#not sure where it was it was a bedroom maybe his

[yeyinde]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

SO WHY DO GOOD GIRLS LIKE BAD GUYS ?! - the biker's route ☆ !

synopsis : leather jackets, motorcycles, a nasty attitude—and a smart ass mouth !! but it's just somethin' about him, y'know ??

an. route 3 is here after making yall wait !!! sorry yall exams r comin up but i hope yall enjoy this part >_<!! also i make a sneaky lil aphmau reference his here bc im very unfunny, enjoy!

when you wake up today, it takes you about 5 minutes to actually get up.

you look to your left and your right, half expecting to be met with another katsuki; maybe this one would be a merman or something?! and yet, nothing.

so you stare at your ceiling and wait. maybe this one will come blast through your bedroom wall like the dragon again..!

nothing, nothing and a whole lotta nothing.

so you finally decide to get up and start your day, things were actually back to normal today. you decide to ignore the slightest twinge of disappointment in your gut but you cheer up a bit when you remember the study date your boyfriend had not so graciously promised you.

you're just about done dressing up, about to tie your uniform tie when there's a knock on your door. katsuki is here to pick you up (despite saying he wouldn't anymore like two days ago, typical.) early and on time as usual, or maybe just a bit too early.

"coming !" you call out, pulling up your socks to line them up comfortably, hobbling towards the door to let your boyfriend in.

you swing the door open, already anticipating to be met with your boyfriend, "you're here ear..ly ?"

you stand corrected, it is him. no horns, no ears or tails..but still...a bit different.

first of all, he's not wearing his uniform, no book bag either. instead he's decked out in a black leather biker jacket, baggy black ripped jeans and silver jewellery around his neck, you catch some rings (and bandages) on his fingers when he reaches up to place a hand against his neck, groaning when it pops. and black combat boots. basically, the whole nine yards for a school day.

"oh." is all you can say, part impressed and partly, mostly, confused.

"thought you were gonna keep me waitin' forever." katsuki said, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. he leans in, tugging you forward by your tie to finish tying it for you.

"wha—i—you just got here." you stuttered "and also, not that i mind, but shouldn't you get dressed for class ?"

your boyfriend looks you up and down, tightly pulling the knot of your tie up properly. you can't help but feel a bit shy at how he's so openly scanning over you.

"nah, fuck that." he shrugs.

okay, now this was strange.

your katsuki with the perfect grades, the stickler, the secret goodie two shoes with perfect attendance wants to skip class?? something was very wrong.

he stands back like nothing happened, shoving his hands in his pockets "anyway, you ready to get outta here or what ?"

"huh ? where are we going ?"

"wherever we wanna, you got anything in mind ?" and he's already turning around, grabbing you by the arm with a smirk.

huh ?

"...is something—"

you can't even finish your question before you hear your name being called loudly, by katsuki. your katsuki, ready for school, book bag and everything just on time to pick you up.

ah, you knew he'd gotten here too damn early.

"dude, this is so creepy."

"how'd this even happen ?!"

"i wonder what type of quirk did this...."

you can catch the beginning of midoriya starting up on his nerdy rambling before sighing. you try tuning your classmates out with a sigh and turn your music up louder in your earbuds.

your homeroom teacher, who had clearly had enough of the surge of bakugou's appearing before him, had allowed this new edgy katsuki (as denki called him, somehow it managed to stick) to attend class. he looked normal enough and didn't look like he'd cause too much trouble, as long as he was attended to, that attendant being you, of course.

"there's another one ?!" you hear mineta cry, surely still traumatised from his experience with the wolfish katsuki almost having him as his early morning snack. the thought makes you laugh. you turn to look at the crowd of your classmates gathered around the twin katsuki's.

kaminari is the first to try and cause mischief, taking his chances since your homeroom teacher was taking a while, and had started a "spot the real bakugou!" contest. the contest was a bit flawed since they were both convinced they were the real original, but you decide not to step in on their fun. (and you have to admit it was a bit entertaining.)

"okay, everyone quiet down please! let's get back on track! " kaminari bellowed, wrapping his hands around his mouth to project his voice.

"gentlemen, whoever can answer this next question will receive..." he sings, drumming his hands on his desk in anticipation, neither katsuki's seem very amused.

kaminari jumps up, dramatically revealing a snickers bar "ta-daaaaa!! a free snickers bar from yours truly! though it's been sitting in my bag for a couple days.." he mutters quietly.

"i don't want that shit." both katsuki's say at the same time.

your entire class errupts into laughter and chaos. you shake your head in amusement and decide to scoot a bit closer to keep listening.

"um..could i request a question ?" midoriya pipes up, raising a hand.

"mister midoriya wishes to request a question ! what do you say, kacchan ?" kaminari the announcer encourages.

"fuck off, nerd!" both katsuki's say again, it's really starting to look like some kind of circus act now. you can't help but laugh along with your classmates.

"midoriya, you have the floor." kaminari giggles, leaning his makeshift fist microphone to your green-haired friends lips.

"how do you feel about having a clone of you ? is it scary ? do you feel connected in a way ? is it—"

kaminari interrupts before midoriya can go full blown geek "please, keep the questions to a minimum, sir !" he energetically spins back around, his chair squeaking loudly as he turns back to your boyfriend and edgysuki. "well, your response ?"

your boyfriend pipes up first with a scoff "like i care, i'm not scared of shit, let alone this dickbag. and no, i don't feel connected to this creep—don't ask me these weird fuckin' questions !"

your boyfriend almost takes this like a real interview, yelling at his childhood friend but diligently staying close to kaminari's fist like it was an actual mic. edgy katsuki seems to think the most important part had been said and doesn't add anything else, although once he spots you in the 'crowd', he makes sure to keep his eyes fixed on you. you quickly look away, your ears burn when you hear him chuckle.

soon after his response your classmates pipe up with more and more questions "oh, oh me ! i have a question !" and "can i go next ?!"s sound inside your class. you're just about to request a random question when sero beats you to it. you kick your legs excitedly, knowing he was always the first one to mess with your boyfriend.

"my question's for both the baku's, actually." he drawls, smirking lazily. he leans back in his chair like he knows he's about to start some shit.

"out of the both of you; who do you think likes yn the most ?"

....

huh.

"wha.." you wheeze, the noise stays stuck in your throat . you feel your ears burn, and it's most definitely intensified by the chorus of "ooooo's" overtaking your class. your class rep tries to save the situation, stating it was surely against the rules to ask such an inappropriate question. you nod to him in appreciation.

"i checked the rule book and this type of question is totally fine actually !" kaminari says.

"what rulebook ?!" you pipe up, embarrassed.

he grins at you, pointing to himself "this rulebook."

fuck, you should've seen that one coming.

"now, an answer if you may..." kaminari snickered bouncing on his chair excitedly, barely able to keep his excitement in check.

your boyfriend's eyes flit to you, likely sensing your embarrassment, his ears turn pink and he scoffs. crossing his arms and readjusting in his chair he grumbles. "this is stupid. m'not answerin' that—"

"—i do, obviously."

....

silence. pure silence after the other katsuki speaks.

"i obviously like her more." he repeats, this time making sure he looks at you while he speaks. he's so sure of himself, arms crossed as well and leaned back so casually with a smirk panting his face.

"...hah?" your boyfriend growls in warning "the fuck you just say..?"

"you got a hearin' problem or somethin' ? quit making me repeat myself, dick cheese." the other katsuki sneers back.

"ya think you like my girl more than me, jackass ?!"

"i know i like my girl more than some extra, shit stain!"

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU CALLIN' AN EXTRA, YOU PIECE OF SHIT ?!"

"WHO ELSE WOULD I BE TALKIN' TO BUT YOU, YOU FUCKING MORON ?!"

it's chaos. shouting and howling and absolute chaos. but before things can break out into an all out fist fight, your homeroom teacher finally walks in. barely sparing any of you a glance and setting up his sleeping bag on the floor. until—

"you better all get in your seats by the time i'm finished or so help me..."

you have never moved faster in your life. you're sure you unlocked a hyper speed quirk with the way you zoomed back to your seat, head fixed down on your desk. your homeroom teacher sighs in exasperation, introducing the new katsuki you'd all managed to get very familiar in the span of a few minutes. he makes sure to warn you all with a "behave yourselves." kaminari gulps as he feels the teachers eyes very obviously fixed on him.

safe to say the lesson goes on without a hitch, everyone afraid to breath a little too loud.

you quietly scribbling in your notebook. you hope your teacher can't hear the way your heart hammers against your ribs.

you'd managed to survive your class day under the watchful eye of three people;

mister aizawa, who was already in a bad mood from your earlier predicament with your classmates.

your boyfriend who kept glancing back at you...

...probably because of the third hawk carefully watching you, bad boysuki,( or should you probably call him bullysuki) who was very subtle in chucking paper balls at you while the teachers were looking away. the entire day.

he was seated behind you in the back of the classroom, which gave him plenty of opportunities to kick the back of your chair and look oh, so innocent when you turned around to glare at him. during present mic's english class, he'd dropped his pencil inside the collar of your shirt and barely covered his snort when you shrieked in surprise.

truly, a fucking nuisance. too bad for him, you'd been dating said nuisance for more than a year now and this couldn't phase you in the least.

—before you can reach for your bag, you're brought out of your thoughts by katsuki, the all black one, snatching your bag and throwing it behind his shoulder casually. "you ready to blow this joint or what ?"

"i'm not blowing anything with you, jerk. m'starting to think being insufferable is how you breathe."

"aww. you mad at me, sweetheart ?" he coos, leaning down closer to you. you try not to show your surprise, curling your lip up and rolling your eyes at him. his eyes flit down to your mouth for a short moment. "m'just messin' with you a bit. s'all in good fun."

"it's not funny if you're the only one laughing." you counter. he rolls his eyes playfully. pulling you closer by your arm and leaning in way closer than he needed to.

"fine, s'my bad or whatever. how bout i make it up to you by takin' you out, hm ? got someplace in mind ?"

before you can speak, you're interrupted by your boyfriend snatching you back, causing a surprised noise to clog in your throat.

"she's not going anywhere with you, weirdo." katsuki readjusts his grip on your arm, his palms slightly sweaty. you can already feel he's whole body practically heating up.

bad boy katsuki's smirk is immediately replaced with a scowl, tilting his head back to mean mug your boyfriend. he has a few piercings in his ear too, you notice.

"hah?! s'far as i'm concerned, she hasn't said she was gonna go with anywhere with you."

"she doesn't need to tell you anything. besides, we already have plans. so, fuck. off." katsuki growls, putting extra strain on the fact you and him had a study session planned. the other katsuki doesn't seem to take the news well, cracking his bandages knuckles with a scowl.

"huh, that reminds me. we got interrupted before i got to kick your ass, huh?"

"if you wanna go all you gotta do is say when, pussy—"

before the both of them could start trading blows in the middle of your classroom, you stretch your arms, putting distance between the both of them and surprising them both.

"okay, boys. let's cut it out and use our big boy words okay ?" you sigh, irritated. "since, apparently, you're both toddlers, how about i call the shots here, yeah ?

i'm not going anywhere with either of you if you can't behave yourselves." you turn to look at edgysuki "i had a study date planned, so i unfortunately won't be going out with you. if you wanna come along, be my guest. i have a test coming up so if you test me, i will fuck your life up."

"and you," you turn back to your boyfriend, who's wide eyes are fixed on you "behave, okay ?" you warn, swatting at his chest. he jumps like the action snapped him out of his trance, and looks away with a scoff.

he grunts in agreement but grumbles about it, "should tell that other bastard that..."

that was more than enough for you. "alright, off we go." you usher the boys towards the hallway. your boyfriend moves with quickness, snatching your hand and pulling you away before the other katsuki can get a word in. while walking though, the other katsuki leans in to whisper hotly in your ear.

"that was hot as hell, sweets."

"be quiet." you whine.

"of course you'd get us kicked out of the library—of course of cou—how could i not have known ?!"

currently, you're trying your best to not lose your mind.

the difference between a half human hybrid katsuki and a shoujo bad boy male lead katsuki ? one was wild and untameable and it was definitely not the one you're thinking of.

you're honestly surprised the fucking wolf and dragon were easier to deal with than a biker jacket wearing delinquent.

it had started..okay ? maybe ? then again with any amount of katsuki's, going from 0 to 100 wasn't a hard task. you think maybe bad boysuki had started teasing you too much for your boyfriends liking. as protective as he was, and it sort of would've been flattering(you've always had a think for the delinquent type, okay ?!) if they hadn't started trying to have a showdown for your affection in the middle of a library.

and with the way they'd acted, it wouldn't be a big surprise if you were banned for life.

"i didn't even do shit but he—"

"he swung at me fi—"

"both of you shut the fuck up or so help me..." you groan, rubbing your temples. "i love both of you very much, unfortunately, but i'm only human and right now i'm having to hold back the very human urge of wringing your necks out like geese !" you shriek.

your boyfriend looks at the ground, kicking the toe of his shoe against some rocks, he never liked getting scolded after all. you'd almost feel bad, almost. (you still feel a little bad.)

"he—"

"quiet."

"yeah, quiet, loser." bad boy pipes up.

"you be quiet, too." you point, eyes wide. "you know what ? do whatever you want. fight to the death in the middle of the road like buffoons all you want, i do not care. do not come talk to me until you figure it out or...!" you splutter, trying to think of a fitting punishment "no smoochies for a month!"

your boyfriend's head shoots up, looking at you like you'd just admitted to torching his precious signed all might card "w-what the hell ?! that's basically only punishment for me!"

"figure. it. out." you conclude, turning your nose up and walking away and ignoring your boyfriends calling out for you. god, it was like dealing with two big baby's, and dealing with one was already more than enough!

but even if you are pissed off, your katsuki does have an extremely kissable face, and you don't know if you could hold up your end of the punishment.

you're sitting in your room now absentmindedly thinking about your predicament, study sheets splayed out around you. when you hear a knock at the door. you quickly get up, eager to leave your notes behind and stretch your legs. you're greeted with bad boy katsuki, looking down at the ground clutching something in his hand.

"you left this in the library..." he mutters, looking away and handing you your pencil case. you blink in surprise—you had no idea that you'd left it—but you manage to keep calm.

you clear your throat before responding "oh, thanks."

"should thank that other guy. he's the one that found it an' told me to bring it to you." he admits "even though i was gonna do it too, fuckin' bastard ordering me around..." he grits out, bitter.

your heart warms, your boyfriend was an idiot after all.

"where is katsuki anyway? well, my katsuki that is."

katsuki scoffs a laugh, finally looking back at you "m'right here, sweetheart."

wow, talk about déjà vu.

"but if you're looking for him he went off somewhere, said i should go see you first or whatever."

you sigh in relief "well, i'm glad you guys managed to get along."

"tch. i ain't getting along with that bastard. don't lump me in with him."

"kinda hard to do considering you are the same perso—."

"yeah, whatever—just—look." he steps closer, walking in your space and closing your door behind you. he backs you up until your knees hit the bed and you slump backwards with an "oof!". he has you where he wants you now. quickly shrugging off his jacket, revealing a tight short sleeved shirt (perfectly accentuating his muscles, mind you) his arms placing themselves on either side of your head. you lay there looking up at him speechless, wide eyed.

"it's stuffy in here. should open a window." he explains, eyes locking with yours.

"right..." you gulp.

"your room's a mess, too."

"okay, you can get it out if it bothers you." you snarked, squinting at him.

his eyes soften and he looks down at you seriously again. "look," he repeats"i don't—i'm not good at shit like this. but..." he looks off to the sound, grumbling. you catch how his ears bleed pink.

"i don't like you being mad..or whatever." he knocks his forehead to yours "...so stop it."

you snort "wow, so smooth." you chuckle when he shifts to shove his head into your shoulder with a quick "shut up."

his hands search and feel around until they get to yours, intertwining them. "don't..." the rest of his sentence is muffled into your shirt. "i can't hear you." you say curiously, he groans loudly.

"s-stop making me say embarrassing shit." he pulls his head out to look at you, your noses bump against each other. his lips oh, so close to yours.

"don't go...thinking that other guy likes you more than i do, got it..? and don't go liking him..more than me..." he trails off. eyes locked to yours, he waits for your response. you swallow harshly. you want to lick your lips, but he's so close you're worried they'll touch.

"well, i like the both of you just the same. so you don't need to worry about that." you say, managing to gather your thoughts you wrap your arms around him to pull him into a hug. he grunts, surprised, but melts into you quickly enough.

"guess that's good enough..." he whispers, pressing a kiss to your neck. he laughs when you squeal in surprise.

"i still like you more than him though."

and then, as soon as you blink, he was gone.

katsuki let's out a high pitched gasp when you surprise him in the common room kitchen, wrapping your arms around him.

"bwu—wh—what the hell?! don't just sneak up on me like that, dumbass !" he splutters, trying to make up from the cute little noise he let out. you giggle, squeezing his waist while he groans. he can't pull you off him as he's doing the dishes and that'd cause one big mess. (and since he's already on thin ice and doesn't wanna get his boyfriend privileges revoked, he'll stick this one out.)

he sighs, defeated "did that fucker fuck off yet ?" he asks.

"potty mouth," you laugh "and yeah, he's gone now. thanks for finding my pencil case for me, by the way."

he reaches to pinch you and you groan at the wet feeling on your skin, wiping your arm on his shirt. " keep having to pick up after your forgetful ass. should be more careful instead of having a hissy fit at me."

"don't start with me right now, katsuki."

he chuckles and shrugs, resigned. "you still mad ?"

"i wasn't anymore, but your little remark just made me re-mad at you."

your boyfriend stiffens and whips back to look at you, frowning. he squints, you squint back. after a heated stare down match he concedes and rolls his eyes.

"...sorry."

"meh. 2 points."

"what the hell?!" he groans, his hands splash around in the water causing soap bubbles to fly. you laugh and lean up to press a kiss to his lips. his mouth closes abruptly, surprise filling his features.

"well, i won't be taking away your smoochie privileges, at least."

"don't sneak up on me like that.." he scowls "and you better not. would've become your worst fuckin' nightmare till you gave in."

you snort "yeah, right. more like you'd become the whiniest baby."

"fuck off." he scoffs.

you giggle to yourself quietly. swaying lightly as your boyfriend silently does his job, the clinking of the dishes filling in the silence.

until katsuki decides to speak up. "hey."

"hm?"

"love ya."

your heart jumps, looking up at him as he keeps his back to you. your face heats and katsuki shows no sign of being bothered by your silence, if only the way he slows down just slightly in his washing.

smiling, you press a kiss to his back "i love you, too."

he stands straighter, almost electrocuted by your words. he huffs, shifting on his feet.

"hmph...i win, then."

curious, you look up at him again "what are you talking about ?"

he finally looks back at you, a feral grin forms on his face "that face stealing bastard can like ya all he wants, but i still love you more!" he snickers evilly.

your boyfriend was, truly, the biggest idiot.

taglist ! ( if your name is in bold i couldn't tag u :< )

@jastoo46 @cecelia77 @erenstitanweave @closehereyes @stoned-anime-babe @taxavoider @yannvi @sugurusmoon @allurearia @kaerotica @wonubby @cupidsblonde @catsoupki @ita606 @andysdrafts @omitea @lili-of-the-vally @serpent-hearted @ghostorchidd @shewki @pirana10 @witch-craft-works @kanvis @okkotsuus @dragonscribble @emmiesarchive @screaming-dough @napbatata @cacaandweewizzsstuff @redollface @meowsannie @katszumi @m-inluv @monchurie @the-hangry-otter @starlostlaiba @moonshuul @katsus-mistress @dondeh-zedonutqueen @liluvtojineteyam @aspiringwriter1111 @redvelvetstan1 @niktwazny303 @nemisimp @kit-katsukii @alphasage @milktea-academia @qyuin @bakugouswaif @themultifandomgirl @icey-wonders

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon Riley is a nudist

And hear me out with this one, okay?

Simon loathed clothes. Ever since birth, he couldn’t stand wearing them. Tight shirts felt suffocating, clinging in all the wrong places, while loose shirts bunched up every time he sat down, irritating his skin like sandpaper. Socks made his toes feel trapped. Jeans? Felt like leg prisons.

So as he got older and lonelier, finally getting a place to call his own, he took full advantage of the one thing he had control over: being bare. Naked, free, relaxed. It was like finally exhaling after holding his breath for years.

He slept nude, cooked nude, cleaned nude, and lounged nude. If a neighbor caught a glimpse through the blinds? So be it. This was his damn house. His sanctuary.

He never had a problem with it… until he got a partner.

Simon didn’t really get the memo at first either. He didn’t think you’d mind. You were his, after all. And besides, he trusted you enough to be comfortable in his own skin and scars. And at first, you said nothing. You were happy he felt that at ease around you. Proud even.

But there came a point. A moment where things tipped.

A point where you could no longer ignore the way his balls quite literally stared at you while you were trying to eat lunch. A point where his nuts were uncomfortably pressed against your back at night because he liked to sleep curled around you. Hell, you could barely take him seriously during conversations not when all you could see was his ass swaying as he turned to grab something off the counter.

Still, you let it slide. Until that day.

Your friend was over, and Simon: tired from work and on autopilot made his way inside, tugging off his shirt, undoing his belt, already stepping out of his cargo pants and down to his boxers. The same boxers he was about to take off when he walked into the living room… and froze.

Silence.

Your friend’s face was a picture of horror. Yours was painted in full body embarrassment. Simon? Confused, holding the waistband in his hand.

That was it. The final straw.

You sat him down that night and had the talk.

“Look, Simon. I love you but can you at least wear boxers around the house?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like having to see your ass when I eat. And I can’t take you seriously when you’re butt naked trying to lecture me about safety knives.”

“What’s wrong with my ass?”

Eventually, he relented. He agreed to boxers. And it worked. Peace was restored. You had no further complaints.

Until he got an idea. A plan.

What if he converted you?

It started subtle. He hid a few of your shorts. Nothing major. And soon you were walking around the house in nothing but your panties and one of your shirts. Then he escalated. Began hiding your shirts too. But you simply grabbed his, oversized and soft.

So he played dirty.

He ordered some itching powder off the internet. Just adding a little sprinkle in your shirts, his too: he had to sell the lie. And sure, you could just wash them. But that took hours. Hours you’d be bare.

So when you said you were hopping in the shower, he smiled and sat back.

The door swung open as you stomped out of the bedroom, frustration written all over your face.

“Ugh! Everything I wear is uncomfortable and itchy!” you whined, dumping handfuls of clothes into the washer with enough force to shake the drum.

Simon sat on the couch, arms behind his head, casual as ever. “What I’ve been sayin’, love. Clothes are the curse of people.”

You pouted, flopping down beside him with crossed arms. “Maybe I’ll just go nude like you.”

His grin stretched wide, wolfish and smug.

“Would never say no to that.”

And from that day on, the conversion was complete.

You were barefoot, panty clad, and happy. No shirt, no pants, no problem. Sunlight touched your bare skin as you made breakfast, as you lay in his arms on the couch, skin to skin. You slept bare chest to bare chest with him every night, feeling every steady breath and heartbeat. It was peaceful. Intimate. Freeing.

Until you found the itching powder tucked behind some boxes in the closet.

You almost laughed.

Sneaky bastard.

You should’ve been mad. But you weren’t. You just smiled to yourself, grabbed the bottle, and poured a little bit into his boxers.

Let’s see how he liked it.

Might write more for theses two if I have any ideas since I liked making this

[jaeyunnz]

"Booksmart, Bedroom smarter."

jake + f¡reader + sunghoon. 18+

WARNINGS — making out, edging, pet names (princess, babygirl, doll, etc.) praising, double penetration, cum eating, squirting, unprotected sex (dont do it, stay safe.) dirty talk.

You're tangled up with Jake and Sunghoon—nerds with dirty secrets. Two seemingly innocent, studious boys whose hidden desires come to light.

Note: this seemed to be requested by a few. i worked really hard on it, i think it might be my best work and definitely my longest one. i've spent over a month working on this so nonetheless, enjoy — this is proofread. ♡

The quiet hum of the library surrounded you, the air thick with the scent of old books and fresh paper. A dull desk lamp cast a soft glow over the scattered notes and open textbooks, but none of you had been paying attention for the last fifteen minutes. The original plan was to study for an upcoming physics exam, but focus had slipped through your fingers the moment Sunghoon started absently chewing on the end of his pen, and Jake had stretched lazily, his hoodie slipping just enough to reveal a sliver of toned skin.

You were supposed to be studying, but the air between you three had been charged all evening at the library—longer than that, if you were honest with yourself.

Jake adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as he leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur. “You’re seriously telling me you don’t get this equation?” He smirked, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with something unreadable behind them. “I think you just like when I explain things to you.”

Sunghoon huffed from across the table, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Yeah, or maybe she just wants attention from both of us. You do ask a lot of questions.” His tone was teasing, but there was an underlying challenge in his voice, something he wasn’t quite saying out loud.

Your pulse quickened, heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t unusual for them to flirt—they’d always been like this, pushing and testing boundaries, testing the line between playful and something deeper. But tonight, the tension felt different. More tangible.

Jake tilted his head, lips curving into a knowing smile. “If she wanted attention, she could’ve just said so.” His hand brushed against yours as he reached for his notebook, a fleeting touch that lingered longer than necessary.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. You realize we haven’t gotten through a single chapter, right?” He shot you a glance, something playful but dark glinting in his eyes. “Should we just admit we’re not actually here to study?” Jake chuckled, closing his textbook with a soft thud. “Okay where are we going with this...” you say, raising an eyebrow.

The air between the three of you grew impossibly heavy, the weight of unspoken words and months of teasing finally pressing in from all sides. Your heart pounded as their gazes locked onto you, both of them waiting for something—your not quite sure what though. "Sunghoon can explain that," Jake looks at him, wiggling his eyebrows. "Can you guys focus for one moment? This exam is worth a lot and I'm not about to flop from distractions." Sunghoon huffs out, irritated.

"We've been working all day, I'm sure a short break won't hurt." Jake looks at you, "Right?" He smirks playfully, waiting for a response. "Mhm," you reply back.

Jake’s smirk deepened at your agreement, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the desk. “See? Even she thinks we deserve a break.” Sunghoon sighed, running a hand through his hair, clearly torn. “Fine. But if I fail this test, I’m blaming you both.”

Jake chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, yeah. You stress too much.” His foot nudged yours under the table—light, barely noticeable, but intentional. Sunghoon glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “What do we even do for a break?” Jake hummed, shifting closer to you, his knee brushing yours. “Dunno. But I can think of a few things.” His voice was lower now, teasing, but there was an edge to it—something almost daring.

"What is happening? You both are acting strange. Especially Jake." Sunghoon scoffs at your words. “He's always playing around.” Jake turned to you instead. “But she doesn’t mind, do you?” His gaze lingered, a flicker of something playful but intense behind his eyes. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “You like when I mess with you.”

Your breath hitched. The air suddenly felt thick, charged with something neither of them were saying outright—but it was there, simmering beneath months of teasing, lingering glances, and fleeting touches.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk, but you didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before he looked away. “We’re wasting time.” But there was no real bite to his words.

Jake only grinned. “So? Maybe she doesn’t mind wasting a little time with us.” The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t joking anymore. You stare at them both, blankly and confused. "I don't think we are on the same page," you say softly.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop Jake when he reached for your hand, his fingers trailing lightly over yours before settling against your wrist. “If we’re taking a break, we should at least make it worth it,” Jake murmured. "If you know what we mean," his hand slides down to your thigh, gently caressing. This causes your body to shiver slightly.

"No, I don't know what neither of you mean. I'm completely lost actually," That was a lie. You know what they want, you just wanna hear them say it.

Sunghoon’s gaze flickered between you and Jake, then he sighed, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered—before standing and reaching for your other hand. He pulled you up gently but firmly, his grip warm and steady. Jake gets up as well, standing behind you, his hand trailing down to grab your waist and yank you closer to him, your cheeks turning bright red. “We wanna fuck,” he said, voice controlled but laced with something heavier.

You swallow hard, looking up at them. "Excuse me?–" Jake lowers his head down to your level, leaving a trail of kisses on your neck which causes you to bite your lower lip, despite feeling shocked from whats happening. I mean fuck, you never thought they'd want something like this? You thought they were always focused on grades and thats it.

"You didn't get it the first time, or second..." his finger slides underneath your shirt, his cold fingertips eliciting a moan from you. "So I'm being straightforward." Sunghoon watches you both, his serious demeanour breaking," My dorm is the closest," Jake smirked at him, letting you go. “Lead the way, Hoon.”

And just like that, studying was completely forgotten.

As you walked out of the library, the buzz of the campus seemed distant, as if the world had narrowed down to just the three of you. Sunghoon led the way, pulling you toward the dorms, his grip firm on your hand. Jake followed closely behind, his eyes never leaving you. The tension was almost suffocating, and every step you took felt heavier, like you were being pulled toward something you couldn't stop.

When you reached Sunghoon's room, he barely bothered with the door, pushing it open and guiding you inside. His eyes were intense, focused on you, as if everything about this moment depended on what you did next.

Jake was right behind you, his hands immediately finding your waist as he pressed his chest against your back. And there he went, stepping closer, his breath warm on your neck. He traced his fingers lightly along your arm, sending a shiver through you. "We've waited too long for this." His voice was barely above a whisper, his lips grazing your ear as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss.

The kiss was urgent, like a dam breaking.

Jake's lips were soft but insistent, his hands coming to rest on your hips, pulling you into him as if he couldn't get close enough. Sunghoon's hand slipped to your back, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as he kissed the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Everything about the moment felt electric. You could feel the way both of them moved together, not competing but complementing each other, their touches igniting a fire that had been building for months. Jake's hands were everywhere-on your hips, your back, your face-as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing against yours.

Jake's lips trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing against your skin, sending a surge of heat through your veins. You arch your back against Sunghoon's chest when you felt him leave sloppy wet kisses on your shoulder with his cold hands caressing and gliding over the soft skin of your thighs. "Fuck, you're so beautiful," he murmured, voice rough.

A part of you wanted to stop, it felt wrong but so right.

Your sandwiched between them, Jake sucking hard onto the skin of your neck to leave a purple hickey, a moan escaping your lips, "Ah mmph Jake.." he smirks at you, lifting his head up to meet your eyes.

Your pulse hammered as Jake’s smirk turned downright predatory, his dark eyes glinting with a need that sent a jolt straight to your core. “You’re fucking trembling,” he rasped, his voice dripping with raw lust as his thumb grazed over the fresh, throbbing hickey on your neck, making you whimper. He shot a quick, wicked glance at Sunghoon, some unspoken agreement flashing between them, before he crashed his lips back into yours, tongue pushing past with a hungry, desperate edge, tasting every moan you couldn’t hold back. Sunghoon’s hold on you turned possessive, his hard chest flush against your back, trapping you between their heat.

"You’ve got no idea how long we’ve fantasized about this,” he growled low in your ear, his hot breath fanning over your skin, making you shudder. His hands slid down, gripping your hips with bruising force before dipping lower, fingers teasing under the waistband of your pants, skimming over the sensitive skin with a touch that burned. His mouth latched onto the crook of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave another mark, his tongue flicking over the spot as you squirmed against him.

"F-fuck, Hoon..." Your head spun, caught in a haze of their scent. Jake’s faint cologne mixing with Sunghoon’s clean, musky warmth—and the overwhelming press of their bodies. These nerds, the guys you thought were all about textbooks and grades, were fucking unraveling you, peeling back every layer with dark, primal intent. Jake’s hands shoved your shirt up, exposing your stomach to the cool air, his rough palms dragging over your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the edge of your bra as he groaned, “Shit, you feel so good.” His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, pulling a shaky moan from your throat.

“Tell us how bad you want this,” he demanded, voice thick, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your knees weak, daring you to give in completely. "I want it so bad.. please." Your chest heaved as Jake’s intense stare pinned you in place, his words still echoing in your head, dripping with filthy promise. The air was thick with lust, every fucking touch from them setting your nerves on fire. Sunghoon’s smirk burned against your neck as his deft fingers popped the button on your pants, yanking them down with a hungry impatience.

"Gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he growled, voice rough as sin, his breath hot and ragged while his hands roamed your bare skin like he owned every inch. Jake didn’t waste a goddamn second, ripping your shirt off and tossing it aside, his eyes devouring the sight of you half-naked, vulnerable between them. His calloused fingers traced the lace of your bra before he dove down, sucking and biting along your collarbone, leaving red marks as his hands shoved your pants and panties off in one go.

The sudden chill on your slick, aching pussy made you shudder, but their heat swallowed you right back up. Jake’s mouth crashed into yours again, tongue fucking into you with desperate need, while his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, yanking you flush against him. Sunghoon stripped behind you, his shirt long gone, and you felt the hard, throbbing bulge of his cock through his jeans as he rutted against your ass, slow and deliberate, making you whine, "Sunghoon... fuck."

“You ready to take us both, sweetheart?” he rasped in your ear, voice pure filth, as his fingers hooked into your panties and dragged them down, leaving your dripping cunt and tight ass exposed to their greed. "Mm.." you mouth out quietly. He kicked off his jeans, and the raw heat of his bare skin against yours had you trembling with want. Jake pulled back, eyes dark and feral as he stripped down, his thick, hard cock springing free, already leaking precum as he stared at you like a predator about to feast.

He guided you down onto the nearest surface—fuck, could’ve been a bed, a couch, who cares—spreading your legs wide as he knelt between them. Sunghoon mirrored him, shedding his clothes, his own dick just as hard and ready, the sight of their pulsing lengths making your pussy clench with desperate need. They moved like they’d planned this shit for months—Jake at your front, hands spreading your trembling thighs as he lined his fat cock up with your soaked entrance, teasing the tip against your clit until you whimpered. Sunghoon took your back, his rough palms sliding down your spine, spreading your cheeks as he pressed his leaking tip against your tight hole.

“Relax, baby, we’ve got you,” Jake muttered, voice thick with lust, as he pushed in slow, his cock stretching your pussy wide, the burn turning to a deep, aching pleasure that ripped a moan from your throat, "Ah f-fuck!" Sunghoon groaned low as he eased into your ass, inch by fucking inch, the tight ring of muscle giving way to his thick shaft, the dual stretch of them filling you up so goddamn full you could barely breathe.

“Fuck, so tight,” he hissed, gripping your hips hard as they both started to move, Jake’s thrusts deep and punishing, Sunghoon’s slower but just as brutal, their cocks dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. The wet slap of skin on skin, their grunts, and your broken moans filled the air as they fucked into you, their pace picking up, driving you straight to the edge of fucking oblivion.

Their cocks pounding relentlessly, stretching your soaked pussy and tight ass to the goddamn limit. Jake’s hands clamped down on your thighs, spreading you wider as he slammed in, sweat dripping down his temple, his breath ragged as he snarled, “Fuck, you’re so tight, squeezing me so good.” His eyes burned into yours, wild with lust, every thrust hitting deeper, making you scream their names. "a...ah shit-" is all your able to mouth out.

The feeling of being filled to the limit makes your eyes roll back in a daze. Sunghoon’s fingers bruised your hips, his cock driving into your ass with brutal force, his pace faltering as he groaned against your ear, “Shit, I can’t hold it—gonna fill this tight cunt.” The pressure of them both, the wet, obscene sounds of their cocks sliding in and out, pushed you past your breaking point. Your body convulsed, pussy and ass clenching hard around them as you came, a shattered moan ripping from your throat, your vision blurring with pure, fucked-out bliss.

Jake’s control snapped, his hips jerking as he buried himself deep, a guttural “Fuck!” escaping him as he unloaded, hot cum flooding your pussy, spurt after thick spurt coating your insides. Sunghoon growled low, thrusting once, twice more before he exploded too, his cock throbbing as he pumped his load into your ass, the heat of it seeping deep, making you whimper at the overwhelming fullness. "ah f-fuckk!" you shout out, body trembling.

They rode out their highs, grinding slow and deep, ensuring every drop stayed inside you, marking you as theirs. After a tense, breathless moment, they eased out, their cocks slipping free with a wet, filthy sound, cum leaking from both your holes, dripping down your thighs as you shuddered at the sudden emptiness. Jake smirked, still panting, as he helped you sit up, his voice dripping with dark promise, “Not done with you yet, baby.” Sunghoon’s eyes glinted with agreement as he stood beside Jake, both their dicks still half-hard, slick with cum and your juices, twitching at the sight of you fucked-out and trembling.

"m..more?" Sunghoon’s hand fisted in your hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head up as he growled, “Mhm. Open that pretty mouth.” You obeyed, lips parting, tongue out as he guided his thick cock past your lips, the bitter, musky taste of his cum and your ass flooding your senses. You sucked him down, hollowing your cheeks, his low hiss urging you on as he rocked his hips slightly. Jake stepped in next, stroking his glistening shaft before you switched, taking him deep into your throat, the salty remnants of his cum from your pussy mixing on your tongue as he groaned.

“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” his hand cupping your face while you worked him over. They alternated, using your mouth like their personal toy, grunting and swearing under their breath until they hit their limits again. "Gghh.." you gag around their cocks. Sunghoon came first this time, thick ropes of cum shooting down your throat as he held your head steady, forcing you to swallow every fucking drop. Jake followed right after, his load spilling over your tongue, hot and sticky, as he muttered, “Good fucking girl,” watching you gulp it down with hazy, satisfied eyes. When they finally pulled away, chests heaving, they softened almost instantly.

Jake dropped to his knees in front of you, brushing damp hair from your face with a gentle hand, a lopsided grin breaking through the haze of lust. “You’re unreal, you know that?” he said, voice warm now, thumb tracing your swollen lips. Sunghoon collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek as he kissed the top of your head. “We didn't hurt you, did we?” he whispered, his tone quiet but sincere. "N-no.. that was amazing." you whisper out breathless. The three of you melting into a tangled, sated pile, the raw heat fading into something softer, sweeter, as you basked in the afterglow together.

you made it to the end. i wanted to explain why i was on a almost—3 month hiatus now. its quite personal but i started exams and went through a break up—ofcourse i feel much better and im happy to say ill be writing again! thank you so much for all the support on my work, its much appreciated. and also thank you to @w2hoonki for requesting this idea !! <3 i hope you all are doing well.🥹💘

[nugwon]

bf!jungwon x fem!reader getting hot and steamy in the sauna… and they both have a thing for thigh riding I AM CRAAAAZY

💌 imagine him all sweaty and wet—just good god… this is tewwww good.

the moment you’d step into the sauna—the heat would hit you in dense waves. almost suffocating, it kinda just suck into your skin. the sweat beats start to form on your skin in almost an instant, and to set the tone. the dim amber lights with the natural hum of the heater. “oh hello,” you said as you saw him, your friend from the 3rd floor. who you’d originally met at the gym one day.

jungwon.

he’s sat in a corner, head leaning back with his towel sitting loosely on his waist. strong arms relaxing on his side he peaked his eye open, “hey,” a weak smile formed on his lips—the way his eyes sat low on his face and, hair wet from the sweat that formed in it. he’d been in here for a while, this is one place he always came to clear his mind—and he sat there unbothered that a woman just came inside.

however, the flicker of something else, tension in a way—it had gotten hotter and it had nothing to do with the heater. you moved slowly, sitting down on the bench beside him, closer than expected… your thighs touched and that caught jungwon’s attention. he briefly looked, the tingles shooting up your skin once he does.

“wow it’s hot in here,” you said, fanning yourself. you’d only been in her for four minutes compared to jungwon being in here for forty. your hand rubbed your collarbone, pressing down on your skin to feel the tense pain slowly start to release. “you sure it’s just the room?” jungwon said, voice lower and quiet—heavy with intent.

you and jungwon have had plenty of conversations. in the gym… in his kitchen, and his bedroom. but you never made it a routine—just casual. when either of you asked for it. but you knew what time he was on, and you loved teasing him for it. “that’s a question i should be asking you.” you smiled, brushing you thigh against his slightly.

“careful,” he smirks, “might start something you can’t finish.” you looked at him, innocently. waiting for his eyes to meet yours before you looked away.. no way he can get you going that easy.. right? his finger tapped the wood, debating if he should touch you or remain in place—when his shifts, his towel does too. now sitting lower on his waist.

“who knows, maybe i’m trying to start something.” you lean in, lips brushing near his ear, your breath hot against his flushed skin. “what are you doing?” he hummed, finally looking at you with his full attention. “just getting comfortable.”

his jaw clenches. his hands are still hovering—so close, yet not on you. he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to react, but you can feel the way his breathing changes. deeper. rougher. his eyes flick down to where your towel has loosened, where your skin touches his. he’s watching your every movement like he’s memorizing it.

he watches as your body shifts closer, you’d been meaning to call and ask for a night of his to spare—or a hangout after the gym. never knew the right words, not until you were in front of him. he watches. feels. and lets you stay right there—tempting, teasing, just on the edge of too much.

“it’s hard not to take you down… right now..”

and it was jungwon was holding back—as the two of you were in public and he’d never done it outside of the bedroom of his solo apartment. but you clogged his mind, looking at him seductively—“wonie,” you whispered, a smile forming on your face as you brought his attention back to you. your hand brushes against his chin, it’s like you were a ghost trying to suck his soul out—he was so into you. “don’t you wanna help me feel good?”

[kyuuppi]

private server (1/?)

Pairing: Kenma x reader (she/her)

Tags: slow burn (?), internet friends to lovers, reader is a corporate slave with social anxiety, Kenma is a bit sassy and bad with feelings, lots of game references (Minecraft, DBD, Marvel Rivals, etc.), vtuber stereotypes, modern au

Words: 2.7k

Every 7pm after work, you boot up your old laptop and log onto Discord, where you begin a voice call in the private server only the two of you share. Kenma seems to have a natural sense for what you want to play just by hearing your tone when you greet him.

On your good nights, he allows you to practice duoing in the FPS games he’s known for playing. He takes on the role of support without a single complaint while you play DPS, regardless of how badly you feed. If anyone on the enemy team calls out your poor performance, Kenma makes it a point to repeatedly kill them in the most triggering ways.

On the nights you come on exhausted from a rough day at work, Kenma wordlessly boots up Stardew Valley or Minecraft, allowing the two of you to relax to the soundtrack in a comfortable silence.

Something about his quiet presence always eases your mind, and more often than not, you find yourself rambling about the things on your mind while the two of you play. The annoying habits of your coworkers, your biggest fears, the new dressing you tried on your salad at lunch–you end up eventually spilling everything to him while he quietly listens, occasionally making a soft hum or comment that lets you know he’s still there. 

In the beginning, you always worried that you were talking too much and boring this famous internet celebrity with the inconsequential details of your boring life. The moment you realized you were ranting, you’d suddenly cut yourself off with an embarrassed apology.

But that’s when Kenma would surprise you the most–rather than allowing the call to fall into the silence he seemed so comfortable with, he would ask a question so specific, and often related to a past bit of information you forgot you even told him, that it becomes clear he was listening to every word from the beginning. 

It was one of the things that made you realize you liked him more than you should. 

Kenma’s calm disposition had you confiding in him about thoughts you hadn’t even told your best friends, and he never made you feel judged or insignificant for them. Although he almost never started conversations, he always answered any questions you asked with a level of openness that surprised you, like he trusted you just as much as you trusted him. 

Even if–per the extensive searches you did on Twitter, Reddit, and even 4chan–you were 97% sure Kenma was single, you doubted he was interested in dating anyone, let alone dating someone like you who seemed to live in a completely different reality from him.

As your feelings developed, you spent more time than you’d like to admit imagining what type of partner would suit Kenma.

Of course, they would have to be someone with extensive video game knowledge who could match his own. Probably a professional gamer or maybe someone who worked in the industry. The long-haired gamer girls with high-pitched voices and hyper-pink bedrooms who frequently appear in your feed came to mind. All of them had dedicated fan bases full of men and women alike praising their good looks and fun personalities. Many were more than just pretty faces but also great gamers–certainly much better than you in nearly every metric. 

But somehow you struggled to picture Kenma–who spoke in soft low tones and wore the same black hoodie nearly every stream–dating any of them. 

You had considered some VTubers as well – you knew Kenma was mutuals with several big names and occasionally retweeted their merch drops. But that theory died after one particular conversation you had with Kenma over a casual Minecraft session. Feeling particularly insecure, you asked him about his thoughts on a trending busty bunny VTuber all your male coworkers had been chattering about over lunch, to which he responded with a deadpan, “she’s probably just another middle-aged man catfishing simps like most of them are.”  

The only remaining option you could see was some mystery person he knew in real life–perhaps a childhood friend or another streamer who mutually agreed to keep the relationship private.

In one of the rare times Kenma spoke to you about the people he knows in real life, he mentioned an “annoying” childhood friend who is always coming over to his house uninvited and an old rival from high school who now plays professional volleyball in Brazil. While you questioned the likeliness of such a long distance relationship between a professional athlete and a famous streamer, the fondness with which Kenma spoke of him made your chest feel hot with envy. For your own sake, you stopped contemplating Kenma’s romantic life after that and resigned yourself to just savoring the few hours of his time you get every night. 

The first shift in your friendship began in late April.

As a result of one of your coworkers falling sick with the flu, your supervisor assigned you to a cross-country business trip at the last minute. The abrupt shift in responsibilities from you background role in information management to direct client contact overwhelmed you and your usual routine with your internet crush was the last thing on your mind as you raced to pack an overnight suitcase and research clients you had never dealt with before. 

For the first time since you began talking to Kenma three months ago, you missed a gaming session without so much as a message. 

The trip ended up being busier than you had expected even with the support of your coworker who patiently led you through some of the more complicated business etiquette.

By the time you reached your hotel room late that first night, you were exhausted. Still, you had attempted to install the Discord app on your phone to at least give Kenma an apology for your absence. Discord was the only way contact information the two of you had of each other and up until now you had even preferred it that way, You were very intentional in keeping your Twitter where you retweet rather spicy anime fanart and K-pop idol abs top secret from him–not that his verified account with 300k followers would ever follow you back in the first place. 

However, the spotty hotel WiFi proved incompatible with Discord’s large file size, and you gave up after half an hour, stuck at 3% downloaded.  As you closed your heavy eyelids for the night, you mentally assured yourself that Kenma would understand your sudden absence–he is incredibly busy most of the day with his own business and recently complained about an upcoming collaboration with a famous clothing brand that has been demanding a large chunk of his time. He might be so busy himself that he doesn’t even notice you’re gone.

With that thought in mind, you drift out of consciousness to get a few hours of rest before your morning meetings. 

Three days later–two days longer than planned due to a misplaced thumbdrive and storm weather delaying flights–you find yourself finally on the familiar last train back to your apartment.

You twist your ankle restlessly in your work shoes, heels aching from being on your feet for the better part of the week. You utilize the half hour of freetime to finally check your socials. Several unopened emails from online shop subscriptions sat at the top of your personal email inbox, a few life updates from your friends in your texts, and an upcoming world tour from your favorite idols on Twitter. You make a mental note to respond to a group chat about everyone’s availability for the next “charcuterie board night” tomorrow morning. 

The last app you check is Instagram, expecting the usual posts from your college friends on vacations abroad or getting engaged that usually fill you with a sense of envy you don’t like to dwell on. You’re slightly surprised to see the note of a follow request and subsequent new message request in your DMs. You expect the usual influencer scam or sugar daddy bot expressing “interest in your page”. Instead, you see a very brief set of messages from a profile with no picture.

19:42 @ kodzu_ken2: hey this is kenma from discord

Your heart flutters despite yourself as you keep reading.

19:43 @ kodzu_ken2: u havent been online in a while…r u ok?

20:01 @ kodzu_ken2: we dont have to play ofc, we can just talk if ur tired

20:06 @ kodzu_ken2: or if u dnt wanna talk we can just b quiet in call

Kodzuken does not have an official Instagram–you know that for a fact because it was one of the first places you tried to follow him when a clip of his streams first came across your feed. And even if he did, you never shared your own Instagram handle with him so there was no way for him to follow you as your Discord name was completely different.

You tap on the default grey profile picture to his page and it is empty as expected. His bio and name are both left blank with 0 posts, 0 followers, and 0 following–evidence of a brand new profile.

In any other circumstance you would think it was a scam–perhaps one of the thousands of unofficial “kodzuken” pages on Instagram posting fanart and meme edits of the man. But the way of typing–from the shorthand to the word choice are so clearly the Kenma you’ve spent the past 3 months talking to. Moreover, your absence from your regular game sessions is something only Kenma would know about–not even your closest friends know that you’ve secretly been hanging out with a famous steamer. 

You’re typing back a reply before you realize it. 

22:46 @ yn_tofu: Hi Ken!! Sorry I didn’t message you sooner, I got forced into a business trip last minute at work 😵‍💫 I just got back to Tokyo a few hours ago

You nearly drop your phone when the message status immediately changes to “Read.”

@ kodzu_ken2 is typing…

22:47 @ kodzu_ken2: its ok 

You chuckle quietly at how Kenma his brief response is. An elderly man seated across from you shoots you an odd look before going back to his novel. 

22:47 @ kodzu_ken2: do u wanna play tonight?

Startled, you glance up at the information panel above the train door.  Five more stops until your station–then the trek to your apartment with a suitcase–even if you speed walk it’ll take at least another half hour until you’re seated in front of your computer. Your sessions with Kenma are usually well over by then–you finishing your night routine to prepare for bed then work the next day and Kenma starting his regular nighttime streaming session. Your chest clenches in preemptive disappointment.

22:49 @ yn_tofu: I would love to but I won’t be home for another 30 min 😭 

22:49 @ kodzu_ken2: thats ok. ill wait for u

You barely muffle a frustrated screech at how your heart skips a beat over the last sentence. The old man pointedly shoots you a glare before standing as the train comes to a stop. He shuffles off and the train doors shutter closed behind him as you clumsily type your reply. 

22:50 @ yn_tofu: Are you sure??? Don’t you start streaming around that time? I don’t wanna make you late or anything… ;;

22:51 @ kodzu_ken2: my stream is cancelled today

Cancelled? You feel your brows knit in concern as the train jolts to a start. It is rare that Kodzuken cancels a stream–in fact you can’t recall a single instance since you’ve known him. He generally plans his schedules several weeks in advance, posting the upcoming month’s schedule on the last Friday of the month without fail. When he takes vacations–like the time he told you he was going to Brazil to see his friend’s volleyball tournament, your brain mercilessly reminds you–he still streams for at least an hour from his temporary lodging.

22:51 @ yn_tofu: Oh no, did something happen? :( 

22:52 @ yn_tofu: I thought this week you’re playing that new Marvel Rivals game everyone requested…

As the train rolls to another stop you absently realize he’s taking a little longer to reply now. That’s fine of course–you’re just one of his many fans, maybe a casual Discord friend at best. He’s under no obligation to reply right away. 

22:56 @ kodzu_ken2: no, just dnt feel like it today. ill make up for it tomorrow

22:57 @ yn_tofu: Oh yeah? How do you plan to do that?

22:57 @ yn_tofu: Are you gonna finally do that Nagi from Blue Lock cosplay all your fans have been begging for? :p 

22:57 @ kodzu_ken2: ew no way in hell

22:58 @ kodzu_ken2: ill just spam that venom twerking emote in lobby. pretty sure thts the only reason ppl wanted me to stream tht game anyway 😐

You laugh out loud at both Kenma’s rare use of emoji and the mental image of him, blank-faced, spamming the infamous twerking emote in a stream while his chat goes crazy. 

22:58 @ yn_tofu: Idk kinda sus that was your first thought, Ken 🤨

22:58 @ yn_tofu: Its okay to admit you like Venom’s ass, this is a safe space 🫶

22:59 @ kodzu_ken2: i just gagged

22:59 @ kodzu_ken2: im not like u, i dont buy dlc just to stare at charas asses all game

23:00 @ yn_tofu: Omg I told you I did NOT buy Pyramid Head for his ass!! He is actually a really good killer…

23:00 @ kodzu_ken2: idk kinda sus that he was your first thought 🤨

23:00 @ yn_tofu: I hope you remember this convo when I’m kicking your ass in Smash in 20 min >:(

“Now arriving at Asakusabashi Station. The doors on the right side will open.”

The call of your station on the speakers jolts you out of your conversation and you scramble to gather your bags as the train doors open. 

Even rolling a stuffed suitcase and wearing heels you reach your apartment in record time, eager to hear Kenma’s voice for the first time in three days. Stripping off the top layers of your business suit, you don’t bother unpacking anything and just leave your bags, blazer, and shoes in a pile at the front door before taking the three steps to get to the desk next to your bed. 

You tap your bare foot impatiently while the fans of your ancient laptop loudly whirl to life. For once Discord seems not to require an update to open and you click the call button next to Kenma’s name without hesitation. 

He picks up in the first ring. 

“Hi,” you greet into your headset. You aren’t sure if it's from the excitement of talking to Kenma or the three flights of stairs you just hiked up but your voice sounds embarrassingly breathy to your own ears. 

“Hey,” he replies as coolly as usual. The familiar sounds of buttons click faintly in his background. Your chest feels warm and a tension you didn’t know you had leaves your shoulders as you relax into your swivel chair. 

“On my trip I saw some really cool architecture–Kyushu kinda looks like how I imagine Germany–anyway, I was thinking we can make a little cathedral for that empty space in our minecraft world we were talking about last week–”

“We can do that later.”

You bite your tongue, caught off guard by the abrupt dismissal. Wasn’t he the one who asked you to play with him tonight? Did you misunderstand something?

“Is your Switch charged?” He asks.

Said device sits conveniently plugged in at the corner of your desk when you glance over. 

“Uh, yeah.”

“Hurry up and log on then. I heard someone is planning to ‘kick my ass in Smash’ tonight and there’s a new Robin combo I’ve been wanting to test out,” Kenma drawls.

You can practically feel the smirk in his voice and you loudly groan as you reach for your Switch and mentally prepare for the inevitable slaughter.

a/n: Thank you for reading!! This is the first thing I've written in like a year ?? so ik its prob not great. :,,) When I start writing I usually just start with one scene and see where it goes then think of what character would fit the writing best but it almost always ends up being Kenma LOL. I fear he is truly my default.

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

hii, can I request a ninth member fic where the reader is on live and gets comment saying that she should kill herself or leave the group? maybe she’s like oh yeah haha maybe I should and acts fine but likes it’s obvious she’s not. and like the boys are watching the live and are like frick no. (can she be aged between Felix and seungmin js so that it’s like she’s younger than most)

Sorry for such the late response!!!

You started the live like any other night - too tired to think straight, too loyal to Stay to skip it.

The camera lit up in your bedroom, the soft fairy lights casting a golden blur behind your head.

You were still in your dance hoodie, bangs a little damp with sweat, sleeves pulled over your fingers. You offered the lens a soft smile and waved.

“Hi, loves,” you whispered, voice hoarse from practice. “I missed you all.”

Comments rushed in instantly - fast, excited, familiar. You leaned closer to read them, smile softening as usernames you recognized flew past.

“she’s glowing even in low light 😭” “queen of killing me with one look” “what did you eat today 🥺 tell usss” "how does she look so majestic even when shes tired" "ONE CHANCE PLEASE ONE CHANCE" "she makes me question my sexuality" "did you eat anything yummy today?"

You laughed a little. “Does electrolyte water count? I forgot to eat until, like, fifteen minutes ago, but my water was lemon flavored.”

You leaned closer to the camera as you placed both your hands around your warm mug, answering comments softly.

"A lot of you are talking about exam season. I hope you guys are studying well."

Heart emojis exploded in response. You settled back against your pillows, sipping tea, doing your best to focus on the warmth in the chat - not the emptiness in your chest.

It had been going on for a few weeks now. After a Princes and Princess themed photoshoot, where you took swoon worthy romantic pictures with not just one, but all the boys, hate had started to become very obvious.

It wasn't like there was anything of the sort going on. The people at the magazine just wanted something to stir up publicity.

But it also stirred up an already wavering fanbase.

Your last-minute addition to Stray Kids debut lineup a long while ago had taken some getting used to for a lot of Stay who had followed them pre-debut. Years later and some people still viewed your position in the group as odd. And one silly photoshoot seemed to backtrack any progress you had made with the fans.

You had been used to seeing hate when you had stalked the web with your fake account.

But it had never been as bad as it had been now.

You tried to shake that feeling, take another sip of tea-

Then it hit.

A comment so sharp, so immediate, it felt like your stomach dropped through the floor.

“you should just kill yourself and stop embarrassing the rest of skz. no one wants you here anyway.”

You froze mid-sip. The mug clinked too hard when you set it down.

You stared at the screen - not even blinking - until your face started to go numb, you could tell your cheeks were painted pink.

“Oh,” you said, too softly. “Wow.” You swallowed. "Chat is getting a little spicy, no?"

You laughed. A little. Just once. But couldn't help see the other comments that agreed with it.

Then you tilted your head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Well…maybe they’ve got a point,” you said lightly. “Maybe I should leave. It's not like I haven't thought about it before. Just a matter of whether or not its permanent.” You gave another laugh, not even sure why you felt the need to add that on.

The comments hadn't been affecting you that harshly...had they?

As you zoned out and ran through what you said once more you realized that-

Yeah. Maybe they had been. For too long too. Like some sort of erosion. Slowly chipping away at me, but unnoticeably until a strong gust of wind showed me just how deep these things had dug down to...

The chat stalled for a second - long enough for some fans to panic, for others to laugh, for a few to flood the screen with

NO NO NO STOP what did she just say?? wait what happened?? someone translate is she okay?

But you waved it off.

“I’m kidding,” you said, voice too high, too smooth, too practiced. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

You kept going - talked about music, a new movie you wanted to see, made a joke about Lee Know being the your food police- but something in you had already curled up and gone quiet.

You ended the live with a heart and a too-bright smile.

“Love you,” you said. “Be safe, okay?”

And the moment the screen went black, your smile cracked clean in half.

Somewhere away from you they were already watching.

The boys had gathered all together in Chan's dorm to watch your live. They saw you as family, and like the 8 supportive brothers they were, they had to see what you talked about. Joking and placing bets on who you'd throw under the bus this week, what embarrassing little secret you'd laugh about, what had been your favorite memory you had created since last speaking with Stay.

The second you said those words - soft and sarcastic and deadly - Chan’s heart had dropped.

“Go back, can you go back?” he said, standing up.

"It's a live Hyung, of course we can't." Jisung murmured, itching his hand in nervousness.

Seungmin was already reaching for his phone on the other side of the room, planning to call you. Hyunjin sat up slowly, blinking at the TV screen like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“She didn’t mean that,” Jeongin said, quiet. “Right?”

“She's not the type to say it to be funny,” Felix whispered. “She meant it.”

“She’s still alone at the company, right?” Changbin was already on his feet, grabbing a hoodie. “I’m calling the manager.”

“No,” Chan said. “No calls. We’re going. Now.”

The studio was quiet.

You hadn’t moved since the live ended. The laptop sat closed on your desk. A mahogany one Hyunjin said fit the aesthetic of your mini studio. Paired with a futon you sometimes crashed on. Also, courtesy if Hyunjin. Your mug of tea was still half-full, forgotten. You sat on your swivel chair, your knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves bunched around your fists, staring at the dark screen like it might answer the question you couldn’t voice:

Why does it hurt this much?

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even breathe too hard. You just sat there, hollowed out by the weight of something you couldn’t name.

You didn’t hear the frantic knocking. Or the bang of Changbin and Chris' shoulders into the door, more or less breaking the lock.

You didn’t hear the footsteps, the whispered voices, the way someone dropped keys on the floor in their rush to get to you.

You only looked up when someone wrapped their arms around you, the familiar smell of vanilla extract and laundry detergent jumpstarting you.

You peeked out from over Felix's embrace, Chan the first one you noticed, face pale, shoulders tense, still in the doorway. Behind him were the rest of your members. Your family.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can we come in?”

You opened your mouth to say yes, but nothing came out.

So he stepped in anyway.

And they followed.

They moved you over to the futon, Hyunjin sitting at the edge, Seungmin dropped onto the floor, Han and Jeongin hovering near your desk, the first one's chin quivering, the latter's eyes watery. Minho and Changbin joining Seungmin on the ground and Chan embracing you along with Felix.

Felix sat next to you, his hand brushing yours.

“Why didn’t you call one of us?” he asked, voice so gentle it nearly broke you.

You looked away. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Y/N,” Chan said, soft but firm. “You said you should leave. On live. With thousands of people watching.”

“I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t,” Seungmin said. “We know your voice better than that.”

Silence.

"I'm fine-"

"Noona, you won't hurt yourself will you." The heaviness that followed Jeongin's watery voice told you all you needed to know about how to answer that heavy question. You looked up and saw his fox like guys looking at you expectantly, a heartbroken pout on his lips.

And then it cracked.

“I’m just so tired,” you cried. “Of pretending. Of acting like all the hate doesn’t get to me.” You shook in Felix and Chan's embrace, Felix crying along with you.

Which then propelled Han into water works as well.

“You could have told us,” Han said through his sobs launching himself haphazardly at you somehow managing to knee Minho in the chin. "You're our baby." He said petting your head. "We're horrible fathers." He cried. "Horrible."

You knew you were hurting when you couldn't even manage a laugh at Seungmin's response to Han's dramatics.

“I don’t want to be the reason we get hate. I don’t want fans to leave because I’m in the group. I already get told every day that I’m just here to ruin it and it seems like it's just getting worse-”

“Then they’re not fans,” Hyunjin snapped, placing his hand on your knee, or doing his best to as Jisung was still laid over you. “They don’t get to call themselves Stay if they treat you like that.”

You blinked, startled at his sharp tone.

“He's right.” Seungmin said, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. “You’re not some extra. You’re my noona. You taught me how to harmonize. And held my hand during our first concert even if I told you not too. You- you...you were the first person who made me realize my smile was beautiful because even if people hated it, it was born from countless memories with you."

Jeongin spoke next. "You're my noona too. You were the first person to call me talented when I thought I wasn’t. The first one who told the world I was more then just a cute face or a spoiled maknae. You made me realize what it truly meant to believe in myself.”

You opened your mouth - and then closed it, because what do you say to that? You tried blinking away your tears and then Minho spoke.

"You’ve always been the one holding all of us together," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "You cheer for us when no one else does. You see the things we don’t even notice about ourselves. It’s about time someone saw you, too."

Changbin’s hand reached for yours.

“You make this group better,” he said. “More complete. I don’t even want to imagine Stray Kids without you. And I won’t.. None of us will.”

Felix sighed. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to quit? How many times I thought I was dragging everyone down?”

You looked at him. He nodded.

“I may seem happy. We all may seem happy but we struggle to. And then you come around. And you smile. And we stay.”

You choked on a breath.

“We’re a team,” Chan said with finality. “We rise together. We fall together. And if you ever - ever - feel like disappearing again…”

He paused. Voice thick.

“Take me with you.”

You stared.

“All of us,” Minho added. “If you go, we go. That’s how this works.”

Something cracked inside your chest.

And then, finally- finally - you broke completely and utterly.

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, and your face crumpled as you tried to bite it back. But all the guys were already jumping into the embrace, 8 strong arms keeping you steady, 8 sets of tears being added to your own.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

They just held you - as if their touch alone could glue the pieces of you that you hadn't even noticed were breaking back together.

And maybe it could.

The night was long. None of them left your studio.

When you finally slept - curled under three blankets Seungmin had finessed from a storage room and two members - your last thought was that maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay.

But the next morning, when you woke to bright fluorescents and shuffling of productive activities, you realized the dull ache behind your eyes still lingered, the pit in your stomach remained.

Until Chan quietly placed a warm mug in your hand and sat beside you.

“We’re going live,” he said, brushing your hair back with a gentle hand. “As a group. We’re going to talk about it. All of it."

You didn’t ask what "it" was. You knew.

You hesitated. “Should I be there?”

He smiled - not the leader-smile, the brotherly one. The one that showed up when you were hurting.

“No,” he said gently, still messing with your hair. “Not if it’ll hurt more. We’ve got this. You just rest okay? We'll get you something to eat and change into.”

You nodded, blinking too fast.

But deep down, you already knew you’d watch it live.

Later that afternoon, after you somehow found your way back to the dorms, you got the notification.

📢 [Stray Kids (9)] LIVE: A Message to Stay 💬

The chat exploded before the stream even began.

You watched from your bed, phone glowing in your palm, heart pounding.

When the screen lit up, the boys were seated tightly on the couch - all eight of them.

You found yourself chuckling.

Typical of them to not know what personal space is.

Although their usual chaos was gone.

This was serious.

And the chat seemed to pick up on it quickly.

Well, the majority of it at least.

A few familiar users seemed to be completley oblivious to the tone of the meeting.

Chan looked straight into the camera.

“Hi, Stay. We’re going to be really honest with you. You all know we joke a lot. We play around. But this isn’t that kind of live.”

He took a breath. "As most of you know, something happened during Y/N’s solo live yesterday. You probably saw it - or at least heard about it., as things tend to escalate rather quickly.”

"For those who don't know there was a comment. A really bad one. And it hurt her. Deeply. Ther have been multiple comments, and much hate going around.”

“And we’re here to make sure you understand that that is never okay.”

"Stray Kids debuted planned to debut as eight. Then became nine. That wasn’t a marketing move. That was a decision - one we made together.”

"We. Are. Nine."

The sharpness in his voice seemed to cease the majority of the comments in the chat. Some people scolding others, others saying they felt as if they were in trouble even if they didn't post any hate.

Felix spoke next.

“She didn’t audition to be loved by everyone. Not one of us did. But we are a family. And she is part of us. She makes us stronger. She works harder than anyone I know. And the idea that someone would tell her to-”

His voice cracked. He looked away for a second.

Chan took over once more. “There are thousands of comments. Most are positive. But sometimes it only takes one to destroy someone’s day. Or their outlook on things. Or..."

He swallowed. "Or worse."

He waited a moment before speaking again.

“If you're a Stay, you protect, not harm because that’s what fandom is supposed to be. A place to love each other and uplift."

“To everyone who reached out with kindness, to those who reported that comment, who showed love - thank you. You continue to remind us why we do this, and we love you for that."

"But more need to be done to make sure this never happens again. Not just to her. To anyone. If you don’t like one of us, that’s your opinion. But if you wish harm on someone, you’re not Stay. And that goes for any fandom you belong to. You are not a fan if you can't love and appreciate what everyone contributes. If you can't set aside you opinions for that. This isn’t about canceling anyone. This is about protecting each other.”

All the boys nodded.

"She's our family. A sister. And we do everything to protect family." Changbin said.

"She is special to each and every one of us, and if you can't respect that you can leave." Minho said sharply.

"Because of yesterday's incidents, we've come to the agreement to cancel our upcoming schedules." Chan said suddenly.

The chat became frantic, and your eyes were wide as you leaned in closer to your phone.

"If you want one of us to leave then we all leave. Simple." Chan said firmly. "Until that lesson can be learned this is what is right to do. Any more hate spread will have legal action followed. We stand firm in these decisions."

The chat was still frantic, but the boys didn't care.

"Y/N-ah. We know you're watching." Chan said.

"You’re our little sister." Jisung, Hyunjin, Changbin, Chan, Minho and Felix said.

"Our Noona." Jeongin and Seungmin parroted.

"Our teammate."

"Our light."

"We wouldn’t be here without you.”

“We love you. Not just when you’re strong. Not just when you smile. All the time.”

“You’re enough. Always were.”

“Stay needs to hear us say it, and maybe… you do too.”

“You’re stuck with us forever.”

“Stray Kids is nine.” All the boys said.

“And that will never change.” Chan said, getting up to end the live. "Thank you, Stay. Let’s be better - together.”

[Live Ended]

You shut off your phone with trembling fingers.

You didn’t cry this time.

You smiled. Not a fake one. A small one, real and quiet.

You didn't realize how long you sat there until you heard a soft knock.

"Noona! Can we come in?”

Jeongin's voice. Happy and bright.

You wiped your face, not realizing you had in fact shed tears.

Of relief. Appreciation,

“Of course.”

Because you weren’t scared anymore. You knew where you stood. Who you were to both yourself and the boys you had grown with.

You were no longer scared.

Not today.

Not with them.

Not with Stay.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy

[runninriot]

If You Want It Good, Get Yourself A Bad Boy

written for @steddiesongfics april prompt and as fill for the @steddiebingo main card prompt: high

song inspo: Backstreet Boys, If You Want It to Be Good... | rated: E | wc: 6.037 | tags: recreational drug use, drinking, sexual content, pre steddie, hook-up, Eddie is a little shit and Steve falls fast and hard for it | full tag list and fic on ao3

Tommy’s party sucks, as usual. They can never compete with the ones Steve throws at his house but at least that means Steve isn’t the one in charge for once.

It’s nice not being responsible for what goes on, not having to stay somewhat sober in the likely case the cops make an appearance. Or having to deal with the aftermath of the party – waking up in a trashed house, having to clean all the mess by himself, hoping to God his dad won’t notice the fancy liquids missing from the cabinet in his office.

Tonight, he can let himself go without having to think about tomorrow. He can get wasted and maybe even repay Tommy for what he did to him last time, when he locked Steve out of his own goddamn bedroom just to let Carol fuck his brains out.

Wouldn’t take much to find a girl willing to go upstairs with him for some one-on-one time, that’s for sure. They never say no to him, are too easily impressed by his... reputation. But he’s not drunk enough yet, not in the mood for boring, meaningless sex just for the sake of it. And he might never be, not tonight, because the shit Tommy bought won’t get him far.

The cheap beer and that disgusting pink-coloured concoction Carol mixed into a big bowl earlier aren’t doing it for him; he needs something stronger. Something to blank out his mind and get him going. Something to counter the dull feeling inside.

He downs the rest of his drink, scrunches his nose in disgust when he swallows the too sweet punch that barely tastes of booze, and carelessly throws his plastic cup in the general direction of the sink (he knows where the trash can is, he just doesn’t care) before making his way from the kitchen to the living room.

There, he lets his eyes roam around the room, offering nods and fake smiles to anyone passing by doing the same. One of his team mates comes up to him and immediately starts talking his ear off. On the far end of the room, a girl catches his eyes – long legs peeking out from a tiny skirt, big tits squished into a tight shirt that looks like it’s barely holding on at the seams – and yeah, maybe she could be the designated one, later.

Later, because right now he doesn’t care about the girl or what Alex is talking about because he’s looking for someone else.

   “Hey, uh, have you seen Munson?” Steve interrupts Alex mid-sentence, doesn’t care that he’s being rude.

   “Munson? Don’t think he’s invited.” Alex snorts, seems proud of his useless comment.

Of course Munson isn’t invited. He doesn’t need an invitation, is the thing. Because while no one wants to be associated with The Freak, everyone’s always happy to shake hands with him when he shows up at parties. Selling his weed and the occasional pill or powder to anyone with a bit of spare cash in their pockets. And that’s exactly what Steve’s aiming for. He just has to find him first.

   “Sorry, gotta go. Talk to you later, man,” is all Steve offers before he leaves Alex standing there and makes his way to the back door.

The backyard is empty, no people loitering or one-night-couples making out, not like they would do if this party was back at his place. This backyard isn’t very inviting, so Steve gets it. No patio, no pool, no recliners to get cosy on - it’s nothing more than a sad patch of dry grass with a few bushes and a rose bed.

The Hagans might carry themselves like they’re part of the Hawkins upper class, but Steve knows they could barely afford a house in this part of town. Knows it because his dear old dad loaned Mr Hagan a nice sum of money for it. It’s none of his business and he couldn’t care less, but it still makes him chuckle every time he watches Tommy act like a like a wealthy brat, copying Steve’s behaviour to disguise his insecurities and play the role he inherited from his parents.

Whatever makes him feel good.

Steve doesn’t really give a shit about his parents’ money, although he does appreciate what it can buy him. Like drugs. To hopefully make this awful night worth his while.

-----

   “Do my eyes deceive me or is that really you, Harrington?” a voice comes from somewhere around the corner of the house, and when Steve squints his eyes to look at the moving shadows, he finally finds what he came for.

   “Don’t get too excited. One might think you’ve been desperate to see me.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh and when Steve steps closer, he sees him leaning against the wall, smoking.

   “Didn’t think his Highness would grace me with his presence tonight. Don’t you have your lap dog Hagan to do business for you? Wouldn’t get your royal hands dirty on a peasant like me.”

Steve bites his tongue to prevent the smile tugging at his lips from fully forming, doesn’t want to give Eddie the satisfaction of making him laugh.

The guy is always so… weird. Has these strange manners that often get him in trouble. Steve’s seen him more than once with a black eye or a bloody nose; he knows people treat him like shit sometimes and he never really understood why but again, none of his business. They’ve talked maybe a handful of times, never about anything deep, mostly about weed. Except for that one time where Steve helped him pick up his books after some childish asshole decided it was funny to shove him down the hall. People, man. Anyway, he’s not here to ponder about useless shit. He’s here for Eddie’s goods.

   “How much?” he asks, pulling out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

   “Well, depends. How much you want?”

Eddie pushes himself off the wall, crushes the cigarette bud under his heavy boot, and pulls out the familiar tin box from his unzipped jacket.

   “Give me whatever. I just want to smoke, man. Hopefully that’ll get me through the night.”

   “Party’s not living up to your standards, huh?” Eddie asks with a teasing lilt to his voice as he opens the lid and pulls out a pre-rolled joint.

   “Party sucks ass, but what’s new.”

Eddie considers him with a look that is hard to read in the dark, and it makes Steve equally annoyed and impatient that the other man seems to be in no rush to get this thing over with.

   “Tell ya what. How about you put your daddy’s precious money away and let me light one up to share. My treat.”

Steve contemplates. It’s not like he has anywhere to be, so what’s spending a few more minutes outside. But something about the offer seems off. Not because he doesn’t trust Eddie – he’s got no reason not to – but Eddie isn’t exactly known for giving out free smokes. Especially not to the likes of Steve. Those, he usually charges double, which- he should, to be honest. They can afford it. Or, well, their parents can.

   “What’s with the generosity today?” Steve asks, but agrees wordlessly by putting his wallet back in his pocket. “Is it your birthday or something?”

Eddie scoffs, curls falling into his face when he shakes his head.

  “Nah, man. You just seem kinda bored. Thought I could lighten your mood.”

He flicks on his lighter. Orange light reflects in his dark brown eyes, illuminating his face for a short moment, and Steve only realises he’s been staring when the flame dies and Eddie hands him the joint.

   “Thanks. So, tell me something. Lighten my mood,” he quotes Eddie’s words back at him, smiling around the burning fumes slowly filling his mouth.

   “Oh, of course Mylord. I’m nothing if not a humble jester to the king. How would you like me to make a fool out myself for your entertainment?”

Eddie bows down before him, low and dramatic, and that’s enough to make Steve laugh and nearly choke on the lungful he was just inhaling.

   “Hah, fuck!“ he coughs, “You’re so weird, dude. Anyone ever told you that?”

He passes the joint back to Eddie, ignores the way their fingers brush and how that sends a warm tingle through him.

   “Every damn day someone tells me. And they’re right.”

Eddie smiles self-satisfied and Steve wonders if this is just an act or if Eddie is really this content with himself and how others perceive him. Wonders what that must be like, to just- be unpretentiously okay with yourself.

   “So, you like being called the Freak?” It comes out less jokingly than intended, but Eddie answers with a wide grin.

   “Oh, I am a freak. Just not the kind everyone thinks I am.”

They keep passing the joint back and forth and Steve already feels a little lighter, a little better. Not quite high but less tense, less bored. A little giggly, but maybe that’s just because of Eddie’s ominous words.

   “People sure have a lot of opinions ‘bout you. Are you telling me that none of the rumours are true?”

They’re side by side now, shoulders brushing where they are both leaning against the wall. Steve can’t remember when exactly they’ve gotten so close, but he doesn’t mind. It’s kind of comforting, keeps his slightly swaying body steady.

   “Which ones?”

   “I don’t know, man. All of them? Like-“ His brain is getting a bit fuzzy so it’s hard to remember the exact phrases written on the bathroom stall walls of Hawkins High or the things he’s heard people say, but he tries anyway. “Like, that you’ve been to prison? Or that you worship the Devil. Oh, and that you sucked Carver’s cock behind the bleachers! You know, those things.” Steve laughs, shakes his head at how ridiculous it sounds to say all that out loud.

   “Huh, well. One of those might be true.”

Steve snaps his head to the side so fast it makes him dizzy, wide eyes searching for the hint of amusement he fully expects to find in Eddie’s expression. But there is none. He’s still smiling but not in the ‘I’m just fucking with you’ kind of way.

   “You’ve actually been to prison? Fuck, man! What for?” His heart is racing, excitement mixing with fear-spiked curiosity at the thought of standing next to a real-life convict.

   “Ouch, Harrington! Out of all of those, this is the one you think is true? You’re hurting my feelings, man.”

Eddie clutches his heart and puts on the saddest puppy eyes Steve’s ever seen, even makes his bottom lip wobble like he’s abut to cry and- it’s stupid, really.

Munson looks like a dork with his big, round eyes and his softened features, his messy curls hanging into his face, giving off this sad and pathetic wet cat energy that makes Steve almost gives in to the urge to lift his hand and tuck Eddie’s hair back behind his ear. But thankfully, Eddie drops the act before he can make a fool of himself.

   “Nah, man. The only Munson in prison is my dad. And I’m taking much pride in being nothing like him.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that Steve doesn’t miss, instantly feeling bad about the false accusation. He knows too well what it’s like not wanting to be like your old man.

   “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- Wait. Which one is it then?” Steve’s head is swimming; he tries to focus, looks deep into Eddie’s eyes trying to read the answer in them but comes up empty, so he resigns and asks again, “What is it, Munson. The dick or the Devil?”

It was meant to come out as a joke but something about the way Eddie’s eyes darken and his smile turns almost devilish makes him choke on his words. Makes his breath catch in his throat as he watches Eddie move closer, one shoulder pressing against the other.

   “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The low, teasing tone of Eddie’s voice sends a shiver down Steve’s neck and back, spreading through his entire body.

Steve must be high as fuck.

There’s not really any other explanation for how he feels right now. His arms and hands prickle like there’s an army of ants crawling beneath his skin. And what’s even worse is that all of a sudden his mind provides him with flashing images of Eddie with Devils’ horns kneeling in front of Jason, whose pants are down by his ankles, plush lips wrapped around his-

    Fuck.

-----

continue reading here

[stevesgother]

i'm sure this has been said of before but just hear me out

you, who's not quite as close with steve harrington has some of his other friends but still you're still friendly nonetheless.

you had been there when billy hargrove beat him within an inch of his life. you'd driven he and the kids to the tunnels. shared trauma, but that was really it.

steve, who has had vivid nightmares since the fall of 84', decides that one night his house is too empty, and he feels too alone, and he needs to call someone.

robin has an early shift, nancy is out of the question for obvious reasons as well as jonathan. all that leaves is you.

so he dials your number into his landline with shaking fingers just before he starts to really hyperventilate. for it being the middle of the night, you sound much more awake than he thought you would. he can't seem to get the words out, so you finish his question for him:

"you need me to come over?"

he nods before remembering you can't see him, "yes."

so you go over. you get him water and make him drink it. you place a cold washcloth to the back of his sweaty neck and sit with him on the edge of his bed until he feels ready to lay down again. it's a little awkward, you've never hung out together just the two of you. if you could call it that.

shoulder to shoulder on his mattress, you teach him grounding exercises. five things he can see, four things he can touch, three things he can hear, two things he can smell and one thing he can taste. he develops a habit of fidgeting with your fingers until he falls back asleep.

then he calls you again two weeks later, asking the same thing. and then again the week after that. you find yourself staying the night at steve harrington's house upwards of three times a week at one point.

and if you're being honest? it helps you too. he wasn't the only one suffering from night terrors, the difference being that you had people. steve barely did.

it gets to the point where he doesn't have to ask anymore. you start showing up at his house with a packed bag, he just smiles and steps aside once he's opened the door.

sometimes you show up around dinner time with pizza or chinese food and you guys watch movies until your eyelids feel too heavy to continue. one day, doing exactly that, you realize you that you wouldn't rather be spending your time with anyone else.

steve's bitching about his parents a few months later. saying how unfair it is that they want him to move out of a house that they hardly even live in. you feel his pain: living with your parents may be monetarily free, but you're paying with your sanity.

"well, maybe we could find an apartment and split the rent?"

so you do. you don't bother with two bedrooms; you hadn't spent a night not sleeping in the same bed for six months now so why bother with the higher rent?

and all your friends think you're insane and they don't understand the dynamic between the two of you because you're also...not dating? not that you've never thought about it, i mean who wouldn't right? look at him for christ's sake, and he is so thoughtful.

but it's whatever! because you're best friends and you help each other cope with your shared ptsd and nightmares and you cuddle when you sleep and play with each other's hair and designate wednesdays to watch movies and eat greasy food and leave little notes around your apartment for the other to find platonically. duh.

[exquisink]

cw. Oral (f receiving), dubious con, stalker ex bf geto

WC. 1K

No matter what, you always find yourself back into his clutches. He makes sure of it.

You have to admit. A part of it is your own fault. He just can’t resist you, and so he has to make it known. For Suguru, the little things matter just as much as the big ones.

And so it starts small. Small enough for you to notice but for others not to make a big deal out of it, convincing you not to let it get to your head too much. 

Little things. Leaving your bedroom door slightly ajar while you’re occupied doing other things for work or class, knowing you left it shut when you turn around to check every so often. He just wants to check to make sure you’re not slacking off, because even if he no longer is an active part of your life, he still feels responsible for you and your success. 

But if he truly thinks that, then shouldn’t he be leaving you alone, you wonder?

Another time is when you go about your… private business. Showering and patting yourself down, applying lotion but you can feel his eyes on you. From where? You don’t know, but you know he’s in the same room because when you twist around, you find something written on the shower door which has been all fogged up from the condensation. 

You look as beautiful as the day we broke up… 

-G.S. 

You should fear for your life, but you don’t. Not because you don’t think he’s going to do anything, but because if he wanted to, he would have by now. But he wants you to think you can play it safe… he wants you to think he won’t stoop to even lower levels.

But you have always known better. That doesn’t mean you have to think ahead. You just decide to wait it out. Because maybe there’s a part of you who enjoys the thrill of him chasing you like this, trying to torment you but you don’t falter, you’re better than that and that probably drives him fucking nuts.

His eyes are trained on you while you’re sleeping. You don’t need to peel your eyes open to know that he’s standing in a far corner of the room looking like a shadow creature of some kind, because he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s always with you. You don’t stir even as he stalks toward you bed, admiring your slumbering form while it’s bathed by the soft glow of the moonlight leaking through the window just above your bedframe. You don’t stir even as he traces the contours of your face and neck and shoulders. Maybe you wear sheer pajamas on purpose so he gets a little peak at everything he’s missing and he’s not afraid to touch.

He observes you for a moment longer, then finally seizes the opportunity, squeezing your swollen tits through the sheer fabric of your baby pink pajamas, thumbs flicking over your nipples. You don’t protest, in fact, you welcome it, because yes there’s a part of you that misses the way he knows your body so well that he doesn’t have to do a lot to get you going but that doesn’t mean he has to know that too. What you are going to allow is him thinking he’s getting away with this.

He kisses between your breasts, prying apart each button to reveal your bare, milky skin to him. He stifles a groan to himself, dragging his tongue down your stomach and stopping just before your shorts which he yanks down to your ankles and slips it right off. A little gasp escapes.his lips when he sees you’re not wearing any underwear, almost as if you knew he was going to steal you away like this. 

He runs his tongue past his lips before closing his mouth over your folds. You don’t react, and he is mentally thanking you for that but he sorely misses your voice and your sweet oohs and aahs while he coos sweet nothings to you. He doesn’t need the label to still do that and you both know it, but it is a nice add on because it’s not like anyone else can deliver the things you need like he can. 

He keeps his mouth glued to your nethers for what feels like hours. It might as well have been because by the time your eyes blink open he’s still at work between your legs, grinning up at you with soaked lips glistening in your juices. 

“Good morning, gorgeous. Don’t worry, I’m far from finished here.”

You don’t have the energy to fight back, and he should consider himself lucky that you don’t, bucking your hips closer to his mouth as he feasts off of you like it is purely for his amusement and indulgence, and obviously it is. He takes pride in the fact that he can still get away with this and you won’t go squealing to your friends or the authorities that your ex still has some kind of power over you. Maybe because you’re always going to allow him in no matter what you think.

Once he nurses a final orgasm out of you out of the countless he’s stolen throughout the night, he kisses between your thighs before finally pulling away, wiping his mouth clean with his sleeve before planting a kiss to the corner of your lips. 

“I’ll be back,” he promises with a wink. You nod dumbly, it’s clear you’re still trying to wake yourself up even after a mindblowing experience like that, something only he can give you and so he gives you some grace. “This is still all mine, isn’t it, gorgeous?”

You nod again. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, “Have a good day, my love. Like I said, I’ll be back for more.”

And so he saunters off, leaving you to recuperate after that. He almost decides against leaving but he knows you have your own obligations to take care of first.

[drewsctover]

something meant to be.

you lost faith in yourself and in the world, but destiny is already written — and when you least expect it, happiness finds its way to you. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

warnings: none !!! maybe just reader overthinking and almost having an anxiety meltdown.

prologue.

chapter one. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

it’s your first day, and joel’s not even home.

what kind of dad hires a nanny to take care of his daughter and doesn’t bother to be there to meet her — y’know, the person who’s going to look after the most important human in his entire life every single day? jesus. this man is insane.

you’d never leave edward alone with a nanny before getting to know her really well. like, stalk her on social media and check her astrological-sign. you’d have to be absolutely sure she’s a good person.

edward... god, stop thinking about him. you cannot have a panic attack on your first day.

when you stepped into joel’s apartment, it totally caught you off guard — clean, organized, almost suspiciously perfect. spacious and immaculately decorated, with these big windows overlooking a postcard-worthy view of kelowna — a small town in canada where it’s always cold, but people are warm, smiley, and weirdly eager to help strangers.

the dark hardwood floors, sleek grey couch, black-and-white furniture — it all screamed modern minimalism. like, straight out of a high-end magazine. pretty? sure. but also cold. impersonal. it didn’t feel like a seven year old little girl actually lived there too. poor ellie.

you left the living room behind in silence, your eyes trailing down the long hallway toward what you assumed was ellie’s bedroom — thanks to a cute snoopy plushie hanging on the doorknob. you let out a slow breath, trying to think of a gentle way to approach.

since losing your son, you’ve done everything you could to avoid children. that sharp, unbearable ache in your chest always finds a way to show up when you see one.

he could’ve been that age. he could’ve had a room like this. would he like snoopy too?

damn it. fet it together.

your brother warned you it wouldn’t be easy — that you'd want to turn around and bolt back to the comfort of your own home. but you didn’t think it would be this hard.

it’s fine. you’ve got this.

you walk up to ellie’s door and knock softly. on the other side, you hear a grumpy little mumble, followed by hesitant footsteps. then, the door creaks open — just a sliver.

a tiny face peers out, eyes squinted with suspicion.

“you my new babysitter?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, sizing you up from head to toe. she looks bored. maybe mildly annoyed.

you nod and smile. she’s so stinkin’ cute.

“yes, ellie, i’m your new babysitter,” you reply in a whisper to match hers. “joel, your... dad...” the word sends an odd little chill down your spine. weirdo. you don’t even know why. “he told me on the phone that you’re really good at making new friends, and that you’d play with me until he gets back. can i come in?”

she doesn’t answer right away. her bright blue eyes watch you through the crack in the door. then, with the slow, deliberate movement of someone making a very important decision, she opens it the rest of the way.

she just stands there for a second, staring at you with this funny little expression, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders, chubby fists clenched like she’s bracing for battle.

“okay,” she says, her voice suddenly softer, gentler — none of the earlier suspicion in sight. “you can come in…”

she steps aside and you walk in, carefully, trying to keep your emotions in check. and thank god — the inside of her room is nothing like the rest of the apartment.

it’s full of life, not like a hospital room.

colors everywhere. dolls and toys scattered across the floor. stuffed animals lined up on shelves. crayon drawings taped to the walls. it’s messy, but in that magical way only a kid’s room can be.

he could’ve had a room like this...

your thoughts are cut short when ellie grabs your hand and pulls you down onto a pastel yellow shag rug in the middle of the room.

she’s shy, clearly, maybe a little worn out. but then she casts a quick, hesitant glance toward a little open box of nail polish sitting on her bookshelf. you catch the tiniest glimmer in her blue eyes — and that’s your cue.

you scoot a bit closer and sit beside her.

“these are amazing, ells! did you paint your nails all by yourself?” you ask, genuinely impressed.

“i did,” she says, her voice small and quiet. but you spot the ghost of a smile starting to tug at the corner of her lips. “but daddy always says i make a mess.”

“mess is part of the fun! i’m totally clumsy with nail polish too,” you admit, because honestly, it’s true. you reach for a little white bottle and hold it up, eyes wide. “this one matches my dress! will you show me how to paint?”

and just like that, her ghost of a smile becomes a full-on, toothy grin.

“okay. but don’t mess it up, okay? i know how to do it right.”

your heart basically melts right there.

she scoots in close and offers you her tiny hand. you gently place yours on top of hers. ellie picks up the bottle from the floor with both hands, carefully, and leans in like she’s working on a masterpiece.

and while she paints, you notice it.

your heart’s no longer racing. the lump in your throat is gone.

if she looked up at you now, she’d probably laugh at the dumb, starry-eyed expression you’ve got on your face.

ellie is magic.

you’re so glad you took this job.

hours pass like soft echoes in the apartment — cartoons fade, laughter quiets, ellie drifts into sleep — and now it’s just you and the dim hum of the fridge, the ticking clock, and the hush of your own breath.

you’re curled into the corner of joel’s gray couch, legs tucked under you, wearing one of ellie’s forgotten scrunchies like a bracelet and still smelling faintly of bubblegum polish.

and then, the door clicks.

you freeze, barely turning your head — like movement might break the spell — and in steps joel, finally home.

he looks… tired. worn around the edges in a way that feels permanent. his flannel’s half unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair’s a little damp, like he ran a hand through it too many times or maybe got caught in the rain. there's a weight to his presence — not heavy, exactly, just undeniable.

when his eyes land on you, there’s a flicker of confusion. then something else. curiosity, maybe.

you sit up a little straighter, brushing your fingers over your knee like that’ll make you look less… like a person who just had her heart melted by a tiny human and is trying not to fall apart about it.

damn it, joel, you didn’t tell me your daughter’s a heart-stealer.

“hey,” you say, your voice a little softer than usual. “ellie’s out. like, out-out. didn’t even make it to the second bedtime story.”

joel raises an eyebrow as he walks farther in, tossing his keys in a bowl by the door. “that’s a record. she usually tries to negotiate at least three.”

you laugh under your breath. “yeah, she offered me a deal. if i let her watch tangled twice, she’d go to bed early.”

he chuckles. the sound is deep, low, warm in a way you weren’t expecting. “smart kid.”

“she is,” you agree. “and funny. and bossy.”

“that she is,” he mutters, like it’s a badge of honor.

you’re both quiet for a moment, the kind of pause that stretches just a little too long but doesn’t quite cross into uncomfortable. he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to figure something out. like you surprised him.

and yeah, maybe you’re watching him back. maybe your stomach does a tiny, ridiculous flip when he smiles — just a twitch of his lips, crooked and lopsided.

you’re not supposed to notice stuff like that.

but you do.

“thanks for taking care of her,” he says, quieter now. “i know it’s the first day. that’s not always easy.”

you offer a small, genuine smile. “honestly? she made it easier than i thought she would.”

and then he nods — slowly, like maybe that means something to him — and says, “still. appreciate it.”

you nod back, heart doing that low thrum thing it hasn’t done in a while.

joel glances toward the kitchen, then back at you — a little hesitant, like he’s debating whether or not he should say what he’s about to say.

“want a coffee?” he asks, casual enough, but there’s something curious in the way he says it. like he’s testing the waters, seeing if you’ll stay just a little longer.

and for a second — just a second — you almost say yes. you picture the two of you sitting at the table, mugs in hand, the soft clink of ceramic filling the quiet, maybe talking about ellie, or life, or… whatever this little buzz in your stomach is.

but you take a slow breath, offer a soft smile, and shake your head.

“i’d love to, but… i should head home. first day and i’m already wiped out,” you say, rising slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“of course,” he nods, understanding — though something flickers behind his eyes, something that might’ve been disappointment. just a flicker. “i get it.”

you walk toward the door, and he follows, opening it for you. the warm yellow hallway light spills into the apartment like it’s gently nudging you out.

“thanks again,” he says, his voice a touch lower now, eyes meeting yours. “for everything with ellie. and… for taking the job.”

you smile, soft and genuine. “thank you for trusting me.”

you both linger there for a beat, maybe two. like there’s something else hanging in the air — something that wants to be said but refuses to take shape.

so instead, you just say:

“good night, joel.”

and he answers, steady and quiet:

“good night.”

you take a few steps down the hallway, and it’s not until the door clicks shut behind you that you realize you’d been holding your breath.

your heart’s still steady.

but your stomach… your stomach hasn’t quite caught on that this was only day one.

authors note. HELPPP i can't believe i posted this fr WHAJSBD like it says on my pinned, english isn't my first language so pls bear with me if there's any mistakes lol <3 hope u guys like it !! 🥺 if u wanna be on the taglist just lmk in the comments !!!!

[fcbarsaelona]

"lie with you" / oliver aiku x reader

the realization hits oliver on a saturday morning.

he was half naked from the activities of the night before, but as he reached his hand over to where you fell asleep, he was only met with cold sheets. cracking an eye open, oliver realizes that you're no longer laying beside him — weird, given that your clothes were still in a corner of his bedroom.

the clock on the wall showed 8:32am. way too early for a saturday morning, and he knew you didn't have work today, so where the hell were you? with a groan and a stretch, oliver pushes the covers off him and starts walking towards his bedroom door, determined to find where you are and what you were up to.

that's when he hears it.

your voice softly humming a song that he recently showed you, and the clatter of cooking utensils. oh, morning craving, he thinks to himself. stepping more carefully now, oliver finally catches a glimpse of your figure. donned only in one of his tees, here you were, humming and dancing by yourself while you were cooking up breakfast. 

"looks real tasty, doll," he says as he snakes his hands under your (his) shirt. jumping slightly from the sudden touch, you huff and give him a pout — the defiant yet adorable one that made him pursue you at first. 

“you scared me. rude.”

oliver laughs, choosing to wrap his arms around your waist and leaning his head against your shoulder. you smelled good, he noted. better than any girls that came before you — but he pushed that thought away. after all, this was just a casual thing; oliver set up the rules himself.

raising your arm up and caressing his hair as an attempt to give some semblance of order in his messy bedhead, you speak before he can question you about what you're cooking.

"i wasn't too sure what to make for you, oli — with your footballer diet and all. i looked it up and tried to make something with enough proteins and carbs, but it might not be enough." the tips of your ears turned a light shade of pink, suddenly feeling self-conscious at how much effort you're putting into feeding the guy you're casually sleeping with.

the raven haired man's ears perked up, and he raised his head to stare at the counter. your phone was propped up against the knife block, "ubers sports nutrition guide," and "football player breakfast ideas" displayed on it, cut up fruits in a bowl, and scrambled eggs on toast with avocado slices on it, everything accompanied by a protein smoothie he mentioned liking before. the morning craving he thought you'd had, was actually a breakfast you'd carefully prepared for him.

it was then that oliver realized you were obscenely out of his league, and that maybe he was falling in love. a grin graced his face, one you were oblivious to, and his heart's pace picked up. oh, you were so out of his league, but if oliver was one thing, it was egoistic. that and persistent, and honestly, a little possessive. you had to be his endgame, right?

“if you don't like it, i can—”

“who said that i wouldn't like it? you're an angel. thanks, pretty girl.”

the butterflies in his stomach that emerged after making eye contact with you, the shy glint that let him know that maybe you also thought this could be more than a casual thing, the overly domestic moments you two shared made him ponder.

he was nearing his 30s, and the hookups with several different women, the soccer practices, and the games all over europe made him miss the feeling of home — and the closest oliver came to experiencing that feeling was when he'd hold you in his arms, your warm skin against his feeling like a hug.

your smaller frame and the comforting weight of your body resting against his, the warm scent was something he realized he missed, although you were with him right now.

oliver hadn't even slept with another woman since you two started seeing each other more frequently. funnily enough, it wasn't even because he didn't find other partners in bed — your essence just couldn't be recreated by anyone else. being with you came easily, with no practiced smile and forced laughter, and he found that he'd rather keep his bed and arms empty and face loneliness for a few more nights until he could see you again.

grabbing your hips and spinning you around to have you face him, he stared into your expectant eyes and took in how lovely you looked by his side. maybe you'd take the chance with him.

“say, why don't we call this hookup thing off? be less casual and go a little further, do some dates here and there — you know, maybe elope by date 5. sounds good?”

your flushed cheeks and subtle nod are confirmation enough for him to lean down and press an intimate kiss to your lip, one with no urgency but rather something that came closer to love.

perhaps eloping could happen by date 3, oliver thought.

⚽︎ first post on here! love mr. aiku

[rhaenyraeri]

Through the Valley

Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Your life with Joel and Sarah changes during one fateful night.

Warnings: gore, angst, canon character death

Note: Bare with me, I’ve never posted on Tumblr before lol. Depending on how well this does, I may make this into a chaptered fic!

The city lights of Austin lit up the night sky like a radiant dance of stars. It was beautiful, sure, but it was nothing compared to the peaceful, welcoming, dimly lit outskirts of the town. The town that brought the county to life, packed full of bustling streets, small businesses and corporations alike, and overall, the best place to get supplies you’d need. Whether it’d be that specific spice for that one dish you’d heard about from a friend, or a nice new outfit for a night out with friends, downtown Austin was the place to be.

On September 27th, 2003, however, you could be anywhere else. The streets filled with chaos, citizens running against oncoming traffic to escape the hell unleashed upon them. They were.. eating each other? What the fuck could’ve caused this? How the fuck did it happen? Where do you go? Can you survive?

—

It was September 26th, 2003. The sun barely peeked its bright head over the clouds and through the blinds of the messy bedroom. It wasn’t messy, per se, just.. cluttered — if you can justify that difference. You’d woken up moments before a shuffle on the opposite side of the bed brought your exhausted figure to alert. A hand slid around your waist, pulling you back into a warm bare chest.

“Good morning, baby,” that slow, deep, raspy voice murmured out into your ear. That voice.. you’d never grow tired of it. How could you? You took a deep sigh, and your usual light smile grew as you realized the familiar tune of that sultry voice. Joel. The man you’ve been in love with for 4 years, the best man you could’ve ever had the fortune of knowing. He worked hard for his daughter, Sarah. There were nights he wouldn’t come home, nights he’d be home late, days he’d forget to let her know where he was, and days he’d be busy until the sunlight hours faded away into the dim start of dusk, leaving no room for doing anything requiring the bright light of the sun. But Sarah knew that, despite it all, he’d always be there for her. He was the best dad she could ask for. Sure, most of the time he was working or didn’t have time to do things with her but he found time for his babygirl. It wasn’t ideal, he didn’t want it to be that way, but he had to make it work — for him and for Sarah.

“Good morning, Joel. When did you get back?,” you said with a light hum, eyes fighting to stay open. “Around 5:30, had a long night.” You knew that, most nights were. Your eyes trailed over to the clock — 7:02. He’d only been asleep a total of maybe an hour, if that. You rolled over to look at him, taking in that handsome, scruffy face of the man you loved. The man you’d die for, and to him, as he looked at your flawless, gorgeous face, he’d do the same. He bent his head forward a bit to give you a kiss on the forehead. There weren’t grand acts of affection between the two of you, which made small actions like that mean so much more. You raised a hand up from beyond the disheveled tan and black bed sheets to touch his face. You’d never grow tired of seeing that every morning. “Happy birthday handsome,” you said, running that same hand through his dark brown hair. “Ah, you know I don’t celebrate that, it’s just another day of my life to m-,” “Oh hush, you know Sarah thinks it’s important and so do I, so you’re gonna let us make today about you and you’re gonna like it,” you cut him off, a smirk grew to your face. Craning your head up a bit, you leaned in to kiss him, eyes closed, content and just before your lips touch his — there’s a rapid knock on the door.

It’s Sarah.

“Dad, Y/N! Alarm!,” she calls from the opposite side of the bedroom’s door. He sighed and pulled the cover off his body, leaving his bare torso on display for you to stare at as he looked for his shirt. You couldn’t lay there and take in the sight for long, you had to get up, but.. with a sight like that, the morning light coming through the blinds, almost highlighting Joel like a stage light and he was the main role, you would never get enough. Getting out of the bed, you scanned the room for some clothes, and switched into your favorite black and green flannel and those jeans you wore to death. Going downstairs, you followed behind Joel as he zipped his pants up. The smell of eggs and bacon filled the room. You turned the corner and seen Sarah with two pans on the stove, and frantically looking through the cabinets. “Where’s the pancake mix?,” she turns to ask Joel, “I was gonna make you birthday pancakes.” “Ah, you know I don’t really like pancakes,” he said, pouring his coffee into a mug. “I know you don’t like them, it was for Y/N and I’s benefit,” she looked up at you and grinned. You weren’t Sarah’s mother, and it took a while for her to grow used to you. You never wanted to be a replacement, and never wanted to treat Sarah like a kid, she had a strong head on her shoulders, and being Joel’s daughter, that was expected. Over the years, however, Sarah grew to love you, and you loved Sarah like your own. The two of you didn’t have a typical mother-daughter relationship, one some people didn’t understand, but as Joel’s girlfriend of 4, now almost 5, years, you and Sarah were close. You’d always joked and had fun with each other, and with you having a morning job, that meant you could be at the house with Sarah after she got home from school. If she wanted to go out with her friends or go out and eat, she knew she could count on you to be there for her.

“So, how old are you again?” “36.” “Gonna have to wear diapers soon,” she joked back almost instinctively, making you suppress your laugh. Getting up from the table, you took your plate to the sink and grabbed your jacket. “Where’re you goin’?,” Joel asks, eyes glued to you, now shuffling to get your things together. “Oh just somewhere.. you know that thing?” “What thing?” “You’ll see,” and with that you went out the front door, leaving Joel confused and Sarah with a smirk.

You hated not telling Joel where you planned to go, but what fun would it be if you spoiled his birthday present? A few weeks ago, you were out doing some weekly errands and saw a flyer for custom leather accessories, and knowing the state of Joel’s wallet, thought it would be a perfect gift. One with brown leather, engraved on the front is Sarah’s initials, and her birthday on the back. Trouble is, it was in the city. You didn’t mind going but if there was a way around it, you’d try find it. But Joel meant enough to you, and you knew he’d love it, so you put the custom order in weeks ago, and went to pick it up that night after you did some other errands.

There wasn’t much traffic out earlier in the day, but sometime that evening there was a pretty big wreck that blocked the ways in and out of Austin, and at this point you had been in the stopped traffic for hours. It was nearing nighttime, and there was no way to turn. Wallet in hand, you fumbled it around and mumbled, “So much for a present, huh?,” and laid it down in the passenger seat. There was no way you’d get it to him anytime soon.

At some point you dozed off to sleep, and when you woke and came to your senses, you looked out. Still no movement, and it’s now past 12 am. You opened your car door and got out, looking to see if there was any sign of movement of the traffic. There’s doors open, windows smashed, belongings tossed all around, and is that.. blood?

You quickly rushed over, looking for a sign of life. Approaching a beaten up rusty red truck, you noticed a younger man in the driver seat, head rested against the window. Opening the door, supporting the man, you offered him assistance, “Hey! Hey man, you okay? I’ll call for an ambulance.” Reaching in your pocket, you pulled your phone out and the man groaned in pain but.. it sounded different. You tried to support him and lean him against his driver seat, and raised the phone to your ear. “Okay, I’m calling for help, just stay w- what the hell man?,” He snapped and growled at you, grabbing with intense strength at your wrist, a look in his eyes indicating he was in pain but there was something more sinister happening. Panicking, you threw your phone down and ran as fast as you could to your car, navigating the best you could through the stopped traffic and against the shoulder of the road. You felt bad leaving him but.. what the fuck was going on with him? Never before had you saw.. that look. A look of agony but a look of hunger for you.. for human flesh?

Speeding down the shoulder, a distant explosion blinds you, making you slam on the brakes. “Okay, what the actual FUCK is going on?,” beating around for your phone, you realized you must’ve dropped it back at the guy in his truck. Again, you drove as fast as you could, trying to find an alternative route to get out of downtown Austin. All you wanted was to make sure Joel and Sarah were okay. Fuck the city, you had a family you needed to get to. Driving through narrow half-blocked roads and just barely missing debris, you hit the centermost part of downtown, and heard a crash to your right. Is that… no. It can’t be. Is that.. Tommy’s truck? Shit. All but jumping out of your car, you ran over. It was. It is. Shit, it’s not just Tommy, it’s Joel and Sarah.

“Joel! Sarah! Are you both okay?,” voice riddled with fear, your eyes scanning them over for injuries, silently praying they’re okay. You noticed Sarah wincing, and Joel had that furrowed look of pain — not for himself, but for her. “Her leg hurts pretty bad, she can’t walk on it,” he looks you in the eyes, seeing your face change to worried as you went over to Sarah, holding your hand to the side of her face, “I’m so sorry, sweetie, we’ll get you to safety.”

“Joel! Guys we gotta go, fuck they’re coming!,” Tommy yelled, staring behind the three of you, gun pointed up. “Don’t worry about me, just worry about getting her somewhere safe!” There was no plan, no idea where to go. Every corner now was covered in the dead or the.. undead eating the dead. Hearing Joel comforting Sarah broke your heart, you knew that girl was hurting and you couldn’t do anything about it. Dodging through stores, you had Joel and Sarah go first as you kept yourself towards the back. If any one of those… things.. were to get anyone, it’d be you. As long as they didn’t hurt your loved ones in any way. But there was just too many of them. There was no way those people were getting to any of them. There was no other way. You had to distract them.

“Joel! I’m gonna get ‘em after me just run as long and as far as you can with Sarah just.. save her,” you yelled, and you didn’t care what he said. If you died trying to keep them safe, then so be it. You look back long enough to see maybe just a few after them, and a hoard of probably 8 or more behind you. Running down a random narrow alley, you got thrown forward and into a chain link gate by an explosion, somehow just barely scraping you but managing to kill the ones after you. Gathering up your strength, you kicked the fenced door in and tried to find a safe way out of there.

Then, you heard it.

“No, don’t shoot! She’s not goddamn infected, she’s just a kid, she got hurt! No please, don’t sh-“

Gunshot.

Then another.

And another.

A wave of dread, of anger, of sadness, everything rushed through your veins, running your blood cold at the sound. It was Joel.

They killed him.

They killed Sarah.

Your two favorite people in the world, both just this morning you had breakfast with, looking forward to giving Joel his present, and seeing his reaction to the watch Sarah worked hard to get repaired for him, knowing that would make his day.

Both gone just like the snap of your fingers. You hit the ground and lost it. Wailing, screaming, sobbing, cursing.. none of that would ever be able to describe how you felt. Your family, gone like a wisp of an afternoon wind gust.

What the fuck were you to do now? What was the purpose? You just sat there, crying until there was no more.

Hours had passed, too many to count, as you were left defeated in the street, the sounds of the undead in the distance. You saw movement from the corner of your teary eyes, looking slowly to see the culprit. One of those hideous monsters, crawling towards you, both legs gone, and one arm in tact. Scanning around, you found a rusty pipe from the alley, raised it, and hit the creature in the head. Again. Again. Again. It was dead at this point. Maybe not forever, but it was for now. Those things took your love and the girl you thought of as a daughter away from you. Now they’re all going to pay. No matter the cost, each of those vile, wretched undead creatures will die.

[honeyvettel]

Pecco/Luca 30

30. only one bed | pecco/luca, set in 2025. [900 words]

(from this prompt list here)

pecco rolls into the ranch late, six hours dragged out from turin and another whole hour crawling through the traffic knot between bologna and tavullia. a headache claws behind his temples as he blinks against the sun setting behind the hills. when he crosses the threshold he hears bez’s high, sharp laughter echoing from the living room. he risks a glance toward the patio: marco, vale, and a scatter of others he doesn’t recognize are passing around grilled meat and bottles of beer, the soft clink of glass meeting glass threading into the dusk. pecco slips inside, quiet enough to be invisible, and heads straight for his room.

when he pushes the door open, his brows furrow. the bed is already rumpled, sheets thrown into loose, careless folds, and there are two open suitcases bleeding clothes near the wardrobe. “ah, sorry — that’s alessandro and valentina’s,” says a voice behind him. pecco startles, nearly flinching. luca stands leaning against the doorframe, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. somehow, luca always manages to sneak up on him, slipping into his blind spots like a shadow. that’s something pecco should probably study someday — how luca can always find him first. he rubs the back of his neck, a flush blooming high on his cheeks. “sorry, i messed up the schedules. thought you weren't coming until next week. and, uh, vale insisted on having them over early for his birthday.” pecco thinks about the couch, the ache already gathering at the base of his spine. he tries a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “non ti preoccupare. i’ll camp in the living room.” at that, luca laughs, warm and dismissive, like pecco had just offered to sleep on the roof. “don’t be stupid. you can crash in my bed. like old times, no?” before pecco can even open his mouth to argue, luca is already halfway down the hall, skimming across the floor, opening the last door on the right — his room, opposite valentino’s.

it’s been a long time since they shared a bed. a different life, almost — before pecco could even grow a real beard. his first year at the academy, and valentino had sorted him into stefania’s house without a second thought, luca’s room to be precise. handed over like it was nothing. it had been strange, to sleep under the weight of someone else’s life; luca’s trophies, lined up on a high shelf, photos of him and vale crowding the desk; framed diplomas, cockades from calculus and physics competitions pinned to the walls when luca was still in high school. the first night, pecco doubts he slept at all; lying stiff where luca’s head had rested, trying to smell luca’s scent even if he was sure stefania had changed the sheets. it was impossible not to think about luca sleeping there, sweating there, maybe jerking off late at night on the same mattress. pecco had told himself it was nothing— all these thin, shaky things growing from the bottom of his belly.

then luca had come back one weekend from moto3. pecco had been curled up under the covers, half-asleep, when he heard the door creak open. “luca,” he had whispered, heart hammering against his throat. he had watched as luca stripped in front of him, clumsy in the dark, rummaging through the wardrobe for a clean pair of pajamas. pecco had been ready to offer the floor, make himself small and invisible. “scoot over,” luca had said instead; he had curled up on the very edge of the mattress, fast asleep within minutes. pecco remembers lying there, heart beating helplessly against his ribs, too full of something frightening and tender to even move.

"you can take the left side.”

inside the bedroom, luca’s silhouette is softened by the dim spill of light rolling down from the  olive groves. pecco steps through the door, the cool air coming from the open windows brushing over his skin, and he sets his bag down on the floor. he toes off his sneakers, keeping his gaze anywhere but on luca, afraid that beneath the slackness of exhaustion, his face has grown too easy to read. he sinks onto the mattress, careful, cautious.  "long day, huh?" luca murmurs, stretching out beside him all together, soles of his boots still traced with dust from the track. pecco remembers— he remembers how he used to lie awake, tracing the faint hollow where luca’s head had rested on their shared pillow, breathing in the ghost of his warmth caught in the folds of the sheets. how he used to tell himself it was just loneliness, only the ache of missing his sister, the noise of his family. "yeah," he says, worn out.  luca’s hand finds his bicep then— a quiet, absent stroke, the same touch pecco had seen him use to lull angelina back to sleep. he closes his eyes, too tired to resist, feeling the warmth bloom under luca’s palm and spreading slow and heavy through his whole body. “i’ll leave you to it, then," luca whispers, and the mattress dips as he rises. a moment later, the door clicks softly shut behind him.

that night, pecco wakes without reason. he blinks, slow and confused, against the dark of a room that feels like someone else’s. then he remembers; luca’s form is curled against his side, a hand brushing the edge of his shirt. pecco swallows, but doesn't move. he lets sleep take him again.

[quietplace26]

Furina!MC au: Diary of Secrets

Notes: Another alternative take to my Furina!MC au..only this takes place in canon. Furina!MC returns home, and is now just MC again... Leaving chaos behind in the now post Prophecy Fontaine.

Warnings: OCness, cringe, thoughts of depression and suicide, yandere thoughts. Romantic yandere! Neuvillette, and Platonic yandere!Fontaine cast.

Furina!MC stares blankly at the thing before her. It was a computer... her old computer. The one she owned back in her last life.

The Genshin Impact logo flashes ominously on screen...

Furina!MC shakily shuts it off, standing up slowly and looks around.

She was in her old room. Everything still in the same place as it was the last time she saw 500 years ago...

She pads into her bathroom, marveling at the modern style bathroom she missed having, and gasps when she catches her face in the mirror.

She... she looked like her old self again! Her hair, eyes, nose, and even the little scar or mole here and there. She was herself again!

But how? The last thing she remembered was-

Furina!MC freezes. Her body begins to shake as tears started building up in her eyes.

The trial. How could she forget that?

Neuvillette, he... He had given the verdict of death sentence as her punishment, like canon did, but...

Now she's home? ...Maybe Focalors dying and the Hydro throne being destroyed freed her from her forced role? Finally letting her go home...

Furina!MC- no, MC sniffles as she smiled a true smile in the first time in 500 years.

She was home. She was free. And she was human again.

Glancing back at her computer she makes the decision to delete Genshin Impact from its system... Later on.

Right now? She wants to go spend time with her family and friends... And maybe she would forget all the pain and loneliness she went through...

So, rubbing her eyes dry, she pads out her bedroom, quietly calling out to her parents and siblings... Only she never notices her computer flicker on again.

The Genshin Impact logo flickers, and the usual log in screen of the game flickers to a scene of Fontaine. A Fontaine that was dark and rainy...

...Fontaine was in a state of chaos. Yes, the prophecy was avoided, meaning Fontaine and its citizens were safe... But their Archon? False Archon? Where did she go?!

After the verdict of a death sentence was given, she just faded away! Did she die?! Did she ever actually exist to begin with?!

No one was sure, but one reporter from the Steambird wanted to get answers, so he snuck into the Palais, and managed to find the former Hydro Archon's old room.

Digging around he finds what could be the Archon's diary and takes it back to the Steambird where he and his colleagues could go over what would probably be the biggest scoop of the century.

But all they got was some horrifying information...

The workers of Steambird, Charlotte included, all stared down at the old, beaten-up diary nervously... and guilty.

Should... Should they actually post what's in there?

Charlotte pushes for them to post it. The young reporter said the truth needed to be heard... and for their Archon's cry for help to heard as well...

So, they end up posting the article... and the Ludex himself, along with many others of Fontaine showed up in front of the Steambird, demanding answers.

The Article itself titled, 'Under the mask of our Hydro Archon-'

It spins a tale that their Hydro Archon was never their actual Archon, which Fontaine already knew, but it's revealed she was the HUMAN side of the Hydro Archon.

Neuvillette reluctantly admits he himself found out that info during the whole mess of a trial.

But here's the thing... Even that wasn't true.

Oh no, turns out Furina!MC wasn't even Focalors human side to begin with! Well, the body maybe, but the soul? The soul was once someone else.

A poor human that woke up in Focalors body double and was essentially made into a puppet for the Archon's bidding.

But even that wasn't the biggest shock!

The surprises continue as Furina!MC wrote about her past life, about how Fontaine, its people, Neuvillette, and even all of Teyvat had been a game in her old life.

Basically, she saw through the Traveler's eyes and explored Teyvat with them.

But if that's the case then why didn't she helped Fontaine?! Help people who were going to die or worse?!

The answer, as it would turn out, was because of Focalors.

The goddess' only goal in life was to prevent the prophecy and protect Fontaine... So, in her eyes, a few or more deaths didn't matter in her eyes.

So that meant she would NOT allow Furina!MC to act out of character and help those that could be saved.

And poor, poor Furina!MC was forced to watch as every soul she could've help, could've saved, die, or in Wriothesley's case, lose his childhood.

Carole, oh poor Carole... There were tears mark all over the page as Furina!MC cried through her words.

Navia's father, oh, his death could've been prevented if Marcel, no, Vacher had been caught. If only Focalors let Furina!MC bring up the evidence she had and KNEW, then-

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Navia-' the rest of the page had the same lines over and over again.

And Wriothesley. Oh, Furina!MC had been planning on fostering him, maybe even adopting him, but Focalors could never allow that, oh no.

Then there's Neuvillette.

Most entries showed how... Scared she was of him, how nervous... But also showed how she admired him.

She admired him for his abilities, for how he treated the Melusines, affectionately even writing being a dad was a good look for him.

It was obviously now that Fontaine's Hydro Archon had a crush on the Ludex, which apparently even shocked Neuvillette as he never knew that...

But for the rest of the diary entries, it mostly spoke of Furina!MC steadily declining mental state.

She started writing more about how it would feel to sleep die and not wake up one day. How lovely it would feel just to sleep drown deep in the sea, all alone where no one could hurt you...

Apparently sometimes when she was alone, she would test out her immortality to see if she could find a loophole and rest... and the way she described what she did to herself made several people sick.

It only got worse when they got to the last entry. The day before that trial...

Furina!MC wrote how she didn't hate any of her would be betrayers. She wouldn't hate Fontaine for turning its back on her. She LOVED Fontaine, truly...

It was just inevitable. There was no changing this 'story'. There would be no happy ending for 'Furina'.

All she asked for.... Is that when Focalors died... She could go home.

"...Lady Fur- I mean, Lady MC must have returned back to her world after Focalors' death." Neuvillette murmured as he closed the diary that a steam bird employee timidly handed to him.

All around him, nervous whispering could be heard. There was no hate towards MC like before, no, it was sorrow, it was worry, and guilt.

"Even if that's the case... would she even be alright? 500 years... and all the torture that Goddess put her AND us through..." Navia says, eyeing the nearby Archon statue in pure disgust.

That bitch let her father die! Of course she's angry! MC said she had evidence counting the fact she KNEW about Vacher, and even so, Focalors forced MC into silence.

"...Should we try to bring her back?" Clorinde suggests, fingers gripping her blade. She failed as a guard... and a friend. She raised her sword towards an innocent soul who has been silently crying out for help for 500 years... She had to make it right somehow.

Fontaine's citizens look at one another, and there's chimes of agreements. Their Archon was fragile right now, she should be brought back to Fontaine where the best doctors and therapists could help her now that no meddling Goddess was in the way.

Sigewinne was the loudest with this. "Lady MC is in a delicate state right now, both mentally and physically. Even if she did return home, that doesn't erase 500 years' worth of trauma, especially on a Human soul!" The Melusine nurse needed to see MC right away!

"Monsieur Neuvillette there must be a way to bring her back!"

"Please! We need to apologize!

"Lady Fur- MC needs help! Chief Justice, please!"

Neuvillette silently still gazes down at the diary.

To think... 500 years, and he never knew of the pain his lady was under.

When he saw Focalors, he felt the same affection he felt for Furina!MC, as they had the same face, but acted so differently.

But hearing the truth. Hearing how Focalors treated Fur-, no, he must in call his lady that name anymore! It... It wasn't her name. She deserves to be called her name!

...Hearing how Focalors treated MC, forcing her to act how like a puppet, keeping her quiet when the poor girl wanted to help... Unforgivable.

He glanced over at the nearby Hydro Archon statue and walks towards it, standing before it.

He sees Focalors' face, not MC's. It was never MC's. Focalors took that away from her l, didn't she. Took away her identity, her will...

With a flick of his wrist, Hydro shoots out and destroys the statue.

With the once grand statue in pieces at his feet, he turns to the crowd before him, face emotionless but eyes dark and determined.

"...We will bring back Lady MC back."

The resounding roar of agreement from the crowd echoed through Fontaine.

Fontaine would have its Hydro Archon back. The one they should've had to begin with.

Not a bratty, selfish, arrogant one. No. The shy, awkward, but oh so very kind and gentle Hydro Archon that was human just like them.

Fontaine will treat her gently, spoiling her with the love she was denied for so long.

The Melusines will have a chance to be closer to MC, to tell her Carole's death wasn't her fault. That they care about her, LOVE her.

MC took care of them without the Melusines noticing. Protecting them the best she could from Focalors.

.... Oh... That... that kinda sounded like a mama protecting her children. Was MC their mama? They had a mama and never noticed!

Navia wanted to apologize to MC. Both for her words and that awful test she tried to force MC through with the Primordial Sea water.

The President of the Spina di Rosula wanted to be MC's friend. Her best friend. Navia could tell by her diary entries MC was so lonely. She wanted a friend... And Navia would be that friend.

From her 500 years of being forced to act as 'Furina', poor MC must be so confused as to what she likes and dislikes anymore. Navia would help her with that.

She could take her to Fontaines best boutiques and pick out outfits she actually likes and then they could go out for a spa date. Navia would treat her friend right.

Clorinde needed MC back in her sights. She needed to keep her safe, to make up for her betrayal and failure. She would be the protector MC needed... The only one she will need.

Wriothesley... He originally held resentment towards the former Archon for all her failures towards him and his foster siblings.

But hearing the truth? It made him feel ill with guilt. The woman he held quiet hatred for had wanted to foster him and his siblings, and maybe even possibly adopt HIM.

He could've had a mother... but Focalors ruined everything.

Even though there was probably no way to have a family relationship with MC now that he was a grown adult, Wriothesley at least wanted to be someone that she could rely on.

Someone close to her, a friend... Or maybe more...

And Neuvillette? He wanted MC back. He NEEDED her back. He wanted to know the true MC, see the true MC.

She was probably very adorable; he could tell with the way she shyly wrote about him in her diary. Such a sweet little thing.

But he bet she was also beautiful as well...

No matter the cost, Neuvillette would bring MC back to Teyvat. Back to Fontaine... And back to where she belongs the most... With him.

Even if he had to bind her to his soul.

And with his Authority and status as the Hydro Sovereign returned, he was MORE than able to accomplish that.

[muxshwriting]

revelation

charles leclerc x reader

summary: it could never work again. could it? you don't know unless you try || warnings: mental health, angst, fluff || word count: 895 || masterlist

part one to this: doomsday

REQUEST: hii! i loved doomsday!!! would you consider a part 2?

You stayed at the hospital until Pascale arrived, gently excusing yourself. You can't escape the fearsome hug Pascale pulls you into, whispering how grateful she was that you had come at all and how she missed your weekly coffee dates. The woman had been so kind to you during your relationship with Charles, meeting you every week for a girls day where you could forget how rocky things had become.

Charles was discharged a day later, a little quieter, a little more strained, Pascale had texted you. You hadn't asked her to but were thankful for the update, the knowledge that he was doing better.

One of the F1 gossip columns had gotten a picture of Charles leaving the hospital, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, hands shoved deep into pockets and eyes tired. The discourse online all seemed to be as worried about Charles as you had been, finally seeing what you had said for months. But you didn't feel vindictive, or proud. It was simply sad.

Weeks passed without a call, without a text, without an update. You weren't sure what you were expecting, a thanks for coming to the hospital that you weren't entitled to. Maybe it didn't matter. You hadn't come back for him, you went because part of you always would have and because if you didn't, who would?

Then there's one night, without warning, where the doorbell of your apartment rings. You're not expecting anyone but having friends drop by isn't unheard of. You open the door just a fraction and it's Charles standing there, soaked to the core.

It's been raining, his hair sticking to his forehead like in all the movies. But his eyes, they look far more miserbale than you'd ever seen them.

"Charles?"

"I shouldn't be here." He says quickly. "I know I shouldn't be here but can you hear me out? Please?"

For a moment you think about saying no, shutting the door, being sane and moving on entirely, not being dragged back to that part of your life. But instead, you take one look at Charles and step aside, "Come in, I don't want you to get pneumonia."

He walks in silently, water dripping from his coat. He glances around the living room like it's a stranger to him, like it wasn't once half his. He notices the empty vase on the sidebard where flowers from him always used to stand. Now it collected dust and just looked sad.

You bustle through the closet in your bedroom, coming back with a towel for Charles that he doesn't immediately use. It's clutched in his hands, knuckles turining white when he rfinally wipes his face from rain.

"I lost you because I was trying not to lose everything else." He finally says, voice low and quiet. "In the end I just lost everything."

You wait for him to keep going, seeing the desire on his face.

Charles looked down at the towel, then back up at you. "I stepped away." His voice shook slightly. "After the hospital, I… I pulled out of every media commitment. I stopped doing double training sessions. I fought the team when they tried to push. I started seeing someone. A doctor." He forced a small, almost broken laugh. "For therapy. For everything."

You blinked, stunned by the admission.

"I didn’t know how to stop," he said. "Until you left. And then it all caught up to me. And I realized… I was doing it for the wrong reasons. Not because I loved it. Because I thought I had to earn it every second. Prove I was worth something."

The tears burning in your eyes weren’t fair, you decided. They weren’t fair at all.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," His voice cracked slightly. "I don't ever expect that but I owe you the fact that I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to be the man you saw in me."

You exhaled slowly. A shaky breath that sounded too much like relief. "I never wanted you to change who you were, Char," you whispered. "I just wanted you to live."

The room was so silent you could pick out the individual raindrops hitting the glass windows. You stare at the man in front of you, the broken but beautiful boy who had finally seen what you'd been begging him to see for so long.

You reach forward to wipe a raindrop from his cheek, or is it a tear? He leans into your touch like he hasn't felt touch for years, like a man starved.

"What if we try something new?" You ask tentatively and see him perk up. "We can't go back, so we make something else, something better?"

He nods, quickly, desperately, "Anything. Anything you'll give me. And I'll give you every-"

"No." The remark is short and sharp and you see Charles recoil slightly. "You don't have to give me everything, just give me you. Keep everything for yourself."

He swallows, hard. "We figure it out. Together."

"We start slow, we see where it goes."

For the first time in a while, Charles smiles. Then, through the cracks, soft and a little tired, you smile too.

Maybe the love you share wasn't about saving someone, but choosing them again once they learned to save themselves. And this time, no one would need saving, so you could just choose.

feel free to send in a request xx