#punctuated with moments of dread

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

Just got on flight one of two, supposed to last an hour, then an hour and a half layover, then crossing the Atlantic

[fvsm4x]

𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

synopsis. Pregnancy, usually a positive outcome of love between two partners that love each other deeply. But Pregnancy resulting from someone using you for their own pleasure is far from a positive outcome

+ warning/content. bully Gojo Satoru x female reader - reader is pregnant - mentions of abortion - mature themes/MDNI - usual warnings - suguru and reader are siblings - gojo is a fuckboy - angst angst angst:))

+ word count. 4.9k

a/n. Been a while since i‘ve updated this series…

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As your mother and father stormed out of your room, they slammed the door with a force that rattled the walls, leaving you alone with your brother in the suffocating silence that followed. The finality of that door slamming shut felt like an ominous punctuation—a statement that there was no turning back.

You stood frozen, your heart pounding so loudly that it drowned out the echo of their footsteps retreating down the hall. A knot tightened in your throat as the weight of their words crashed over you, a tidal wave of shame and dread. You forced yourself to take deep, steady breaths, trying desperately to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. The last thing you wanted was for your brother to see you like this—vulnerable, broken, on the verge of falling apart.

Is that it? you wondered, panic clawing at your insides. Is this really it? Am I actually getting kicked out? The thought left you feeling hollow, like everything you had ever counted on had been stripped away in a single, merciless instant.

Your mind raced, leaping to thoughts of your future—or what little was left of it. Everything you’d worked for, everything you’d dreamed of, felt like it was slipping through your fingers, unraveling faster than you could piece it back together. You could see the edges of your life falling away. Your education, your home, the support you once took for granted. All of it was disappearing, leaving only the stark reality of an uncertain path ahead.

You clenched your hands, digging your nails into your palms to anchor yourself, trying to stave off the wave of despair building inside you. It felt like your world was caving in, each piece of your carefully planned life crumbling in a way that seemed beyond repair.

Your brother shifted beside you, breaking the silence as he cleared his throat, his face etched with worry. He reached out a tentative hand, hovering as if unsure whether to comfort you or respect the fragile space you’d created between yourself and your emotions.

Your brother’s hand finally found your shoulder, his touch gentle but grounding. His silence spoke louder than words, and for a moment, it was all you could rely on. Even though he didn’t know what to say, his presence gave you something solid to hold onto in the midst of the chaos unraveling inside you.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re just… angry. They’ll come around. Maybe if we just talk to them tomorrow, things will calm down.”

You shook your head, the harsh reality already settling into place. “No, Suguru.. you heard them. They were serious. They want me gone.”

He looked down, his brows knitted together in frustration. “But where will you go? You can’t just… be out there by yourself.” The helplessness in his voice mirrored your own fear, but even he didn’t have a solution.

You glanced around your room—the bed you’d grown up in, the books you’d loved and underlined, the photos on the wall capturing fragments of happier moments, times when things were simpler, manageable. Each item felt like a piece of the life you were about to lose, like a museum of memories that would soon be locked away from you forever.

The silence between you and your brother grew heavy, and as much as you wanted to break it, words failed you. What could you say? That you’d made a mistake? That you hadn’t meant for any of this to happen? (You hadn‘t) But they all sounded hollow, too small to carry the weight of what you were facing.

Finally, your brother spoke, his voice determined. “You don’t have to do this alone. We’ll figure something out. You can live at my apartment—until you have a plan, at least. I don‘t really use it, so don‘t worry. I’ll help you. Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”

His words offered a sliver of hope, but even as you nodded, uncertainty lingered. You knew your brother meant well, but deep down, you both understood how complicated it would be for him to go against your parents’ wishes. They’d raised him with the same expectations, the same rules—and while his heart was with you, his loyalty was torn.

But still, the idea of having somewhere to go, even if only temporarily, softened the blow just enough for you to breathe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, but your gratitude was genuine. You reached for him, wrapping your arms around him tightly. The hug was the only comfort you had at that moment, the only thing anchoring you against the overwhelming feeling of loss and uncertainty.

After a long silence, he pulled back slightly, his face determined. “Go pack a few things. Whatever you need tonight. We’ll get out of here quietly. I’ll take care of the rest.”

-

Gojo leaned back in his chair, the squeak of the metal legs against the floor barely audible over the low murmur of his classmates. He absentmindedly tapped a pen against his notebook, the rhythmic click-click of it matching the unease simmering in his chest. His gaze drifted out the classroom window, where the afternoon sun cast long shadows on the pavement. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, and that last encounter in the classroom felt like it had happened yesterday, every moment still vividly etched in his mind.

He recalled the way the quiet hum of the school’s empty corridors amplified every sound—the soft, breathy gasps you made, the rush of your breathing as he pressed you against the cool surface of the wall. It was intoxicating, each detail replaying in his head like a film on repeat. But oddly enough, it pained him that he hadn’t seen you since then.

At first, he shrugged it off, convincing himself that you were just playing hard-to-get or perhaps needed some space after everything that had happened. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to need time to collect themselves after an encounter with him— he had that effect on people. But as the days turned into weeks, that initial dismissal turned into a dull, nagging worry that gnawed at him.

Gojo tried to push the thoughts aside, telling himself that you’d show up eventually, that it was just a phase. But your absence had created an odd emptiness in his daily routine, a persistent itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He was used to you being there, your presence a strange but comforting constant, and now that comfort was replaced with a gnawing curiosity.

Then there was Suguru, your brother, whose steady presence at school made everything feel even stranger. He carried on with his day as though nothing had changed, greeting Gojo with his usual casual indifference, yet he never mentioned you. Gojo found himself watching Suguru more closely than he intended, searching for any hint or sign that might explain your absence. He could feel the itch of curiosity clawing at him, but part of him resisted asking outright. He didn’t want to seem like he cared too much, but every time he spotted Suguru without you, that curiosity intensified.

Had something happened to you? Did you get sick? Or had you simply decided to avoid him? The thought was uncomfortably unsettling, and he brushed it aside, frustrated with himself for even considering it.

It was frustrating. Gojo couldn’t quite understand why you were occupying so much of his mind. At first, he tried to blame it on Suguru—your brother was a constant reminder of you, after all—but he’d grown accustomed to that long ago. It wasn’t like him to fixate on anyone, especially someone who usually melted into the background. And yet, here he was, replaying that last encounter in his mind, scanning hallways, and lingering just a bit longer outside your classes, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

He could chalk it up to boredom, a simple distraction to stave off the monotony of his day-to-day life. But deep down, he knew that there was something more than that. The thrill of teasing you, the way your face would scrunch up in irritation when he pushed you down in the hallways—it was strangely addictive. You had become his little victim, a source of amusement that made the slow days feel bearable. Now that you were gone, it left a void he couldn’t fill.

He hated admitting it, but he missed picking on you. The thought made his jaw clench, and a twisted grin crept across his face. Maybe he’d overestimated his hold over you, convinced that you would always be there for him to mess with. Or perhaps this was some kind of game you were playing, deliberately making him feel your absence, and it annoyed him even more.

Days continued to pass without a sign of you, and then, one morning, Suguru didn’t show up to school. Gojo was caught off guard by the emptiness in the usual spots where he’d see his friend. Normally, Suguru was as dependable as clockwork, always showing up right on time, effortlessly composed and ready to move through the day. Gojo couldn’t help but feel a strange twist in his stomach, wondering if something had happened. Maybe Suguru’s absence was tied to yours?

When Suguru finally returned the next day, he looked…off. His usually neat hair was slightly disheveled, his clothes a bit rumpled. There was an exhausted heaviness in his steps, and dark shadows under his eyes made him look as though he hadn’t slept all night. Gojo’s eyes followed him as he trudged through the school halls, quieter than usual, avoiding small talk and slipping into his seat without so much as a glance at anyone.

It was unlike Suguru to be this way. He barely looked up during the lunch break, barely mumbled a response when someone tried to talk to him. And Gojo could feel the unspoken weight hanging over him like a shadow—an air of tension, of something strained and unresolved. It made Gojo’s curiosity burn even stronger, a gnawing need to know what had happened.

But when Gojo finally approached him, Suguru only glanced up, his gaze tired and distant, and muttered a soft, “Not today, Satoru.” There was a finality in his tone, a closed-off energy that Gojo hadn’t seen before. It was clear that Suguru was carrying something heavy, something he wasn’t ready—or willing—to share.

And somehow, that only made his thoughts drift back to you. The emptiness left by your absence grew sharper, more pointed, and with it came a sinking feeling that whatever was happening with Suguru…was connected to you.

Gojo scoffed, shaking his head at himself as he tried to push thoughts of you aside. Why was he even letting you get to him? It wasn’t like him to dwell on anyone, let alone someone who’d gone MIA after a single hookup. He had more important things to think about—better distractions to keep himself entertained. Besides, if you were going to play hard-to-get or whatever this was, then that was on you.

With a lazy smirk, he glanced around the classroom, letting his gaze settle on a few familiar faces. Plenty of girls would kill for his attention— he didn’t need to waste any more time thinking about you. He’d spent weeks hoping for some sign of you, but maybe it was time he reminded himself of how easy it was to move on.

After class, he slipped out of the room, his stride slow and confident as he scanned the hallways. Within minutes, he found what he was looking for—an upperclassman lingering by her locker, eyeing him with a coy smile. He’d seen her around before, noticed the way her gaze lingered whenever he passed by.

Perfect.

With a quick sweep of his hair, he put on that easy charm, the one that always drew people in, and walked over, leaning casually against the lockers beside her. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Long day?”

The girl blinked, caught off guard for a second before her lips curled into a smile. “Not anymore,” she replied, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

Gojo grinned, already shifting into the familiar rhythm of flirting that he knew so well. Within moments, they were leaning close, sharing secretive whispers and low laughs, her hand resting on his arm as she hung onto every word he said. He had a way of making them feel special, as if they were the only person in the world. He knew exactly what to say, how to let his gaze linger just long enough to make them squirm.

As he let the conversation drift into something more suggestive, he found himself glancing around, almost instinctively, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of you walking by. He mentally cursed himself for it, forcing himself to focus on the girl in front of him, but there was still that nagging sense of dissatisfaction. Even though he had her wrapped around his finger, it didn’t feel quite the same. She was willing, easy, and there was no thrill, no challenge. It felt…hollow.

For a moment, he wondered if this was just another way to forget you, a way to scratch an itch that wasn’t going away as easily as he’d hoped. The idea bothered him, and he dismissed it as quickly as it came. You didn’t matter—he was Gojo Satoru. He had girls practically throwing themselves at him every day. There was no reason he should be hung up on you.

-

The apartment was quiet—too quiet. Days slipped by in a gray monotony as you tried to settle into a space that felt as foreign as a stranger’s closet. There was nothing in the room that felt like you, just the sparse furniture your brother had left behind: a sagging couch with sunken cushions, a bed pushed awkwardly against the wall, and a handful of mismatched kitchen items. There were no family photos, no cozy blankets, not even a single potted plant to add life to the place. It was a hollow shell, his empty, seldom-used apartment, and now it was yours—a place to hide, but far from a home.

When you first came here, you thought you might be able to reach out, maybe even find comfort in a friend’s familiar voice. But the silence on the other end of the line grew heavier with each unanswered message. Some of your texts were left unread, others were marked “seen” and ignored. You’d started to convince yourself that somehow, they knew. They had to know about your mistake, your situation, and it was easier for them to turn away than to get involved. You could almost imagine their silent judgment, the whispers they might share when you weren’t around.

You felt backed into a corner, as if the world had abandoned you just when you needed it most. The shame felt insurmountable, an invisible wall that stopped you from trying again, that convinced you this loneliness was what you deserved.

You could barely feel it —the life inside you, growing silently, quietly, but undeniably there. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself resting a hand on your stomach without even realizing, feeling for something that wasn’t quite there yet, but knowing soon it would be. A thousand questions swirled in your mind. What kind of life would this child have? Would they hate you for the world you brought them into, for the choices you’d made that they would have to live with? The thought was like a chill running through your veins, paralyzing and real in a way nothing else was.

Then, late at night, as the hours stretched out, other thoughts would creep in—thoughts you tried to push away, but that stubbornly returned. Abortion. You felt the word like a weight in your chest, a tightness that you couldn’t swallow, but that was always there. In the dead silence of the apartment, you sometimes let yourself entertain the thought, if only for a moment, thinking how much easier it might be to turn away from this path. But then the guilt would wash over you, sinking deeper with every beat of your heart. It was a decision you couldn’t bring yourself to make, no matter how overwhelming everything felt.

You weren’t even sure you could hold your own life together, let alone bring another one into it. You hated feeling so trapped, as though every choice led to pain, no matter what you did. The idea of being a mother, of taking on this monumental responsibility, filled you with a dread that was hard to admit. It was as if each new day only added to a burden you were too afraid to carry yet too scared to set down. The future felt murky and shadowed, a looming unknown that swallowed up every glimmer of hope.

Sometimes, you’d find yourself standing by the window, gazing down at the quiet, dimly lit street below, lost in thoughts of an alternate life. What would it feel like to walk away from all this weight, to leave the fear and uncertainty behind? You let yourself imagine it—a life where you were free again, unburdened. But even as the fantasy flickered in your mind, there was a small, stubborn part of you that held on, that whispered maybe. Maybe you could carry this through. Maybe, despite everything, you could find a way to make this work.

To keep yourself grounded, you tried to build a routine. Every morning, you’d scroll through endless job listings, though each one felt like a reminder of the uncertainty surrounding you. Most positions didn’t seem right or possible for you now, but you kept looking. It was something to hold onto, some kind of structure when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers. You even organized the sparse kitchen, setting up the cabinets with a kind of precise care, as if putting things in order on the outside could bring some calm to the chaos inside.

One evening, as you sat cross-legged on the couch, the hum of distant traffic barely filled the silence. You stared at your phone screen, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. Loneliness settled over you, thick and heavy, amplified by the silence that had become so familiar. It was almost stifling, forcing you to confront thoughts you’d tried hard to avoid.

You missed your family, even if things between you had become strained. You missed the comforting predictability of home, the familiar sounds, the routine. Here, each day felt hollow and directionless, like floating in a fog with no sense of where you were headed. Sometimes, you’d sit there waiting, hoping for something to change, some sign that things would be okay, but the realization that it was entirely up to you weighed heavily.

A knock at the door jolted you out of your thoughts, sharp and unexpected in the stillness. Your heart gave a nervous jump as you hesitated, then forced yourself to cross the room. The apartment was usually so quiet, every sound amplified in the emptiness, and this interruption felt almost intrusive. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you opened the door to see the mailman standing there, holding a small, official-looking envelope in his hand.

“Here you go. Have a nice day,” he said with a nod, handing it over before turning to leave.

You mumbled a thank-you, barely audible, closing the door slowly as you stared down at the envelope. The stiff paper, the way your name was printed in impersonal black ink—it all radiated a sense of cold formality that sent a wave of dread curling in your stomach. You tore it open with shaking hands, telling yourself it was probably just another notice, a formality from the school.

But as your eyes scanned the letter, a sickening realization washed over you. It wasn’t just a reminder or a request for information. It was a notification—a final, official statement that you’d been dropped from school because of unpaid tuition. Your parents had stopped covering your fees without any warning, leaving the balance unpaid. And because you hadn’t attended in weeks, the school had processed it as a withdrawal.

You read the words again, trying to make sense of them, as if they would change on a second pass. But they stayed the same, cold and unyielding, spelling out a reality you hadn’t prepared for. The letter offered no alternatives, no appeal. Either you somehow paid the balance yourself, or you would be permanently removed from the roster.

A numb disbelief settled over you as you sank onto the couch, clutching the letter tightly. They’d actually done it. They’d cut you off without a word, leaving you adrift, stripped of the one place you’d thought you could depend on. A mix of anger and hurt bubbled up inside you, but the betrayal was what stung the most.

Your mind raced, thoughts colliding in a frantic spiral. What would you do now? Leaving school meant giving up on so many things—dreams you’d quietly held onto, plans that seemed so certain not long ago. It was like everything you’d worked toward, every late night studying and early morning hustle, had been erased in an instant. This wasn’t just a setback— it felt like a wall you’d crashed into with no way around.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you swallowed them back, forcing yourself to press your lips into a hard line. There was no one you could turn to for help, no one who could wave a magic wand and fix this.

You sat there on the couch, feeling the weight of the letter in your hand like a stone, its meaning sinking in deeper and deeper. The room seemed even colder, emptier, as if the walls themselves were closing in on you. Every step you’d taken had been building toward something, and now that path was gone, wiped away in the span of a single letter.

No matter what mistakes you’d made, you’d never expected your own family to cut you off 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲. You wanted to scream, to call them, to make them hear you and see what they’d done—but that door felt closed too, like an argument already lost. The bitter realization settled in— of course they weren’t going to reach out- they weren’t going to help. Afterall, they were the ones that kicked you out in the first place.

You glanced down at your phone, your fingers hovering over the screen as you debated sending another message to one of your friends. Maybe you could explain everything, maybe they’d understand, maybe they’d reach back and give you a lifeline. But a familiar fear held you back. The weight of your situation, your mistake, felt too heavy to burden anyone else with, and every time you imagined reaching out, a voice in the back of your mind reminded you that they hadn’t been there for you before. Why would they be there now?

The silence in the apartment grew louder, pressing in on you until it was almost unbearable. Desperate for a distraction, you got up and wandered aimlessly through the small space, moving things around on the counter, straightening the already-neat cupboards, just doing anything to keep your hands busy. But the distraction was short-lived, and the reality of your situation crept back in.

The future felt terrifyingly empty, an open void where all your plans used to be. The only clear thing was that you had no other choice now but to figure this out on your own. Slowly, a stubborn resolve began to build beneath the panic. You were here, alone, but that didn’t mean you had to stay stuck. Maybe, somehow, you could make this work. You could find a job, save up, find a way to get back into school. It felt like an impossible task, but it was the only path left.

With a deep breath, you grabbed your laptop and opened up a job-search site, scrolling through the endless list of options. Most were dead ends—part-time retail or night shifts that didn’t even pay enough to cover the rent suguru is payinh. But you forced yourself to keep looking, moving through page after page, searching for anything that might be a start, a way forward.

The hours slipped by, the weight of the decision settling over you like a cold blanket, but you kept scrolling, kept hoping that something would spark the possibility of change.

After what felt like hours scrolling through listings and filling out applications, your eyes grew tired, the screen blurring in front of you. You needed air, space to breathe, to feel something other than the weight pressing down on your chest. With a sigh, you closed your laptop, abandoning it on the couch, and made your way over to the small balcony just off the living room.

Stepping outside, you were greeted by the crisp night air, a chill that wrapped around you, cutting through the dullness. The street below was quiet, dim streetlights casting long shadows across the empty pavement. Leaning against the railing, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, letting the cold settle into your skin, grounding you, if only for a moment. The city felt vast from here, stretching out endlessly, full of people going about their lives, yet here you were, feeling like the only one left adrift.

As you opened your eyes, you gazed out over the neighborhood, the distant hum of cars a low, steady comfort. For a fleeting moment, you felt a strange sense of freedom, as if up here on this balcony, the problems inside couldn’t quite reach you. It was quiet, peaceful even, the world below carrying on, oblivious to your struggles.

You’d imagined such a different future, one where you’d be surrounded by friends, pursuing your passions, finding yourself. But now? It all felt like a distant memory, something that had happened to someone else entirely.

The sky above was cloudy, with only a few stars managing to peek through. You stared up, trying to find some kind of sign, something to remind you that you weren’t entirely alone, that maybe there was still a chance for things to change.

You stayed there a while, letting the cold numb the tension in your body, staring into the distance, thinking about what you’d do next. The thought of reaching out for help gnawed at you, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to take that step. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was just the fear of rejection. Either way, you knew that whatever came next would be up to you.

Your gaze drifted downward, tracing the shapes of the buildings, the shadows cast by streetlights, when a familiar flash of white caught your eye. Your heart clenched involuntarily. Gojo.

He was strolling down the sidewalk, his stride as arrogant and carefree as ever, his laughter echoing faintly up toward you. His arm was draped around the shoulders of a girl who leaned into him, her face turned up toward him with a bright smile, entirely captivated. They looked close, intimate, like they were the only two people in the world. Watching them, a dull ache pulsed in your chest, stirring a cocktail of emotions you didn’t want to face.

You gripped the railing tighter, your knuckles whitening. Memories clawed their way up, memories of him—of his smirk, his mocking words, the way he’d cornered you like he had every right. Gojo had always been cruel, but he wielded his charm like a weapon, drawing people in only to watch them squirm when he showed his true colors. He had treated you the same way, toying with you, using you, and then discarding you without a second thought.

The girl beside him had no idea, you thought bitterly. She was seeing the Gojo who played his part so well, the smooth talker, the charmer, the boy who seemed like he could do no wrong. But you knew better. You knew what lay beneath that mask, the callousness he could hide behind his easy smiles. And now, there he was, laughing without a care, completely untouched by everything he’d done to you, while you were left to piece yourself back together.

A cold, bitter anger welled up inside you, mingling with the helplessness you tried so hard to ignore. He had stolen something from you—something you could never get back. He is the reason you got kicked out and have a hard life now.

And yet here he was, walking down the street as if nothing had happened, as if you didn’t exist, a careless reminder of how easily he’d been able to walk away from the pain he’d caused.

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[pin-k-ink]

NOISE COMPLAINT ★ KOZUME KENMA

DAY SEVEN ➵ kenma’s neighbor’s the total package—sweet, sexy, and always bringing him dinner like it’s nothing. only problem? the walls are thin, and he’s stuck hearing every second of your late-night hookups. so, he gives you two choices: cut out the noise or bring it straight to him.

cw ➵ dírty talking, teasing, sexúal tension, manhàndling, fingéring, pet names, praise kínk, unprotected séx, mastúrbation, making out, squírting

wc ➵ 6.5k

kinktober masterlist

The muffled thump of the headboard slamming rhythmically into the wall stirred Kenma from his restless slumber. His eyes snapped open, pulse immediately kicking up in dreadful recognition.

Another night, another disturbance bleeding through the paper-thin walls from your apartment.

Even without straining his ears, Kenma could make out the unmistakable sounds - breathy feminine whimpers escalating into desperate cries of rapture...strangled masculine grunts punctuating the squeaking bedsprings...a raunchy symphony of skin slapping against sweat-slicked skin in primal desperation.

He groaned defeatedly into his pillow, already shifting amid the tangled bedsheets as familiar tendrils of heated arousal began lapping through his veins despite his misery. The wearied bags under his eyes seemed to throb in time with the steadily increasing tempo of those obscene noises filtering through the walls.

How many nights had it been now? Three weeks? Four? Kenma had long since lost track of the innumerable bouts of interrupted sleep thanks to your nightly...activities. All he knew for certain was that his admittedly gorgeous new neighbor had ushered in an era of unrepentant sex noise pollution mere days after moving in.

At first, he'd tried to simply tune out the rhythmic slap of headboards and feminine keening in polite embarrassment. You'd seemed so lovely and sweet upon your first meeting - demurely introducing yourself and offering warm smiles while explaining the little homecooked meals you enjoyed preparing for neighbors were just your way of making friends.

Kenma couldn't deny a part of him looked forward to those casual hallway interactions with your radiant presence each week, eagerly anticipating the casual brush of fingers as you passed off those tupperware containers still warm from the oven. Your mere existence exuded such an effortless warmth and caring aura, it was difficult not to bask in your light.

Which made the mortifying initiation into your...nocturnal hobbies that much more shocking upon its inaugural event.

The first time those gasping cries of bliss punched through the stillness and burbled into Kenma's apartment had nearly made him choke on his Mountain Dew. He distinctly remembered pausing his game, whipping his head around in stunned search of the source, only for a particularly lewd crescendo in your orgasmic bliss to solve the mystery.

Heat erupted across Kenma's face and throat in a scalding wave, making his ears ring with visceral clarity of each panted syllable punching through the walls at that moment. His mind's eye immediately conjured the accompanying visuals almost by autonomic instinct - your form convulsing in throes of rapture, radiant features contorted into a rictus of pleasure as a lean, sweat-slicked man plunged relentlessly betwixt your lewdly parted thighs.

Kenma shook his head feverishly, attempting in vain to dislodge the unsolicited glimpse into your most intimate moments. Yet the more frantically he fought against the sensory assault, the more insistently those lascivious details seemed to burn themselves into his consciousness.

In the weeks since that first incident, he'd settled into a torturous routine of being subjected to your impassioned lovemaking sessions through the thin wall separating your living spaces. Each night more partners, more feverish cries, more lurid noises that seeped into Kenma's subconsciousness and bloomed into vivid erotic imaginings he couldn't quite scrub away no matter how desperately he tried.

It didn't help that you seemed to make zero effort to stifle or restrain your amorous escapades, even in deference to respecting your neighbors' needs for undisturbed rest. If anything, the lack of inhibition and abandon with which you flung yourself into intimate pleasures only further stoked Kenma's lurid fascination.

You, the sweet-natured neighbor who cooked him hearty soups and delivered his mail with a smile, indiscriminately enjoyed night after night of mind blowing sex right next door. What's more, by Kenma's rapidly dwindling calculations, you appeared to have a healthy rotation of lovers filtering through to satiate your endless hungers.

Kenma swallowed thickly against the throb pulsing insistently in his throat as you cried out in trembling euphoria once more, that sultry cry shredding through the thin walls and engulfing his feverish cocoon of rumpled sheets. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, his overwrought body simply refused to remain indifferent to the live pornographic soundtrack mere feet away.

You always did possess a certain magnetic allure, after all - one that initially drew his curious gaze whenever passing you in the halls. Those effortlessly tousled locks framing your radiant features...the serene, perpetually contented expression that put him in mind of a sated feline...the artful swell of your feminine slopes beneath casual clothing, all lush inviting curves just begging to be mapped and—

Kenma bit back a strangled whimper as your husky exhalations spiked up a fevered octave, punctuated by gruff masculine grunts of exertion in tandem. He could practically see your heaving forms through the drywall - those shapely legs scrambling for purchase against rippling masculine musculature...the frantic undulations of your torsos joined at the hips, driving that thick intrusion deeper with each ravenous surge...

"F-Fuck..." he hissed through gritted teeth, shoving one sweat-dampened hand beneath the elastic waistband of his shorts and fisting his swollen cock with aching desperation.

There was no denying the visceral reality any longer. Not when every punched-out whimper and throaty keen from your direction insistently transfigured itself into lurid flashes of you — gloriously nude, hair wild, curves glistening with a sheen of ecstasy as you coiled around whomever's form currently stretched and claimed your tender passages in long, unhurried strokes.

Kenma bit down harder against his plush lower lip until he tasted copper, frantically pumping his dick in time with the obscene rhythms driving the bedsprings into a squealing cacophony mere feet away. Wanton imaginings swamped his consciousness until he swore those velvet cries and muffled snarls resonated directly in his ringing ears.

His jaw slackened around a soundless howl as release detonated at his core like a cascading eruption, hips jerking in desperation as if seeking to bury himself to the root inside your honeyed embrace. Wave after rippling wave of ecstasy crashed over Kenma's nerve endings, leaving him slick and utterly spent, his harsh panting mingling with the tapering aftershocks of your mutual sated bliss.

At least until the inevitable guilt and shame could ebb back in alongside your even breathing slipping back to repose...

"Nnngh..." Kenma groaned in delirious agony, dragging his ruined palm down his sweat-sheened features in vain hopes of scrubbing away the delicious images. "How the fuck am I ever gonna look you in the eyes again after this...?"

But even as he squeezed his eyes shut against the blistering tides of remorse, Kenma couldn't erase the exquisite sensory memories seared behind his fluttering lashes this time. Of you - his sweet neighbor, his considerate friend - transcending all notions of purity and utterly immolating him upon your pyre of salacious rapture unwittingly night after night...

Kenma jolted awake to the intrusive rapping of knuckles against his front door, grimacing as the foggy vestiges of a mere few hours' rest still clung to his consciousness. He pried open bleary eyes to the dim glow of late afternoon filtering through the drapes - courtesy of another marathon night spent tossing and writhing in his own torment.

Even through the thick haze muffling his senses, the unmistakable scent of heavenly spices and savory aromas tickled his nostrils insistently. Kenma groaned in weary realization, scrubbing his hands through his disheveled hair as he forced himself up onto unsteady feet.

With the crisp recollections of the previous night's indulgent fantasies still playing on an endless loop behind his eyes, the very last person Kenma wanted to confront was the living, breathing catalyst itself currently standing on the other side of that door.

But his rumbling belly betrayed him with an insistent pang, fully aware that only one person could be responsible for the mouthwatering scents currently permeating the hallway. Defeat sagged Kenma's slender shoulders as he resigned himself to padding over and cracking the entrance open - only to freeze like a statue in the threshold.

There you stood in all your radiant, soft-lit glory, an easy smile playing over those plump, perpetually kissable lips that recently starred in such salacious reveries. One of your hands remained raised in preparation for another insistent rap while the other clutched an overladen tupperware dish, no doubt positively brimming with your latest home-cooked exploits.

"Kenma! Good, you're awake!" you chirped in that effortlessly warm cadence of yours, smile only brightening upon drinking in his form. "I was worried I missed you again for our usual weekly drop-off here."

Something about the genuine, guileless delight shimmering in your gaze at that simple prospect robbed Kenma's lungs of oxygen. Despite the erotic symphony still echoing through his shattered psyche from the night before, you reflected nothing but that same compassionate sincerity he'd come to associate with your presence over the months.

A cloaked juxtaposition of your debauched indulgences and this affable persona currently gazing up at him with such open warmth and care in your eyes. Kenma's mouth worked uselessly for a few breaths, utterly disarmed by the ease in which you toggled between those two extreme personas now.

"You...uh, I'm sorry...what?" he managed to stammer at last, feeling the heated rush of mortification prickling up the back of his neck.

Your tinkling laughter in response very nearly made his knees buckle treacherously. "Always so spacey in the afternoons, my sweet neighbor," you teased lightly, leaning closer with unmistakable concern creasing your lovely features. "But you look even more out of it today than usual. Everything okay? Did you sleep alright last night?"

The seemingly innocuous question slapped Kenma like a sucker-punch, flooding him with an onslaught of viscerally lurid recollections: of falling into sweaty, helpless raptures mid-fap session while your ecstatic cries echoed through the walls...of straining at his very limits to shove deeper into the phantom sensation of your honeyed, snug cunt swallowing him up in salacious convulsions...of your glistening, disheveled visage branded behind his fluttering lids while scalding release crested through—

"Hey now," your melodic chiding cut through the spiraling haze, utterly oblivious to the torrent of raunchy fantasies swamping Kenma's consciousness in your presence. "Don't you check out on me yet! I asked if you were sleeping okay."

Before he could marshal his thoughts into any semblance of coherent response, your hand darted out with shocking swiftness. Kenma's breath hitched in his throat as your soft, cool fingertips cradled his jawline with infinite tenderness, angling his stunned gaze towards the scrutiny of your concerned perusal.

Up close, you dominated every iota of his senses in an utterly dizzying assault - the rosy warmth of your exhalations caressing his parted lips...the headier, subtler hints of your feminine fragrance wafting into his flaring nostrils...the molten shimmer of attentiveness flickering behind those depthless irises as you drank in every weary nuance playing out across his features...

"Kenma..." you murmured, lips pursing into an adorable pout as your scrutiny traced the dark hollows of fatigue undoubtedly ringing his eyes. "Have you seriously been sleeping properly at all lately? You look absolutely exhausted right now, sweetheart..."

The unconscious endearment sheered whatever tattered scraps of composure remained within Kenma's enfevered psyche. Something seemed to wrench the air from his constricted lungs in a harsh exhalation, leaving him wheezing against the onslaught of forbidden imaginings your simple concern unleashed in his sex-addled mindscape.

He saw it all in the span of one stuttered breath - your tender expression melting into a lascivious smirk of dark promise...those plush lips parting in a wordless summons as you laced your fingers into his shaggy hair and dragged his stunned countenance lower, lower, until—

"It's...complicated," Kenma rasped, averting his gaze as something hot and mortified blazed in the pit of his gut. He hoped the dim hallway obscured the flush now surely mottling his cheeks. "And kind of...a weird situation, if I'm being totally honest."

You hummed a thoughtful note in clear skepticism, hand finally withdrawing from its cradling posture and allowing Kenma's lungs to expand once more. He greedily gulped down oxygen to sooth the embers of temptation smoldering madly at his core. But even that simple reprieve proved only a momentary salve against the sensual assault you presented.

"So..." Your amber eyes flashed with simmering humor and that familiar playful cadence as you cocked one hip out invitingly, "Since you're clearly being a stubborn pain and won't just tell me what's bugging you, how about you at least invite your friendly neighborhood chef inside for a bit?"

You punctuated the ostensibly innocuous declaration with a not-so-innocent swipe of your tongue over those plush lower lips in a subconscious gesture of pure distraction. But in Kenma's current overheated state, the fleeting indecent flash of tongue and teeth made his insides clench with violent, visceral want.

Images of you sinking to your knees before him in wanton invitation sliced through his psyche like lightning forks of arousal. Of trailing that soft, velvet muscle along the rigid length of his swollen cock with maddening leisure before wrapping those sinful lips around the engorged tip and taking him in to the root with one delirious—

"A-Actually," Kenma bit out roughly, shamefully aware of the increased strain in his cotton shorts now as insistent arousal began taking covetous form. "I'm not so sure that's such a good idea after all..."

Because having you in the same airless space after the lurid reveries plaguing his consciousness all night would only tempt fate beyond his already-strained endurance. Kenma wasn't sure just how much punishment his libido could withstand before something inside of him finally snapped and reshaped their dynamic into unknown, precarious territory.

Yet as your smile took on a touch more crestfallen resignation, a reckless part of Kenma couldn't deny the whisper-soft urge to draw you into his space, just to experience more of your physical proximity up close and personal. To stop simply fantasizing his deepest cravings and finally sample the temptation of you in the flesh consequence be damned...

"Okay, fine..." The assent rasped out before he realized the words had even taken shape. "But only for a little while - I really need to try and recharge after...well, everything lately."

A slight frown creased your brow at his vague yet loaded allusion, but you didn't voice whatever reservations flitted behind your chestnut irises in that moment. Instead, you simply brushed past Kenma's slender form into the dimly lit apartment, immediately allowing your feminine presence and intoxicating fragrance to saturate the air with heady invitation.

He stifled a shuddering inhalation through flared nostrils, resolutely shutting the door behind you before trailing after your wandering exploration. Despite the churning uncertainty and liquid arousal thrumming through every nerve ending, Kenma couldn't deny the illicit thrill singing in his veins at having you so casually inserted into his private space.

After nights of fantasizing his most lurid cravings onto your imagined visage and phantasmal presence, the realization that you were finally here in the flesh within touching distance was almost too potent to withstand. Kenma clenched and flexed his hands at his sides as you drifted like living temptation throughout his living room.

"So," you began over one slender shoulder, expression set in casual curiosity. "What exactly is going on with you, Kenma? Nothing serious I need to call emergency services over I hope?"

He swallowed convulsively around the fragmented keening noises threatening to splinter past his composure at any moment. "N-Not exactly. It's...well..."

Seizing your full regard head-on like a grounding lifeline, Kenma searched those attentive, inquisitive depths for enough courage to simply lay his depraved nocturnal admissions bare. Just come out with the blistering truth of how he'd pleasured himself to exquisite heights imagining you in the throes of passion scant feet away for weeks...

But before the words were even halfway formed in his racing thoughts, the reality of uttering such profanities aloud while drowning in the molten sincerity of your concerned stare short-circuited his ability to vocalize. Terror unlike anything Kenma ever remembered experiencing clamped like a vise around his chest at the very notion of shattering the fragile equilibrium between you both into something impossibly precarious.

Yet you only cocked your head to one side with infinite adorable patience, waiting expectantly for the earth-shattering truth to finally manifest. One perfectly manicured hand rose to habitually tuck a stray lock of silken tresses behind your ear - a subconscious gesture Kenma zeroed in on like a laser sight aimed directly at his spiraling libido.

That same lock tumbled free again moments later, your radiant features arranged in studious attentiveness. Just waiting with those utterly captivating doe eyes blinking slowly for him to finally man up and vent whatever profane confessions roiled at the forefront of his psyche.

"I...it's..." Kenma's mouth shaped the syllables, over and over, only for them to die stillborn on his tongue. Until at last, mounting desperation and frustration with his own cowardice propelled him into a blunt truth that fell like a granite guillotine blade between you both.

"I can't stop jerking off to the sounds of you fucking every goddamn night, okay?!"

Dead, viscous silence choked the airless living room as the last echoes of his guttural admission faded into nothingness. For a small eternity, neither of you so much as twitched a muscle - simply stared at each other across the scant few feet of separation with twin expressions of dawning horror on opposite ends of the spectrum.

A fresh wave of shame swamped his senses at your astute observation being laid so bare between them. At the implication that his own tormented cravings had become all too apparent in your innocent presence as of late. Kenma fleetingly considered simply wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole to escape this fresh torment.

But as you reached out to lay one soothing palm over his twitching knuckles in reassurance, a frisson of bone-deep yearning lanced through Kenma's core like a lightning strike. One undeniable truth roared up from those instinctual reserves of masculine hunger - he no longer possessed the willpower to retreat or dissemble from this tipping point you'd instigated.

Either he severed this infected root between them decisively in the next few moments, or surrendered all lingering control and simply seized what his primal urges had been howling for all this interminable time...

"So I have a proposal for you," he growled out in a rumbling baritone far deeper and more bestial than he'd ever heard himself utter before. "You can either cut the shit with your nightly fuckfests right now and give me some goddamn peace and quiet."

Kenma knew his searing glare alone could sear flesh from bone in that instant. But some unraveling part of him no longer had any compunctions about revealing the full breadth of his ravenous wants to you, even through brutally crass demands. Not when your own perpetually teasing presence and unsolicited carnal offerings had eroded away every ounce of his restraint over time.

However your features remained completely unruffled - not a single flicker of surprise or indignation flickering across those serene features marred only by that taunting shimmer of reflected firelight. As if you'd been awaiting this pivotal confrontation and reckoning for just as long as Kenma had been dreading its inevitability deep down.

At last you leaned forward, closing the already scant distance until your exhalations ghosted across his lips in soft bursts of temptation. "What's the other option, sweet neighbor?" You murmured in a husky, sin-glazed timbre that simultaneously sent red-hot lances of hunger spiking through Kenma's veins.

A shuddering inhale of that inebriating floral fragrance of yours was all it took for the final strands of his control to shred asunder. Kenma's hands lanced forward with utterly zero finesse or restraint remaining, fisting twin handfuls of your disheveled tresses to crash your mouths together in a punishing, open-mouthed clash of tongues and teeth.

You swallowed down his guttural snarl of overwhelming relief and possession like a sacramental offering. Your form melted back against the cushions as Kenma's body instinctively pursued, pinning you amidst a feverish tempest of roving hands and slick, carnal violation marking every slick inch of your succulent mouth in lurid ownership.

Finally, you broke away from the devouring kiss with a breathless gasp that stoked the banked fires consuming Kenma even higher. Your eyelids remained hooded to mere slits, dazed and molten with that same fiery promise that had driven him steadily towards the edge of utter madness these last few weeks.

"Or...?" You prompted with a wrecked rasp, somehow echoing his own thundering hunger even while sprawled out in beautiful disarray beneath him.

"Or..." Kenma paused to swallow another fortifying inhale, letting the lingering wisps of your sweet breath swirling between them only stoke his fearless momentum higher. "You let me be the ONLY one plowing that sweet pussy from now on...whenever and however the hell I want. No more random assholes clogging up the rotation, just me stretching you out night after filthy night."

He punctuated the shameless declaration with a forceful grind of his caged erection against the apex of your thighs, savoring your choked mewl of surprised delight. Part of you never wanted this rapturous, primal joining of forms to ever cease. To remain tangled and desperately intertwined with Kenma's lean, quivering frame forever while he plundered your mouth in deep, ravenous sweeps that stoked molten embers throughout your core.

But another part - that same mischievous, teasing part that found such wicked delight in driving your sweet neighbor to the brink of desperation through the walls each night - couldn't resist prolonging this aching torment just a little further.

With a trembling inhale, you summoned what tattered scraps of willpower remained and inched backwards, severing the sultry clash of lips and tongue with a slick pop. Kenma's eyes remained hooded to mere gunmetal slivers, glazed with a deliriously intoxicating lust that robbed you of the very air in your lungs.

"W-wait..." he rasped in a tone shredded from the intensity of your furious make out session. Those long, agile fingers flexed convulsively against your waist as if to reel you back in against his solid planes.

You pressed a finger to those beautifully swollen lips, feeling another sizzling jolt shudder down your spine at his desperate whine of protest. With monumental effort, you dragged your hooded stare up from the lewd distraction of his parted mouth and found his gaze swimming behind a turbulent sea of yearning and frustration.

"Don't worry, sweet neighbor," you breathed in a husky rasp that had his fingers spasming against your hip with renew fervor. "I'm not running off and leaving you like this...not after finally getting a taste of what I've spent weeks dreaming about..."

Kenma's features tightened imperceptibly, throat clicking in a labored swallow as you allowed your hands to trail from his chiseled jaw down the tensed cords of his neck. You knew those clever fingers would be mapping every whisper-soft tremor rippling beneath your touch in achingly intimate detail even through the lust-drunk haze.

"I just..." You ducked your chin to the side, allowing your hair to spill across the delicate arch of your jaw and expose the tender, perfumed hollow of your throat in a subconscious lure. "I think we could both use a little time to cool off after that mind-blowing make out session, no? Let these urges simmer back up to a full boil while we go about the rest of our evenings..."

Your eyes slanted back up to merge with Kenma's molten, hooded stare. Unconsciously, your tongue slipped out in a slow sweep over your parted, slick lips as you drank in the blatantly rapacious promise flickering behind his simmering regard.

"Then later on tonight...I'm going to slip back into your place and we can finally indulge in all those dirty fantasies for real." The husky promise rippled through the airless living room in a sibilant purr. "And this time...there won't be any walls between us to stifle a single sinful sound, sweet Kenma."

He shuddered violently against your palms, sinewy form going taut like a drawn bow as you confirmed what his devouring stare alone had been silently imploring. The raw, hungry sound that slipped free from between his teeth made your knees buckle treacherously.

Before you could react, Kenma surged forward once more to capture your lips in another drugging, open-mouthed clash. But there existed no coy restraint or building heat in this possessive plundering kiss - only the scaldingly intense desperation of a man who had finally glimpsed his darkest temptations writ flesh and realized he couldn't bear to wait a single second longer.

You whimpered against his savagery, fingers splaying against the hewn slabs of his chest as he tilted your skull back and pillaged your mouth without quarter. His hands roamed across your curves with restless authority, as if mapping each silken hollow and slope to pristine, photographic memory for future reference. By the time Kenma finally relinquished your gasping, bite-swollen lips with a filthy groan, you were delirious from the visceral intensity.

"Tonight," he growled with sub-bass resonance into the damp, musky sanctuary of your throat. Each syllable rumbled through your bones like a full-bodied caress. "I don't care if it's five minutes from now or five hours...you WILL come back again like you promised, babygirl. Are we crystal fucking clear?"

The feral heat radiating off Kenma's hypnotically swaying frame threatened to melt you into a prostrate puddle then and there. You could only swallow and nod in meek, stunned surrender as he searched your features with that ravenous intensity you'd only imagined in the most lurid of your late-night reveries.

At last, he seemed to find whatever confirmation of your compliance he required simmering behind your glazed stare. With one final lingering caress over the rapidly blossoming masterpiece of bruises he'd tenderly sucked into the skin of your throat, Kenma released you with obvious reluctance.

You staggered free on shaky legs, hyper-aware of how intimately disheveled you appeared - ruddy blush staining your cheeks, hair tousled and wild, lips swollen from repeated plundering, and the stickied slickness of arousal undoubtedly glistening between your thighs for anyone to see. Kenma remained framed in the doorway like a stoic obelisk of masculine covetousness refusing to let you leave his sight again until the time was right.

With one final, simmering look over your shoulder, you allowed the wrecked promise of tonight to linger between you like a balmier prelude. Then you turned on shaking heels to retreat, every nerve ending screaming out for the interminable wait to simply be over already.

Because in the smoldering aftermath of everything that had transpired, only one sizzling truth remained perfectly crystallized between you and Kenma at last:

There would be no more barriers separating hungry fantasies from rapturous reality any longer. Only the welcoming, inescapable promise of delirium rapidly rushing to consume you both whole once and for all.

The rest of the evening passed in a feverish blur for Kenma. No matter how he tried to distract himself - games, movies, mindless internet browsing - his thoughts remained consumed by you.

He kept replaying your heated makeout session over and over, body thrumming with echoes of your intoxicating taste and softness pressed against him. The featherlight scratches you'd left along his back in your passion had scorched themselves into his memory.

Most of all, Kenma couldn't stop obsessing over your brazen promise to return that very night, ready to shed any remaining barriers between you. Just imagining your beautiful form slipping through his door, eyes hooded with want, made his throat run dry with anticipation.

As the hours ticked by agonizingly slow, Kenma paced restlessly. He found himself checking the time again and again, willing the luminous numbers to flash closer to midnight...to the threshold of when you might appear on his doorstep once more.

A part of him worried whether you'd actually follow through, or if this had all been an elaborate tease. But your half-lidded gaze during your last searing kiss branded the back of his mind, stoking his patience blessedly.

At last, a little past midnight, Kenma's front door buzzer sounded like a cannon shot in the stillness. His heart leapt into his throat as he vaulted off the couch and raced over, peering through the peephole with bated breath.

There you stood in the dimly lit hallway, silhouette cloaked in a large trench coat that swathed your form from collarbone to ankles. A shiver of mingled excitement and confusion went through Kenma - was this your idea of building suspense?

He swiftly unlatched the door and pulled it open. You greeted him with a coy smile that made his pulse spike, stepping over the threshold and brushing past him into the apartment's shadowed interior.

Kenma's brow furrowed slightly as you strode further inside, still swathed in that oversized coat. Despite looking sinfully alluring sheathed in mystery, a small part of him felt a pang of disappointment that you hadn't shed your outer layers yet in preparation.

Swallowing down the brief uncertainty, he closed and re-locked the door, turning to gently grasp your shoulders from behind. His nose instinctively nuzzled the soft hair at your nape, breathing in your sweet, intoxicating scent.

"Should I...help you out of this?" Kenma murmured huskily into your ear. "I was hoping to pick up where we left off earlier..."

With a soft hum of assent, you reached up to lightly clasp his wandering hands. Then, maintaining that coy, heated eye contact, you shrugged the trench coat off in one smooth motion...

...to reveal your gorgeous form left tantalizingly nude beneath the discarded garment.

Kenma's breath stalled in his lungs as his eyes raked shamelessly over your bare skin, drinking in every lush curve and tantalizing dip finally laid bare before his ravenous stare. You really had come to him with no barriers remaining - in more ways than one.

His palms roved downwards, sliding around to splay across your lower stomach and draw you against his front. Your soft gasp as Kenma's hardness pressed against your backside made his pulse leap with visceral satisfaction.

"Do you like what you see, sweet neighbor?" Your voice dripped like honey, a sensual purr of temptation.

"You have no fucking idea," Kenma growled. His fingertips traced a slow path up the plane of your stomach to cup both breasts in his palms, savoring their weight and plush fullness.

A choked sound slipped from your throat as he teased and rolled your nipples, alternating his grip on your ample flesh. Kenma's lips latched onto the sensitive skin of your neck, kissing and nipping a trail along its length until he reached the fluttering hollow of your pulse point.

The salty-sweet tang of your skin flooded his tongue as he suckled, savoring the way your hips ground back against his erection. One hand slipped away from your breasts to travel downwards, skimming along your supple curves with reverent exploration.

By the time his questing fingertips brushed over your mound, Kenma was throbbing painfully with need. But he wanted to enjoy this moment, to drink his fill of you in the flesh before he claimed what was his.

As if sensing his ravenous intent, you parted your legs invitingly and arched back against his chest. Kenma groaned into your throat, dipping two fingers into the soaked seam of your pussy and coating his digits in your arousal. He spread you open, pressing down on your swollen clit while pumping his fingers in and out. Your whimpers of encouragement made his cock ache, his free hand gripping your hip tightly for support.

"F-Fuck...I've been dreaming about this pussy for weeks," Kenma moaned against your jaw, grinding his clothed erection against your ass. "It feels even better than I imagined."

Your hands rose to wind around the back of his neck, fingers twining into his hair as his deft fingertips plunged deeper and faster. He could feel you starting to tremble, breathy whines slipping from your throat as you arched into his touch.The knowledge that he'd driven you so far so quickly sent a jolt of primal triumph through his chest.

Kenma shifted his hold, sliding his other hand around to the apex of your thighs and sinking his thumb into your dripping core. His palm curled, providing pressure against your engorged clit while he pumped and scissored his digits inside your molten walls. Your spine arched against him, gasping moans echoing in the air as his fingers thrust and rubbed mercilessly.

"Come on, babygirl. You've been a naughty little tease to me for weeks, haven't you?" Kenma growled. "Time for a little punishment."

The added friction against your clit was too much for you to handle. With a strangled cry, your release crashed over you, pussy clenching down on his fingers and soaking his palm. Kenma moaned at the sensation, burying his face into the crook of your neck and breathing deeply as you rode out the waves of ecstasy.

Slowly, his grip eased as you came down, easing his fingers free from your soaked folds. With a groan, Kenma lifted his cum-soaked digits to his mouth and licked them clean, savoring your sweetness. He was so entranced, he didn't notice you had turned to face him until your tongue lapped up the remainder of your arousal, sealing your mouths in a fierce, devouring kiss.

His arms locked around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. Your lips parted on a sigh, allowing his tongue to plunge inside and share your essence. You tasted exquisite, a heady cocktail of feminine want and salty-sweet arousal that went straight to Kenma's cock.

He backed you into the living room, never breaking the kiss, until the couch hit the backs of your knees. You sank down onto the cushions, dragging him with you. Your thighs parted, allowing Kenma's hips to settle between them. The sudden proximity of his throbbing erection made you moan into his mouth, sending another jolt of pleasure down his spine.

After a few moments, Kenma broke away, panting heavily. He reached up to palm the back of his shirt, shucking it off over his head in a single smooth motion. The sight of your eyes trailing hungrily across his naked chest made his cock twitch, a growl rising from his throat as he dipped his head to nip and lick a fiery path along your throat.

His fingers tugged and yanked at his pants, trying desperately to free his aching erection. At last, Kenma succeeded, kicking the unwanted garment off and wrapping a firm hand around his cock. Your breath hitched as his hardness brushed against your dripping entrance, rubbing the sensitive tip up and down your slit.

Kenma braced one arm above your head, propping himself up so he could drink in your reactions. The other hand gripped his base, guiding his length to your core. With a groan, he slid the crown between your dripping lips, nudging your clitand making you gasp.

"Look at me, babygirl," he demanded, waiting until your eyes met his. "I want to see you as I'm fucking this sweet pussy for the first time."

Your eyelids fluttered, lips parting on a ragged exhale. Kenma smirked, his cock throbbing at the way your expression tightened with desperation and hunger. Slowly, he eased the tip inside, moaning at the exquisite heat and pressure.

"You're mine now, understand?" Kenma growled, eyes burning into yours. "No one else gets to see this pretty pussy, hear those filthy sounds, taste this sweet cunt...just me. Say it."

You nodded, whimpering as his thickness stretched you open. "Just...yours...fuck!"

With a snarl, Kenma thrust the rest of the way in, filling you completely. Your back arched, mouth dropping open on a sharp gasp. You were so tight and wet, he had to fight the urge to spill inside you immediately.

Gritting his teeth, Kenma eased out slowly before thrusting in again. The slide of your slick heat along his cock was sublime, and he knew he wasn't going to last long. He began pumping his hips, savoring the sounds you made as he took you with slow, deep thrusts.

Your hands scrambled along his chest, nails scoring red lines into his skin. Kenma hissed, snapping his hips harder. He was already addicted to the way you reacted to his every move, the way your pussy squeezed his cock and how your eyes never left his.

"Fuck, you’re so hot," Kenma panted, grinding his hips. "Can’t believe I get to fuck you whenever I want, babygirl. Got this tight little cunt all to myself."

Your only reply was a keening whine, body rocking into his as his pace increased. Kenma knew you were getting close, could feel your walls beginning to flutter around him. He was too, his balls already tightening with impending release.

One hand trailed down to rub circles around your clit, eliciting a string of cries and whimpers. Kenma fucked you relentlessly, his free hand reaching up to grab a fistful of your hair. The combination of sensations pushed you over the edge, pussy clenching down hard on his cock and making him hiss.

Kenma groaned as you came, feeling the hot spray of your arousal as it drenched his length and thighs. His hips pistoned faster, chasing his own orgasm as you gasped and writhed beneath him. It didn't take long, not with the way your cunt was practically milking his cock.

With a guttural shout, Kenma came, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down for a sloppy kiss. He kept thrusting, drawing out his orgasm, until finally he had to break away, gasping for breath.

Kenma collapsed on top of you, resting his head on your chest. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you close as his cock softened inside you. You nuzzled his hair, one hand coming up to stroke his sweat-dampened strands.

For several minutes, you remained intertwined like that, basking in the afterglow. Finally, Kenma reluctantly withdrew from your heat, rolling over and tucking you against his side. His hands trailed idly up and down your back, reveling in the softness of your skin.

"So..." You broke the silence first, tilting your head up to look at him. "Same time tomorrow?"

Kenma's lips twitched, a smirk curling at the edges. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not letting you leave my apartment for the next three days, at the very least."

You raised an eyebrow, though your teasing smile remained firmly in place. "Oh, really? And here I was thinking you were more of the reserved type, sweet neighbor."

"Well...you tend to bring out the worst in me," he retorted, a low purr rumbling through his chest as he drew you closer. "But don't worry. I have every intention of punishing you for all the trouble you've caused."

Kenma could already feel himself growing hard again, his spent cock beginning to thicken once more. You squirmed against him, biting your lip and shivering as his fingers slipped down to trace the soaked seam of your pussy.

"In fact," he murmured, nipping at the delicate shell of your ear, "let's get started on that right now."

[mischievousmoony]

Hiiii!!! i absolutely love your writing and i wonder if you wouldn’t mind writing a james potter x fem!reader thingy. Basically where she is out with some

friends that are absolute dicks and basically they ‘dare’ her to walk home in the dark alone whilst she is drunk and she agrees became se she just wants them to like her but she realises how much of an idiot she is and so she walks to James’ house where he comforts her and stuff.

if not don’t worry

love you!!!!

changed the prompt up a little hope it's okay lovie <3 i also made it a bit long for my definition of a drabble but thats ok hopefully u think the more words the merrier luv u

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢

⟢ james potter x fem!reader ⊹ 2.3k ⟢ warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, intoxication, social anxiety briefly mentioned, implications of how dangerous the situation was, for some reason i used this as an opportunity to practice writing imagery so sorry if it's too much

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The sharp, crisp wind nips at your skin as you walk down the shadowy, deserted London streets, the echo of your heels clicking against the pavement being the only sound that punctures the eerie silence.

A misty breath passes your lips and you hug yourself a little tighter, your hands making futile attempts at smoothing the goosebumps that dot your arms. You mentally curse yourself for listening to your "friends" when they said a jacket would ruin your outfit, wondering if this was their plan all along.

More tears fall as your mind wanders back to the friends you thought you were making and the bitter wind swiftly dries them against your cheeks, leaving your skin tacky with the salty residue.

What was supposed to be an opportunity to forge new friendships with some girls from your class took a devastating turn when they all crammed into a taxi without you, leaving you tipsy and stranded with their parting taunts ringing in your ears.

"Wait, we won't all fit," you had jabbered facetiously, the gravity of the situation not yet apparent to your drunk mind as you clumsily stumbled towards the car, your heel catching on a crack in the pavement.

One of the girls snickered as she wrenched the door of the black cab open, "That's a shame, innit?"

"I suppose you'll have to find another way home," another girl remarked, the others laughing along, barely bothering to suppress their amusement.

The carefree smile you sported faded from your face, feelings of dread and alarm creeping up your chest as you murmured, "My phone is dead, I won't be able to call a car."

"Sounds like you'll be walking home tonight," one of them sneered with a cruel edge.

"W-what?" you stammered, your chest rising and falling with a frantic rhythm as the sobering situation sinks in, "Walking back to my flat would take close to an hour."

The last girl to pile into the car— the one who originally extended the invitation to their night out with warmth and enthusiasm— looked up at you from her seat in the taxi with a mix of feigned sympathy and cruel delight. Her eyes gleamed with sly satisfaction as she leaned out of the car and took the door handle into her grasp.

"Well, then you better start," she declared, her tone punctuated by a mocking laugh and the slam of the car door.

You wish you could say that there was a sudden flip in their behavior the moment the taxi pulled up, but the abrasive way they conducted themselves around you all night should have had you running ages ago. But your naivety and desperation to make friends clouded your judgement, you supposing that it might simply take more than one night for the girls to warm up to you.

The sound of the car screeching away still rings in your ears as you brave the streets alone, trudging in the opposite direction of your flat. The hour walk to your home— more if you walked along the safest path you could think of— was too daunting on your mind. Your desperation to get off the streets steered you to your boyfriend's instead, his flat being half as far as yours.

If it weren't for the overwhelming unease you felt, you might have been too embarrassed to face James tonight. But your nervous edge was enough to send you hastily fleeing to his flat, it being well into the A.M., and you being alone— dressed in an outfit you were only comfortable wearing around a swarm of girls you thought had your back— and barely able to hold your own after medicating your social anxiety with a few too many cocktails.

When you finally arrive at the familiar stoop to James' place, you feel a wave of relief wash over you as you stagger up the stairs, leaning heavily on the iron railing for support.

Your knocking is incessant as you mutter pleas under your breath, desperately hoping James is sleeping lightly tonight. It feels like more time has passed than it actually has by the time the door creaks open.

James appears in the doorway, clearly just out of bed. His hair is tousled more than usual, stray strands sticking out unevenly over his forehead, and his clothes are wrinkled from tossing around in his sleep. He straightens out his glasses that lay crooked over the bridge of his nose as he processes your presence, his face a blend of sleepiness and alarm.

You utter his name weakly, a fragile quiver that reveals your vulnerability and distress. James' heart breaks at the sound and he wordlessly pulls you inside and envelopes his arms around you. You let him pull you in and your hands find the plush cotton of his jumper, gripping onto it like a lifeline.

James' mind races with worry, trying to piece together what could have happened to put you on his doorstep, tearful and distraught, in the middle of the night. He knows that you had gone out for some drinks at some bar downtown. He also knows that you weren't supposed to be alone and that you were supposed to take a taxi home— these being the answers to questions he asked earlier to ensure your safety.

The possibilities of what could have went wrong fill him with a profound sense of dread, and he tries not to let himself get carried away with the nightmares that swirl around in his mind.

Wrapped in his arms, you kick your heels off to the side somewhere. The shoes were killing you, and one more second in them and you might have collapsed into a heap on the floor.

James can feel you tremble against him when you settle, a result of the cold and lingering fear from being outside, inebriated and alone.

"You're freezing," he whispers, his voice hoarse from his recent slumber and edged with worry as his large hands come to rub your arms. He frowns at the iciness of your skin.

It's James' first instinct to break the embrace and tug at his collar, pulling the jumper from his own back to drape its warmth over you instead, leaving him only in his joggers that hang lazily from his hips.

The cotton is still warm with his body heat when it cocoons you and the scent of him on the fabric brings you comfort. You sniffle pathetically when you meet James' large, sorrowful eyes that brim with concern as your head pops free from the jumper's collar. He smoothes the fabric over your body quickly before his hands climb up to your face.

The pads of his thumbs sweep away stray tears as he cups your face, his fingers brushing softly along your jawline as he tilts your head to meet his troubled eyes.

"What happened?" he asks, notes of concern in his voice as his thumbs trace soothing shapes into your cheekbones.

An anguished whimper sounds in your throat and more tears begin to spill. You shake your head, unable to find your voice to explain.

"That's okay," he murmurs, pulling you back into his chest as he cradles your head in his hands, "It's okay, my love, I'm here. You're safe."

He coos tender words of comfort and reassurance in your ear, his voice steady and soothing. One hand lowers to gently rub your back until the tremors in your body gradually subside and you begin to feel a sense of security build back up.

James only pulls away when the rise and fall of your chest slows to a steady rhythm. Brown eyes meet yours and he offers a reassuring smile. He murmurs words of beckoning and leads you deeper into his flat. He doesn't take you far, just to his sofa so he can get you off your feet. You're thankful, the blisters from your heels becoming almost unbearable to stand on.

Your boyfriend sits first, gingerly pulling you down onto his lap, both craving your closeness and understanding just how much you need him right now. You curl up with your legs folded in front of you and your knees drawn close to your chest, your side pressed snugly against his torso. One of his arms wraps around your back for support, while the other rests casually over your legs, his large hand comfortably settling on the back of your thigh.

His head lulls forward until he can nuzzle into your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he softly prompts, "Think you can tell me what happened now?"

You sniffle once, letting your lungs fill with air before you stammer into a hesitant explanation. Still embarrassed over the whole ordeal, everything comes out in a small, quivering voice, starting with the awkward tension at the bar and ending with the way they laughed as they cruelly left you on the curb.

A whirlpool of emotions rages in James' chest. He doesn't understand how anyone could be unkind to his lovely girl, and he certainly doesn't understand how anyone could be so heinous to leave a person alone on the street like that.

James swallows hard, his next question living on the tip of his tongue until he has the strength to ask it. His tone is unwaveringly serious, low and intense in its level of concern, when he finally does.

"Baby, please tell me you walked straight here. No one gave you any trouble?"

"No," you shake your head, "no trouble."

James feels his whole body relax at your words, and a noise hitches in the back of his throat as he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. The overwhelming flood of relief and emotion threatens to bring him to tears, but he manages to hold them back. His eyes close briefly as he presses closer, his nose smooshing against the side of your head as he presses kisses behind your ear.

Your eyes flutter shut too as you allow James to cradle you in his arms. You think about how you almost tripped a few times, but you know that's not exactly what James is worrying about. Although, you can imagine he'd fuss over that too, checking your knees and palms for scuffs and kissing the skin there just because you could've hurt it.

As you feel the tension drain from his body beneath you, you think about how his fears mirrored your own.

"I was scared there would be," you admit in a small voice.

"I know my darling girl. I'm so sorry," he leans back, tilting his head to the side so he can meet your gaze. You don't miss how his eyes are glassy when they lock onto yours with calming intensity, "You're safe now, I've got you." He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there as he mumbles, "I'm sorry this happened."

"I thought I was making friends," you choke out, the words cracking with the weight of the betrayal.

James feels his heart break all over again.

"Those girls don't deserve to have you as friend."

"But I want friends. It was so easy in secondary school. I've always had you, and Lily, Sirius, Remus. Everyone."

James listens intently, his sympathetic eyes gazing upon yours once again.

"I'm all alone at uni. And I don't why nobody likes me," you finish in anguish.

James promptly moves his hand from your thigh to cup your cheek, "Listen to me. You're lovely, so lovely. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend, alright? You're going to find people who think so too."

"And you have me," he corrects. "You still have all of us. I know things are different now, and I bet you're missing having friends in your classes, yeah? But uni's only just started. You're gonna find your people."

"You think so?"

"I know so, lovely girl," he says, his thumb flicking the tip of your nose endearingly, "I was already a goner the first time I spoke to you. And if I remember correctly, you and Lily were thick as thieves after one day of knowing each other. Right?"

You hum affirmatively, remembering the first days of friendship with the people you now call family.

"See? You're good at making friends. It's 'cause you're amazing, anyone with a brain can see that. Those girls are just bloody idiots." James' features take on a sour look when he thinks about them, but with you in his arms, he can't sustain his irritation for long— especially not with you smiling prettily at his words.

"There's that smile," he mumbles fondly, and your giggle is music to his ears. You stay like that for a moment, trading smiles and tender caresses.

Eventually, James' expression shifts, his brow furrowing as he becomes stern.

"Next time you go out, I'm gonna pick you up. I don't care how late, I don't care who you're with. And I'm buying you a portable charger for that phone."

"Okay, Jamie," you agree softly, recognizing the firmness in his voice that leaves no room for argument, and finding it a bit endearing how fiercely he cares for you.

He relaxes again with a sigh. His hand, which still remains cupping your cheek, pulls you a fraction closer.

"I'm happy you're safe, love. I'm happy you came here." Each of his words is wrapped with sincerity and affection. "I love you," he says earnestly.

"I love you too," you whisper, the same depth of emotion laced in your words.

He guides you even closer, meeting you halfway with a tender kiss to your lips. It's a beautiful blend of sweetness and innocence, a soft brush of lips that envelopes you in a blanket of sweet serenity, making you forget what it was ever like to be scared.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[mariacallous]

“Did they really decapitate babies?” my 14-year-old daughter asked me yesterday. She was pointing to a text message on her phone from a friend. “They’re saying they found Jewish babies killed, some burnt, some decapitated.” And I froze. Not because I didn’t know what to say—though in truth I didn’t know what to say—but because for a moment I forgot what century I was in. All of the assumptions I had made as a Jewish father, even one who had grown up, as I did, with the Holocaust just a few decades past, were suddenly no longer relevant. Had I adequately prepared her for the reality of Jewish death, what every shtetl child for centuries would have known intimately? Later in the day, she asked if, for safety’s sake, she should take off the necklace she loves that her grandparents had given her and that has her name written out in Hebrew script.

The attack by Hamas on Israeli civilians last Saturday broke something in me. I had always resisted victimhood. It felt abhorrent, self-pitying to me in a world that seemed far away from the Inquisition and Babi Yar—especially in the United States, where I live and where polls repeatedly tell me that Jews are more beloved than any other religious group. I wasn’t blind to anti-Semitism and the ways it had recently become deadlier, or to the existential dread that my family in Israel felt every time terrorists blew up a bus or café—it’s a story whose sorrows have punctuated my entire life. But I refused to embrace that ironically comforting mantra, “They will always want to kill us.” I hated what this tacitly expressed, that if they always want to kill us, then we owe them, the world, nothing. I deplore the occupation for both the misery it has inflicted on generations of Palestinians and the way it corrodes Israeli society; when settlers in the West Bank have been attacked, it has pained me, but I have also felt anger that they are even there. In short, I wasn’t locked into the worldview of my survivor grandparents and I felt superior for it.

But something in me did break. As I was driving on Tuesday, I heard a long interview on the BBC with Shir Golan, a 22-year-old woman who had survived the attack at the music festival where more than 250 people were killed, her voice sounding just like one of my young Israeli cousins. She described, barely able to catch her breath, how the shooting had started and how she’d begun to run. She’d found a wooded area and tried to hide. “I got really into the ground,” she said. “I put the bushes on me.” Covered with dirt and leaves, she’d waited. A group of terrorists had shown up and called for anyone hiding to come out. From her spot under the earth, she’d seen three young people, whom she called “children,” emerge. “I didn’t go out because I was scared. But there were three children next to me who got out. And then they shot them. One after one after one. And they fell down, and that I saw. I saw the children fall down. And all that I did was pray. I prayed to my god to save me.”

I pulled my car over because my own hands were shaking as I listened. She then described waiting, hidden in the dirt under bushes for hours, until she saw the terrorists begin to light the forest on fire. “I didn’t know what to do. Because if I’m staying there, I’m just burnt to death. But if I go out they are going to kill me.” She crawled over to where she saw dead bodies and lay on top of them, but the heat soon approached, so she found more bushes to hide in until she could run again. Burnt bodies were everywhere, and Shir looked for her friends but couldn’t find them, couldn’t even see the faces of those killed because they were so badly burned. “I felt like I was in hell.” She finally escaped in a car.

Her story flung me back to my grandparents’ stories. My grandmother hid in a hole for a year in the Polish countryside, also under dirt, also scared. My grandfather spent months in Majdanek, a death camp, and saw bodies pile up in exactly this way. Stories are still emerging of families burnt alive, of children forced to watch their parents killed before their eyes, of bodies desecrated. How was this taking place last Saturday?

But these stories aren’t what broke me. What did was the distance between what was happening in my head and what was happening outside of it. The people on “my side” are supposed to care about human suffering, whether it’s in the detention camps of Xinjiang or in Darfur. They are supposed to recognize the common humanity of people in need, that a child in distress is first a child in distress regardless of country or background. But I quickly saw that many of those on the left who I thought shared these values with me could see what had happened only through established categories of colonized and colonizer, evil Israeli and righteous Palestinian—templates made of concrete. The break was caused by this enormous disconnect. I was in a world of Jewish suffering that they couldn’t see because Jewish suffering simply didn’t fit anywhere for them.

The callousness was expressed in so many ways. There were those tweets that did not hide their disregard for Jewish life—“what did y’all think decolonization meant? vibes? papers? essays? Losers”—or the one that described the rampage as a “glorious thing to wake up to.” There was the statement by more than two dozen Harvard student groups asserting, in those first hours in which we saw children and women and old people massacred, that “the Israeli regime” was “entirely responsible for all unfolding violence.” And then there were the less explicit posts that nevertheless made clear through pseudo-intellectual word salads that Israel got what it deserved: “a near-century’s pulverized overtures toward ethnic realization, of groping for a medium of existential latitude—these things culminate in drastic actions in need of no apologia.” I hate to extrapolate from social media—it is a place that twists every utterance into a performance for others. But I also felt this callousness in the real world, in a Times Square celebratory protest promoted by the New York City chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, at which one speaker talked of supporting Palestinians using “any means necessary” to retake the land “from the river to the sea,” as a number of placards declared. There were silences as well. Institutions that had rushed to condemn the murder of George Floyd or Russia for attacking Ukraine were apparently confounded. I watched my phone to see whether friends would write to find out if my family was okay—and a few did, with genuine and thoughtful concern, but many did not.

I’m still trying to understand this feeling of abandonment. Is my own naivete to blame? Did I tip too far over into the side of universalism and forget the particularistic concerns to which I should have been attuned—the precarious state of my own tribe? Even as I write this, I don’t really want to believe that that’s true. If I can fault myself clearly for something, though, it’s not recognizing that the same ideological hardening I’d seen on the right in the past few years, the blind allegiances and contorted narratives even when reality was staring people in the face, has also happened, to a greater degree than I’d imagined, on the left, among the people whom I think of as my own. They couldn’t recognize a moral abomination when it was staring them in the face. They were so set in their categories that they couldn’t make a distinction between the Palestinian people and a genocidal cult that claimed to speak in that people’s name. And they couldn’t acknowledge hundreds and hundreds of senseless deaths because the people who were killed were Israelis and therefore the enemy.

As the days go on, the horrific details of what happened—those babies—seem to be registering more fully, if not on the ideological left, then at least among sensible liberals. But somehow I can’t shake the feeling of aloneness. Does it take murdered babies for you to recognize our humanity? I find myself thinking—a thought that feels alien to my own mind but also like the truth. Perhaps this is the Jewish condition, bracketed off for many decades and finally pulling me in.

When news broke of the Kishinev pogrom in 1903 that took 49 lives (compare that with the 1,200 we now know were killed on Saturday), it caused a sensation throughout the world. “Babes were literally torn to pieces by the frenzied and bloodthirsty mob,” The New York Times reported. “The local police made no attempt to check the reign of terror. At sunset the streets were piled with corpses and wounded. Those who could make their escape fled in terror, and the city is now practically deserted of Jews.” In response to that massacre, the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Eastern European Jews to the United States began in earnest; the call of Zionism as a solution also sounded clearly and widely for the first time.

In his famous poem about the massacre, “In the City of Slaughter,” the Hebrew writer Haim Naḥman Bialik lamented, even more than the death, the sense of helplessness (“The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending / Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal”), the men who watched in terror from their hiding places while women were raped and blood was spilled. I can’t say I know what will happen now that this helplessness has returned—if I’m honest, I also fear that Israel’s retaliation will go too far, that acting out of a place of victimhood, as right as it may feel, will cause the country to lose its mind. Innocent lives in Gaza have been and will be destroyed as a result, and competing victimhood is obviously not the way out of the conflict; it’s the reason that it is hopelessly stuck. But in this moment, before the destruction of Gaza grabs my attention and concern alongside fear for my relatives who have been called up to the army, I don’t want to forget how alone I felt as a Jew these past few days. I have a persistent, uncomfortable need now to have my people’s suffering be felt and seen. Otherwise, history is just an endless repetition. And that’s an additional tragedy that seems too much to bear.

[valkyriexo]

You get your period | Hyunjin

ᑉ³pairing; Hyunjin x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Sickfic, Smau, Comfort, Fluff,

ᑉ³warnings; Reader has their period, Mentions of blood

ᑉ³Authors Note; Edited ! Other members coming soon!

Part of the "He helps you when.." collection. Other members parts: Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Han | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

The room was filled with chatter and laughter, the sound mingling with the soft music playing in the background. Colleagues and acquaintances moved about, their animated conversations punctuated by the clinking of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter. It was supposed to be a happy atmosphere, a chance to network and socialize, but to you, it felt like a suffocating few hours.

Despite the vibrant energy pulsating through the room, you felt isolated, trapped within the confines of your own discomfort. Each laugh felt like a dagger twisting in your gut, a painful reminder of the mask you were struggling to maintain. You plastered on a smile, nodding along to the conversations swirling around you, but inside, you were crumbling.

All you could focus on was the throbbing ache in your lower abdomen. Each wave of pain felt like a vice grip, threatening to squeeze the life out of you. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying to maintain a composed facade while feeling like a wreck inside.

As you excused yourself to the restroom for the umpteenth time, dread washed over you. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if you were dragging yourself through quicksand. The familiar hum of the air conditioning seemed to mock your discomfort, the cool breeze offering no respite from the inferno raging within your body.

The mirror revealed a nightmare: your once pristine dress was stained with crimson. The stains seemed to mock you, taunting you with their unwanted presence.

You were mortified, embarrassment and shame threatening to drown you. Your hands trembled as you frantically tried to salvage what was left of your dignity, dabbing futilely at the stubborn stains with damp paper towels. But with each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that this was a battle you could not win.

The weight of judgment hung heavy in the air, suffocating you with its silent condemnation. What would your coworkers think if they saw you like this? Would they whisper behind your back, doubting your competence and professionalism? The thought made your stomach churn with anxiety, a knot tightening in your chest.

Desperation clawed at you as you contemplated your next move. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you grappled with the impossible choice between suffering in silence or fleeing in disgrace.

Just as despair threatened to consume you, a familiar ping broke through the chaos of your thoughts. It was Hyunjin, your ever-reliable boyfriend, offering a lifeline in the form of a text message. Despite your protests, he insisted on coming to your rescue.

As you frantically tried to salvage what was left of your dignity in the restroom, a soft knock on the door startled you.

"Love, it's me," Hyunjin's voice called out, filled with concern.

With a mixture of relief and fear, you opened the door to find him standing there. With gentle reassurance, he wrapped you in his embrace, shielding you from the judging eyes of the world. Without a word, he handed you a neatly folded garment, a discreet smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Put this on," he said softly.

You glanced down at the garment in your hands and felt a surge of gratitude wash over you. It was a dark blazer, impeccably tailored and stylishly understated. With trembling fingers, you slipped it on, feeling its comforting weight settle over your shoulders. You noted with relief that it was long enough to cover the stains on your dress

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

Hyunjin simply smiled and took your hand in his, leading you out. 

As you reached the exit, he led you towards the waiting car, its sleek exterior a welcome sight amidst the hustle and bustle of the city streets. With a gentle touch, he opened the door for you, revealing the interior adorned with plush towels carefully arranged to protect the seat.

You offered him a grateful smile as you settled into the car, the soft fabric of the blazer providing a comforting cocoon against the outside world. Hyunjin closed the door behind you with a reassuring click.

Through the tinted windows, you watched as he engaged in conversation with another manager, his gestures animated and his expression earnest. Though you couldn't hear their words, you could sense the genuine concern in his voice as he explained your sudden departure, painting a picture of a devoted partner looking out for your well-being.

As the car pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the chaos of the event, you couldn't shake the feeling of mortification that chewed at your insides. The image of Hyunjin coming to your rescue, witnessing you at your most vulnerable, lingered in your mind like a haunting nightmare.

You tried to push the embarrassment aside, but it clung to you like a persistent shadow, refusing to be ignored. Despite Hyunjin's love and reassurance, you couldn't shake the nagging sense of inadequacy that tugged at your heartstrings.

As you arrived home, Hyunjin wasted no time in pampering you with the kind of tender care and affection that only he could provide. With a gentle touch, he led you to the bathroom, where a luxurious bubble bath awaited, steam rising invitingly from the surface.

You couldn't help but smile as you sank into the warm embrace of the water, feeling the tension melt away from your weary muscles. Hyunjin hovered nearby, a silent guardian angel, ready to tend to your every need.

As the warm water of the bubble bath enveloped you, Hyunjin gently applied a soothing face mask to your skin, his touch light and tender. The cool gel felt like a balm against your flushed cheeks, easing the tension that had settled in your muscles.

With practiced hands, Hyunjin began to massage the mask into your skin, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your forehead, cheeks, and chin. Each touch sent waves of relaxation cascading through your body, melting away the knots of tension that had formed during the long and trying day.

As he worked, his movements became more rhythmic, his touch alternating between gentle strokes and firm pressure points. With each pass, you felt the weight of the world lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of tranquility and calm.

But Hyunjin didn't stop there. With a soft smile, he moved his attention to your scalp, his fingers deftly massaging away the lingering remnants of your headache. The sensation was pure bliss, each stroke sending tingles of pleasure cascading down your spine.

You closed your eyes and let yourself be carried away by the gentle rhythm of his touch, allowing the stress and tension of the day to melt away into the warm embrace of the bath.

As the soothing scent of lavender filled the air, Hyunjin busied himself with preparing a tray of your favorite snacks, arranging them with care beside the bath. He selected strawberries, dipped in rich chocolate, knowing they were your weakness, along with a selection of delicate finger sandwiches and a glass of chilled sparkling water adorned with a slice of lemon.

He settled himself beside the bath, perched on a small stool, his gaze never leaving yours as he offered you a strawberry, coated in decadent chocolate. "Here, love," he said softly, his eyes warm with tenderness. "Let me feed you."

You accepted the treat with a grateful smile, savoring the sweetness of the chocolate as it melted on your tongue. With each delicate bite, Hyunjin's love enveloped you like a warm embrace, filling the room with a sense of intimacy and closeness that transcended words.

As you nibbled on the snacks, Hyunjin regaled you with tales of his day, his voice a soothing melody that washed over you like a gentle breeze. 

"I could paint you like this," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile spell of tranquility that enveloped the room. "I want to capture this moment, this image of you surrounded by warmth and light, so I can remember it forever."

You paused, your heart skipping a beat at his words. "Paint me?" you repeated, a hint of disbelief coloring your tone. "But... why would you want to remember this? It's been so mortifying."

Hyunjin's expression softened, his eyes filled with understanding. "Because even in moments of vulnerability, you are still the most beautiful person I've ever known," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity. "And I want to remember every part of you, even the moments that you may consider less than perfect."

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words, a rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. At that moment, you realized that Hyunjin's love for you transcended any momentary embarrassment or discomfort. He saw you for who you truly were, flaws and all, and loved you unconditionally.

With a soft smile, you nodded, a sense of warmth spreading through your chest. "Okay," you whispered, your voice filled with acceptance and gratitude. "Paint me." And as Hyunjin's pencil danced across the page, capturing the essence of your beauty with each stroke.

And as the evening wore on, you reveled in the simple pleasure of being cared for by the most romantic man you had ever known. With each passing moment, the weight of embarrassment and shame lifted from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment that could only be found in the arms of your beloved boyfriend Hyunjin.

ઇଓ M.LIST | Ko-Fi | Taglist | Thank you for your support ♡ | Consider leaving a comment, reblog or like ♡ | © 2024 Valkyriexo 

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: All of the distractions in the world couldn't keep you from worrying about the potential fallout from your web of untruths--until a bigger issue arose. (5.5k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, anxiety, parental conflict, poverty, brief religious zealotry, insecurities, secret relationship, public displays of affection, sexual fantasies, idiots in love, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

A/N: This chapter contains a scene I had imagined in my head and became the catalyst for this series--what would happen if Eddie encountered one of the NYC street preachers?

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter thirteen: street smarts

You were supposed to be doing something. Checking the guest log, organizing the bills by due date, making a list of repairs that still needed to be made…something. Anything besides just standing behind the desk, watching Eddie’s biceps flex as he hauled the overfilled trash bag out to the Dumpster. 

At this point, it was all busy work. Taking out the garbage, changing light bulbs, dusting furniture…all scraps of chores to keep him here. The moment he felt like he was being pitied—or worse, like he was being a burden—he’d leave. His pride was too strong and too loud to allow him to stay if he wasn’t working, even if that work was as interesting as watching paint dry. 

That’s what it was. 

“I need you to spackle a hole in Room 9,” you told him as he walked back into the lobby. “The guy staying here last night punched the wall, and it looks like he won.”

Eddie grimaced, flexing his own hand like he could feel the man’s pain. “Jesus. Yeah, sure.” He slid a rubber band off of his wrist and tied back his hair. The sleeves of his t-shirt had been cut into a tank top, though you weren’t sure if he’d done it or the shirt had been designed that way. “Where do you keep the spackle?”

You jabbed your thumb towards the supply closet behind you. Eddie started in that direction, but made an abrupt turn towards you. His arms snaked around your waist, his lips easily finding the crook of your neck. 

Instinctively, your shoulder jerked upwards, protecting you from any further tickling, but Eddie only doubled down. His kisses became less of a whisper and more of a shout, each punctuated with a smacking mwah!

“Ed-die!” Your giggles broke his name into its syllables. “Quit it!”

He paused for a moment and pretended to consider your plea before continuing his barrage of kisses. “Hmm, don’t think I will.” His words were muffled, the vibrations sending tingles through your bloodstream. “What’re you doing after your shift?”

You scoffed. “Um, curling up under the covers and passing out?”

“What if…” He moved his lips to the back of your neck. “You curled up under my covers?”

The suggestion garnered a dual sensation of desire and dread. You wanted that more than anything: the intimacy of laying next to him, his body curled around yours, the rhythm of his breathing lulling you to sleep. The first night he was here, he wore only boxer briefs. If you slept beside him, would he wear more? Less? If he awoke with that natural, involuntary stiffness between his legs, would you feel it?

But then, despite everything within you leaning towards being with Eddie, reality set in. Your room was the closest to the lobby; how could you possibly skip over it without Dad noticing? Even if he didn’t notice, how could you sneak out of Eddie’s room without Mom seeing? Dad might be oblivious in the way that fathers so often are, but Mom was like a hawk. She could probably sense that you were considering disobeying her orders to keep away from Eddie.

“I’d have to sneak through your window. And then sneak back through my own window in the morning,” you mused. 

“Or,” Eddie countered, spinning you around so you were facing him, “you could tell your parents that you couldn’t resist the cute handyman’s charming advances.”

His brown eyes gleamed with mischief as his hands dipped lower, squeezing your ass through your jeans. It took all of your willpower not to change the sign to read “NO VACANCY”—despite your many empty rooms—and drag him into his bed by the worn collar of his t-shirt. 

“I will.” You wrinkled your nose. “Well, maybe not in those exact terms, but I will tell them we’re…y’know.”

Eddie took a small step back and crossed his arms. “We’re…what?” His tone was somewhere between perplexed and demanding, like he couldn’t believe you wouldn’t define the relationship while also hoping you would define it for him.

You had no idea what the answer was. ‘Friends’ was far too casual for two people who had been sucking face in the middle of Flushing Meadows Park just last week. ‘Dating’ seemed too formal for only having been on two dates, the first of which hadn’t even been officially stated as a date from the onset. ‘Fooling around in the laundry room every chance we get’ was more accurate, if not a little wordy.

“We’re getting to know each other. Intimately.” You added that last word in an attempt to show him just how much you cared about him. Whatever relationship limbo you two were in would only be temporary. 

“Hmm.” A smirk tugged at Eddie’s lips. “Just how intimately are we talking here?” He tucked his forefinger into your belt loop and pulled you towards him, so close that you could feel his belt buckle through your shirt. 

Glancing around to ensure no one was walking by, you pressed a small kiss to his lips. “I’m gonna tell them. I promise. Just give me a little time.”

Your heart ached when his shoulders slumped. You wanted to fix it all now, to face your anxiety head-on and tell your parents about Eddie. Tell them that you were together and that it could be something serious—without holding your breath for their approval. 

But then there was that knife twisting in your gut, the one that echoed the same statements time and time again: 

You’re a bad daughter You’re disappointing them You’re negating every sacrifice they’ve made

But now a new one joined them, just as unwelcome as the others:

You’re going to lose Eddie if you keep being a coward. 

Eddie held your gaze for another beat before he broke it. His head tilted to the side, a slight pout forming on his lips. “Well, if you promise…” In one swift motion, he swooped in and kissed your cheek. When he pulled back, you wrapped your arms around his lithe waist and drew him back in. “Is that a yes for sneaking through my window?”

You gave him a gentle, playful shove and rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the fluttering butterflies that came with the idea. “Go spackle the wall.”

“Yes, dear.” He started towards the supply closet once more, calling out over his shoulder, “what time are we leaving for that college thing tomorrow?”

Everything he said and everything he did encroached closer and closer into relationship territory. Going to Admitted Students’ Day with you was something a boyfriend would do. 

But he hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend—not that it would make much of a difference. It wasn’t as though a label would suddenly afford you the freedom to show off your relationship. Besides your parents’ disapproval, that pesky news story about Death’s Echo’s new lead singer kept nagging at you. You technically had information about Eddie’s life that even he didn’t know, and you couldn’t figure out how to tell him. 

“Noon at the latest.” You tried swallowing the lump in your throat, but it stayed put, so you just spoke above it. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I know school isn’t really your thing, so…”

Eddie poked his head out from the closet. “Noon it is.” When he emerged, he held the small spackle bucket and a wide putty knife. “By the way, I won’t, like, break out into hives or burst into flames if I go to a school.”

“I know.” Your body relaxed as his humor snaked through the crevices of your anxiety. “And I really do want to tell them about everything. About us, about NYU. It’s just…”

Goddamn the mist clouding your eyes. It was shameful, really, the pity party you were throwing for yourself. But how could you approach your parents and say, “Hey, by the way, I’m dating our de facto handyman. But don’t worry about the relationship affecting the business, because we’ll have to close the motel once I start graduate school in two months anyway. Also, I’m studying social work, not hospitality. Surprise!”

“Hey.” Eddie’s voice was soft, his thumb swiping over tears that fell despite your efforts to hold them back. “Look, if you don’t want me to go, just tell me.”

You shook your head. “I want you to go.” To emphasize your point, you kissed his cheek. The beginnings of stubble tickled your lips. “We can make a day of it. Grab some lunch or something.”

Eddie didn’t look wholly convinced, but he managed a smile. “And then I get to show off how smart you are.”

There was no point in arguing that everyone at Admitted Students’ Day was just as smart as you, if not smarter. Instead, you watched as he padded towards room nine. 

What you wouldn’t give to cave to your desires and climb into his bed beside him. Whether you fell asleep immediately or spent the entire time with him firmly buried inside you was practically irrelevant. You were tempted to follow him right now and have sex with him in the vacant room.

But you didn’t want your first time together to be something you rushed through. Maybe it wouldn’t be the rose petals and naked guitar playing scenario that Ben and Nora had teasingly suggested, but you didn’t want to do it just to “get it over with.” 

So you stayed put, drumming your fingers against the desk’s wood paneling, trying to ignore the heat pooling between your thighs. Someday, you promised yourself, Eddie would be the one to quell that need.

You left your room at noon the next day, armed with a smile and an alibi. Your usual excuse of running errands wouldn’t explain why you were wearing a black button-down dress and your Mary Jane heels. 

The door to Eddie’s room creaked open as you passed by. Without wasting a moment, one tattooed arm darted through the gap and pulled you inside. 

“Eddie!” You hissed at him, bringing one hand to your chest as your heart rate soared. 

His lips were on yours before you could ask why he felt the urge to spike your already sky-high anxiety. Like a miracle elixir, the kiss blunted the day’s sharpness and turned your racing thoughts into drifting clouds. 

Your hands found his biceps, fully on display in the t-shirt that had been altered to be a makeshift tank top. The same one, you realized, he’d been wearing last night. The pads of your fingertips were met with resistance at the muscle that was even more defined than it had been a month ago. 

“Just needed to do that before we left.” His palms smoothed down the back of your dress, lingering for an extra moment on your ass. “Ready to go?”

“Y-Yeah,” you nodded. All of the air had been knocked from your lungs; from the scare or from the kiss, you were still unsure. 

Eddie’s fingers brushed yours as the two of you left his room in a silent plea to hold your hand. You wanted to accept the offer, to proudly display your affection for him. You wanted it more than anything, so much so that you almost let your guard down. Almost took his hand in yours and paraded out into the lobby without a care in the world, subtly announcing that you were his and he was yours.

Almost.

A pang of anger flashed in your chest; not at the situation, but at Eddie himself. He knew you hadn’t told your parents yet. He knew you would face some consequences for dating a motel guest and for sneaking around behind their backs, especially if you brazenly flaunted the relationship without any notice.

Eddie huffed at your rejection. “Oh, right.” Was that disappointment or frustration? Or some lethal combination of both?

Dad immediately noticed the departure from your typical attire when you walked past; he’d already finished skimming the newspaper when you walked in. “Where are you off to?” 

“Hanging out with Ben and Nora.” The lie rolled  off of your tongue, just as you’d practiced in the mirror this morning.

“Double date?” Dad’s question was rhetorical, of course–he certainly wasn’t expecting you to actually go on a date with Eddie–but your breath still caught in your throat.

A cough, hopeful not too conspicuous to draw attention, delayed your response. “Uh, no. Just, uh, friend stuff.” Friend stuff? Christ, were you incapable of lying without extensive rehearsal?

He nodded, not even flinching. Thank God he was at the desk and not Mom, who definitely would have interrogated the truth out of you by now. 

“Have fun, be safe, make sure to ask Ben how his parents are.”

You promised to do all three and dashed out the door before he had time to ask Eddie any questions. 

You reached for Eddie’s hand the moment you were out of sight, relishing in the safety of his calluses and strong grasp. 

“So, friend.” Despite his playful nature, hurt tinged Eddie’s tone. “You sure we’re in the clear? Maybe someone down the street will see us holding hands and report us to the authorities.”

His words formed a pit in your stomach, anchoring you to the sidewalk. “This isn’t just for me.” You face him and take his other hand, too, wrapping his arms around your waist. “If my parents want to, they can kick you out. I need to tell them in a way that keeps them from absolutely losing their minds.”

The lines at the corners of Eddie’s eyes softened. “I know,” he conceded, kissing the tip of your nose. “Was it like this with other guys you dated? Or is it just because I’m staying at the motel?”

Shame washed over you for the second time in as many minutes. “I’ve never actually told them about any guys I’ve dated,” you admitted. “I mean, I’ve been on dates and had some short-term…relationships, I guess you could call them. But nothing serious enough for me to tell my parents.”

Eddie let out an anxious breath before asking his next question. “What does that mean for us?”

There it was: us. One unit, something more substantial than being separate individuals who happened to share a space. 

“Eddie…I really like you.” The confession was a weight off of your chest; you felt your body fall closer to his. “And if they know about us and they don’t approve, they’ll make sure to keep us apart. At least now, we can sneak around without them being suspicious.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else; if not to protest, then to ask for further clarification. But he swallowed his words, opting instead to kiss you. 

His lips tasted like disappointment. You pretended not to notice.

The forty minute train ride to NYU eased some of the tension. With no seats available, Eddie kept one arm tight around your waist, the other hand wrapped around the overhead pole. His thumb caressed the small of your back, fingernail dragging over your cotton dress, as you leaned into him. 

The subway car was hot, but neither you nor Eddie were deterred in the slightest. Not even as that first bead of sweat crept down the back of your neck and dipped below your dress collar. 

If Eddie noticed the perspiration trickling down your spine, he didn’t comment on it. 

The tip of his nose tickled your temple as he loudly whispered, “I didn’t realize I was supposed to dress up for this.”

In addition to his tank top, Eddie wore black jeans ripped at both knees and his signature scuffed Reeboks. It was a stark contrast to your more professional attire—borrowed from Nora, of course—but you didn’t care. Couldn’t even bring yourself to care, not when…

“You look hot.” Your lips lingered on one exposed bicep, leaving a light lipstick print in their wake. “Ridiculously, unfairly hot.”

A bashful grin bloomed on his face. He stood up a bit taller, your compliment replenishing some of the confidence that had been lost. Eddie had certainly taken his share of ego bruising over the last few months: leaving Death’s Echo, the subsequent breakup with his girlfriend, sleeping in a struggling motel just to keep a roof over his head. And on top of it all, he was now with someone who refused to acknowledge the relationship in front of her own parents. 

That settled it. You were going to tell your parents tonight. No more hiding or sneaking around. If they lectured you on their disappointment, you’d take it. You just couldn’t fathom bringing more insecurity into Eddie’s life. He deserved more than that.

He deserves more than you, that irritating voice snarled. It curled itself around your ear like a wispy smoke trail from one of Eddie’s cigarettes, but did not dissipate as quickly. It lingered even as Eddie pulled you in closer to kiss you.

Your response was to slip your hand into his back pocket and curving it around his ass. Admittedly, there wasn’t much to grab onto, but it still woke up something slumbering within you. Something that had remained dormant since you’d gotten caught during the picnic last week. 

Longing stirred, carving out imagery of him atop you, your fingers grasping that sacred flesh without the burden of a denim barrier. You needed to know how he’d treat you in bed. Would he pounce like an animal capturing its elusive prey? Would he take his time and savor you like his last meal on Earth? Would he lovingly gaze into your eyes, or take you from behind to satisfy that primal need?

“What’s our stop again?” Eddie’s voice shook you from your lust-entrenched trance. 

“Oh, uh…” You fought to keep your train of thought on a more productive track. “West Fourth Street.”

He nodded and gripped the pole tighter as the car screeched to a halt. “Then this is us.”

Thank God he was paying attention. You were embarrassed at the mere notion of missing your stop because you were too lost in the idea of having sex with him. How would you even explain that to him?

“Nervous?” He asked as you exited the train car.

You shook your head. Surprisingly, you weren’t nervous about meeting other admitted students. They’d be a group of people just like you, reaching out a hand to help those in need. A group of people like you and Nora who shared a common goal of being positive forces in a world desperate for kindness.

The climb from the platform up to the street level brought with it a burst of fresh air—fresher than in the station, at least. You and Eddie made your way down Waverly Place, fingers loosely intertwined. He let you guide him, a half-step ahead, your knowledge of the city far exceeding his. 

You were only two blocks away from the school when you heard an obnoxious voice bleating through a megaphone. 

“Repent now or face damnation! You are all sinners who will burn in the fires of Hell for eternity!”

A middle-aged man wearing an off-center toupee stood in the middle of the sidewalk, shouting at passersby. 

“Revelations 21:8–But the cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.”

You kept walking and ignored the man’s incessant preaching, expecting Eddie to do the same. 

That, you supposed, was naive on your part. 

Before you could stop him, Eddie let go of your hand and whirled towards the offender. His forefingers pointed upwards in mock devil horns, and the noise that came out of his mouth resembled something from The Exorcist. 

The preacher nearly keeled over at the sight of Eddie’s satanic display, sending you into a fit of cackling laughter. 

“Eddie!” You managed to hiss through your giggling. “Let’s go!”

Eddie took your hand once more and let you whisk him away from the dumbfounded man, the megaphone now hanging limply at his side. There was no doubt he would once again be spewing vitriol soon enough, but witnessing his temporary stunned silence was delicious. 

“I can’t believe you did that.” 

He shrugged. “I told you—I single handedly caused Hawkins’ own Satanic Panic. It’s not my first rodeo with these fire-and-brimstone assholes.”

“C’mon.” You tugged him along, shaking your head. “Let’s get out of here before he sics his disciples on us.”

Admitted Students’ Day at NYU’s Silver School of Social Work wasn’t fancy; just some hors d'oeuvres spread out on a white tablecloth to give an air of elegance. Really, it was nothing more than a few fruit and vegetable platters, finger sandwiches, and some pigs in a blanket. You helped yourself to some strawberries and a cucumber sandwich, watching as Eddie piled the crescent-wrapped mini hot dogs onto a paper plate and topped them with a hearty spoonful of spicy mustard.

A chipper young woman wearing an NYU t-shirt welcomed you and Eddie, ushering you both towards a pile of stick-on name tags and permanent markers. You scrawled your name in blue ink and Eddie did the same, though he added “just here for the food” in smaller letters below his name. 

“Okay, everyone!” The woman took to the microphone at the front of the small conference room. “Welcome to Admitted Students’ Day! My name is Ashley, and I’m a recent alumna of our wonderful MSW program.” She beamed and paused for the smattering of applause. 

Ashley brushed a brunette curl from her eyes and continued. “We’ll get started in just a moment, but until then, please mingle and get to know one another.”

When you looked over at Eddie again, he was dabbing at his shirt with a paper napkin. “Dropped some mustard,” he mumbled. Sure enough, a dollop of yellow stained the black cotton fabric. “Guess we’ll need to make another trip to the laundry room tomorrow.” 

You swatted at him, though you couldn’t deny having the same thought. “You also have some right here,” you lied, poking at his cheek. “Here, I’ll get it.” You leaned in and pressed a kiss to the spot you had just touched. His skin warmed beneath your lips, and it took all of your restraint not to kiss him again.

A second woman sporting a name tag made her way over to you, accompanied by a man dutifully trailing behind her.

“Hi!” The woman chirped, flashing a smile far more genuine than Ashley’s. “I’m Alexis, and this is my boyfriend, Peter.” She gestured to the man. “It’s nice to see another couple here.”

A couple. You and Eddie were a couple, recognized as such by other people in a relationship.

Peter pointed to the message on Eddie’s name tag. “I see you’re also here for moral support,” he said with a grin. “The things we do for them, huh?”

“Please.” Alexis rolled her eyes, though a playful smile suggested she wasn’t annoyed in the slightest. “I went with you to your boring grad school orientation last week.”

You perked up, latching onto the information so you wouldn’t perseverate on the notion of couplehood. “What are you studying?”

“Mechanical engineering,” Alexis answered for him. “He’s brilliant, but just listening to the course descriptions had me falling asleep.” She turned her attention to Eddie. “What do you study?”

The telltale hue of embarrassment bloomed on Eddie’s cheeks. “Oh, I, um…I didn’t. I mean, I went to high school–finished high school–but I didn’t do the whole college…thing.” 

“He’s a musician,” you offered, if only to quiet his stammering voice. “A really talented one, too. He plays guitar and he sings.” You took his hand in yours in silent reassurance.

To her credit, Alexis didn’t let on that she’d picked up on his nervousness. She just smiled and asked him about the type of music he plays, swiftly shifting the conversation back on track.

The small talk continued for a few more minutes. You’d learned that Alexis and Peter had met in college; they’d both gone to Columbia, which was where Peter would be continuing his graduate studies. Alexis wanted a change of scenery and chose NYU, though Peter mentioned she’d also been accepted to their alma mater.

She went to an Ivy League university? The notion soured in your stomach. It was unrealistic to think that Alexis would be the only member of your cohort to hold a degree from an esteemed school; how would you be able to keep up with them? There was no way your meager city college education could even compare.

Mercifully, Ashley took to the microphone once again, this time with a gray-haired woman by her side, to begin the informational portion of the event. You and Eddie sat side-by-side, and you scooched closer when his arm instinctively draped over the back of your folding chair. The ease was a privilege; you could rest your head on his shoulder without being on alert. There was no threat of being caught, no guilt from sneaking around. The two of you were just another couple sitting in a sea of strangers. The idea was so enticing that you had to force yourself to focus on the course offerings and expected responsibilities. 

You definitely wouldn’t be able to keep up with your peers if you couldn’t even pay attention during orientation.

Two hours passed before Eddie’s stomach audibly growled; apparently, consuming his weight in miniature hot dogs was not enough to satisfy his appetite. You were starting to get hungry, too, and you’d spent the last thirty minutes saving off your hunger pangs.

“Wanna grab something to eat?” You whispered.

He nodded emphatically. “You’d think that one of these snobby rich-people schools would splurge for more food,” he said, thankfully under his breath. If someone had overheard…

Not to mention you’d be attending that ‘snobby rich-people school,’ and you were neither rich nor snobby. At least, you hoped you weren’t snobby. But did Eddie see you that way? Did he think you were keeping the relationship underwraps because of a deep-seated shame?

You bade your new friends goodbye, shot a shy smile at the professors who had spoken during the information session, and did your best to make an inconspicuous exit. 

The nearest bodega was just down the block, its shelves stocked with soon-expiring candy and various snacks. Eddie perused the aisles and stared at his options. You were much faster in your decision-making, grabbing a Crunch bar and chowing down as soon as you paid the cashier.

With Eddie still glancing between a bag of barbecue potato chips and a stick of beef jerky, you plucked the latest copy of Star from the rotating magazine stand and leafed through it. There’s no earth-shattering news–stories published in the tabloids rarely are. The most exciting story was about the upcoming Spielberg flick, one where dinosaurs roam the Earth in some sort of prehistoric zoo. You can’t help but wonder if Eddie would take you to see the movie for your third date.

You were about to close the magazine and tell Eddie to hurry up–or just buy both, and you’d foot the bill–when the bolded words in the news briefs section caught your eye.

Caleb Dalton, the lead singer and guitarist of Death’s Echo, checked into rehab after various alcohol-fueled encounters with the law. The band’s management states that they “hope to proceed with the tour” next month, though there is no word about finding a replacement.

Your mouth went dry, and you started choking on the bite of milk chocolate that hadn’t yet melted onto your tongue. Eddie looked over at you, concern etched between his drawn brows at your sudden coughing outburst.

“Wrong pipe,” you managed, closing the magazine as nonchalantly as you could and placing it back on the rack. “You ready to go?”

“Yup.” Eddie fished a dollar bill from his pocket and placed it on the counter. He was already digging into the bag of chips, blissfully unaware of what you’d just read. 

How would he react if he knew? Would he find it amusing that his replacement had already screwed up the tour? Infuriating that he’d been replaced by someone so unprofessional? Would it haunt him or would he consider it to be normal tabloid fodder?

A gut instinct told you to break the news to him—not here, but somewhere private. Somewhere he could process it without causing a public scene. The only thing worse than him finding out is him knowing that you already knew and hadn’t told him. 

Tonight, during your shift. And you could follow it up by letting him know that you were ready to tell your parents the truth. Selfishly, you were glad to have some leverage on them: Eddie would already be upset by the band’s news, so they couldn’t add to that stress by kicking him out, right? 

If only you could tell them about him accompanying you today, just to prove how serious this new relationship truly was. 

One step at a time. 

You savored every moment spent together on the trip. The beginning of rush hour had the train too crowded to find a seat and to hold onto the pole, so Eddie held you by your waist to keep you steady. You felt his lips on the back of your neck every so often, his way of reminding you that he was there amidst the chaos. 

He trusted you, and he trusted you to trust him. 

It had come innately, the way you had divulged your secret to him. Yes, he had grabbed your book and questioned your alleged hospitality studies, but you could have shut him out. Put up a wall and told him to mind his business or hit the road. 

But you didn’t. And neither had he, choosing to divulge his saddest memories to you. Had given you a friendship and then something more. His presence was something you awaited at the start of every shift, the shared conversations now far more welcome than the quiet you once craved.

He always arrived at the desk by ten o’clock, sometimes getting there before you did. You’d find him making Mom laugh or listening to one of her many stories about the plethora of bizarre guests who stayed at the motel over the years. Mom liked him–you knew she did. All you needed to do was pivot her mindset in the right direction.

So tonight, when 10:25 rolled around and Eddie was nowhere to be found, your first instinct was to knock on his door and make sure he was all right. As soon as the thought popped into your head, you dismissed it as ridiculous. He was probably tired from schlepping through Manhattan and fell asleep. He’d probably planned to take a quick nap and promptly slept through his alarm, though you didn’t hear his clock radio bleating through the paper-thin walls.

Maybe this was a sign that you shouldn’t tell him about Death’s Echo and their troubled lead singer. You’d already kept quiet about the televised arrest that you watched at the bar; what was one more secret?

But that would sabotage your plan to pander to your parents with sympathy. You couldn’t exactly take the poor Eddie route without him knowing. Maybe you could–

Eddie’s door opened, yanking your attention from your running thoughts. Your heart beat double-time. This was it. You were going to tell him about Caleb Dalton’s rehab stint, tell him everything you knew.

But the voice you heard coming from his room wasn’t his. In fact, it wasn’t even a man’s.

“Promise me you’ll think about it?” A woman asked, a slight whine in her tone.

“Y-Yeah.” Though you couldn’t see him, you could tell from his hesitation that he wasn’t completely enthused about whatever he was supposed to be thinking about. “I promise.”

A soft mwah had you seeing red. It sounded like she’d only kissed his cheek, but maybe you were only fooling yourself. If she’d kissed his lips, those same lips that you’d been kissing earlier today…

“You’re the best, babe.” Jealousy raged in your core as she spoke, and you fought to keep it from exploding throughout your body. “We’ll get you out of this shithole in no time.” She punctuated her insult with a giggle. “Call me when you have your answer.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” And then his door closed.

Who was this woman? What was she doing here? Why didn’t Mom tell you that Eddie had brought someone to his room?

You got one answer once the mystery woman walked through the lobby, not even acknowledging your existence. She wasn’t wearing the heavy makeup that you’d seen in her photo, but there was no mistaking the owner of that blonde pixie cut, heart-shaped face, and piercing blue eyes.

They belonged to none other than Death Echo’s drummer.

Who also happened to be Eddie’s ex-girlfriend. 

--

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[seoltzuki]

Polite

mina x afab reader

a scrapped work of mine

suggestive, not proofread

"you can’t touch before you say please"

The corporate dinner stretched before you like an endless expanse of dread, filled with the looming presence of obnoxious rich men who chewed with their mouths open and sweated profusely under the dim lighting. You sat at your designated table, feeling suffocated by the stifling atmosphere and longing for escape.

Across the room, Mina sat at her own table, her eyes occasionally flicking in your direction amidst the sea of gaudy displays of wealth and power. You could see the resignation mirrored in her expression, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.

As the evening wore on, the cacophony of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter grated on your nerves, each moment dragging on like an eternity in the suffocating confines of corporate formality.

And to top it off, you dreaded the impending cocktail party scheduled immediately after this ordeal.

But despite the distractions, your attention kept gravitating towards Mina. Her gaze lingered on yours whenever your eyes met, a silent exchange of understanding amidst this shit show.

Observing her, every gesture and movement piqued your curiosity and admiration until your attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of her drowning her steak in ketchup. The absurdity of the act caught you off guard, but you couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at her unconventional choice.

But before you could dwell on it further, another unwelcome interruption barged in - a man intruded, his clammy hand squeezing your shoulder in a gesture that oozed familiarity and arrogance. His filthy remark elicited a forced laugh from you, masking your true feelings with a discreet eye roll as you struggled to maintain composure amidst the facade of civility.

As the dinner dragged on, the clatter of a scrapped fork against a plate echoed through the hall, punctuating the monotonous rhythm of polite conversation. A toast was raised, and people began to beg for release from their seats, eager to escape the suffocating formality of the evening and make their way to the building across the street—the Myoui firm.

Your feet dragged reluctantly toward the exit of the dinner hall, the promise of freedom beckoning as you retrieved your coat from the coat check. Amidst the bustling crowd, voices clamored with “may I”s, and you felt men pushing you around, each trying to approach a certain person—Mina, or perhaps, you.

They tried so desperately to be courteous, offering you an umbrella, but you declined all their offers; it was just a short walk, after all. As you reached the door, the sound of pouring rain greeted you, a dreary backdrop to the evening’s events.

Then, amidst the chaos, you heard the urgent clacking of heels on the ground, and before you could react, an arm looped around yours.

“May I?” Mina whispers, her breath warm against your ear as she moves a stray lock of hair from her face, opening her umbrella to shield you both from the downpour.

“Should you?” you respond, locking eyes with her as the weight of the situation settles upon you.

The prospect of stepping out into the rain together, arm in arm, would undoubtedly fuel the rumors swirling around the two of you, rumors you weren’t sure you were ready to confront just yet.

Mina’s disapproving click of her tongue and the pursing of her lips signal her impatience with your hesitation.

“You’ll be soaked,” she remarks, her tone firm as she steps ahead, her arm tightening around yours, urging you to follow her and cross the street.

She leads you towards her building and you can’t help but let out a sigh of frustration. The sight of the press and paparazzi waiting eagerly outside only adds to your irritation. Their barrage of questions about the rumored merger between your firms and the future of the rival companies feels like an invasion of privacy.

Mina, ever the picture of grace under pressure, gives her best smile and navigates her way through the crowd, the rest of the dinner attendees following closely behind. But you can’t muster the same enthusiasm. Your annoyance is palpable as you trudge through the throng, barely managing to summon even a hint of a smile.

The attendees follow Mina’s lead as they enter the building, chatter filling the air with excitement and anticipation for the cocktail event. She gracefully addresses the associates and workers, informing them of the location of the soirée on the highest floor and assuring them she’ll join the night soon after sorting out contract matters. You let out a hum of acknowledgment, preparing to join the others, but before you can make your escape, Mina’s hand darts out, grabbing your arm with a firm grip.

"Follow me," she says, her voice soft but stern, halting you in your tracks.

"Mina, please, I just wanna get this over so I can go home. I really don’t wanna negotiate right now," you huff, your tone pleading as she guides you through the halls of the building. The chatter from the others fades away as she unlocks a door with a keycard.

She scoffs, "trust me, you're not the only one who feels this way, y/n." With another swipe of the keycard, you step into a private elevator, the only floor listed as "CEO Myoui Mina."

The ride up is surprisingly quick, and you can't help but marvel at the lavishness of Mina's building compared to yours. It even takes you aback when the elevator doors slide open, revealing the 50th floor—her office, which could easily pass for a penthouse, offering a breathtaking view of the city.

She tosses the umbrella into a basket, then removes her fur coat. Extending her hand, she gestures for you to hand over your coat, before placing both garments on a hook.

You look at her, arms crossed, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in. You just want to go home. She walks over to the bar, pouring two glasses of wine before returning and offering you one. You decline with a shake of your head.

“What did you bring me up here for?”

She takes a sip of her wine, contemplating for a moment before addressing the rumors head-on. "What do you want to do about them?" she asks, her gaze steady as she waits for your response.

Rolling your eyes, you walk up to the large window, gazing down at the drenched cityscape below, raindrops streaking the glass.

“To be honest,” you begin, “I just want to do my work in peace. I don’t want the press after me.”

Mina joins you at the window, her expression softening. “I understand,” she replies, her voice gentle. “But we can’t ignore this. We need to address the rumors before they spiral out of control.”

"We could ignore it. Let it die down-"

“Can I be honest?” Mina cuts in, her fingers gently brushing against yours as she takes a step backward, settling onto the edge of her desk. “I wouldn’t be opposed to merging with your firm. I think we could be very powerful together.”

“I appreciate your candor, Miss Myoui,” you say sarcastically, a scoff escaping your lips. “I don’t know what you heard about me, but I’m not someone who’s easy like your other associates.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be like my other associates,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, her eyes shamelessly tracing along your figure.

You draw nearer until you’re barely inches apart, a scowl tainting your features. In the charged silence that envelops you, a silent protest forms: Just because Mina is attractive, intelligent, and charming doesn’t mean she can toy with you like this.

“Mina-”

“You know we could accomplish a lot together,” she smiles, her charm radiating like a magnet drawing you closer. Her fingers tap lightly against her wine glass, a teasing rhythm that matches the quickening pace of your heart. As she speaks, her other hand ghosts over your thigh, sending a thrill coursing through your body.

You watch, transfixed, as she spreads her legs slightly, the slit in her navy blue silk dress riding up just enough to reveal a hint of skin. It’s an invitation you can’t resist, and you step between her legs, the heat of her proximity sending a surge of desire coursing through you.

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” you say, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips as you take the glass from her hands and set it aside. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” You tilt your head slightly, your gaze locked with hers.

Mina nods, her hands now at the back of your thighs, her nails digging in slightly, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “For now,” she says, her voice low and tantalizing, “let’s focus on the present moment, yeah?”

Her touch sends a shiver down your spine as her hands trail up to your waist, squeezing gently. You reciprocate, trailing your fingers up her arm to her jaw, then to the back of her neck, where you play with the baby hairs there.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your eyes locked with hers, searching for any hint of what’s going on in her mind.

“You,” she whispers, as she bites her lip, a hint of desire flickering in her eyes. “I can’t deny it, you’re always on my mind.”

A surge of heat courses through you at her words, and you lean in closer, your breath mingling with hers. “And you,” you reply huskily, your voice low and filled with longing, “have been occupying my thoughts more than usual lately.”

With a smile playing on her lips, you lean in, pressing a tender kiss to Mina’s cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. Your hand trails behind, gently cradling her jaw, holding her close.

She responds with a soft sigh of pleasure, turning her head to meet your gaze. With a tender affection that melts your heart, she pecks your palm gently, her lips lingering against your skin.

Your hand firmly grasps her hip, pulling Mina closer as your lips collide in a hungry, wet kiss. Urgent and fervent, tongues glide and teeth tug at lips, eliciting soft moans that slip out between desperate breaths.

With a low growl of desire, you feel Mina’s fingers boldly grip your ass, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“Mina,” you gasp, your breath catching in your throat as she shifts her attention to your neck. You whimper softly, unable to contain the pleasure that courses through you as she leaves open-mouthed kisses on your skin, her lips trailing a path of fire along your neck.

A sharp bite causes you to moan loudly in response. Mina pauses and you catch your breath. Another quick kiss to your swollen lips leaves you yearning for more, and before you know it, she’s pushing you back onto her office chair.

You watch, transfixed, as she scoots back slightly on her desk, her movements deliberate and enticing. With a seductive glance, she widens her legs, rising up her dress to reveal her hips, the fabric riding up tantalizingly. The sight leaves you breathless, your heart racing with desire as you eagerly await her next move.

The sight of the wet patch on her baby blue lingerie sends a surge of arousal coursing through you, making you hold back a moan as you huff with desire. You roll towards her eagerly, intent on feasting on her wetness, but before you can reach her, a sharp heel digs into your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you look up at Mina with wide eyes, the intensity of the moment leaving you speechless.

With a sultry smirk, she leans forward, the heel pressing into your shoulder as she whispers, “You can’t touch before you say please, baby.”

Her words make you clench around nothing as you realize the game she’s playing. You swallow hard, your voice thick with desire as you utter the words she’s been waiting to hear.

“Please, Mina,” you whisper, your body trembling with need. “Let me touch you.”

Mina chuckles softly, “you gotta start being polite,” she teases, her voice dripping with mischief as she toys with you, relishing in the power she holds over you.

“Please.”

“Good. You can have a taste, y/n.”

[eff4freddie]

Physical Therapy

Joel Miller x AFAB Reader No Outbreak AU - 4.4k words

For @punkshort's AU August challenge, in celebration of her one year Tumblr anniversary!

A.N: My prompt was 'lifeguard Joel' and I'm nursing a bit of a sore wrist at the moment, hence whatever this is was born. Thanks for the fun prompt! I would very much like Joel to save me from drowning now, please and thank you.

Warnings: None.

It had just started out as a kind of tickling feeling around behind your ear on your left side, and down along the back to the shoulder blade. When you’d first noticed it you’d thought you had a hair stuck under your shirt, and all day you kept reaching up under your bra strap to try and free it. Later, you would rub the skin red trying to lift the phantom follicle from your skin.

Later, it developed into a coldness, punctuated sometimes with ants marching up and down your shoulder blade. Your clavicle ached in cold weather, and you rolled your shoulders of a morning to try and shake the weird sensations from the joint. You were too busy to worry about it, you had too many deadlines, you could just type with your left arm resting on a pad of paper to elevate it. You knew you’d been working too hard on your paper for your next research symposium. As soon as it was over you’d deal with it.

When it started thrumming of a nighttime you’d just take ibuprofen to dull it, numb it off with a heat pack and an occasional glass of whiskey. But when it got too hard to type, when the daggers started shooting down your arm to the point that you could barely get your sleeve over it, when your shoulder was so frozen you couldn’t lift it over your head to brush your hair, you conceded defeat.

Your physiotherapist was lovely, and young, and fit, and you wished you could hate her. She ran marathons on weekends, on purpose and apparently without having first been threatened, and she gave you a bunch of exercises you promised you would do, made you pay $24.95 for a bit of stretchy rubber you could tie to your doorknob and stretch with, a couple of strength building exercises printed out and folded neatly, which you immediately threw on your coffee table and used as a coaster.

You went twice a week after work. She massaged you until you had tears in your eyes, biting back the pain by clamping down on your back teeth. You lied to her that you’d done your stretches, and she let you, because she was a nice person. Your recovery stalled, and you both pretended not to know why.

In the end, you just got fed up with yourself. You’d had to push back your presentation at the symposium, had found it too painful to sit at your desk for the long stretches it would take to be prepared. Your supervisor had insisted you take time off, that your PhD could be extended, and you had balked at the idea and then, eventually, conceded that too. Your stupid frozen shoulder was icing out everything in your life you cared about. You suggested to your physio you might like to swim.

--

It had been a while since you’d been in a bathing suit. Glad you’d at least thought to shave, you went into the change room dreading coming out again. You’d deliberately gone at 2 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, figuring the only people there would be either 100 years old or ladened with babies, and their bodies wouldn’t be so threatening to yours. You remembered a time when your body had felt strong, when your legs had carried you around European cities, up and down mountains. You wondered where that girl went.

You were a careful person, and you liked rules, so you shuffled as speedily as you could towards the pool, careful not to run. Your brother had slipped once, aged 9 and a half, and knocked out two of his teeth when he went down. Your mother had to wait three months to get them fixed, having to save up the fee, and your brother had whistled slightly on windy mornings. You’d teased him about it, and you felt bad about it now, holding your arm tight to your body so as not to jostle your shoulder.

The water was cool, and you took the stairs one at a time to get yourself into it. You gasped when it reached your belly, reaching down to splash yourself to try and acclimatise. It wasn’t an especially warm day, but the sun was out and it was warm enough on your skin. You sunk down, feeling the water lap at your shoulder. The relief was immediate, the cool spreading over your strangled nerves, and you let out a sigh. You didn’t think you were about to swim any laps, but it was enough to bob around in the shallow end and feel the water carry your weight. Your mind was quiet for the first time in a while. You watched two birds glide on the breeze, ducking down to skim over the surface. You hoped they didn’t shit in it as they passed.

Then, a giggle. A tittering, high-pitched thing that shattered your reverie and made you turn towards it, a scowl on your face as you looked up into the sun. A woman in a high-cut bikini straight out of the 80s was standing at the base of the lifeguard’s chair, looking up at the man sitting atop it. She was practically drooling, flipping her hair and nearly slipping out of her top. You couldn’t make him out, the glare casting him in darkness and too proud to shield your eyes with your hand to get a good look. She had all her weight on one foot so she could thrust her hip out and her chest up. You heard his voice rumble out of his chest, deep and heavy and surprisingly kind. You couldn’t make out the words. You reminded yourself you didn’t care.

--

Your physio was proud of you, and you wanted to hate her for that, too. You reported your attendance at the pool, lied about doing your exercises, and paid another $24.95 for another rubber band thing after you pretended you’d misplaced the first one. You knew exactly where it was, on the doorknob where you’d tied it the first night and then ignored it. But it was a good, if expensive, excuse.

The next time you went to the pool you chose a time slightly earlier in the day, hoping that the midday sun might tan you a little as you rehabilitated. You bobbed around again in the shallow end, experimentally rolling your shoulders and moving your arms in small semi-circles in front of you. The water carried the weight so you could just focus on moving the joint, and when the ache set in you could just float there, let the water carry you completely as you floated on the surface. With your face to the sky and the sun beating down the whole world turned bright and colourless. It sanded down the sharp edges, turned the detail to pulsing fuzz on your retinas.

80’s Bikini Lady didn’t resurface, but you got out when an entire class of 4th graders arrived for their swimming lessons. As you went for your towel you heard that rumbling voice again, booming out over the top of 20 excited kids, instructing them to quiet down so he could teach them to tread water. You wondered if that was what you were doing now, your research and your thesis gathering metaphoric dust on your laptop. Treading water.

--

It took you until your fifth visit to try an actual lap. Your shoulder had been feeling lighter, the joint freeing itself under the water just enough that you could bear the weight of the it as you moved. You had been experimenting with little half breaststrokes, just two or three with your head high over the water and only deep enough that you could plant your feet at the first twinge of pain. But you wanted to try something different, today. You wanted to make it down to the other end, even if you had to grip the lane rope and pull yourself there.

You felt eyes on you as you walked to the edge, and you turned quickly to see the lifeguard was at his station. It was early enough in the afternoon that you could see him properly, his aquiline nose, his curls unruly and chocolate brown. He nodded at you, an acknowledgement that he was keeping watch, and you nodded back to him. It was just you and a man in his 60s in the pool today.

You hissed a little as you descended the stairs, feeling goosebumps rise on your skin. Today it was cloudy, and the water was cooler than you had been expecting, and you worried for a moment it would be bad for your shoulder somehow, that your muscles would be less malleable, less cooperative, in the cold. You swallowed, wondering if you really wanted to do this today. Then you remembered your thesis, and the way you had thrown yourself on dancefloors, in spin classes, ridden boys in your dorm room like your hips would never ache. You wanted that girl back. She was at the other end of the pool.

You pushed off, holding your arms straight out in front of you and using your feet against the wall of the pool to propel yourself forward, letting the momentum drift you the first few feet. With a brave breath in you spread your arms wide in a breaststroke, kicking with your legs to keep up some sort of speed. Three strokes, then four, then five and you were nearly a quarter of the way down the pool already. You just had to keep breathing, stick with it, pace yourself out. You cupped the water with your hands, pushing it away from your chest as you moved. There might have been a little twinge, but you banished any worry. You were doing it, if slowly, if gingerly.

You swam over the point where the bottom of the pool fell away, past the point where you could stand. The water felt cooler, the depth of it stealing some of the warmth, and you felt a little warning tingle up your elbow. Your neck pulled a little to the right to try and dodge the pain, and you faltered a little, lost some of your rhythm. In your surprise you’d opened your mouth and taken in a little bit of water, and you spluttered.

Suddenly your arms were out of sequence, and you were struggling to bring them back together in front of you while kicking with your legs. They felt uncooperative, like they were on different strings, and you were finding it hard to keep your neck bent up high enough to keep your face out of the water completely. You jerked to try and regain your momentum, and sent an electric shock through your shoulder, pain spreading out all the way down to your wrist. You gasped, the pain making you pull your arm into your body, trying to cradle it against your chest, and you started floundering, your nose and mouth dropping beneath the surface as you struggled to stay upright. You swatted at the surface of the water with your good arm, panic in your chest, as you tried to figure out if it was better to turn and head back to the shallows or carry on to the other end.

You heard a splash behind you, a huff of air as a body broke the surface and then an arm around your waist.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said, and you leant back into the warm body behind you, trying to suck in air.

‘My shoulder, my arm,’ you cried, keeping it tucked against you as the lifeguard pulled you to where you could stand. You gasped, choking a little on water but mostly just from shock, your face burning red with humiliation and the pain of your throbbing collarbone. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said, suddenly feeling like you wanted to cry, as you caught your breath, the man still holding you gently around the waist and leaning down to study your face.

‘You’re OK, you’re OK,’ he said, his voice like warm honey as it oozed over the panic in your brain. ‘Take a breath, I’ve got you.’

Oh fuck, you were definitely going to cry if he kept being so nice to you. You felt heat in the back of your eyes, bit down on your bottom lip so he couldn’t see it wobbling.

‘I just wanted to swim a lap,’ you said, and you could hear the desperation in it, feeling as small as a child.

‘You injured?’ he asked, and you nodded. He tugged you further towards the shallow end, led you by the good arm over to the steps.

‘My physio said exercise would help it,’ you explained, throwing her soundly under the bus. ‘I just…I thought I was ready.’ You felt the frustration bubbling over. You had a terrible habit of getting teary when you were mad. ‘It’s just been so shit, and I wanted to…I just don’t even know this body anymore, you know?’ you complained, wincing when you realised you’d just trauma dumped on him.

‘Can’t rush these things,’ he said, unfazed. ‘Gotta take it at your own pace.’ Standing up in this part of the pool the water only came to his waist, and he gestured to his belly where a jagged scar punctured his left side.

‘Jesus,’ you said, at the sight of it and also realising for the first time he was shirtless, water running in rivulets down his golden skin. He was so broad it was no wonder he’d managed to get to you in the centre of the pool in all of three strokes. You felt yourself start to tremble, and you weren’t sure it was from shock.

You’d known, of course, that he was handsome. You had eyes, after all. But up close, standing over you, hair slicked back as his brown eyes roamed your face for any sign of distress…up close, he was devastating.

‘Joel,’ he said, holding out his hand, and you took it, awkward and shy. He told you he liked your name when you mumbled it to him, and you realised he was very good at his job. You wondered where you could find an 80s bikini.

‘Thank you, Joel,’ you said, when your heart had finally settled back into its normal rhythm. ‘I’m sorry you had to…’

‘Trust me, pulling beautiful women out of the deep end is not the hard part of my job,’ he said, and then you watched as his eyes widened, like he was only just realising what he’d said, and you felt heat crawl up your cheeks.

You wanted to ask him what the hard part was. You restrained yourself, because you’d been humiliated enough for one day.

--

You skipped your next session at the pool, instead using the rubber stretchy thing to try and elongate the joint. It didn’t feel as good, and you nearly snapped it into your face more than once, and you definitely didn’t think about Joel’s golden skin glistening in the sunlight the entire time you did it. You didn’t think about his arm banding around you as he pulled you to safety, not even a little bit. The rubber thing was fine. It was going to solve all your problems.

--

You hated the fucking rubber stretchy thing. For one, it smelled like condoms but in a weirdly stale kind of way, and for two you were fairly sure it was going to rip your door off its hinges in your crappy little apartment, and you really didn’t want to have to call your landlord when that happened. It might mean you’d have to tidy up.

Also, it was late Spring and pretty soon school would be out, and the pool would be heaving, and so you had to get your shoulder back to normal as soon as possible before the place got flooded with kids. The bikini you fished out from behind a bunch of old clothes in the back of your closet was so that you could move your shoulder more freely. You were being pragmatic. You were planning ahead.

It was hotter again, the warmth of summer encroaching, and you were genuinely relieved to see the sparkling, clear water when you arrived on the pool deck. You walked, head held high and chest out just a little, past the lifeguard chair, studiously not looking but also really trying to look. You spent an extra few seconds fishing around in your back for your sunscreen, trying to steady your pulse. When you swivelled around, preparing to smear it over yourself, you glanced over at the chair.

Unless Joel had aged 20 years in the week since you’d been, and gained forty pounds and lost all of his hair, he was not on shift today. You felt yourself deflate, your shoulders slumping, your left collarbone sending out a thrum of pain in warning.

It was probably for the best, of course. You were here to do rehab. This was serious medical stuff.

You didn’t want to hazard another lap, not with Beergut McBaldALot on patrol, so you floated a bit in the shallow end and practiced making circles with your arms. You were stiff, having taken a week off to whip yourself up into a pointless frenzy over the lifeguard. The water eased some of the tension in the muscle, and you once again felt your mind start to still.

You wondered if, on his down time, Joel preferred board shorts or speedos. You couldn’t imagine him in a full banana hammock – you could, but you didn’t want to – but you wondered if he was a Daniel-Crag-In-His-First-Bond-Movie-When-He-Emerges-From-The-Ocean-Booty-Shorts kind of guy. That didn’t feel right either, though. His work uniform was boardies, and you decided that Joel was the type of guy who just wore them on his own time anyway, because they fit and they were on hand. As for what was going on underneath them. Well, that was something else entirely.

As you bobbed in the water you imagined his strong arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest and letting you rest your head on his broad, tanned shoulder. You wondered if you’d be able to feel his heartbeat on your cheek, if that close you could hear his tight little exhales as he glided you through the water, held you up so that you could finally, finally let go. You sighed a little to yourself, drifting in the middle of the pool and hoping no one had any plans to swim any laps. You let your hair trail out behind you as you drifted, imagined the slight pull of the water was his fingers threading through.

--

You weren’t hungry but you had nothing at home, so you stopped off at the grocery store on the way home, your shoulder feeling better for having had a little bit of movement. Sleepy from the warmth of the sun and your weightlessness, you barely noticed the man standing at the end of the cereal aisle until you were tripping over him, his arm shooting out to catch you before you could really, properly fall.

‘Ooof,’ he exclaimed, and you knew that voice, felt the furious rush of blood to your cheeks as you righted yourself and were met with the same warm, brown eyes.

‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ he said, smiling down at you, and he was just as beautiful on dry land as he was submerged. You felt your hands start to tremble and you worried you’d drop your basket.

‘Joel,’ you said, trying to hide the comingling shame and excitement on your face. ‘You look different when you’re wet.’

Murder you. End it now. It would simply be kinder.

Joel, to his credit, just laughed a little.

‘Hair’s a lot fluffier,’ he said, reaching up to tug at it and making you want to chew on your own fist.

‘There’s that,’ you said, your voice oddly strangled.

‘You breakfast shoppin’ at 4 in the afternoon?’ he asked, gesturing to the cereal box in your hands.

‘Dinner, actually,’ you said, strangely proud at your sheer level of disfunction. ‘Ever since my shoulder, cooking hasn’t really been…’

You trailed off. Your mom had sent over a couple of frozen lasagnes, and you’d worked your way through those in a week. For a while you got dinners delivered but it got expensive, and then worst, it got boring. Before all of this started there were some nights you’d been so engrossed in your thesis you’d forgotten to get dinner at all. You missed those nights, too. To be so distracted.

‘How’s the arm?’ he asked, and you realised you were cradling it again, holding it fast against your side.

‘It’s slow, and I’m trying to be patient,’ you said, honestly, and his brows saddled. He hummed in thought, pouting his lips out a little. You fought every atom in your body not to lean forward and pull them between your teeth.

‘Your physio given you exercises?’ he asked, and you nodded, avoiding his gaze. ‘You doin’ em?’ he asked, and you were suddenly really interested in the nutritional content of your Cheerios. He snickered out a laugh. ‘No one ever does ‘em.’

‘You speaking from experience?’ you asked, and he smiled.

‘I used to…well, not a physio but I did a little personal training, and uh…basically unless I was there barkin’ at ‘em no-one did what they were told.’

Bark at me, you thought. I’ll do anything you say.

You coughed, trying to collect yourself. Fuck, he was beautiful, but you realised what you liked most was just the warmth in his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. You trusted him, you realised. You didn’t know him, and you trusted him.

‘I’m pretty sure my physio knows I’m lying to her,’ you confessed, and he smiled.

‘She definitely does,’ he agreed.

‘I’m otherwise a very honest person,’ you added.

‘I have no doubt,’ he said, with a little twinkle in his eye that made you want to gouge the things out so you didn’t have to deal with them torturing you anymore.

Instead, you looked into his basket and saw kale, a bunch of carrots and a carton of eggs. You grimaced.

‘Please tell me you’re not on a cleanse or some shit,’ you said, and he smiled.

‘Nah, you got me just before I headed over to the candy aisle.’

‘You like candy?’ you asked, and he grinned.

‘Got a sweet tooth,’ he confessed.

‘Name your poison.’

‘Reece’s. The umm…the cups.’

‘The cups. A peanut butter man?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, that southern drawl appearing again. You felt it hit you like a bullseye in your core. You wondered what else you could get him to agree to.

‘A man of taste,’ you said. You were flirting over grocery items and you didn’t fucking care. You would banter about the phone book if he kept grinning with his whorish little dimples out.  ‘Thank you for helping me out the other day,’ you said, and he shrugged.

‘S’my job,’ he said, and you shook your head at him, swishing your hands in front of you as if you could push his humbleness aside.

‘Yeah, but you chose that job, and I’m glad that you did,’ you said, simply. ‘It’s a generous thing, putting yourself on the line for someone else.’

‘Always been a kind of protector,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘I can see that,’ you replied, honestly, and he turned his gaze to you, considering you for a moment. ‘Although I guess a lot of the time it’s just watching people splash around.’

‘Ain’t hard to watch some people,’ he said, gazing down at you, his jaw muscle twinging a little.  You felt your stomach do a silly little flip.

‘No?’ you asked, your throat dry.

‘Mmm-mmm,’ he said, shaking his head but not breaking eye contact. You wanted to grab his broad, golden shoulders and hitch your thighs over them. You wanted to reach up and take his curls in your fingers, pull him onto his knees and his mouth to your nipple, let him nibble where they pebbled. You wanted to drown the gorgeous fucker, just for being so pretty he was setting your brain on fire.

For a second the two of you stared at each other, trying to pretend the sparks weren’t flying.

‘That can’t be dinner,’ he said, after a while, and you realised he was talking again about your cereal.

‘I could get some grown up muesli if that would make you happy,’ you offered.

‘Wouldn’t want you to get malnourished, come by the pool and drown from lack of…vitamins,’ he finished.

‘Lack of vitamins?’ you teased, and he blushed.

‘Can’t have you wastin’ away on me.’

‘So, you’re saying I have to eat the muesli for your benefit?’ you asked, and he shook his head.

‘No breakfast for dinner,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can fix you somethin’.’

Your heart stopped, right there in the grocery store, in your flip flops with your hair still wet from the pool.

‘…’ you said, and he finally broke your gaze, finally allowed you to breathe for a second. He looked thoughtful, maybe even a little sorry.

‘Not professional of me to ask out the patrons,’ he said, after a while.

‘Do you work at the grocery store?’,’ you asked, bolder than you were feeling. He moved closer towards you, just a half-step, so that you could feel his breath ghosting over your face.

‘If I gave you some exercises, would you do ‘em?’ he asked, his voice so low it came straight from the Devil himself. You felt the jolt of want spear between your legs.

‘My physio might get jealous,’ you said, and he grinned.

‘As your lifeguard I feel like it’s my duty to overrule, baby,’ he said. He lifted a hand to your bad shoulder, holding it gently, supporting the joint. You sighed a little, the extra support releasing some of the pressure from the tendon.

‘If you think it’s that serious,’ you whispered, as you leant in towards him, his mouth hovering just out of reach of yours. ‘Life and death.’

‘I’m afraid I might,’ he replied.

His lips tasted like coffee and sunshine. You lifted your arms to rest them on his shoulders. There was not a single twinge.

[xxspringmelodyxx]

Happy Anniversary~

Gojo Satoru x Reader (angst)

Currently sobbing, crying, and throwing up while writing this

“Toru, stop it!” I giggled, feeling his kisses cascade along my neck while his arms ensnared me, refusing to let me escape.

“But… I… love… you… so… much!” His words punctuated by the soft press of his lips, his embrace tightening around me.

“And I love you more, but we’re out in public. People are staring,” I chided, though the sensation of his cool, tender kisses was undeniably intoxicating.

“Who cares, let them see. Everyone will know that you’re mine~” His declaration sent a flutter through my heart, prompting me to pull back slightly, needing to gaze into his eyes. I gently cupped his face in my hand, tracing the lines of his features with reverence.

He smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes as he watched me with affection. “You know, if you like looking at me that much, I could take a picture for you and sign it even,” he teased, earning an eye roll from me.

“Oh, shut up, you. It’s not my fault you’re the epitome of gorgeousness,” I retorted, unable to hide the fondness in my voice.

“Look who’s talking~” His response was playful as he drew me closer, capturing my lips in a tender kiss.

I closed my eyes, letting him draw me into him. As our kiss deepened, warmth spread through my body, the world around us fading into insignificance. Eventually we needed to pull away to catch our breaths, but that was short lived as Toru pulled me back in for another, not wanting to waste anymore time.

I giggled into the kiss, trying to break away to tease him. I succeeded, but only for a split second. The instant I pulled away, he gently grabbed me by the neck and whispered, “Not yet. I’m not done~”, and pulled me back in.

With each kiss, our connection felt more profound, as if our souls were entwining in perfect harmony. It was a moment suspended in time, where nothing else mattered except the love we shared.

Lost in the bliss of our embrace, we seemed oblivious to the world around us. But reality intruded in the form of a gentle breeze, carrying with it the murmurs of passersby and the distant sounds of traffic.

Reluctantly, we pulled apart, our gazes lingering as if trying to prolong the fleeting moment. Toru’s hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with mine as we began to walk, the city bustling around us.

“So, where to next, my love?” he asked, his tone playful yet tender.

I smiled, the warmth of his affection enveloping me like a comforting embrace. “Anywhere, as long as I’m with you,” I replied, leaning into his side as we continued our journey together.

”Oh baby, there’s nothing that could ever tear me apart from you. I’m with you until the end of eternity,” he spoke, his voice filled with unwavering devotion, making my heart swell with love and hope.

With tears of joy brimming in my eyes, I smiled at him, feeling the warmth of his words wrapping around me like a comforting blanket.

”I love you, my ’Toru~” I whispered softly, the words a balm to my wounded soul.

“And I love you, my N/n~” His response was tender, filled with a depth of emotion that echoed in my heart.

But our moment of bliss was shattered by a sudden, loud noise that pierced through the tranquility like a knife.

“Ugh, what is that noise?” I groaned, instinctively turning to Toru for comfort. But instead of finding solace in his arms, I was met with a heartbreaking sight – his smile, tinged with sadness, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Toru? What’s wrong?” My voice trembled with fear, a cold knot of dread forming in the pit of my stomach.

“It’s time to wake up, my love~” His voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it that sent a chill down my spine.

“What… what are you talking-”

And then darkness consumed me, swallowing me whole as I plummeted into the abyss of consciousness.

———

“About,” I whispered, my eyes fluttering open to the harsh reality of the world around me. My smile that was previously plastered on my face quickly turned into a frown as realization washed over me, shattering my heart into a million irreparable pieces.

It was just a dream. A cruel illusion that teased me with a happiness I could never truly have. A sharp pang of sorrow struck me as I sat up, looking over to the side of the bed where he used to sleep. The place where he used to hold me close. The place where we would talk endlessly about any and everything just to delay going to sleep.

Toru was no longer here, his presence nothing more than a fading memory lingering on the edges of my mind.

I looked over to see my phone alarm going off. I quickly picked it up, turning the alarm off. Before I could put it back on the nightstand, I saw today's date and realized today was…our 5th year anniversary.

A wave of grief washed over me as I stared at the date, the weight of his absence pressing down on my chest like a leaden weight. The world around seemed to blur as memories of us together began to play in my head. The way he held me, the way he spoke to me, the way he looked at me, touched me, kissed me… everything. It all kept replaying in my head like a broken record. And each one… a painful reminder of what I had lost.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I clutched the phone to my chest, wishing that I could go back in time and stop him. If only I had held onto him tighter, told him how much he meant to me, begged him not to leave to go fight Sukuna. But time was cruel, unforgiving, and now he was gone, leaving behind nothing but memories and regrets.

I closed my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they kept coming, a relentless torrent of sorrow that threatened to consume me whole. How could I go on without him? How could I face a world that no longer held his laughter, his warmth, his love?

I pulled the phone away from me, looking at my home screen, seeing the picture of us together. We looked so happy... he looked so happy.

A pang of longing shot through my chest as I stared at the frozen moment of happiness captured in the photo. How I wished I could turn back time, relive those precious moments with him once more.

But reality was unforgiving, and no amount of longing could bring him back. With a heavy heart, I set the phone aside and rose from the bed, a solemn determination settling over me.

I made my way to the door, slipping on a coat to ward off the chill of the morning air. The journey to the cemetery felt like an eternity, each step weighed down by the burden of grief.

———

Finally, I stood before his gravestone, the sight of his name etched in stone sending a shiver down my spine. The world seemed to fall away as I knelt beside his final resting place, the silence broken only by the sound of my ragged breaths.

"I'm here, Toru," I whispered, my voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't forget. I could never forget."

Tears welled up in my eyes as I placed a bouquet of fresh flowers on the cold, hard ground, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the somber surroundings. I knelt down, the tears threatening to fall any second now.

"I miss you," I murmured, my voice choked with emotion. "Every day, every moment. I miss you."

I reached out, tracing the letters of his name with trembling fingers, as if trying to etch them into my memory forever. The pain of his absence threatened to overwhelm me, but I refused to let it consume me.

As I knelt there, the weight of his absence bearing down on me, a profound sadness washed over me. How could someone like him be subjected to such cruelty and pain? Even when he was first born…he was already a target.

“I’m sorry, Toru,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “I’m sorry for everything you had to endure, for the life you were forced to live.”

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thought of all the moments he had missed, all the joys and sorrows he had been denied. He never got to experience the simple pleasures of life, the freedom to choose his own path, to love and be loved without fear or reservation. Simply just because of who he was and this cruel world we live in.

But despite it all, he had remained strong, his spirit unbroken even in the face of unimaginable hardship. And through it all, he had found solace in my love, in the simple act of being seen and cherished for who he truly was.

"I wish I could have given you more," I whispered, my voice barely above a whisper. "I wish I could have shielded you from the pain, shown you the beauty of the world beyond the darkness."

Tears continued to fall unabated as I spoke, each word heavy with the weight of my regret. How I longed to turn back time, to rewrite the script of his life, to spare him from the agony he had endured.

But even as I grappled with my own guilt and sorrow, I knew deep down that Toru had found a kind of peace in my love. In those fleeting moments we shared, he had known what it meant to be truly seen, truly loved, and for that, I would be eternally grateful.

And as I knelt there beside his grave, the quiet stillness of the cemetery enveloping me like a comforting embrace, I made a silent vow to honor his memory in the best way I could – by living my life with the same compassion and kindness that he had shown me.

"I will never forget you, Toru," I whispered into the silence, the words a solemn promise echoing in the air. "I will carry you with me always, in my heart and in my soul."

I leaned over and gave his gravestone a kiss, a powerful pang in my chest appearing.

With one last lingering glance at his gravestone, I rose to my feet, a sense of peace settling over me like a gentle breeze. And as I turned to leave, I knew that even in death, his love would be my guiding light, illuminating the path ahead as I walked forward into the unknown.

With a heavy heart, I whispered the words that had become my mantra, my lifeline in the darkness:

"I love you, Toru. And I always will. Happy Anniversary, my love"

______________

[qtboni]

Heyyy I love your writings so much I wanted to ask if maybe you could write a ghost x reader story with angst to fluff maybe where the reader gets tortured in front of him or gets kidnapped idk

╰﹒ 𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐀 !

PAIRING: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X Reader

C/W: fem!reader, angst to comfort, violent themes, kidnapped/captivity, restraints, choking/strangling, asphyxiation, death (minor), explicit words, inaccurate spanish dialogues, bit of canon divergence. w/c 3.4k

Ghost could only hear the ringing in his ears as a firm hand connected harshly in his head. "C'mon, pinche pendejo," A woman crouched in her knees infront of him, a snarky smile etched in her face. She looked like a predator waiting for her prey to break, and she had no intention of making it easy for him. "We were protecting a friend in the mountains. Someone attacked us there... Who?"

Valeria. Ghost concluded in his thought.

"Go fuck yourself." He grunted as a reply and averted his gaze elsewhere. It was clear he wasn't interested in giving out any information. His insulting statement made the woman's smirk to drop as an irritated expression took place.

"If I were you," Valeria replied, her thick accent sipping through. She snickered as she taunts him by tilting her head to the side, faking a pity expression. "I'd be careful with my words."

"Why would I, ya lil' fucker." Ghost hissed, his brows furrowing as he glared at her with a menacing expression. He tried to move his tied wrists and legs, but the rope was too tight. His frustrations boiled at the feeling of helplessness, the tight bonds threatening to cut off his circulation.

"Because?" She replied with a deep chuckle, her eyes gleaming with a malicious glint. In one swift motion, she grabbed him by his vest and forced him to look up at her. "I have your pequeña princesa right here." Her words were punctuated by a self-assured smirk, her expression daring him to defy her command. His muscles were tense, his hands curled into fists as he struggled against his bonds, the tight rope digging into his wrists and legs as he tried to break free.

'Princesa?' He thought, his mind racing to make sense of her word. But then it clicked.

You.

Ghost took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure in the face of her teasing. ’She's playing with me,’ He thought as he tried to keep a cool head, but her words and expressions were certainly having an effect on him. There was no way Valeria had caught you. He was sure you left with the team!

"So?" Valeria's voice brought him back to where he was. The woman infront of him smiled widely in a sadistic and disturbing manner, her eyes glinting with evil intent. "Tell me. Ask my question,"

"You're a fuckin' lunatic if you think I'll give up intel," He fought against his rising emotions, thinking to himself. She was just messing with his head for sure. But his heart beat at a frantic rhythm, each pulse hammering against his chest as he tried to maintain his composure. "Don't even fuckin' know what you're on about,"

Disappointed, Valeria clicked her tongue. But it was not out of annoyance, no. There was something sinister beneath her snobbish grin, as if she was toying with Ghost and was enjoying it. A series of sinister chuckling enveloped the dark lit room. He could see from the corner of his eyes that a leather roll was unwrapped in the table situated at the side, revealing a collection of various knives, razor blades, tiny tools that were nonetheless can convey damage to one's body.

"No?" Valeria turned away from him for a moment, locking eyes with one of her minions on her right. "Then, I suppose I have no other choice but have you believe me that I stick to my words, hm?"

"Fuck you," He spits even if his heart tightened with dread, thinking for the absolute worst. She's lying. You can't possibly be here. He watches as the woman turned back to him with the same wicked grin, gaze still piercing him like a dagger. "Sit comfortably, yeah?" She continued, speaking as if her decision was already made. She smirked as her words sunk in at Ghost, the thought of harm coming to someone else sending a chill down his spine. "You'll need it."

"I don't f-"

"Wanna know why, cariño?" She cuts him off with a mock, leaning even closer to him. She didn't give him a chance to reply back as her hands wrapped around his covered jaw, her touch causing the skin under to burn with a mental flare. Then she whispered into his ear, her words a slow and teasing drawl. "I'll torture her up real good, and make you... Well," She paused to consider for a moment, before a slow grin spread across her face. "You'll just have to see for yourself." A dark amusement flickered in her eyes, the thrill of his helplessness evident in her tone.

With a rough pat on his cheek, Valeria stood up, her expression serious and professional. "Tráela En," She ordered the men to her side, who immediately obeyed. With a quick glance back to Ghost, the men piled out of the room with Valeria, their footsteps echoing in the hallway outside.

With the men having left the room, Ghost thought of how he could try to escape the restraints that held him down. He wiggled his arms in an effort to free himself from the ropes, but they held firm. His eyes darted around the room frantically, his brain desperately working to develop a plan for escape.

Ghost tried to wriggle his tied up wrists free, but the ropes stubbornly held tight. He took in a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind in order to develop a strategy that could help him escape. He strained as he worked at loosening the ropes, his muscles straining under the effort, and still the bonds refused to budge. With every attempt to free himself, he was met with increasing levels of exhaustion. Time was his enemy here, the clock ticking steadily away. He continued to strain at the ropes, but still they refused to budge. His skin was growing damp with sweat, his breath heavy and raspy. He had to escape, he had to.

Ghost was too focused on freeing himself, his gaze glued to his bound hands, his thoughts locked in a desperate cycle. His focus on escaping the ropes made it impossible for him to notice Valeria entered, his heart racing as her presence suddenly became apparent.

"I was looking forward to this," a raspy voice purred. He snapped turned his head forward, his eyes snapping towards Valeria's boastful stance and... fuck, it's you. The familiar scarf, covered in dirt and dust. Its little ghost drawing, once vibrant and colorful, was now dull and worn, the image haunting him. Even the sound of the heart keychain strapped to your belt was enough to draw him out of his daze, the item bringing back a flood of memories of you.

This can't be.

—

"Yer fuckin crazy," A rough voice was heard amidst the throbbing pain present in your head as you were haphazardly thrown.

You winced as your body collided with what felt like cold asphalt, and tears of anguish welled up in your eyes. Despite the familiar voice you recognized, your covered vision made it difficult to make out anything. The sedatives forced upon you while in captivity made you dizzy and disoriented. As the sack was removed from your head, the full impact of your surroundings flooded your senses. The voices around you were loud and numerous causing white noise in your ears, their words indecipherable to you as your mind struggled to grasp your current situation.

"Don't fuckin' hurt her!"

A sharp yank on your hair jarred you out of your trance, forcing you to look up from the ground. The sound of your lieutenant calling out your name registered in your mind, forcing you to come back to reality. As your eyes met those of Ghost's frantic eyes behind his mask, your heart raced, your anxiety flaring up once again as you quickly assessed what was happening.

Valeria's grip on your hair grew tighter, a cruel and sadistic grin spreading across her lips as your pained gasp filled her with pleasure. "You were expecting someone else, weren't you?" She said to Ghost, her tone dripping with sarcasm and malice. She leaned in closer, her cruel glare inches from your face as she whispered into your ear with a mocking tone, "Too bad. Que te voy a matar." She chuckled, her breath tickling your ear as you winced in pain.

"Just give it up, Valeria," He gritted his teeth in anger. But she laughed, her voice echoing in the room as she turned to Ghost. She held his gaze for a moment, studying his expression. Then, she turned back to you, a cruel grin spreading across her lips. "Oh, you poor thing," she chuckled, her tone dripping with condescension. She softly carressed your scalp as if creating a faux sense of security. "Is this affecting you," She said to Ghost as she ran a finger down your cheek, the sharp pain of her nail digging into your flesh drawing a quick wince from you. "Or do you have anything else in your mind besides this?"

"Fuckin' leave her out of this." Ghost clenched his jaw, desperately trying not to show any more signs of weakness. He tried to stay composed as Valeria leaned in closer to you, her teasing smile growing bigger with every passing moment. He swore the nerves in his arms were bulging out of tense.

You winced at her touch, but you didn't dare to speak as your jaw locked and your muscles tense as you tried to ignore it. Valeria laughed again, moving a step back so she could face him again. "Oh, but I do love the way she look when she's in pain," she said, her tone playful as she studied your tears streaming down your face. "You really should have told me what I wanted to know." She chuckled, moving closer to you again, her hand moving in a gentle caress along his cheek. "It's okay, little sweetheart," she whispered, her voice full of deceiving sweetness.

She has a cruel glint in her eyes as she studied your expression. Her hand gently moved towards your cheek, then her nails started digging into your skin and you gritted your teeth, trying to hold in the cry of pain that was forming in your throat. "Speak, bitch," She spat on you, eyes narrowed with annoyance. You didn't respond, determined to close your mouth. Whatever this was, you're on your lieutenant's side. "No?"

It was only as Valeria let go of her grip on you that you realized how numb your muscles felt. Your legs felt like they were made of lead as you tried to scurry away, but the effects of the torture had left your body limp. Unable to move, unable to escape, you watched helplessly as Valeria went over to the side and grabbed something, the glinting object catching your eye.

You met Ghost's gaze and saw him return it, the terror evident in your expression as he silently implored you to try harder to escape. As if you were the one who has their limbs tied up. "How amusing," Valeria came up between you both, playfully swaying the sharp material in her hands. "It seems like our little friend is too strong-willed for our torture to affect her."

You weren't given the chance to react at all when the knife had already slit your arm. Everything went silent as the stinging sensation was too much to bear. You screamed out as the cold metal pulled out, leaving your blood to gush out of your flesh.

"You fuckin' bitch!" You heard Ghost yell out as he struggled in the chair, attempting to break free from its constraints. Your ears were greeted with the sound of the chair's loud creaks and groans. The noise seemed to echo through the room as he yanked against the ropes, his movements growing more frantic as the sounds turned into small shouts of effort. "I'll fucking kill you!"

"Give me información, pendejo." was all Valeria stated.

As Ghost's struggles continued, your weak and fatigued body could barely muster the energy to keep your eyes open, let alone attempt to help him. He called out for your help with more desperation, his shouts growing louder and more frantic as the knife sliced at your bruised skin again and again.

"S-Stop!" Your body was paralyzed with fear, your mind paralyzed in shock, unable to process what it was witnessing. You wanted to run, to do anything to make it stop. But all you could do was watch, your tears falling down your cheeks. Your body had betrayed you. "Please..."

"Valeria!" Ghost shouted, no, he tried to call for her to stop when your body convulsed as another wave of sobbing washed over you. Two strong hands squeezed your throat, your breaths coming out in shallow gasps. You tried to comply, but the words coming out of your mouth were so slurred and incoherent, it was impossible to understand. You felt like you were on the verge of passing out, your mind and body exhausted from the pain and stress of Valeria's torture.

"Let go!" You choked out the words between the hands on your throat, your strength fading. You tried to pry her off but Valeria's grip only tightened, cutting off your air. As you struggled, she pressed her hand hard against your face.

"Shhh," she whispered, her voice a cruel taunt. Your vision was blurring as your eyes rolled back, a hand over your mouth stifling your desperate screams. Her voice felt far away, as if you were under water.

"Let... please... let go..." you managed to wheeze out desperately. As you fought against the darkness in your mind, your strength waning, you felt your awareness fading away. You felt as if you were floating, weightless and free all over despite the cold temperatures of the air around you. You felt peaceful, your senses fading and your consciousness slipping as you lost your grip on reality, slowly surrendering to the embrace of the void, your world fading away.

As you began to slip away, the world around you began to dissolve into a blur. It was all splotches of black, the darkness slowly consuming your senses. In your distorted vision, you saw something casting a shadow over you. It was hard to tell what it was, but you tried to focus your eyes on it, your irises dilating in recognition. The blurring slowly faded away, your senses sharpening as you glanced over Valeria's shoulder.

There, the person moved quickly, seizing Valeria's arms, yanking her away from you and tossing her aside. He turned to her with a fury in his eyes, ready to throw hands. The world came back to you with a sudden jolt, your lungs inhaling deeply as your eyes popped open. The colors of the room and the chill of the air on your skin became tangible as you registered the sharp pain of the ground beneath you.

With your eyes squinting, you see how she smirked at him, her gaze confident even as Ghost's body trembled with rage. He stepped forward, grabbing Valeria by the hair and twisting it, using his full strength to force her to the ground. He yanked her by the hair across the floor, his grip tight and unforgiving. His eyes filled with hate, his body trembling with anger, as he slammed her face-first into the floor.

"How dare you," he spat, his voice hoarse and raw. "How dare you lay your dirty hands on her!" Ghost's voice was thick with rage and loathing, his words pouring out in a torrent of fury. But Valeria smiled coolly, looking at him dead in the eyes as he continued to pull her across the floor. She didn't try to fight it, allowing herself to be dragged, but Ghost didn't let up. He didn't release his grip on her hair, even as her body bumped and dragged across the floor.

Ghost pulled Valeria forcefully against the wall, pinning her against it as he kept a firm grip on her hair. She tried to move, to squirm free from his grasp, but he didn't let her. She grabbed the knife that was tucked into her belt, the blade glinting in the light, and tried to stab him in the back. Ghost caught the movement in his peripheral vision, and he quickly grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm in a painful maneuver. The knife dropped from her hand as she let out a cry of pain, the blade falling to the floor with a soft thud.

Ghost looked down at Valeria, her expression twisted into a smirk as she glared up at him in defiance. In that moment, he felt his rage flare, his emotions taking over. Ghost brought his face right up to Valentina's, his expression filled with cold malice and hatred. "What?" He asked, his voice a harsh whisper. "Did you think I *wouldn't* finish you off?" He grabbed hold of her hair with both hands, his expression feral as he looked into her eyes.

Ghost twisted Valeria's arm sharply, and before she knew it, he had her in a chokehold. He tightened his grip, his face filled with rage as he looked into her eyes. She struggled desperately, trying to fight him off, but Ghost's strength was overwhelming. He held on tight, slowly squeezing tighter and tighter, his grip tightening with each breathe. She coughed and gasped for air, her eyes filling with a mixture of fear and regret. And then, a moment later, she was gone. The sound of her body hitting the floor broke the silence as Ghost released his grip, letting her fall to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood above Valeria's motionless body, his breath catching in his throat.

"Lt..." You managed to choke out as you cleared your throat, trying to get his attention to you. Your hands were shaking, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. He slowly turned to look at you, eyes filling with sudden concern. As the pain and anger disappeared, he was overcome by fear and anxiety, the thought of losing you too much to bear.

He rushed towards you, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no hesitation, his arms enveloping your body in a tight embrace. His embrace was tight and firm, his body pressed up against yours with his warmth radiating from him and his breath filling your ears. The adrenaline pumping through his body still, and you trembled in his arms, clinging to him for reassurance.

"We need to leave fast, love," He murmured, absentmindedly calling you a petname, as he took notice of the bruises and bleeding cuts marring your body. Without another word, he lifted you into his arms, your body limp and weak, and carried you. "Not for long before those suckers come here,"

You hummed as a reply, too tired to form words as you rested your head on his firm chest. You felt him adjusting you a bit when his hand came in contact with the cuts you had on your arm and you hissed, body curling up to comfort yourself. "Sorry," he whispered, his voice gentle. He stayed close to you, letting you lean into him as your body trembled. The fear began to fade, and you felt his warmth surround you, his arms a source of strength and comfort.

As Ghost, with you in his arms, walked outside, you were both silent. The cold air and the rustling of your clothing movements were the only sounds you heard, the sounds of the outside world muted and hazy. Ghost's grip around you was firm and protective, and you felt his body against yours as the cold air brushed back your hair. There were no words spoken between you, the air filled with silence and Ghost's gentle breathing, his warm presence beside you.

Suddenly, Ghost's voice filled your ears and it sent your heart fluttering. "Swear on my word," He gently whispered in the volume of what he should only hear. The heat of his embrace still radiating around you, his arms still wrapped around you, protecting you from the world. "I'll never let you get hurt again."

[dark-and-kawaii]

𝐹𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒟𝑜𝓋𝑒

Haarlep x Reader/Tav

Summary: Haarlep is torn between their nature as an incubus and unexpected feelings for you as they comfort you through a nightmare.

Notes: This was supposed to be apart of the soft Haarlep series but I preferred it on its own. Maybe I’m wrong for that, but still enjoy our favorite incubus xoxo

Ao3

Haarlep stirs from their slumber as they sense your body wracked with silent tremors. Their groggy gaze, heavy with the remnants of the void, lands upon you. There, in the dim lighted boudoir, they watch your features contort in silent agony.

Your brows knitted in distress; eyes flickering in a frenzied dance behind their veils, fists clenched to the point of blanching, and oh, those delectable beads of sweat adorning your brow, rendering you a vision of tortured grace. Trapped in the clutches of a nightmare, how Haarlep’s dark heart revels in the sweetness of your fear. You looked beautiful like this.

Yet, as he languishes in the sight of your torment, a bitter reminder gnaws at them; you are Raphael's precious "little mouse”. A reluctant savior, the incubus nudges your shoulder, coaxing you back to the waking world of Avernus. Your eyes flutter open, brimming with tears that carve trails of sorrow down your cheeks.

"Such agony etched upon your face, a sight so deliciously tragic," Haarlep muses, propping themselves up on one elbow, drinking in the view of your disheveled form. Your breaths come in tattered heaves, your gaze locking onto theirs with a terror that suggests you're still ensnared by the nightmare's tendrils.

"Haarlep?" you whisper, the name a feeble breath of sound.

"Last I checked," Their tone laced with an edge of mockery.

You scan them, searching, clinging to the reality of their presence. "I... You were-,” You hesitated, your eyes twitching from the vivid nightmare, “You were dead…- taken from me in that nightmare…," you confess, your voice a fractured whisper as you burrow into their warm chest, seeking solace. "The fear was-, the thought of losing you… I-”

Those words strike a dissonant chord in Haarlep's shadowed heart. Their expression falters, unseen by you. Shouldn't your heart be laden with dread at the thought of losing Raphael, not them, a mere incubus bound to the infernal depths? The revelation is a torment all on its own, a twisted irony that stirs within their damned soul.

Your head remained buried in their chest, Haarlep could feel the cascade of tears soaking into their skin, each drop a testament to your fears. Your grip on them tightens, as if afraid to let go, as if desperate to anchor yourself to Haarlep to assure you of their existence. Fingers dig into their fiendish skin, a grasp so desperate it borders on pain, a silent plea for him to remain at your side, "It felt so real, Haarlep," you murmur against them, the weight of your sorrow imbuing your every word. "To lose you… I- I couldn't bear it… I was so scared."

How Haarlep longed to devour those precious tears, to gorge themself on your terror. But, there, in that moment, with your trembling form nestled against their chest, your words meant for them rather than Raphael, they feel the ache to embrace you, to soothe away the shadows of your nightmare.

"You should watch your words, dove," Haarlep purrs, stroking the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. "What would Raphael do, should he hear these words?"

You stiffen at the mention of his name, your breath caught in your throat, but the tears continue to spill.

"What would you have me do?" Haarlep hums. "Would you have me vanquish the devil that taints your dreams?" They punctuate the question with a nip to your shoulder, savoring the flavor of your skin, your body responding with a shudder.

"Just… stay with me," you breathe. "Please. Don’t ever go."

Haarlep sighs. How cruel this night proves itself to be, taunting them with a morsel of desire and then robbing them of its sweet sustenance. But they oblige, allowing you to wrap yourself around their frame, their limbs coiling around yours.

"Sleep," Haarlep whispers against the nape of your neck.

Their command seeps into the air. It beckons to your consciousness, dragging you back into the realm of sleep. Haarlep watches as your muscles relax, a contented sigh escaping your lips. A smirk graces their lips, yet the expression fails to reach their eyes, an emptiness lurking behind their crimson gaze…

An emptiness that is foreign, unwelcome. A feeling unbefitting of a creature born of darkness and lust. Haarlep's nature dictates they relish in the despair of others, and feed off their pleasure, not offer comfort, not feel the pang of something akin to... concern? But as you lie there, clinging to them, Haarlep cannot deny the shift within, the stirrings of a sentiment they dare not name aloud.

In the quietude of the boudoir, with only the flickering shadows as their audience, Haarlep contemplates the enigma you've become. To them, you are Raphael's, yet, in this moment, you are undeniably theirs. The incubus is caught in a web of their own making, one thread of true care woven into the fabric of deceit and seduction.

"Little dove," Haarlep murmurs, their face pressing into your shoulder. You nestle closer, a silent affirmation of the security you feel in Haarlep's arms as you drift off.

Haarlep remains still, allowing the quiet rhythm of your breath to wash over them, a calming counter to the chaos of their thoughts. Soon a new day will bring reality, and with it, Raphael's return. Haarlep knows that when the time comes to relinquish you back to their master, the incubus will do so with a heavy heart, a heart that should know no such weight.

For now, they allow themselves this indulgence, to watch over you as you sleep, to be your silent protector against the night's terrors. And when you awake to greet Raphael, Haarlep will retreat behind their mask of indifference, their role as your companion tucked away like a shadow at daybreak.

Yet, as Haarlep's eyes finally close, surrendering to the weary pull of their own slumber, they cannot escape the truth that has been whispered in the dark: they do not wish to let you go. And that realization is perhaps the most terrifying dream of all.

[dnf171]

prompt—When we broke up but I'm still his emergency contact for maxiel

sad fic alert! i hope you like it <3

Max wakes up to the angry vibration of his phone on the bedside table, the flashing screen far too bright in the dark of their- his bedroom.

With heavy eyes, he tries to make sense of the blurred numbers, the ones that tell him it's four-thirty in the morning and the ones that tell him it's an unknown number calling. The area code is from here, from Monaco.

"Hello?" He answers after just a moment of considering letting it ring out. He'd been having a good dream, full of honking laughter and summer sun, in which the noise of the phone had been the waves of the sea until he'd woken up.

"Is this Max Verstappen?" A serious-sounding voice on the other end of the line asks. Before Max can ask in return, who wants to know- "I am calling about Daniel Ricciardo."

For a heart-stopping moment, Max wonders if this is him. The man Daniel has been photographed leaving clubs with, who has shown up to races with him, who is probably keeping his bed warm since-

"Who is this?" Max asks, hot anger boiling over his voice, replacing the previous lukewarm irritation. "What-"

"I'm a nurse calling from the Princess Grace Hospital," the voice interrupts, quick and professional, "Mr Ricciardo had an accident while out at a nightclub, intoxicated."

The words are icey water thrown over the furious fire in Max's gut. Goosebumps raise over his arms, his legs, his whole body as he throws the covers off, already scrambling for the jeans he shrugged off just before bed.

"An accident," he repeats, panic raising the pitch of his voice an entire octave, "is he-"

"Mr Ricciardo is fine," the voice interrupts again, smooth. "A few stitches in his arm where he cut himself on some glass in the bar, a bruised head from a fall. We have cleared the risk of a concussion. We just need someone to pick him up and take him home."

Relief threatens to choke Max, but then with it a sense of dread that coils tight in his stomach. It doesn't stop him from reaching for the keys of his fastest car, because he knows the answer already to the next question he asks.

"You want me to- To come and get him?"

"Yes," the man confirms, "He isn't sober enough for us to discharge him without a family or friend."

Max doesn't have the heart to tell this stranger that he isn't either anymore.

---

Sat on the edge of the hospital bed, Daniel has the nerve to look sheepish. It's obvious he's still a little drunk from the way he sways even sat down. It's obvious he's had more than just alcohol from the anxious way his foot is tapping against air, the bed too high for his feet to touch the ground.

"Hi Maxy," he says looking up to see Max standing in the doorway, and Max wonders when one nickname and the flash of a smile will stop him from remembering how happy he used to be.

At his sides, his fingers itch to reach out, to touch what Max knows too well are the softest parts of him, to make sure they are still warm.

"Daniel," is all he says instead, and for a moment they just stare at each other under the harsh glare of fluorescent hospital lighting. Then, "they called me, to come to get you."

Daniel nods, and then the nod dissolves into shaking his head from side to side as though moving it to music only he can hear.

"Yeah well," he snorts, "they think a few little stitches and a bash on the head is enough to require a babysitter. I did try to tell them I'm a badass race car driver and this-" he waves his left arm -"is nothing compared to my titanium hand, but-"

He punctuates his protests with a jerky shrug, and this is nothing like the Daniel that Max knows.

The Daniel Max knows would be pouting, asking if Max thought he was brave for doing it all alone. Better yet, the Daniel Max knows would have wanted Max here to hold his hand while the doctor threaded the needle through his skin. Would want Max to look after him afterwards, to make it all better with a kiss and buttery toast in bed.

With Daniel's arm still waving indignantly in the air, for the first time, Max looks at it properly. Before, he'd been too busy looking at his face, the red rim of his eyes, the dark circles underneath them, still so greedy to drink him in. At race weekends in front of cameras, he's made an art of looking away.

The bandages are thick, covering a lot of his forearm. The baby cupid with his bow is mostly covered, the delicate arch of his foot and toes are the only parts of him visible, peeking out from the bottom.

"Did it hurt?" Max can't help but ask, and it's stupid. That even after perfecting the hurt they caused each other with months of shouting matches, followed by even more of stone cold silence, the idea of Daniel in pain is still one that he can't quite stomach.

Daniel's gaze shifts down to fix on his own shoes as he answers.

"Nah," is all he says with another shrug. "Nah, I just- I'm tired mate, can you drive me home? Or to your place, I just- I need to sleep it off."

Max tries not to wince at the reminder that home and Max's apartment aren't the same thing to Daniel anymore.

"Okay," he says, nodding even though Daniel isn't looking at him. "Let me find the nurse, for your paperwork."

---

In the car, Daniel presses his cheek against the window and lets his eyes fall shut.

Months ago, in another life, Max could have told Daniel not to smudge the glass with his sweaty skin. Daniel would have giggle infuriatingly and told Max, you love my sweat. Maybe Max would have a hand on Daniel's knee. Maybe Max would have leant over at the traffic lights to lick his cheek and joke back, salty, my favourite.

Or maybe he would have got annoyed, like at the end, and told Daniel to stop being such a child.

"Did you ask them to call me?" Max asks eventually, just as the light turns green again. The question has been playing on his mind since the panic of being woken by a hospital phone call ebbed away.

On the other side of the windows, the sun is beginning to rise. A new day.

"No," Daniel says, his voice clear. More awake than he looks. "No they- I forgot to change my emergency contact info back to Blake."

Max bites the inside of his cheek and nods. It's not something he thought about, because it's not something he has had to do himself. His dad is still his number one 'in case of emergency' number, and his manager Raymond his number two. It's something they fought about, once, Max not understanding the big deal, but now-

Now, one day Daniel might get really hurt or worse, and it makes Max's stomach churn to realise he would have to hear about it from Instagram or the Daily Mail like everyone else who isn't special to him.

It's not until they pull up outside Daniel's apartment building that he opens his eyes again to see where Max is dropping him off. He looks disappointed, and then- Hurt.

It takes everything in Max not to tell him to wait, that he'll drive them back to Max's place, home after all. To promise that Daniel can sleep it off in their old bed, that Max will make him their usual hangover cure that Daniel teasingly nicknames 'Max-y-Million's breakfast of champions,' but-

It'd be too hard, to know that none of it would be real. That Daniel wouldn't stay, but that the images of him there amongst all of Max's things that used to be their things would. To feel the moment fade into another memory that haunts the apartment.

"Do you need me to walk you up?" Max offers instead, but he knows what the answer will be before Daniel speaks.

"I'm good," Daniel promises, face shuttering closed so Max can no longer see the soft vulnerability of his surprise at them winding up back here, at this crossroads again.

The last time Max had driven him here it had been with a car full of suitcases and cardboard boxes.

"Okay," Max says, and it's ironic how out of all the times he threw Daniel's immaturity in his face, he is now the one suddenly blinking back tears like a child. He fixes his eyes on his steering wheel, the bold yellow Ferrari badge, so he doesn't have to watch Daniel leave again.

The car door doesn't open.

"Maxy," Daniel sighs instead, and it's all it takes for the first tear to fall, to slide off his nose and into his lap. "Max, I-"

"Don't," Max pleads, even though he's desperate to know what Daniel might say.

I miss you. I love you. I hate you. I remember when we used to be easy, why can't it be like that anymore?

"Me too," he says, because no matter what it's the truth.

Daniel's fingertips on his cheek make Max jerk, the unexpected tenderness as he wipes away a tear startling him. When Max won't look at him, Daniel sighs again, a little harder. More softness Max has chipped away from him.

"I'll see you in Barcelona," is all he says though, and the next sound is the slam of the car door behind him.

[slut4evanpeters]

The other women

tate langdon x reader

based on "the other women" by lana del rey

warnings: angst

word count: 1.2k

notes: wrote this in the bathtub while listening to lana....maybe a little 🍃 was involved....

The days felt endless in the Murder House, stretched out in eternal dusk, punctuated only by stolen moments with Tate. For so long, you were his only solace, a quiet comfort in the night, a pair of haunted souls who clung to each other, bound by the same loneliness. You had found something rare and beautiful in him, a kind of love that didn’t need the warmth of daylight, a love that thrived in the darkness. He’d told you as much, promised you that in this house, you would always have each other.

But that was before her.

The Harmon family arrived one chilly October (?) evening, and everything changed. You felt a shift, a cold breeze that settled in your bones. You didn’t need to see Tate’s face to know that his attention was caught by her the moment she moved in. Violet. Even the sound of her name felt like an intrusion, an uninvited guest between you and him.

Days passed, and you could see the way he looked at her. He’d disappear for hours, drifting toward her room, slipping through walls just to catch a glimpse of her sitting on her bed, scribbling in her notebook, headphones on, oblivious to him. He was drawn to her in a way that was effortless and magnetic, the same way he had once been drawn to you. You’d once been that light for him. Now, you were nothing but a flickering candle in the shadow of something so much brighter.

One evening, after another day of him being away, you finally confronted him.

“Tate, where were you?” you asked, your voice barely hiding the hurt that sat, heavy and bitter, at the back of your throat. You were standing in the hallway, your arms folded, your eyes searching his for a glimpse of something familiar. Something that would tell you he was still yours.

He blinked, a small frown creasing his forehead. “Just…around,” he said, brushing past you. But you caught his wrist, desperate to keep him from slipping away.

“Around?” you repeated, bitterness coloring your tone. “Or with her?”

He looked at you, an unreadable look in his eyes, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he sighed, pulling his arm from your grasp. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You felt a pang in your chest, a sharp twist of jealousy and sorrow that you couldn’t shake. “I wouldn’t understand? Tate, I’ve been here with you. I am here with you. What does she have that I don’t?”

His gaze dropped to the floor, and for the first time, you saw it—the guilt, the hesitation. But there was something else, too, something that cut deeper than any knife.

“She’s…alive.” he said, his voice a whisper.

The word hit you like a punch to the gut. Alive. A word that meant everything in the house of the dead. You felt the cold realization settling in—you could never be what she was. She was real, tangible, and you were just a ghost. A reminder of everything he wanted but could never have.

“So that’s it?” you asked, voice breaking. “You’re just going to leave me, Tate?”

He looked at you with something close to pity, but there was no trace of regret. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I just… I feel something when I’m around her. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

Your heart twisted, breaking in his hands as he stood there, speaking the truth that you’d dreaded. You wanted to scream, to cry, to beg him to choose you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say the words. Instead, you nodded, swallowing the bile rising in your throat.

He lingered, as though he wanted to say more, but then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the darkened hallway.

The nights became harder after that. He would come to you, always after he’d spent the day with her. You became the place he went to bury his guilt, to drown his uncertainty. He would hold you, his hands roaming, lips desperate against yours, but his touch was colder now, empty of the warmth it once held. You could feel it every time he left—pieces of him slipping away, fragments of the boy you once knew disappearing into the ether.

“Do you love her?” you asked him one night, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his arm draped over you in a way that felt suffocating.

He was silent for a long time, and then he spoke, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know.”

It felt like a slap. You turned, looking at him, searching his face for any sign that he might still feel something for you, that you weren’t just a substitute, a convenience. But all you saw was conflict, a tangled mess of emotions that weren’t meant for you.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you whispered, tears threatening to spill over. “If you don’t know what you feel… why do you keep coming back to me?”

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. “Because…you’re familiar. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word made you feel hollow, like an afterthought. You were the comfort he turned to when things got too heavy with her, the steady presence he clung to when he couldn’t face his own feelings. But you were never the one he truly wanted.

“You’re using me,” you choked out, the realization hitting you like a wave. “I’m just… I’m just here because it’s easy.”

His eyes shot open, guilt flashing across his face. “No, that’s not-”

“Don’t lie to me, Tate,” you cut him off, voice trembling. “You love her. I can see it every time you look at her. You don’t look at me like that anymore.”

He tried to reach for you, but you pulled away, heart breaking with each step you took. “I love you,” he said softly, and for a moment, you almost believed him. Almost.

“Then why isn’t it enough?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. You didn’t wait for his answer. You turned and left the room, your heart shattering with each step you took, knowing that he would go back to her, knowing that he would continue to look at her the way he once looked at you.

In the end, you resigned yourself to your role—the other woman, the forgotten ghost lingering in the halls, waiting for a boy who would never be yours. You kept your room meticulously clean, arranged fresh flowers in every corner, wore the scent he loved, all for the rare moments when he would slip away from her to be with you. But every time he held you, you felt the emptiness, the absence of the boy you had loved. The boy who had once promised you forever.

And as the years wore on, you found yourself alone more often than not, crying into the quiet, knowing that no matter how hard you tried, you would always be the second choice, the one he would leave behind. The one he would never love the way he loved her.

The other woman.

[redroomreflections]

II HANDS II HEAVEN 2

Notes: I listened to Beyonce's album and wanted to write something to this song

Summary: Natasha Romanoff and Reader reluctantly team up for a couples retreat mission. Despite initial resistance, they find themselves drawn together by unexpected circumstances and shared experiences.

Masterlist | General Masterlist

w/c: 4.5k

Hour 1: 

The soft click of buttons being pressed echoed all around you as you searched for a suitable station. The radio's static hissed between each channel, punctuating your frustrated tsk of disapproval.

"Why can't you keep it on one thing?" Natasha's voice broke the silence, her annoyance noticeable. It was the first thing she had said to you thus far. She was committed to the cold and unimpressed demeanor. 

"I haven't heard a good song so far," You grumbled, settling back into your seat. "I'm bored. Do you have Spotify?"

Natasha shook her head curtly, her response brief and to the point.

"Okay, Apple Music then?" You pressed, determined to find a solution to your boredom.

Natasha's expression remained unchanged as she replied with another terse shake of her head, making it clear she wasn't interested in engaging in conversation.

"You do know you'll have to talk to me at some point?" You asked, turning to face Natasha, hoping to elicit some kind of response from her.

"I dread the moment it comes," Natasha mumbled, her tone tinged with a hint of resignation as if speaking more to herself than to you.

"Are you always this rude and cold to your teammates, or do you reserve that for me?" you tilted your head, your irritation beginning to bubble to the surface.

"I treat everyone according to their merits," Natasha replied evenly, her expression unreadable.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You frowned. 

"It means I assess each situation and act accordingly," Natasha replied cryptically, her gaze steady.

"Okay," You whistled, a hint of frustration in your tone. "I'm not a fan of kissing ass, so I guess we won't ever talk then." With a resigned sigh, you turned to look out of the window, feeling drained by the interaction. Despite your initial excitement about joining missions and working with Natasha, the reality proved less than enjoyable.

Hour 3 

Three hours with no good music or anyone to talk to. For the average person, it might break them. Not literally, but it's difficult to remain silent for such an extended period. However, for two spies, the task is easy. Natasha keeps her eyes steady on the road, her hands firm on the wheel, and the gas pedal at an easygoing pace. She's actually a decent driver, not that you expected anything less.

Conversely, you have resorted to counting the cell phone towers you encounter along the road. That, and the number of horses you see. It's a mundane task, but it helps pass the time as the miles stretch endlessly.

"I'm not the enemy," You said softly, breaking the silence again.

At first, it seemed that Natasha hadn't heard you. Her posture remained unchanged, giving no indication that she had acknowledged your words.

"I said I'm not the enemy," You repeated, a note of frustration creeping into your voice.

"Really? I read your file," Natasha shrugged, her tone matter-of-fact. "It doesn't paint exactly a friendly picture."

"That was supposed to be private," You raised a brow, feeling a twinge of frustration at the breach of privacy.

"As if they would allow someone like you on the team without warning all of us," Natasha pointed out, her gaze still fixed on the road ahead.

"Someone like me," You repeated, tasting the words on your tongue. It didn't sit well with you. "They allowed someone like you on the team and turned out just fine."

Natasha's expression remained impassive as she glanced briefly at you before returning her focus to the road. "Actions speak louder than words," she replied curtly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Really? How much did you have to clean from your ledger before they finally saw you as one of them?” You asked. 

Natasha's reply was a simple, nonchalant shrug, but her silence spoke volumes. It was clear from her demeanor that she wasn't fond of you, and you could sense the tension lingering between you like a heavy cloud. Despite your attempts to make things a little less tense between you,  Natasha's guarded stance remained unchanged, leaving you with the unsettling feeling that maybe some divides were too deep to mend.

Hour 5 

Pit stops are always a welcome break from the monotony of the road. After spending so much time in close quarters with Natasha, you practically leap out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop. Unclicking your seatbelt, you hastily rush out of the vehicle before she even puts it in the park.

The gas station was surprisingly crowded for the time of day, but you paid no mind as you barreled through the door and made a beeline for the bathroom. You scrunched your nose at the sight of the less-than-ideal conditions—rusty and tainted yellow seats—but there was no time to be prissy about cleanliness. Squatting over the toilet, you made do with what you had, knowing that as long as it got the job done, you could steam your lady bits later if needed. 

As Natasha took on the task of pumping gas, she locked the car doors before heading inside the gas station. She grabbed a few energy drinks from the cooler, anticipating that you'd be on the road for a few hours longer before calling it a night. 

Approaching the attendant, Natasha paid with cash, dropping a fifty-dollar bill onto the counter without hesitation. She was accustomed to taking care of things herself, and this small gesture was just another example of her practicality and self-sufficiency. From the corner of her eye, she could see you exit the bathroom and begin to peruse the aisles. Figures you’d take longer in here too. 

You immediately gravitated towards the trashy magazines, scanning the shelves for the latest editions of Us Weekly. Picking up a few copies along with a crossword puzzle, you indulged in some guilty pleasures to pass the time. Satisfied with your selection, you moved on to the snack aisle, grabbing a plethora of junk food to ease your mind during the long drive ahead.

As you were finishing up your shopping, a man approached you. He was not half bad, but at least ten years your senior.

"Well, aren't you a pretty thing," He said, his tone oozing with charm. “Are you from around here?”

"Well, thank you," You replied, flashing him a coy smile as you played along with his flirtation. "No, I'm just passing through," you added, subtly keeping the conversation light and casual.

“What a shame,” He shook his head. “We’ve never had someone so pretty like you in town before.”

You chuckled lightly at his compliment, the corner of your lips curling into a playful smirk. "Well, I guess it's your lucky day then," you teased, enjoying the brief flirtation despite knowing it was all in jest.

The atmosphere suddenly shifted at the sound of a throat loudly clearing behind him that caught your attention. Without needing confirmation, you already knew who it is. Natasha stood there, her expression visibly ticked off as she looked between the two of you. 

"Oh, hey you," You said,  trying to diffuse the tension with a casual greeting. "I was just talking to my friend," you added, quickly glancing at his name tag and noting that he's an employee here. "Monty."

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly as she caught onto your subtle attempt to downplay the situation. Stepping forward, she interjected smoothly, "Actually, Monty, my wife and I are just passing through. Isn't that right?" She emphasized the word 'wife' with a hint of amusement. The slight raise of your brow indicated you were impressed with her. 

You couldn’t resist the urge to push her buttons just a little further, knowing exactly which nickname would get under her skin. With a mischievous glint in your eye, you turned to Natasha and said, "That’s right, babe," You passed Nataha all of your items to carry. “Thank you for the compliment, Monty. Gonna take the old ball and chain here back on the road.” You gestured to Natasha as she rolled her eyes. 

You walked away with Natasha hot on your heels, feeling the weight of her disapproving gaze. As she passed the items to the attendant and dropped another twenty on the counter, her frown deepened.

"I can't believe you," Natasha shook her head, clearly unimpressed with your behavior.

"What, marriages aren't always sunshine and rainbows," you shrugged nonchalantly, flashing her a grin before adding, "Oh, and these too," as you gestured to a pack of cigarettes behind the attendant.

Natasha's disapproving look intensified as she glanced at the cigarettes. "You know those kill, right?" she remarked, her tone laced with concern.

You met Natasha's disapproving gaze with a playful twinkle in your eye. "Ah, but where's the thrill in life without a little risk?" you quipped, shrugging off her concern as you reached for the pack of cigarettes. You shot Natasha a cheeky grin, unfazed by her concern. "Don't worry, honey, I'll write you into my will," you jested, playfully taunting her as you grabbed your bag full of goodies.

With a final wave, you strode out of the store, the jingle of the doorbell emphasizing your exit.

Natasha rolled her eyes at your remark for what felt like the millionth time.  "Don't bother," she retorted dryly. She followed in your footsteps only to find you taking selfies with one of the new cellphones Steve provided both of you. 

“What are you doing?” She asked. 

You glanced up from your selfies, a mischievous grin spreading across your face as you held up the phone. "Just documenting our thrilling adventure," you quipped, snapping another photo before turning the camera towards Natasha. "Say cheese!"

Natasha sighed, walking over to the gas pump to finish filling the tank. 

“You know, for a spy, you’re too stiff,” You commented. “This is to show off. We can’t be newlyweds if we don’t have any pictures.” 

Natasha cast a skeptical glance over her shoulder as she finished up at the pump. "I fail to see how selfies contribute to our cover," she remarked dryly, her tone indicating her reluctance to participate in your impromptu photoshoot. Nonetheless, she didn't protest further, knowing that maintaining the illusion of a happy couple is crucial for the success of the mission.

Back on the road again. 

Hour 8 

As you lazily flipped through the pages of yet another US Weekly magazine, the last hour seemed to blur into a haze of crosswords and candy consumption. Your feet rested against the dash of the car, a piece of licorice hanging between your lips as you absentmindedly hummed along to the music playing in the background.

"It's amazing what she thinks of marriage," you mumbled to yourself, your attention caught by the latest gossip surrounding Jennifer Lopez's love life. "It's like celebrities don't care about the sanctity of marriage or something."

“You say this as if we aren’t doing the same thing right now,” Natasha commented. 

“She speaks,” You chewed the last of your licorice. “It’s not the same thing. We are doing this for the greater good of the people.”

“If you say so,” Natasha shrugged. “Get your feet off the dash.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully at Natasha's instruction, but complied nonetheless, retracting your feet from the dashboard with a sigh. "Fine, fine," you conceded, settling back into your seat and returning your attention to the magazine in your hands. "Oh, a couple's questionnaire. We should do this. It might help with our story better," you suggested eagerly.

Natasha's expression remains unchanged, a hint of reluctance flickering in her eyes as she considers your proposal. "I suppose it couldn't hurt," she gave in reluctantly, her tone betraying her lack of enthusiasm for the task.

You reached into the glove box for a pen before writing both of your names on the page. “Okay, first question. What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

Natasha's response was simple and to the point. "Strawberry," she answered. 

You couldn't help but recoil in mock horror. "Strawberry? What, no one likes strawberry," you exclaimed, feigning disgust at her choice.

“Well I do,” Natasha rolled her eyes. 

“Mine is chocolate,” You answered. “What are some of your healthy and unhealthy habits?”

Natasha paused for a moment, considering the question carefully before responding. "Healthy habits? I prioritize physical fitness and maintain a disciplined training regimen," she began, her tone matter-of-fact. "As for unhealthy habits, I have a tendency to keep my emotions guarded, which can sometimes lead to a lack of emotional expression and connection with others," she admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of self-awareness.

“Self aware queen,” You scribbled into the blank space. 

“Yours is smoking right?” Natasha titled her chin to the pack of cigarettes sitting in your lap. 

“Yes, and no,” You said quietly. 

“What does that mean?”

You glanced down at the pack of cigarettes in your lap, a faint frown crossing your features as Natasha brought up the topic.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, prompting you to elaborate on your ambiguous answer.

"It means... it's complicated," You explained with a sigh, hesitant to delve into the complexities of your relationship with smoking. 

“Something your wife should know right?” 

Natasha's remark struck a chord, and you offered a small nod in response.

"Yeah, something my wife should know," You agreed, acknowledging the validity of her point.

As Natasha waited for an explanation, you took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before speaking.

"After I defected, and even a little before, I needed something to calm me and keep me busy," You began, your voice filled with a hint of vulnerability. "I tried a lot of things—painting, reading, training. But... nothing seemed to stick quite like smoking did," you admitted reluctantly, feeling a pang of shame at the admission.

Natasha nodded in understanding. 

“What’s your favorite position,” You asked suddenly. 

Natasha's eyebrow arched in surprise at your unexpected question, her gaze shifting to meet yours as she processed your words.

"What? That's not in the book," She remarked,  a hint of amusement coloring her tone.

You offer a playful smirk in response, shrugging nonchalantly. "You're right, it's not. But it's something a wife should know," you quip, the mischievous glint in your eyes betraying your playful intent.

There’s a few seconds of silence before Natasha decided to answer. Though you’re not sure if the answer is her truth or not. You suppose its not for you to challenge. 

“Missionary,” Natasha answered. 

“Missionary?” You asked incredously. 

“What? What’s wrong with that?” She glanced over at you. 

“Nothing, nothing,” You hurriedly smoothed it over. You debated on your next comment but decided to anyway. “It’s just… so vanilla.”

“Vanilla can be nice,” She shrugged. “Besides, it’s not supposed to be my answer. It’s Joan’s answer.” 

“Joan?” You questioned. Natasha reached into the glove box to pull out two black wallets.

You took the IDs from Natasha's outstretched hand, examining them briefly before nodding in acknowledgment. "Joan and Alexis White," you repeat, committing the names to memory as Natasha provides you with the fabricated backstory.

"We got married last year in Turks and Caicos," Natasha continues, her tone matter-of-fact. "We did a no electronics wedding. Completely unplugged, so barely any pictures. We met in college. You studied psychology and you’re halfway through your master's in clinical counseling. You took a couple of years off school to take care of your sick parents. I finished law school and became an attorney."

You take in the details of the fabricated narrative, filing them away for future reference. "Interesting," you echo, your response neutral as you consider the implications of your new identities. 

“I know a guy,” Natasha adjusted her position in the seat. 

“Can I ask you something?” You turned in your seat to fully look at her. 

“I thought we were already doing that?” Natasha said. 

“No, but off the record,” You sighed. “Why do you hate me?”

Natasha's expression remained stoic as she met your gaze, her eyes betraying a hint of guardedness. There was a moment of silence as Natasha considered her response, her expression unreadable as she chose her words carefully.

“I know you consider me a lazy, untrained spy but…” 

Natasha's features softened ever so slightly, a flicker of empathy glimmering in her eyes as she met your gaze.

"I don't hate you," She responded quietly, her tone gentle yet firm. "And I don't consider you lazy or untrained. You have your strengths, just as I have mine. We're a team, whether we like it or not. But we need to learn to trust each other if we're going to make this work." 

“I’m not who you all think I am,” You said. “You read my file. My past is…”

"I know we all have our secrets," She replied gently, her tone surprisingly understanding. "And sometimes, our past doesn't define who we are in the present. Everyone has their reasons.” 

Indeed they do. 

Hour 12 

As sunlight still bathed the winding roads, both of you acknowledged the exhaustion of the day and the need for a break. Pulling up to the nearest Holiday Inn, Natasha brought the car to a stop. You had just drifted into sleep, your head leaning against the window. Natasha hesitated to disturb your rest, admiring the peacefulness that enveloped you in slumber.

She hadn’t known before that you could talk this much. She tried to push down the feelings of guilt she felt as she thought about what you said earlier. She doesn’t hate you. She's simply not fond of you or new people in general. She read your file which she doesn’t regret but what she found in there was a story much like her own. 

A lonely kid with nowhere to go. A convenient organization willing to pay whatever to take advantage of you. It’s clear you hold more guilt and pain over your past but things are still so new. She remembers feeling that way before. Though she may not express it openly, Natasha acknowledged the complexity of your situation and the depth of your pain. She understood the burden of carrying secrets and regrets, and she felt a twinge of empathy for the vulnerable, lonely kid she saw reflected in you.

Startling awake as you sensed the car no longer moving, you opened your eyes to find Natasha quickly averting her gaze. The realization dawned on you that you've arrived at your destination for the night. Despite the abrupt awakening, you felt a sense of relief at the prospect of rest after the long journey. 

“We can crash here for the night,” Natasha announced, unfastening her seatbelt. “Book a room or two.”

“Sounds good,” You agreed with a weary nod, gathering your belongings as you followed Natasha into the hotel.

Approaching the front desk, Natasha inquired about booking a couple of rooms for the night. However, the receptionist, Lou, delivered an unwelcome message.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we only have one room available for the time being,” Lou explained, her fingers tapping on the keyboard to check the inventory. “It’s a double bed room. There’s a convention in town, so we are all booked up at this time.”

Natasha's expression tightened slightly at the news, a hint of frustration flashing in her eyes before she composed herself.

“Well, that’s less than ideal,” she remarked, her tone tinged with disappointment. Turning to you, she added, “Looks like we’ll have to make do with sharing a room for the night.”

“Fine with me,” You hiked your carry on bag higher onto your shoulders.

As Natasha and you ascended to the third floor, anticipation for a good night's rest began to build. Upon entering your room, you found it surprisingly spacious, with enough room for two double beds.

Eager to freshen up after the long ride, you wasted no time in dropping your bags in front of one of the beds. Without another word, you made a beeline for the bathroom, eager to indulge in a well-deserved shower.

"Don't worry, I'll just wait here," Natasha assured, her tone carrying a hint of amusement as she neatly stacked her belongings in a corner of the room.

Observing the surroundings under the guise of gathering ice for the room, Natasha familiarized herself with the layout and exits. Satisfied with her findings, she returned to the room only to find you rummaging through your bags, clad in nothing but a towel.

"Sorry, I was in such a hurry but I felt icky," You explained, glancing up at her sheepishly. You sat on the bed, pulling a pair of thin silk sleep shorts onto your hips before adding a sports bra. You were still damp but you felt fresh. 

“No problem, “ Natasha dismissed. “I’ll just go…” She hiked a thumb towards the bathroom. 

She stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her before she sighed. 

At least it wasn’t a single bed. 

-------> part 3

[kechiwrites]

decided to break it

toxic baby daddy!ghost x reader

part 4/?

synopsis: babies change everything, and neither you, nor simon handle change very well at all.

wc: 2.2k

cw: afab!reader, angst, hurt with no comfort, language, break up fic, abandonment issues, no gendered language, discussions and depictions of pregnancy. no use of y/n ever.

author’s note: im back <3, more tomorrow, or perhaps later tonight if i feel up to formatting on this hell site. for kitten, shia, nori, 👩🏿‍🍼 anon, and everyone else who cheered me up when i felt super down post-holidays

new to baby blue? start here.

"Fuck." You murmur, maybe for the fourth time since the 15 minute timer had gone off on your phone. The word doesn’t seem heavy enough to sum up how you’re feeling, but you give it a few more tries anyway, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The word 'pregnant', however, is the heaviest you’ve ever seen, latching onto your limbs and skin and dragging you to the floor beneath you. ‘Pregnant’ stares you in the face from the stick in your shaking hands, punctuated with a little smiley face you can barely see through tears. In the back of your mind you kind of wished you'd gotten the kind with the little ambiguous pink lines, just so you could pretend you didn't understand what two lines instead of one meant. Just for a little bit. Alas, the pharmacist recommended the slightly more expensive test, the kind that gives you a week estimate. The kind that tells you you've been fucked for 3-4 weeks now.

Every emotion you'd been feeling up until then cedes to white hot panic. It's hard to breathe in your little blue bathroom.

You wonder what he'll say. 

No. 

You dread what he’ll say. 

It’s nothing you two have ever talked about, not in the cold blackness of night, when he’d sat in your arms with his face bare to you and murmured every gory detail of his upbringing to you and not a goddamn therapist. Not the following morning when you’d sobbed your terror of the future, and losing everything you had into his lap. And certainly not when you had mutually decided you were “getting serious”.

And now you have to. You have to tell Simon you’re pregnant.

There's a pit in your stomach when he comes by that night, mask off and eyes warm, considering like they always are. You get swept up in how it feels to be near him, to have him crowd into your space, soaking your senses in his scent, his warmth. He kisses you gently, so soft it makes you want to cry. He used to say he wasn't capable of being like that. Not with you. Not with anyone. 

Instead of sobbing into his chest like you’re desperate to, you chide him about wearing his boots in the house. You take the time he needs to unlace them to memorize what being with him feels like in this moment, the last time things will be easy. 

He levers up and nudges his boots over to yours, where they sit side by side. Tears choke your voice again, and you’re praying it’s just a pregnancy thing rather than a ‘you being an unstable wreck’ thing.

“Sit.” You turn to the kitchen, setting your kettle on the stove and turning the knob to high. He hunkers down on the worn cream leather of your couch. You linger in front of your stovetop as long as you can, fussing with the mug Simon uses almost always, an ugly misshapen pink thing you’d made at a beginner ceramics class four years ago. It’s chipped at the lip, rose coloured glaze cracked, exposing the beige clay underneath it. Your hand glances over boxes of tea, back and forth over colourful labels that may as well be written in gibberish for all the luck you're having reading them. 

It feels like there's no air in the room, like the secret under your t-shirt is taking it all, vacuum sealing your room until your chest burns and your head feels like it's going to pop. You tear open a brand new box of earl grey, stuffing it back onto your shelf when the tea bag is sat securely in the cup. 

"What's wrong?” He grouses from the couch, and it’s only then that you realize your shoulders are hunched up around your ears. 

“I..” your stomach rolls and sweat begins to bead on your forehead. You can hear him stir in his seat behind you, shifting forward so he can peer at you from your living room. Saliva gathers in your mouth, and oh god, maybe you actually will throw up, it’s too early for morning sickness right? Unless the stupid tests were wrong and now you’re going to cover your countertops in the stew you had for lun-

“Hey.” Simon is standing behind you now, his hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you lightly until you whip around to face him. The kettle is screaming now, filling your home with that shrill, high shriek of steam from the boiling water whistling through the appliance's tiny spout. 

Somehow it’s still quieter than your pulse pounding in your ear.

“I’m pregnant.” You choke out, if only to stop yourself from retching over Simon’s socked feet. God, it’s like time stops, then it splits and cracks in clean halves. Into before and after he knew. Before and after his concerned expression crumbled into disbelief, before and after he schooled that disbelief into placid nothingness. And it’s not like you’d entertained the delusion that he’d be happy about it. But the silent hang time before he reacts is this terrible, hollow, unknown that tears up your insides and relishes in the shiny, red viscera. 

A gruff, quiet "Are you sure?" is what you get from him, when he finally recovers, and you try so hard not to let it bother you. It's a shock. A surprise. A loud bang in the middle of a serene night, a cannon going off in your face, a gunshot into the sky when you thought the race was an hour from starting. 

You try to give him a bit of grace. Still, the pit in your stomach grows.

Now it's a bit of a sinkhole.

"Baby, I wouldn't be telling you if I wasn't sure." You move to snag your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, to tug him close so you can hold each other, support each other, but he take a small step backwards, letting his palms slip from your shoulders. 

The sinkhole is a cavern, yawning wide, open and empty. 

You toss your hope and love inside.

“I need…some time.” He mutters, slinking out of your space, out of the kitchen and back into your entryway. 

'Time to fucking what?' you think, but hold back. You know Simon. You love Simon. And you remember where he's come from. What he's come from. You realize a second too late you should be following him, and when you stumble over the kitchen threshold, he’s tying up his boots, his broad back facing you. You try to peer around him, try to get a look at his face, desperate to gauge where he’s at. But when you notice he’s knocked your shoes over in his scramble to get away, to be anywhere but here, you stop moving..

“Y-yeah. Okay. Just..uh, get back to me soon okay?” you stutter, and wrap your arms around yourself, like you know Simon won't. Not with the way his hands are shaking. 

He doesn’t even respond this time. 

The soldier just stands. He opens your front door. And walks out. Leaving you in your entryway. Water past its boiling point in the kettle.

You don’t see him again until you’re four, nearly five months along, the bump under your clothes now impossible to hide. When you stumble into your home, exhausted from working, he’s in your living room. Sitting there in his mask at your tiny dining room table. Like no time has passed at all. Like he should be there. You realize you never did get your spare house key back.

“Get out.” you spit, blood boiling under your skin. 

"I know you're upset-" He begins, like he’s about to deliver a practiced speech.

"Get the fuck out!" Your tone is caustic, and you hope it burns him, hope it strips off all the facade on the rotting structure he is underneath.

"I never meant to leave it so long. This." He won't even say it. Can't even refer to you, let alone your baby. He stands up and becomes this big, dark mass in the bright space of your living room, black mask, black shirt, black boots, just a huge black hole that sucks up every good feeling you’d had in his absence, every ray of light that’d shone through the dark gloom he’d left behind. Nothing escapes his pull. 

He peers at you from the gap in his mask. The stark white skull stretched over his face mocks you, maliciously whispers in your ear; ‘Did you think you knew him? That he was honest with you? Open to you?’

And you had. You did. You thought you were making progress, building some semblance of a future, falling in love.

It makes you sick to your stomach to think of it.

"You want to apologize, take the fucking mask off Simon." Your voice breaks, and part of you hopes he hears it for the plea it is. Hopes he understands what you’re asking of him. Hopes he feels how bad you missed him, under the hurt and pain and bitter, bitter loneliness. If he would just take it off, just pull the stupid fabric over his face and show you he was still yours under there, that he’d make a mistake and he’s ready now, then maybe the two of you could fix it. This.

Instead, his silence, his stillness cracks open your ribcage and pours black ink over your heart.

Humiliation and anger simmer on your tongue. What comes next is shockingly easy. "Oh you can't do it, huh? Can't be a fucking person with me, huh?" You shove at his chest, and he takes it, staring at you with pain in his eyes. Like this is hurting him.

"I shouldn't have waited so long, but I-" he steps towards you and it feels so good to rip away from his touch. To step back from his advance.

"No!” You shout, and your face is so hot, skin ablaze with righteous anger. “Shut up! Three months? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

And yes, one month of that was deployment, you’d known that, you’d talked about it, together. One month of no contact. One month of sand and heat and blood. But the other two months had been that white hot panic you'd felt on your own, in that tiny bathroom with the peeling blue wallpaper he'd promised he'd help you strip and replace. The other months had been missed calls, and ignored texts and you getting bigger under your sweaters because unlike him, you couldn't just take a break from the situation.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” You shove past him, deeper into your home, spinning around so he’s closer to your entryway than you are. “Don’t you ever show your face here again, do you hear me?” You’re screaming now, much to Ghost’s visible discomfort. Good. You hope your nosy ass neighbours call the cops. You hope they physically remove his pathetic ass. You hope they embarrass him. (It isn’t very likely, of course. But God, could you dream).

“You can't just keep it from me.” He steps closer and you lament that he has you on the backfoot. It’s your space, your home and yet it feels as though you’re the one who’s out of place, off kilter and uncomfortable. You glare at him. 

“It’s mine too.”

‘It’ he says, and that bothers you. Irks you. Him calling your baby an ‘it’. 

“Give me a fucking break, it wasn’t yours when you left me, you couldn’t wait to get your sorry ass out of here when I told you. Now you wanna play daddy? I don’t fucking think so.” You dig your fingernails into the meat of your palms, leaving aching crescents in their wake. 

“And you know what? Maybe it’s my fault for wanting to be with someone who is so fundamentally fucking broken that he couldn’t fucking bear to show me his goddamn face until I’d begged him. Maybe I’m the idiot for thinking you could ever be capable of love, of decency. I needed you. And you abandoned me, Simon. You are a fucking monster.” 

The word hangs in the air, hovering between the two of you where it can’t be taken back, and it sure as hell can’t be forgotten.

“You are good at distancing yourself, you are good at killing your feelings. Keep doing that. Stay the fuck away from me and my kid.” You’re panting when you finish, and everything hurts, one of your hands is bleeding, your eyelids prickle with the pain of unshed tears, your throat feels strained and tight. He nods once, jerky and quick, before he takes an unbalanced step back. Then another and another, his eyes never leaving yours, like he’s looking for something, anything other than hurt and hatred.

But there’s nothing else to find.

He turns, opening your front door and trudging out, heavy footfalls bracketing short moments of gut wrenching silence. It feels final. But it doesn’t feel good. Not like you thought it might.

He’s halfway into his SUV when you scramble out your front door, shouting over your porch railing to him in your driveway. “And get rid of my fucking keys!” He stares at you, standing stockstill, before he gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away.

whew, nice to post ghosty-poo again

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