himself and pumps a few times—as if he isn't hard as a fucking rock already. Over her shoulder, he meets his friend's intense stare. "If you wanna fuck her, you should probably get on the bed."

And while he would usually fire back something equally witty or taunting, Patrick cannot manage to do anything but nod. There's something about seeing Art this way that subdues him. He would like to think that the sole reason he's standing naked in front of his best friend is because there's a girl involved, but that isn't true. Not completely. Although Art would never admit to himself that he feels the same way, there's something familiar about this. Comfortable. Right.

The mattress dips with Patrick's shifting weight, squeaking a little beneath his knees until he settles into place behind her. His chest presses against her back, and his hand reaches up to grab her jaw, guiding her head to tilt so he can kiss her neck while Art lines himself up with her. She feels Patrick's cock pressing against her ass as the broad tip of Art's sinks inside of her.

Having Patrick's face buried in her neck, her shoulder, and back to her neck again provided her and Art a rare second of private intimacy. Her eyes, glazed over with lust, lock into his and refuse to look away. The intensity present in his gaze does not frighten her. If anything, it sends a rush of adrenaline through her body, and she takes a second to admire his soft, wide eyes. She's never mentioned it aloud before, but she has always been fascinated with making eye contact with him due to his right eye. Half of the iris is a striking, clear shade of blue while the other is a warm brown hue.

"Fuck," he says under his breath at the feeling of her squeezing down around him, her tight cunt resisting a little until she relaxes and sinks down until there's nothing left to take.

There's nothing that compares to the feeling of the first thrust he makes.

Every time, it makes her bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. To feel him so deep is almost undoing in itself. Then she feels another hand slide between her legs, and her mind goes utterly blank. Everything outside of this room falls away the second Patrick starts to rub her clit in gentle, languid circles to help her adjust to the stretch of Art inside of her. Patrick's lips lavish every accessible inch of her bare skin with kisses as his friend, with a hand on each of her hips, starts to lift her up and down at an unhurried pace.

Their noses and lips brush without completely touching. When she pushes her face closer to Art's, hoping to lock lips with him, he pulls away for the sake of seeing her grow hot in the face from embarrassment. The mouth worshipping the back of her neck curves up into a smirk in reaction to the games Art plays with her. Who knew he's just as fun in bed as he is out of it? Certainly not Patrick.

She mutters, voice breathy and weak, "Feels so good..."

"Yeah?" Patrick murmurs into her skin and presses his fingers hard against her clit. "Tell me how he feels."

If he could see her the way Art can right now, he'd have to suppress a chuckle at how her brows pinch together at the command. Regardless of her sudden shyness, the words he says only make her ride Art harder. Over her shoulder, Patrick searches for those pale blue eyes only to find them staring through him already. Every smooth rocking motion of her hips pushes her ass against his neglected erection, providing him with a brushing touch before pivoting away again.

"He feels"—she says, chest rising and falling faster—"He's so hard." Her sentences are hardly coherent. "Perfect—mmm—fucking me so deep." One of her hands reaches to tug his down to press it against the southernmost part of her abdomen. "Feel."

With her palm molded over the back of his hand and forcing him to push down on her belly, Patrick can hardly keep from groaning at the subtle bulge of Art's cock moving in and out of her. It's strangely intimate for the three of them to share this experience, but for him to feel every thrust through her is more than he anticipated.

Unable to fight what instinct drives him to, Patrick shifts his hips until the angle of her grinding against him allows his tip to brush up against the hole she and Art have yet to touch. He doesn't do anything more, not without her asking for it, but it's clear to both Art and Y/N that he desperately wants to. All of this physical affection shared between the two of them has made Patrick needy and jealous, so she decides to grant him mercy.

She reaches behind herself blindly to guide him elsewhere, nudging him against the hole Art is already filling. It takes them a couple of seconds to understand what she means in doing this, but, once it clicks, they start to go a little crazy. For the moment, she has stopped bouncing on Art's cock for the sake of allowing Patrick to push in beside him, and he has to surge forward to kiss her. If he doesn't distract himself with a kiss, he'll be too tempted to move.

As Art kisses her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth and caressing her own, Patrick's hand wraps around her throat for leverage with his teeth nipping at her earlobe. His hand wraps around where hers grips his cock to guide it to her entrance, and with his help, they manage to squeeze the tip in.

Her jaw drops at the overwhelming sensation, and the sloppy kiss is interrupted when her head rolls back onto Patrick's shoulder. Art doesn't seem to care, though. Now that her head is tipped back, her neck is exposed for him to mark, and he takes advantage of the opportunity as soon as it presents itself. His lips brush against Patrick's fingers a few times as he kisses her fervently, sucking hard on the delicate skin that has already been bruised by his dear friend.

"You're beautiful," Art whispers into her neck between kisses. "So, so beautiful."

Taking it slow for her sake, Patrick has to force himself into her inch by inch, stretching her little cunt to take far more than she's accustomed to. But, as hard as it is, it works. After another few moments of him pushing in and pausing to let her adjust, he finally bottoms out with his cock flush against Art's. Her walls clamp down around them tightly. They both share a nervous look at this, wondering if they'll manage to last longer than thirty seconds if it already feels this good.

Slowly, she raises her head from where it slumped against Patrick's shoulder and meets Art's intense stare with one of her own. His hand raises to cup the side of her face, his fingers grazing against Patrick's, and he brushes his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip. Every breath taken between the three of them is labored.

Pulling her lip down with his thumb, he asks, "Feeling okay?"

A half-second later, Patrick chimes in.

"If it's too much, you have to tell us."

Not a question, not a request, but a demand. The way he said it left no room for debate, so she nods in compliance and responds with an eagerness that neither man can miss, "M'fine, please, just fuck me..."

Patrick does not need to be told twice.

Having been sidelined for too long and forced to watch them fuck without him, he pulls out slowly, then cants his hips back against her ass with a force that takes her breath away. Amidst this, Art cannot do anything but let his face fall forward into her chest and whine in ecstasy. Just the movement of Patrick's cock rubbing against his with every thrust renders him useless. He knew it would feel better than any sex he'd had before, but this...He'll likely spend the rest of his life chasing the hedonism they are experiencing tonight.

One of her arms reaches behind her to grab Patrick's hip and dig her nails in hard while the other closes around Art's neck to pull both of them as close as can be. And now that he has forced himself back from the edge of a premature release, Art begins to move too, searching for a rhythm that feels right. Soon enough, he manages to find it. Both of their heads lift to look at each other, faces inches apart with their chins pressing on her shoulder, and they work with the same synchronicity they had while eating her out not even fifteen minutes ago.

She turns her head to the side to watch their stare-down as they rut into her like feral animals—utterly insatiable and overcome by their baser instincts. And it's only now that it occurs to her that, underneath it all, they want each other as desperately and pathetically as they want her. Patrick's gaze relentlessly bounces back and forth between Art's eyes and lips, and it makes her smirk to herself. The pleasure of fucking her as one, their pulsing cocks rubbing together in the warm walls of her cunt, has lowered their inhibitions, and the idea of being intimate with one another isn't as daunting as it would be if they were fully aware.

Leaning in to brush her cherry-flavored lips against Art's ear, she whispers, "I want you to kiss him."

The arm looped around the back of his neck pulls tighter in encouragement, bringing his body so close to hers that she can feel his ribs expanding with every breath. His only reaction to her request is a quick glance at her face once she pulls away from his ear with a sensuous lick as a parting gift. It's almost as though he doesn't believe what she's saying, but the reassuring expression she wears tells him that it is real. She truly wants him to see him kiss his best friend, not only for their enjoyment but hers as well.

One second, he's looking at her, and the next, he's slotting his lips against Patrick's with a passion previously only reserved for her. Their hands both grapple for purchase on her sweat-slick body, Art aggressively kneading her breasts and Patrick squeezing her hips for dear life, as they moan into each other's mouths.

As they kiss each other hungrily, Y/N has nothing left to do but bask in the tension swelling inside of her. There's something about how wrong this situation feels to her that makes it so much more arousing. Girls are always raised with the idea that promiscuity lessens their value, and she was not an exception. Having been raised in a family of devout believers, she hadn't kissed a boy until she was seventeen years old. The next person she kissed was Art, and in the time since their first kiss, he has thoroughly corrupted her.

And even as distracted as he is by the all-consuming, wet kiss he's engaged in, Art feels her cunt start to squeeze around their cocks and immediately drops one of the hands on her breasts between her splayed thighs. His finger rubs in tight circles on her clit in hopes that she will reach her end before he and Patrick come pathetically soon.

Her body jerks where it's trapped between them when his fingers make contact, pulling their focus away from each other for the first time since their lips touched. Patrick reaches up to hold her neck in one hand and forces her face to the side so both of them can look at every subtle expression she makes. 

"Don't stop," she pleads, eyes glazed over. "M'so close, Art"—Every merciless thrust elicits a high-pitched whine from her—"Patrick, please!"

The body trapped between them has gone boneless and twitchy, utterly useless at holding herself up or aiding them in any way. But they wear it like a badge of honor. With her face falling forward into Art's neck, she loses her grasp on all that is around her and lets them prop her up to fuck her like a toy existing solely for their gratification.

With one hand cradling the back of her head and the other between her thighs, still dutifully rubbing her clit, Art asks under his breath, "Isn't she fucking perfect?"

Although it was a question meant for Patrick, she can't help how she moans and clenches her walls around them when she hears it. Panting breaths from the three of them flood the sweltering dorm room, but they are too far gone to notice or care how much sweat drips off of their bodies onto one another. It's almost hard to get a firm grip on her as a result of it, but they manage to keep her in place by smushing their bodies as close as physically possible on both sides of her.

Patrick bucks his hips up into her with a recklessness that gives away how close he is to his climax.

He says, "Oh, God, yeah." The hand still collaring her delicate neck squeezes just enough to take her breath away for a second. However, once he released his hold on her, that hand moved to wrap itself up the roots of her hair. "Best pussy I've ever had. So fucking tight, it's like she wants us to come inside her." A pause, then, "Is that what you want?"

A second passes of silence from her, and he sharply tugs back on her hair until her face is no longer hidden in Art's neck. This allows them to drink in the sight of her—face twisted up in pleasure and mouth gaping open.

He asks again, "Is that what you want?"

Her response is immediate.

"Yes, yes, yes," she murmurs incoherently and takes quick turns to look between their faces. If the expressions they wear are any indication, it won't be long before her wish is fulfilled. "I'm—mmm-gonna come! I need you to fill me up, please, please!"

To this, Art rubs her clit faster while maintaining eye contact with her and finally lets go of whatever remaining scraps of self-control he has left. Knowing how close she is pushes them closer themselves, and they start to pound her hard. Hard enough that even they, as soon-to-be professional athletes, have difficulty sustaining this intense degree of exertion.

The arm that she looped around his shoulders is still there, but now her hand is sliding down from the back of Art's neck to explore the toned musculature of his upper back. Under her searching palm, she can feel his muscles contracting and relaxing beneath his pale skin.

To both her and Art's surprise, the world begins to shift in their peripheral vision until he falls flat against the mattress on his back with his length still sheathed inside of her. It takes a second for their brains to catch up with what happened and deem Patrick responsible for the position change. He laid his hands flat on her back and pushed with just the right amount of force to pin Art to the mattress beneath them.

Art says, breathless, "I can feel you squeezing us, baby, just let go."

Hearing those words sets fire to her blood, and that, paired with the toe-curling sensation of them pressing deep inside of her, hitting that spot over and over and over, is what tips her over the edge.

Patrick keeps pulling on her hair to force her head up so that they can feel and watch her come, and what a beautiful sight it is. Art, the lucky bastard, is face to face with her as she tenses up with the onslaught of her climax. But he can see the side of her pretty, flushed face and drink up every little sound she makes, so he doesn't feel left out in any way. No, he is experiencing this right beside Art. They're both trapped inside of her, pumping into her throbbing heat and letting themselves be swept away into oblivion by the feeling of her coming undone.

She digs her nails into Art's skin hard enough to hurt as she whines and writhes between them with each pulse of pleasure that runs through her, and it isn't until she's starting to come down, riding out the high, that she feels them spill into her at the same time. Every sensation attached to it prolongs her orgasm—the throbbing, the spreading warmth, and the dying undulations of their hips that grind their cocks together within her. And beyond the physicality of the act, just knowing that they're filling her to the brim with their come makes her head spin from how fucking hot she finds it.

It isn't long before their thrusts slow into a sensuous grinding as they come down from it together, then come to a full stop to keep from overstimulating themselves. They both are starting to go soft, panting and leaning against her limp body in exhaustion, and know they wouldn't be able to continue even if they wanted to.

Her head is laid on Art’s shoulder with Patrick’s nose nuzzling her neck. There's nothing they can do except remain still and try to recover from the euphoria that has rendered them useless, so that is precisely what they do. With their bodies nearly melting together from the heat, the three of them hold onto each other for support until they manage to return to full consciousness after what they went through.

It isn't until another couple of moments have elapsed that Patrick and Art start murmuring to one another while she remains slumped between them. A second later, both pairs of hands are squeezing her hips; lifting her off of their softening cocks, slowly, gently, and minding her sensitivity.

The three of them collapse side by side on the twin bed, bodies squeezed together like sardines, and she finally comes back down from the clouds her head floated into at the feeling of them touching her. It isn't sexual. No, they wouldn't dream of putting her through anything more than she could handle right now. Both touches are tender and featherlight—Art's hand molds over her breast simply to cup it as they cuddle while Patrick brings her hand up from her side to brush a kiss over her knuckles.

The silence continues to stretch on, then—

"We're definitely gonna have to do that again," she says, turning her head to look at each of them before laying her cheek against Art's shoulder. "That is, if don't mind sharing me."

His gaze softens, the hand cupping her breast ghosting up over her skin until it finds her and Patrick's entwined hands.

"I don't mind one bit."

-

Thank you for reading this! I probably won’t write any more Challengers fics but I saw the movie like five times in theaters and needed to crank this out to satisfy the part of me that is obsessed with the hotel scene. I would really appreciate a comment to let me know what you thought if you’re open to that 🫶🏻 The oral part of this fic was inspired by these two (1) (2) I read, so def give them a read cause they're great!

[wileys-russo]

Pollito / barca team ," why are you hiding in the closet" training room/ ground

in the pollito universe with stuck, tiny silver flash, the one where the kids go bowling barça femeni II in hiding

"mierda!" you mumbled under your breath, thumbs flying with gentle taps against your screen as you tried relentlessly to beat the level of candy crush you'd been stuck on all week.

you let out a small scream of surprise as the door to the equipment closet you were hiding out in swung open, flooding the dark with light and causing you to squint and rub at your eyes.

"aye pollito. why are you hiding in the closet?" patri sighed, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow and hands on hips. "i'm not. i have been out of the closet for a year now!" you grinned up at the older girl who snickered and offered you a hand up.

"no i can't, i'm having...quiet time." you faltered trying to think of an excuse which clearly didn't work on the older spaniard. "what did you do now?" pina chimed in, causing you to jump again from your spot on the floor not even having noticed her there as well.

"nothing! ale told me i'm supposed to channel my energy into resting." you rolled your eyes, this lie falling off your tongue a little smoother as both girls gave you a look, shared a look and then decided to leave you to it.

the problems started when a half an hour later you were hungry, currently skipping lunch for your little hide out as you huffed and mulled over your options.

you texted the one person who you knew would come through for you right now without question, perking up a few minutes later when there was a knock on the door and you knocked back, vicky opening it with a tray of food.

"this was so hard to sneak out." the girl sighed shaking her head, sitting down beside you where you scooted across. "compañero i owe you." you exhaled happily, the girl humming and watching in slight disgust as you shoveled in food like it could disappear at a moments notice.

"still haven't beat it?" the forward chuckled pointing to your phone on the floor where candy crush was loaded. "no!" you huffed with a glare, nodding as the girl reached for it with a raised eyebrow. "por favor be my guest!" you mumbled out between bites.

"boo!" you choked on a piece of chicken as the door swung open again, vicky smacking you on the back as it came sailing out of your mouth and landed on jana's shoe. "ew pollito!" the older girl groaned, kicking her foot and sending it flying away as bruna snickered.

"you can't hide in here forever amiga." bruna warned as you motioned for them to go away or close the door, the tiny closet suddenly becoming very cramped as they shuffled inside and sat down, knees tucked to their chest.

"not forever! i have a plan." you smacked away jana's hand where she reached for your jelly cup. "like the same plan you had not to get caught in the first place?" vicky chimed in as you frowned and shoved her, kicking bruna who tried to hide her laugh.

"that was not my fault."

"nothing is ever your fault!" jana rolled her eyes. "this really wasn't! i had a fool proof plan until that burro decided today of all days she was going to arrive early." you grumbled unhappily, all of your hard work and planning having been for nothing.

"so its her fault for ruining the plan you had to mess with her anyway? oye pollito, take some responsibility for once!" bruna sighed with a shake of her head, all four of you jumping in shock as again the door swung open and flooded with light.

"dios mío now i find you all! you left me at the table all alone pendejos." cata swore with a huff, arms crossed over her chest. "and for a secret meeting? for shame!" the goalkeeper tutted as all four of you groaned and complained there wasn't room when she closed the door and flopped down right in the middle.

"so what are we discussing?" cata asked, her knees digging into your sides as you shuffled around unable to find a reprise. "how nothing is ever pollitos fault." jana rolled her eyes again as you mocked her and tossed a carrot stick at her head, cata's hand shooting up to catch it mid air.

"not nothing! just this mornings...incident." you huffed, wincing at the obnoxious crunch of cata chomping down on the carrot right by your ear. "oh that? sí i will admit i am shocked you are still alive." cata mused with another obnoxious crunch.

"she's got the alexia shield." three voices sung out in unison as you pulled a face.

"first. thats super creepy do not all talk at the same two. second; sí she won't touch me when ale is around. but she has captains meetings all afternoon now until media which is why-"

"-you're hiding." "what did i say about all speaking at once!"

"i just have to survive another..." you paused to tap cata's watch. "...twenty minutes. then we have media and she's not going to kill me with witnesses around!" you beamed happily at your newfound plan, not missing the looks of uncertainty flashed around by your friends.

"what!" "nothing nothing, i'm sure that will work. and then tomorrow?" jana questioned as you faltered. "i pray she gets amnesia and forgets all about it?" you smiled hopefully as vicky shook her head and patted your shoulder.

"i will miss you amiga...can i have your nintendo switch?" "vicky!"

"well well well." you all jumped again as the door swung open, the face you'd been avoiding glaring down at you. "the rest of you have five seconds to haul culo out of this closet or you suffer as well." the girl warned.

"traitors!" you yelled after the four girls who fell over one another trying to run away, bruna and cata picking up vicky who tripped, carrying her away by the arms in a hurry unable to get away fast enough.

"hola mapi, did you do something new with your hair? looks very good today." you smiled as sweetly as you could manage, the defenders jaw clenching.

"purple is your colour?" you tried again with a nervous laugh, having been caught red handed with purple dye on your hands this morning after dumping it in mapi's shampoo, the girl having arrived early and caught you, but not having put two and two together until she showered after training.

"look we can talk about this we can-" you started to beg as the girl stepped inside and started to close the door. "oh sí sí sí we're going to talk pollito...but after i shave one of your eyebrows off." she grinned wickedly holding up a razor as your eyes widened.

"ALEXIA!"

[dezertvideogames]

The Subnautica of other fears

Subnautica is a game infamous for it's almost all ocean planet, underwater worldbuilding, and deep sea gameplay. It's also the bane of all thalassaphobia peeps.

So here's the subnautica of other phobias

Claustrophobia Fear of Tight/Cramped Spaces - The Forest Series : After a plane crash leaves you stranded in a strange forests, something increasingly becomes... wrong. The caves around don't help.

Scopophobia Fear of being watched or the center of attention - Brighter Day : A weirdcore horror game where something is definitely watching you and definitely following you.

Entomophobia/Arachnophobia - Grounded : You play a group of kids who are stuck in a "honey I shrunk the kids" incident. They are forced to venture across their yard, and survive the various common insects around.

Megalophobia Fear of very very very big things - The Utility Room : An experience. More of an experience then a game and fever dreamish, worth it, and mysterious all the way. It's almost as if the universe accidentally left one strange dev room behind.

Nyctophobia Fear of darkness - Amnesia: The Bunker (from the Amnesia series) : It's a first-person survival horror. You play a French man trapped in a bunker during WW1, while being hunted by something inside its darkness.

Autophobia Fear of being/feeling alone - Firewatch : You work in a national park in order to watch out for fires. Traveling across the Wyoming wilderness takes a complicated turn.

Hemophobia Fear of blood or bleeding - Iron Lung : What awaits you in the deep of a strange moon. Trapped in a submarine you have no choice but to find out.

Amaxophobia Fear of car accidents or being run over - Decimate Drive : After freeing yourself from a kidnapping, the world you wake up to is full of hostile cars.

Final Boss Games:

Lethal Company

Fun with friends :D

Genre: Indie Comedy Horror

Takes place on alien planets in outerspace

It's multiplayer, and very fun, but as soon as it hits the fan the sound design works hard to immerse you in the sudden loneliness. The games sound design is one the major players of Lethal Company's fear. As soon as a friend walks away the proximity chat teaches you just how separated you now are.

Before you know it you have had something unfriendly following behind you, and finally finding the silhouette of a friend in the dark you are betrayed by the creatures of the Lethal Company universe.

Fear of Darkness

Fear of Loneliness

Fear of Being Watched

Fear of Outerspace

The Metro Series

Genre: Survival Horror Shooter

You play the beautiful and amazing Artyom Chynornyj in the post-apocalyptic world of Metro. Developed by Ukrainians and based off the Russian book series + Polish fanon writing community.

The world of Metro is unfair and unforgiving, full of mutated creatures, and the leftover souls that the destruction of humanity left in it's wake. Crawl across the underground of Russian cities, or panic across the even more dangerous world of the destroyed above.

Fear of Darkness

Fear of Wild Animals

Fear of Deep Water

Fear of Ghost/The Supernatural

Fear of Insects/Spider

Fear of Heights

Fear of Dead Bodies

Fear of the Cold

No Man's Sky

The scariest game I've ever played. I don't know why, but this game freaks me out. I know the picture I chose was harmless, but I did that on purpose.

This game is beautiful, but don't let that fool ya. This world will leave you no hesitation lost in the unpredictable randomly generated horrors of space. From planet that are all water, to colossus creatures you see for only a split second, to the infinite colorless expanse of space.

Megalphobes and astrophobes, this is your subnautica

Fear of Outerspace

Fear of Darkness

Fear of Cramped Spaces

Fear of the Unknown

Fear of Very Very Very Big Things

Fear of Deep Water

Fear of Loneliness

Fear of Caves

Fear of the Supernatural

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | three

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel gets a little birthday surprise, and you get a little too drunk. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, pining, f!masturbation [barely], sending nudes, joel finally locks his office door, dirty talk, the slightest slip of possessive language, uh.. ahem.. biting, protected piv birthday sex, a messy dinner party, excessive alcohol consumption [i'm talking embarassing], irritating men, soft!joel. word count: 10.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: let the pining commence folks. hey siri, play brown eyed girl by van morrison. special thanks to @bageldaddy for the emotional support as i endured the labour that was the final hour of editing this. hope you guys enjoy! this is part three of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two.

Thursday.

A fortnight passes in the slow blink of a bleary eye.

Fall nudges Summer out the door, solidifying its presence in Maine with flaxen leaves and rolling grey clouds.

The rain comes at night. Rivulets of moisture that leak onto the windowsill, seep into the cracked wood there and fill your room with the sweet smell of petrichor. It clears before the sun rises most days, but you unpack of a box of sweaters and hang them in your closet, nonetheless. You enjoy communal coffees in the kitchen and try not to frown when the morning light doesn’t warm your legs the way it used to. Force yourself not to feel mournful when you get home one afternoon and find Pete on the sofa with a blanket over him.  

And perhaps that’s why when you wake on Thursday to sunshine—to warm bed sheets, to blue sky, to bright whites and yellows coming through the window—you feel lighter. Start the day with a calm countenance that has you blinking sleep from your eyes and smiling drowsily as your fingers trail the windowsill and come off dry. You share a pot of coffee with Pete; let him explain soil vapour extraction to you for the fifth time. Listen, smile, nod, and don’t roll your eyes when he asks do you get it now? And when the time comes to get ready for the drive to campus, you are smiling. Shoulders loose, eyes bright.

It had been a tiresome couple of weeks.

As the middle of the semester drew closer, you’d spent days on end poring over a laptop with tired eyes and cramping fingers. Writing and editing—and then rewriting and re-editing—your first round of essays and analyses. Balmy afternoons spent nursing glasses of cheap wine with your roommates evolved to late night coffees alone in your room, eyelids drooping as you fawned over every word, every quote, every fucking comma – all of it for him.

Him who you hadn’t been alone with in almost fifteen days.

Him whose texts were seared into your memory, left unanswered on your phone.

Him who you could hardly look at during lectures, for fear of losing your train of thought.

Him who you were hellbent on impressing. 

Joel, Joel, Joel.

And as busy as you’d been, it hadn’t stopped the stares. Brief, intimate glances from down the hall in the history commons. The flash of a knowing smile as you shuffle toward the exit after a lecture. The graze of fingertips against your elbow, muddling your mind as you rush to meet a text translation study group.

Watching, waiting, wanting – a near insufferable task since that afternoon in his office.

Late into the first week you’d discovered that, upon focusing hard enough, you could still feel the ache in your knees; the rug burns his carpet had left on your skin. And then you shoved the memory of it down; compressed it somewhere deep inside, hidden away until you had the chance to open it back up again, and take your time with him like you truly wanted to.

And it seems today was that day.

You stare out the window for a moment. Sip your coffee and rake in the greenness of the grass, the cloudless sky, the ray of sun shining across your bedroom floor – and decide you’ll wear a skirt to Joel’s seminar.  

The pin on his shirt is blue.

Not cerulean, or baby, or steel.

Not like how the sky was blue as you drove to campus with your windows down. Not like clear turquoise waters on a white sand beach in Greece, or like a robin’s egg swathed in leaves and sticks. But a deep, rich colour. Royal blue. A folded circular pin, with two tassels coming out the bottom of it.

It’s the first thing you notice when you walk into the lecture hall – the thing your eyes snag on repeatedly as you wander towards the third row and tuck yourself into a seat. That vivid splash of blue against a plain white t-shirt. No buttons today; formal wear forgone in place of a simple tee that hugs the vast planes of his chest, snug against the thick span of his biceps. His arms are almost enough to distract you from the gaudy brooch.

Joel won’t stop moving at the foot of the room, pacing the same length of floor over and over again, waiting for the crowd to settle. Hands busy themselves at his waist, wiping a small square of cloth against the lenses of his glasses. A muscle in his forearm twitches with every swipe of fingers against glass, and the sight has a hazy flush rising in your neck. Despite yourself, you try in earnest to catch a glimpse of what the pin says. Bare thighs tensed in your seat as you tilt your torso forward, eyes squinting.

The last students wander in, and he’s shifting, sliding those glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and snatching the slide clicker from the desk. He offers a polite greeting to the room.

It doesn’t take long for someone to speak up. “Special occasion?”

Joel’s hands still, chin tilting down as he glances at royal blue and then back out at the group, a wry smile breaking across his face.

“Just a thing the faculty does here,” he clears his throat awkwardly, laughs a little. It’s a soft sound, his laugh. Tickles your ears and makes you want to smile in return. “Some of the others started it a few years back… they make everyone wear one on their birthday.” 

A chorus of surprised well-wishes chime from around the room, and Joel waves them away with a broad palm, shaking his head.

Even from three rows back you can see the pink in his cheeks; the resistance in his eyes as he intercepts the kind words soaring in his direction. You recognise a shyness there, an unwillingness to be the centre of attention, and it surprises you. Joel always seems so confident, standing week after week in front of 30 odd people and talking for hours. But you suppose then he can hide behind his words; behind years of knowledge and study and practice. When it’s about him? He falters. Tries to hide. You almost want to curse at him for being so endearing. And maybe you would – if it wasn’t his birthday.

“Nah, none of that,” Joel tuts, shaking his head. “Let’s get started, alright?”

He claps his hands once, and the sound reverberates through the quietening room. The fabric of his pants clings to the meat of his thighs, tightening around muscle as he rests against the edge of the desk. You fight to keep your gaze on his face.

“Today we’re gonna start with talkin’ about the instigators in our parallel texts.”

And you try to listen, you really do.

Try to focus on his words as he talks, spouting thoughts about antagonists of war, about Helen and Menelaus, about Paris of Troy, but you can’t get past the spread of his thighs against the desk. The way his body moves when he finally rises, wandering to-and-fro across the space. How his thick thumb presses against the clicker in his hand, slides shifting on the wall behind him. There’s a dull ringing in your ears, the rough spell of his drawl vibrating inside your mind, spinning it’s yarn, and tangling itself in the space where rational thought normally resides. Birthday. It’s Joel’s birthday. Your hands clasp in front of your face, knuckle snagged between teeth, biting down, clinging to some far reach of clarity; something to bring you back to the ground and halt the dallied trance you seem to come under whenever he’s nearby.  

Birthday, birthday, birthday.

As he discusses the Judgement of Paris, your mind wanders to a teacher you had as a child. A stern woman in her sixties who was fearsome among the gang of six-year old’s you roamed in. One year it had rained on your birthday, a spitting storm of hail and thunder. And when you cried, she told you that it only rains on your birthday when you’ve been a bad little girl.

It was sunny the next year, but she wasn’t your teacher anymore, and there was no one around to praise you for how good you must’ve been that year. For how hard you must’ve strived to achieve such wonderful sunshine on your special day.

A wry smile splits your face, tucked into the back of your hand, for you know better than anyone else just how bad Joel has been. And yet today, for his birthday, the sun shines.

He steps closer to the front row of seats, and your eyes glean across the lettering on his pin; the words Birthday Boy laid out in gold. A huff of laughter escapes you, and then your eyes are drifting up, past tan skin and scruffy facial hair, to find Joel staring straight at you. Dark, intrigued eyes. Assessing you, undressing you. Frowning.

“Somethin’ to add?” he clips.

The smile slides off your face. “Sorry?”

“Do you have somethin’ to add?” he drawls, unimpressed. The words slow and paced out as if he were speaking to a fool. “You seemed amused.”

“Oh,” you blink.

You shift awkwardly in your seat, straighten up, aware of every set of eyes in the room on the two of you. Joel’s face is stony, unimpressed. It’s the first time he’s made direct eye contact with you since you stepped into the room, and he is… on edge, clearly.

“No,” you decide on the safe answer, tone firm. “Nothing to add.”

He stares for a moment and then nods. Mutters a stern Pay attention underneath his breath before returning his gaze to the rest of the room. You scoff quietly, and swallow down the stab of embarrassment his words bring. The feeling is sour in your mouth, like the seed of a lemon is stuck behind your teeth.

Two seats to your left you hear a poorly concealed titter. Turn your head to spot a woman, maybe a year or two younger than yourself, giving you a pitiful smirk. You arch an eyebrow. Mouth what?

She simply shakes her head at you and turns to look at Joel, all glossy lips and doting gaze as she listens to his continued ponderings about Menelaus' role in the Trojan War.

You watch her for a moment. Note the way she laughs at his jokes, smiles as he goes off on a mindless tangent about something you aren’t paying attention to; hanging onto his every word. And you wonder if this is how you look to other people when you watch him. Another stark-raving Maenad, thirsting and possessed by the spirit of this Bacchant of a man. The Roaring One. The one with bedroom eyes and cheeks like wine. Joel Miller; fraught, brooding, and willing to embarrass you in front of a room of your peers to feel an inch of the self-control you've so easily ridden him of. A Dionysian fit to oppose the doomed Bacchant inside of you, whose mouth foams and eyes roll in ecstasy at the mere presence of him.

He crosses the front of the room, back and forth, and you imagine him as a bull of a man. Golden locks and thorned head, thyrsus in hand as he commands the attention of an enthralled audience. Corrals them to follow him, to adore him. And yet the image you create is distorted at best, a watered-down version of the truth, for what spites you the most is that he simply… doesn’t have to try. There are no attempts to convince; no persuasion in his voice, no dishonesty necessary as the room swoons for him. As you yourself yearn for him. Covet his touch, his body, akin to that of a God’s.

And perhaps there is some immorality there, some gross misalignment of hubris, that yearns to reset the scale. To remind this man that indeed you have knelt before him, but he knelt for you first.

The thought has your thighs pressing together.

“Well, Juno hates Aeneas because she hates Trojans. And for that we have Paris to blame,” he answers someone’s question with a chuckle. Gains a few scattered laughs in response. “Because we all know how Juno feels about Paris.”

You rise from your chair, legs shifting before your brain can catch up. Take careful, tip-toed steps towards the exit. Joel’s eyes drift in your direction, curious gaze draping over the bare skin of your legs as he talks. Just for a second though, a split second, before he’s looking determinedly back to the room, and you’re disappearing from his line of sight.

“And so, she thwarts the Trojans every chance she gets,” his voice grows softer as you stray farther from the door, until it’s nothing more than a vague purr down the hall. You wander into the women’s bathroom and slip inside an empty cubicle.

Birthday, birthday, pay attention, birthday, they make everyone wear one on their birthday, pay attention.

Your brain is abuzz, nerves alight as you place your phone carefully atop the toilet paper dispenser. Trembling fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the warm skin of your thighs, and yes you’ve been wet since you saw him. Turned on from just the sight of him, the sound of his mellow voice, the idea that maybe, just maybe, today you will get to touch him again. You can feel how it clings to your panties, sweet soft warmth pooling out of you, a dizzying wetness that longs for Joel to come and find you. To take you in his hands, tilt you down to his parted lips, and drink it from the source. 

Your fingers are cold against your skin. A delighted shiver swims down your spine as you graze them along the front of your underwear. Barely touching, hardly any pressure, simply grazing over the spot where your clit has begun to pulse. A little firmer now, you press against the thin material of your underwear, let it slip between your soaked folds. You bite your lip to contain a soft sigh, and smile as you feel how wet the material is getting. Once you’re satisfied you pull your hand away, leave a shimmering streak against your leg where you wipe your fingers, and reach for your phone.

Position one foot on the closed seat and rest your back against the cubicle wall, angling the phone between your spread thighs. Tilting your phone this way and that until the camera catches you in the perfect light; the flared material of your skirt bunched around your hips, the shiny smear across your inner thigh, the damp stain of slick against the front of your light blue panties. You take a few pictures. Trail your hand down your stomach and let it appear in some of them as well; fingers poised over the band of your underwear, just a tease. Finally content, you tuck your phone away, splash some cold water on your neck, and wander back into the lecture theatre.

Joel looks up when you walk inside. He’s seated behind his desk now, the room quiet as people jot down notes, eyes flitting between their laptops and the presentation displayed across the wall. Furrowed eyebrows and brown eyes shining with that barely-contained interest they always seem to hold when he looks at you these days. You offer him a nonchalant smile before turning your back to him. Sway your hips with exaggerated emphasis as you waltz up the stairs, slide back into your seat, and take your phone back out.

No one’s watching you now. Not your fellow Maenad, with her sharp judgemental eyes. Not even Joel. Your fingers dance their way into your text thread with him, and you select your favourite from the pictures.

You glance at the two lone messages in the thread, gaze lingering on the second message.

That can’t happen again.

Hesitation grips you, fingers hovering over the screen as you contemplate the seriousness behind the words. And then you hear him answer someone’s question, and the rough drone of his voice has you pressing send anyway.

Happy Birthday Professor x

You imagine you can feel the vibration of his phone. Feel it groan and shift in the pocket of his pants, screen lighting up. You wonder if he’s saved your name in his phone, or if a picture of underneath your skirt just popped up from an unsaved number. You try to focus on the article laid out in front of you. Stare at the messy under linings, at the notes on the margins made in your chicken-scratch handwriting, and wait.

It doesn’t take long to feel the heat of his gaze, almost paranormal in its effect. You can feel it’s weight – how it glides across your skin, sticky, viscous, and impossible to ignore.

When you glance up, you have to resist the urge to shrink into your seat. Joel’s face is a mess of emotions. Square jaw clenched tight; lips sealed. Stormy eyes that dart furiously between you and his lap, where you imagine his phone rests. Previously neat curls are now tousled and stressed over. You watch he glares downward, and drags tight fingers through the locks again. He doesn’t look up for a long time after that. Shoulders hunched forward, chin to his chest as he stares down.

Joel doesn’t stand up for the last 90-minutes of the seminar. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. And he certainly does not look in your direction again. Not until the little hand on the clock strikes 11 o’clock, marking the end of his seminar, does he even entertain your side of the room. And not until the last student files out the door do you rise and meet him by the desk, a knowing look in both of your eyes.  

You walk ahead of him the entire way to his office. Joel keeps an all-too casual distance from you, but you can hear the weight of his steps against the hardwood floors. Can feel his looming presence over your shoulder – sense his bursting need to get you alone. You only fall into step beside him when the office door comes into view, and then he’s herding you towards it, palm pressing flat against the small of your back in trivial, insistent shoves.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Joel nudges you inside his office.

There’s music playing inside. Soft waves of sound undulating toward you from the record player, and yet when he drags the door shut behind him you still hear the undeniable click of his key turning the lock. The window is closed, curtains half-drawn, and the air in his space is warm; almost stuffy from lying dormant and empty for hours.

Silently, Joel makes his way across the room to where his record player sits. Your eyes trail him faithfully, trained on how his shoulder blades shift like tectonic plates beneath the thinning fabric of his shirt. The urge to wander forward and pull it off him is intense. To run your nails down his skin and leave marks on his body the way he’s done to you.

“You think you’re funny?” his voice comes, a low murmur that you almost miss through the music. He lifts a hand and pulls the glasses off his nose. Tucks them carefully onto the table.

“Funny?” you reply, mouth suddenly dry.

Joel shifts the needle, restarting the record. Momentary silence swells into a bright intro, and he’s turning to look at you, thick arms folding across his chest. Your heart is a galloping staccato behind your sternum. A bead of sweat glides from the hollow of your throat down your chest, dampening the fabric of your shirt.

“Sendin’ me that picture of your pussy all wet for me,” he tuts softly. “Knowin’ damn well, I couldn’t do anythin’ about it.”

You swallow as he takes a step towards you. His hands drift to the front of his body, and you watch with bated breath as long fingers begin working at the silver buckle on his belt.

“Y’gimme nothin’ for weeks, don’t even pay attention during my fuckin’ classes, and then…” he pauses, almost glaring at you. But it’s not contempt in his eyes. No, it’s something else, something deeper—black brown peppered with frustration and lust and… There’s a lump in your throat. Something heavy that presses against your windpipe and makes it hard to swallow.

“You get off on this, hmm?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Torturin’ me? Makin’ me wait?”

“I’ve been busy,” you murmur, eyes fixed on where he drags leather through the beltloops of his pants. He discards it on the ground between you – an offering, an invitation.

“Busy girl,” he murmurs dryly. “And what about now? Now that I’ve got you here all alone… you gonna make me beg for it?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of him on his knees, palms clasped in his lap, and it has that slick heat pooling between your legs. You want to denigrate him the way you feel he has done to you. Order him to kneel, to apologise, to fucking beseech you. But Joel’s eyes are dark, face drawn as he watches you. And you know that you’ve already gotten even.

Royal blue swims in your vision and you give him your best smile. Shake your head and say, “Not today, birthday boy.”

Something glints in his eyes, hands twitching by his sides. You mirror him, finally inching forward a step across the carpet. His belt is solid beneath your shoes.

He’s shifting in an instant, swallowing the final stretch of distance between you until his chest knocks into yours. The breath rushes from your lungs at the contact, and his hands are clasping your face, mouth slipping against yours in a brutal collision.

It’s rough, messy, teeth knocking and chapped lips. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since that night at the bar, and it consumes the both of you.  

Joel’s body seizes yours, wraps around you and holds you to him, gripping the skin of your arms, your neck, your face, anywhere he can reach. Saliva pools in your mouth and wells into his, low sounds of desire being swapped back and forth between dripping tongues. There’s something desperate about it – how his lips bruise against yours. Something earnest and needy and urgent in the way his thumbs dig into your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair around your ears.

You’re gasping into his mouth, hands dropping to undo his zipper in a frenzied hurry. You can feel him behind the material, a firm bulge that becomes more and more evident as you work to get him undressed. His hands drop to your waist, your ass, and he’s pressing up, up, up the hem of your skirt, nails digging into skin as he squeezes and pulls you flush against him. Broad palms splayed across searing flesh, the tips of his fingers dragging dangerously close to where you’re aching for him. Your fingers shift from his pants to your own shirt, gripping the hem to tear it over your head—but Joel stops you. Bats your hands away and hoists you off the ground instead.

“Shit,” you huff in surprise, holding his shoulders for support as his arms tighten like a vice beneath your thighs and around your waist. He cuts you off with another sweltering kiss, and he’s moving. Stumbling blindly backward, a blurred mess of two people, all harsh exhales and clashing teeth, tilting back, back, back until his calves hit the armchair and he’s dissolving into it, dragging you down with him. Your knees sink into the plush fabric on either side of his waist, and his hands are on you, bunching your skirt up around your hips until your underwear is visible. He breaks the kiss and looks down quickly, lip curling upward as he takes in the sight of your barely covered cunt hovering over his lap.

“Fuck me,” Joel breaths. He cants his hips upward, clothed cock grinding against you. The pressure on your clit is exquisite. It has your nose scrunching up as your shallow breaths flutter the curls across his forehead. “Dress like this for all your classes?” he asks, fingers snapping at the band of your panties before his hand drops to cup your entire sex. “Fuckin’ filthy girl.”

“No,” you gasp as his palm settles over you. “Only—oh fuck, no, no, only yours.”

A rough sound escapes him, and he’s pushing the material of your underwear to the side. Thick fingers glide over the coarse hair on your mound, dipping in between your folds, right to the beating centre of you. You stare at his face while he stares at the swollen mess between your thighs. 

“S’damn right,” he grunts. His eyes are ablaze. “Just for me.”  

Your eyelids flutter closed, face warming at the words, and you’re whimpering as he rubs firm circles over your clit. Joel’s tongue presses against yours, coaxes your jaw open until it aches.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he marvels into your mouth. “Always so fuckin’ wet.”

A finger drops to your slick hole, slips slowly slowly slowly inside until the tip of it is curling against the soft spot inside you that he reaches so fucking easily. The air in the room is thin, his breaths a hot wash against your face, and a languid moan snakes its way out of your throat.

“Quiet.” Joel adds a second finger. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. Fingers so long, so thick – fingers that pale in comparison to his cock.

“I want you,” you gasp.

“Hmm?” he hums dangerously.

“Please,” your head tilts back, mouth ajar and thighs trembling as he works you open on his fingers. Joel lets out an impatient sound, and then his fingers drop from your swollen core, and he’s holding a condom. He must’ve pulled it from his back pocket, or between the cushions of the chair, but you don’t dwell on it. Don’t care where or how or why, too restless to be filled to ask; just give a pleased nod and lean back so he has enough room to free his cock from his pants.

The thick weight of it rests in his palm. He’s swollen and thick, the tip a deep rosy colour that reminds you of his flushed cheeks, his puffy lips, and has your mouth watering. And it’s wet with slick strands of precome that drip down his length to meet the movement of his fist.

“S’this what you were thinkin’ about?” Joel breathes shakily. “Got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip. Watch him tear open the foil packet and roll latex down his length. You ignore the familiar urge to say forget it just take me I’m here and I’m yours just fuck me. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. Drags his cock against the dripping seam of your cunt. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you repeat, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt. “God, Joel, please.”

A sharp wet smack and a trembling gasp fill the air as he taps the tip against your clit, and then rests himself at the notch of your entrance.

“Show me how bad you want it,” he orders huskily, hands drifting to rest on the arms of his chair. “Go on, fuckin’—ride it.” 

Breathing heavily, you reach down to grip him. holding his length still as you lower yourself over his lap.

There’s a stinging resistance there – your body pushing back against the size of him, against the angle.

Joel’s fingers drape against your clit and he rubs soft circles above the spot where you’re connected. You grip the back of the chair, face twisted in muted concentration. 

“C’mon,” he breaths, jaw set with clear intention. “Fuckin’ drippin’ for me, y’can take it, I know you can. Yeah—yeah, that’s it.”

You sigh, body relaxing, and you’re pressing down, through. Sink down on him another inch, and then another, until he’s bottoming out inside of you and the skin of your thighs is flush with his pants and he’s making this rough, low sound from deep in his chest. Your mind goes blank for a moment, vision whiting out and lungs squeezing as you hold your breath and adjust to the sheer size of him, to the delicious burn between your thighs where he’s stretching you. And everything is soft and hazy around your mind, but you can see Joel’s eyes on you. The glassy, blissed out expression on his face as you clench around him. His hands drift to your waist, fingers groping bare skin underneath where he holds your skirt up.

“Fuck,” Joel pants. “So god damn tight.”

A pathetic whimper catches in your throat as you grind down, clit rubbing against the coarse hairs at his base. You’re so full, every sense heightened by the feeling of Joel, pressing you apart and making a home for himself inside of you.

Slowly—tentatively—you rock your hips forward, rutting against him in short, shallow movements. His hands encourage your body, guiding you along his cock as you gain confidence.

Soon enough your hips are lifting and dropping back onto him, over and over, tilting against him, doing whatever it takes to drag more hopeless sounds from his mouth. The music from his record player is a low, thrumming bassline in the back of your mind, every bright refrain of guitar punctuated by sharp gasps and elongated sighs.

Joel’s eyes shift from the space between your bodies to your face. Pupils blown, sweat beading along his forehead. Watching you, he seems to fall backward, into himself perhaps. His body goes slack against the armchair, head lolling back as he stares.

“Jesus,” he mutters lowly. “Missed this perfect little pussy.”

There it is again. Perfect, perfect, perfect. You clench around him at the word, rut your hips in a particularly rough movement that has Joel’s eyes rolling back and a guttural moan falling from his lips. His chest is heaving with ragged breaths, the tendons and veins in his neck on display as his chin tilts upward. A bright red flush has raised across the exposed skin of his collarbones, his neck. You lean in and lick the skin there, skirt your teeth across his pulsing jugular. Joel’s palm clasps the back of your neck, holding you against him. You can feel his thighs tensing below you, and then his hips begin to snap upward, meeting you thrust for thrust. The angle is harsh, and he's filling you to the brim, the tip of his cock bruising against the deepest part of you. You cry out against his skin, and the hoarse sound only spurs him on.

His wide palm shifts to hover at the base of your neck, slips beneath the collar of your shirt. Splays over your collarbone, dull fingernails grating against the skin above your breast, by your armpit. You lean back to let him see you, and his eyes drop to watch the way your hips roll over his lap. His finger snags on the strap of your bra and it snaps against your skin.

“Take it off,” you mutter urgently. Need to feel his skin against yours. Chest to chest. Heart to hea—

“No.” His hips snap up into yours faster, knocking the breath from your lungs. One hand grips the armchair, one his shoulder, trying to find some kind of leverage as he pistons into you from below. That fucking Birthday Boy pin is still stuck to his shirt, and blue flashes in the periphery of your vision. A particularly rough thrust has a loud moan parting your lips, but as soon as it begins Joel’s hand is crashing over your mouth, fingers gripping your face to silence the sound. Your eyebrows raise, silently questioning overtop his hand.

“Need to shut up,” he grits out. “Gonna—ohhh—gonna get us caught.”

You glide your tongue against his palm, taste the salt on his skin. Feel his fingers squeeze your jaw harder in response. And then your own hand is moving from his shoulder, fingers gliding across the sweaty skin of his neck, to slot over his mouth. You stare at one another, wild eyes locked, palms sealed over slick lips, and something fiery pulls taught between you. Liquid heat spreads through your muscles, tightening and loosening with every movement of his body against yours. You can feel the coil at the base of your stomach tightening. Your pussy throbs in a rhythm sympatico to that of your heartbeat, and your fingers squeeze around his face.

You can feel the vibration of Joel’s moans against your hand, and then his teeth are sinking into the soft flesh of your palm. For a moment you wonder if he’ll pierce the skin. Let your blood seep from the wound and spill across his tongue; a sacrificial offering. Drink you down, devour you as he lies within your body. You bite down on his palm in return, holding his gaze as your bodies grind and rut against each other.

Your back arches suddenly, and your forehead knocks against his as your orgasm steadily approaches. Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours. Your shoulders begin to lock up, thighs burning, but he doesn’t let up. His hips collide with yours at a devastating pace, and his free hand drops between your thighs. The pad of his middle finger circles your swollen clit, and you jerk against him, every nerve inside your body fraying and sparking.

Joel slurs a curse against your hand and then you’re coming with a haggard whine into his hand, walls constricting around him in a vice grip. You close your eyes only to discover that royal blue is stained on the inside of your eyelids, unavoidable. He is unavoidable. Even in the darkness of your own mind, he lurks. The smell of him in your nostrils, the taste of his spit in your mouth. You think you hear a garbled version of your name spoken into your palm, and then a stinging sensation rips across your ass as Joel starts to come, fingernails dragging across skin, as he grinds his cock desperately into your pulsing heat. Your eyes flutter open, body shivering with the aftershocks of your high, and you watch him. Admire the way his jaw softens beneath your grip, teeth retracting and leaving dull indents on your skin in their wake.

There’s a low pinch between your thighs. It rings out minutes later, a sullen ache, as you lift your hips and let him slip from your wet clutch. His hands fall from your body, and you suck in stale air, taking a clumsy step off his lap to stand shaking on the ground before him. There are circular white marks on his cheeks, lingering reminders of how you held him, smothering his wanton groans of pleasure. You watch them slowly fade to pink, and try to settle the unsteady breaths that wrack your frame.

Your fingers drop lazily to adjust your underwear, but then those hands are tilting your hips, encouraging you to turn until your back is to him. They slip beneath your skirt, find purchase on the band of your panties, and slide the drenched material down your legs. You step out of them, and gasp in surprise when he flicks your skirt up again. A shiver travels down your spine as he glides a finger through your swollen cunt.

“Joel,” you whimper, lips poised to say that it’s too much, too soon, that you need a second to breathe.  

But Joel exhales a quiet groan, and something sharp nips the sensitive skin of your ass. Peaking over your shoulder, you find Joel’s mouth there, wet tongue soothing over the mark his teeth made on your flesh. There’s a slip of blue clenched in his fist, held protectively in his lap beside his softening cock.

You feel the vibration of something against your skin, a murmur of words that you can’t quite make out, before he pulls back. Retracts all points of contact, carefully removes the condom, clears his throat softly as he tucks himself back into his pants. The tell-tale sound of the moment drawing to a close. You swallow down that familiar tang disappointment and hold out a hand for your underwear.

And then Joel surprises you.

This soft, teasing smirk lights up his face, and Joel knocks your hand away. A huff of surprised laughter escapes you as he rises and wanders toward the desk. You watch, stunned into silence, as he drags open a drawer on his desk and tucks that blue slip of fabric inside. It slides closed with a definitive thud, and Joel falls down into his desk chair. His eyelids must be heavy, because they droop closed while you watch.

There’s a damp patch at the bottom of his t-shirt that has your face in flames, but he doesn’t seem to care, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as his body relaxes into leather. Your legs tremble as you grip the strap of your bag, taking that as your cue to quietly head for the door.

“Liked your essay.”

You pause with your fingers on the door handle. Turn to find that his eyes are still shut.

“You’re only saying that becau—”

“No,” Joel interrupts, the firm tone a sharp contrast to his lax frame. Eyes open now. “It was good.”

You hum quietly and rock back onto your heels. Unsure of what to say, you settle on offering him a small smile. He nods in return. The silence drifts back in, and you find yourself unable to speak until his eyes close once more.

“Happy birthday, Joel.”

So softly, so as to not disturb. And you aren’t sure whether he heard you or he’s already fallen asleep, but you do notice the corners of his mouth tilt upward ever-so-slightly.

Friday.

A crimson tablecloth covers the expanse of the table. Deep dark red, almost brown, reminiscent of old blood.

Plates smeared with remnants of a dinner long-past litter the surface, dirtied knives and forks stacked precariously atop them. Sauces have hardened to thickened globs on the China, sticky and stale and calling out to be cleaned. But the end of the evening is nary in sight, as Ian, your gracious host, deposits another bottle of wine onto the table.

“It’s a Cabernet Franc,” he slumps back into his seat at the head of the table, directly opposite you. “My parents brought it back from their trip to Bordeaux this past Summer. A gift.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes for the thousandth time in three hours. Pour yourself a generous glass and taste it. Say, “I’m more of a Merlot fan,” despite being drunk as all hell and having zero knowledge to help discern between different wine grapes.

Pete offers a supportive smile, and you watch as his friends light fresh cigarettes that send plumes of smoke to the already stained roof of Ian’s apartment.

Ian’s girlfriend Claire, a wildlife and conservation biology undergrad, is draped across the chair to your left. Eyelids half closed; her slim fingers grip a half-smoked joint for dear life, hand hovering dazed in mid-air between her thigh and her face. You think back on the words Pete spoke to you this morning in the kitchen – there’ll be another woman there, don’t worry. And Claire’s great, I swear. You try to reconcile his words with the girl beside you, and the dank smell of burnt weed drifting toward you through the air. She’d been high when she arrived, and after speaking a measly three words of greeting in your direction, had sequestered herself to a chair and smoked through the entire dinner. When none of the others batted an eye, you held your tongue. And their nonchalance became clear when, upon completion of the meal—overcooked chicken, sticky carrots, and undercooked parsnips—Ian and Henry lit up cigarettes at the table too.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to attend the dinner party.

They’re really cool, Pete had blabbered into his mug that morning. We do it every Friday. It’ll be nice to have you meet some of my friends.

Oh, Pete. Cool, they are not.

Henry and Ian, friends from one of Pete’s environmental engineering units, are filthy rich. The kind that you can smell from a mile away. The kind that radiates from their expensive clothes, their manufactured pearly teeth, their god-awful haircuts. The kind of rich boys that have their own apartments in Portland, paid for by a Mummy and Daddy who holiday in Europe every summer—a trip that Ian has managed to bring up at least once an hour since the moment you met him.

The one beautiful, stunning, gorgeous saving grace is that there is alcohol – enough to ply yourself with in order to deal with Ian, who asked what your postgrad was in and replied slyly, “Oh, a fun one.” Ian, who, upon learning about your translation internship in Greece, said, “Sounds like you had a marvellous vacation.”

In return, you sat like a good little house guest—ornament—and listened to the three of them talk ad nauseam about engineering. Consume glass after glass of wine, decline cigarette after cigarette; you get profusely intoxicated as they debate—interrupt each other—the validity of different pollution control policies.

It’s not until early in the fifth hour of the dinner that Ian raises the topic of philosophy.

“It’s curious, that’s all,” he says, cigarette hanging limply between wine-soaked lips.  “That these old guys would just hang out all day and… what, talk? Never understood why people rave about Socrates and Aristotle all the time. Just a bunch of sad sacks that liked the sound of their own voices a little too much, if you ask me.”

You hum against the rim of your glass, decidedly unbothered. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. His dining chairs are stiff, and your ass is aching against the heavy mahogany. Pete shifts awkwardly to your right. You can feel him looking at you, trying to gauge your impending reaction, and your face remains placid, numb from all the wine rushing through your veins.

“Is that what your degree is like?” Ian asks. “A bunch of old guys who love to listen to themselves talk?”

And that almost makes you crack a smile. You respond with a lacklustre shrug that neither confirms nor denies his suspicions, and definitely don’t think about—

“I don’t know,” Henry slurs, shooting a pointed glance in your direction. “I used to date this girl—”

“You fucked her once,” Ian interrupts.

“—Rita��"

“Rose.”

“—and she studied all that shit. Used to tell me about that guy who, he, uhm,” Henry pauses. Belches loudly. “He said something about God committing suicide and like, we’re his body or—wait what is it?”

“Mainländer,” you nod, mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s a creation theory of sorts – God commits suicide to create the universe, and we’re all living on his decaying corpse.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Of a potential God’s potential suicide?”

“Yeah,” Henry grins dopily.

You sigh. “Would’ve been cooler if he left a note, I suppose.”

Henry guffaws loudly, leans back until his chair is balanced precariously on two legs. The cigarette falls from his fingers to his lap, glowing orange cherry leaving charred ashy marks on his jeans. If you were more sober you might’ve said something. But as if were, you just laugh and drain the final dregs of wine from your glass.

“So, your degree involves stuff like that?” Ian asks then.

“Sometimes,” you hum, already bored with the hint of mockery you sense in his tone. “We study the societies as a whole, so yeah, there’s talk about philosophy on occasion.”

“And mythology,” he wiggles his eyebrows from across the table, fluttering his fingers in the air. “Must be fun to talk about made up ideas all day.”

Henry clears his throat roughly and plucks the cigarette out of his lap, all remaining hints of laughter filtering into silence.

You stare. Feel your hackles rise. Sharper this time, as a more acute sense of irritation floods your system. “You do know that Greece and Italy are real countries with real histories, right?”

Claire moves for the first time in fifteen minutes, takes a long drag from her joint. Exhales in your direction.

“Sure,” Ian shrugs. “But you have to admit, all the stuff about the Greek Gods is a little silly.”

You spare a quick glance in Pete’s direction and find him wearing a tight, awkward smile, looking at you with something apologetic in his eyes.

“Silly,” you repeat the word slowly. It as though your brain is working at a thousand miles a minute, desperate to catch up with the conversation. Constantly two steps behind wherever Ian is dragging you. And he’s giving you this smarmy, sympathetic smile that screams oh your poor thing, you have no idea how poor your future job prospects are, and you’ve seen that smile a hundred times, had this conversation a thousand more, and you can suddenly envision yourself reaching across the table and pouring your glass of wine into his lap.

“And what about the rest?” you ask tersely. The collar of your shirt scratches against your neck, and his cigarette is spilling ash onto the fucking table, and he’s an asshole, and you want to throttle him for getting off on belittling you.  

“The rest?”

“The rest,” you nod. “I suppose I can admit that those gods are silly, so long as we’re also admitting how fucking laughable biblical Gods ar—"

Pete says your name sharply. You pause, seal your lips shut. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, the wary glint in his eyes a reminder that you’re a guest in Ian’s apartment. Ian’s apartment that was paid for by Mummy and Daddy; Ian’s apartment that has a crucifix above the kitchen entryway.

“More wine?” Pete asks smoothly. He’s rising from the table before you can respond, lifting the bottle and pouring a swell of red into your glass. Ian’s grin broadens, and a fresh round of irritation flares across the back of your alcohol sodden brain.

“Gimme a second,” you mutter, pushing your chair out. Your body sways as you stand, blood rushing to your head. Blinking the dizzy spell away, you grip Pete’s shoulder for leverage and make your way past him, shuffle down the hall and into a swanky bathroom. Your feet are heavy, mind a blur, as you collapse onto the toilet seat and rest your face against the cool tiled wall.

“Silly,” you grumble under your breath. “You’re fucking silly… asshole.”

Digging your phone from your pocket, you squint against its harsh light. Fingers fumble across the screen to your messages app. Tap Nora’s name, and hold your finger against the voice memo button.

“Nora,” you mumble, nose squished against tile. “It’s awful, you... I need you to save me.”

There’s a roar of laughter from the dining room.

“Why do men always have to be the smartest person in the room?” you continue as the sound dies down. The tile is cool against your skin, a welcome reprieve from the boozy flush that’s taken over your body.

“Pete is such an—” hiccup “—asshole for inviting me to this, I swear—”

Your phone hits the ground with a sharp clatter, and you curse, torso tilting forward as you reach clumsily for it. When you tilt the screen back to your face, a jolt rushes through you. You stare for a moment, dumbfounded, at the picture. There’s the soft sound of rushing water in your ears – your pulse, you realise.

“No,” you mutter, senses sharpening the longer you stare at the picture; your soaked blue panties. At the voice memo underneath said picture, that had certainly not gone to Nora. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, no.”

A moment of painful clarity comes when you make out the delivered sign below the voice message. Blurry eyes dance across the screen, vaguely deciphering the capitalised word MILLER. Panic swirls in your stomach, a churning writhing thing that feels a lot like nausea.

And then a text appears.

Are you drunk?

Your thighs are still numb from sitting for so long, so you slink dejectedly onto the floor and type out a response.

yes

that wasn’t for you

Ten minutes pass. You stare at the bright screen until worn-out tears prick in your eyes.

Doing okay?

tired

ate bad food, drank alotta wine

Probably time to go home.

cant drive

thought you hada phd? telling me to drunk driev

bad profeseor

Five minutes. Pete knocks on the door to ask if you’re okay and you assure him that you’re fine.

Where are you?

You type out the address carefully. Wash your hands in the sink and combs wet fingers through your hair to tame your appearance before skulking back into the dining room, where the vulture awaits you.

“I’m going,” you announce blandly. Claire is asleep, you think. Ian and Henry are playing an aggressive game of cards. Only Pete looks up.

“How are you getting home?” he frowns.

“Got a ride,” you mutter. Collect your things and give his shoulder a brief squeeze before slipping out the front door.

The air is cool outside the apartment building. A sharp breeze whistles through the parking lot, snakes it’s way beneath your clothes to curl against your skin. You welcome the chill. Rub lazily at the goosebumps on your arms as you glance at the last text from Joel.

Be there in 20.

You’re perched on the stoop when headlights finally appear. You curse, eyes smarting as you duck to avoid the harsh fluorescents, and then a black truck is idling a few metres away, engine purring. The passenger door kicks open and you squint, trying—and failing—to see inside through the darkness. Until—

“Get in.”

You’re barely in the car before Joel is pressing a bottle of water into your hand. The plastic is sweating, damp with condensation, and you sigh in relief. Press it against your neck, your face.

“Drink it,” he says sternly. You crack an eye open and look at him. He’s so close. Just a hairsbreadth from you, in a soft t-shirt and jeans. Glasses on the end of his nose. Fluffy hair—bed hair. There’s a soft frown on his face that dips and rolls in your vision. A downward tilt to his mouth as he puts the car in drive and tears away from Mummy and Daddy’s apartment.

“Hey,” you give him a lop-sided smile.

“Hey."

“Were you in bed?”

“You stink,” Joel ignores your question. “You chain-smokin’ in there? Christ.”

“Not me,” you huff in frustration. Take a small sip of water, careful not to spill on the seat. “They were smoking at the table. While we were eating.”   

“Who was?”

“Pete’s friends.”

“Who’s Pete?” Joel grunts. He’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes are set on the road. Only when you don’t respond does he look back at you.

“Who’s Pete?” he repeats. Something stony in his voice. You smile.  

“One of my roommates,” you offer. “Why? You jealous?”

“Quit it,” he bites out. “You gonna tell me where you live or am I s'posed to guess?”

Your smile spreads into a full-blown grin as you type your address into his phone. He snatches it from your hand and tells you to drink it all. You sit in silence for a while after that. Roll down the window and let your hand rest outside the car, fingers fluttering as the wind whips past them. He’s driving fast, green traffic lights blurring in your vision, and you feel your head spin faster, harder. Mumble under your breath.

“What?” he asks, voice too loud.

“Slow down,” you repeat, inhaling a deep breath. You feel him ease his foot of the gas instantly, a hand coming to hover over your knee.

“You feelin’ okay?” he murmurs.

“Mm.”

You let your eyes slip shut. Just for a second. A minute. And then—

“Hey.” A firm hand is on your shoulder. Thumb pressing into the skin beneath your collarbone. “Wake up.”

You jolt upright in the seat. Rub a palm roughly against your eye. Forget that you’re wearing makeup until you see black smeared across your hand.

Joel is saying something as you climb out of his truck, but you don’t hear it. Too busy pressing the door shut behind you and stumbling up the paved path to your house. Cool metal slides in your palm, numb fingers grappling for purchase. You scratch the key against the door’s aperture once, twice, and then feel it slip from your hand. A wave of dizziness hits as you watch it clatter against the ground.

“Shit,” you grumble. Bend down to pick it up. Rise and try a third time as silver swims in your vision. You hear a car door slam, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, and slur another impatient curse under your breath.

“Let me help,” he says from behind you.

“It’s fine,” you protest, skin searing with embarrassment.  

“C’mon.” Joel’s warm hand covers yours. Pries the key from your palm and unlocks your front door in a one easy movement. “Let’s get you inside.”

“I can do it.”

“Just let me help you.”

You practically float down the hall, buoyed by the thick arm around your waist, towing you along. In your room, Joel clicks on the lamp in the corner. Dim orange light envelops the space as you fall back onto your bed with a huff, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“You need more water before you sleep” he says. “And a fuckin' shower.”

“Mmm,” you agree, eyelids fluttering. “I'm… just gonna lie here for a second.”

The responding sound is that of heavy footsteps disappearing down the hall. A fleeting rush of liquid somewhere in the distance. Your eyes close for a minute, maybe two, and reopen to find Joel’s broad frame hovering in the doorway, holding a glass of water and gripping the doorknob as he assesses your most private space. Your eyes are hardly open, but you can see him in the dim light. Glancing into the darkness of the hall and then back to you, slumped messily against the pillows. After a thick moment of silence, he steps decidedly across the threshold, and closes your bedroom door behind him.

As you watch him, you begin to feel a sense of startling clarity.

Joel Miller, in your house. Joel Miller, in your bedroom. Joel Miller… seeing you make a complete fool out of yourself.  

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out.

“What?” Joel asks sharply. He rounds the bed in two quick strides, and then he’s pressing a glass of water on your side table and sitting beside you. His weight on the side of the bed has the mattress dipping, your body tilting onto your side to face his back. A wave of nausea strikes suddenly, and you suck your lips into your mouth. No.

“Y'oughta warn me if you’re gonna be sick,” he warns.

“M’not.”

“You better not.”  

“I won’t.”

“Think you’ll need about ten of those,” you hear him say. “But one glass is a good start.” 

But there’s already an ocean inside you. Rocky, white-wash waves that lap at the walls of your stomach, press against your lungs, and have your mind swaying even as your body lies still. Fingers, moving faster than your brain, seek purchase. Crawling across the sheets to snag your index through a belt loop on the back of his jeans. Chilled skin against worn denim, an anchor. Something sturdy to calm the eddying current inside you.

“What’re you—”

“Did you have a good day yesterday?” you interrupt, eager to distract yourself.

Joel is silent for a while. Keeps looking down at you until he finally says, “Yeah,” so quiet that your ears strain to hear it.

There’s a hint of something there that you can’t quite read. An emotion that he holds clasped in tight hands, just beyond your reach. You let it be, mind distracted by the soft orange light emanating from the lamp. When you close your eyes it glows against the back of your eyelids, vibrant swaths of sunset and marigold that make it hard to fall asleep just yet.

“Seventy, right?” you tease.

An indignant scoff rings out, and you squeak as a set of rough fingers pinch at the skin of your exposed stomach. The quickest touch, just a graze of flesh, before he’s pulling back. You laugh easily, open your eyes to look at him again.

“Careful now,” he warns. But you can see humour in the lines by his eyes, the quirk of his lip.

Your finger wiggles against his belt loop, tugging on the material there once. A tired patience in your eyes as you wait.

“Fifty,” he finally concedes, smile wavering as his gaze darts to the sheets.

“Mhm,” you murmur. Lips part as you let loose a low, impressed whistle. It comes out as more of a lacklustre exhalation of air. Joel’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter when he meets your eyes again, a little more relaxed. “The big five-oh, huh?”

“The big five-oh,” he repeats simply. Tired as you are, you can see the question in his eyes. This searching, curious thing that rakes across your features, waiting to note any hint that you might be perturbed by the fact.

“S’nice,” you offer quietly instead. “Get any good gifts?”

The muscles in his neck strain, shirt tightening around his shoulders as he turns to look at you head on. Soft eyes gleam with something darker, teasing, as his lips pull into a lazy smirk.

“Sure,” he agrees, voice low, suggestive. “Good’s one word for it.”

Warmth floods your stomach and your toes curl. But you falter under the intensity of his gaze, a weary heat rising in your cheeks as your gaze lowers to his collarbone.

“Hey," you say quietly. “Look, I appreciate you helping me out tonight, I just…”

Joel’s eyebrows pinch the middle of his forehead, relaxation dissipating as he stares.

“Sorry,” you grimace, skin on fire. All of a sudden, your finger feels swollen in his belt loop, a promise that you can’t keep, the fabric branding hot against your skin as the words tumble out of you. “I’m just, I’m pretty wasted, and I’m grateful, you know, but I don’t think I can—we probably can’t fuck tonight—"

Joel says your name quickly. His hand is gripping your bedsheets, sun-kissed skin against pale yellow. “We’re not fucking.”

Unwitting relief courses through you, and you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay, I just wasn’t sure if you thought maybe… I don’t know—"

“Thought that if I gave you a ride home you owed me a fuck?” he asks plainly, expression tight. A dark, frustrated laughs spills from his lips and his shoulders are tightening, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt. “That’s not how this goes, darlin’. So don’t go thinkin’ that way, ever, y’hear me?”

You blink, eyes wide. Suddenly alert. Feel the warmth in your stomach spread to your chest, your thighs. Darlin’.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah, that’s—how does this work then?”

The indent between his brows only deepens as he gazes down at you.

“You call the shots,” Joel says. “I thought that was well established by now.”   

His brown eyes look so soft in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Honeyed and golden in the warm orange haze. You stare at them for so long that you lose track of whether or not he’s answered your question. Forget everything that isn’t the lines beside his eyes, the dark speck of his pupils, the wild hairs of his eyebrows. You feel yourself drift closer to sleep again.

“Pretty,” someone says faintly. You. “You’ve got brown eyes.”

“Jesus.” He’s still frowning.

“Brown-eyed girl,” you sing—slur.

“Alright, Van Morrison,” Joel grumbles, the lines in his face softening. “Drink up.”

You do as he asks, gulping down half the water while he watches. His fingers rest cautiously at the base of the glass in case you drop it. And when you’re finished, he takes it from your hands, stands. Another wave crashes inside you when the mattress shifts in the absence of his weight, and you drift, unmoored, onto your back again.

Joel is staring at you. Towering over the bed, hands jammed awkwardly against his hips. His presence so large, so looming. He crowds your small space, his size ensuring that there is no room for another; only you and him, you and him, you and him, and you call the shots. You squeeze your eyes shut, determined to block that thought out.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now,” you mutter. “If that’s alright with you, teach.”

Joel says something, but it’s a far away sound. You tuck your face further into your pillow.

You think you hear him say good night, or some version thereof, but you don’t hear him leave. Don’t hear his boots on the hardwood, or the creak of your bedroom door. Don’t hear his truck start up outside.

And when you wake, alone, you find that droplets of rain have settled on your windowsill, marking another wet September morning. But you don’t frown as you drag a sweater from your closet, nor as you draw the curtains and clamber back into bed. Don’t yearn for the warmth of Summer as the dull ache of a hangover ricochets inside your skull. For you can smell Joel on your sheets; can still feel his presence lingering in the corners of your room.

And that’s warm enough for you.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5

thank you for reading! x [and idgaf okay i was gonna put that birthday boy pin on him no matter what shitty excuse i had to come up with]

[lexirosewrites]

The only thing worse than having to get braces put on as an adult is presenting as an omega on the exact same day— both far later than is typical.

It results in utter chaos.

At least, that’s how Steve felt about the whole ordeal.

Robin had been kind enough to stick around for his long appointment so she could make sure he had everything he needed afterwards.

Ice pack, pain killers, mouthwash. All the essentials.

They were prepared.

Just… not for a sudden presentation heat to start on the way home.

“Oh god. Oh god, Steve, okay listen— don’t panic. I know you’re in pain, but you need to hold tight so I can go get stuff to help you. Shit!”

Steve’s entire face feels worse than after Hargrove got through with it. Like ground beef.

His gums throb and his jaw aches terribly.

And now Robin’s leaving. Why is she leaving?

“Robsh?” Steve slurs out in a yell. The action makes the bands pull tighter.

“Be right back!”

She’s out the door and he’s left on the couch by himself. In pain. Awful, agonizing, burning pain.

Steve squirms around, trying to get comfortable.

Everything is hot. Too hot. It’s more than just his face— it’s his whole body. His muscles are twitchy, like they need to be stretched.

He’s laying in something wet. Blood? Could be. Maybe his mouth is bleeding. Seems reasonable at the moment.

“Owwww,” he whines to himself. “Fuck.”

The orthodontist said it would be mildly agitating pain and discomfort afterwards, not whole body sweats or cramps.

His head spins.

Where did Robin go again? She left so quickly, it’s hard to recall her reasons for leaving in such a rush.

Is he gonna die from braces? Can that even happen? Would he be the first?

“Hey, Stevie. As promised, I’ve got a strawberry banana smoothie with your name on it. Did Robin go home? Her car isn’t in the drivew—”

Huh?

“—and what in the hell is happening here?”

Steve rolls over to confirm that it’s not a burglar in his living room, but it’s just Eddie.

Oh. No? Hold on a moment.

Eddie has never smelled like that before.

He’s always had a faint smoke and leather sorta scent that even Steve’s unrefined beta nose could pick up on, but it’s much stronger than that now.

It’s deeper, more powerful and overwhelming.

It’s mouthwatering. Thigh clenching, even.

He whines in want.

“Alpha?” slips out before Steve can overthink it.

Eddie freezes and his eyes widen for a second. Then they narrow in a calculating way, like they’re trying to figure him out.

He sets the smoothie down and kneels next to the couch, one hand reaching out to cup Steve’s cheek lightly.

Steve winces at the touch, but his fingers are cold and they actually feel good on his sore face, so he relaxes into it.

“Hi there, pretty boy. Pink bands, huh? Cute. But it seems braces aren’t the only new thing today. You doing okay?” Eddie asks gently, soothingly.

He sounds more alpha than Steve’s ever heard him speak. The tone is comforting and reassuring.

Steve still isn’t entirely sure what they’re talking about though. He knows he had braces put on and then Robin left him alone. There’s some gaps in there somewhere and he feels like death.

His head is spinning too fast.

“I don’t know where Robin went,” he confesses in a whisper.

Eddie nods slowly, his expression understanding and kind. It makes Steve feel safe, unjudged for losing his best friend.

“I’m guessing she went to get some supplies for you, sweetheart. I’ve heard that the first one isn’t usually too bad, but Robin worries about you, ya know?”

He smells so good. How is Steve supposed to pay attention when Eddie smells that good?

Confused, he asks, “She was worried about my braces?” Too many words. It pulls at the bands in his mouth and he winces.

Eddie’s thumb brushes along his cheek sympathetically.

“No, baby… not quite. You’re in heat, Stevie.”

Heat?

No, that’s for omegas. Steve would know if he was an omega. He’d have heats. His body would be too hot and he’d produce slick and be attracted to alphas.

Ah.

“I’m an omega?” It’s as much a question to the universe as a shocked statement.

Eddie purses his lips. Conflict.

“You’re presenting a little later than usual, but evidently so. I’m guessing your lack of a pack before didn’t help anything, but you have us now. We’re gonna take care of you, honey… I’ll keep you safe, omega,” he promises solemnly.

The wetness between Steve’s legs becomes far more apparent.

It’s not that Steve never looked at Eddie before and thought he was attractive or that he’d make the perfect alpha to some lucky omega.

Steve just didn’t think he was that omega.

Or an omega at all, for that matter.

Eddie deserved more than some fucked up beta. He’s brave and kind, a good man.

He can visibly see when the scent of his fresh slick hits the alpha’s nose. The way Eddie’s nostrils flare and his breathing catches in his throat, like he’s trying not to inhale too deeply.

“Eddie?”

His eyes instantly dart to Steve’s mouth. He looks hungry. Starving, even.

For once in his life, Steve’s confident he won’t be rejected.

It’s in Eddie’s warm scent, in the way he’s always glanced at him a little too long, and never breaks his promises to him. Steve can see it clearly now.

This has been a long time coming.

“Anything.”

“Kiss me, alpha?”

Eddie doesn’t question whether he’s sure. He doesn’t tell Steve that this is a conversation for later or even hesitate.

He just holds Steve’s face like something fragile and precious when he kisses his lips far too carefully. Soft. Gentle.

They’re chapped from his appointment. Neither seem to care.

It’s a slow, lingering kiss. It ends much the same way.

The rush of pleasure and pure joy floods his entire body, making the pain in his jaw negligible when he lets out his first omegan chirp of happiness.

He still aches and yearns, but the ache is focused now. His inner omega just wants Eddie— his alpha.

“Please, Ed,” Steve whimpers, tucking his face into Eddie’s neck and getting his scent right from the source.

The alpha scratches down his back slowly, trying to calm him.

It’s an act full of love and kindness, Eddie’s attempt to not take advantage of him in his current state.

In any other situation, it would be noble. Steve would be flattered by the self control it cost an alpha to not ravage in omega in heat who’s begging for attention.

But he needs this. He’s also technically only in late pre-heat. That’s as far as presentation heats usually get.

Fever and need are there, but not the complete lack of awareness that accompanies full heats. He can make decisions.

“How can I help you, sweetheart?”

Steve can tell the effects of heat are taking ahold of his inhibitions though.

There’s no other reasonable explanation for the way he blurts out, “Cum all over my braces?”

[duckiemimi]

gojo in jjk 236

i’m not one to advocate for prying away creative control from a creator’s (mangaka’s) cramped, overworked hands, and i understand that with oftentimes fandoms get so big that the story warps itself into something out of the creator’s control, but i do know what a good character arc looks like (i’ve seen it in this very story before) and i do know what public pressure can do to a creative mind.

that being said, keeping gojo dormant for more than a hundred chapters, then unsealing him only for him to gain nothing from his long-drawn out fight with sukuna is insane. i was assuming we were building up stakes in his character arc! i didn’t think he’d die prematurely without resolution! how could he be given a meaningless death when it was all he and geto talked about at one point?

gojo could’ve been living proof that change is possible and that fate is breakable. he was born after multiple cycles of six eyes and limitless users, he was born a baby-shaped building block, jujutsu’s atlas with the world on his shoulders. alone and untouchable. but he changed because he met geto. he changed because he met shoko, because he met megumi and yuuta and yuuji and every single character that has loved and cared about him. love changed him. to be loved is to be changed, and to have him go without an ending line to, “this is just a personal theory, but love is the most twisted curse of them all,” is such a loss. it’s like a sentence without a full-stop, abruptly cut short with no continuation.

i initially thought that he’d be weakened by sukuna, but then his allies would come running to back him up—there is strength in solidarity! his true strength should’ve stemmed from solidarity and love! interdependence and connection should’ve been the peak of his character arc! why did we end up with nothing even after tens of chapters of him fighting for his life? why did every other character sit still instead of using their advantage in numbers?

but i do see where gege is headed. with gojo gone, the baton has been passed onto the next generation. there is no longer a biological “hierarchy” of power amongst the sorcerers (to an extent), and perhaps sukuna himself will falter because the balance of the universe was pulled from under their feet. besides love, jjk is also about generational second chances: sashisu and itakugifushi; toji and maki; geto and yuuji and yuuta; geto walking to tengen’s quarters alone, delivering riko almost hesitantly, and yuuji waking to tengen’s quarters with megumi, yuuta, choso, and yuki. silhouettes in the dark of the tunnels. hell, you could even count yaga as a teacher and gojo as a teacher. or yaga’s CT and how he gave a child another chance at life. yuuji’s multiple resurrections. kenjaku and tengen. i get it, i do—i understand what gege’s trying to do here, but i’m tired of him using these characters as plot devices instead of giving them the resolution they deserve. (especially for jjk’s cash cow…he deserved more than a rushed end.)

i do hope that that one theory about gojo only being able to die if his head is cut off is true. but even then, after all of the fake outs we’ve had to read, that would be a shitty cheap shot. i’ll try to have faith; even that is wavering.

[anjelicawrites]

Paring: modern!Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Synopsis: AU based on the movie Happy Death Day. King of fratboys Aegon II Targaryen is struck in a timeloop caused by his violent death. Every day he wakes up in your bed, knowing there’s a masked killer on the loose. Plagued by his own misdemeanors and insecurities, he has to navigate his own budding feelings for you, and solve his own murder. Will he succeed, or will he die again?

Warnings: non graphic description of murder, botchy physics, anxiety, self loathing, alcohol consumption, hangover, crying, Aegon tries to kiss reader when they say they don’t want to be kissed, injuries, hugging, kissing, p in v sex, begging0.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

You finish cutting the tomatoes and place them in your bowl, carefully. You know you’re biding your time and pondering all the information Aegon has just unloaded upon you; you can feel his restless energy filling the kitchen even though he’s standing by the sink, big purple eyes fixated upon you. You wish he was moving and not simply wringing his hand,   unloading all of that turmoil in some way, any way; the fact that he’s simply staring at you unnerves you, after his confession. The non physicist side of your brain is wondering if you need to call the hospital, the physicist in you knows that what he’s saying has been theorized yet never proven, it should be impossible to happen in real life, shouldn’t it?

The jingle of your roommate’s keys snaps you out of your thoughts; as much as you love her, you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with her right now.

“Will you take the mugs, please? My room is better for talking.” You tell Aegon.

“Green tea? Really?”

He has the audacity to stare at you while holding the two steaming mugs as if they personally offended him.

“Just take the God damned things!”

Behind him, your roommate is giving you thumbs ups with a smile on her face, you groan inwardly, she has no idea what’s going on.

You’re not in a chatty mood, not after last night when, a bit too tipsy for your tastes, you have picked up Aegon, king of frat boys Aegon, who has awoken in your bed, stared at you with desperation in his eyes and flopped back with a defeated ‘not again’.

Just because of that you should have kicked out of your apartment, the fact that he told you, as serious as a heart attack, that he has re lived this day repeatedly, to the point that he has lost count of the times he has woken up in your bed, tried to stop the loop, only to finish his day butchered by a masked killer, all of this should have warranted a call to the mental health office of King’s Landing University, yet you didn’t. It wasn’t because you expected him to tell you it was all a prank, or the fact that quantum physics explores the idea of time loops, it was how defeated he looked, alone against an evil he couldn’t fight.

According to him, he has woken up in your cramped room thousands of times, this doesn’t stop him from looking around, taking in all the posters you have hung over the bed and the overflowing bookshelves against each and every free wall. He’s not judging what he sees, he appears to be sincerely curious of the tomes you have to study for you classes. Not that he has the ability to understand an ounce of the syllabus, he barely follows what he is supposed to study, but his family has funneled too much money to the University, for him to fail.

“We can sit on the bed. My desk is too small.” You say, awkwardly.

“Bed, yeah.”

The first time he awoke there, he was torn between the hangover crushing his brain, and being horrified to have hooked up with you: you are so out of his fucking league he couldn’t fathom you even wanting to bed him! After the first ten times he has opened his eyes here, to relive his last day on Earth, he has learned to like the smell of your bed sheets, a mix of detergent and your own smell: probably the only good thing happening to him during this hellish experience.

He’s crushed that you have changed your bedding while he was in the bathroom. If he were to smell the pillows now, he wouldn’t be able to pick up your scent.

“Are you sure you don’t want more salt?”

“No, no, this is fine.”

There’s a lull in the conversation where he picks at his food, ignoring the elephant in the room and the ticking of time that means he’s going to die soon.

“I know how it sounds.”

You lift your eyes from your own food to stare at him. Apart from the hangover he must still be nursing, he looks like he’s aged ten years, his voice sounds hollow, devoid of any human emotion; whether or not he’s bullshitting you, there is something eating at him. 

You can’t say you know him on a personal level to judge his reactions, you’ve only seen him around with his frat boys friends and he’s always given you the vibes of someone trying to show the world he doesn’t have a single problem in his life, and lacks the mental capacity to even care for anything, it’s unsettling to see him like this, fidgety and haunted.

“It’s no stranger than any of my quantum physics classes. Look, I’m not going to bother you with the specifics, but some have theorized that time loops might be possible.”

The fork falls from his hand, it’s a miracle that his food doesn’t follow all over the bed when he sets his plate aside to grab your hand in a tight vise.

“How do I make it stop?”

His eyes have a desperate glint, the sides of his mouth are set downward, negating any hope his words might carry. You try to get your hand loose but he doesn’t let you, his grip increased until you decided to stop trying to get away from him.

“I don’t know.”

The way his shoulders drop breaks your heart. Lie or not, he is in shambles.

“I told you, some physicists talk about time loops in theory. The community can’t even decide on a possible cause, let alone how to break free from one. They are just ideas, working theories we use. As scientists we can’t even decide if time is a social construct or not!”

He hides his face in his hands, you can’t make out what he’s saying, only that his words are becoming sobs and he’s rocking on the bed, desperate.

“Look! Look!” You grab his shoulders and shake him until he stares at you, his eyes red. “The fact that I can’t give you an answer, doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Let’s walk through this together once again.”

“I already did.”

His voice sounds so small you just want to give him a hug.

“Do you really think that the big guns didn’t discuss their ideas again and again? Until they were done with the sound of their own voices? Tell me everything again, Aegon.”

“I re lived this day so many times and I still couldn’t find a solution. What makes you think that you can?”

“Because I am smarter than most and I am not personally involved. I can bring a fresh pair of eyes.”

“You would love my little brother Aemond. He thinks he’s better than anyone.”

“I highly doubt that. Stop stalling!”

You watch Aegon take a sip from his mug and set it on the floor; awkwardly he sits with his back to the headboard, facing you.

Having to spell it out all over again makes Aegon feel even worse, as if he is in the clutch of a nightmare he can’t escape and, on some levels, he is.

Come to think of it, the first time he had awoken, his bigger issue was the hangover, the blood pulsating in his head like a drummer from hell. Now he knows that you biding him good morning and asking how he was feeling, was you being a nice person, at that precise moment? He only wanted you to shut your trap and give him all the Tylenol his body could manage to absorb.

The second time? It was probably the worst, because he could feel that something was amiss, but couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t know you personally, then why did he feel like he’s already woken up to your smile? The walk of shame to his Frat House had been the worse part, not because he felt judged by his peers, but because his brain couldn’t put together the fact that he, somehow, knew what was going to happen: the two girls staring at him like they wanted to eat him up, the alarm of a random van blaring in the distance, the group of students falling prey to the automatic sprinkler or the guy falling all over his face, why did he feel like he has already seen all of this? It wasn’t possible.

In retrospect he knows when the two twin days diverge: at the end. The second day, as awkward as it felt, went on like the other: as soon as he was in his room, one of his friends had given him a cupcake, chocolate and peanut butter, his favorite, for his nameday, but he was too nauseous to eat it. He then went out on a walk with Sunfyre and saw the elderly lady having an issue crossing the road and he ignored her. With shame, now he recollects how badly he treated you when you came to the Frat House to give him back his signet ring, how he had told his friends that he “Didn’t know what this bitch is talking about” and took the ring from your hand.

He had gone on with this day that, suspiciously it felt like the one he had just lived, down to one of his friends popping by his room to ask him if he was coming to the party at one of the sorority houses on campus (at the time Aegon didn’t know it was a surprise birthday party for him), him ignoring his mom's phone calls for the whole day and the sudden blackout that had plunged his room into darkness.

The split happened at the underpass that connects the old Campus to the new.

The first day, he was butchered there. He had walked through a group of rugby fans wearing the University's mascot mask, Balerion, until he had reached the creepy underpass, made even more disturbing by the dead lamp posts, and the carillon left in the middle of it.

He wasn’t scared, he had thought it must have been a stupid prank from his friends, he had even joked with the person who had appeared behind him, clad in a black coverall, wearing Balerion’s mask, until the person, whomever they were, had stabbed him through the eye.

The second day he had stubbornly gone through the motions, choking on the déjà-vu feeling, until he had gotten to the underpass and noped out of there, opting to use the longer way to go to the new Campus. It still felt like trudging through a bad dream: why did he know what would happen? Was it a case of Dragon Dreaming? Perhaps all the drugs he had taken during his life had finally taken a toll on him? 

As he died, stabbed with a broken piece of dope pipe, he had thought that this wasn’t a case of Dragon Dreaming.

He tells you of all the ways he’s tried to outsmart his killer: lock himself in his room, leave campus, get arrested, nothing had worked, he would die, stabbed, shot or set afire, and would wake up to your smile and a terrible hangover.

By the time he’s finished, you have set your plate aside and reached for the windowsill, where your pack of smokes lie.

“This is all I have.” He tells you, defeated, his head hunched between his shoulders. “It’s not much.”

“It’s a lot, actually.” You answer. “Do you mind?”

His purple eyes focus on the cigarette in your hand and he shakes his head.

“I might have one myself.” He adds, fishing for his vape.

“Of course you vape.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

The genuine curiosity in his tone makes you crack a smile. You don’t answer, though, your theories about fuckboys and vaping are for another day.

Calmly you light your cigarette and take a long drag, staring at the Schrodinger’s Cat poster over your bed.

“One thing we know is that your death, albeit the circumstances, re sets the clock to this morning. Now, there are some questions we need to ask ourselves: were you supposed to die altogether? If not, why is the universe forcing you to go through that again and again?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Me neither, which brings me to the second question: why don’t you stay dead?”

You see him turn an alarming shade of gray. Perhaps you should have worded that phrase more carefully, but you’ve already made the mess, might as well turn his focus on something else.

“Let’s see it this way. Why does the universe want to undo what’s happening to you? Why would time bend and shape itself in this way for you?”

He looks lost and so are you. Why would the fabric of the universe itself modify and go against all the laws known to mankind, for frat boy Aegon II Targaryen? Why him and not someone else?

“If I had to go by vibes alone, it feels like the universe is trying to give you a chance. Perhaps you weren’t supposed to die, your passing is like an annoying wrinkle that doesn’t want to be smothered.”

“I have been called many things, ‘annoying wrinkle’ is new.”

You see the start of a genuine smile on his face.

“Let’s say that your survival is a fixed point in time, like in Doctor Who.”

“Doctor Whom?”

“You’ve never watched Doctor Who in your entire life?”

“Should I have?”

You feel your brain wanting to go on a tirade about his abhorrent pop culture education, but you don’t have time for that, perhaps tomorrow (if such a thing exists).

“Scratch that. A fixed point in time is when an event must come to pass, let’s say the destruction of Old Valyria. Trying to prevent that will cause a tear in space and time, Old Valyria must fall or a paradox would happen, altering the fabric of reality.”

You kill your smoke and start pacing.

“Your survival is a fixed point in time. The killer, by assaulting you, causes the time loop, because time stops moving the way it should. Are you following me?”

“I shouldn’t die, when I do, I fuck everything up. That’s my life in a nutshell, really.”

You elect to ignore the self deprecating tone, there isn’t time for that.

“Everyone forgets, but you. This means your killer forgets they’re in a time loop as well, and goes for you time and time again.”

“Yeah. But how do I stop them?” 

“Simple. You solve your own murder.”

Aegon stares at you as if you’ve grown another head.

“That’s your solution? Solve my own murder?”

“Do you have another option?”

Silence falls, broken by the muffled TV sounds coming from the apartments around yours. Aegon doesn’t speak, he looks even more defeated than before; he jumps out of his skin when his phone rings. You are startled as well, too lost in his sad puppy expression to remember that there’s a world outside of your cramped room.

Aegon looks at the caller ID and elects to throw the phone on your bed with a huff.

“You’re not answering your mom? I can go in the kitchen if you need a bit of privacy.”

“She’s calling me for my nameday. She’s going to bitch about the fact that I have missed the family lunch with her and my siblings.”

He still sounds sad, with an undercurrent of frustration you’re not sure you can pinpoint.

“It’s still your nameday! You should spend it with your family!”

“I can do without feeling like I am the family failure.” He takes a long drag from his vape and sets it on the windowsill, next to your cigarettes. “How do I solve my own murder?”

You feel that he doesn’t want to open that specific can of worms, besides, the poor guy has a lot already on his plate, if you want to believe his absurd story.

“I think the fact that today is your nameday holds a special meaning to either your killer or the universe. Let’s start from there: who knows about it, and who would want you dead?”

“I never share it but thanks to my brothers at the Fraternity, the whole campus. And I haven’t been exactly a saint.”

To write down a complete list of potential suspects would be a feat: he has fucked and abandoned half of the girls on campus, there’s a couple of nerds in his class who hate him, because he will pass his exams no matter what. And there’s Aemond. 

The two of them have always butted heads, his younger brother being all Aegon was supposed to grow into.

Aegon knows that Aemond feels like Aegon has what was supposed to be his. If he could, Aegon would swap lives with him, let him be the firstborn, the one the whole family expects everything from; Aemond wouldn’t crack under that type of pressure, he would make everyone happy and proud. But, would he be so resentful to try and kill him?

“You need to make a list, Aegon. You need to pin down the people who truly might have a bone to pick with you.”

“I don’t think I can. There’s too many.”

Unexpectedly he lets his head fall against your chest. He isn’t that much taller than you are, yet the contact makes you jump, so do his arms curling around your frame.

“Aegon? Aegon what are you doing?”

You feel his lips seeking yours and you turn your head, avoiding the contact by an inch.

“Aegon, stop!”

You try to free yourself from his hold and he simply doubles the strength he uses to keep your frame against his. Desperate you try to push with your hands against his chest, evading his seeking lips.

“Please.” He begs, pitiful and pathetic. “Please, I need it.”

“No Aegon! I told you to stop!”

The shrill scream seems to awaken him from his reverie. He doesn’t let you go, but he isn’t trying to kiss you anymore.

“I am not going to take advantage of you, Aegon. You’re not in the right state of mind! I didn’t do it yesterday when you were wasted, I am not going to do it now!”

“We didn’t…?”

“No, you big dummy!”

“I… I was naked! In your bed! I never pass up the chance to have sex!”

“I slept on the covers, you idiot! I brought you home because I was afraid you would choke on your own vomit and none of your friends seemed to care! You were hellbent on not laying down in your clothes and were asleep as soon as your head touched the pillow!”

He lets you go, almost pushing you away from his body. He’s wearing a haunted look that scares you, frantic he’s searching for his belongings to leave your room as if the Stranger himself was on his tracks.

“Aegon! Aegon! Calm down, please!” You grab his arm and force him to turn around and look at you. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t respond, he falls on his knees, hugging your waist as he cries against your tummy. It’s an ugly cry, big, fat tears and desperate, howling sounds leaving his mouth; he is at the end of his tether, drowning without a help in sight.

It takes you long minutes to calm him down, until he lets you lay him on the bed, facing you; there’s still tears flowing from his eyes but his breathing seems to have gone back to normal.

“You shouldn’t have seen that.” He says with a broken voice.

“If it makes you feel better, I have seen nothing.”

Gently you caress his short hair, slow motions that aim at calming him even more.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s all forgiven. We all fuck up sometimes.”

He stares at you, surprised, as if no one has ever told him that.

“It will not happen again.”

“Trust me. Pull a stunt like that one more time? The masked killer will be the least of your problems!”

He smiles, pained and sad, like a tired clown. At least he’s breathing normally.

“I need to go. I have left Sunfyre alone for too long. And I have a list to write.”

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

He sits on the bed, scratching his head.

“It’s fine. You did more than anyone would do for a stranger.”

And I don’t want you hurt by the killer, he thinks.

“Look. I don’t know if you’ll be able to stop the loop and you will wake up to a new day. If you don’t, remember that I am here to help. Tell me this story again, I do not mind. No one should face death alone.”

Where do you come from? He thinks. Why are you being so nice?

He dies, time and time again. On his way to his apartment, hit by a car. 

When he checks on the handful of girls that were truly mad at him for having fucked them and then discarded them like used tissues, there’s something akin to happiness the moment he sees that they are moving on with their lives. Some are in love, others are receiving job offers, one has adopted a cat and her smile lights her room: all those girls who weren’t even a blip on his radar, have moved on, unscathed by his callousness (he dies, five times stabbed, one drowned and one bashed in the head with a baseball bat). Even the two nerds in one of his classes, who were so mad that he had passed it, just because his surname is on half of the buildings of the University, seem to have forgotten about him: they both have bright futures ahead of them (his killer is creative these two times, they electrocute him on one instance, the second they throw him in a woodcutter).

It’s Aemond that surprises him the most.

On purpose Aegon leaves checking on him for last. In between being massacred, he has had time to reflect upon his relationship with him: he has been a shit older brother, there’s no other way to describe himself. He had made fun of Aemond, pushed all his buttons because he could; he had left him alone when he had been attacked by all the cousins and nephews and was barely there when Aemond had to go through so many surgeries to save the left side of his face. Aegon had used him as a scapegoat for his insecurities and failures; if Aemond turned out to be the killer, Aegon would offer him the blade and tell him to go to town until he stayed dead.

Aegon’s hands shake as he makes his way up the fire escape ladders on the side of Aemond’s apartment building; he wishes for a beer, or ten, hates the clarity that the time loop has imposed on his brain. He had never thought he was such a piece of shit and a failure of a human being, whoever the killer was, they’re doing the right thing in getting rid of him, if only permanently! The world doesn’t need him, everything he touches turns into shit!

He stops and takes a huge breath to calm himself down: he needs to be extra quiet or Aemond’s dog, Vhagar, will hear him and alert her owner.

Slowly, careful of each and every step, Aegon reaches Aemond’s floor. Luck seems to be on his side since his brother’s curtains are open and he can peer inside.

The huge flat screen is turned on, bathing the darkened room in a blue hue. Surely he’s going to watch a movie, probably something pretentious, by an unknown director who died at the age of twenty: Aemond is the epitome of the indie fan. 

Imagine Aegon’s surprise when he sees the movie paused on the first scene of Evil Dead and when Aemond’s date opens their arms to welcome him on the couch! 

There had been talks on campus of Aemond secretly dating one of his professors, Alys Rivers. Aegon can’t believe it’s not her the person kissing Aemond until he smiles a real smile, one that shows his dimples! And he isn’t wearing his customary eyepatch!

If the killer hadn’t crashed into him from above, sending him spiraling down the side of the condo, Aegon would have died of surprise.

As he falls down, Aegon has only one thought: at least it’s not him.

He wakes up with a scream to the stupid ringtone of his phone. He can still feel the pain of smashing his body against the pavement ricocheting through his bones, his lungs exploding with the pressure inflicted upon them: for a second he can’t breathe. He flails on your bed, desperate to get to the window and simply breathe the fresh air. 

He stumbles on his feet, deaf to your words and opens the window with a desperate screech, only when the fresh air hits his still working lungs, he starts feeling his body relaxing.

In the distance he hears you calling his name, scared.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He pants, not feeling well at all.

His whole body trembles, he can feel his legs give out under his weight, his vision turning black as he falls in your arms. He doesn’t hear you screaming for help, for someone to call an ambulance, he is drowning in a peaceful black ocean, where nothing, not even him, exists.

He slowly comes back to himself, his muddled brain slowly realizing he’s not waking up to his own ringtone; for a blessed moment he dares hoping a new day has started for him, until the soft beeping of the monitor sitting next to the hospital bed throws him back into the throes of despair: the day hasn’t finished yet.

He opens his eyes slowly, the light spilling from the windows hurting his poor, overworked brain. What happened? The last thing he remembers is fainting, and not dying.

“Thank the Gods you’re awake!”

His poor eyes focus, with a terrible effort, on your features, now scrunched with worry: why are you by his side?

“You’re here.” He rasps, his voice scratchy and lower than his usual pitch.

“Of course I’m here!”

Again, for precious seconds, he thinks you’re in his hospital room because you remember the loop, and your idea of solving his own murder; his hopes are crushed when he realizes that it had happened some mornings ago, today he didn’t even have the chance to speak with you.

“Why?” He asks.

He doesn’t want to think about all that’s happened, he wants only to hear the melody of your voice.

“You passed out in my bedroom. Did you really expect me to ignore it? Are you feeling any better?”

Aegon tries to feel his body, sore and tired, but capable of breathing and not in the throes of panic.

“A little.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Visiting hours are finished for the morning.”

The two of you jump at the foreign voice of the doctor who, seemingly, appeared out of nowhere.

Aegon thinks he knows the guy, he’s probably met him during one of the charity parties he had to attend with his siblings. The doctor’s stern behavior seems to soften when he shakes Aegon’s hand and tells him his name is Dr. Orwyle.

“We haven’t finished checking on Mr. Targaryen.” He tells you, with a softer voice. “You can come later.”

The scared animal that lives in Aegon’s chest panics: he doesn’t want you gone, he doesn’t want to be alone in this foreign environment, but what he calls his ‘training’ kicks in. He’s Aegon II Targaryen, under no circumstances he is allowed to show anyone how he truly feels, his tears of some loops ago were a mistake he can’t afford to repeat now, away from the sanctuary of your bedroom.

You aren’t too happy to leave as well. As much as you don’t know Aegon from the next frat boy infesting the campus, you feel protective of him, since he fell ill in your bedroom, and you had already rescued him last night, too drunk to even walk properly back to his fraternity building.

But you have no place here: you’re no family of his, and even his blood would probably have to leave, in order for the doctors to work their jobs.

You offer Aegon a tight smile, not liking his ashen color and the dark circles around his eyes.

“I’ll come back in the afternoon, if that’s OK?”

“It’s better if you do so tomorrow. I am afraid we have some more testing to run and Mr. Targaryen will not be here for visiting hours.”

Your answer dies on your lips when Aegon barks a strange laugh, dry and mirthless; What’s so funny about it? You think.

You leave feeling a tight knot of anxiety building in your tummy. You have been having these strange déjà-vu moments as soon as you had woken up and had started fishing for your pill, whose blister had fallen behind your too small bedside table; Aegon’s ridiculous ringtone and his head of platinum hair on your pillow had felt strangely familiar, as if all of this had happened before, which it didn’t, so why you felt so panicked when Aegon opened the window, and even now you feel like there’s something horribly wrong? And why does this day seem to be, strangely, hackneyed?

Time, when you are in a hospital bed, has a strange quality of not passing, whilst running at a crazed speed. To Aegon it felt like you had left an hour ago, instead it was already evening when he was brought back to his room, where Dr. Orwyle was waiting for him, tablet in hand.

“What’s with the long face, Doc?”

Pretend, pretend pretend: that's always been the motto of his family. Even now that he wants to flee, because the killer must be near, he tries to keep up a mask of bravado.

“We have checked your medical history, Mr. Targaryen.” Dr. Orwyle says while handing him the tablet. “Your recent battery of exams shows us…”

Aegon doesn’t let the good doctor finish.

“That I should be dead.”

My body remembers, he thinks, the same way my mind does.

“Were you recently in an accident and, somehow, your records were lost?”

Oh Doc, he thinks, if only there was a way for me to explain everything, without you committing me to a mental institution!

“I think I need a moment.” He lies, with a displeased frown on his face.

His family has pumped a disgusting amount of money into the company that owns this hospital, he knows Dr. Orwyle doesn’t want to make him angry, lest the cash flow stops.

“Of course Mr. Targaryen. One of our nurses is combing the files as we speak. There must have been an unpleasant mistake.”

“Obviously.”

For a moment Aegon thinks the doctor is unto him, knows he’s lying, but the man retires, telling him they will talk tomorrow and that he should sleep: like hell! He needs out!

As fast as his tired body can manage, Aegon removes the monitoring and unplugs the machine from the wall. He has no idea where his clothes are, not that it matters now that he knows his killer is not someone in his life and that, perhaps, the next death will be the last!

On swift feet he runs the length of the dark corridor, until he reaches the nurse’s station, where he sees a woman focused on the computer screen; fleetly he wonders if that’s the person in charge of finding the medical files that should prove he has cheated death. With the corner of his eyes, he notices the policeman sitting in front of a room, but he is too focused on escaping to truly care; when the man enters the room he’s guarding, Aegon couches and crawls, until he is not in sight anymore.

I need out! He thinks.

A part of him knows hiding is impossible, the killer will find him. Perhaps this time he will be able to survive the night, hell! Even kill the asshole! Maybe that’s the key to this paradox, if not, at least it will give him some satisfaction.

The parking lot is huge, and dark. For the first time in his life he understands what Helaena talked bout, when she said how scary it is to go get your car when it’s night: every fucking corner can house his killer, every shadow could be inhabited, and he’ll be none the wiser.

His car is back at the campus and the hospital is far too distant to make it back on foot.

Frantically, he starts checking each and every car, for the one left open by its owner: there’s always troves of people leaving their keys in the ignition, when they are in a hurry.

“Come on! Come on! Come on!” He chants. “Come one you motherfucker!”

He sees Balerion reflected in the car window, its protruding muzzle bent in a sneer and hollow eyes that hide his killer’s. With a shout he ducks and the huge knife falls hollow on the metal of the car.

Aegon rolls and scrambles back to his feet, desperately looking for the elevator: if he can make it up to the ground floor he can ask for help! 

He runs, desperate, feeling his lungs burn as he tries to breathe, the footsteps of his killer so close he can feel them gaining on him. In a last move to kill them, he grabs the fire extinguisher hanging from one of the columns of the parking lot: if only he could buy himself some time!

He doesn’t. He dies, again, stabbed in the chest and abdomen.

He puts up a good fight, even partially incapacitating his assailant with a nasty blow to their heads, but that isn’t enough to save himself and see the dawn of a new day.

As he bleeds to death on the cold pavement, he wonders how many loops he has left, and what will happen once he’s run out of lives.

His stupid ringtone wakes him up and he’s furious, tired with the universe and its dark sense of humor.

“Hi! Do you feel…”

Aegon doesn’t let you speak, he knows the spiel all too well by now.

“I feel like I have been stabbed to death which, surprise! Has happened.”

He marches to your bookshelf, ignoring your surprised stare, to grab the small pouch where you keep your Tylenol: loop or not, he always wakes up with a nasty hangover.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stares at you with a manic glint in his eyes and you take a step back.

“Of course you don’t. How many loops ago have I told you my story? And you gave me your genius solution: solve my own murder. You might be smarter than most, but it was the stupidest idea you’ve ever had in your entire life!”

You feel beyond out of depth: what the hell is he raving about?

You follow him when he leaves your apartment, slamming the front door.

“Hey! Aegon! What are you talking about?”

You manage to reach him and grab him by the arm. He feels hot and sweaty under your palm; he trudges along, ignoring your added weight.

“Did you take any drugs last night?”

This stops him. He wheels around to look into your eyes, before turning your body to press your back to his front, one arm draped across your chest, the other light on your chin.

“I wish this was all drug induced paranoia. And, as much as I like you, I don’t have the time nor the energy to tell you the whole story again so, either you believe me or not.”

Panicked, you grab at his arm. You don’t know what is going on, why he’s acting the way he is, and you don’t care, he needs to let you go.

“I’m stuck in a time loop that resets itself with my death. No, I don’t know who the killer is and I don’t know how to stop the son of a bitch. I have already told you my story some loops ago and you have forgotten.”

“Look,  Aegon, I know you drank too much last night. Perhaps you’re still confused…”

He doesn’t let you finish again and you’re going to kick him for that.

“Shut up and listen.” He tells you.

The hand previously holding your chin lifts to sign at the people around you two.

“Two girls, they want to eat me alive and I might let them, at this point.”

He forces you to walk a couple of steps, before stopping again to point at the anonymous white van parked on the side of the road.

“Alarm in three, two, one…”

Triggered by an unseen cause, the alarm blares as the lights of the van start blinking madly.

“Sprinklers!”

On your right a group of students is drenched by the irrigation system and they scramble to grab their belongings.

“Aegon…”

“The guy is falling… now!”

Too busy looking at the students, a guy wearing a suit falls all over his feet and plants himself in front of you and Aegon.

You are too surprised to speak: how does he know…?

“I told you. Time loop.”

And thankfully he’s holding you tight, or you would have fallen on your arse.

This time he tells you everything at the local diner, as you scarf down a full vegan breakfast. 

“So.” You say, drinking down your second cup of tea. “You told me all of this before and my suggestion was to solve your murder?”

Aegon looks at you from the rim of his own cup of coffee. He hasn’t eaten anything, still too nauseous from a bar crawl that happened too many loops ago, yesterday night.

“Correct.”

“And why is that a stupid idea? You have infinite lives, the way I see it.”

“I don’t. I come back from every death more tired than the one before. I am not sure how long I have, before this sticks.”

“Bill Murray didn’t have this issue.”

“Who?”

“Have you ever seen Groundhog Day?”

“No, I haven’t. You keep referring to obscure pieces of media! In that loop you quoted a Doctor… Whom?”

“It’s Doctor Who, you dummy. Have you ever watched good TV in your entire life?”

“No, I usually am out having fun.”

“Look how that turned out for you.”

You both stay silent, letting the noises of the diner fill for the non existent conversation.

“What was this Bill Murray guy's goal?”

“He kept repeating the same day until he realized what a piece of shit person he was and changed his ways.”

“Yeah. I can see why.”

Aegon hangs his head to look at his hands. Nervous, he plays with his little finger, where his signet ring should be, as his brain shows him, again, what a piece of shit he’s always been to everyone around him: his mum, letting all her hopes down, his siblings, his friends and all his lovers. They all expected him to do better, to be better and he had always turned his back at them. Sometimes it was the only thing he could do, when faced with too many responsibilities, others, he was being cruel and self-centered. 

He’s been trying now, during the loops, by helping the elderly lady cross the street and being nice to the newer additions to the fraternity. He doesn’t know what to do with his mum and all she expects from him, all of these ideas that scare him and make him want to disappear forever.

“It is daunting.” Your soft voice cuts through his thoughts. “The way a time loop makes you look at yourself. It shifts your perspective in a way none of us can truly understand. It gives you a chance though: you are more aware of your bad behaviors and can put a stop to it.”

“It is too late.” He tells you, not truly looking into your eyes.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You can always choose to do better for yourself. You can’t change the past, but you can decide not to make the same mistakes again.”

His fidgeting stops, he’s holding his hand with such a tight vise you’re afraid he will hurt himself.

“Not everyone accepts that. Not everyone wants to see you at your best, they only care about the way they want you to be.”

“Those are the people you deserve a non so polite ‘fuck off’ and zero dedication to make the relationship better. The others though, they’re worth the hassle.”

“You’re far too optimistic.” He replies, his voice dry and scratchy.

“I’m being objective. You can’t be what every single person in their lives wants you to be; it’s up to them to accept that you are your own person. Will this hurt them? Yes, but then again, they have to sort out their feelings, you can’t do this work for them. Your job is to be the best version of yourself you can offer the word.”

The chatter around your table drones your voice out of his head: which is the best version of himself? The one who had always preferred to drink and party, instead of facing the disappointment in his mom’s eyes? Or the one that had poured all his frustration on his younger brother and his foolish dream of being perfect, for the two of them? Or the one who has always felt weirded out by Helaena neurodivergence? Does he even have a better part to offer the word? His only quality is that he loves his dog more than anything, and there’s that.

Being struck in this nightmare has only shown him the bad parts of himself, and that there’s nothing more than that; even if he wanted to better himself, he knows he’ll crush under the pressure after a day or two. He is a spineless, worthless waste of air and resources that someone else would use better than he’ll ever do, who will relapse after the first, mild, issue happening in his life.

“I hope it sticks.” He says, looking at the worn out paneling behind you. “I don’t have anything good to offer to the world.”

He hears you put your cutlery aside to take a sip of tea.

“That’s the Stranger whispering in your ear. It’s always easier to follow the same, old path our brains have carved out, instead of doing the hard work to create newer ones, healthier ones.”

“It’s easy for you to say.”

“I elect to ignore that because you are upset.” The coldness in your voice snaps him back within the conversation. “You have no idea what I had to go through to be here, with you. The same way I don’t know why you value yourself so little. You are given a chance to look at your mistakes and fix them. 

I don’t know why the Gods have chosen you, but they did. I could argue for hours why they intrude in our lives the way they do, but this is not a philosophy class. This is you having to make the work: no money, no connection can help you solve this conundrum, but yourself.”

He dares to look at you. He can see that you’re angry at him in the way your lips are set, how stony your eyes are: he’s managed to let you down. A complete stranger who had showered him with kindness, only to be kicked aside.

“The serial killer known as the Heart Stealer has been admitted today into the surgical ward.”

The voice of the journalist makes the two of you jump in your seats: someone has asked the waitress to turn the audio on and the whole diner is now looking at the photos of pretty, blond coed boys, slain by the man.

Something snaps into place in Aegon’s mind: his murderer can’t be anyone he knows because it’s this asshole! He fits his victims: the age, the hair color and lifestyle. All party boys, found without their hearts and this asshole was on his same floor, during the last loop: of course Aegon had been wrong in looking within his circle, his killer was outside of it!

“It’s him!” He shouts in your face. “This time he’s going to be in for a nasty surprise!”

He ignores your voice as he runs out of the diner: he has a plan and little time to fulfill it.

Stupidly enough, the general surgery ward is not crammed with guards, nor is it sealed from the rest of the hospital: there’s only one policeman sitting in front of the Stealer’s single room.

On his way to the hospital, Aegon had listened to the radio, trying to find any form of information on the guy; unfortunately for himself, he has never cared about keeping himself up to date with the news and now his brain is trying to absorb as much information as possible. It all boils down to the bastard being in need of surgical care, perhaps, Aegon thinks, he faked whatever illness and is going to use this chance to escape.

“And he might.” Aegon murmurs against the plastic rim of the cup he’s nursing.

Aegon has zero knowledge of police work, but even he realizes that one guy, already half asleep, might not be enough to stop a serial killer.

Aegon stands up and exits the ward. During the last loop he remembers how easily he had escaped his room and floor, and that the policeman wasn’t there. His last death happened during the blackout, which means that between the cop entering the room and the asshole murdering him, there was a lull of some minutes, five maybe ten, if he wants to be generous. He needs to incapacitate the man before the lights go out, he doesn’t need to kill him, just knock him out and wait for the clock to strike midnight and for his life to go on, as it should.

There’s only one nurse at the station and she’s busy reading a cheap paperback. The corridors are dark, the only source of light is the lamp hanging over the woman, and the ones in the corridor where the cop is.

Light on his feet, Aegon makes his way to where the nurse is, wishing he had a weapon on himself: he’ll have to make do with the pen he’s nicked at the front desk.

Fast he grabs the woman and pushes the pen against her back, as soon as the cop enters the room.

“Go get help! He’s going to escape!” He screams in her ear.

The poor woman doesn’t even look at him, she runs, leaving him alone with his killer.

His stomach turns at the thought of facing the man, his many deaths crowd into his mind: what if he fails? What if this is his last chance?

His heart beats a crazy tattoo in his chest as he stands in front of the fire extinguisher sitting next to the door: a weapon as good as any other.

He breaks the glass using his elbow and grabs the cylinder, a part of his brain wondering at how heavy it is, his frontal lobe focusing on the door in front of himself: it’s now or never!

He opens it carefully, noticing the body of the police officer on the floor, and the empty bed: where is the Stealer?

The shove from behind makes him lose his footing, there’s a hand now in his hair and another grabs his jacket, slamming him repeatedly against the wall, until the extinguisher falls from his hands.

“Now pretty boys land themselves in my hands. You’re making everything too easy.”

Aegon doesn’t know what his body responds to: the breath, stinky, next to his ear, or the cruel laugh, not that it matters.

His body moves in autopilot, hands pushing against the wall to tumble his assailant back and turn around, to face the demented eyes and the scalpel; he dashes when the man tries to stab him and runs out of the room, searching for something, anything to hit the bastard.

With a strength born out of desperation, he grabs the chair left vacant by the nurse, and bashes it against the man, missing his head but hitting his shoulder; the Stealer screams and loses his hold on the scalpel, lounging at him with his hands stretched out to grab the legs to wrestle the chair out of his grasp.

In the melee neither Aegon, nor the Stealer see you coming, your body pushing with all your weight against the older man, forcing him to fall on the floor, you tumbling on him as you scratch and punch at him, screaming with anger and fear.

You’re uncoordinated, fueled by desperation and Aegon sees the Stealer snap your head, your body falling on the floor.

In horror he stands still during the precious seconds of the power outage, he screams and lounges for the scalpel as soon as the lights come back, crushing the man’s hand when he tries to go for it, his feet connecting with his head, his chest and the soft belly in a frenzy. He’s unaware that he’s screaming, that his free hand has grabbed the man’s hair and that he’s ready to stab him, stopped by the thought of breaking the loop, which will leave you to your death.

“No.” He shouts. “No!”

He’s at a crossroad again: himself or the umpteenth victim in his wake?

He lets the body of the Stealer hit the floor, the man’s face a grotesque mask of blood and spit; Aegon’s eyes never leave the man as he lays the scalpel on his jugular.

“See you during the next one.” He says, stabbing himself hoping, against hopes, to have, at least, one life left.

He wakes up with the sickening sensation of gurgling on his own blood. He dashes to the small trash basket next to your cramped desk, and empties his stomach loudly; he doesn’t feel your hand on his forehead keeping his hair out of his face, or the other you put on his back, soothing his retching with circular motions. He falls back into your front when all he can do is push out saliva mixed with bile.

“Are you ok?” You tentatively ask, crushed under his weight.

Faster than what you thought he could move, Aegon turns around and kneels between your splayed legs, his hands on yours to help you sit up.

“Never been better!” He says with a strange glint in his eyes. “Look, I know this will make no sense, but today is my nameday…”

“Happy nameday, then!”

“Yeah, yeah. Will you pop by the fraternity later today? I don’t want to go to stupid parties, I want to celebrate with you!”

“Thank you?” You answer, unsure.

What the hell is going on with this guy? You think.

“We barely know one another, though. Are you sure you’re not still drunk?”

“I know I sound manic. I feel manic! I promise I will tell you everything and the story will blow your mind! Just come after nine tonight? One of my brothers is going to give me my favorite cupcake and all I want to do is share it with you.”

“I’m not going to fuck you, Aegon.”

“What? I never said that! Just spend my nameday with me, please?”

He looks eager, if he had a tail he would be wiggling it furiously. 

“I barely know you, Aegon.”

“You do and you don't!” He raises his hand when you try to talk. “I promise I will explain everything when you come by. And nothing will happen, but us eating, I swear on Sunfyre.”

You ponder the guy in front of you: he's the king of the fratboys. You know he spends his time partying with his brothers, yet, the times you stumbled upon him, like last night, he had always given you the impression of someone desperate to escape his life, rather than your average coed guy trying to have fun. 

Sitting between your splayed legs, he doesn't look haunted, his giddiness real. 

“Ok, I will come and if you try anything…”

“I swear!”

You elected to believe the promise of a fratboy, hoping you will not regret it. 

“I need to go now! I’ll see you later!”

He jumps on his feet surprisingly fast for someone who had been throwing up in your trashcan. The hand he offers you to help you on your feet is warm and dry, the hold strong on yours. 

“Aegon! Wait!”

You manage to catch him at the door. 

“Your ring!”

“I’m sorry I was an asshole all the times you tried to give it back.” He says, lilac eyes not truly meeting yours.

“Aegon…?”

He’s already dashed out of the door, leaving you staring at his back, dumbfounded.

“What you do to guys, I swear.”

The voice of your roommate makes you jump.

“Oh! Shut up, will you?”

Aegon is prepared for tonight, and you will not be in his way to kill his murderer: everything will go according to plan and he will be able to steer his life into a better direction than the one he’s kept all along.

Aegon’s heart squeezes painfully when his mum’s name appears on his phone’s screen for the umpteenth time, along with Daeron’s; he knows his relationship with his family is a can of worms he has to deal with, being what, amongst other things, has turned him into drowning his sorrows into as much alcohol and sex he could get.

If this infernal time loop has taught him something, is that he has to take the reins and face the pain that will surely come barreling into his face, and that it’s inevitable, as his death has been for too many times.

If he thinks about it: what does he have to lose? Both his mother and grandsire consider him a failure, he knows they want him in the family company to use him as a pawn, since he’s shown them he can’t be anything else. Their opinion of him is so low that tanking it will not be any worse than being mauled by the wood chopper, and if it’s what he has to go through to live his life and not trudge through it, then be it. He doesn’t want to be the person he’s seen through the loop any longer, he wants to be different, better, even though the work ahead scares him beyond belief.

As he showers he thinks about his siblings, how he’s let them down throughout the years, made fun of them or, even worse, ignored them when they needed their older brother: what if they don’t give him a chance to heal their broken relationships? Will the universe give him that, after showing him repeatedly how bad he’s been? Is there a silver lining?

Aegon forces himself to accept the way his stomach churns as those thoughts swim through his head while he puts the cupcake in one of the drawers, away from Sunfyre’s curiosity (it feels so strange to repeat these movements loop after loop, like a marionette).

What if no one will want him ever again? Even you, whom he has never hurt?

Aegon crumples on the floor, hugging Sunfyre who tries to lick the tears flowing down his cheeks: he has never let himself feel his emotions so deeply and now they tore at him like hungry wolves. 

The pain is a physical vise that crushes him into a ball on the dirty floor of his room and churns his stomach, it flashes through his body like lashing, leaving him crumpled and shaking, still bawling even when his tears have stopped.

For a moment he lets the darkness in, that seductive voice that has always told him that he should stop fighting and drown his feelings in any way possible. All this pain is not worth it, the voice tells him, let the killer come: if you’ve done your math right, you’re going to run out of lives soon and you won’t have to feel anything, anymore.

It’s a nice idea, just drown and stop existing, then your face flashes in front of his eyes. The worry when he had broken down, too many loops ago, the gentleness of your voice trying to soothe him: would you ever let him in your life? 

He forces himself on his back, he has to physically order all his muscles to relax on the disgusting floor.

You and him belong to the same year, different degrees and friends circles, yet he’s always noticed you. You are not a party person, but you have your fun, you even came to a couple of parties thrown by his fraternity, catching his attention with how comfortable in your skin you were.

He’s seen people of any gender try to hide their insecurities using any means possible: clothing, make up, a fake personality and so on, yet he’s always noticed you more than any other person that’s ever tried to catch his attention.

If he has to be truthful, and why not be at this point? You scare him a lot. Way smarter than he is, and more confident: you don’t have to hide who you are under a fake persona, like he does, you enter the room, and if someone has an issue with it, you don’t care. Is there anything hotter than self confidence?

“We’re doing this, Sunfyre.” He tells the dog laying by his side. “And then we’ll show them we’re worth their time.”

The dog raises his head and licks his face until Aegon laughs.

He has no idea if he’s worth your time or if he has anything truly interesting to offer you, but if he needs a tether against the darkness, it might as well be trying to be the kind of guy you might like.

This time he’s come prepared: he’s nicked the biggest knife the fraternity has in the kitchen drawer, that he can easily conceal under his clothes, and he is now hiding in one of the visitor’s bathrooms. He needs to remind himself the man is armed, some idiot has let him take their scalpel, so he needs to keep him away from himself: he can’t risk dying again.

He waits, more patient than he’s ever been in his entire life, for all the visitors and the afternoon personnel to leave the ward to the night nurse and the half asleep cop. 

When he’s ready, he exits the bathroom and lets the door bang behind him, using the shadows to disguise his body as the nurse leaves her post to investigate. As soon as she’s in front of the room, he knocks her out, mumbling an apology, and lays her body in one of the stalls: one innocent victim out of the way.

His heart is ramming in his chest as he walks to the nurse station, where he crouches to avoid being seen before he needs to.

This loop he’s timed his actions perfectly: he stands the second the cop has his back to the nurse station and he’s about to enter the room: Before the man can do anything, Aegon grabs his collar and puts the knife against his back.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says, trying to keep his voice calm. “But he’s going to escape and I need your weapon.”

The man stiffens in his hold, his hand reflexively going to the gun strapped to his hip, before the blade pushes against his back more firmly.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, son.”

Aegon cringes at the condescendent way the man talks to him: he knows more than this man ever will.

“He will escape and kill again, trust me on this one. You only need to put the gun on the floor and then go ask for backup.”

He pushes the knife against the man’s back for good measure, until he removes the gun from the holster and bends cautiously, while murmuring calming words that only fuel’s Aegon’s adrenaline.

As soon as the man is standing again, Aegon knocks him out: there’s no need for backup.

His hands shake when he retrieves the gun, surprised by how heavy it is when he lifts it to the closed door.

In this moment, Aegon is simply instinct, adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream that makes him kick the door open, the man on the bed not even stirring when the wood meets the walls with a bang.

“I know you’re awake, asshole.” Aegon barks. “Stand up, hands where I can see them!”

The Stealer opens his eyes and leers at him, his yellow teeth in full display: the outage should happen soon.

“Now pretty boys land themselves in my hands. You’re making everything too easy.” The man says, sizing him up.

“You wish!”

Aegon pulls the trigger, again and again, but nothing happens. Stupidly he looks at the gun in his hand, ignoring the threat in front of himself for a second too long.

His body slams painfully against the wall, the Stealer’s hand grabbing his wrist and banging it against the wall, trying to make him lose his hold on the firearm. Aegon tries to push back, his breath coming out in desperate pants, his free hand grabbing the man’s unkempt hair, pulling back with all his strength until the Stealer lets go, only to push him through the open door, Aegon’s feet tripping on the cop’s unconscious body.

He hears the clunk of the gun hit the floor, somewhere on his left; on instinct he kicks the Stealer in the attempt to beat him to it.

They scramble on the floor, pushing and scratching at one another, pulling each other back with desperation, rolling on the dirty linoleum, until the lights disappear and Aegon uses the surprise to disentangle himself and grab the gun.

It’s a matter of seconds, when the lights come back on, he’s standing in front of the man, gun pointed at his head.

“See you never, you son of a bitch!”

The bang is louder than he expected, and the blood spraying his hoodie is a surprise, what isn’t is the sense of fulfillment that permeates his being: he’s just killed a man and he’s relieved that he’s not going to end this day gurgling on his own blood, but with you.

You two are sitting by the window in his room with the lights off, the moonlight creates shadows on the walls as you two stare at the chocolate cupcake sitting on the floor, Sunfyre already begging to have a small bite.

“So.” You say, killing your cigarette. “Time loop.”

Aegon evades your stare, his purple eyes staring at the stars shining above you two.

“It sounds crazy, I know.”

“It’s no stranger than any of my quantum physics classes. Look, I’m not going to bother you with the specifics, but some have theorized that time loops might be possible.”

Aegon shivers. You have already said that, so many time loops ago.

“I have managed to solve mine, like the guy you told me about.”

You stare at him quizzically.

“You told me about a movie. Woodchuck Day?”

“Groundhog Day, you mean? I don’t remember us talking about it.”

“We did. During the last time loop.”

“It’s so strange. We lived lives together and I will never know about them.”

Aegon feels warmth rise in his cheeks, it’s for the better that you don’t remember, he was an arse in half of them.

“It was a nightmare. The only good thing was waking up and seeing your face.”

There, he said it. It’s not a love declaration but it feels like one.

“Don’t tell me even frat boys have hearts?”

You joke, but you can’t ignore the way his words make you feel: it’s been a while since a guy flirting makes you smile and not cringe.

“We hide it extremely well.” He’s blushing so hard he’s positive you can see it even in the dimly lit room. “Shall we?”

He offers you the cupcake, you surprise him by putting a small candle on the confectionery and lighting it swiftly.

“Make a wish. It’s your nameday, afterall.”

Aegon closes his eyes and blows on the small flame.

He wakes in your bed, awoken by the pounding in his temples and the terrible ringtone of his phone.

“No!”

He screams with so much desperation you fly yourself to him, grabbing his arms to stop him before he does anything stupid.

“Aegon? What’s going on?”

You picked him up last night, too drunk to function and so pathetic you couldn’t leave him at the pub, alone, to choke on his own vomit.

“I did everything right! I killed him before he could kill me!”

“Aegon?”

His purple eyes focus on you, filled with tears and desperation.

“I don’t want to die again!”

You don’t understand what’s happening, why he’s flying off the handle this way.

“Did you take drugs last night?” You grab his chin, ignoring his morning breath. “Aegon! Answer me!”

“I didn’t!”

“Then why are you panicking like this?”

He opens his mouth, ready to spill, again, when his mind screeches to a stop: in the midst of his own panic a part of his mind is going through the last time loop, what happened and what didn’t happen.

“I wasn’t murdered.” He says, looking at you but not really focusing. “I died in my sleep.”

And there’s only one way for that to have happened, he thinks.

“What are you talking about?”

Now you’re scared: is he having a mental breakdown?

“I don’t have the time to explain!”

He jumps from your bed and dresses himself hastily. Before you can stop him, he grabs your phone and inputs his number to call his own phone.

“Aegon! Aegon please calm down! Why are you talking about murder?”

“I promise I will explain everything!” His hands are on your shoulder, his eyes burning. “I have one little thing to do to break this fucking time loop, and then I will tell you again what I have already told you!”

You’re too dumbfounded to answer, you don’t even push him away when he soundly kisses you on the lips.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Because you're a genius!”

“Aegon, are you sure you’re alright?”

He stops by the door to your room and stares at you more lively than you have ever seen him.

“I am. As you said: I need to solve my own murder to break the loop.”

He runs to the frat house ignoring the burning in his lungs, his brain going through the various time loops, cataloging what never changed: you, the hangover, the power outage. And the cupcake.

In every time loop he was always too nauseated to eat the gift from his frat brother and then he was too focused on outsmarting his killer to even remember the confectionery. The only time he’s eaten them was with you, this last death, of this he’s beyond certain.

But, why? He wonders. What did I do to cause all of this?

His feet screech to a halt in front of the frat house: he can’t escape it, either he faces his killer, or he’ll come for him, perhaps for the last time.

He enters the big house faking a calmness he doesn’t possess. He forces his body to move slowly, to smile and joke with the other guys, until he reaches his room, where his killer will arrive, way too soon.

Sunfyre jumps into his body, putting his big paws on his shoulders and licking his face as if he hasn’t seen him in days; Aegon lets himself be swept by the love his four legged friend has for him, pure and all encompassing.

When he hears the knock on his door he orders Sunfyre to sit by his desk, the dog followsd his orderbut looks at him as if he knows something is off.

“Come in!”

Aegon’s heart is beating a mad tattoo in his chest, he hopes his face betrays nothing of what he’s finally discovered when his friend, the very Martyn Reyne who entered this Frat House with him, is his killer.

“Hey man! Happy nameday!!!”

Aegon has to stop himself from moving his body away from the other guy, he suppresses a shiver when he hugs him and pats his back, as if he hasn’t been killing him time and time again.

“Here’s a little surprise for you!”

Martyn must detect that something is wrong, Aegon realizes, because his brows knit.

“Oh yeah, a surprise it is.” He says, not even trying to hide how sour he feels.

“What’s wrong man? Did your mum call you already?”

Aegon takes the cupcake from Martyn’s hand and focuses his eyes on it, wondering what poison laces it, and why one of his oldest friends would want to cause him harm.

He knows his face has fallen, the tentative smile replaced by a deep frown.

“You know Martyn, I have come to realize I don’t know the people around me at all!”

Aegon says, circling him.

“Was it last night? We were all too wasted! We thought you were with us!”

Aegon feels no pleasure in noticing how Martyn moves to follow his movements, how false his voice is.

“Nah, it was you killing me a thousand times.”

“Aegon, man…”

Martyn raises his hands, as if to defend himself, but Aegon doesn’t let him finish.

“Did you have to get creative because I didn’t eat the cupcake? Or did you watch the news about the Stealer and thought he could be the perfect scapegoat? You intern at the hospital, it was you the idiot who let him nick his scalpel, weren’t you?”

“Aegon, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

For a blessed second, Aegon lets himself believe his friend: his killer was indeed the Stealer, and the cupcake has simply gone off the worst of ways. He’ll not be killed and wake up in your bed, and his friend is not lying to him.

He notices, though, the way Martyn’s posture has changed, he’s not pretending to be relaxed anymore; he’s still turning in a circle following Aegon, but he looks ready to pounce, his muscles straining under the gym clothes he’s wearing.

“Well.” Aegon stops his own pacing. “If you don’t know what I am talking about, you’ll share this cupcake with me.”

He grabs Martyn’s shoulder, pulling the other man closer to his own body, ready to smash the confectionery against his lips.

Before he can act, Martyn manages to disengage and push himself away, his back now facing the window.

“How did you find it out?”

Martyn’s face has lost the friendly smile and is now turned into an ugly snarl.

“I told you: you killed me a thousand times. I still don’t understand why.”

Aegon hears Sunfyre’s low growl and imagines the dog ready to pounce; he immediately puts himself between the dog and the other man, he can’t risk the health of his only friend.

“You’re mad, man. And a cunt. You want to know why I want you dead? Because you have everything and leave nothing to us mortals! Girls fawn over you! Everyone wants to be your friend and you are the shittiest person I have ever met!”

Martyn advances and Aegon is forced to do a half circle to keep his distance.

“I have to sweat for everything! And you spend your life partying! I deserve to have what you have and if I can’t, neither do you!”

Faster than Aegon can expect, Martyn jumps him with a primal scream, one of his hands shooting out to grab the cupcake and force it in Aegon’s mouth. The latter manages to push against his weight and throws the confectionery away from himself and his dog.

The two fall on the floor, fists and kicks flying. Aegon manages to dodge Martyn’s hands around his throat and stands up, heading desperately to the door as he screams to Sunfyre to stay put.

He chokes on his spit when Martyn grabs his hair and pulls him back right before he can grab the doorknob. Grunting Aegon uses his full weight to make Martyn fall on the floor, but pushes too fast and too far, realizing too late that they are free falling from his window, to the unforgiving patch of concrete in front of the fraternity house.

The alarm sounds so far away that Aegon’s ears can barely pick the sound over your moans, and his.

Your hips roll a steady rhythm and he’s desperate not to spill inside of you, not yet.

He can’t still ride you the way he fantasized while he was at the hospital, not when his ribs are still on the mend and Dr. Orwyle hasn’t given him a full bill of health; not that he complains with your breasts in his face and your delectable cunt strangling his cock.

His hands grab your hips in a desperate vise, he’s dangling upon the precipice, begging you for permission with a strangled voice. He only needs your breathy command to lose himself in your depths, you following with a long moan of pleasure.

You grab the headboard to keep yourself upright and not fall on a still healing Aegon: who would have thought that the king of fratboys could be so good in bed? A giver, bruised ribs notwithstanding?

“Have I hurt you?”

You curl against his side, too afraid of harming his ribs to lay on his chest the way you desire.

Aegon needs a second to collect his scattered thoughts, the way you fucked him has scrambled his remaining brain cells.

“Never been better.” He answers, with a dreamy smile.

While falling out of the window, he truly thought he was going to die, again, after having discovered his own killer.

He had been close to death, with broken ribs and a punctured lung, a concussion that had scared the surgeons and kept him in ICU for far too long: he’s lucky he’s made it out of the blasted time loop, alive and with you by his side.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Do you need your vape?”

“No, wait.” Slowly he sits more comfortably against the ridiculous amount of pillows you’ve provided him since he’s moved to your place.

His room at the Frat House is not a crime scene anymore, having been analyzed while he was still in hospital, yet he couldn’t force himself to set foot in there, not while he’s still trying to come to terms with all the violence he’s been through.

“You made a face when you first saw me vape.”

“I didn’t!”

“Not now. During a time loop.”

You pop your head on your hand to look better in his eyes.

“We lived lives together, and I remember none of that!”

“You said something like that…”

“During a time loop. You told me that.”

When you received the call from the paramedic, alerting you that Aegon was hurt and that he was refusing help, if the guy didn’t call you, you felt like something had snapped into place.

It had been a peculiar sensation, as if the hours building up to the phone call were gray and dull, your life more lively and bright after you closed the call and ran to the Frat House.

Initially you had thought it was the adrenaline kick you received at the news that Aegon was badly injured, then, when he told you about the time loop, your mind kept wandering to a Stephen King’s novella, The Langoliers: if you had to use that story as a metaphor, you felt like the characters after they managed to leave the airport in the past: alive. Which makes no sense to your scientific mind, yet, since no one has ever managed to create a time loop in a controlled setting, who are you to say that the days lived in that situation can’t feel dull and hackneyed?

Aegon’s phone rings again and you grab it for him.

“It’s Aemond, again!”

“Is he afraid we will not make the date with him and his girl?”

“Probably. I've always been shit at family functions.”

Aegon cracks a smile: he’s trying to steer his life in a better direction, and nurturing his relationship with his siblings is part of that goal.

You observe him with a smile on your face: despite being in different year groups, you share a philosophy class with his younger brother Aemond; you had actually butted heads with him on more than one occasion and on topics far too inane for two people who are simply minoring in that field. 

You still think the younger Targaryen is a pompous assholes most of the time, but you like his girlfriend and only the Mother knows how much you need support to navigate the mess that’s the Targaryen family!

When Aegon ends the call, you kiss the tip of his nose and he smiles at you as if you hanged the sun and stars in the sky. According to him, you were the reason he managed to stay sane during his onslaught, giving him advice and being supportive, even though your memory resat itself with every loop.

“I need to get ready.” Aegon tells you after a moment. “I need to go see my therapist in an hour. Would you be happy if we met up at the restaurant? I don’t want to be lectured on punctuality again.” He huffs.

You are so proud of him for trying to stick to the plan of self improvement he’s decided for himself. 

He still bitches when you force him to sit down and do some actual studying, instead of relying on his family name to pass his classes, but you’ve noticed how different he is, compared to the fratboy you had always seen on campus. Despite almost dying (or dying too many times), he appears happier, more focused and not just trudging through life, the way you had always seen him.

“No problems.” You stand up, gloriously naked. “Come. I think I need to finish rewarding you for completing your studies for this week.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

Gods he’s hard already, the endorphins being thousands of times better than any pain relief he’s been prescribed.

“Follow me under the shower and you shall find out.”

[gators-aid]

decode (pt. 4) - toji f. x reader

masterlist

part three. | part five.

you and toji fushiguro have been in an on-again-off-again relationship all throughout high school. over the summer break after graduation, you find out you're pregnant. too bad toji has already skipped town after your last breakup.

tags: fem!reader, cheating, mention of spiking drinks (nothing happens, just mentioned in passing), americanized setting, non sorcerer universe, 00's setting, reader is megumi's mom, exes to lovers (eventually), their relationship is toxic rn, not beta read we die like toji :(

wc: 2.7k

If you had to admit it, you were getting a little sick of house parties. Sure, they were fun once you got fucked up, but the aftermath wasn’t always worth the temporary thrill. 

There was one time where Toji had to physically carry you out of the bathroom of some girl’s house. If you were being completely honest, you couldn’t exactly remember her name. Since you two had started going to parties together, he had stopped drinking all together so he could keep an eye on you. It was a little embarrassing to fake the flu to your mother when you woke up hungover the next day. 

Hakari’s parties were cool, sure, you always felt safe at his house, but that’s typically because you had Toji there with you. Not many creeps were willing to try and spike your drink when a big mass of darkness lingered around at all times. Going alone (with Utahime) for the first time in months was a little daunting, but you had a plan.

An immature, potentially incredibly damaging plan, but a plan nonetheless. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Utahime had said when you explained it to her. She looked just a little concerned. You thought she was exaggerating a bit, but when you caught Shiu’s eye from across the room that night, you understood. 

It would be worth it, you had convinced yourself.

It only took a couple of drinks for Shiu to be all over you. You knew if he was here, Toji was sure to be nearby, but you hadn’t seen him all night. The two of you danced together in Hakari’s living room, lips unnaturally close and bodies in contact at almost every possible surface. 

You would never necessarily say you were attracted to Shiu, he was just your boyfriend’s friend to you. Always in your peripheral, sometimes tagging along with you and Toji. Usually, you were too wrapped up in your boyfriend to even notice he was there. Frankly, you didn’t think about him much at all. If he had paid any attention over the past couple of months, he would know that too. But maybe he had thought about you quite a bit, because it was almost too easy to get under his skin.

A touch here, a brush of the lips there, a few drunken stumbles into his chest, and boom. The night found the two of you making out in the same closet Toji had kissed you in for the first time. It was almost like desecrating a sacred temple. The cramped closet full of Hakari’s parent’s winter coats and a giant vacuum cleaner in the corner should’ve stayed a holy ground, but you wanted not only to hurt Toji, but to erase any memories you had of him.

Would this work? Probably not. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You had planned to sleep with Shiu that night, and you planned to make Toji know about it as soon as it happened. You and Shiu exited the closet, going to make a trip upstairs, to a bathroom, or maybe even the back of his car. You held his hand lightly in yours as you led him out. 

The whole time you couldn’t help but compare the two men. Toji’s hands were larger and more calloused. His lips were slightly fuller with a dry patch where his scar crossed over. Toji was a lot more intense, that intensity translating into a passionate exchange whenever you two were together. 

You didn’t care much for Shiu. Sure, you felt bad to be using him like this, but you weren’t concerned about his feelings right now. 

You were only focused on yourself and your conquest for revenge. 

The two of you made your way down the hallway, squeezing past drunk teenagers and squealing couples. That’s when you saw him. 

The whole night you had been wondering where he was. You knew he had to be here if Shiu was, but he had eluded you. Earlier, during a particularly spiteful thought, you wondered if he was upstairs with another girl, fueling your rage. 

There he was, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen and staring right at you. 

Fuck. He was just a little bit scary. 

You had never seen his face like that. It was completely blank, but you could see the rage simmering under his eyes. You could see the way his hands gripped his forearms where they were crossed across his chest. All the indicators of his rage were incredibly subtle, but something about him seemed to warn of danger.

You felt Shiu’s hand fall from your grasp, could hear him ruffling his clothes behind you, probably adjusting his shirt that you had grasped in your hand earlier. 

This is what you wanted, so why didn’t you feel accomplished? Why couldn’t you bring yourself to smile in his face and continue on with Shiu? 

“Y/N!” Someone yelled over the music. Utahime. You finally broke eye contact with Toji to look at her bounding toward you. 

“Come with me, I wanna dance!” She grabbed your wrist and dragged you away, stumbling along as the two of you moved toward the living room. But she didn’t go toward the living room, instead taking you to a downstairs bathroom, cutting the line to bring the two of you into a private area. 

“Shit, are you okay?” She asked omce the door was closed, suddenly sounding a lot more sober. You want to reply yes, tell her that you got what you wanted without even having to sleep with Shiu, but instead you felt your hands start shaking. 

“I thought I should step in, that shit looked intense. He scared me a little bit.” She said nervously, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear and pulling on your shirt to straighten it out. 

“Yeah,” your voice cracked, “I’m okay.” She smiled at you sympathetically. “You ready to go?” She asked. 

You were, but you didn’t want to ruin Utahime’s night because of your drama. 

“No, no! I told you I’m fine!” You heard someone banging on the bathroom door, clearly not happy that the two of you had cut the line. “Let’s get back out there.” 

Toji and Shiu were gone from their spot in the hallway. You didn’t know what exactly you expected. Maybe for them to be locked in a staredown in the same spot, maybe beating the shit out of each other in the kitchen, but there was no sign of either of them. 

“Saoriiiii!” You heard Utahime yell. She grabbed your hand and pulled you with her to the living room, the designated spot for dancing. 

It felt like your ears were ringing, you were too aware to be this close to the speakers and surrounded by this many people. You could feel a deep anxiety start to pool in your gut, your fingertips starting to feel tingly. 

“I’m gonna go get something to drink!” You yelled at Utahime, not looking back to see if she had heard you. 

The walk to the kitchen felt longer than it should have. Would Toji be lingering around in there? Would Shiu? You definitely didn’t want to see him right now.

Neither of them were. The kitchen was almost completely empty except for one person. Takako.

Shit. You’d rather not see her either. She looked at you over the rim of her cup. She had to slightly look down at you, as her seat on the kitchen counter placed her about a head taller than you. You tried to ignore her as you sorted through bottles of liquor, trying to find something that wasn’t empty or filled with questionable liquids or cigarettes. You intentionally put your back to Takako, hoping she would just ignore you.

“You’re a real selfish bitch, you know that?” That makes you pause. No way she seriously just said that. 

You turned around to look at her, preparing yourself for conflict. You didn’t think Takako was the type to physically fight, but people are a little different when they’re drunk. What you see is not what you expected. She’s crying. 

“You have,” she pauses to take another drink from her cup “everything I’ve ever wanted,” You squeeze the neck of a bottle in your hand. “and you just throw it away. Like nothing.” 

She’s not seriously talking about Toji, is she? “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Is what you decide to reply with. 

“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” She hops down from the counter and crosses the kitchen to approach you. “I can’t even get him to look at me now.” She says. From here you can see just how miserable she looks. Her eyes have deep bags, her mascara is running down her cheeks and her lips are bitten raw. 

That sets you off. “You can get him to fuck you, though.” You say bitterly. 

She laughs. “You’re the one who has no idea what she’s talking about.”

You grip the bottle harder. “What, so you didn’t sleep with him? Do you think I’m stupid?” You don’t have the energy for this. You need to get out of here. 

“I sleep with him one time when we’re both drunk, and then the next day he won’t even respond to my texts. I try to talk to him in person and he looks at me like I disgust him. I can barely get him to look me in the eye.” She’s swaying slightly with every word, clearly very drunk. You know this is the kind of information you couldn’t torture out of someone like Takako. 

“His bad attitude toward you isn’t my problem. He slept with you of his own free will. I can’t control how he acts afterwards.” She sighs and throws her empty cup onto the ground. “You just don’t fucking get it. I would do anything to be in your spot right now, to be with him.” She laughs, “and you get to go fuck Shiu when you have him sitting here fucking waiting for you.” She must have seen the exchange between you and Toji earlier, but she won’t even say Toji’s name. 

“You don’t know what it’s like to be cheated on, clearly.” 

“I have an idea.” 

“What the hell is your point in telling me this?” You finally ask.

She sighs. “Hm.. I don’t know.” She throws her head back and looks at the ceiling. “Appreciate what you have.” You scoff at that. 

“I’m done talking to you.” You say. You should probably have taken up Utahime’s offer to leave early. This is way too much.  “Take it as a win that he doesn’t want you. He brings nothing to the table but misery.” You say.

“I think we both know that's not true.” She retorts. 

You unclasp your hand from the bottle you’ve been holding and leave the kitchen.

A week goes by before he shows up at your window. School had been uneventful. Takako had stopped giving you looks everytime you passed each other in the hall. Toji hadn’t made another appearance. You seriously wondered how he got away with missing so much school.

This time, you’re fresh out of the shower after work, towel drying your hair when a tap on your window makes you jump out of your skin. You can see him standing there, waiting for you to come over and open the window. Usually he would push the window open himself. You still hadn’t locked it back, you refused to acknowledge why that might be. 

You stand there for just a second, contemplating what to do. Ultimately, it was a no-brainer, you walk over and open the window. You don’t move to allow him in, just standing in front of the window to see what he has to say. 

“Hey.” Is all you get. 

“Hi.” 

Something rustles in his hands, you can’t see beyond the stool of the window. He pulls up a bouquet of flowers. They’re slightly wilted, and have clearly been out of water for a couple of days. 

“I, uh, I wanted to bring you this… flowers…” He says awkwardly.

You take them from him through the window. “Thanks.” You say, not offering anything more. The two of you stand there for a second, not saying a word. 

“Can we talk?” He asks. You’re getting some serious deja vu. 

You bite your lip. What is it with you and losing all sense of logic whenever he’s around? How can you be so clear headed and (reasonably) rational up until he comes back.

“Sure.” You move aside and let him climb in. This time, you walk to your door and lock it before your mom can come bursting in again. You look into your mirror to continue drying your hair. He sits at the foot of your bed, facing you so that you can see him through the mirror. 

“You look nice.” He says. You look at him in disbelief. You’re out of the shower looking, in your opinion, like a wet dog. Your shirt is wet from the dampness of your hair and your eyes have deep bags under them. “Is this what you came to talk about?” You ask. 

“You know what I want to talk about.” 

“If you’re here to argue I’m not in the mood, Toji. I’m tired.” You’re sure to keep your voice down. 

He doesn’t look as scary as he did the last time you saw him. He almost looks shy. 

“I’m not either, mama. Just wanna talk. Seriously.” 

You throw your towel onto your dresser and sit down at the head of your bed, causing Toji to scoot closer so the both of you can continue to talk quietly to each other. That's what you tell yourself, at least. 

“I’m sorry.” Is the first thing he says, and you feel your heart drop to your ass. This is the first time he’s ever apologized for anything. You didn’t think those words were even in his vocabulary. Your shock must show on your face, because he grimaces. 

“I don’t have an excuse. I regret it every day, though.” It’s a lackluster apology, you definitely shouldn’t accept it. He can’t just show up here with day-old flowers and expect everything to go back to normal. 

But you start to feel the tears pool in your eyes. Can feel your heart clenching in your chest. You miss him. Bad. You had never been attached to someone like you are to Toji. Never felt so strongly about anyone in your life. You just want to hold him again. 

“I, um, I’m sorry too.” Is all you say, though. “About… Shiu.”

He nods at that. 

“I know you said you don't have an excuse,” you say, picking at your nails, “but can you at least tell me why?” you ask. 

There's a pause. 

“I was drunk, and she was there.” Is all he says. Ouch. That doesn’t hurt at all. All you can do is grit your teeth and nod, too scared to say something you might regret later. 

When you get older and wiser and you look back at this time, you’ll know it’s because it was all becoming too much for Toji. He was getting too close to you, letting you in just a little more than he expected. He wanted to push you away, wanted you to leave him before it hurt him too bad. Didn’t think he was deserving of anyone’s affection, let alone yours. So he wanted to hurt you before you could hurt him. 

And then he never got the call to come pick you up from work that night. And he waited for hours, hoping you had just gotten held up, until he decided to drive over and all the lights in the diner were off, and his heart dropped. That’s when he realized he was already in too deep to lose you now. And he had went ahead and fucked it up anyways. 

“Can we call it even?” He asks. 

You purse your lips. “Well, I never slept with Shiu, so not exactly.” 

He moves closer to you, taking your hand in his and biting his bottom lip. “Really?” he asks, not looking you in the eye. You nod. 

He lets out a laugh that sounds like a single breath, he's relieved. You almost wanna punch him in the face, but you don't, you grip his hand a little tighter. Idiot. 

That was the first time you forgave Toji Fushiguro for something that should be unforgivable. The first time you let him worm his way back into your life with little to no resistance, and it would not be the last. 

last flashback chapter! we get back to megumi in the next part :)

thank yall for all the love! send me asks & requests im BEGGINGGGGGG i need validation.

comment to be added to the taglist

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[theharddeck]

i was supposed to sweat you out (rooster x f!reader)

pairing: bradley rooster bradshaw x fem!reader (no y/n)

synopsis: reader is totally not jealous that her FWB is being hit on at the hard deck.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI: spitting, unprotected sex, non negotiated breeding kink—friendly reminder this is a work of FICTION oh my god use protection and communicate explicitly with your partner beforehand please please please-- explicit PiV sex, a bit of dumbification, m!receiving oral sex

A/N: help i blacked out and wrote almost 4k of rooster smut who even am i listen, i also know it's not original, but i wanted to write frantic territorial sex and this is where it got us. also...don't think too hard about the parallels between this and can't unfeel that okay i'm too repressed to process tysm also yes title is from glitch by TAS

You weren’t jealous. 

Jealous was for people with feelings, and if you had feelings about fucking your team lead, then you were stupid, in addition to giving Uncle Sam everything he needed to court martial you. 

So, no, you weren’t jealous. 

But the tightness in your stomach as a girl sat next to Rooster on the piano was awfully uncomfortable. 

She wasn’t even out of line, that was the worst part. She looked nice, she looked like a decent human, and she was pretty, if you were into the girl next door kinda look. 

Which Rooster historically was. 

She was sitting at a perfectly respectful distance, her sundress was a perfectly respectful length, her face was open and curious and pure and it made you want to stomp over to the piano in the middle of the Hard Deck, and rub yourself all over Bradley’s hawaiian shirt until he remembered that as pretty as she was, he liked himself around you better.

You made yourself look away, tipping your wrist so the soda water and ice remaining in your glass rattled around.

He wasn’t yours. 

You knew he wasn’t, just like you knew jealousy was irrational, but it was hard because sometimes…sometimes he acted like it though. 

Like when you nearly passed out from cramps and he’d brought over a spare set of sheets while he washed yours, and then wedged himself around you in your tiny bed, so you could know you weren’t alone in the pain. Or when he left a lemon lavender cupcake in your locker, even though no one was supposed to know it was your birthday, because you hated the way people made a big fuss out of nothing. Or the way he looked up at you, awestruck and beautiful, every time you came on his fingers, sobbing his name. 

You set your glass down on the bar, louder than you intended, but suddenly everything seemed loud. You didn’t have to stay here, in fact, you needed to get out. Out of the Hard Deck, away from the bright lights and happy people being happy, and no one moping over their fuckbuddies who definitely didn’t have feelings for them–

When the back door opened, you breathed in deep, cool air rushing off the sea and over you and bringing a momentary reprieve. The door swung shut behind, and as it closed, the din of the bar muted, and you let that breath out slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself. You just needed a minute, a moment to calm the hell down, and forget about the distracting man at the piano whom you had no business being distracted by.

You heard the door creak open behind you and you tipped your head back to glare at the universe at large, because without turning around, you knew exactly who had come outside after you. 

“Hey,” Bradley’s voice was just gentle enough to make your heart clench, because it wasn’t his fault that he was so impossibly kind, it had you falling in love with him, “you okay? You ran out of there pretty quick.”

“I’m fine,” you said, sounding just as prickly as you felt, pushing down any sense of flattery that he’d been aware of your presence, and your leaving. 

“You sound fine,” Bradley said cheerily, coming to stand beside you. You wanted to laugh with him because you both knew you were being dramatic, but you also wanted to shove him like you were 5 on a playground, too full of big feelings to know how to handle them. 

“I said I’m fine, Bradley,” you bit out. “Go back inside, okay, I’m fine.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when you looked over at him, you knew it was a mistake. He was watching you carefully, his brown eyes focused and concerned, a divet in the middle of his forehead where his brows were squished together, making him simultaneously the cutest and hottest, and also the most annoying, for being so handsome while he was clearly worried. 

“Honey, we gotta talk about it–” he started, but the endearment broke something inside of you, the way he said it like he meant it, like this was real. 

“I’m not your honey, Bradley,” you snapped, turning to face him fully. “We’re friends, right, that was the whole deal, so let’s not pretend like–”

Something flashed in Bradley’s eyes and a moment later his large hands cupped your face as he crashed into you, kissing your gasped breath out of you. 

It wasn’t your fault your knees nearly buckled. 

It wasn’t your fault that the hands you meant to push him away with instead curled into the material of that stupid technicolor shirt, pulling him closer to you. 

It wasn’t your fault that he tasted like heaven, like rum and coke and intoxicating, and months of habit had you chasing his taste with your tongue. 

You didn’t realize you were walking backwards until your back hit the outside wall of the Hard Deck, and still Bradley covered you. His neck was bent at a horrible angle to meet your lips, but he didn’t seem to mind, melding his body into yours, pressing into you with a familiar urgency. 

His tongue traced over your lips and you opened for him, a whimper escaping you when Bradley hummed with appreciation. His hands slipped from your face to behind your head, his knuckles protecting your head from the scrape of the brick wall, and he rocked into you before pulling back. 

You felt his breath against your lips and you opened your eyes slowly, needing a moment before you could focus on him. 

Christ, he was just so pretty. 

Hair unruly from your fingers, cheeks flushed from kissing you, chest rising unsteadily and his tongue darting out to wet his lips, like a tease. 

“Now,” he said, his voice gruffer than it’d been a minute ago, “are you done riding my dick for something I don’t even know I did wrong?”

It was an expression.

You knew that, of course it was an expression, but Bradley was pressing you into a wall with his demigod body, and he’d said it in that voice, the one you knew how it felt against your skin, so all you could manage was, “Can I?”

For a moment, Bradley looked confused, bless him. 

Then he huffed out a disbelieving breath, like you were too good to be true, lifting a hand from behind your head to rake it through his hair, before looking back at you. 

“You mean that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice somehow even lower. “Out here in the open, you’d let me fuck you?”

You shivered at his words, nodding stupidly, and were rewarded by another kiss. This one was just as unexpected as the first, but Bradley’s lips gentle against yours as he coaxed an answering softness out of you. 

It was too sweet.

Too tempting, too delicious, to let yourself have tenderness that you knew wasn’t real, and you needed to get a hold of yourself, fast. 

Bradley was still being so damn gentle, so it was easy to push his hands away from you, sink to your knees on the sand-covered asphalt outside of the bar. Bradley fell forward, catching himself on the arm braced on the wall, his forehead resting in the crook of his elbow. 

“Honey, you don’t have to–” he started, but his hips bucked forward when your fingers started undoing his belt. 

“I want to,” you told him, meaning it too much to care how breathless your voice sounded. 

Your hand slipped into his pants, palming his length over his briefs and you both groaned softly. He wasn’t fully hard, not yet, but that was better anyways, let you work him up. He was warm, heavy even at half mast, and it took everything in you not to purr when you pulled him out. You looked up at him, tilting your head. 

“Help me out?” you asked coyly, sticking your tongue out, and Bradley’s hips jutted forward again when he realized what you were asking. 

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice a heady mix of arousal and wonder. The hand that wasn’t keeping him from hitting the wall traced down your cheek, ending at your jaw and tipping your chin up. 

You were already salivating and when Bradley spit, you moaned, your thighs clenched together as you drooled your combined saliva onto his cock. Bradley grunted, then whispered something to himself as you smoothed your hand over him, the glide made easier by your spit. Already, you could feel him stiffening, and you readjusted to take him in your mouth. 

It was never a gentle fit. 

Bradley was the kind of thick that he always stretched out your jaw, but, God, did you relish it. As your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, Bradley moaned, the most beautiful sound. You loved how vocal he was, loved how he sounded, how he felt. You tightened your lips, tongue swirling over the tip of him, teasing until you tasted a hint of salt in your mouth, and then it was your turn to moan.  

You tipped your head back, encouraging him to slide him deeper into your mouth, your fist twisting around the portion of his cock that didn’t fit in your mouth. 

“Shit, honey, that mouth…” Bradley gritted, his voice muffled in his arm. The hand that had tipped up your chin went around to your cheek, and his hips shifted again when he could feel you hollowing your cheeks out. 

The motion pushed him deeper towards your throat and you gagged, but kept him in your mouth, soothed by the shaky cadence of Bradley’s breath over you. 

“So damn good for me, aren’t you, honey?” he breathed. “So warm and tight; feels so good…”

Your thighs clenched again, and you felt yourself growing wet as his praise washed over you. You held your breath, determined to take more of him, and Bradley grunted as you pulled on his cock with your hand, feeding him into your mouth. 

“Need more, honey?” he asked, somehow still cocky, though you could hear the tremor of desire in his voice. “God, you love being stretched on my dick, don’t you?”

You moaned instead of nodding, wishing it wasn’t true but also wishing he’d push deeper. Your hands flexed on his thighs, still covered in his jeans, but so thick and warm, even through the denim. Fuck, the size of him was overwhelming–his heavy cock in your mouth, those muscled thighs under your fingers…you held your breath and you let go of the base of him. 

Bradley let out a choked gasp as you took him deeper, your nose brushing his pubic hair as he slid down your throat. You were gonna lose your voice and be so damn sore, but it was worth it for the groan that ripped out of Bradley. 

“Fuck fuck fuck–” he gritted, all cockiness gone as he let go of your cheek, bracing himself against the wall. You knew it was taking everything to not rut into you, and you half appreciated it because you weren’t sure you could take it, but you almost wanted him without restraint, just using you, lost in you. 

You hummed around him, and Bradley made a sound you’d never heard before, like a whine and gasp, and then he was pushing himself off the wall, pulling out of you, and wrapping his hands under your arms, pulling you to your feet. 

“Fuck, honey, you wreck me,” he rasped, kissing you almost angrily. You whimpered as you opened for him, and you felt his tongue sweeping through you, searching for his taste in your mouth. 

You felt so empty, too much air and too little of his cock, and you reached for him between you. You felt him jolt when your hand closed around him, stroking over him, and then Bradley was reaching between both of you, shoving his hand into your underwear. 

“How wet am I going to find you, honey? Bet you’re just drenched aren’t you, just that hungry for my cock–fuck.”

Bradley broke off when his fingers swept into your panties, and you gasped at the glorious contact. 

His fingers were so good, thick and long and calloused just right, and he was absolutely correct: you were all but dripping for him. Bradley pulled his fingers through your folds, pulling your arousal up to your clit and petting gentle circles around it. Your head fell back against the wall at his ministrations, perfect to the point of painful, almost forgetting you held his cock in your hand. 

You tightened your grip around him, and Bradley grunted before he matched your pace with his fingers. You felt your knees shaking, and Bradley wound another hand around your ass, before lifting to brace you against the wall. With your feet off the ground, your balance was entirely dependent upon him, and it brought new pressure to the pattern his fingers were tracing over you. 

His touch was maddening. 

Light and knowing, direct and perfect, enough to drive you wild with pleasure but not to get you there, and he knew it. 

“Bradley,” you whispered against his mouth, begged, and the bastard chuckled, but he pulled his hand out of your panties, just long enough to push them to the side, before pulling his lips away from you. 

“Shit, honey, I don’t have a–”

“In me, Rooster,” you snapped, surprised and yet absolutely not surprised by the fact that your eyes felt full. You were desperate for him, it was embarrassing, but you needed him so damn bad, for reasons you didn’t dare say, and if he waited for something else, you didn’t think you could bear it. “Please, fucking please, I need you–” 

“Shh honey, you’re okay,” Bradley soothed, one of his hands brushing your hair away from your face, a gentle thumb wiping at your eyes. His gentleness made you more desperate, your hips canting towards him. “Are you sure?”

“So sure, please,” you whimpered, your face feeling hot, your thighs shaking. God you were coming undone, like you were just a giant nerve ending that was just need, desperate, hunger, desire. 

“Course, honey,” Bradley soothed, his lips brushing against your cheeks, kissing your tears away, his tongue caressing your skin. “I’ve got you, baby, you’re okay.” 

You didn’t think you were, but then his thick cock was at your entrance and you could’ve sobbed in relief. He was hot, you could feel him leaking and you needed him to be so deep inside you. You tried to work your hips down on him, but Bradley’s grip on you was stern, and you couldn’t coax him any faster.

As it was, it still felt like too much. 

The stretch of him, the closeness, the way he knew just how to soothe you and fuck you and none of it was real and even when he slowly worked you down onto his cock, you were still shaking. 

“Please, please,” you whined, trying to move, and crying out in frustration when Bradley didn’t succumb. “Shit, Bradley, please, fuck me like you mean it.”

He growled, fucking growled, the sexiest sound out of a litany of choices, and Bradley’s hips jerked back before he drove into you. Your head hit the brick wall, he was so perfect and he hit you just right, so good, and almost perfect enough to drown out the thoughts in your head. 

“Like I mean it, huh,” Bradley grunted, pulling out, the drag feeling like suction with how wet you were, how tightly you were clenching around him. “Like I mean it when I say you’re killing me, is that what you mean? Like I’m going insane every second this pretty pussy isn’t tight around me, like I can’t think straight if I don’t have the taste of you on my tongue, or know the taste of me isn’t on yours?”

He punctuated each question with a thrust, fucking the answers out of your head, and all you could think was yes and more and please. 

“Oh you like that, don’t you, baby?” Bradley said, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he lifted you higher up the wall. Your back scraped against the bricks but you didn’t care, you couldn’t focus on anything other than the perfect drag of his cock inside you, so close to you. “I think you like that, I think you like knowing how much you own me, how in my head you are, how even when it’s me filling you. You’re fucking everywhere, all around me, all the time.”

His thrusts pushed you higher, bits of sand and brick grating at your skin and it grounded you, centered you so you didn’t come undone at the words coming out of him. 

You were still thinking too much. 

He was so deep, so good, but you still…you reached for him blindly, one of your hands finding one of his, bringing it to your throat. 

“Fuck, honey,” Bradley groaned, his fingers tightening slightly and you traced your hand down the back of his hands, moaning when you felt the veins on the back of his hand. He didn’t squeeze tight, just enough to remind you he was there, and that he could, and just the thought had a coil tightening in your core, tingles spreading through your toes and fingers. 

“Bradley,” you whimpered, tears squeezing out of your eyes. “Baby, that feels so good, feels like yours, please–”

Bradley moaned into your skin, his lips latching onto your pulse point and sucking, and you keened, your back arching off the wall. The stretch of his cock was pulling your panties across your clit, and the driving press of him inside of you was so good, you could barely hear what he was whispering. 

“Is that what you want, honey?” he whispered into your skin. “Want to be mine? That’s what it feels like, honey, it feels like my pussy is so wet for me, dripping for this cock. It feels like my clit is so swollen, so desperate for attention; it feels like my girl’s gonna come on my hard fucking cock…”

Yes, yes that was what you wanted. 

You were already his, he didn’t know it, but hearing him say it had your mind going hazy, and your thighs trembling. 

“That’s fucking right, baby,” Bradley groaned, “I can feel you clenching down on me, can feel my pussy getting even tighter for me. This doesn’t feel like friends, baby, it feels like my girl’s about to come on my cock. 

You were lost, swimming in a sea of heat and sensation and Bradley’s words and you were pretty sure you were wailing, praying no one in the Hard Deck could hear you, but even if they could, you weren’t stopping. His cock was so deep in you, hitting you just right, and you knew what you needed to cum. 

“In me, Bradley,” you managed, your voice a weak whine. “Need to feel you come, please, fill me up with it.”

“Oh, fuck, honey,” Bradley choked, his hand tightening on your throat and his hips working faster. His pace was bruising, overwhelming, perfect and hard and you felt everything in you winding tighter.

“Of course you want my cum, fucking of course, if it’s my pussy, then that’s where it belongs isn’t it? That’s how you should be, stuffed so fucking full of me, dripping out of you, marked like mine, fucking mine–”

He was groaning, gasping, his hips speeding up and driving into you, and all you could do was take it, like it was what you were made for. You were boneless, euphoric, and when you felt Bradley’s hips stutter and his head drop to between your breasts, your orgasm broke over you. Bradley sagged into you, hips working weakly as he thrust his cum into you, and you felt it everywhere, marking you, like he said. You couldn’t breathe without him, only knew you were still vertical because he was holding you, and you felt so warm, so held, so full. 

His. 

You didn’t realize your eyes had closed until you were aware of Bradley asking you to open them. Your feet were on the ground, even though your legs were like a newborn deer, and your back was braced against the wall. Bradley was bent in front of you, brushing away your tears with the back of his hand. 

“Talk to me, honey,” he said softly, and you heard his voice like an echo, “need to know you’re okay.”

You nodded slowly, which mustn’t have been convincing, because Bradley was still fussing over you, like he hadn’t fucked you halfway into a new religion.  

You knew when he saw your back because of the sound of dismay that burst out of him, and then he was pulling off that damn Hawaiin shirt, brushing gravel off your back while your head hung low between your shoulders, still trying to remember how to breathe. 

Satisfied that he’d at least brushed the grit out of your skin, Bradley draped his shirt over your shoulders, protecting them, before guiding you to lean back. He licked his lips as his gaze tracked over your face, and you watched him convince himself to say something. 

“Did you mean it?” he asked quietly, but this time you heard him more clearly. “Would…would you want that? To be mine?”

It was your turn to stare. 

How could he doubt it? How was there any question? Not only after what you’d just begged him for, but before then, always, he had to know how good he was, and how all anyone wanted was to be in the light of his sunshine. 

“Obviously,” you said, your voice coming out as an alarming croak. “But we can’t, we–”

Bradley hugged you. 

It wasn’t what you expected.

After everything you’d just done, instigated by stop-talking kisses, there was something astonishingly intimate about Bradley wrapping you in his arms, enfolding you in his embrace, and you felt him relax when your arms hesitatingly wrapped around him too. He was warm, smelled like fresh sweat and you buried your face in the soft cotton of his undershirt. He held you tightly, and you thought he might’ve pressed a kiss to the top of your head, but then his hand was smoothing over your back, gentle, comforting. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, softly. “Together, okay?”

You nodded, knowing he could feel it, and he held you impossibly closer. It didn’t solve it. There were still fraternization rules, still some kind of unofficial vetting process you knew Mav and Ice would put you through, not to mention Penny…but as Bradley held you, you let it be enough.

And maybe it was enough, because, as your body hummed with the reminder of it, you were his.

//

tagging: @callsign-fangirl @bradshawsbitch @mxgyver @withahappyrefrain @teacupsandtopgun @lewmagoo @nancyxsorbet @sebsxphia @laracrofted @roleycoleyreccenter @sushiwriterhere @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @callsignvalley @wildbornsiren @hangmanshoney idk most people follow me for hangman and coyote so hope i did okay by roo

[tragedy-of-commons]

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boothill x gn!reader | wc: ~1.4k

Always get your hopes up.

tags/warnings: alcohol mentions and references (reader actually doesn't drink explicitly), romantic tension, ipc cog reader, mental gymnastics, pining in a weird constipated way

notes: this is a request from a lovely ao3 commenter, aqua! "...i'd like to request a Boothill x IPC reader if that's fine?" + i also combined this with a dialogue prompt from @/promptlyprompting!

“You’d be a fool to say no.”

Boothill’s voice remains a coarse drawl that almost sounds scolding. Even if your way of running the show has always been at odds with his, he’s never outright called you a fool of all things. His offer hangs in the air, making the sticky atmosphere of the bar even more unbearable. The bulbous red light fixtures sway overhead as the ringleader of a nearby group slams an animated fist on the counter, licks of crimson fleetingly painting the tops of your heads.

You laugh, drink going untouched as it always does; at the end of the night, when you both fight over the tab, you always surrender yours over to him as a peace offering. Maybe tonight you’ll need to give more than that to appease him. “I’d be a bigger fool to listen to you. You aren’t exactly known for being the most reasonable of the bunch.”

“I don’t extend this opportunity to just anyone,” he reminds you, lips curling into a toothy grin. “To me, it seems like you’re looking for excuses to miss out like you always do. That mind of yours ain’t too rigid for Galaxy Ranger business, y’know. I bet you’d make it work.”

Boothill is weird, that much is apparent, yes, but only he would ask you to join him on his journey, call you a fool, and then compliment your mindset all in the same artificial breath. His audacity is so offensive that it’s a wonder that Lan themself hasn’t struck him down. He gets away with so much - including making you hope for a different future. Including making you hope for a different future with him.

The exterior of the bar is just as cramped and loud as the interior. Visitors modding their vehicles on the outcrop of the main strip—Mechanic’s Haven—shout and drill away at the innards of spaceships, drones, satellites, and whatever else - wayward sparks landing at the feet of shoppers and pedestrians. There’s something to be said about an IPC lackey and a Galaxy Ranger walking into a bar, but he wisely refrains. 

You sigh. “You know I can’t. As fun as chasing pipe dreams with you would be, I’m locked into a contract with the largest corporation in the whole known universe,” you make a point of gesturing to your uniform. “That kind of obligation doesn’t just go away, even if you run from it.”

He snorts, an empathetic little thing. Boothill then pops his hat off and situates it on your head, much to your chagrin. The noise you let out is affronted, the brim of the relic obscuring the better part of your vision. How disgustingly fond of him. “I see where you’re comin’ from, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you to reconsider. You’d be a much better fit here than there.”

(The unspoken words stick to the roof your mouth. You’d be a much better fit with me than with them.)

Part of you agrees. There’s always been a scale in your head that weighs the fairness of each step you take - measuring the footfalls of others in tandem with yours; you know what it is like to have a strong sense of justice that itches to be upheld. Boothill witnessed this side of you firsthand, when the first words you ever spoke to him were something along the lines of: “Leave the freelancers here alone. Those are the prices, and they’re that steep for a reason. Pay him in full or I’ll make sure you’re in need of a few more repairs.”

You’re also aware of the strange role you play in this. Being on the IPC’s payroll, the contractual thing to do was to report the outlaw to your superiors immediately and enjoy the generous bounty on his head, but you didn’t. You didn’t because when you came face to face with the Boothill, you were ambushed with a childlike wonder you hadn’t felt in years, even if your righteous admonishment didn’t reflect it.

Nowadays, this dingy old bar with no name isn’t the same without his wild tales. Mechanic’s Haven isn’t the same without him at your side as you weave through the clusters of people, him poking fun at your job and your unwillingness to turn him in. When he calls you one of the good ones, you begrudgingly call him a pretty stand-up guy. He gets a kick out of that.

This planetary pitstop is growing more suffocating by the minute. You tip the hat upward to let it sit on your head at a higher angle so you can actually see, narrowed eyes trained on your companion. “You think so? And what makes you so sure, huh?”

He makes a show of flexing his fingers before balling the scrapwork appendages into a fist, taking great care in placing it over where his heart would be, if he was not the thing he is now. The look he fixes you with is complicated, layers of something hidden behind that thick accent and the centers of those crosshairs. “Call it a gut feeling. Y’know, as arbitrary,” he enunciates the word painstakingly, “as the universe is, there’s a reason we met. You got what it takes… and I ain’t afraid to shy away from that truth like you are.”

There it is again. “I’m not afraid. I just happen to think before I act.”

Boothill sighs and swipes your drink that’s been collecting dust with a deft hand, knocking it back. He recovers, gaze raking over your form. It isn’t salacious in the slightest, you think, the way he starts at the tip of his hat’s feather to the silver insignia resting over your heart. Maybe his eyes lingered on your lips too, but that could be you injecting something pointless like hope into this relationship that doesn’t need to be there. That seems more likely. 

“A little too much if I do say so myself,” he guffaws, much to the displeasure of the other patrons. He plucks his hat back off your head with something like amusement, returning it to its rightful place. “You’re as stubborn as a mule, but I know when I’ve been bested. Come on, it’s gettin’ late.”

You two don’t fight over the tab this time around, him sliding a generous amount of credit to the barkeep who just looks slightly bewildered at two of his regulars not verbally fistfighting each other like they normally do. The question in his stare makes your cheeks feel hotter than lava, and you walk with Boothill out of the bar without much fuss, greeting the mild night cold. The silence that you share isn’t uncomfortable, but there’s more to be said. You know he wants nothing more than to hear a yes from you, which sends your mental equilibrium into dizzying contention.

Something is not right, and it is your fault.

With an audible swallow, you fight the butterflies in your stomach and nudge his side. The raucous song of Mechanic’s Haven harmonizes with the thrumming in your ears. “Hey.”

He turns to look at you, whistling a tune you can’t place.

“I’ll give it some more thought. Don’t get your hopes up, because becoming a fugitive by association seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth,” you cough.

Boothill beams and it just serves to confuse your internal scale even more. One would think you’re suddenly inorganic with how it feels like you’re short-circuiting. Is this an acute onset of cardiac arrest? Or is it something else you’ve been pushing away for months on end?

He nudges you back. “I knew you’d come around! And the first lesson of being a Galaxy Ranger,” he starts, “is to always get your hopes up.”

Yeah… it’s definitely something else entirely. Something that, in all likelihood, is going to get you into massive trouble. You understand the risks that come with fraternizing with an outlaw, have weighed them heavily against your heart, and have reached only one verdict:

You’ll sleep on it.

(You’ll end up following this cowboy no matter what. Even you, deep down, know that he’s been sticking around the area for way too long, like he’s waiting for something or someone. It just so happened to be you. Dang it all to heck and back.)

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee, @singularity-sam, @harque, @thestarswhisper

[x-gabrielle-x]

Jealousy, Jealousy | Part 1

Parings: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.

Warnings: Mentions/descriptions of sex, masturbation, swearing, manipulation, dub-con.

Summary: Coriolanus Snow is determined to make you his.

Part 2

The first time Coriolanus had seen you; it was during another one of the Covey's performances at The Hob.

He remembers that night vividly, having been stood at the back of the cramped barn and watching on as Lucy Gray sang one of her many songs with joy, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet with every step people took on the dance floor. The music of the band and the laughter that seemed to echo throughout the room caused for a sickly feeling in him. Despite telling himself that he deserved this night off away from his Peacekeeping job, all he really wished for in this moment was sleep and to be alone.

He debated leaving, his feet already shuffling closer to the door until his eyes were suddenly locked on yours.

It was quick and subtle, most likely to be forgotten in the next minute, but it was there. You had been smiling from ear to ear with your skirt waving around your legs as you danced, clapping along to the beat as you flowed your way around the crowd.

It was until the end of the song came that he realized he had been standing there watching you the whole time.

It was when Lucy Gray was tugging on your upper arm and leading you toward him that he finally allowed himself to move, barely managing a light smile when you and Lucy Gray stopped before him.

"I hate to be the one to disturb your thoughts, Coriolanus, but I knew you would've just loved to meet one of my dearest friends," Lucy Gray smiled, a mischievous gleam in her eyes that caught Coriolanus. When his eyes drifted back to you, he found that you were already smiling up at him, the same smile you had worn whilst twirling around the dance floor.

“I’ve heard lots about you, Coryo,” he didn’t fail to notice the mischief behind the tone of your voice, and upon hearing the nickname, a hot flush overcame him.

It was then that Coriolanus knew you would be his. Whether it was your decision or not.

He had made it his mission to chat to you throughout most of the night, drunk on the sound of your laughs and your gaze gleaming back up at him. So innocent, so stupid, and completely oblivious to the rush of blood going straight into Coryo's pants.

That night once he was back in his silly little cot, sure that the rest of the Peacekeepers were asleep, his hands were eagerly pushing down his pants from his waist, a sigh of relief escaping his parted lips as his hand grasped at his throbbing base.

You flashed in his thoughts. Your skin that was soft against his fingers, your breasts that rose and fell with every breath, your pretty mouth that he wished was sucking him in deeply, then your eyes.

He had to stifle a moan by burying his face into the plush of his pillow, brows squinted in concentration and mouth open in a silent 'o'.

With a few more silent pumps, he held in a gasp as he hit his climax, his spend hitting his sheets in a sticky mess.

The next time he had crossed you was when he was on duty in the merchant's section. He was stood beside a wall, gun held securely in his hands as his eyes observed his surroundings. And despite this, despite the loud chatter and occasional children screaming as they were chased by their friends, he still couldn’t get his mind to focus.

He wants to see you again. Needs to.

He wants to feel your presence, smell your scent once again, hear your soft voice.

It was as if the universe had heard his exact thoughts, because he felt his heart leap once he spotted you within the crowd, dirty dress and small bag at your side, observing the many small stalls around you.

He watched as you held up a piece of bread, offering the lady the few coins you had left over and give that darling smile of yours.

Oh, how he loved it.

He was just about to move from his position to get closer to you, until he halted in his tracks.

A man had strode up beside you, gleaming down at you with a wide smile that you gladly returned, and Coryo couldn’t do anything but watch as his lips pressed against yours, sweet and short, but full of love.

No.

He inhaled hard, teeth clenched and averted his gaze, his eyes travelling anywhere by back to you. You were his, and his only. How dare this man - this pathetic poor man - take you from him? How dare you do this to him.

His hold on his gun tightened, yet he kept his composure. Stood back in his original place, his eyes locked onto your interlocked hands with the man he now hated.

You were his, even if you knew it or not.

His thoughts were quickly snapped away when Sejanus nudged his arm, a concerned frown etched into his features.

“You ok, Coryo? You don’t look too good.”

His annoyance was growing. Did it look like he was ok? Could he not just back off him for once? With only a small nod, Coriolanus inhaled a sharp breath.

“I just need a minute. I saw something weird at the back, might check it out,” was all he said before he began to walk off, ignoring the confused look Sejanus gave him.

When Coryo made it to the back of the markets, he found that nobody was there. Only stacks of crates and old broken pieces of wood.

Ripping his helmet off, he ran a hand through his blonde hair and clenched his fists.

It had been a few minutes with him just basking in the silence. He needed this. He needed a break, but still, he didn’t open his mouth once he felt a presence beside him.

Your presence.

You didn’t say anything, obviously aware of the change in his demeanor, yet you stayed at his side. He had to hold back from pulling you in closer when he felt your fingers graze against his arm, and he opened his eyes to meet your own.

“Coryo? You ok?” You asked gently, almost like a whisper as if anybody could hear.

He couldn’t help but to let a small grin escape.

“Fine,” was all he said, watching as your fingers traced up and down his arm in rhythmic patterns.

So oblivious, yet so sweet.

You frowned slightly at his answer, unsure of his response.

“I saw you earlier, I was going to say hi but then you walked off and Sejanus said you seemed... off. I was just checking if everything was alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” he was quick to reassure once again, and he didn't mean the sharpness to his tone.

Your smile slowly lit up, and he swore that if you were to look hard enough, you would have seen how his face went flush, how his eyes flickered down to your lips and back to your eyes, yearning.

He couldn't help but to let the question slip. "Was that your boyfriend I saw over there?"

Your smile only grew, and as much as he loved the sight, he wasn't too pleased on as to why.

"Ryan? Yeah, we've been together for a few months now," you had said, looking over your shoulder to see if he was anywhere in sight. He wasn't.

Coryo nodded thoughtfully. "You looked happy."

Not as much as he could make you.

"Oh yes, I am," you smiled, and tugged on his arm. "Let me introduce you!"

He felt his heart pounding against his rib cage when you tugged on his hand, your hand fitting his perfectly.

Hesitantly, he pulled his arm back and out from your grasp.

"Maybe next time," he brushed you off. "I'm still on duty and I'm not feeling the best at the moment," he lied, hiding the fact that he hoped to just keep distance from the man.

Coryo felt a pang of guilt once your face changed from excitement to disappointment, and he resisted the urge to tug your hand back and tell you he'd come purely just for you.

Then the day came he had been dreading since the beginning. He had absolutely no desire nor intention of bumping into the man - but when Ryan had been pushed into Coriolanus' side at another busy night of the Hob, he couldn't have hated it more.

"You're Coriolanus, right? Y/N's told me heaps about you," Ryan said, his arm outstretching in order to give Coryo a handshake, although Coryo merely glanced down at his hanging hand which he awkwardly retrieved back.

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Look, uh, mate... I'm glad Y/N has somebody else she can come to, but I can't help but think maybe it's a little... too much."

Coriolanus felt a spike of hatred flaring within his chest. Nothing would ever stop him from getting closer to you, even if it were to be your boyfriend.

He continued. "Just thought that maybe we could tone it down a bit? Y/N likes you, and I don't want to take that friendship from her," he finished.

If Coryo didn't hate this guy before, he definitely did now. He swore his blood would boil over if he was left alone with this guy any longer - maybe even get one of Dr Gauls terrifying mutts to get rid of him. But no, she would never approve, despite her sickened mind, and of course he'd never wish your precious eyes to lay on sight of his mutilated body.

He'd just have to do it himself.

It was him who had to tell you the tragic news, and he watched as your eyes welled in tears and your heart ached, your cries and please for your now ‘ex-boyfriend’ to come back to you were filled with emotion. Coriolanus had to resist the satisfied smile forming upon his lips as you clung to him for support, your face buried in the fabric of his uniform and soaking up your warm tears.

Even when you hiccuped and sobbed, he still saw you as beautiful. All his. He let his fingers weave through your hair and whispered reassuring words into your ear… your body was shaking within his grasp, and Corio couldn’t help but love how much smaller your body was compared to his.

Coryo finally had you, and he loved it.

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

[avatar-anna]

Hello! I was wondering if you got a request i sent recently? 🤔 it was about dad!harry with Y/N and the girls having their periods all synced up (if you did and didn’t like it that’s totally fine too!!)

Merry and Bright

Young Dad! Harry x Young Mom! Reader Universe

Merry Christmas from your favorite fictional family! They're all grown up in this one! Enjoy!xx

*.*

When Harry woke up with a small foot in his face, he knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but he was.

He blinked slowly, trying to remember if he and his wife went to bed alone or not. Looking to his side, he saw Y/n sound asleep with her back facing him, a small body in pajamas that matched every member of this family's—cream colored with decorated sugar cookies on them—stretched horizontally across the bed, hence the foot in his face.

Looking at the clock by his bed, Harry's brows raised. It was just after eight, rather late for Christmas morning, though most of the kids were a little older now, and Charlie notoriously slept like the dead despite being five. Still, he expected, maybe even missed, being woken up before the sun came up on Christmas morning because Santa had come and presents had to be opened right away.

Waking up with a little foot in the face or with multiple bodies bouncing on the bed, he wasn't sure which he preferred.

"The morning I don't wake up with a limb in my face could not come soon enough," he grumbled to himself anyway, carefully trying to move his sleeping daughter into a more comfortable position, only to end up with Charlie sprawled across his chest entirely, one hand holding onto a strand of his hair by his ear.

"You should've thought about that before you went and got me pregnant again."

Harry blew out an amused breath. Clearly, Y/n was not as asleep as he thought she was. He tugged a strand of her hair that was splayed across her pillow. "You were all for it at the time."

"I'm not the one complaining about the—Oh," Y/n hissed, her shoulders tensing a little.

Concerned, Harry shifted their still-sleeping daughter in the space between him and Y/n so he could shuffle closer to his wife. He rested a hand on her back and kissed the top of her head. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, just cramps. I'll be fine in a minute," she said as she began to shuffle out of bed.

Harry moved his hand to her shoulder to push her back onto the bed. He handed the five-year-old over to Y/n, who immediately curled into her mother's arms. "I'm sorry, love. Why don't you hold onto this little nugget while I get your heating pad."

"It's okay, H. Everyone will be up soon, and—"

"Let me take care of Christmas waffles. You can come down when Charlie wakes up, okay?"

His love smiled sleepily at him before taking his hand in hers and kissing it. "You're too sweet."

"Remember that the next time you're annoyed with me," Harry said with a chuckle. With a kiss to her forehead, he said, "Merry Christmas, my love," then slipped into a robe and left the room.

After getting Y/n's heating pad and making sure Y/n and Charlie were comfortable in bed, he went about getting his day started. He knew he was in for a long day, so he set out to make their traditional big Christmas breakfast for the whole family—waffles, bacon, cut-up fruit, and hot cocoa. He lit up the Christmas tree and turned on the train track he and Julian had been setting up since Jules was seven years old, ensuring everything was ready for when everyone filed down to open presents. Year after year, Christmas morning began later and later. Honestly, Harry thought he would come to appreciate sleeping in an extra couple of hours, but he often found himself missing the days when all of his babies were living at home and opened Christmas presents at six in the morning.

There were perhaps fifteen minutes of peace before Harry could hear sounds of life upstairs. It was like a small wave, a shuffling of feet and the rush of water as his children began brushing their teeth, then there was the thunderous sound of feet rushing down the stairs as the realization that it wasn't an ordinary morning struck. GiGi and Natalia were the first ones to skid to a halt downstairs, excited smiles on their faces as they beheld the small mountain of gifts under the Christmas tree and the smell of waffles coming from the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas!"

Natalia bounded over to Harry, jumping into his arms. He had a split second to set his batter-covered spoon down to catch her. "Merry Christmas, Peanut. Did you wake everyone up yet?"

"Almost," Geneva said as she picked at the bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. "Simone said we can't wake her up until nine."

"Ah. I see," Harry said, knowing full well that his oldest daughter had been out late with her friends last night. "Well, why don't you go and tell her that I'm going to give away her presents and her waffle if she doesn't come down soon."

Natalia and Geneva grinned devilishly, very much on board with bugging their older sister. They scurried back upstairs, giggling to each other as they did so.

Julian was the next to come down, his light brown hair was wet and curly from his shower, a small frown on his face from the early wake-up call. "Collette threw a shoe at me for taking all the hot water."

Harry knew there was probably more to it than that, so he just ruffled his only son's hair affectionately as Jules passed him by the stove. "Be patient, Jules, they're—"

"Going through a lot, I know," he said, shaking his head a little. "Doesn't mean I had to get a shoe thrown at me for it. On Christmas, no less."

Harry gave Jules a pointed look, not completely buying his son's innocence. At his stare, Julian suddenly found the growing stack of waffles Harry was plating very interesting, a small blush on his cheeks.

As the only two boys in the house, Harry and Jules were often on an island of their own, especially one week each month. Over the years, Harry would take Julian and the little ones out of the house for a couple hours when it felt like the two of them were against the rest of the house. Julian didn't mind the occasional quarreling and mood swings that his sisters displayed as much as other brothers might, but Harry knew that his son's patience had its limits. Especially on Christmas morning.

"Go be the favorite child and take this up to your mum, will you?" Harry said, handing over a plate piled high with food.

Scoffing jokingly, Julian said, "Please. I've always been Mom's favorite."

*.*

Harry didn't normally complain about the state of his home, but right now he felt like he was living in a madhouse. Or a landmine.

The key was understanding what made the girls tick—what their symptoms were, what they typically craved, who had a tendency to cry at the drop of a hat. When it was just Y/n, Harry cuddled her in bed, brought her painkillers, and kissed her whenever she needed him to. And then it was Y/n and Simone, and Harry was caring and understanding toward both of them. And then suddenly he was in a house with five women who all got their period at the same time.

The day had gone rather smoothly so far. Everyone eventually trickled down the stairs to eat breakfast and open presents, and the house was soon flooded with wrapping paper, bows, and discarded gift boxes. Harry smiled from ear to ear the whole time as his kids opened their gifts. Even though he could afford to spoil each and every one of his kids every day of the week, Y/n wouldn't let him. She compromised with birthdays and Christmas, but Christmas was when Harry put out all the stops. All year he would plan and plan, ask for Christmas lists months in advance, and spend hours shopping. Y/n used to sigh exasperatedly at her husband's antics, but in the end, she finally let it go. Christmas shopping was one stressor that wasn't on her plate, and she wasn't going to complain about that anymore.

"GiGi, darling, you have to start getting ready for the recital," he said through the door to his daughter's room. Geneva still got embarrassed about getting her period, and now was definitely one of those times.

"I'm not going!"

Harry sighed but decided to move on for now. Y/n would be able to get GiGi dressed and ready to go better than he could, which stung, but he got over it somewhat after his first two daughters. And there were a number of things he could be taking care of to make sure they got out of the house on time, anyway.

When he got back downstairs, Julian, Y/n, and Charlie were in the kitchen, all dressed in their Christmas best. Y/n was straightening the collar of Julian's dress shirt while Charlie clung to his back. Harry made a beeline for his wife, kissing the back of her head as he snaked a hand around her waist.

"You look beautiful," Harry said softly, his thumb rubbing the silky material of her satin skirt.

"What about me, Daddy?"

Harry looked at his youngest daughter. Her hair was done up in a tight bun, most likely done by Y/n, and she was already dressed in her leotard and tights. The only thing missing was the matching sparkly tutu and snowflake hairpiece, but that would come later.

"You look wonderful," Harry said. "You excited for tonight?"

Charlie nodded excitedly, her broad grin nearly identical to her mother's save the dimples in her cheeks. "JuJu's been helping me with my dance.

"It's nothing," Julian said, who was now holding Charlie on his hip since Y/n was done fixing his dress shirt and doing up his tie. Charlie giggled, which made him offer her a small high-five. They were an unusual pair considering their age difference, but Julian loved doting on his littlest sister. And molding her into his little sidekick. "First ones ready though, weren't we, Charlie?"

Y/n shot Julian a look, knowing he was teasing his sisters. Normally, she didn't mind so much, but there were a lot of ever-changing emotions running through the house currently, and it was easier to keep the peace than put out a fire. To Harry, she said, "The girls are getting dressed. Collette wanted to film, but I made sure she gave herself enough time to be ready otherwise she'd have to drive separately. And Maeve was lacing up her shoes when I checked in.”

Nodding, Harry asked, "Can you go talk to Gi? She's...not eager to leave the house."

"Already on it," Y/n said, ruffling Julian's hair as she walked by, which he immediately swatted.

"Do you want to practice at all before we leave?" Harry asked, turning to the youngest member of his family. He wasn't totally surprised that they were spending their Christmas evening at a holiday dance recital, seeing as this was one in a long line of pageants and concerts, but Charlie seemed the most committed to dance out of all his children, even at just five years old. To Harry, it felt like they'd gone to every match, game, meet, and recital possible. Between the seven kids, there was no sport or extracurricular left unturned, but he was often fond of watching his kids perform on a stage of any kind.

Charlie nodded excitedly, shimmying down from Julian's hip. "I've been practicing really hard!"

"She has. Her pirouette is flawless," Jules said with a serious nod of his head.

"Alrighty, let's see it, peanut," Harry said, kissing her forehead.

It wasn't a long routine. Charlie was five, after all. There was a lot of choreographed walking, a couple turns and leaps, and arms spread out wide and above her head. Harry was sure there would be a handful of mess-ups during the performance, and one child would probably end up crying backstage, but Harry, along with the rest of the Styles clan, would cheer for the youngest member of their family as if they were watching a professional ballet performance.

By the time Charlie finished showing Harry, and Julian her routine, more of the family had found their way downstairs. Simone shuffled around in her slippers, a pair of heeled boots in her hands, Natalia and Geneva trailing behind her with matching French braids in their hair, Y/n bringing up the rear. Geneva seemed to be in much better spirits than when Harry spoke to her, which he could only be thankful for. He and his wife were a team after all, and they didn't keep score on parental abilities and duties. Not anymore, anyway, but it had all been in good fun.

"Collette's just finishing up Maeve's hair," Simone said, going over to stand by her brother.

"Perfect," Harry said, checking his watch, a brand new gift from Y/n. There was an inscription on the back with the date, which nearly made Harry cry when he saw it. To my greatest love, it read, with seven little Xs to represent each of their children. "We're right on schedule."

"Since when have we ever followed a schedule?" Simone asked.

"You haven't heard? Dad's gone full-on dance mom," Julian said. "All the other moms in Charlie's class are in love with him because he stays and watches her rehearsals every week."

Simone's brows raised, no doubt a tease for her father poised on her lips, but Harry was quick to interject. "That's not true!"

"It's a little true, baby," Y/n said, coming over to kiss him on the cheek. Even in his late thirties, her husband was undeniably handsome. She'd given up on having feelings about people openly oggling her husband years ago. She knew Harry would never be interested in anyone else. They could look, but never touch, and that was enough for Y/n. "But you're still the best dance-dad ever."

"We're ready!"

Collette and Maeve bounded down the stairs curled to perfection as it bounced with each step. Harry noticed that Collette was wearing an old sweater from his closet, probably one she'd nabbed while he was on a trip, but he decided not to comment on it. He saw the look on his wife's face, though. Y/n's expression was soft as if she was recalling a memory from years ago.

Squeezing her hand once, Harry began ushering everyone out of the house and into the car. Two cars, actually. Driving separately was a common occurrence when the family was all together. Y/n and Harry learned rather quickly that arguments were less likely to break out if the kids weren't packed together in the back seats like sardines. So Harry and Y/n took the twins and Charlie in one car, and Simone drove Collette, Geneva, and Natalia in the other.

Harry sometimes couldn't quite believe that his little girl was in college, let alone driving on her own places. In a lot of ways, Harry and Simone had grown up together as he learned how to become a father at such a young age while simultaneously trying to raise a baby with Y/n. He'd grown up wanting to give his daughter the world, and as he watched her slide into the front seat of her car, one that she bought with her own money after saving up for the last couple years, smiling and laughing at something one of her younger sisters said, he could only hope he'd fulfilled that wish.

Later on, Harry was backstage with Charlie. Her snowflake headpiece was an immovable force on her head, her cheeks sparkled with a little glitter that all the other little snowflakes were wearing as part of their costume, and her white tutu sparkled under the lights of the school auditorium they were in. Charlie had a small pout on her face as she shifted nervously from foot to foot, her big eyes wide as the nerves settled in.

"You're gonna do great, peanut," Harry assured, his gaze level with hers as he knelt down on the floor. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but you're the best ballerina here."

"Really?" A small smile threatened to break through Charlie's nervous frown, and Harry knew she would be ready to go out and perform any minute now.

"Really," he promised, kissing her cheek. Charlie's cheeks had been adorably round when she was a baby, but most of the baby fat had disappeared now that she was a little older, but Harry still thought she would be the cutest, most talented dancer out on that stage tonight. "And even if you do mess up, or if you forget a step, I'm still gonna be so proud of you. We all will be. Okay? If you get nervous out there, look for me."

"Okay, Daddy."

Harry figured Charlie was as ready as she'd ever be. "Alright then. Give your dad one last squeeze."

Charlie lept into Harry's arms, squeezing him for all she was worth. He held her close, careful not to smush the glittery tutu between them. Only letting go when she began to wriggle around in his arms, Harry stood up and walked Charlie to where the rest of the little snowflakes were standing as they waited to go onstage. She wouldn't let him leave until the very last minute, only letting go of his hand when her dance teacher it was nearly time for them to start. Harry gave her one last kiss on top of her head before heading to his seat where the rest of his family was waiting.

It was a good turnout. His and Y/n's parents were in the row behind Y/n and the kids, along with one of Harry's old bandmates who happened to be in town for the holidays. Harry didn't get to see them as much as he would've liked these days, but he knew that any of them would drop any and everything for his kids. Just a few years ago, they all showed up for Simone's high school graduation.

"Everything okay back there?" Y/n asked as Harry settled down in his seat.

He took her hand in his and set it in his lap, his thumb grazing over hers absentmindedly. "Should be. Gave her a pretty good pep talk if I do say so myself."

Y/n scoffed playfully, knowing full well that Charlie was one hundred percent a "daddy's girl." Before she could say anything, though, Harry's mother leaned forward in her seat to ask about their post-recital dinner plans, and shortly after that, the lights dimmed and the performances began.

When it was done, the small section dedicated to Charlie's biggest fans cheered loudly, not caring that phones were turned in their direction or that they were maybe being too loud for a kindergarten dance recital. None of that mattered to Harry as Charlie beamed at them from the stage as she took a final bow, waving at her family excitedly.

At the end of the night, as Harry and Y/n got into bed, he couldn't help but grin at another perfect Christmas completed. It was off to an unusually slow start, and there was definitely potential for tears and arguments, but he couldn't have been more pleased by how everything turned out.

There was a time when even though Harry loved Christmas with Simone, then Simone and Collette, and so on, he somewhat mourned the idea of a Christmas with just Y/n. Because they had their daughter so young, he and Y/n never had the opportunity to enjoy the holidays just by themselves. It would've been nice, but Harry wouldn't change his experiences for the world, and he eventually didn't even want to think about what Christmas without his family looked like. Those memories were too precious to regret or want to change, and he knew Y/n felt the same.

"Another perfect Christmas for the books," he said as he climbed into bed next to Y/n, just half of their family Christmas pajamas on. He tended to do away with a shirt if he thought he and Y/n could get away with sleeping by themselves without any midnight intruders.

"Mm. I'd say so," Y/n agreed as she snuggled up to Harry's side. "Charlie was so good tonight, wasn't she?"

Harry's heart swelled with pride at the thought of his daughter's performance tonight. "Definitely a career there if she wants one."

"Easy there," his wife chuckled. "She's only five."

Harry merely nodded, but he was already thinking about the future Charlie's talent could give her. He didn't care if that did make him somewhat of a "dance mom," he just wanted his kids to be happy, and if a dance career was what Charlie wanted, then Harry would do everything he could to help her get there.

"I do have one more gift."

"Really?" Harry couldn't think of anything else he could possibly need, but he watched curiously as Y/n shuffled away from him to root around her nightstand for something. When she found it, she sat up to face him better.

With wide eyes, Harry stared as she opened up a small velvet box, a sleek metal band inside it. He couldn't even form words as he looked at it, eyes suddenly welling up with tears he didn't want to shed until Y/n explained.

"Maybe I should've done this at dinner tonight with our parents and the kids, but I wanted this moment to just be ours," she said, cheeks turning a little pink. "I—I know we're already married, but that was seventeen years ago, H. Can you believe that?"

"I don't know where the time's gone," he breathed. They were the first words that came to mind.

"Time flies when you get me pregnant six times," she teased, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. Her thumb moved across his skin, wiping away a tear he didn't even realize had fallen. "But I just thought now that our family is officially complete. And I really do mean that. We could renew our vows or something. Usually that sort of thing is reserved for special anniversaries, but the timing feels right, and I found out I was pregnant when I was seventeen, so—"

"It's perfect," Harry said.

Y/n looked up at him nervously, as if he would've disagreed for some reason. "Really?"

"Yes, Mama. This is—This is the best gift you've ever given me. Outside those precious little humans in our house right now," Harry said, adding the last part as an afterthought. "I can't think of a better way to end my Christmas."

Harry let Y/n slide the ring onto his finger. Y/n had had a small band for a long time now, an anniversary gift to commemorate their small wedding all those years ago. Harry couldn't wear one at the time because their relationship, along with the rest of his family, was a heavily guarded secret, and a band on his left ring finger would draw way too many questions.

But their relationship wasn't a secret anymore, and while they did their best to stay out of the limelight, Harry had no problem with wearing the ring. He would get something for Y/n too. He'd always wanted to get her a big ring, one that signified just how much he loved and appreciated and admired her, both as his partner and the mother of his children. Now was the perfect opportunity.

"You really outdid yourself this year, Mama," Harry murmured, sliding a hand into her hair to cup one side of her face.

"Would you believe me if I told you that I was partially drawn to the idea after thinking we could have a honeymoon afterward?" she said, a small smirk on her face.

"You've really thought this through, huh?"

Y/n kissed Harry on the lips. A peck, really, and he suddenly needed much more. "Mmhm. Want to hear the details now or later?"

Later, definitely later, Harry thought, but he opted to just kiss his wife instead.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Everyone's ages:

Harry: 39

Y/n: 39

Simone: 20

Collette: 17

Twins: 16

Geneva: 12

Natalia: 11

Charlie: 5