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yanderenightmare · 6 months ago

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♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air.

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you.

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm.

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed.

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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ambros1an · 8 months ago

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sunday x reader - halovian courtship

warning: no spoilers, gn! reader, pining/soft sunday, Sunday info dumping as usual

summary: where Sunday will do everything except confess, and you just think he’s emotionally stunted.

a/n: i read about birds for this

halovian courting rituals

1. Gift giving. Like their close bird companions, Halovians participate in 'nuptial gifts,' a form of gift giving to a potential partner.

You were walking into the Oak Family Headquarters, Dewlight Pavilion, sent to deliver some letters. Although, you’ve been here before, it was still a bit nerve wracking to be in such a place, undetached from your usual position as a lower end employee.

The entrance to Oak Family Head’s office was right in front of you. You bite your lip, shifting the documents to your other arm and knock.

“Nightingale Famil-“

The door swings open. The family head holding the door stands to the side.

“Ah,” Sunday says your name, “it’s you.”

Your eyes widen, blinking a couple times. He remembers me?

“Yes, it’s nice to see you again Mr. Sunday. I’ve come with documents from the Nightingale family detailing a new plan for the dreamscape.”

He looks a bit disappointed?

He chuckles, then calls out to a lone employee, “you’re dismissed for today, I’ll take care of the rest.”

The Oak employee dips his head and leaves. Watching him leave fills a pit in your stomach.

“Mr. Sunday, is something wrong?”

Sunday sits up suddenly, “Oh, no. Not at all.” It’s that movement that makes you realize that he’s been fidgeting with something in his lap…Is he always like this?

“I guess I was just a bit surprised,” he smiles, looking down to the side. You caught him.

“Surprised? To see me?” Although Sunday and you have met a few times. It was always business, just like now—well maybe he did stare a bit intently at you before, but something really was different this time!

He looks up and sheepishly slides a box across the table. “Take it as…being a good part of The Family.”

For a few moments, your eyes set upon him. What is he planning? It’s a small box. Almost nothing could fit in there. You lift the top up.

You gasp. Earrings worth more than your entire life’s salary. You slam it shut.

“M-Mr. Sunday. This really isn’t necessary. I just—“ you ramble on. Sunday places his gloved hand on yours.

“Please, take it.”

Looking into his eyes, you realize that putting up a fight with the Oak Head won’t get you anywhere. You reluctantly take the box.

2. Preening. Similar to nature, touching a Halovian's wings is an intimate gesture to show one's interest in a romantic partner. Someone should never touch a Halovian's wings without asking!

Soon after, you come across Sunday again. This time at the Nightingale Family’s institution. You were putting away blueprints, plans and documents your coworkers left laying around haphazardly. When a familiar voice calls out to you.

“Good evening. Working hard, I see.”

“Mr. Sunday?”

He approached you, then looked around the room. He seemed to realize the situation you were in and scorned your coworkers. He mumbled something about you and moving to the “Oak Family.” As he spoke his wings were fluttering. They looked smooth and soft.

“You’ve been staring at my wings. Do they interest you that much?” He chuckles.

“Well, they are very pretty but—“

“Would you like to touch them?” A light blush spreads across his face. Despite that, he seemed perfectly poised. His hands clasped behind his back, standing straight and looking right at you.

“I-is that alright?” tumbles from your lips. You hesitantly reach out.

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Upon touching them, Sunday’s wings twitched away from you before settling down. The feathers are soft and plush. Some are darker in color while others are more pale. They’re surprisingly fluffy. A bit like fur but more delicate.

The blush darkened, his gaze shifted off to the wall. His composure utterly broken, his hands fidgeted behind his back.

“Did you know that birds groom each other as a social activity? It occurs between…ma-members of a flock.” He sputters. What is he saying?

Your fingers stroking his feathers create a flutter within his stomach. He leans into the touch. Taking that as a sign to continue, you reach farther up, a light brush into the coverts of his feathers. Sunday gasps and pulls away.

“…You must take good care of them. Are all Halovian wings soft like yours?”

He wishes that moment would never end.

3. Song. During courtship rituals many birds of different species tend to sing and dance. While that is popular among Halovian people, some may chose show affection through instruments instead.

One day, a notice appears at your door. Upon examining it you realize it’s an invitation from Sunday, instructing you to his office within the Dewlight Pavilion.

Could it be about the documents you sent him last time? You wrack your brain for any possible explanation. He had been acting weirder than usual.

Heat build up in your face upon recalling Sunday’s recent appreciation for you. The earrings that are far too expensive to wear anywhere, and even worse—you bury your face into your hands. In a profound display of unprofessionalism, he let you touch his wings.

Still, every muscle in your body jittered with excitement, even though it shouldn’t.

♫ ♬ ♩

Suddenly, the closer you got, the more the hallway echoed with the sound of a violin. Slowly, you carefully stepped towards the sound, till you found its source.

Sunday was playing the violin. You couldn’t help but freeze where you were and watch him. He truly did look like angel. As he drew his bow across the strings, the light from the window shined down on him. His hair reflected the light appearing almost white. Was he always this beautiful?

Abruptly, he stands up, “You’re early. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” you closed the door behind you, “I didn’t know you could play. What song was it?”

He places the violin down on his table and approached you, “It’s ‘Salut d’amor,’ one of the first pieces I learned how to play,” Sunday put his hand behind his back, “the dream master was the one that taught me.”

“It was very pretty, I can tell you’ve been playing for a long time.”

“Thank you.” A light blush spreads onto his cheeks, but it’s gone before you can realize it.

A loud silence sweeps the room. The two of you avert your eyes. This side of Sunday feels so different from what you’ve been told. He always maintains a professional barrier. But if so, what was this?

Sunday calls your name, “how do you feel about me?”

“What?” The question is so out of the blue, you must’ve heard wrong, “I think you’re a nice guy—“

“I meant as a partner, I thought you knew. Was I not obvious enough?” He mumbles over the last sentence.

“I—well—“ you stumble over your words. He was serious. The earrings, the wing touching, the invitation. You dismissed it as him buttering you up. The ‘most handsome man in Penacony’ as delegated by the latest magazines, had feelings for you?

Your face felt so hot, you felt as if you could combust into flames at any moment, “I feel the same.”

His expression softened. “That’s a relief, I don’t have to cancel those reservations then.”

“Reservations?! Mr. Sunday-“

“Just Sunday. I’ll pick you up later then,” he smiled, then placed his hand near your ear, as if looking for something, “Oh, but this time remember to wear those earrings.”

a/n #2: soft Sunday is real, did u see how protective he was of Robin in the quest? i need more hoyo. feed my delusion

#꒰ა fic #hsr x reader #hsr x you #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sundayposting #divider cred plutism

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rafesangelita · 13 days ago

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♡ just dilf!rafe making sure everything is to his liking when his precious little bunny comes home from all of her beauty appointments!

warnings: fluff, bunny being a lil clingy, suggestive language, use of the nickname ‘daddy’ (pls scroll if it’s not for you), heavy petting, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), praise, finger sucking, slight overstimulation

a/n: i recently got all of my beauty appointments done so this felt fitting lol. read more of dilf!rafe x bunny!reader here <3

wc: 1.4k

while rafe never let you step out of the house by yourself, there was very few instances when he did. going out with your girlfriends and paying for all of your appointments was one of those things, and he didn’t mind in the slightest. the day would start very early in the morning so that you’d have enough time to get everything done. rafe would watch you from the front door as you basically hopped down the driveway in excitement before getting into your best friend’s obnoxiously pink car, your lip gloss still sparkling on his lips from when you kissed him before leaving.

maybe it was the father instinct inside of him, but rafe made it a point to always pay for you and your besties meals, the idea of you going hungry or having an empty stomach just not sitting right with him. you and your friends would start the day by knocking out whatever took the longest, so that all of you could breeze through the extra upkeep and still go shopping afterwards. despite rafe tracking your location and checking where you were at religiously, he still wanted you to text him and send him photos and updates throughout the day.

he’d smile down at his phone whenever your contact name, which you came up with by yourself, would pop up on his screen.

[1:15 PM] bunnie ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡: i miss you sooo much already daddy. thank you for the food it was yummy <3 me and the girls still have a handful of things to do but i’m hoping to be done soon!!

[2:57 PM] bunnie ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡: i think you’re going to reallyyy like the color of my nails!! my toes came out super cute too 🎀

[4:03 PM] bunnie ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡: (1 attached image) look at this pink flatiron at the salon! i need one just like this! pretty pleaseeee!

he’d reply to each message, even going ahead and buying that flatiron with overnight delivery so you could have it in your pretty hands in no time. you two would go on like this until you’d finally send him that ‘on my way!’ text, a relieved sigh falling from his lips. as much as he liked for you to have your girl time, he selfishly wanted to have you all to himself more than anything. rafe had already been anticipating your arrival, your favorite candles already lit up upstairs in his bedroom. it wasn’t long before he heard the faint bump of music outside, your playful yelp sounding from down the driveway as you struggled to carry all of your shopping bags.

rafe was quick to help you out, your best friends teasingly telling him hi as he briefly waved at them before guiding you inside. “oh, i missed you!” you didn’t waste any time in throwing your arms around his neck, the scent of sweet vanilla filling up his senses. you clung to him like a koala, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he made his way upstairs. “yeah? i missed you more.” you breathed him in, smiling softly against his chest as he put your bags down on the chair he had in the corner. “everything go good?” he took a seat at the edge of the bed, resting his hands on the soft globes of your ass.

“mhmm!” you nodded, “i’m happy with how everything came out.” rafe pecked your lips before helping you up on your feet. “let me get a good look at you.” standing up, you couldn’t help but feel shy as he scanned over your figure agonizingly slow. “your hair looks real nice, baby, that style suits you.” your cheeks heated at the simple compliment. “wow look at your lashes, ‘you try out a different lash map?” you gasped softly, hitting his shoulder playfully. “look at you using girly terms!” rafe was bound to learn about the stuff you’d be rambling on and on about, your lashes being one of many things he now knew the intricacies of.

“your eyebrow lady did a real good job, too.” you wiggled your brows suggestively, fluttering your lashes at him while he took your hand in his. “you were right, i absolutely love this color on you,” he took in the pinky nude of your manicure, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles, “let me see those toes.” you giggled, bringing your foot to his lap as you held onto his arms for leverage. “wow, you got a bow charm?” you smiled down at the sight, “yes! isn’t it so cute? she even put on some rhinestones for free because i’m a regular!” rafe massaged the back of your calf, guiding you back down on the bed.

“damn, bunny, and your skin is so soft, you got that full body wax?” you welcomed him between your thighs, running your freshly manicured nail down the side of his jaw. “yes, i know how much you like it..” he kissed you deeply, his lower half grinding down on where you needed him most. you couldn’t help the whine from leaving your lips, your glazed orbs shining with something mischievous. “do you want to see how that came out, too?” rafe smiled, his fingers already hooking between your skirt and the waistband of your panties. “yeah? you gonna let daddy inspect you?”

once your clothes were off and forgotten about on the floor, rafe took your thighs and spread them open to expose your bare cunt, the look on his face making you take your bottom lip between your teeth. “fuck,” he marveled, “you’re just so pretty, you know that?” you smiled, melting under his gentle touch. he looked up at you as if to ask ‘can i?’ before you nodded. rafe sat back on his heels, stroking your glistening folds as you writhed with desire. “i need to be inside of you so bad..” oh, how bad you needed that too. “rafe, we can’t have sex for at least a full twenty-four hours.” you pouted.

“but we did it last time.” you giggled, shaking your head. “i know, but i’m so sensitive..” rafe sighed, leaning down so he could whisper against your lips. “would a little touching hurt, though?” you gasped when he slipped a digit inside your entrance, his long digit filling you just right. with the pad of his thumb, he began rubbing hard circles on your clit, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. “you’re so perfect, always dressing and getting dolled up the way i want you to.” he curled his finger, nudging that soft spot inside of you that made you see stars.

your back arched softly off of the bed, your fingers intertwining with his own. he kept his eyes on your trembling form, your mouth falling open as moans and whimpers fell from your lips. “i’m so close, ray..” the man above you lowered his head between your thighs, popping his digits into your mouth so you could taste yourself on his fingers. “so soft and smooth, i could eat this cunt for days.” you cried out loud when you felt his tongue prod at your opening, the tip of his nose finding your sensitive bud. “fuckkk!” you covered your mouth at the slip up, yelping when you felt rafe pinch your inner thigh.

“what have i told you about cussing?” he groaned, pulling away from your soaked pussy before diving back in again, your hands shooting up to cup your tits. rafe watched your face carefully, the rise and fall of your chest being a telltale sign that you were going to finish soon. you felt the familar heat begin to simmer in your tummy, your thighs threatening to snap shut as the coil in your stomach got tighter and tighter with every stroke of rafe’s tongue. “oh, my god!” your eyes rolled back when the band in your tummy finally snapped, your orgasm hitting you in waves of pure bliss.

your breath shook as you thrashed against rafe’s mouth, your thighs locking around his head as he pinned you down by your hips. your mouth opened but no sound, except for a pathetic shriek came out, your hands fighting rafe off in an attempt to pull away from him. that only made him grip you tighter, his tongue working relentlessly on your poor cunt. it wasn’t until you tapped out, your nails digging into rafe’s arm before he gave you a final kiss, his gentle hands massaging into the skin of your calves. you whimpered as rafe helped you come down from the aftershocks of your orgasm, your vision hazy.

rafe licked his lips clean, palming at the hard-on in his boxers. “how about just the tip?” all it took was one blissful glance at him through your lashes before he was yanking you towards the edge of his bed by your ankles.

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irisinluv · 5 months ago

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Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? Pt 2

Part one

It was almost 2 minutes before I realized I was still dragging the crown prince behind me. I quickly dropped his hand and looked at him, not able to hide the embarrassment on my face. Listen- I’m committed to the bit. I WILL be the crazy jealous fiancé. But… I’m still human ok. I just dragged a full grown man down several halls and a flight of stairs while I spaced out thinking about how I’m gonna buy my cat premium wet food once I get back home to her.

It’s fine, I’m not flustered at spacing out about my cat, my characters just flustered because she’s been holding the hand of the man she’s obsessed with, that’s all!

“Well…. Did you still want to dine and take that walk?”

I expected him to scold me for my mistreatment of Cressida, grow irritated from me dragging him along like this. Instead, he chuckles and threads his arm in mine, and begins escorting me down the hall.

“Absolutely, have you dined outside by the roses yet? There’s this lovely pavilion that I am eager to hear your thoughts on.”

And that’s how I found myself under an impressive array of roses, all trained up and around a cozy dining area, creating a canopy of green and pink over an intimate tea table. The food was equally impressive, I had to keep reminding myself that the other me is used to this lavish lifestyle, to not gawk at the fancy tiny sandwiches and deserts.

“Well? Is everything to your liking? ”

I’m going off script here, how am I supposed to know how the villainess would react to a romantic scene like this?? If my “evil crazy” side isn’t supposed to be directed at him, and she’s usually kinda distant and unsure around him…. That means I should probably respond pretty curtly, polite, yet not really engaging. But…. I’ve already messed that up…. I guess I can be more genuine when it’s the two of us like this. He can think that this version of me is the facade, that I’m pretending to be pleasant, and then will start to see what a jerk “I” truly am when Cressida’s around. Besides…. I almost feel bad for the villainess. She really just seems like she was shy. Who knows- maybe, if given the opportunity, she really would have opened up more. It’s clear she loved the prince, and just didn’t know how to show it. So, with that thought, I made up my mind.

“It’s breathtaking! Roses are my favorite flower, and I’ve never seen so many kinds in bloom at once…. Plus the food and company leave little to be desired.”

There you go- slip in some subtle flirting! I’m not quite sure what time period this is supposed to be, but I get the impression flirting as bit more high class here, and I think I can have some fun with that.

“I’m glad, to be honest I was a bit flustered asking you to dine with me… you caught me quite off guard today, but in a good way.” He reaches his hand across the table and places it on my own, “I’d like to do this more often, you and I. I feel like the confines of our current arrangement have left us practically strangers, despite being engaged for several months already. I’m enjoying just being companionable with you, even if it’s just existing comfortably in the same room.”

Ohhhh, I know I’m the villain in this story but I can’t help but root for him- what a sweetheart! It’s so obvious he’s been lonely, I can’t wait for him and Cressida to fall in love and have a couple of kids that they’ll spoil rotten. And in the meantime…. Maybe I do have a bit of evil in me, because I’m going to selfishly enjoy this handsome man treating me to lunches under roses and reading in cozy libraries while I can.

“I know exactly how you feel your highness. Now, you mentioned a walk?”

We spent the afternoon laughing and chatting, and it felt nice to chat without worrying too much about my role. He asked me about that book I picked out earlier, and listened attentively as I caught him up with where I’m at in the plot. In turn, I asked about what papers he’s been signing, documents he’s been drafting, etc.

The only thing I had to do was send glares to any young ladies we passed, settling my hand on his arm possessively, and I saw their eyes widen and faces disappear behind fans as they whisper to one another. I can picture this illustrated in a manhwa- the nasty princess sinking her claws into the gullible prince… hopefully all these ladies will start gossiping and we can really cement this evil persona of mine now that Cressida’s here.

When we returned to our separate apartments, I explored my rooms a bit until servants came to get me ready for dinner, and I slipped back into the frigid bitch persona. The servant girls dressed me in a slightly stuffy gown, but I had to admit, I looked gorgeous. I sat stiff and straight as they did my hair, forcing myself to be the very picture of cold indifference. I then dismissively thanked them for their help, then sat there awkwardly as they stared at me like I was crazy.

Ohhhh shit…. The original story hadn’t prepared me for this. My character was a villain, yes, but a side character for the most part! How was she supposed to act towards her servants? I went over what I knew- the novel showed the villainess alone quite often, usually obsessing over Eric and plotting/stalking. It showed her with Eric, and how distant and awkward their relationship was when together. And then of course the numerous scenes with Cressida where the Villainess did all sorts of heinous things to the sweet girl. But… it never depicted her with servants, or even any friends or other nobles. Just… Eric and Cressida. Was other me not actually a bitch all the time? Am I being unnecessarily rude right now? Oh god I’m such an idiot.

The story is told through Cressida’s point of view- of course there’s more depth to my own character than I initially thought! The Villianess must be a misunderstood introvert! Unsure of how to act around her crush, she’s fiercely insecure and jealous of this new girl who doesn’t struggle the same way she does. When she notices the prince slipping from her grasp, she acts out against Cressida because she can’t bear to lose Eric!

As someone’s who’s worked minimum wage jobs and struggled with social anxiety most of my life, I try to be nice to the people just working to survive, but here I am acting like these poor women are the dirt beneath my shoe…. Ok. Um. Well they’re still standing there in shock, I can fix this….

“You really did a lovely job… my hair has never looked so gorgeous, you’re truly talented! And I think the prince will be very pleased with this choice of ribbon!”

There- I was nicer, and I brought it back to Eric, so I’m still the lovesick fiancé whose entire world is waiting for her in the dining room. I frowned as the servants scuttled out of the room with hurried excuses, all of them looking like they were about to faint. Damn it… I can’t believe I misread the relationship between us. I probably just ruined their night by being uncharacteristically rude. I’ve gotta learn their names next time…. Maybe ask them to help me eat some fancy pastries as an apology…?

I didn’t know it, but while I was lamenting how wrong I was about the Villainess’ character, the servants were all gossiping to the others about what had just transpired.

“You’re telling me she said THANK YOU!?”

“Yes!!! And then you should have seen how nervous she got! She just rambled, blurting out such a sweet compliment, and she even tied it back to the prince!”

“I had no idea how precious she was… I can’t believe I never realized she’s just shy! In a new place, all alone aside from her new fiancé…. Who I gather she’s got a bit of a crush on! Poor dear.”

“Ohh our sweet girl, I’m sure it must be hard bonding with the prince, when all you do is sit yards apart and hardly speak …”

“Well I may have some news about that… and it’s no wonder she was a bit flustered today, because I saw the two of them in the gardens today! They were both nothing but smiles- absolutely smitten with one another!”

“Such a lovely girl, and we never knew it all this time!”

Apparently, I had it backwards. The real villainess truly was a 2D, basic character. She was insecure and possessive over the prince, bullying Cressida half to remind her who Eric belonged to, half for the fun of it. But she didn’t let on to anyone about the true depth of her love for him. She didn’t gossip to her handmaid, didn’t ask the servants which dress he would like better. Simply acted as if they did not exist, hardly saying a word to them.

While I thought my blunt “thank you” was colder than they were used to, and then tried to smooth things over…. It was more words than they’d heard from me in the whole time I’d lived in the palace. They lapped it up and declared me their own shy little dove after that.

When I arrived to dinner, I realized why daily dinners weren’t exactly a bonding activity for the villainess and Eric. The table was massive, and only held two chairs, one at either end. It felt so…. Cold?

Eric had beat me there, and quickly stood up from his seat, waiting until I sat and a servant pushed in my chair to retake his own seat. He smiled at me and said,

“Good evening, princess.”

He had to project his voice slightly. It wasn’t like he was shouting or being loud, it was just the manner of speaking you use when talking to an elderly relative, clearer, and enunciating better so they could hear you.

I replied back, projecting my voice similarly, and found the conversation was, in fact, more awkward than it had been earlier. We ate our food mostly in silence, occasionally one of us would say something and the other would stop moving their utensils on their plate, listening closer as they ask,

“What’s that?”

By the time dinner was over and we each went to bed, I felt drained. I could have just been louder I suppose- but it’s so hard to keep up a conversation like that. I know we get along- we had chatted all afternoon after all. But some part of me realized it’s probably good to keep a bit of distance between us, even if I’ve rewritten things to be a bit chummier between the two of us. Cressida needs to swoop in and steal him from me… and my job is still to leave that room for her to do so.

It’s hard trying to be someone else, yet also making sure you lead the plot in the right direction- it’s exhausting! I feel like both director and actress!

It’s with this in mind that I launch myself into the softest bed I’d ever felt, and passed out. My first day as princess consort, the Yandere fiancé, complete.

While I was getting acquainted with my feather bed, Eric was speaking with the head waitstaff.

“Yes, tomorrow, would you mind adjusting the seating situation? I’d like for the princess consort and I to be closer together from now on. Yes, and ask my assistant to arrange my schedules like so, I’ve detailed it here. Thank you.”

At the same time, Cressida was recounting her run in with the prince and I to her handmaiden as she finishing unpacking and settling into her family’s guest apartments. Which, unbeknownst to me… was right across the hall.

Series discontinued- sorry my loves. Ik y’all wanted more but the good news is that I’ve seen several really talented authors picking up this idea and executing it wayyyy better than my sporadic mood writing ever could.

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joycrispy · 1 year ago

Text

I wanna talk about The Angel Who Would Be Crowley.

Because I had a certain set of expectations, which got thoroughly trashed in the first five minutes of S2, and my genuine response is, "Oh, fuck, yup. You're right. That's WAY better."

Looking around at GO fandom, I'm not alone in this. So let's talk about it.

Basically, a lot of people (myself included) believed that he was a high-ranking angel, and therefore as chilly and remote as every other powerful angel we'd seen at that point. We pictured Crowley-To-Be as long-haired, regal and imposing --and the fanart at the time reflected this. I'd link some if Tumblr didn't hate links.

Something like this:

We were collectively drawing on a few things --mostly, Crawly's appearance and general bearing in the Biblical scenes of S1--

--But also scattered hints of his importance, backed up by conspicuous absences in Heaven and a few profound displays of power. That's all better covered elsewhere, so I won't reiterate the arguments here. All I'm saying is: I think our headcanons were justified.

But it turns out he was this:

!!!

With his curly little--!!

And his neat white--!!

IT TURNS OUT, he was an angel who squeaked and squealed when he was happy; who flailed his arms around and made explosion noises with his mouth to explain nebulas; who preened when told his stars were pretty. Furfur, who knew him before the Fall, says:

"You used to jump on me back, little monkey in a waistcoat..."

(The use of a diminutive there, 'little'...oh, that fascinates me.)

In a pretty huge subversion of expectations, we're given these glimpses of an angel who was sweet, and joyful, and heart-meltingly silly.

In sum...an innocent.

(Perhaps innocent to a troubling degree.

We see how he troubles Aziraphale, during their first conversation. He starts looking around and behind them, checking to make sure that no one can HEAR the blithe and reckless things coming out of this angel's mouth. This angel who talks like he's never been reprimanded in his life; like it's never occurred to him that anyone would want to hurt him.

Before the Beginning, Aziraphale understood Heaven better than he did. The danger is plainly occurring to Aziraphale.)

So now, we the viewers are in on a cruel joke that Aziraphale has known all along, which is that this --THIS-- is the angel who--

*checks notes*

--did a million lightyear freestyle dive into a boiling pool of sulphur. For asking questions.

...Imagine you are Aziraphale, and everything inside you wants to believe Heaven are the Good Guys, and God is Good and Everything She does is capital-R Right...and now try to reconcile that. Keep trying. I don't think he ever totally managed it in 6000 years.

All this gets further complicated when we learn that, despite all of the above, we were still right. That sweet excitable babby up there?

He WAS a powerful and high-ranking angel.

That much is explicitly confirmed, with significant evidence that he could have been among the mightiest of archangels...

...Who apparently accosted his fellow angels for piggyback rides. And was remembered millennia later by those (now fallen) angels as something 'little.'

What does that tell us about who he was? Is?

Hell, Aziraphale has known to be wary of the archangels (and the judgements of Heaven in general) since before the Fall even happened. He chooses to believe they are Good; he can't fool himself into thinking they are Safe.

Yet he's absolutely certain that Crowley won't hurt Job's children. Enough to stand in a burning building and say to them, "I can't save you, but don't be afraid. I won't need to."

And what reason does he give?

("I know you."

"You do not know me."

"I know the angel you were.")

What does that tell us about who he was? Is?

("The angel you knew is not me."

But how is Aziraphale supposed to believe that, when he can see him all the time?)

tl;dr --yes, this is better. I love the tragedy of it.

'Innocence died screaming' and all that.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #Crowley #Aziraphale #good omens 2 #good omens meta

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nhlclover · 3 months ago

Text

ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR QUINN HUGHES

pairings: quinn hughes x fem!reader, (little bit of) jack hughes x fem!reader

summary: trevor invites you to a lakehouse for the summer, attempting to set him up with his friend. however, the summer doesn't go to plan when you meet his older brother who captures your eye and flips everything upside down.

warnings: very obviously angst, sort of a love triangle, jack and quinn kind of hating each other, slow burn, reader and trevor having a sibling type relationship, one singular kiss, brief appearances from trevor & luke

word count: 11.6k

notes: wooooo mama this is the absolute longest thing i've ever written. i really hope you guys enjoy it, i'm pretty happy with this.

The scene of the lake house standing tall in front of you was something straight out of your imagination. It was picturesque, the way the large house was nestled amongst the pine trees and the glimmering water sparkling behind it. It was just the way that Trevor had described it when he invited (or rather insisted) you to come to his buddy’s lake house this summer.

“You’ll love it! It’s so nice up there,” Trevor had urged, his enthusiasm infectious. You could still hear his voice, brimming with excitement. “It’s my friend Jack’s place. You guys would get along great! And his brothers are super chill too.”

At the time, you’d felt a mix of curiosity and skepticism. It’d been about three years you’d been friends with Trevor, long enough to know that when his tone got this excited and he was this insistent, he was up to something.

“Are you trying to set me up with him?” you’d asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously at Trevor as the two of you sat in a coffee shop a few months ago. He had been uncharacteristically fidgety, bouncing his knee up and down while stirring his iced coffee with an unnecessary amount of focus.

Trevor had grinned at you in that annoyingly charming way he did when he was caught. “Nooo, I’m just saying you guys would vibe. He’s a cool guy. Super chill.”

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms across your chest. “Uh-huh. And his brothers?”

“Also cool!” Trevor leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But listen, Jack’s the one I think you’d really like. Just come for like, a week or two, see what happens. No pressure. I promise you’ll have fun.”

You’d hesitated, not entirely convinced. But Trevor knew exactly how to play on your curiosity, and a month later, you found yourself packing a bag for a summer getaway at some lake house owned by Trevor’s friend, Jack. Despite your reservations, a part of you was intrigued. What if Trevor was right?

The drive to the lake house had been a blur, punctuated by Trevor’s nonstop chatter and your own uncertain silence. You weren’t opposed to meeting Jack. Trevor had sung his praises for months, claiming you two had more in common than either of you realized. As far as setups went, this wasn’t terrible — you could trust Trevor to have good judgment. But still, you were unsure and slightly uneasy about the whole situation.

When you arrive, Jack is already waiting outside, leaning against the porch rail, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts. He’s smiling — an easy, laid-back smile that makes you smile back automatically. The sun filters through the trees, casting warm, gold light on the porch, and for a moment, everything feels serene.

Trevor wasn’t lying when he commented about Jack’s appearance. “Some people call him a pretty boy but… I mean he is pretty, but he’s a good-looking dude, y’know?” He was definitely attractive, something anyone could admit you thought, but he wasn’t totally your type.

Trevor bounds up the steps of the porch, dapping up Jack and pulling him in for a hug. You followed, stopping at the bottom of the steps, watching as Trevor whispered something into Jack's ear, Jack’s eyes catching yours as a small smile appeared on his lips.

Jack steps forward, extending a hand. “Hey, you must be y/n. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, his voice warm with that relaxed confidence you’d expect from someone who’s used to being the center of attention.

You shake his hand, feeling the easy smile on your face widen a little. “All good things, I hope.”

Trevor laughs, throwing an arm around Jack’s shoulder. “Mostly good things.” He winks at you, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

Jack offers to give you a quick tour of the place, and you agree, letting him guide you inside while Trevor stays back, grumbling to himself about having to bring in your bags. The inside of the house is as beautiful as the outside, with high ceilings, wooden beams, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lake. Despite being a new build, it has a cozy, rustic feel to it. Jack pointed out each room as you went, keeping up a steady flow of conversation that put you at ease. He was friendly and thoughtful, making sure you felt welcomed, and it struck you as genuine. You could see why Trevor thought you’d get along with him.

“And this is the back deck,” Jack said as he pushed open a sliding door, revealing a sprawling view of the lake, with a dock stretching out in front of the property. The lake is glittering and relatively calm, aside from a figure disturbing the water. You squint, watching as the swimmer glides smoothly through the lake.

“Who’s that?” you ask Jack, eyes not leaving the figure as you watch him pull himself up onto the wooden dock, pushing dark wet hair from his face.

“That’s Quinn,” Jack says, following your gaze and glancing out toward the dock. “My older brother.”

The sun seems to linger on Quinn’s form, highlighting the toned muscles in his arms as he stretches briefly, rolling his shoulders to ease out any lingering tension from his swim. Droplets of water cling to his skin, catching the sunlight and tracing down his chest in slow, winding trails emphasizing the smooth contours of his muscles as they glisten.

“Q!” Jack shouts, whistling to get his brother’s attention. Quinn’s gaze snaps to the two of you, your pulse quickening as his eyes land on you. “Come up here!”

Quinn grabs his towel from the dock, throwing it over his shoulder as he makes his way up the lawn towards you. As he climbs the steps to the deck, you feel his eyes travel over you, not in a way that feels intimidating, but with a curiosity that mirrors your own. There’s something magnetic about him, something calm and steady that draws you in as he steps up onto the deck, his mouth curving into a small, barely-there smile.

“This is Trevor’s friend, y/n. She’s joining us for the summer” Jack introduces.

As Quinn’s gaze flickers back to you, you notice there’s something about the way he looks at you — subtle, assessing. His gaze has a certain depth, a look you can’t quite decipher. It lingers just a second longer than what feels typical, enough to make your heartbeat skip, to leave you questioning the flicker of interest in his expression.

“Nice to meet you,” Quinn says, his voice low and smooth, a perfect complement to the quiet confidence he exudes. He reaches out to shake your hand, and as your fingers meet, you notice how warm his touch feels, even with the cool water droplets still lingering on his skin.

Up close, he’s even more striking. There’s a sort of ruggedness to him, outlined by the sharpness of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, a greenish shade of blue, hold yours with a calm intensity that makes it hard to look away.

“Nice to meet you too,” you manage, your voice coming out softer than you intended, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. You mentally kick yourself, hoping he doesn’t notice, but the glimmer in his eyes suggests otherwise.

Jack, oblivious to the undercurrent, clapped his hands, breaking the moment. “Alright, well, there’s more to see, and if we don’t get back, Trevor’s going to start whining about being abandoned,” he joked.

You chuckle, your eyes pulling away from Quinns’ for the first time since he joined you on the porch. But as you turned to follow Jack back inside, you couldn’t help but glance back at Quinn. He was still watching you, his expression softened just slightly, and you felt a quiet thrill at the way he watched you.

The first week at the lakehouse passes in a flurry of days that blur together in laughter and lakeside relaxation. You fall into an easy routine of swimming, grilling, and long talks on the deck. Jack and Trevor keep things lively, always organizing something, whether it’s an impromptu game of cornhole, a daring cliff dive, or a spontaneous trip into town.

With Jack, the connection forms fast. He’s lighthearted, quick with a joke, and endlessly charming. He keeps you laughing and keeps the vibe lighthearted. His energy is infectious, and he keeps you roped into every activity, whether it’s cliff-jumping or getting you to help him with dinner when it’s his turn. You can tell that Trevor’s plan to get the two of you set up is working for Jack, as he lingers closer, laughs harder at your jokes, and you begin to feel his gaze linger on you just a little too long.

But it’s Quinn who holds your attention in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Quinn is different from Jack in nearly every way. Where Jack is open and quick to draw you into his orbit, Quinn lingers on the edges, observing and listening. When he speaks, it’s with a low, steady voice that commands attention without trying. And unlike Jack’s energy, which feels like the buzz of the sun overhead, Quinn’s is deep and mysterious like the lake.

You find yourself gravitating toward him at every opportunity, captivated by the way he moves through the days with an unruffled calm. The nights at the lake house slip into an easy rhythm, with Quinn and you inevitably being the last ones awake as the both of you are night owls. Most nights, you find yourselves lingering on the porch, wrapped in the gentle hum of crickets and the low whisper of the lake. With the others upstairs, fast asleep, you and Quinn fall into intimate conversations, shared only between the two of you.

One night, you find yourselves tucked away on the porch, the air a little cooler than the other nights. You are curled up on a rocking chair, bundled up in a hoodie you’d borrowed from Jack. Quinn sat across from you, the beer he’d started during dinner going warm in his hand.

Quinn studies you, his eyes catching the faint glow of the porch light as he swirls his bottle absentmindedly. “So,” he begins, breaking the comfortable silence, “What’s California like?” He leans forward, genuinely interested, his voice carrying a warmth that makes you want to spill everything about life on the West Coast.

A soft smile creeps onto your face. “It’s… different from here,” you admit, glancing out at the lake where the moon dances on the still water. “It’s a bit fast-paced. And warm. Lots of sun, lots of people. But sometimes, it feels like everyone’s moving so quickly that you get lost in the crowd.”

Quinn nods, his eyes steady on you. “I get it. I feel the same way about Vancouver sometimes. Coming back here… it just reminds me that there's more than the noise and rush. There’s… balance out here.” He gestures out toward the lake, his voice contemplative. “Like all of this has a way of pulling you back to what matters.”

His words resonate deeply, and you find yourself nodding. “Exactly,” you murmur. “It’s like there’s space to breathe. And you notice things that usually get lost in all the… chaos.”

Quinn’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad you came. It’s been… good to have you here,” he says quietly, his eyes soft. “We don’t have other people up here often.”

Your heart pounds a little faster at the sincerity in his voice, and for a second, the rest of the world disappears. There’s only Quinn and the quiet lake, and the feeling that he understands you in a way you hadn't expected anyone to. You hold his gaze, feeling the electricity between you grow, filling the silence with something you can’t quite name.

But then, as if drawn back to reality, Quinn’s eyes shift, his expression subtly changing. “And Jack,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “He… really likes you, you know? He doesn’t say it, but I can tell.”

It feels like a splash of cold water. You break eye contact, pulling your hoodie closer around you, the warmth you felt moments ago dissipating. The weight of Jack’s interest hangs heavily between you and Quinn now, an undeniable reminder of the complicated line you’re toeing.

“Right, yeah…” you reply softly, looking down, your voice tinged with a mix of guilt and frustration. You hadn’t meant for this to get complicated, yet here you are, caught between two brothers who couldn’t be more different.

An uncomfortable silence settles over you both, thick and heavy. Quinn’s eyes linger on you, as if he’s about to say something more, but he holds back. His lips press into a thin line, and you wonder if he’s feeling the same conflict, the same confusion that’s twisting knots inside you.

You force yourself to look away, swallowing hard. “I think… I should probably head to bed,” you murmur, avoiding his gaze. You stand up, offering him a small, tight-lipped smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Goodnight, Quinn.”

Quinn nods, his expression unreadable as he watches you ebb towards the door. “Goodnight, y/n,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, though there’s a flicker of something in his gaze — disappointment, perhaps, or longing. You slip inside, leaving him on the porch, the weight of his gaze heavy on your back as you close the door.

In bed, you toss and turn, Quinn’s words and the feel of his gaze lingering with you. Your mind is a whirlwind, caught between the easy, carefree friendship that’s growing with Jack and the simmering tension you feel with Quinn. Jack is perfectly nice and, like Trevor told you, the two of you were getting along swimmingly.

But no matter how much you try, your thoughts always drift back to Quinn. There’s something undeniably different about him, something that makes it impossible to feel the same way about Jack, no matter how hard you try. Jack’s presence is light and friendly but with Quinn… it’s like there’s a hidden gravity pulling you toward him, a quiet understanding that lingers beneath the surface of every conversation. Every night on that porch, he’s become your anchor, drawing you into a world that feels more honest, more intimate.

You lie there, staring up at the ceiling, your mind replaying the way he looked at you tonight — that almost undetectable spark that you’re sure you didn’t imagine. The way he listens to you, like every word matters, as he sees past the small talk and into the parts of you you rarely share. There’s no pretending with Quinn. And even though he’d mentioned Jack, it only made you realize how much more you’re drawn to Quinn. Jack might be developing feelings for you, but it’s Quinn who fills your thoughts, who leaves you breathless in a way you can’t ignore.

You pull the covers tighter around you, willing sleep to take you, but every thought seems to lead back to Quinn, to the way he made you feel seen, understood — even in silence.

The next morning, you do your best to shake off the lingering tension from the night before, determined to keep things light and normal. Under Jack’s enthusiastic suggestion, the group decides to spend the day out on the lake, hoping the sun and water will wash away any unease. It’s a sunny day, warm with a light breeze, and the water sparkles invitingly under the sunlight, making you think that everything might just go smoothly.

The boat is anchored in a calm spot on the lake and, despite the wonderful weather, there doesn’t seem to be another boat around. Trevor and Luke sit up in the bow, arguing about which mascot would win in a fight between Mr. Clean and Tony the Tiger.

Jack is quick to pull you into the action, handing you a beer from the cooler as he grins. “Alright,” he says, his smile as wide as the lake. “Are you ready for the full lake house experience? Because to really do that, you’ve got to jump off the boat at least once today.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you crack open the can. “I’m pretty sure you’re just making up rules to mess with me.”

He shrugs, a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe, but you have to do it anyway,” he shrugs.

Trevor chimes in, chuckling from his spot. “Jack’s right, y/n. First-time lake visitors have to jump. It’s tradition!”

You chuckle, your gaze drifting up to Jack as he stands in front of you. The sun shines directly behind him, casting him in a golden halo, the bright rays spilling around his frame in a way that makes him look almost ethereal. For a moment, you can see why anyone would fall for that charm. But even with this picture-perfect moment, you feel a pang of regret that you can’t feel more for him, because, somehow, your thoughts are pulled elsewhere and on someone else.

Jack’s laughter brings you back to the moment, and he leans a little closer. “Come on, we can make it a team effort. I mean, if you’re too nervous, I can just hold your hand.” His voice is playful, but there’s a hint of sincerity in his words, a hope that you’ll let him bridge the gap he’s trying so hard to close.

Your smile is genuine, but before you can respond, you hear Quinn's low chuckle from behind you. It’s soft, barely audible over the hum of the boat’s motor, but enough to pull your focus completely away from Jack. You glance back at Quinn who’s sat on the back bench, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, a flicker of something in his gaze as it bears down on the two of you.

Your attention is pulled back to Jack as he reaches for your hand in a gesture that feels both playful and pointed. “Come on, y/n, it’ll be an official initiation. We’ll jump together, yeah?”

Your gaze flickers between Jack’s outstretched hand and Quinn, who’s watching with an inscrutable expression, his eyes narrowed slightly as he leans back, crossing his arms. You can’t deny there’s an awkward tension here, a silent push-and-pull between the two brothers that seems to amplify whenever Quinn is nearby.

Swallowing the strange, charged feeling building between you all, you look back at Jack and nod, forcing a lighthearted smile as you stand up, pulling off the oversized t-shirt you wore as a coverup. You see Jack’s eyes scan your figure, hearing him gasp quietly. You blush, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, taking his hand. He grins in triumph, his fingers warm against yours as he helps you stand at the edge of the boat. He holds on a little tighter than necessary, and the flicker of anticipation in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Ready?” Jack asks, his voice softer now, his gaze lingering a bit too long as he watches your expression. There’s a hopeful vulnerability in his face, a look that makes you hesitate for a moment. You don’t want to hurt him, but there’s a part of you that wishes he’d pull back, that he’d realize you’re not as invested in this connection as he is.

You manage a nod, hoping he doesn’t notice the small sigh you let slip. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He beams, counting down with a quiet “three… two… one!” before the two of you leap into the lake together, the cool water rushing up to meet you. When you surface, you’re greeted by Jack’s laughter as he splashes you, pulling you into a playful water fight. You laugh along, though your eyes instinctively drift toward the boat, where Quinn looks over the edge, watching you both with an unreadable expression.

Jack’s laughter fades slightly as he notices your attention elsewhere, his face falling for a fraction of a second. But he quickly masks it, pulling you back with a light splash. “Hey, stay with me here,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-pleading. And you want to, you really do, but Quinn’s gaze is magnetic, and you can’t help but feel pulled toward him, as if there’s an invisible thread between the two of you.

Eventually, Jack climbs back onto the boat, reaching out to help you up. But the moment you step back on board, the charged silence returns, thick and stifling, as Quinn hands you a towel, his fingers brushing against yours just long enough to send a spark up your arm. You catch his gaze for a brief second, and you’re struck by the quiet intensity in his eyes, a longing that mirrors your own.

Jack clears his throat, his shoulders tensing slightly as he glances between you and Quinn. He lets out a forced laugh, trying to dispel the tension. “Alright, what’s next? We could always do another round of jumps, or maybe a swim to the dock?” He says it with an almost desperate cheerfulness, trying to regain your attention, trying to keep the moment light.

Trevor and Luke, sensing the tension, start bantering about who would be the fastest swimmer, their playful arguments distracting you all for a moment, lightening the mood just enough.

────୨ৎ────

The night air was crisp as laughter and the crackling of the fire filled the space around the lake house. The lake is quiet behind you, a dark, glassy surface reflecting only starlight. You were settled in a lawn chair, leaning back, watching as Trevor dramatically recounted a story about when you nearly crashed his car.

You could feel his eyes on you, searching for a shared smile, hoping to catch your gaze even as he chuckled at Trevor’s theatrics. Every so often, he'd lean in, commenting with a low murmur meant only for you. He’d even offered you his hoodie earlier, though the night wasn’t nearly cold enough to need it. It was endearing, if not a bit overeager. Yet, despite the obvious attention from him, your focus kept drifting across the fire.

Quinn sat across the flames from you, leaning back in an Adirondack chair. His attention was barely on the story, barely laughing with the others as you had been. Every now and then you’d catch his eyes flicker your way, lingering on you just long enough to send a thrill through your chest. Your stomach tightened with a quiet anticipation each time, though as quickly as the moment arrived, it vanished. Quinn’s gaze would shift, his attention lost somewhere in the darkness beyond the flames, leaving you wondering if you’d only imagined it.

As Trevor finally wrapped up his tale with an exaggerated flourish, the group’s laughter rang out again, filling the quiet night. You shifted in your chair, stealing a glance across the fire to see Quinn looking your way again, his expression unreadable in the dancing light. The firelight cast soft shadows over his face, illuminating his quiet intensity—a contrast to Jack’s open interest. And just as quickly as his eyes met yours, he looked away, his focus deliberately elsewhere, leaving you feeling a subtle ache of frustration.

Jack nudged your arm gently, his voice breaking the spell. “Hey, want to grab a drink or something? I think I saw some ciders in the cooler on the porch.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you replied, a small smile curving your lips as you pushed yourself up to join him.

You could feel the weight of Quinn’s gaze on you, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. As you walked toward the porch with Jack, a pang of prickling guilt settled over you, leaving a heavy shadow with every step. Jack was wonderful — funny, kind-hearted, and clearly eager to spend time with you. And yet, there was an emptiness in each smile you returned to him, a hollowness you couldn’t ignore. You tried to shake it off, reminding yourself to appreciate his warmth and interest. But you couldn’t deny it. There was no spark, no unspoken gravity that pulled you toward him.

The two of you reached the porch, Jack handing you a cold can from the cooler, his fingers brushing yours briefly. He shot you a quick grin, the kind that seemed to hold a hundred different things he wanted to say. But the look in his eyes—the hopefulness, the eagerness—only tightened the knot in your chest.

Jack took a sip of his drink, leaning casually against the porch railing, his gaze still on you. “It’s nice here at night, isn’t it?” His tone was light, but there was an unmistakable softness to his voice, as though he wanted nothing more than to keep this moment between just the two of you.

“Yeah, it really is,” you agreed, looking out at the lake rather than meeting his eyes. “It’s peaceful.”

Jack’s voice was quieter when he spoke this time like he was mulling something over. “You know, it’s been great having you up here. I mean…I’m glad Z brought you here.” he said softly, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a vulnerability there, one that made you want to reassure him, to ease the sting of your own uncertainty.

You wanted to tell him you felt the same, that you were excited, that his attention filled you with butterflies. But it didn’t. Not the way Quinn’s lingering gaze did, not in the way his silence could reach across the fire and wrap around you more tightly than any words Jack could offer.

And Jack could sense it. You could see it in the way his gaze fell just a bit, in the way he seemed to retreat into himself, trying to figure out where he’d lost you. A soft, sinking guilt bubbled up, but before you could say anything, he cleared his throat and looked at you, trying to keep the mood light.

“Should we head back?” he asked, giving you a small smile that tried to mask the disappointment behind his eyes.

You nodded, and as you followed him back toward the fire, your eyes drifted back to Quinn. Why did he have to make it so complicated? Jack was there, warm and steady, giving you his full attention, yet your heart kept tugging you toward Quinn — Quinn, who never gave you more than half-glances and unspoken hints. It was as though he knew the effect he had on you but chose to keep you guessing, leaving you in this restless, uncertain state. And every time he looked away, your chest would ache with a longing that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

You felt like you were making it up in your head. You felt like all of this was just concocted by your brain, a made-up situation. But then you’d think back to the nights when it was just the two of you, sitting across from one another on the porch, finding bits of commonality, causing you to talk for hours.

It was during those quiet nights, with only the soft hum of the lake and the occasional call of night birds, that the two of you would sit just a little closer, voices lowered as if sharing secrets with the stars. He’d be calm, reserved, but there’d always be a hint of a smile when you teased him about his stoic nature, a glint in his eyes when he’d challenge you back. It was in these moments that your doubts faded, that all the confusion seemed worth it.

But then the sun would rise again, and Quinn’s indifference would come back like the morning mist, blanketing any closeness you thought you’d found. The spark that seemed so real under the cover of night would dim, replaced by his guarded demeanor and quiet aloofness. It was maddening, this cycle of near-closeness followed by a cool retreat. He’d show you just enough to make you wonder, to keep you holding onto the memory of his quiet smile and that soft look in his eyes.

As you and Jack rejoined the group, you settled back into your chair, glancing across the fire toward Quinn once more. He was looking down, a hand idly fiddling with the edge of his sweater. There was something vulnerable about him in that moment, something that made you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he felt the same hesitation and uncertainty. You wanted to bridge that gap, to ask him if he ever felt the same tug, the same strange pull that made every shared glance linger in your mind.

But before you could even entertain the idea, Jack’s hand brushed your shoulder, pulling your attention back to him. He was smiling, his gaze as steady and warm as ever, making you wish you could return it with the same openness.

“Hey, you okay?” Jack asked, concern lacing his voice. You hadn’t realized the way you were chewing on your lip, or the way your brow was furrowed ever so slightly.

You nodded, giving him a soft smile that you hoped looked genuine. “Yeah, just…lost in thought, I guess.”

But as you said it, your gaze slipped across the fire once more, finding Quinn’s eyes fixed on you with that familiar, unreadable intensity. And for a fleeting second, you thought you saw a softness there, a hint of something deeper. It vanished just as quickly, but that one look was enough. It was enough to make you cast away the doubt that lingered in your mind, to dismiss the thought that this was all in your head.

The night dragged on, punctuated by laughter and more ridiculous storytelling from Trevor. Gradually, one by one, everyone began to call it a night. Luke was the first to slip away, yawning as he muttered something about wanting to have an early workout, clapping Trevor on the shoulder before heading inside. Trevor followed soon after, stretching with exaggerated laziness before flashing a grin and winking at you. “Don’t get into too much trouble out here,” he teased, earning a playful eye-roll from you.

Finally, it was just you, Jack, and Quinn. Jack was lingering, his eyes occasionally drifting to you with a look that hinted at something he wanted to say but couldn’t quite bring himself to voice. He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat as he looked at you, then glanced over at Quinn.

"Alright, I guess I’ll head in, too," Jack finally said, his tone reluctant. His gaze lingered on you for just a beat too long, as though he wanted you to ask him to stay or tell him that you would head up with him. But you didn’t, and after a quiet sigh, he nodded, gave Quinn a brief glance, then turned and headed inside, the screen door shutting softly behind him.

And then it was just the two of you.

The quiet stretched between you and Quinn, thick and tense, as the night air settled into a stillness that seemed to wrap around you both. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of the trees, and it was painfully quiet, each unspoken word between you two heavy with meaning. You could feel his presence, magnetic and steady, even across the fire. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, you drew a deep breath and decided to speak.

“Quinn, can we talk?” Your voice was steady, but just barely. Quinn’s eyes finally locked with yours for the first time since before everyone began to filter to bed. Quinn nodded after a couple of seconds, giving you the silence to continue.

“I don’t know what’s going on between us,” you said softly. “But… fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s driving me crazy. I need to know if it’s all just in my head or if you feel it too. Because if there’s a reason I feel this way… I need to know.”

You trailed off, heart hammering against your ribcage as the words hung in the air between you. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his expression unreadable, his face softened by the glow of the firelight. Then, with a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared into the flames. His silence was torture, each passing second pulling you deeper into a pit of anxiety and frustration.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, as if he’d rehearsed this response in his mind countless times. “It’s not in your head,” he admitted, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. “There’s something here, between us. I feel it too.”

The words sent a rush of relief and hope through you, a spark that reignited all those moments spent wondering and waiting for some kind of sign. A soft smile spread across your face, the edges of your doubt finally beginning to soften. But then, his expression shifted, the corners of his mouth tightening as he looked away, eyes fixed on the shadows just beyond the firelight.

“But…” His voice was barely a whisper, rough around the edges. “It can’t go anywhere. Not with Jack. He’s…he’s into you.” He looked back at you, the regret in his eyes evident, a pain mirrored in your own chest. “I can’t do that to him.”

His words were like a punch to the gut, and the warmth of the fire suddenly felt distant, fading into a cold, empty ache spreading through your chest. You hadn’t expected it to hurt this much, hadn’t realized how much you’d been hoping he’d say the opposite, that he’d fight for whatever was happening between you.

You dropped your gaze, feeling foolish, vulnerable, exposed. “So that’s it? We just… pretend this doesn’t exist?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like nothing’s been happening all this time?”

Quinn’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his expression pained. “I don’t want to pretend. But I can’t… I won’t hurt him, not like that. He’s my brother.” He hesitated, his voice cracking slightly. “And he really cares about you.”

You swallowed hard. It felt ridiculous—being here, feeling so foolishly hopeful, only to be left with a hollow ache and a fractured connection that couldn’t ever be more. Part of you wanted to yell at him for leading you on, for those late-night conversations and stolen glances, for every unspoken word that now felt like a cruel joke.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wish it could be different.”

The words left you hollow. Part of you wanted to fight, to tell him that what you felt couldn’t just be ignored, but another part — the part that knew him and understood his loyalty — couldn’t bring yourself to ask him to choose you over his brother. Not when you saw the conflict in his eyes, the pain that mirrored your own.

“Fine,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. You stood up, the cool night air prickling your skin as you walked away from the fire, leaving him there in silence. You didn’t look back. It felt like your chest was filled with broken glass, each breath painful, as you made your way back to the house.

Inside, the stillness was almost suffocating. The others had already gone to bed, and the darkened living room felt cold and empty, mirroring the ache in your heart. You climbed the stairs to your room, shutting the door softly behind you as you sank onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall. A mix of anger and sadness filled you. You were mad at Quinn, for drawing you in only to push you away; mad at Jack, for being in the way even if he hadn’t meant to be; mad at Trevor, for ever convincing you to come here; and, perhaps most of all, mad at yourself, for letting your heart hope for something that could never be.

The next morning, a heavy quiet blanketed the lake house. You moved through the motions of breakfast with the others, but your thoughts felt distant, lost somewhere between the memories of last night and the weight of Quinn’s words. The morning was made slightly easier by the absence of Quinn who you were told went into the town early that morning to run errands and hit the gym. The guys bantered and talked about heading out on the boat, planning an afternoon on the lake, but you could only muster half-hearted nods and polite smiles. It was hard to focus, every small sound—the clinking of mugs, the soft scrape of a chair—only intensifying the ache you couldn’t shake.

Excusing yourself, you slipped away before anyone could ask questions, making your way down to the dock. The air was cool, a gentle breeze rippling across the lake's surface, and you sat at the edge, feet dangling above the water. You were still in your sleep outfit, not exactly pyjamas, but rather a comfy oversized hoodie and a pair of mens boxers. The familiar scent of pine and fresh earth surrounded you, but even the peaceful view couldn’t ease the storm of emotions inside.

The quiet was soon broken by the sound of footsteps approaching, and you didn’t need to look to know it was Jack. You felt him sit beside you, his presence warm and grounding. For a moment, he didn’t say anything — just let the silence settle between you both, as though he was waiting for you to be ready.

Finally, he cleared his throat, glancing sideways at you. “You okay this morning? You’ve been… quiet,” he said softly, his voice tentative, as if he were stepping carefully around broken glass. “Distant.”

You swallowed, bracing yourself as you met his gaze. His eyes were filled with genuine concern, a softness that only made this harder. “Yeah,” you murmured, looking back out at the lake. “Guess I just needed some space.”

Jack nodded, though he didn’t seem convinced. His fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the dock, and after a beat, he spoke again, his tone thoughtful, almost nostalgic.

“You know,” he began, eyes cast down at the water, “when Trevor told me he was bringing a friend this summer, he was so sure we’d hit it off. He kept going on about how you and I would be perfect for each other, that we’d get along great.” A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I remember feeling this weird, excited energy like… maybe he was right, you know? Maybe I was going to meet someone special.”

You felt a lump forming in your throat as he continued, his voice carrying a warmth that was both comforting and deeply bittersweet.

“And when you got here…” He hesitated, his eyes meeting yours, as if to gauge your reaction. “I don’t know, it just… felt easy, from the start. Like we’d known each other forever. I started to feel like maybe Trevor had been onto something.” He gave a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it, just the weight of unspoken feelings.

“Things felt really good between us, and I thought you felt it too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “So I started to get my hopes up—thinking maybe this was the start of something real.”

You winced, guilt gnawing at you. “Jack… I’m so sorry,” you said, your voice shaky. “I didn’t mean to lead you on, truly. I think you’re amazing. From the bottom of my heart, I just… I mean there’s gotta be some sort of spell this fucking house puts me under because I would be insane otherwise to not like you! You… you’re so perfect that any other girl would be scremaing at me, trying to claw my eyes out for not appreciating you. But… I just can’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Jack’s eyes softened, a mix of sadness and resignation settling in them. He looked down, his fingers still drumming but more slowly now, as if grounding himself. After a moment, he took a deep breath and let it out, his shoulders sagging slightly.

“I get it,” he murmured, though his voice had an unmistakable crack in it. “I mean… I think I get it. You can’t force something that isn’t there, right?” He gave a sad smile, one that tried to mask the hurt but didn’t quite succeed.

He stared out at the water, his expression distant, like he was trying to piece together what had gone wrong, or maybe just what he’d missed. A tense silence settled between you, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on the air around you. Jack cleared his throat, seeming to steel himself, his gaze searching your face as if looking for an answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked.

“Can I… can I just ask you one thing?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. His vulnerability in that moment was palpable, and you could feel your heart pounding, bracing yourself for what was coming.

You nodded, feeling your throat tighten.

“Do you… have feelings for Quinn?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and painful, and a part of you wished he hadn’t asked. But the look in his eyes told you he needed to know, that the uncertainty was gnawing at him just as much as the truth might.

Slowly, you nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek as you whispered, “Yes.”

A heavy silence fell between you, and Jack seemed to shrink a little, his shoulders slumping as he took it in. Jack’s gaze fixed on the lake, and for a long moment, he said nothing. You could see the effort it took for him to keep his expression neutral, to keep his emotions tightly bound. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“So, you… you and Quinn. Is there… anything actually happening between you two?” He glanced at you, a flicker of something raw in his eyes — hope, maybe, or just the need to understand.

You shook your head, offering a small, bittersweet smile. “No, Jack. We’re… we’re not together. We won’t be.”

He looked at you, brow furrowed. “Why not?” he asked softly, his confusion obvious. “If you feel that way about him, why wouldn’t you try?”

You took a shaky breath, the words catching in your throat. “Because Quinn… Quinn’s too good of a brother. He’d never go for me because of you… and because of what he knows you feel.”

Jack blinked, his brow furrowing as he took in your words. “Wait—what does that mean? Because of me?” he asked, his voice laced with confusion. His gaze softened, and you could see he was fighting to keep his tone steady, like he was trying not to hope.

You sighed, feeling a bittersweet ache settle in your chest. “Quinn told me he could never be with me because he knows how you feel. He doesn’t want to hurt you, Jack.”

Jack’s jaw clenched, a flicker of frustration flashing across his face. “So… let me get this straight,” he muttered, almost incredulously. “He’s not doing anything about how he feels—because of me?”

You nodded, and Jack fell silent, staring down at his hands, which had stopped drumming and were now clenched tightly in his lap. He seemed deep in thought, his brows furrowed as he processed what you’d just told him. The lake was quiet around you, the stillness broken only by the occasional ripple of water.

For a long time, Jack didn't say anything, just stared down at the water, his brows drawn together. You could almost feel the weight of his thoughts, the way he was wrestling with everything that had just been laid out. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, raw.

“So he… he cares enough to stay away,” Jack said slowly, the words laced with a sadness that felt almost like admiration. “That's… just like him.” He took a deep breath, forcing a small, sad smile. “I wish things were different. I wish we could just rewind, go back to the start of summer and… and pretend this never happened.”

You swallowed hard, his words striking a chord deep within you. “Me too,” you whispered, eyes burning with unshed tears. “I never wanted any of this to happen, Jack. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”

Jack looked over at you, his expression softening, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of the easy, unburdened friendship you’d had in the beginning. “I know,” he murmured. “You’re not the kind of person who’d do this on purpose. It’s just… life, I guess. It’s complicated, ‘n messy as hell. And… maybe Trevor was right. We do get along. Just… maybe not in the way he thought we would.”

He smiled, a genuine one this time, though tinged with a sadness he couldn’t hide. “Maybe someday… I won’t feel this way,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the soft lapping of the lake against the dock. “But for now… I think I just need a little space. Time, maybe.”

You nodded, understanding that this was what he needed, even if it hurt to hear. “I get it, Jack. I do.”

Jack gave a nod, his gaze returning to the water, the weight of unspoken words settling over the two of you. In the next moment, he reached over and gave your hand a small squeeze—a quiet truce, an understanding. Then he stood, brushing off his shorts and glancing back at the house.

“I’ll be up at the house for a bit,” he murmured, the distance in his tone unmistakable. With that, he turned and walked back up the dock, his footsteps slow and heavy.

In the following days, there was a noticeable shift in the air; everyone felt it, though no one dared to name it. Conversations were stilted, laughter felt forced, and even the once-lively dinners had become quiet affairs, each of you treading carefully as if one wrong word might shatter the fragile peace that held you all together. Jack avoided you and Quinn as much as he could, lingering at the edge of group activities, his usual easygoing energy replaced by something more closed off, guarded.

Quinn, for his part, kept his distance too, his usual calm presence clouded by an unspoken tension. It was as if he knew that the delicate line he was walking might snap at any moment, sending everything spiraling out of control.

You couldn't ignore the heaviness that had settled over the house, a tangible sense of tension that made everything feel off-kilter. As much as you'd wanted this summer to be an escape, it had become the very opposite — a painful reminder of all the ways things could go wrong.

That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself wide awake, thoughts racing. The decision took shape slowly, a reluctant resolve that you couldn’t shake. You needed to leave. Staying here, caught between the fractured pieces of what had been and what could never be, was too much to bear. The thought of facing both brothers day after day, watching Jack’s guarded smiles and Quinn’s restrained distance—it was too much. They deserved space, and, you realized, so did you.

With a deep breath, you grabbed your phone and booked a flight out for two days later, the earliest you could manage. You barely slept, running through potential conversations in your mind, eventually deciding you were only going to tell Trevor and slip out quietly, not wanting to cause anymore issues.

You forced yourself to push through the pain and awkwardness during the two remaining days until you would be returning back to California. As the days inched closer to your departure, the weight of unspoken words grew heavier, settling into every corner of the lake house. You caught glimpses of Jack, his face turning away when he thought no one was watching as if even looking at you and Quinn felt like reopening an unhealed wound. Quinn’s glances were no less fraught, though his were filled with a wistful restraint, as if he was already mourning the loss of something that had barely even begun.

The dinners, once filled with laughter, now passed in subdued tones, each person more focused on their plate than the conversation. You found yourself counting down the days and hours, conflicted between the need to escape the tension and the ache of leaving it all behind. In those last two days, you kept reminding yourself that soon, you’d be on a plane back to California, back to your own life — away from Jack’s pained looks and Quinn’s longing stares.

Your final day there, you packed your belongs up quickly, hoping Trevor would buy your excuse of not wanting to miss your flight as a good reason for him to take you to the airport early, and not because you couldn’t bear to spend one more hour in this suffocating oasis. Everyone else was lounging by the water, with the exception of Jack who lingered in the kitchen, opting to do the dishes rather than be around the others. He was lost in thought when he heard the patio door slide open and shut, the sound of bare feet padding against the hardwood. He turned to the entrance of the kitchen, seeing Quinn wearing his boardshorts and a slightly guarded look.

Quinn stopped at the threshold, eyes flicking briefly to Jack’s hands as he scrubbed the dishes. They were tense, knuckles white around the plate he held, and the silence between them was palpable and heavy. Jack set down the dish with a clatter, bracing himself on the edge of the sink, not looking at Quinn. Jack didn’t give Quinn time to speak. The words erupted from him, fueled by everything he’d been holding back.

“Do you even understand what you’re doing?” Jack’s voice was low and seething, barely contained. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t dare let Quinn get a word in. “You’re hurting her, Quinn. A perfectly nice girl, who came here not looking for this mess but got dragged into it anyway. And the worst part is, you know it. You know it, and you’re still just… sitting back like a damn martyr, thinking that by staying distant, you’re somehow making it easier for everyone. That by holding back, you’re sparing her, sparing me.”

Jack’s words cut through the quiet, sharper than the silence that had settled in the house over the past days. The vulnerability in his tone was raw, scraping against Quinn’s stoic expression. Quinn shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt; he only looked at Jack, his gaze unwavering.

“And you know what? I kind of hate you for it,” Jack continued, voice unsteady. He turned his head just enough for Quinn to catch the anger, the hurt in his eyes. “I hate that you waltzed in and just took her from me without even trying. And, yeah, maybe that’s selfish. Maybe I never really had a chance, but she was still there, and I was trying. I was there, damn it!”

Quinn finally took a step forward, but Jack cut him off again, his hands clenching at the counter. “And I hate you for pretending like you’re doing the right thing by telling her nothing will happen. You act like you’re some noble saint by ‘staying away,’ but it’s a lie, Quinn. It’s a lie, and we both know it. You’re holding back because you’re scared — scared to go after what you really want, and in the end, you’re just making it worse for everyone. For her. For me.”

Jack’s voice wavered, then cracked, as he finally fell silent, chest heaving from the force of his confession. The words had cost him, as if each syllable had drawn blood. The only sound in the room was the dripping of the faucet, each drop amplifying the tension between them.

Quinn stayed quiet for a long moment, his gaze steady as he absorbed every word. He studied Jack, weighing something unspoken. “Would you hate me if I went for her, then?” His tone was gentle, almost hesitant, a softness that Jack hadn’t been prepared for.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I probably would.” He ran a hand through his hair, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I mean I hate you right now for making her feel the way she does. But it shouldn’t matter, Quinn. Not if you two… if you actually care about each other.” Jack’s voice faltered, breaking under the weight of his own honesty. “Look, I’ll get over it. In time. But don’t waste what could be something good just because you’re trying to spare everyone. It’s pointless, and it’s selfish. You need to get to her before it’s too late.”

Quinn could feel Jack’s anger and pain, an emotion so raw and tangled it clawed at the air between them. For a second, Quinn thought of how different things could have been if he had stayed on the sidelines, if he hadn’t let himself get close to you. But as Jack’s gaze softened, an odd understanding settled between them. Jack wasn’t letting go easily, but he was letting go.

Jack’s shoulders slumped, exhausted, as he ran a hand over his face. “She’s leaving today, you know?” he said to Quinn, a look of surprise appearing on his face. “Trev told me last night she booked her flight out for this afternoon.”

Quinn’s face fell, and the guarded look faded, replaced with something dangerously close to panic. He hadn’t known—hadn’t expected that this was it. That today was the end.

“She’s leaving?” Quinn asked, Jack nodding. “Why didn’t she say anything? W-why is she leaving?”

“Because why would she stay?” Jack said. “She’s going to protect herself. She’s not gonna stay here, hoping for something that won’t happen. She’s too smart for that.”

The realization struck Quinn like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless. Jack's words echoed in his mind, each one sharper than the last. She’s leaving. Of course, she would. She wasn’t the type to hang around hoping for some half-hearted promise or for Quinn to finally decide what he wanted. She deserved so much more than waiting for him to get his act together.

Jack's voice softened, pulling him back to the present. "Quinn, it’s not too late. She hasn’t left yet. If you really care about her, don’t let her go like this."

Quinn’s gaze faltered, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his expression. Could he really undo the damage he’d done by staying away? Could he find the words to convince her that, despite his silence, he’d felt everything just as deeply as she had?

A heavy silence followed before Quinn found his voice. “What… what should I say to her?”

Jack shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You really think I’m giving you advice on how to get the girl I wanted?”

Quinn’s face softened in a rare, grateful smile. “Fair enough.” He hesitated, then turned, steeling himself as he left the kitchen, leaving Jack to his own fractured thoughts.

Quinn climbed the stairs two at a time, his pulse racing with every step, anticipation and fear warring within him. As he reached the top, he saw Trevor just exiting your room. Trevor paused, giving Quinn a look that held no small amount of concern.

“I don’t know what went down between you three,” Trevor said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “But I care about her, and I don’t like seeing her like this. You going to fix whatever mess this is?”

Quinn’s chest tightened. He knew Trevor had been close to you, learning this summer just how much of a big brother figure he was to you. He couldn’t fault him for looking out for you.

“I’m going to fix it,” Quinn said, his voice quiet but firm. He met Trevor’s gaze, hoping to communicate the sincerity in his words. “I have to.”

Trevor didn’t say anything else, but he gave Quinn a long, steady look, as though weighing whether to believe him. Then he gave a nod and shifted your duffle bag, stepping aside to let Quinn pass. With a final glance at Trevor, Quinn walked to your door, his heart racing. Quinn stood outside your door for a moment, his hand hovering above the doorknob. He knew what he needed to say, but a part of him feared that the damage was already done. Bracing himself, he knocked gently before pushing the door open.

You were standing by the window, your zipped duffle bag sitting on your bed. Your back was to the door when Quinn entered, and for a moment, he almost turned around, the words caught in his throat. But then you turned, your eyes meeting his.

“Are you really going?” Quinn asked, his voice quiet and strained.

You nodded, stepping away from the window and closer to Quinn. “I think it’s best. This whole summer has just… it’s too much, Quinn. I didn’t come here expecting any of this, and now I just feel… caught. And I can’t keep feeling this way.”

Quinn swallowed, his gaze never leaving yours. He looked as though he was battling something heavy, words lingering on his lips, waiting to escape. He stepped forward, close enough that you could see the faint circles under his eyes, the fatigue that seemed to pull at his features.

“I didn’t expect any of this either,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And I get it — you’re right. I hurt you. I know that. I thought… I thought if I kept my distance, it would somehow make it easier for everyone. That maybe you'd move on from this — move on from me, and be with Jack. I thought it would hurt less.”

You held his gaze, your voice low but unwavering. “Do you have any idea what that did to me, Quinn? All summer, feeling this… this connection between us, and thinking that I had to be imagining it because you couldn’t even look at me. And you’re saying you did that on purpose? To protect me?” Your voice trembled. “That’s not protecting me. That’s running away.”

Quinn took a shaky breath, stepping closer, his expression taut with regret. “I know I messed up. I was spineless and I should have told you the truth sooner.” Quinn said, bowing his head briefly before forcing himself to look up at your hurt eyes. “I told myself that it was better this way, but all I was doing was lying to myself. Because every time I saw you… every time I heard your laugh, or watched you talk to Jack, or caught you looking at me — I couldn’t breathe.”

Quinn took one last step forward, less than a foot away from you. He raised his hand to reach you, fingertips grazing your arm gently, as if he feared you might pull away. “But I care about you, more than I thought possible. And I was afraid of that. Afraid of hurting Jack, afraid of hurting you… and afraid of wanting you this much.” He swallowed, his voice growing rough. “But I can’t let you leave without knowing how I feel. I want to be with you I — I need to be with you.”

Your breath hitched, the confession settling over you like a warm, crushing weight. This was what you’d wanted, but it also brought a whirlwind of conflicting emotions crashing down. You took a small step back, just enough to put some distance between you, needing space to gather your thoughts.

Quinn was saying everything you wanted to hear from the beginning. Laying his feelings bare, and exposing his heart in a way you hadn't expected from someone as reserved as him. It was like seeing a hidden part of him, one he’d kept carefully guarded. The vulnerability in his eyes made it clear that this was as terrifying for him as it was thrilling for you.

But in the back of your mind, Jack lingered, his hurt and disappointment woven into every stolen glance and quiet moment of the summer. The image of his face as he realized how you felt about Quinn was something you couldn’t shake. The memory clawed at you, guilt mixing with the longing Quinn’s words evoked.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear that,” you said, voice catching. “But Quinn… Jack — he tried so hard with me this summer, and I couldn’t give him what he wanted because of… well, because of you.” You hesitated, torn between the longing in Quinn’s eyes and the memory of Jack’s earnest, hopeful glances. “The last thing I wanted was to hurt him. And I feel like I’ve done enough damage by just… being here.”

Quinn’s gaze softened, his hand lingering just above your arm, hovering close as if he wasn’t ready to let you go. “I know,” he murmured. “I know it’s complicated. But I talked to Jack this morning. He told me… he told me to come up here and talk to you. To tell you how I felt. He wants you to be happy, and he knows that’s not with him. He’ll get over it.”

“Jack said that?” you whispered, barely able to believe it.

Quinn nodded, a slight smile tugging at his lips, though there was sadness in his eyes. “He might hate me for a while, and I can live with that. But he said I’d regret it if I let you go. And… he was right.”

His hand, warm and steady, traced down your arm, his fingers slipping around yours with a gentle firmness. The touch, gentle but insistent, sent a jolt through you. “I know I’ve messed up,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll make it right. I want this, us… if you do too.”

You nodded, words escaping you as Quinn stepped even closer, his free hand lifting to gently cup your face. His thumb brushed against your cheek, and you could feel the slight tremor in his touch. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you didn’t.

His lips barely brushed yours, soft and tentative. Your breath mingled together briefly before your lips locked together. He lingered for a heartbeat, savoring the closeness as if he, too, couldn’t believe this was real. Then, with a surge of emotion, the kiss deepened, all the restraint and hesitation of the summer dissolving as his hand rose to cradle your cheek, holding you to him as though afraid you might disappear.

His stubble that had grown out over the last couple weeks of summer scraped along your jaw and chin, leaving a faint burn that only added to the rush of sensation.

When you pulled back, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I’ve wanted to do that since the day you got here,” he murmured, a hint of relief in his voice.

You giggled, staying close and feeling his heartbeat echoing against yours. The silence that followed was thick, but it was different now — no longer tense or uncertain like it had been for most of the summer. It felt as though the weight had been lifted from both of your shoulders.

But even in that moment, you knew the reality of what this would mean—for Jack, for Quinn, and for yourself. There was a part of you that still ached, remembering Jack’s quiet disappointment and knowing it would take time to heal the wounds this summer had left behind.

You swallowed hard, raising a hand to Quinns face and brushing aside his dark locks that fell over his eyes. “I still think I need to go,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not because I don’t want this. I do. But I think both of you need time, and maybe I do too. To let everything settle.”

Quinn nodded, understanding settling over his expression. “I get it,” he replied, taking your hand in his and giving your palm a soft kiss. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. Take all the time you need.”

Quinn let you slip from his arms, his heart squeezing as he watched you grab your bag and exit the room. As you descended the stairs with your duffle bag slung over your shoulder, you saw Jack waiting near the door. His expression softened as you approached, a bittersweet smile crossing his face.

“So, this is it?” he asked, his voice gentle but with an undercurrent of acceptance.

You nodded. “Yeah, I think it’s best. Thank you, Jack. For understanding. And… for everything.”

Jack gave a short nod, his gaze momentarily flickering towards the stairs where Quinn had stopped to watch from a distance. He returned his gaze to you and managed a small, sincere smile. “Go live your life. I wish you and Quinn all the best.”

You hugged him, both of you holding on just a second longer than necessary. When you pulled back, you could see the mix of emotions in his eyes, but there was a sense of peace there too. He’d let go, not because it didn’t hurt, but because he genuinely wanted you to be happy. You felt your heart swell, gratitude mixing with the faint sting of regret for the friendship that would never quite be the same. But Jack’s words lifted the weight off your shoulders, letting you and Quinn move forward.

With a final look, you stepped outside, Trevor waiting to drive you to the airport, his brow furrowed in confusion at the way you suddenly had pep in your step, a small smile present on your lips that had been missing for weeks. As the car pulled away, you stole one last glance at the lake house, catching a glimpse of Quinn watching you from the porch. He raised a hand in a small wave, and you returned it, a soft smile on your lips.

This summer hadn’t turned out anything like you’d expected.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #jack hughes #jack hughes imagine #new jersey devils #vancouver canucks #`✦ˑ ✒️ 𓂃⊹ my works #qh43 #jh86

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yeyinde · 6 months ago

Text

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch.

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip.

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are.

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs.

Fine china broken at his feet.

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey.

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either.

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it.

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind.

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well.

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you.

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop.

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin.

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest.

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.”

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache.

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending.

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him.

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already.

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum.

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.

He knows why he's here.

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull.

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts.

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls.

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince.

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot.

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him.

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing.

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in.

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock.

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you.

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick.

Price has this every night.

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it.

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll.

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous.

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly.

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan.

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more.

Desperate for it.

But this isn't what Price wants, is it?

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words.

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head.

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward.

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples.

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm.

Just like the night he first met you.

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.”

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face.

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?”

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket.

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass.

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose.

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price.

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you.

The spit—his spit, too.

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt.

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still.

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns.

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you.

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care.

He stops looking. Stops searching.

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge.

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat.

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath.

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure.

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his.

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust.

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back.

if found, return to John Price.

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot.

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path.

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless.

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail.

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line.

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers.

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod.

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it.

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific.

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out.

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun.

Fuck you again, too, just because he can.

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod.

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has.

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss.

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his.

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains.

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice.

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke.

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm.

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing.

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you.

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay.

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin.

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears.

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric.

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it.

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll.

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed.

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed.

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less.

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped.

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull.

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you.

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you.

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust.

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain.

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug.

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him.

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts.

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh.

Right.

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts.

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you.

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it.

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought.

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt.

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory.

Victorious.

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker.

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan.

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm.

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids.

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot.

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you.

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything.

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #my first time writing baby Ghost lmao i headcanon him as unhinged and sloppier than his older counterpart #ghost x reader x price #kinda??#price x reader #john price x reader

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