#tw drug use and heavy drinking

[bluehairedspidey]

Fuck Marry Kill ask and the answer is Marry but lavender marry, also you have to (not really ofc) share that Study in Scarlet screenplay when you're done cause it bet it serves major cunt

what better solidarity than platonic marriage uwu

and hell yes >:3c i need to work on it some more, ive also got some other holmes stories im considering adapting (as of right now namely a scandal in bohemia (obviously) and the adventure of the cooper beeches)

[starsofang]

AN ANGEL WEEPS

guardian angel!simon x reader word count: 5k tw: NSFW, MDNI, death, bits of gore, religious themes, violence, heavy angst summary: simon would destroy the heavens and earth in order to be with you. heavily requested oneshot from this drabble!

Simon wasn’t partial to humans. You’d think with him being a guardian angel to many over the centuries, he would grow to like them. Really, it wasn’t that he disliked them, but more so couldn’t empathize with them like other angels could. Some were weak, some were selfish, some were burdening. All of them, though, were on borrowed time, and that was exactly where he came in.

There wasn’t ever a human life that Simon did not keep protected. All of his subordinates, as he called them, lived long enough to see their hair turn gray and their skin mold into wrinkles and age lines. Not once had a human died young under his watch, and he planned to keep it that way.

It seemed the gods held his professionalism to their advantage. Now that his previous subject had passed of old age, he was tasked with a new one. A more challenging one.

You, a high risk. Normally, people of your kind that had a doomed fate from birth were paired with angels who specialized in that. While Simon was practically one and the same with the others, he typically requested humans that wouldn’t be a pain in his ass.

You were different, though. Something about you compelled Simon to take on the task of being your guardian angel, and he was curious to find out what it was. You didn’t seem like you’d give him trouble at all. You were simply unfortunate in the hand of life, and he was determined to turn it in your favor.

On his first day of being your protector, he watched. Observed. He took the time to jot mental notes down of your routine. You weren’t a busy gal, that much he realized, but you were simple. He liked simple. It meant he wouldn’t have to chase you around like a loose pig escaping its pen.

The more he got to study you like a lab rat, the more he wondered what made you a high risk. You didn’t drink, nor did you do drugs. You didn’t spend the wee hours of the night partying. Hell, you didn’t even have a boyfriend to occupy your time. Even now, as he watched, you entered a bookstore, prancing around from shelf to shelf to read each book cover with keen interest, tucking your desired favorites under an arm.

Just from the first day alone, Simon came to think of you as soft and kind. You were the girl who helped the elderly cross the street, or the type that fed the stray cats in the alley, even if you used your last dollar to make it happen. You were a being with a heart of gold, and it was rare for Simon to see somebody so pure.

You were the type of person many took advantage of. He’d seen it plenty of times before – men and women of all kinds, using your big heart to get what they want, just to leave it shattered in pieces on the ground with no way of repairing it. Simon wouldn’t allow that to happen. He’d seen what he needed to see, and that was enough for him to become your permanent guard dog for the rest of your days, which he swore to himself would be bountiful.

There was one problem, though.

You could see him. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, but when his little journey of following you around the city became abundantly clear, you confronted him about it, no bark, no bite. 

“Why are you following me?” you asked. Simon was fully expecting a tone of anger, a weak attempt at trying to be intimidating towards a brooding angel like him, but none of that came. In fact, despite your clear discomfort, you remained soft-spoken. Your voice was sweet as honey, smooth in the way it rolled off your tongue.

“Are you talkin’ to me?” Simon gruffed, eyes narrowing at you. You blinked at him dumbly, glancing around the bookstore before focusing back on him.

“Of course,” you confirmed in confusion.

He wasn’t sure what to do. This had never happened before, and it was wrong. Very, very wrong. Humans still partaking in the act of life weren’t able to see angels, let alone speak to them. It was against the very act of being angels. Silent protectors. Invisible.

Something was terribly off. Perhaps you were a fluke. Or perhaps you were far closer to death than he thought.

Simon was completely stumped. His very existence was the greatest kept secret in all of Earth’s lifespan. Not a single breathing soul knew of the actuality of angels. Sure, many believed in them – it wasn’t a secret in teachings, but that’s all it was. A belief. A strike of faith.

“Sir?” you called out. It successfully snapped him out of his spell-like hypnosis, realizing he was staring at you with a guise of puzzlement. He cleared his throat, standing a bit taller, eyes darting around the room.

“This isn’t how this is supposed to go,” he muttered to himself. You made a noise of perplexity.

“Pardon?” you questioned. Simon silently cursed (lord forgive him).

“This,” he repeated, gesturing between the two of you with a hand. “You’re not supposed to see me. Something must be truly wrong.”

Your expression morphed into lines of confusion and concern, eyes widening into fearful saucers. You looked scarcely similar to a lost puppy, one who had just been told bad dog. Simon felt a twinge of sympathy in your favor. How confusing it must be to have been followed around by a man who was sorrowfully unaware that you knew of his presence.

“Are you a ghost?” you asked, causing a crack of a smile to threaten on Simon’s lips.

“Somethin’ like that,” he mused. “Perhaps this might be easier if we talk somewhere privately.”

At first, you looked hesitant, and he didn’t blame you. He knew how weary humans were of strangers, after all, but Simon was no stranger – at least, he wouldn’t be in his eyes. He would know you the longer he silently protected you as your guardian, while you remained blissfully oblivious to his existence. It seemed that part wasn’t in the cards this time around.

Somehow, you agreed, following him out of the bookstore and on to the bustling streets, walking side by side with him. It was silent at first, Simon keeping his eyes trained forward, alert to any dangers nearby. It was in his blood to sniff out misfortunes from a mile away, and considering your state of high risk, you attracted them like flies.

“Suppose I’ll give it to you straight,” he began, garnering your attention almost immediately. Your eyes were pooled with dread, most likely expecting horrible news. Or wondering why you had followed a strange man with so much blinded trust. “Do you believe in angels?”

“Angels?” you gawked, the words unexpected. It was the last thing you imagined he’d say, and it took you for a complete whirlwind. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you?” he repeated. He turned his head to look at you, noting the gears turning in that brain of yours. It was subtle, but you were an easy read.

“Yes, I guess I do. There’s no proof of them not existing, so I can’t exactly say they’re not real, right?” you claimed, and the warmth in your tone made Simon smile.

He quite liked your character so far. Easygoing with incredible wit and enthrall. It was a breath of fresh air from some of the other people he’d been subjected to. There wasn’t a hint of malice in your aura, no storm clouds that hovered over you in the form of looming threat, no black smoke billowing around you in a polluted smother.

In fact, it was nothing short of bright. Hues of yellow emanating beaming rays. A burst of sunlight, down to the bone.

“Smart girl,” Simon hummed softly, returning his gaze forward as the two of you walked. “This is your first time talkin’ to one, I presume.”

For a moment, you were silent. He could feel your eyes studying the side of his face, desperately attempting to pry open his mind and see inside for yourself. He allowed you the complexity of wishful thinking.

“What do you mean by that?” you dared to ask, curiosity getting the better of yourself. You didn’t feel like the smart girl he claimed you to be at all. Matter of fact, you were perhaps a very stupid girl for following an unfamiliar man and listening to him speak of a higher power. You were even stupider for blossoming an interest.

It was a difficult conversation to have, one Simon wasn’t prepared for at all. He had to explain it in blunt terms, introducing himself as your guardian angel while you stared at him like a dead fish.

Yet somehow, despite receiving such complex information, you accepted it, giving him a smile and your name that he already had mapped in the back of his memory. You didn’t shy away from him. He didn’t understand. He knew humans were complicated, but he had never met one so trusting of his word.

Simon fully expected a breakdown, or a freak out. Perhaps even a fuck off with you going about your day. Earthlings didn’t know that angels existed, so to meet your very own, one so tall and brooding, intimidating and unapproachable with large, white wings that tucked into the comfort of his back, hidden, it was a damning thing. But you accepted, so easily, too.

It was strange. You were strange. Not in a cruel way like he had previously thought of humans, but in a warm way that left him confused. Perplexed. Such a sweet thing like you, so free of judgment and malice, only to end up with a terrible fate such as yours.. Now that was cruel.

Simon took a liking to you after your official meeting. He tried to deny it, reminding himself of his purpose, but it was hard not to form a friendship with you when you wouldn’t allow him otherwise. He stuck to you like glue, never letting you stray out of sight, waiting in the dark hours of the night for you to wake, watching silently while you’d read a book every night.

Where you went, he went. When you slept, he watched over you longingly. When you wept, he ached.

You became of utmost importance to him. You were his priority before, but now, it was set in stone that Simon would strive to give you the longest life, filled with nothing short of love and worship. When he formed this goal in mind, a second problem arose – saddened over the fact that it wouldn’t be him sharing it with you.

“Simon?” you asked him one night. Book in your lap, long forgotten as you stared up at him with an innocent curiosity. You were a nosy one, something he found out rather quickly, but instead of being met with his own annoyance, he grew quite fond of your wonder. “Does everybody have a guardian angel?”

He never got tired of your questions. In fact, he encouraged them. Conversation with you came easy, whether it was in the bright rise of the morning, or the wee hours of midnight. Simon wasn’t much of a talker until you came around, but sharing endless moments when it was just the two of you conversing as people became his favorite routine.

Simon perked up to look at you, eyebrows furrowing at your question. “No. Not everybody,” he answered honestly. You tilted your head at him, curious.

“Then how come I have you?” you questioned.

Simon stared at you, mulling over your inquisition. A pang of guilt tightened his chest. He knew the truth, yet you didn’t. You were blissfully unaware of what was at stake, why the heavens decided to gift you with him as your protector. You didn’t know how weak your own lifeline was, how you risked slipping in the depths of death every ticking second of the day.

He knew what was waiting for you at the end of the line. When you’d reach it, though, was the question. And he wished he had the answer.

“You’re just a special case, dove,” he explained, trying his best to be comforting. The last thing he wanted was for you to worry, to find out the real reason why he was assigned to you. “Nothin’ to stress about. Some people just get them early.”

“Special case?” you repeated to yourself, finger pressing to your chin in thought, face pulling into confusion.

Simon remained silent, eyes shifting away from you to allow you the time to think. He knew you had a hyperactive mind, one that may have been the very thing to cause your future downfall, but he didn’t have the heart to stop it. Perhaps he was a selfish angel, for he loved hearing your voice, loved hearing the cluttered mess of your thoughts.

He was becoming dangerously devoted to you.

Angels and humans were not meant to form bonds. Simon was already being greedy by allowing it to happen rather than cutting it off from the root. He was your protector, your guardian, yet he excused the blossoming growth of your relationship as playing his role. The closer he got to you, the higher of a chance he had in saving you.

“Simon?” you called out once again, garnering his attention. He heard the hesitation in your own tone, as if you didn’t want to speak your mind. “I’m not going to die, am I?”

If Simon had a working heart, it would have shattered right there. If he had a living, human soul, it would’ve lost its glowing light, fading into aching darkness.

“No, dove,” he lied, flashing you an assuring smile. “M’just here to keep you safe, that’s all.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, and Simon felt that nauseating guilt crawl its way back under his skin. It pricked him with unease. He hated lying to you, providing empty promises that your life was under no threat.

He never worried about humans. He did as he was meant to do, and that was the extent of it. Yet with you, he worried that if he didn’t go above and beyond his normal procedures, your blood would be on his hands. He didn’t know if he could live with himself for the upcoming centuries if he failed to keep his promise.

A world where your laughter drifted away with the wind, rather than fill the air of his presence, was a world unworthy. A world without you would be unfair.

As Simon watched you return to your book, your curious mind put on temporary pause, he vowed to keep the Earth spinning with you on it, alive and well, safe and sound – just as he’s meant to do, without the baggage of complex emotions he shouldn’t be feeling in the first place.

The longing for you never became easier. In fact, the progression of the harbored affection only grew tenfold. Iit was increasingly difficult to continue with his duty as your protector without coming to the admission.

Simon, an angel, was falling for a human he was meant to keep safe, keep alive. Two beings, divided by separate worlds, yet he resided in yours as if he belonged there. The more time he spent in your orbit, the more the desire blossomed.

He was a smart angel, one that had developed a keen sense for human emotion over the centuries spent silently observing them. Simon knew that his feelings weren’t unreciprocated, and it was what terrified him greatly. Fear and love, mixing in the absence of his own humanity, taking control of his motherboard and turning on autopilot.

He suppressed these feelings as much as he could. The hierarchs he reported to could have no hint of these befuddling emotions that were causing warmth to run through his bloodstream, as if he were slowly becoming human himself. He could not allow them, or himself, get in the way of his original mission.

That’s what he tried to do, at least.

It wasn’t until a normal night, pent up in your apartment with a warm mug of tea, a book nuzzled in your other hand and a blanket thrown across you to form a picture of pure sweetness, that his resolve began to crack.

You, innocent and curious you, always asking questions about him and never making the conversation selfishly about you, had requested to see his wings. The white, feathered beauties, tucked away in the dip of his shoulder blades, hidden and protected. You were considerate in the way you asked, giving him an opt out if he wasn’t comfortable. No human had ever seen his wings, let alone him, and he found denying you much more difficult than he thought it would be.

So he did as you asked – unfurled his wings, allowing the slow stretch to showcase them. The feathers ruffled with his movement, but they glowed radiantly with the picture-perfect white. Once they were untucked and on display, Simon realized how vulnerable all of this was. He was bearing himself to you with no obstacles standing in the way. He was showing the real part of himself, and you were watching in patient admiration, taking in every tuft of feather.

The wrongfulness of his action was smothered over with the look in your eyes. You gazed at him as if he were the most beautiful thing that God had created, setting aside your book and tea in order to step up to him fully. You were silent, taking him in, taking your time. When you carefully reached out a hand with an itch to feel the soft wings, he didn’t stop you. He should’ve, but he couldn’t.

“You’re wonderful,” you breathed, speaking of him so highly that it made the organ in his chest clench with an ache. Your touch was gentle, nimble fingers smoothing over the tuft feathers. The pads of your fingers were soft, and it caused him to relax, releasing a breath he was unaware of holding.

“Please do not say that to me,” he whispered, voice tight. He took a shaky breath in, shutting his eyes so he didn’t have to look into your own. “Please.”

Your eyes flickered across his face, taking in how reluctant he was. He was holding back, this you knew, and while you understood, a part of you wished he would open himself up. For months, you had walked a thin line, but it had quickly shifted into something more dangerous. Feelings, ones that matched his own.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized softly, beginning to take your hand off of his wing. Before you could remove it, his own hand caught yours, warm fingers wrapping around your smaller ones. He dared to open his eyes, nearly collapsing under the sparkling gaze you had so graciously reserved for him.

Slowly, he brought your hand up to his mouth, releasing a trembling breath before placing his lips to your soft skin. You watched silently, but made no move to pull away. “What are you doin’ to me, dove?” he asked, flustered. “This is… this is not right.”

His eyes bore into yours, sinking into your lovely irises, growing lost in them. There was an unfamiliar pounding in his chest, a foreign swarm of fluttering butterflies in his stomach, things only humans felt for one another. Angels were not meant to feel this way for a human, and humans were not supposed to know they existed.

Yet, he couldn’t deny the pure fondness he held towards you. How he sought you out in every given moment, how his body longed for you every morning and every night. His mind felt that this was right, that it was meant to be, while the voice in the back of his head told him this would end in misery.

With the way you were looking at him as if he had captured the sun and stars just for you, he found himself moving without thought. Lips pressing to yours, his hand gripping your own in a vice, as if scared you may crumble to ash if he let go. You reciprocated, and that was your mistake – there was no going back, and Simon wasn’t sure if he’d want to.

Humans performed things in the heat of the moment. It was something Simon had come to learn over his many years of study, yet him kissing you so suddenly had made him feel like one. It was terrifying, yet exhilarating all at once. To feel alive, to feel real.

He performed the ultimate act of sin with you. He was clumsy and awkward, inexperienced in the way he had you melting on his tongue, arching your back off of the sofa he took you on. Everything you offered would have him sent into an early grave if he were a living being. Ironic, considering it was you on that path, something he had forgotten about in between your shared intimacy.

Simon never knew how wonderful it felt to be connected with a mortal in a physical sense. Inside of you, engulfed in your warmth that clenched around him so deliciously, writhing beneath him like a fever was coursing through your veins. You looked lovely, even with a scorching warmth to your skin and a sheen of sweat lining your forehead.

His wings cocooned around you both as he lost himself in you, swallowing your beautiful whines that resembled heaven’s choir. Your hand caressed the soft feathers of his wings while the other held on to his shoulder, nails digging into his skin, grounding yourself.

Everything about this act was pure sin. It was a test of the devil himself, and he had strayed off of the path of forgiveness and had ventured to a land of lustful desire. Yet, he continued on the path, moving on his own free will further and further the more your body took him in. Your pleasure was his newfound call, his new purpose.

As your body succumbed to its own heated climax, he watched in awe at the way your mouth fell open, eyes lidded halfway, clouding over with a lovely husk of satisfaction. You were more beautiful than any heaven he had seen, and if Simon could die, he’d seek you as his afterlife.

He should’ve regretted it. It was in his blood to find purity, to hold value in the sentiment of God. But as he laid there, your body spent and exhausted, soft breaths leaving your lips, he felt no such thing. He wrapped his wings around you, smothering you in a security blanket, using the purest part of him to keep you sound.

Simon should’ve known that the moment he fell in love with you, things would never go the way he wanted. He should’ve reminded himself of why he was your guardian in the first place, yet he had been nothing but selfish. He involved himself in you far too much, ignoring the angel on his right shoulder in order to listen to the devil on his left.

When he had been told you were a high risk, he never would’ve imagined that he would be the reason.

Everything happened far too quickly for Simon to comprehend. He wasn’t paying attention, he wasn’t protecting you. It seemed almost instant that your body had been struck in the middle of the street, the night sky making everything much foggier to the eye. It started out as such a simple night, with Simon following along behind you while you made a stop at a crosswalk to pass the street.

Distracted by the flowers displayed in the window of a pretty flower shop, he was consumed by thoughts of wanting to surprise you with them. Though he was a mere angel and could get you flowers from mother Earth herself, he knew humans had different sentiments, flowers being one of them. While pondering which flower you might prefer, the entire world had stopped in the midst.

Dreadful sounds of tires screeching, a loud explosion of crashing noises that made his ears prick, and you – silent. Not a single peep. It made his blood run cold, because you weren’t silent. You were curious, talkative, always letting it slip what was on your mind.

Simon stared at your unmoving body on the road, battered and bloodied, tainted with impurity. It was the complete opposite of what you had been. It was something you should’ve never been in the first place.

His legs moved before he could tell them to, and he found himself crumbling to the ground, taking hold of your body in his arms. Blood seeped from your head, painting your skin an ugly crimson. It was thick and vile. It didn’t belong. Not on you.

He became frantic. He didn’t have to listen to know your heart was no longer beating, because he just knew. You were the tattered version of yourself. A corpse, no longer able to smile at him, or ask your silly questions, or tell him you loved him. You were dead, just as your prophecy had predicted, and Simon had failed.

Weeping over your body did nothing to change fate. For the first time in all of Simon’s life span, he cried, ugly tears and snot, babbling nonsense from his mouth as he begged for you to wake up. He shook you in desperation, before holding you close to his chest and securing his wings around the two of you, unable to bear the thought that he had lost you.

The heavens were in havoc. One of their beloved angels, falling for a mortal? Completing acts of sin? It was true blasphemy, a desecration to their name. The world as they knew it was falling apart, and it was all because Simon was selfish and unholy.

Tossing him out was done without question. Sent to the burning pits of hell, white feathers falling from his wings only to be replaced with raven, black and nightmarish. He was one of hell’s fallen angels, while you remained at the top, separated and alone. Simon was one of God’s failed creations, and no amount of redemption or prayer would have him fluttering back up to his pearly gates. Home was no more, though he was sure that at some point, heaven was forgotten and you had replaced that title before he lost you.

Being apart from you was torturous. It felt as if he was missing half of his body, half of his soul. Apart of different worlds once again, not meant to be. Unfated. Simon couldn’t allow that to happen.

Even if it took him years to return to his beloved, he would do it. Even if it meant trudging through the depths of hell in order to crawl to the top, he’d complete the journey without pause.

Heaven may be strong, but his love for you was stronger.

War broke out between the heavens and hell. Colliding forces, shedding blood of the pure, and venom of the demented. It was a battlefield that Simon had been the cause for, vision red with rage. He saw nothing but the fueling desire to be reunited with you, and it wouldn’t simmer until that occurred.

Far too much time passed since he had seen you. Years, even, though he wasn’t sure – everything felt like a lifetime without you by his side. He had lost count of how many sins he had committed, how many angels he had slain in order to become one step closer to seeking your soul. The lovely angel Simon had once been was murdered and buried, filled with angry vengeance that poked through the eyes of a devil.

He wondered if you would forgive him, if you would still love him. After all, he was a blackened version of himself, no longer the image of purity. He was a beast unleashed.

All of those worries melted away into a yearning ache when all war had ceased. You had been expecting him, it seems, waiting for him. Your soul was still as radiant as ever, yet he was now a dark void in comparison.

“Simon,” you greeted, and oh, how he missed your sweet melody. Your voice alone, saying his name, had put out the raging fire in his bones.

“Dove,” he responded back, breathless. His heart was in his throat as he waited for your reaction, to see how you felt about him. His wings no longer white, his soul no longer sacred.

Time had taken a pause as the two of you stared at one another from your place in heaven. He was back in the place he originated from, yet it felt cold and desolate. It was a grueling task to make it this far, and he prayed it wasn’t in vain.

“Your wings,” you commented, eyes fluttering down to take in the raven feathers. He sucked in a breath, prepared to hear your disappointment, but it never came. “They’re wonderful.”

It was the exact words you had used to describe him as an angel. Your love for him hadn’t changed, even though he did.

Simon smiled at you, full of light and warmth. You smiled back, and he was a done-for man. That smile was the reason for the heavens falling apart, yet it was still the most beautiful thing he’d come across. He never thought he’d see it again.

“I’ve come all this way for you, dove,” he murmured softly, taking a step forward. He reached out for your hand, holding it so tenderly in his. He lifted it, placing a sweet kiss to your knuckles. “Please, come back with me. Come home.”

To hell. To madness.

None of that mattered. Simon wouldn’t make the same mistake that he did when you were alive. This time, you would not be met with a foul end, and he would not live a life of regret.

You glanced down at your intertwined hands before looking back up at him, meeting his eyes. Your own were just as fond as before, lit up with the undying love that had never left.

“Take me home, Simon,” you assured, and the church bells sang.

i had many people asking for a full fic of guardian angel simon, so i am here to deliver. this concept's been on my mind for a while, and i finally pushed thru and wrote it fully, so i pray that it lives up to the standards everybody wanted <3

[remlionheart]

you're the thoughts that can't be tamed

and i'm trying to be sane

⋆˙⟡♡ MDNI. whewww. the people demanded more high / toxic!megumi and the people got more high / toxic!megumi. tw for angst, daddy issues, drug use, smut. 4.3k words. all characters aged up 21+. ๋࣭ ⭑ life held no promises - it was a fact that you and megumi were made well aware from a very early age. from sleeping under blanket forts as kids to sneaking through windows as teenagers, he'd always been your one constant in a sea of variables. but what happens when the tides become strong enough to pull him away too? ๋࣭ ⭑ this was fucking emotional to write, not gonna lie. lemme know whatcha think, luv u ⋆˙⟡♡

‎𓆩🖤𓆪

“No one else has what we have.”

Those were Megumi's favorite words to say to you.

On the nights where both of your dads would take off together, deciding that they were done being responsible for the two of you for a few days, you would hide under blankets in his room and laugh at the things that only 9-year-old you would understand.

You'd keep yourselves occupied with video games and books and dive so far into each other’s imaginations that you'd completely forget about the world around you.

It was all late-night summer air, swinging in your backyard for hours, and the way that you two were somehow able to turn something as damning as parental abandonment into adventure.

As teenagers, reality became harder to sugarcoat but there was still that same unfettered energy between both of you that made it doable.

At 14, you'd sit on the edge of his bed during the wintertime, drinking beer that you'd stolen from Toji's stash and exchange secrets in-between drunken kisses that neither one of you would be brave enough to acknowledge the next day.

You'd walk to school together with matching tired eyes and unkempt hair and he would tell people to fuck off when they’d ask you why you'd been wearing the same hoodie for a week straight.

He'd sneak through your bedroom window on the nights that your house didn’t feel safe just to lay with you, running light fingers through your hair while sharing a set of tangled headphones to drown out the sound of your parents arguing.

The things that he couldn’t tell his other friends, the things that he couldn’t tell his family, the things that he could barely tell himself – he'd tell you.

You were two halves of two very broken homes. Rigid and unstable when apart but perfectly balanced when together. From spending practically every weekend together to essentially raising one another since none of the adults in either of your lives had any interest in doing so – he was right:

No one else had what you had.

‎𓆩🖤𓆪

Nobara's ceiling fan creaked steadily above you as you stared back at it, trying but failing to swallow down your emotions.

You rolled over, careful not to wake her as you reached for your phone to see the time "3:33" displayed across the screen. With a heavy sigh, you unplugged it from the charger and crept out of bed, keeping your movements light as you made your way into the living room.

You wrapped one of her knit blankets around your shoulders, sinking down onto the couch like you'd done so many times over the last few weeks you'd been staying here. There were bags under your eyes that you were convinced would never go away. Tear stains on your cheeks that felt like they'd been permanently adopted by your skin.

Thinking about Megumi was nothing new, it was the unfamiliar pain that came along with it that you couldn't quite adjust to. The way your chest tightened and your insides burned with each memory that surfaced. What used to be the most comfortable part of your brain was now the one place you were desperate to stay away from.

"So you're leaving then?"

You'd replayed the last conversation you'd had with him so many times, it still felt like you were in his room most days. A ghost that wandered the halls, hopelessly waiting for him to come back no matter how much time passed.

You had struggled to look back at him that night, his pupils dilated from the Oxy he had taken. There was something so unnerving about being so close to him and so far away from him at the same time. How physically, he was within arm's reach, but mentally, there might as well have been galaxies separating you.

Your voice betrayed you, shaking as you fought to keep your resolve. "That's what you want, right? For me to leave?"

He was silent, his worn-down demeanor saying more than his voice was capable of at the time. You watched his hand twitch at his side as if his own body was attempting to fight against his sentiment. "Just go."

You stared at him, forcing yourself to take in his pale face and hollowed out blue eyes. You'd seen the whole thing. The entire progression of the boy who used to build blanket forts with you to protect you from the outside world to the boy who'd taken your virginity on a rainy September night when you were 15 because "you both deserved to know what it felt like to be loved" to the vacant 22-year-old who was standing in front of you with nothing left to offer to you or himself.

You'd been there for every day and every moment that had led the two of you down that one pivotal breaking point, but you still couldn't fathom it. You didn't have it in you to fight with him. Didn't have it in you to push back or yell or fall apart in front of him like you both thought you would.

Instead, you did something much more damning: you mirrored him. Leaving him with an empty, "Okay." as you closed the door to his apartment and disappeared back to your car, realizing that his words still reigned true, only they held a new meaning - no one else had what you had, not even you.

You nestled into the couch, using your phone to put the same song on repeat as you tried to close your eyes again. Out of all the grievances you'd experienced throughout your life, you had never considered until recently how much harder it was to mourn the living than it was to mourn the dead.

𓆩🖤𓆪

Megumi had barely slept in the last three days. His thoughts were blurred by hazy white pills and scattered flashbacks of the things he should've never said to you and worst of all...

The way your face used to light up when you'd wake up next to him and what a jarring contrast it was to have his eyes flutter open to an empty bottle of whiskey on his nightstand instead.

"I feel awake when I'm with you."

He'd said it to you one morning when you'd both just woken up, his fingers running lazy circles over the top of your shoulder, his arms still wrapped protectively around you from the previous night's sleep.

"I'm listening." You hummed, propping your head up to meet his blue eyes in quiet encouragement.

He wasn't always the best with his words - you both knew that, but he still tried as he kept his fingertips featherlight against your skin. "I'm always so tired, but... not when I'm with you."

He remembered the way your pupils bloomed while he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, letting himself say the things he'd usually be too afraid to admit. "I... feel like the only time life really makes sense is when we're like this, you know...? When we're both half asleep tangled up in each other."

You cried, your hands finding the back of his neck as your lips met his in a gentle mid-morning daze.

It was the first time you'd said it - it poured out in between breaths and tears, opening up like a floodgate once it began: "I love you." you whispered against his lips. "I love you." You repeated while you pulled him on top of you. "I love you." as he slid your shirt above your shoulders. "I love you." only, it was his voice this time fanning across the nape of your neck. "I love you." he exhaled again, carefully sliding into you. "I love you." you moaned, your eyes completely fixated on him as he thrusted harder.

"I love you, I love you, I love you..."

The nostalgia was so intense it rang through his ears, his stomach churning violently. No matter how much he tried to bury you, you were still everywhere. Stuck to the walls. Stitched in his blankets. Embedded into his skin.

Panic swelled in his chest, his hand shaking as he dug the cellophane baggy out of his hoodie pocket and promptly shoved two oval-shaped pills into his mouth. 

"That's what you want, right? For me to leave?"

The answer wasn't yes because he didn't love you, the answer was yes because he did love you. Because after all that you'd been forced to deal with between your dad and his, the last thing you needed was for another man you trusted to let you down the way he was.

"Just go."

It wasn't that he wanted you to, it was that you needed to.

𓆩🖤𓆪

"You're not responsible for him." Nobara said as she handed you a cup of coffee, taking a seat next to you on the couch. "You realize that, don't you?"

Despite her rough edges when it came to men, she was truly the gentlest friend you had. She was patient. Kind. Non-judgmental. She listened to your feelings no matter how repetitive or morbid they may have been. There really weren't enough 'thank you's when it came to how much she'd been there for you over the last few weeks.

You dropped the blanket from your shoulders and took a sip, struggling to look back at her. "I know, I just -" you faltered, your eyes still locked onto the steam rolling off of your mug. "I just hope he's okay..."

It was the longest you'd gone without seeing him and no matter how many times she'd tried to remind you that you couldn't hold yourself accountable for his well being, you still felt an odd sense of responsibility for him. It was a feeling that you'd held onto for so long, you weren't sure how you were supposed to even separate yourself from it now.

Nobara let out a stifled breath, shooting you a pointed look as she took her own sip. "Has he ever been okay?"

The question was damning enough to bring your attention to hers, your breath hitching in your throat as you looked back at her.

"Look, I know you love him." Her hand was on your shoulder, her eyes softening a bit. "But you can't save him."

Flashbacks of an 11-year-old, chubby-cheeked version of him smashed through your mind. The way the warmth of his hand contrasted the coldness of your feet as he helped sneak you in through the sliding back door. You apologized to him for having to risk getting him in trouble just to let you in, but you couldn't be at your house for another minute. Even at his young age, he looked so perplexed by your guilt, shaking his head as his eyebrows furrowed. "If you're ever in trouble, I'll always come get you."

There was such an indescribable amount of safety laced into that one sentence alone.

"You promise?"

"Promise."

Nobara's grip tightened on your shoulder, gently trying to pull you back to reality, but his words were suddenly everywhere. His promise echoing on an unwanted loop as you sat your mug down on her coffee table and grabbed your phone.

Even with the falling out you'd had, he never stopped sharing his location with you. It wasn't an invitation back into his life by any means, but it was proof that his sentiment from all those years ago still held merit. That no matter what happened, he'd always know where to find you and you'd always know where to find him too.

Her expression was serious as she watched you, trying to find a tactful way to say what she needed. "I can't stop you." She finally exhaled, "And you know that I'll never tell you what to do, but..." It was that same sense of comfort you'd felt as a child, only this time it came in the form of protective brown eyes. "Remember that you're important too, okay? You matter just as much as he does."

Your body stilled, your stare lingering as you nodded back at her. A wave of the same fear you'd felt that night on his back porch swept over you again. "I know." You said softly. "We both matter. That's why I have to at least try."

𓆩🖤𓆪

Megumi stood under the warmth of his shower, letting steam fill the room as water beaded off of his pale skin. His eyes were heavy, his stomach struggling to keep up with the deficient mix of painkillers and nothingness he'd been offering it the last few days.

He was tired - physically, mentally, spiritually.

Absolutely drained in every sense of the word.

He let the water pour over him until it began to run cold, his hand finally reaching for the dial when he was certain there wasn't a drop of heat left for him. He reached for a towel, haphazardly running it through his hair before wrapping it around his waist. The bloodshot stare of his reflection was haunting, a painful familiarity laced into the tidal wave irises looking back at him.

"One day you'll understand." It was something that he had heard more times than he could count growing up. "One day you'll fuckin' get it." Megumi had always written it off as a jaded excuse from the man who'd raised him. A despondent explanation for his father's shitty behavior in place of an apology. But as he stood in front of the medicine cabinet in his empty apartment, he realized that for the first time maybe it wasn't an excuse for his father's neglect. Maybe it had been something much worse: a warning.

His fist slammed into the mirror without a second thought, an impulsive blur of blood and shattered glass flying past his face as he watched his hollowed-out reflection fracture and drop to the ground in tiny, severed pieces.

"Megumi...?"

Any fleeting amount of relief that he'd gained from the impact was instantly stolen by the softness of your voice.

His head snapped up, the bathroom door cracked open just enough for your eyes to lock with his.

He'd heard as a kid that the only time angels were visible to human beings is when they were needed the most. He didn't believe it back then, but it was the only explanation he could find to explain seeing you in his hallway.

He blinked back at you slowly, his gaze drifting from his battered knuckles to the blood staining the wall in front of him, to the floor that was covered in glass shards.

You didn't hesitate. Didn't pause to ask for an explanation. Didn't flinch at the scene you'd walked into. You just stood there, observing him in quiet understanding.

Time felt like it had come to a grinding halt as he watched you extend a hand out to him with all of the patience in the world. You were goodness incarnated and he was so undeserving.

"Let me help you."

𓆩🖤𓆪

His grasp was warm, his cut up fingers tangling cautiously into yours as you helped pull him away from the wreckage.

He followed behind you, letting you guide him back to his room where you promptly began cleaning and bandaging his injuries. It was almost nostalgic to be sitting with him like this again. Memories of middle school and the way he'd plop himself down on the edge of your bed after his most recent fight surfaced through your mind as you tended to his wounds.

You were almost done, lifting his wrist up to double-check your work when his hand broke free from yours. His thumb suddenly finding the underside of your chin to tilt your face up to his. It was the first time all night that you'd been able to look into him rather than just at him.

"You have a pretty big gash on your middle finger, but -" your voice was barely audible, completely overruled by the way he was staring at you. "It should be okay..." you swallowed, struggling to hold onto the calmness that you'd fought so hard to maintain thus far. "Where's your vacuum? I'll grab it real quick and –"

"Why're you here?"

Your mouth opened and then closed again, the wheels in your head viciously turning as your eyes searched his. There was an extensive list of reasons as to why you were here. A never-ending list, really. And he knew that just as well as you did.

You looked over him carefully, drawing in a shallow breath before pulling away from his hand. "A promise is a promise, right?"

His pupils widened, a glint of what almost resembled anger flickering across his face. "You've gotta let that go, you're smarter than that."

It was enough to snap your attention back to him, resentment settling heavily into the pit of your stomach. "Yeah well, unlike you, when I said 'always', I meant always - not 'always' until it got too hard. Or 'always' until I'm done. I meant fucking always, Megumi."

He leaned in closer to you, his tone every bit as sharp as his expression. The heat from his body was suddenly noticeable as it filled the small space between you. "God, you're dense sometimes. You really don't get it, do you? I didn't tell you to leave because things 'got too hard' or because I was 'done'." His stare was piercing, his face only centimeters away from yours. "I told you to leave because no one deserves to treat you like this. No one deserves to hurt you. No one, not even me. I don't get some pass just because of a promise we made as kids."

The scorned rebuttal you had lined up abruptly died on your tongue by his last sentence. The air felt stagnant and far too thick to breathe. Tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill the longer you looked at him, but you fought with everything you had to keep them at bay.

"I guess we're both facing the same problem then." Your tone was light despite the crippling weight your words held. "Because no one deserves to hurt you like this either, not even you."

It felt like every late-night conversation, every right and wrong decision, every major life lesson that had played out between the two of you had only been practice for this one grave moment.

You watched the first small crack form in his concrete demeanor as you rested your hand on the back of his neck. Could almost hear the second one splinter down when his fingers traced along your jawline, catching tears you didn't even realize had fallen. Could practically feel the reverb of how shattering the third fracture was as he leaned in and attentively parted your lips with his tongue.

"I think the only time life makes sense is when we're like this."

You pulled him in closer, letting the past and present blur together through gentle, desperate touches. His grasp tightened around your waist, neither one of you able to stop what you'd started. You'd kissed him so many times before, groveled for him in so many different ways, but you weren't sure that you'd ever known this type of fervency for anyone or anything else in your life.

His hands were calloused, damaged but still tender as they ran through your hair, pulling your head back slightly. His mouth drifted to the side of your neck, the warmth of his breath dancing across your skin. "I love you." It was so faint that you weren't sure if he had actually said it or if it was just another part of your past coming back to haunt the both of you.

He hovered over you, gradually leaning you back into the mattress as the towel wrapped around his waist fell to the floor. You followed his lead, letting him delicately slip your t-shirt up over your head. Your heart stuttered in your chest, watching his eyes roam over you as he unbuttoned your shorts.

There was something so intimidating and overwhelmingly comforting about how well he knew you. Every freckle. Every scar. Every blemish. There wasn't a single part of your body that he hadn't familiarized himself with over the years.

His fingertips traced easily over the inside of your thigh, his eyes locked intently with yours. "You're sure this is what you want?"

His movements were calculated as he drew up towards your center, keeping his touch featherlight and his voice low. "You could have anyone else you wanted, you know that? Probably even have a pretty normal life without me.”

You shook your head at him, trying not to squirm as he slid a slender finger into you. "Just you." you whispered.

His thumb brushed against your clit with just the right amount of pressure while he added another finger. "I'm hard to love." He reminded you, his eyes glazing over as he watched your hips thrust up towards him.

"D - don't care." you moaned, trying to keep your focus despite the way he was picking up the pace, plunging innn and outttt of you, only going deeper with each time you tried to speak. "I... don't - oh, f...fuck."

"You don't what, baby?" Your walls were wrapped around him so tight, swallowing him hopelessly as you writhed beneath him. You opened your mouth again, but your thoughts were all but stolen from you as he slammed into you, rendering you a whimpering mess. "Words." he demanded.

You were trying so hard to keep it together, trying so hard not to soak him, but your release and emotions were all threatening to flood out at once the harder he went. You were grabbing onto him, clenching around his fingers as they continued their relentless assault on you.

"I don't want easy," it was almost one word with how breathlessly it came out. "I don't want easy –" you repeated, your body needily bucking up towards him again. "I want you. I'll always want you." you were finally at your breaking point, drenching him as he looked down at you with feral adoration. "Fuck Megumi, please."

He withdrew from you, his composure a bit more feverish as he leaned in to kiss you. It was hard, urgent.

"Bend over for me." He said against your lips.

He helped you roll over, grabbing your thighs to lift you into position while you arched your back for him and buried your face into the softness of his comforter. The absence of his fingers was short-lived, his tip suddenly prodding at your entrance.

He went in slow, watching you carefully as he held onto your hips for support and pulled you onto him. His pace was determined by your breathing. You were taking him so well, your body practically melting under his touch as he entered you, but he wanted every confirmation he could get that you really were in this as much as he was.

"I love you." you panted, tilting your head to look up at him over your shoulder. "I love you." you said again, feeling the hesitation from him finally start to dissipate.

His grip dug into your sides, each thrust rougher than the last. "Say it again." He nodded.

But you could barely get the first word out before he buried himself into you, taking away every last bit of resolve you had left. He leaned over so that his body was locking yours in place, his breath trailing across your shoulder as you shook underneath him, heady little whines filling the space between you.

His hand wrapped delicately around your throat while his voice picked up where yours had left off. "I love you." he exhaled.

Your eyes widened when they caught his. There was something so irrevocably binding about the way he was looking at you, it almost felt like an agreement. A soul tie. A meeting between angels and mortals. A promise where "always" really meant always.

"I love you." You whispered, not breaking away from his stare as his pace quickened. His thrusts were unyielding, his body becoming just as needy as yours while your nails dug desperately into his sheets. "I love you." you let out again, your walls nearly smothering him. "I love you." you whined, feeling yourself clench and spasm around him. "I love you." He groaned, holding you in place as he filled you - his cum mixing with yours, sealing the unspoken contract you’d both created.

"I love you. I love you. I love you..."

𓆩🖤𓆪

Megumi was careful not to wake you the next morning. He slipped out from under your grasp with all the caution he possessed as he got to his feet, throwing a pair of boxers on and sliding a black hoodie over his head.

He grabbed the empty bottles that were littering his nightstand before closing the door to his bedroom and heading to the kitchen. It was the first time he'd woken up sober in roughly 3 weeks. The clarity that came along with it was almost too much to handle as he looked over the state of his apartment. The piles of dishes. The destroyed bathroom mirror. The blood stains on the floor of the hallway.

It all told a story, painted an entirely too vivid picture of his own self destruction. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie, finding a cellophane baggy filled with the last 4 Oxys he had.

He took a breath, looking over them. Knowing that they were the one thing that could make everything feel so much more bearable and all it would take was one quick swallow. "God damnit..." He sighed.

Your footsteps were too light for him to hear as you crept around the corner, watching him dump the contents of the baggy into the kitchen sink.

He hastily turned on the water, fighting the urge to fish them out as he let them disappear down the drain. Today might hurt. Tomorrow might hurt. But as he turned around and caught your eye, he quickly realized that they weren't the only thing that could make everything better, they were far from it…

"Need some help?"

No matter how out of control life got, he would always have one advantage: No one else had what he had.

𓆩🖤𓆪

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

TW: yandere, noncon, drugging - inebriated and immobile reader, unhinged Gojo and Geto being an enabler

fem reader

ODD...

There’s something very… odd… about seeing two boys be so comfortable flirting in front of each other...

Usually, a man would need to be alone with a girl to show his puppy-dog eyes – it’s that vulnerable and intimate side they don’t want other guys to see – and otherwise, at the very least, someone normal would have the decency to look away from the intimate sight and allow a friend some privacy.

But Suguru and Satoru were different.

They offer each other no decency – no privacy – none. In fact, you can’t really place a time when you’ve been alone with either of them. They’re always attached at the hip. You swear, they’re more prone to have pouts and sweet-nothings on their lips when they’re looking at you at the same time – mirroring each other's smug smirk and hooded bedroom eyes – finishing each other's sentences. 

You don’t understand their endgame. Despite both vying for your attention, they’re not exactly competing for it. More like… they’re helping each other out. Almost… rooting for the other...

Maybe they want to leave picking one of them up to you? 

It’s, anyway, very odd.

You’re confused when you’re in bed with both of them...

Your memories couldn’t tell you how you got there, only that there’d been a party, and you’d been drinking a little too much and gotten yourself a little too caught up in the moment that you’d allowed the white-haired blue-eyed tall boy to sway you away. Still, you couldn’t exactly remember a time when alcohol had made you feel like this – limbs numb yet ticklish, your head fuzzy, grasping at the muted words surrounding you and their blurry faces in between blinking.

“She’s up, ‘Guru.” Gojo noticed first, having been unable to look away from the sight of your pretty face sleeping in his bed. You’d been so soft and dumb when they’d helped you away from the crowd.

The drugs had hit you much harder than he’d thought, making you so dopey he’d had to carry you the rest of the way like a bride.

And now you lay there so cutely, he’d had to swallow the pool in his mouth more than once already – jaw locked tightly and eyes wide so as not to miss a single thing from the rise and fall of your chest to the way your lips parted with dulcet moans.

Geto, however, had made himself busy – peeling your clothes off one article at a time, leaving wet kisses on your skin each time he exposed someplace new.

You made a sound once you noticed, but you weren’t strong enough to move much more than keep your eyes open in flickers.

“Morning, sunshine-” He murmured with lips smearing against your cheek and a hand softly coming to cup your face, angling it to look into his heavy eyes. “Care to help us settle a bet?”

You moan, unable to formulate any words.

“You see, ‘Toru here- thinks he has the ability to read people’s minds by watching them long enough- but I think he’s full of himself like usual.”

He smiled, cooing at you to stop the sloppy cries that soon overwhelmed you when both the current event and the thoughts of what might impend dawned on you.

Otherwise, he ignored it in favor of continuing his query. “Naturally, the only way to know what someone wants is to try and find out, don’t you agree?”

He leaned in closer, and you struggled to look up into his darkened eyes through the tears and the sleep. Wanting to say something, to tell him to stop, to get off – but you couldn’t make much other sounds than a baby would.

“Like, for example-” He murmured, ignoring your inner turmoil. Swiping his tongue across your lip before he softly pushed down on them with his.

Kissing you. 

He cared little that you couldn’t kiss back. Assisting your mouth to receive him with fingers squishing the plush of your cheeks – making you open to take his tongue, letting him swirl it about your own before he smacked off with a wet string connecting you. 

He sighed with a curled smile, chuckling lowly. “Now, I could tell you liked that… but the only way I’d ever find out was to go ahead and try it. Whilst Mr. Six-eyes here- is still left none the wiser.”

Most of what he said was muddled, and you were otherwise too panicked to listen anyway – wanting to wind your legs shut – but so tired, you could barely even curl your fingers into gripping the sheets.

“Try again, and I’ll deduce whether she liked it or not myself,” Gojo spoke up from behind him, his tone syrupy – with the same sickly-sweet thing pooling in his eyes.

He swallowed thickly yet again.

“I didn’t quite catch it the first time…”

Geto hummed and then indulged the ask, leaning in to kiss you again. Only this time, he swiped a hand up from resting on your knee to your thigh, then further in between them. Stroking two fingers up the naked slit until both digits circled your clit – waking it up.

A whine slipped your throat and poured into his before he could detach yet again – still with the same smile, casually asking the other boy, “Whaddya reckon this time?” 

Gojo shuffled a little impatiently now, looking like he was about to pounce soon, too.

“I’d say she liked it very much..." He said – tone strained – and a hand raised halfway in the air, fingertips buzzing while slowly lowering down to brush the plush surface of your thigh.  "But, y’know… I have a feelin’ she’ll like me even more...”

Geto offered a lax laugh, snarking, “Y’think so, do you~” Leaning back to give the other space.

Gojo was already crawling forward – greedily taking his place between your knees, lifting your thighs up to rest on his. 

He was still wide-eyed – looking calmly frenzied while lowering his hand down to your pretty pussy, rubbing between the lips to feel the wet heat there – a shudder running through him at the feel – slumping forward with a sigh.

“Only one way to find out, I suppose…” Geto added, lazily watching the seemingly star-struck six-eyes part his lips when entering your cunt with two slender fingers. Pumping them in slow and carefully – feeling your thighs weakly tense up but ultimately accept it – too influenced to fight back.

He pushed his thumb into your clit like it was a button, making your chest softly arch with a small croon – attracting his gaze – now, looking back at your pretty face and how you sighed with your belly. 

Once again, he swallowed thickly as he leaned over – keeping his hand between your thighs, working the place as if in reverence – while slowly putting his other hand around your throat. 

He licked his lips when giving it a squeeze, huffing out a small airy chuckle when feeling your walls clench on his fingers in return – and then locked his mouth over yours.

Tongue first and wet, slurping your lip into his mouth – moaning into you like he’d been edging himself to the moment forever, finally indulging it with every fiber – pouring himself into your mouth while curling his fingers against the gum of your cunt, forcing forth moans from your chest.

He was soon panting - rutting his own thickened crotch against whatever was convenient.

“Toru-” Geto broke through after a while before the boy could get too lost in the haze. But Gojo only answered with a sneer out from the corner of his mouth – and continued with you unfettered.

Geto sighed, almost rolling his eyes. Ignoring the threat.

“Let the poor thing breathe.” 

Only then did he notice how tight he’d been squeezing your neck. Your tongue lazy in your gaping mouth, lips wet with his drool – breaths weak with tears slipping free from your eyes, staring upward toward nothing. 

“Well, no doubt you enjoyed that…” Geto continued casually with a snide smile, watching him detach his hand from around your poor neck, followed by you gasping for air – but otherwise remaining just as still as you’d been. “Not so sure she liked it so much, though…” He snickered. “I think I win.”

“I disagree,” Gojo argued but sounded calm – not sparing the raven-head a glace while pulling his fingers from your cunt and showing off the wet slick left on them from when he’d felt you throttle and shake. Flashing the other boy a smug smirk of victory.

Geto’s smile didn’t drop in spite of it.

Instead, it grew a little wider, stretching so far, his eyes got slim.

“Hmm…” He hummed – as though in genuine thought, even when they both knew it wasn’t. “Guess we gotta keep trying, then…”

You struggled to keep focus. Only barely catching parts of the muddled conversation. But you could swear – it was as though they were having a trivial debate rather than anything else you felt it should have resembled – not much arguing present in it whatsoever – as if they were but a pair of level-headed thinkers sharing two equally respected beliefs before testing their theories. 

Meanwhile, you were left out of the discussion, as though you were but a test-bunny to their experiment.

Gojo leaned back on his calves and began buttoning up his shirt with one hand – looking down at you while he raised the other up to his lips, opening his mouth and lolling out his tongue – licking the two digits he’d had inside you with a grin.

“Seems so, huh?” He answered while at it – his eyes gleaming in the dark like something nocturnal on the hunt. “No other choice...”

[milykins]

TMNT Headcanon - When You Can't Sleep

Authors Note: I feel I need to clarify one thing. I’m aware that some people rely on marijuana to help with sleeplessness but I personally don’t use it so it’s unlikely to have a place in my writing. Recreational drugs in general won’t really be something I write about. Call me a straight-edge but I prefer leaving it out. I will write about alcohol usage since I do occasionally have a drink with friends.

Anyway, I actually have been having some rough nights lately so therefore we have this.

Individual TMNT x Reader

TW: Mentions of sex

You’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately. Lucky for you, you’ve got plenty of cure-alls. It all depends on who you ask.

Mikey

Your cuddly turtle boyfriend is no stranger to insomnia. Sometimes, the life of a ninja was too heavy, even for him and his upbeat persona. You knew Mikey could feel things a little too deeply and replay horrifying images continuously in his head. Over the years he’s developed some coping strategies. For you, he’ll offer you a melatonin gummy and something hot to drink. Tea, hot chocolate, or warm milk. If you still can’t sleep after that, he’ll stay up with you. He’ll cuddle you, rub your back, play some calming music… most of all, he’ll tell you that whatever this is, will pass. You might start panicking a little bit, telling him through tears that you’re afraid you’ll never sleep again, but he’ll assure you that you will. After all, no one died from a few sleepless nights. His gentle reassurances are just what you need to hear, and eventually you do drop off into a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

Raph

Not nearly as tactful as his baby brother, Raph will bluntly offer to give you an orgasm. After all, that’s one of his go-to’s when he can’t sleep. Raph is actually the only one of his brothers to have a somewhat healthy sleeping schedule. Disturbing images, horror, and depressing stories just don’t hold a lot of weight for him. They still affect him, but he’s able to compartmentalize these things and drop off to sleep rather easily at night. He’ll still try to help you with your insomnia, though, like a good boyfriend should. If the offer of sex is turned down, he’ll offer a backrub – an innocent one, of course. No ulterior motive, he’ll promise. He’s very good with his hands and able to work out any knots, kinks, or stiffness, getting you very relaxed in no time at all. You might accept his offer for sex then, just because he’s been so sweet and patient, and given you an amazing massage. It works. In the afterglow, you’re asleep and cuddled up next to him, wrapped in his comforting embrace.

Leo

His first reaction will be concern, and he might pepper you with a few questions. Did you watch something disturbing? Is anything causing you stress or causing you to worry? Is it something he did? You quickly assure him he’s done nothing to cause it. You actually don’t know the reason; you just can’t shut off your brain for some reason. Upon hearing this, he’ll light some calming incense and offer you tea, of course. This blend will be a combination of valerian root, peppermint leaf, and a few others that promote wellness and sleep. True to form, he’ll also recommend meditation, except he’ll have you do it a little differently than you normally would. After your tea he’ll instruct you to lay down in his bed, get comfortable, and close your eyes. He’ll have you breathe deeply as he leads you through the most peaceful guided meditation you’ve ever experienced. It’s so relaxing that you have no trouble falling asleep after that. Leo will follow suit and be careful not to disturb you as he crawls in next to you.

Donnie

He is the worst about having a healthy sleep schedule. It isn’t because he has trouble sleeping, but because he has difficulty tearing himself away from his work. He just has to finish this one thing… or read one more paragraph. It’s never just one more paragraph with him. He usually needs to be coaxed to go rest, so it’s no surprise that he’s still awake in his lab when you quietly shuffle in after trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep for hours. Donnie will lose any and all focus that he had on his work and shift gears into helping you. He’ll shush all of your attempts to apologize for disturbing him and offer you a sleep aid. He’ll usher you to his bed and lay next to you, asking if there’s anything you need to get off your chest that may be inhibiting your ability to sleep. When you explain that you find it difficult to quiet your thoughts, he can definitely relate to that. He’ll put on some deep ambient music set at 432 Hz. He’ll explain that it’s the perfect frequency to promote relaxation, reduce tension, and support emotional wellbeing. It is what he uses to lull himself to sleep when he has a hard time reaching the coveted REM stage. The music works, and you find yourself finally slipping into rest. Donnie ends up falling asleep next to you as an added bonus. He really needed to stop working and go to bed anyway.

The End - Sleep Well Everyone

Taglist:

@danceingfae @thelaundrybitch @iridescentflamingo @redsrooftopprincess @ninnosaurus @the-cauldron-witch @thepinkpanther83 @avery73 @adebauchedsloth @sophiacloud28 @scholastic-dragon

I hope that's okay if I've tagged you! If you'd like to be added just let me know!

[eliciana]

Reverse SAGAU: The Weird Door At My Café

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2(here) | Chapter 3 | ...

Masterlist

Blog Navigation

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Tw: Reverse!Isekai!Sagau, Normal Au, Café Au, a bit of cussing like this bit 🤏.

Reader: Gn!Reader, Adult!Reader, Café Owner!Reader

Characters: Reader, Paimon, Traveler

Note: Restaurant to Another World animanga inspired au. You can slide into my dms if you ever want to be tagged in my works just tell me what series you want to be tagged in or all of them. thank you <3. Also, I may say that the characters other than the reader may be a bit OOC cause it's been a long time since I played genshin and I'm just finishing all of my works with my knowledge left from playing the game. So sorry about it 🙏🙏.

____________________________________

You stood, motionless, your eyes fixed in disbelief upon the distant scene before you. As the wind cut through the air, a shiver ran down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The purity of the air surrounded you, carrying with it an intoxicating scent that smelled pure. The warm touch of the sun's rays caressing your skin affirmed that this experience couldn't possibly be a figment of your imagination. A fleeting thought of doubt crept in, but you quickly dismissed it; after all, you had never dabbled in any kind of drugs. This moment, as unbelievable as it seems, had to be undeniably real.

With careful fingers, you gently retrieved your fallen shoe/heel/slipper from the bed of plush, emerald-green grass. As you slipped it back onto your foot, your eyes instinctively wandered upward, transfixed by the expansive stretch of blue sky above you. It was quite unlike the very bright pixelated one you see on your screen. Everything that you see within the door was real and not a nightmare.

____________________________________

After composing yourself, you went inside your cafe, close the door, drag a chair nearest to the door, took a seat on the chair you placed infront of the door, and contemplated life. A deep heavy sigh got out your mouth as you continue looking the the strange thing infront of you. "What now? What do I do? Should I just lock it?" you asked yourself and looked at the door. Welp, well, there goes your master plan. Suprise suprise there's no keyhole and having a key would not make any difference. "Ugh."

You sat up and opened the door again, only to be baffled to see a different scenery other than the distant City of Mondstadt. The door was now currently in the Liyue Harbor. You closed the door and opened it again, you were now in Inazuma. Close, open, and now in Sumeru. Once again, you are now in Fontaine.

"Yeah bye." you closed the door again and returned the chair from where it once was. Contemplating what you should do next, your feet carried you around the whole café. You went to the counter and decided to make yourself something to help with calming yourself first in order to think clearly. It was a good thing that you had brought all of the materials and ingredients you needed in the café because you had thought of opening the café tomorrow. But with how things are now, you don't know what to do.

Teyvat is filled with many dangerous beings such as hilichurls, slimes, etc. You are but a normal human being with no experience in fighting and fighting your baby cousins was not enough of an experience to be able to fight toe to toe with monsters you have only seen through a screen. Yes, a gun would probably best to use but you don't have a permit for that and you don't want to be in jail when you have just barely open your dream café. But nobody had to know, right? What if-

A deep sigh fell from your lips once again. The stress is really getting in to you, huh? The bitter/sweet aroma of (coffee/tea/juice) filled your sense of smell. You were making your favorite, (your choice of coffee/tea/juice). After some time of finishing your drink, you took it along with a (pastry of your choice) that you had in your car, in which you had thought of eating to celebrate the opening, and sat in a chair facing the door. Taking your time in eating/drinking, many thoughts come and go in your head to solve the predicament you are in now. You had even thought of postponing the opening of the café until you had thought of a way on what to do with the door.

Of course you read the fanfics circulating all around the genshin fandom and one of the those that you have read was SAGAU where you might be the imposter or the creator of teyvat or you become a villain or anything in between. The most common of them was being an imposter. What if you were to become the said imposter if one day a person will open the door to your café? What if they kill you? What if-

*creak......*

Your rambling came to a stop as you looked at the door horrified. Oh no no no no no no NO NO NO! YOU JINXED YOURSELF DIDN'T YOU?! THIS DAMNED FATE-

'Oh dear God, Buddha, Allah, Deities, whoever higher being there is, pls help me...' you thought as you clasp your hands, praying to higher beings. Before you could even feel it, tears cascaded down you face to the table. "I'm nOt ReAdy tO dIE yeT... Ughhhhhhhh" you sobbed into your hands loudly like a child lost in a mall.

"Hello?" a person peaked from behind the door.

Fuck.

____________________________________

The Traveler, along with Paimon, was doing their daily quests until they saw something shining in the far distance. Their curiousity made them want to investigate it.

"Hm. Why is a door in the middle of the forest with no support or whatsoever?" Paimon mumbled as the door came into their view. The Traveler also had the same thought.

"Is it perhaps a magic door of some kind? I think w-"

*creak*

The Traveler stopped speaking as the door opened but from where they are right now, they couldn't see who opened the door and couldn't get to ask since the door closed with a loud bang when they were going to get closer.

"Well... that was something..." Paimon looked at the Traveler. "Traveler? What's wrong? BREATHE! YOU'RE GOING TO DIE AT THIS RATE!" Paimon brought tons of fried egg out of the Traveler's bag and smacked it into the Traveler's mouth and forced them to chew the egg.

After confirming the Traveler is back into top condition, Paimon asked them what the hell happened to them.

"I-I don't know. I suddenly felt something when whoever opened that door and the air around me became heavy that it became hard to breathe..." The Traveler shooked their head gently and sighed. "I also felt something strange. The energy of whoever is beyond that door, excluded an aura that is very familiar to me, but I don't know who or what it is."

"Hm. Paimon thinks that we should open that door and see whoever that and see if they truly are familiar to you or maybe perhaps this connection that you feel is related to your sibling!" Paimon twirled around the air, exaggerating her words with her actions.

For once, Traveler thought it was a good idea at first but there is also a flaw in that idea. A flaw that might cause their life if whoever is beyond that door is hostile and will kill them. It is better to be cautious then to be 6ft underground before finding their sibling.

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Taglist:

@udretlnea

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Predetermined.

Written for the very lovely @mars-syndrome.

Pairing: Yandere!Azul x Reader (Twisted Wonderland).

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: AFAB!Reader, Non///Con, Tentacle Sex, Unprotected Sex, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Implied Long-Term Stalking, and Unhealthy Relationships.

For everyone except you, the Monsto Lounge closed at ten.

It was an unofficial rule. Octavinelle freshmen would try to turn you away, but it was a mistake the Leech twins made sure to correct by the next morning, and everyone who’d ever worked more than a shift at the lounge knew better than to kick you out at the end of the night. That was why you were allowed to get away with something Azul would usually blacklist a customer for – staying balled up in the corner of a booth until midnight, your attention either on your nearly-dead phone or the untouched milkshake Floyd had wordlessly put in front of you when he came down to make one for himself, like a zookeeper offering a pound of meat to a caged animal. Riddle was absolutely going to kill you for staying out after curfew, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about how many sugar cubes you’d have to add to your lemonade tomorrow or how many roses you’d have to paint. You were tempted to spend the night here, to beg Azul to let you use one of the unoccupied rooms and just sleep your misery away, but you’d end up collared for the next week if you didn’t come back at all. The price of being in the best dorm in NRC – you were at the mercy of the strictest dorm leader on campus.

Sometimes, when you couldn’t help yourself, you wished you’d been placed in Azul’s dorm instead. He’d let you get away with anything.

 With a heavy sigh, you pulled your legs into your chest and buried your face in your knees. You felt the bench shift under someone else’s weight and raised your head just enough to see Azul sitting in front of you. He’d already discarded his jacket and scarf, his glasses propped low on the nose of his bridge and his shirt more unbuttoned than he usually cared to keep it. He’d probably just wrapped up his own work for the night. You thought you remembered him mentioning a study guide, but it was hard to tell with Azul. He always had something up his sleeve – it was hard to keep track of which scheme he was on, today.

Silently, he slid a mug of something dark and murky in front of you, steam still rising from the top. Although Floyd’s offering went neglected, you took Azul’s up without protest, letting the warmth seep into your hands. You’d been through this a thousand times. You knew better than to ignore his little remedies, by now.

After you’d taken a healthy sip, he spoke. “Who is it now?”

“Muscle-tee guy, from Savanaclaw.” You groaned, shutting your eyes. “He promised we’d be exclusive, but apparently, he thought that included his roommate, and a girl from Pomefiore, and some idiot from Royal Swords. A boy from his class had to tell me – he had pictures and everything.”

Azul offered a skeptical look. “You’re crying over him?”

“I’m not crying!” You hadn’t cried over anyone since middle school. He should know that – he’d been there then, too, to watch you sob your eyes out when your newest crush tore up your confession letter before so much as opening it. You were a third-year, now. If you were going to cry, you were going to do it alone in your closet where no one would be able to judge you.

You were more tired than anything. You could already feel today starting to weigh on you, your shoulders held at an odd slant and your remaining energy dwindling further by the second. Reluctantly, you uncurled, letting your legs fall over Azul’s lap and taking another drink before going on. “I’m just so exhausted. It feels like it always ends like this. I let my guard down, meet a guy I really like, get him to really like me, and then I find out that that he’s an asshole and somehow, I’m the only one who didn’t know.” You groaned, shaking your head. “I don’t know how this keeps happening. Are all men this bad, or just the ones I choose to date?”

“Unfortunately, your taste is the only common factor.” You let out a dry laugh, shooting Azul a narrow glare. He only shrugged, as composed and as disinterested as always. “Honestly, it’s your own fault. How can you expect to find a quality product when you’re latching onto items you’ve only known for a few days?”

Another groan, this one louder than the first.  You really were tired – it was a struggle just to keep your eyes open. “I don’t sulk in your restaurant ‘cause I want to be lectured, y’know.”

“And I didn’t open a restaurant because I wanted people with pathetic love-lives to sulk in it.” It was his turn to sigh, now, to settle closer to you. A hand came to rest on your back, rubbing small circles into the space between your shoulder blades. He was never especially touchy – you’d caught him cringing after shaking hands with a business partner or being nudged by another clumsy student in an overcrowded hallway more than once – but you could tell he tried to an exception, for you. You appreciated the effort, no matter how much it apparently hurt him. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it wouldn’t hurt you if stopped rushing into relationships with people you barely know. Taking your time might save you a little heartache.” He paused. You weren’t looking at him, but you could picture the thin frown playing over his lips, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration rather than anger (because when Azul was angry, hr only ever smiled). He was smart, but predictable. Maybe it was just because of how long you’d known each other, how long you’d spent standing at Azul’s side while he looked down on everyone else, but either way, you could read him like the back of your hand. You didn’t have to see him to know exactly what he was thinking. “Or, if you really have to rush into something, you could try starting a relationship with someone you actually know. It might not be as much fun, but it couldn’t be worse than—” He gestured to you, your hunched posture, your wrinkled uniform. “—this.”

You perked up, letting out an airy laugh. It was rare for Azul to hand out advice without asking for a healthy fee, so you tried to nod, to smile, to look like you weren’t on the verge of passing out and forcing him to carry you back to your dorm. “I… I’ll think about it. I’ll try.” And you would. You’d try, at least, like you always did when Azul pulled you aside and told you to stop embarrassing him with your week-long flings. “If I wait long enough, I might even be able to find someone like you, Azul.”

There was a long, silent lapse.

Then, Azul’s hand fell to the small of his back, and you felt your strength snap and give out. You thought, distantly, about batting his hand away, about teasing him for how uncharacteristically affectionate he was being tonight, but you just couldn’t seem to make yourself move, to keep yourself upright. You felt your body slump against Azul’s side, and without missing a beat, he caught you, wrapping an arm around your waist and letting out a shallow sigh.

“Right,” he muttered, as your eyes finally fell shut. You felt like you’d been hollowed out, sapped of something warm and vital and left to gently float into an unwelcome unconsciousness. You tried to scream, but your mouth wouldn’t open, your lips sealed and your tongue useless. You tried to wake up, but that only seemed to drag you down farther, to pull you that much deeper into that awful, exhausting fog.

“Maybe one day, love.”

~

You woke up to the feeling of something inside of you and cold water lapping against your skin.

In your drugged daze, the latter somehow seemed to take priority over the former. It wasn’t just cold, it was freezing, worse than the Coral Sea in the dead of winter, when the ice drifts blotted out the sun and a stray current alone could send you into hypothermic shock. It only came up to your waist, but you felt the chill run up your spine, spreading through your veins and turning your blood to ice. If you’d been able to move, you would’ve been shivering. If you’d been able to think clearly, you would’ve been more afraid.

But you could move, even if you couldn’t think. You managed to lift your hand, bringing it into your line of sight only to find a slick, pitch-black tentacle wrapped around your end, its suckers latched onto your skin and its dull point tangled around your fingers. You recognized it in an instant – Azul’s, down to the lilac-grey underside and the permeant compression marks etched into the tip, earned through countless hours of writing up contracts. You hadn’t him in his true form since you enrolled in NRC. You wondered what would be important enough for him to break his streak now.

Another wave of frigid water broke against your midriff, and you felt something quirk inside of you. It was a tight, bad feeling – a string of tension wound tight enough to coil in on itself, to ache and throb as your cunt stretched around something thick and awful and a soft, blunt head rubbed and flicked against your inner walls. Wait, that was right – something was inside of you, thrusting as it curled and twisted and thrashed. You felt it curve in on itself, the base rising to grind against your clit as it moved, and you bolted upward, taking a gasping breath. It didn’t stop you. The tentacles wrapped around both your wrists and draped over your legs weighed you down but offered no resistance as you straighten your back, as you panted and blinked and ran your hand over your stomach, half-expecting to feel a bump where it was stabbing into you. You didn’t find what you were looking for, though, or maybe you did, you couldn’t tell, your attention already moving on to the wading pool you were laying in, shallow but wide and full enough for the water to spill over the sides, and then the thing on top of you, your eyes eventually land on–

On Azul.

Azul.

Your mouth fell open, a plea for him to help you dying in your throat. He looked as strung-out as you felt; his hair pushed away from his face, giving you a perfect view of his half-lidded eyes, his parted lips, the dark blush painted across his cheeks. His hands were braced on either side of you, edging too near to your hips for comfort, and you were suddenly aware of just how close he was to you, his chest a breath from pressing into yours. Even that distance was a temporary luxury, gone as soon as your eyes met and he let out a hitched groan, falling forward until his face was buried in your neck and you couldn’t so much as imagine getting away from him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, your legs thrashing weakly as you attempted to push him away, but now, now he chose to restrain you, his spare arms dragging yours down until they were pinned to your sides. Your legs were caught up in his tentacles, too; a pair wrapping around your thighs and spreading them apart, dragging you deeper into the water and leaving you unable to hold yourself up. His breath was as cold as the water, fanning over your skin and making the heat beginning to drip down the inside of your thighs that much more unbearable. You heard him whine, the noise pitchy and desperate, going on for seconds before he seemed to find the will to actually speak. You weren’t sure which would’ve been worse – hearing his voice in a place like this, or watching him abuse your body without so much as an apology.

“You’re tight.” There was a stilted inhale, a trembling groan. “I— Fuck, I knew you would be, but it’s like your body’s been waiting for this as long as I have. It’s like—” His voice gave out, a manic smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “It’s like we were made for each other.”

He sounded so happy. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him excited about something other than schemes and contracts and profit margins measured down to the last stray cent. Usually, the closest you got was a sense of smug condescension – a certain light in his eyes and a manic zeal in his grin. This was different. This was so, so much worse.

You felt his mouth latch onto your throat, pointed teeth nipping at the skin just above your jugular before burrowing into you, drawing enough blood to drip down your chest and tint the water pink. He wasn’t satisfied with a single mark, either; his attention falling lower, to the curve of your shoulder, then the vulnerable flesh just above your collarbone. As his concentration wavered, you were allowed to slump forward, but yet another tentacle found its way to your neck, wrapping loosely around your throat, applying just enough pressure to keep you upright. It reminded you of how Azul would correct your posture when he caught you hunching over your desk, or how he’d tell you to stand just a little closer to his side while he was talking to the other dorm leaders, to sit next to him rather than across the room while he was meeting with a student who spared anything more than a stray glance in your direction. He’d never been afraid to pose you. This was just an extension of that, really – a more honest version of the same bad habit.

The rough underside of the tentacle inside of you rubbed against the walls of your pussy, and you imagined digging your nails into his cheek, clawing at his eyes, kicking and thrashing and yelling until someone heard you, until Azul decided the risk wasn’t worth the reward, but you couldn’t bring yourself to so much as attempt to move, to fight against his bondage. It was all you could do to watch him from a distance, to force yourself to be vaguely aware of what he was doing to you. The tentacle inside of you fell into a steady rhythm, and Azul’s hand fell to your clit, clumsily circling the hypersensitive bundle of nerves. His inexperience was apparent, his usual air of confidence discarded in favor of seeking his pleasure and forcing the same misplaced bliss onto you. You didn’t resist, but you jerked away from his touch. If he noticed that you were trying to get away from him, though, if he could see your pained expression or grit teeth, he didn’t seem to care, to think of it as anything other than you bucking into his hand. He tilted his head back, his pale eyes flickering towards your face, a wide smile plastering itself across his lips. Slowly, joltingly, he pulled himself back to your height and before you could brace yourself, his lips were crashing into yours. Teeth scraped against teeth, his tongue pressed into yours, and you thought, through the daze, that this might’ve been his first kiss. You couldn’t remember him mentioning anything, ever telling you about a pretty girl or cute boy who’d caught his eye. In fact, you couldn’t remember him ever mentioning anything about love or romance at all.

Huh.

It made sense, once you took a step back.

You didn’t kiss back. Obviously, you didn’t kiss back. Azul didn’t seem to care. He was panting by the time he pulled away from you, his blush darker and his pupils blown out with lust. You felt the tentacle inside of you twitch, and thought for the first time that it might not be a tentacle at all but something too terrible to name. You were almost thankful when the tentacle around your neck slipped past your lips and forced your teeth apart, giving you something to think about aside from that awful, slick thing inside of you, aside from the revolting heat slowly beginning to curl and flicker in your core. The tapered tip brushed against the back of your throat and you gagged violently, the air hitching in your throat and your body lurching against his. Azul’s grin grew broader, his pace rougher. “You’re going to cum.” It wasn’t an order or a question, just an assessment, an observation. A prediction you could only hope wouldn’t come true. “That’s alright. That’s perfect. I want you to. I’ve waited so long to—”

His voice cut out with an airy groan. He pressed himself closer to you, his stare boring into skin and his lips ghosting over yours. You tried to turn away, to clench your eyes shut, but his hands came up, cupping your face and pulling you back to him. The tentacle assaulting your mouth jutted deeper, forcing you to open your eyes, to meet his. He was crying – you could see the tear tracks running down his cheeks, carving trails across his pale skin. He was smiling, wider than you’d ever seen him smile before.

“I tried to give you a chance.” He was muttering, now, the words barely audible and entirely deafening all at once. “I tried, but this is what you drove me to.” He rested his forehead against yours, drove his nails into your jaw. “This was the only way I could show you that we were made for each other.”

Made for each other. Made for each other.

The conviction in his voice was so steadfast that, maybe, in another scenario, you probably would’ve believed him.

A tight, searing heat washed over you. Your body went rigid, tensing up as your vision burnt white and your cunt clenched around his tentacle. At the same time, something burst open inside of you, filling you with something hot and horrible and so much worse than the water you were still submerged in, the water you wished would’ve drowned you minutes ago. Rather than pull back, you felt Azul draw closer, wind around you tighter, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t.

Going limp, you leaned against the edge of the pool and closed your eyes, letting your mind drift far, far away. Azul let you, his hands falling away but his tentacles persisting with their grinding and groping and invading. It didn’t matter. It was like Azul said – you were made for each other, right?

You could only wonder how long ago he’d decided that.

[nrdmssgs]

Honestly need some nikto being violently concerned over readers health after they came home from a bar all far too loopy and delirious to be normal drunk if you're comfortable with that if you're not that's fine

Masterlist I hope, I got you right.

TW: mention of drug poisoning (no graphical depictions)

He never questioned your loyalty. Nikto may be a territorial animal, but he never doubted you. Others however...

"He-heeey, `m fine! C-can do it on my own," you babble, as you push away his hands and try to untie your shoelaces. If he was concerned before, just witnessing you entering home - now Nikto starts seeing red.

Because how you move and talk is so not you. Nikto saw you tipsy before, once you two even had obviously too much, and he remembered, how you were back then. Silly, yes, soft and mushy, a tad bratty, tired, but still crazy - this all was natural. And now a strange shiver runs all over your body every five minutes.

Oh no, this is not an early hungover. This and the fact, that you spent the last 15 minutes sitting in a hallway, untying and tying your shoes again and again. He sighs and descends on his knees before you. Catches your hands and presses his lips against your knuckles.

"I will help, little one."

You manage exactly one sound: a weak little mewl of protest. But Andre slowly shakes his head, looking you in the eyes and repeats: I. Will. Help.

You finally give in under his intense, and, for a reason unknown to you, concerned gaze. His movements are so careful as if hes undressing a porcelain doll. You smile and giggle, asking him to stop tickling you every time his fingers clasp around your ankles.

It breaks his heart, because he actually barely touched you. Your senses are a mess, your body is not ok, your mind... And what is about your mind?

"Sokrovishche*, tell me, how the evening went? Had fun?" Nikto is a shitty actor, his voice barely masks the fact, that he can barely think straight himself. But you seem to not notice that, because you answer lightheartedly, while he carries you to the bedroom.

Your story is hectic, and the jerky narration doesn't help it: you jump from one topic to another, mix up names and facts. But it's your sincerity that tears him apart - you're not trying to trick Nikto, you're confused and lost.

There is one particular detail reappearing in your story: a guy. You try and try again to remember his face or the name at least, but fail and start worrying.

"It's ok, if you don't remember. Tell us, what you've been drinking, mm? Something tasty?"

Tell us. A bad omen. A terrible one. It's been a while since the last time, the voices have woken up. But you miss this detail, as you miss every second word shared now.

"A glass of wine. Then a glass of water, then again the wine, the same one. After that I got thirsty once again, asked for water, he brought me a bottle, it was sealed, I remember. And then... And then I d-d-ont..." Your eyes widen slowly.

Niktos jaw clenches, a cold light grows stronger deep in pale blue eyes. That scum. Sealed bottles? So he cooks a batch prior to his night out, somewhere in his place...

"Andre, did I?... How long? What did he..." You can't finish any question, your tongue suddenly feels too big and heavy to form a full sentence. In a desperate attempt to catch a breath, you take an inhale, but your breaths grow ragged. Not even noticing this, you start hyperventilating.

He gathers you into his arms, engulfs your body in a warm embrace, hides your face on his chest and softly rocks you back and forth, helping you find a soothing breathing rhythm.

"Vsye khorosho, sokrovishche. You're safe, we promise. No bruises left. He didn't touch you."

When Nikto touches his lips to your forehead, it’s so gentle and careful, one wouldn't believe, such a beast is capable to be this soft. He is easing you into the feel of him as his hands, holding you steady. There may be no bruises, but there can still be other things, your mind has blocked, but your body remembers.

He rocks you against him, breathing in time with him, the measure of his heart a steady clip that you can follow with measured steps. He and every voice awaken thank any gods out there, for you don't tense up, squirm and run from his touch. That gives him hope, that the fucker really didn't manage to do anything.

"We will protect my little treasure." He slowly helps you out of your clothes. It's not an act of seduction, but pure manifestation of care.

"We will calm our little one, take all her worries, guard her in her sleep." Warm lips on the back of your neck. Yet again: this is not a foreplay - it is Andre giving you all the care he has. Anything soft, that he is capable of in this deep mad state of mind, belongs to you.

He takes your worries away, lulls you to sleep, interlocking his fingers with yours, buries his face in your hair, letting you drown in his deep bitterish scent and find your peace in his hands.

Nikto may be a crooked soul, a mind damaged, torn to pieces, but for you he will turn into a bastion against all the darkness in the world.

When he is sure, you're deep in your dreams and nothing bothers you anymore - Nikto vanishes for a few hours.

He rarely uses this set, but there is, in fact, an all black tactical attire in his wardrobe. There is rarely a good reason to take it on, but today is the day. Darker wet stains on black won't draw too much attention in the first lights of the dawn.

You wake in a bed that feels too empty and slowly realize, what have happened. What might have happened after you fell asleep. You wait him out, perched on the edge of your seat, watching him shuck off his gear in a deafening silence.

His mind is still out there. Each glance on you feels like he’s entered a prizefighting ring, and you’re the opponent he needs to face off with next. His jaw works, a muscle ticking, and with that particular, quiet sort of menace he’s just so good at leveraging, he holds out a hand for you to come to him. “He won't ever trouble you again.” Level. More controlled than you expected.

Nikto holds back, not letting himself slide his fingers up your arms and thus leave blood strains on your perfect skin. Never. Never should a blood of such a scum besmear his treasure.

Leave the blood of those who wronged you for his hands.

Sokrovishche - treasure

Vsye khorosho, sokrovishche - everything's allright, treasure

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991 

The air here smells like sulphur. 

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind. 

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down. 

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell. 

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle. 

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable. 

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders. 

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket. 

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things. 

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde. 

Probably. 

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight. 

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open. 

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.  

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection. 

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream. 

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout. 

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin. 

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts. 

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask. 

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend." 

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly. 

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–" 

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to. 

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch. 

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down. 

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls." 

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that." 

"Uh-huh," you say. 

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!" 

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?" 

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath. 

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour". 

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make. 

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't. 

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it. 

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders. 

Or when you're with Eddie. 

As you stupidly told him. 

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him. 

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady. 

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here. 

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea. 

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog… 

You grip the door. 

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you? 

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest. 

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush. 

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside. 

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?" 

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet." 

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit." 

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep." 

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed." 

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat. 

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?" 

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around. 

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts. 

"I'll see what I can do," she says. 

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again. 

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up. 

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?" 

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on? 

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?" 

"And is he expecting your call?" 

"No, ma'am." 

"Who's calling?" 

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful. 

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck– 

"Transferring now." 

You hold your breath. 

The phone clicks twice. 

"Hi?" 

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?" 

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N." 

"Hey. How's Florida?" 

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot." 

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face. 

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine." 

You can still save it. 

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask. 

Wrong. 

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!" 

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you. 

"Okay, good." 

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?" 

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here." 

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket." 

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says. 

You know exactly what he means. 

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person. 

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit. 

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask." 

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it." 

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?" 

"I should hang up on you." 

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises. 

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time." 

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power. 

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark. 

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up. 

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery. 

“Did you hear that?” he asks. 

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat. 

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks. 

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.  

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought. 

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak. 

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.  

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true. 

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says. 

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

-

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it. 

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this. 

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar. 

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter. 

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she? 

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them. 

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it. 

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say. 

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him. 

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say. 

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small. 

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed. 

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful. 

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you. 

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes. 

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips. 

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too. 

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough. 

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes. 

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed. 

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare. 

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand. 

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better. 

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says. 

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart. 

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats. 

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play. 

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another. 

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says. 

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says. 

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before. 

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder. 

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate. 

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks. 

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes. 

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips. 

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest. 

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart. 

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth. 

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile. 

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles. 

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest. 

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask. 

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze. 

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair. 

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says. 

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier. 

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.” 

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing. 

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say. 

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience." 

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips. 

Eddie could get used to this. 

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself. 

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath. 

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance. 

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge. 

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask. 

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged. 

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV. 

“You’re too busy,” you finish. 

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing. 

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else. 

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do. 

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner. 

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry. 

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl. 

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out. 

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you. 

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock." 

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment." 

"No, at the store." 

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you. 

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it." 

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.  

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame." 

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time." 

"Nerd." 

"Loser." 

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty. 

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit. 

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks. 

"They'll have yours." 

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine." 

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena." 

You gawp at him. "You did not." 

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs. 

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it." 

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away. 

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time." 

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say. 

"You don't think you would?" 

"I'm not really tenured." 

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable." 

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing. 

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together. 

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU. 

"What do I play?" you ask. 

"Anything." 

"That's not helpful." 

"Something fun," he says. 

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline. 

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor. 

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate. 

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard." 

"I'm telling people you said that." 

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus. 

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks. 

"No." 

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song." 

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously." 

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest." 

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home. 

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face. 

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation. 

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part. 

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.  

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking? 

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that." 

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head. 

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference." 

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should. 

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel. 

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval. 

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks. 

"What do you know?" 

"God, I know everything. You should know that." 

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention." 

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss. 

You're in awe. 

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle. 

"S'what I get for trying to show off." 

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that. 

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself. 

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away. 

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer. 

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it. 

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks. 

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip. 

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be." 

He licks his lips. "You're cool." 

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do. 

"I'm worried about people finding out about us." 

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us." 

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely. 

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?" 

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer. 

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it." 

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain. 

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive." 

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded." 

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me." 

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?" 

"No," you mumble. 

"Oh. Good." 

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask. 

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on." 

"They've clocked on." 

"Cruel!" he says, delighted. 

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?" 

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe." 

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh. 

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up." 

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly. 

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–" 

"What am I getting into?" 

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this." 

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this." 

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl. 

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you." 

"But I don't get that, we don't get along." 

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky. 

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you." 

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness. 

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure. 

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want." 

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying. 

"Okay," you breathe. 

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice." 

"You're not on thin ice." 

"I should be." 

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it." 

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?" 

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod. 

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one. 

"What's for dinner?" you ask. 

Eddie smiles. 

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?" 

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing. 

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love. 

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession. 

"I miss you," he'd said. 

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then." 

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something. 

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours. 

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank. 

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer." 

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself. 

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?" 

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?" 

"Is there any room?" 

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?" 

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath. 

He whistles. Can't help himself. 

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur. 

"Sorry. You're just pretty." 

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice." 

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–" 

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could. 

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative. 

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried." 

About what? he'd asked. 

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle. 

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie. 

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him. 

"Don't push me away," he whines. 

"Don't make fun of me." 

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that." 

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue. 

"You don't like that word?" 

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do. 

"You like Status Quo?" you ask. 

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?" 

"Showaddywaddy?" 

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes. 

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath. 

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily. 

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still. 

"Don't ask stupid questions." 

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party." 

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood." 

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?" 

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember." 

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say." 

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek. 

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating. 

"Because you didn't know me." 

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?" 

"Sweetheart, we met before." 

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more. 

"We did," he says. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list. 

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something. 

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane." 

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–" 

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.  

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…" 

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other." 

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah." 

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck. 

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you." 

"You took your time," he says. 

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"  

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains. 

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip. 

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge. 

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says. 

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!" 

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?" 

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?" 

You're already forgiven. "Three photos." 

"Deal." 

"Should've asked for five." 

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.." 

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–" 

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off." 

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling. 

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them." 

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex. 

"I've seen them," he disagrees. 

"You have not." 

"Have too." 

"Have not." 

"I'm seeing them right now." 

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape. 

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no." 

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks. 

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say. 

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?" 

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do." 

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated. 

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you." 

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently. 

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?" 

You beam at him. "Right." 

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest. 

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears. 

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say. 

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss. 

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?" 

He hadn't meant to ask like that. 

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features. 

The camera clicks. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

[cellythefloshie]

;; Don't Blame Me A Matthew Knies Fanfiction

Summary: Back home for the summer, you and your bestie hit up the neighbor’s pool party. In attendance is your sister’s ex boyfriend, Matthew Knies – but he’s only got eyes for you. Kinks & TW: sister's ex-boyfriend, age gap (older reader), sexual acts in public, car sex, sundress season, unprotected sex (pull-out method but make it sloppy), masturbation, drug and alcohol consumption (marijuana) Word Count: 6.4k+

The base dropped, and your stomach went with it. You could physically feel the music as it pulsed through the home. From the speakers, the music vibrated the floor, you could feel it against your feet and how it reverberated into your bones. You couldn’t hear the laughter that slipped from your friend’s lips after a bad joke, nor could you hear the clinking of glasses as someone made a toast to the host, Phillip, that was happening nearby. 

Hell, you couldn’t even hear yourself think. Which wasn’t the worst thing, since it was your first weekend back home after a brutal semester of grad school. You had spent the last 10 months grueling over your degree. You should have been letting loose like everyone else at the party. Instead, you found yourself sidelined, clutching a neon pink drink your best friend had greeted you with as a peace offering for accepting the role as her wing woman for the night. 

The target? You hadn’t heard his name, but you didn’t need to hear him to know that he was exactly her type. Tall, brunette, and, as she so often described, her ideal man, medium ugly. He was a goner the moment she walked into the party, and he seemed to accept his fate with a smile - which made your job a lot easier. You just had to smile and hope he had good looking friends. 

Taking a long sip of your too-sweet drink, your eyes peered up over the rim of the glass, watching the crowd as it swarmed like bees in a hive. Bodies distorted by flashing, colored lights as they danced, others used the darkness to conceal a secret kiss - and where it was brighter, that’s where the real chaos ensued. You couldn’t see anything more than the fluorescent glow from the kitchen, but you could hear it, even over the blaring music. The hoots and hollers that could only mean one thing. A frat boy’s favorite pastime; beer pong–

“Hey!” You flinched as your best nudged you with her elbow to pull your attention back to her. “You’re so tense, you’ve got to try to relax. We’re back home! Have some fun, for once!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, trying to smile, but you lost it as you brought your drink to your lips. You took a bigger gulp, feeling the sugary alcohol burn as it went down, and didn’t stop until the cup was empty. Maybe, if you drank enough, you’d finally loosen up. 

Being back home, you were supposed to feel at ease–free even. But you couldn’t be, not as long as you were in the house surrounded by strangers mixed with familiar faces that you hadn’t seen since high school. It left a heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach, a little thankful that your best friend had you hiding along the walls and away from the rest of the party. This had you dreading having to leave to get yourself another drink. 

You held up your glass, dandling it playfully in front of her face playfully, “where can I get another one of these?”

“The kitchen.”

Fuck. 

“Come with me?” You pouted, and just in case that wasn’t enough for her, you bat your eyes at her too. “I’m sure your man will be here when we get back.”

Her smile was mischievous as she leaned into her man to speak directly into his ear. He seemed to melt beneath her words, his jaw slacking and his head nodding along with her words. Then, with the promise that she would return, you were both free. 

You walked together arm in arm, and suddenly you were the center of attention. All eyes were on the two of you as you pushed through the crowd, and with the attention, you became all too self-conscious. Were your pants too tight? Did your makeup look alright in dim lighting? Your mind raced with insecurity, and it only got worse as you reached the threshold of the kitchen. 

It was there you paused mid-step, your best friend’s stride trying to tug you in after her, but you were an anchor, unmoving. 

There was a mess of bodies in front of you, all crammed into the kitchen like sardines. You had never seen so many people in one palace, their bodies colliding and voices loud as they took turns tossing the ball across the table. The splash of the ball into a cup sent the pale amber beer splashing from the cup and down onto the table. A large hand encompassed the red cup, near crushing it, before he brought it up to thin lips and chugged with such desperation that left the drinker gasping when he was through. 

You could only lick your lips as you watched beer bead down the man’s lips and chiseled jaw. The movement of your tongue mimicking his before you could even realize what you were doing or who he was. And when that moment dawned on you, you were ready to run out the front door. 

“Is that…” your best friend muttered just loud enough for you to hear. She didn’t leave your side, but she did lean in, squinting her eyes as if she didn’t have perfect vision. Then she gasped, confirming the sight that you had hoped was just a drunken mirage. “Holy shit, it is.”

There, at the center of the crowd - a crowd that you were only now realizing was the next worst thing after frat boys: hockey players - with the front of his shirt now soaked with beer as he chugged back another cup, was Matthew Knies, your sister’s ex-boyfriend. 

He looked almost the same as you remembered. Just a bit taller, and with a build that could have only been accomplished with the help of a coach or personal trainer. But it was clear he wasn’t the lanky kid that had broken her heart all those years ago.

They hadn’t been together long, maybe a half a year, but your sister was convinced she was in love. What sixteen-year-old in her first “real relationship” didn’t feel that way? She had gone as far as to plan to move to Nebraska to be with him after she graduated, but he had other plans. He hadn’t had the guts to break up with her before he left. He had been a dumb teenager, but that didn’t stop you from resenting him. 

“Let’s just make a drink and get back to the real party,” you spoke through grit teeth, your gaze dropping to the floor. 

Together, you and your friend pushed around the roster of hockey players and made your way around to the makeshift bar on the kitchen counter. She made your drink for you, just as she had done before, and just when you thought you were in the clear, she whispered to you, “he’s coming over here.”

“Shut up,” you hissed as you took hold of your drink and gripped it tight. 

Before you could fully brace yourself for the interaction, Matt was standing in front of you. Towering over you and smiling. He looked good, annoyingly good, with a casual confidence that only made you more irritated. 

Thankfully, before you could say something you would regret, your best friend took the lead. She offered him a sickeningly sweet smile, her arms opening up wide to greet him with a casual hug. They had grown up next door to one another and had been the reason your sister had even crossed his path. Yet, she masked the annoyance she held in solidarity with you, and greeted him with soft pleasantries, “we didn’t think you’d be home. I thought that’s why your brother was hosting.”

“He’s around,” he replied to her with a smile. Then he looked directly at you. 

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, your eyes narrowing as you leaned your neck to look up at him. “She’s not here,” you bit out at him, your words so sharp and bitter you had to wash them down with a sip of your drink. 

Matthew stared at you, his eyebrow raised and head cocked to the side - and you could have sworn you could see him smile as he spoke. “Nice to see you, too.” There was no hint of malice or annoyance in his tone. Instead, they oozed with pleasure, as if he were happy to see you. 

It made your teeth grit. 

Glancing at your best friend, she met your stare, the two of you silently planning your escape route from the kitchen - from him. Which left his movement unnoticed to you until you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your side. In the crowded space you were backed into a corner, trapped between his broad and towering body and the bar as he mixed himself a drink. 

Your skin prickled with a mix of anger - and something else you didn’t want to identify, or didn’t have the time to, because as Matthew was pulling back with his fresh cup, his elbow knocked your arm. The contact sent the pink liquid of your drink splashing down the front of your white shirt. You gasped, the cold liquor sticky on your skin as it soaked through the fabric and revealed the bra you wore beneath it. 

“For fuck's sake,” your words were a hiss through your teeth, “you neanderthal!” 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he spoke quickly, his hands reaching for an expensive dish towel. Matthew draped it over your arm and dragged it up and over your shoulder in an attempt to dry you off, but it only frustrated you further. Lurching away, you glared up at him, and he stared down at you wide-eyed and mouth gaping, “I can make you another drink—”

“I don’t need another drink,” you bit back. “I need something to wear.”

Putting your empty cup down on the bar, you pinched at the stained white fabric of your shirt and pulled it away from your chest. It was sticky, see through, and his teammates were staring.

“Run back home,” your best friend’s voice pulled your hardened stare from Matthew’s oblivious one, “let yourself back into the house. Chance, and I’ll catch up with you later.” She punctuated her words with a wink, and before you could respond, she was off, walking back into the glamouring glow of the party - back to her medium ugly man of the night - and that left you alone with Matthew. 

Fantastic. 

Forcing a smile, you turned to leave, pushing your way back through the crowded party and out into the front yard. You stumbled down the steps, sneaking past people who had stepped out for a cigarette or just to escape the noise. The gust of night wind was welcome on your face, though it chilled your body. But you were only cold for so long. The touch of a large hand grasping your elbow heated your body and left you spinning in place at the bottom of the steps. 

Your hair fell across your face, obscuring your view of the person who still had his grasp on you. They weren’t quite holding you back, nor were they trying to stop you from leaving. Their touch was a mere attempt to let you know he was there before he spoke. “Hey, what did I do to deserve the third degree?”

Matthew. 

For fuck's sake. 

“You mean besides ruining my favorite shirt,” you shot back, trying to shake him off as you marched across the lawn.

While he dropped his hand, he continued to follow. His footsteps echoed you, his body your shadow as you unlocked the door and stepped inside your best friend’s home. You knew its layout better than your own home. You didn’t bother turning on the lights, and instead navigated through the living room and up the stairs to the second story bedrooms. Matthew tripped and fumbled in your wake, only to find his composure behind you as you disappeared into the bedroom door. 

Turning on the small lamp that rested on the bedside table, you used its glow to rummage through the suitcase you had yet to unpack. Articles of clothing became strewn over the bed, something you surely would come to regret later when you were hopefully too drunk to even get out of your clothes. At the bottom of your bag you found exactly what you wanted, a linen sundress in your favorite color. You almost smiled at the sight of it, holding it up with both hands as you admired the clean, dry fabric. 

Fingers let the fabric fall to the bed before your hands retreated to your shirt, only to pause. Sighing, you looked back over your shoulder to find Matthew standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched you. Maybe if you gave the answers he was looking for, he’d finally leave you alone. 

“You know what you did,” you told him, your voice laced with years of pent-up frustrations. 

His features seemed to glow with the realization of just what you were referring to. It was like a lightbulb finally glowing bright after hours of flickering. “That was five years ago,” he exclaimed, punctuating the sentence with your name. 

You huffed, your body burning hot with anger. It left sweat to bead down your back, and your hair standing up on end as you grew impatient with him. Turning in place so that you stood with your back to him, you stripped yourself free of your sticky shirt and jeans. You left them in a heap on the floor, standing at the foot of the bed in nothing but your bra and panties for a moment before pulling the dress on over top. When you were done, you glanced at him as she stood there, waiting for something. 

“Stop staring at me,” you muttered, a single hand reaching down and pulling your bra out from beneath your dress like some sort of magic trick. It, too, soaked with liquor, became lost on the floor. 

“Forgive me and I’ll leave you alone,” he proposed. 

You scoffed, pushing past him as he stood in the doorway. 

He followed you back out onto the lawn, his body so close to yours you felt his heat, and his legs caught the fluttering fabric of your dress. His presence only infuriated you further. 

“We were sixteen,” he said, pleading with you as you reached his driveway together. 

“She loved you,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, “and you broke her heart.”

Matthew was scoffing now, his frustration seeping into his tone. “We didn’t even know what love was back then. We never even–”

You stopped dead in your tracks, the implication of his words hitting you like a ton of bricks. “Are you seriously telling me you dumped her because she wouldn’t sleep with you?” you asked, disgusted but not surprised. 

“No!” he answered quickly, as if he had fumbled the very conversation. He took a deep breath as he reached for your arm, taking it gentle. He seemed surprised when you let him, his hold careful as he guided you back to sit on the hood of the car in the driveway. There his head hung low, his long shaggy hair falling into his face, and his hand left your body only to prince the bridge of his nose. He took a long, deep breath before he spoke again, his voice quieter now. “It wasn’t like that.”

You scoffed, your eyes rolling as you continued to demand more from him. “Was she not good enough for you or something?”

But while you escalated, Matthew remained calm, composed. “Something like that.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your knuckles going white, as every fiber of your being was ready to explode. “You’re lucky I don’t hit you for saying that,” you spoke slowly, your eyes on the ground as you tried to breathe through the anger. To hit him wouldn’t be the sweet revenge your sister deserved, but it would be a start-

“She wasn’t good enough because the person I wanted was you!” Matthew blurted out, his voice raising just enough to stop you from interrupting him. 

Yet, you didn’t think you heard him right. You couldn’t have. Matthew wanting you? It was simply unbelievable… comical… and the longer you sat there simmering in his confession, the harder it was to believe. Then, without warning, you burst into laughter. It was so absurd, so completely ridiculous, that you couldn’t help it. You laughed so hard your stomach ached in the best way and it forced you to lie back carelessly on the hood of the car. There, you let your head lull to the side, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him. 

Matthew, however, met you with a soft yet firm stare. He wasn’t joking, and that terrified you. This man was delusional. 

Slowly, he slid off the hood of the car and took two slow steps to stand in front of you. His hand raised first in surrender before coming to rest on each side of your body. They were flat against the hood, trapping you in place. “I’m serious.”

You sat up, a single hand reaching up to push the hair from your face. You wanted him to see the near hysterical look on your face as you challenged him. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his eyes locking onto yours. “But you’re still incredibly sexy.”

Your body flushed with heat, and your brows furrowed. His words weren’t supposed to affect you like that, and sitting there with his hands so close to your thighs, you convinced yourself that they normally wouldn’t. But there, sitting on the hood of that car that cost more than you could even fathom, with the heat of his body between your knees and that heavy, almost vacant stare, you were weak for him in every inch of your body - but you still had your mind. 

“I’m too old for you,” you retorted, trying to keep your cool. 

“Are you?” he challenged back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“I finished undergrad before you were even drafted,” you pointed out, searching for any excuse to push him away when your hands wanted nothing more to reach out, grab him by the shirt collar and pull him in. 

“So what? That doesn’t change anything,” he scoffed. 

“I don’t know if this is some kind of fetish for you,” you started, desperate to regain control of the conversation, “but you really should be hitting on girls your own age.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked, his tone casual, as if there was nothing wrong with the attractions he felt for you. It was with that question you made the mistake of meeting his eyes. You saw the intensity there, and it made your heart race. 

“Why?” you raised a brow at him, “because they wouldn’t be your ex-girlfriends older sister.” You leaned in just enough to emphasize the allure of your proposition. "You have a house full of young, pretty girls who haven’t sat through awkward family dinners with you at the table."

The two of you shared a small smile that made your words seem more like an inside joke than a good idea. He laughed, though it was more of a chuckle, as he leaned in just a fraction closer. “And they wouldn't be playing hard to get.”

“Oh, that’s what you think this is?” you asked, your voice finding a more teasing, jovial tone. 

Matthew laughed again, his hair falling into his face. He reached up to push it back, but when his hand retreated, his touch found your cheek. His fingers caressed down the angles of your face, ghosted the corner of your mouth, and found your chin. Matthew took it gently between his thumb and forefinger and tilted your head back oh so slowly. You held your breath as he looked at you, really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the very first time. And then, without warning, he leaned in. You felt the warmth of his breath before you felt his lips. It plumed over your face with its sweet intoxicating scent, as if to pull you in that last breath of an inch to his thin lips that meshed with yours in a slow, tentative kiss. 

For a moment, you were too shocked to react, so you just sat there, his lips grazing over yours so lightly they barely touched. You were sure he could feel you breathe out the shudder that coursed through your body. It was only then, as the innate part of you threatened to take over, your brain caught up with it and you pushed him away with both hands and looked at him wide-eyed and breathless. 

“What the hell?” you stammered out, wiping the ghost of him off your lips with the back of your hand as you tried to make sense of what just happened. 

Matthew just stood there, his expression unreadable, as if he was waiting for you to make the next move. 

And for the first time in a long time, you had no idea what to do. 

You sat there on the hood of his car, unmoving. The warmth of him radiated against the inside of your thighs, his hands so close to the curves of your hip as he stood there, his body still so close to yours and his lips so close to returning to your lips. Yet, he held such restraint. You could see it in his eyes as he stared at you, waiting desperately for more. But you couldn’t give it to him. Not Matthew. 

Too handsome for his own good, Matthew. 

Your sister’s ex boyfriend, Matthew. 

Could be fucking any other girl at the party, Matthew. 

Far too young for you, Matthew. 

Your mind was made up. Dropping your eyes to the ground, you let your body slide off the hood of the car. The skirt of your dress inched up your legs and Matthew’s hands reached out to grab you before he flinched back in retreat. But that subtle touch was enough to knock you off balance, your feet stumbling as they reached the ground. It was then your body collided with his, the friction like striking a match–And in an instant, the decision to leave him there in the driveway was gone. Instead, your mind was clouded, hazing with only one thing. Not a thought, but a need. 

Matthew. You needed him. 

Cursing yourself under your breath, so quietly not even you could hear yourself as you pressed up onto your toes let your lips find his. There was no hesitancy in the kiss that found you, his kiss desperate, almost in fear that at any moment you might change your mind. Matthew’s large hands cupped each side of your face, his thumbs releasing the tension in your jaw and coaxing your mouth open. You almost moaned at the taste of his tongue with little care to anyone who may hear you… or see you. 

Anyone could have been watching as the two of you stood there, his larger, towering body trapping you between himself and the car. From most angles, those enthralled by people watching might not have known you were there, Matthew’s body so much bigger than your own that he hid you behind him. They wouldn’t have noticed how his hands left your face when they no longer needed to draw you into the hunger of his kiss. Of how they traveled down your throat, unleashing a desperate gasp against his lips that you were left to choke on as his hand continued to travel down. Down over the swell of your breasts and curve of your waist. Up and over the swell of your hips, and down again until he found the fluttering hem of your sundress. Slowly, a single hand found its way up your dress, his thick fingers dragging over the sensitive skin of your thigh, and he didn’t stop until he was stroking over the thin cotton of your panties. 

Your eyes almost rolled as his fingers grazed so lightly down there that you were sure that he was lost, clueless, that he didn’t know where to put them like almost every other man. But then he surprised you, his hand falling flat against your mound to palm at your clit through your panties. Instead of rolling your eyes, you shut them as your lips pulled away from his to let out a heavy breath that was laced with a single word, “fuck.”

Legs went weak at the feeling, your body ready to fall into him, and he knew it. His free hand dripped into his pocket, and as discreetly as you can unlock a sports car - the front and rear lights flashing brightly in the night - he invited you into the back seat. 

Stomach jumping into your throat, you looked back at the car and all you could hear was your own heartbeat in your ears. Matthew stepped away from you, the hand that was up your dress, reaching for the door handle and drawing it open. He stood there, his body draped over the door, watching you with soft eyes, and s stupid crooked smile as he waited to see if you would accept.

You should have hesitated - or panicked - but you didn’t. You didn’t even look back at the front door to see if anyone was watching before you rounded the back of the car and climbed into the back seat. 

It was cramped, your head almost hitting the hood as you climbed in, and you quickly realized that there would be no sprawling out in the back seat of his car - and especially not as Matthew climbed in after you. He made his body small, sitting in the seat to close the door with a soft thud before he was stretching out over you. The light above you both slowly dimmed, and he smiled a smile that was all to telling. 

This was something Matthew had daydreamed about for a long time. You could see it in the way he looked at you, his eyes soft as they took in every little detail, and his touch lingering on the back of your knee as he propped one leg on the headrest before sliding down the back of your thigh. It rested there once he got you positioned just right, your head resting against the car door, your back on the seat and your legs spread with him between them. Matthew kneaded the soft flesh of your thigh slowly as he leaned in to kiss at the skin of your neck. 

You had half the mind to tease him when you felt the beginnings of a hickey on your neck, but every time you thought you had found what witty words you wanted to say, he was doing something that left you breathless. 

Matthew’s teeth would grave over sensitive skin. 

Heavy breath. 

His tongue tasted the angle of your caller bone. 

You trembled.

His finger coasted over your panties, dipping lower and lower until his fingers were between your legs. 

You couldn’t breathe, your lungs burning for air that you couldn’t bring yourself to take as his thick fingers hooked onto one side of your panties and pulled them to the side. His knuckles dragged over your wet cunt, coating them in your arousal, and he didn’t say a word. There was not a single attempt to be sexy, or some disgusting comment about how wet you were. Instead, there was only the sound of his breath hitches as he let his fingers slide into the eagerness that was your core. 

With your head spinning, your back arched off the seat to angle your hips down, taking his fingers deeper into your core until he was knuckle deep. And when he pumped his fingers in and out of you in uneven thrusts, you thought you might have completely lost your head. Not once in your life had you imagined this happening, nevermind it feeling so good. 

Yet, you wanted more than an adolescent finger fuck in the back seat of his car. 

Both of your palms found the strength of Matthew’s chest, pushing him back carefully. They remained there as he sat down in his seat and you contorted and scrambled to straddle his lap. Your panties still pushed aside, you reached down and unbuckled his belt. His eyes went wide, as if the magnitude of what was about to happen hit him. His hands met yours, as if them bumping into one another and fumbling made freeing his cock come any faster. With the button of his pants undone, you grasped each of his hands and directed them up to rest on each of your hips. 

“Relax,” you smiled, leaning in slightly, “let me.”

He smiled in return, his head nodding slowly as he watched you. 

Your hand left his once you knew he wouldn’t move them, and you let them drag down the strength of his chest slowly. You could feel every one of his muscles through the wrinkled fabric of his t-shirt and you hated that you let yourself indulge yourself in him so fully. As weird as it was to be so close to fucking your little sister’s ex-boyfriend, you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want to…You stroked your hands up and down the length of his chest, working your way lower and lower each time as you leaned in to kiss his neck. There, you heard him gasp in your ear as you let your hand glide down to his cock. You grasped it with one hand, awkwardly stroking at it as you were careful not to hit your head on the roof as you pushed a little higher on your knees to get the angle just right. 

You worked him slowly with your hand, each reaction making you all the more eager to take him between your legs. Yet you waited and watched as his head lulled back on his shoulders. Matthew's eyes shut slowly as his law slacked, and the beginnings of a groan slipped from his lips. That was when you carefully guided him to your core and eased your walls around him with the careful bend of your knees. 

Mentally coloring yourself for how much pain you would be in later, you rode him. Your hips rolling and you carefully bobbed up and down the length of his cock. Quickly, your leg muscles burned, your hand reaching out to the headrest on each side of them as you pushed through the discomfort and focused on the pleasure of his cock inside you. 

His feet pressed firm to the car floor, Matthew's hips raised to meet you. And each bump displaced his kiss as it traveled from your lips to your neck, then the tops of your breasts that threatened to spill over the flimsy fabric. If he had the time and the space. Matthew surely would fuck you right out of it. But now wouldn't be the time - not as you were left biting your tongue to fight back the moans you didn't want anyone to hear; not when one casual glance into his back seat would leave you both exposed if it wasn't for the fabric that flowed down over his lap. It concealed everything you wanted to see. His cock and how it parted your walls with such ease. How your arousal dripped down him, leaving his cock and balls glistening with the satisfaction of pleasuring you. The sight alone would have sent you over the edge right from the start. But it would be his sudden need for control that pushed you over the edge. 

Matthew wrapped both of his strong arms around your waist tightly, hugging your breast to his face as he took your weight and lay it back down over the seat. He struggled for a moment, trying to get the leverage and the position just right before he braced himself on both of your hips. Matthew plowed into you the best he could with the little space you had, the force of his body shifting your body inch by inch across the seat and sending your head into the car door. 

Reaching and up, you braced yourself against the door, your hips raising to meet his every thrust as he arched over you. Matthew's sweat drenched t-shirt hung heavily away from his body, and you could feel beads of sweat rain down you from the angles of his face. You tasted him as it fell onto your lips, your tongue licking it away as your eyes fell shut. You focused on the taste of him, the warmth of his body between your legs, and the pleasure of his cock inside you. It left your body hot and your toes curling in your shoes as each repetition brought you closer and closer… so close–

“Ah, fuck,” Matthew cursed, and your eyes shot wide open as his cock throbbed inside you as he came undone. His face was soft like melting butter as he eased back, his hand quickly dropping to his cock as he pulled from you. He stroked himself quickly, shooting ropes of his cum against the inner flesh of your thigh and the cushion of the seat. 

Selfish prick, was what you wanted to groan. Instead, your hand left the door and dropped between your spread legs. You found your clit with your fingers, rubbing in quick, messy circles that felt more like a figure eight, pushing yourself back towards the peak of your pleasure that Matthew had left you on the very edge of. Your breathing became shallow and hastened as it crashed over you like an ocean wave. Between your legs, your core clenched, and you could feel Mathew’s cum slip from you. It made your legs tremble, your feet struggling against the seat to give yourself the room to close them around your own hand, but Matthew was still between them, his softening cock in his hand and slaw jawed as he watched you writhe in his back seat. 

“Enjoy the show?” you breathed out to him, your finger pulling your damp panties back into place. 

“Sorry,” he spoke quickly, sounding like he was on the verge of stuttering. 

“Don’t be,” you shrugged, sitting up slowly and carefully to avoid getting cum on your dress, though you were sure some had already found its way there, “I get it.”

Matthew fixed his pants around his waist in silence after he wiped his hand clean on his boxers, and after a quick glance and a smile sent back towards you, he opened the door and stepped out into the night. He stretched when he was free from the confines of his back seat, a single hand pushing his hair back out of his face before he offered it to you to help you out of the car. 

“Are you coming in?” Matthew asked you, not even breathless, as he slicked his hair back with the simple motion of one of his hands.

Fucking athletes. They always made you feel out of shape. 

“I need a minute,” you sighed, feeling very much your age. You could feel the ache of sex everywhere in your body. From your fingers to your toes, you felt the epitome of relaxed and tense at the same time–though, part of it could have just been in your head as it raced trying to remember the last time you had sex in the backseat of a car, and when or if your body had ever contorted like that before. 

“Do you need anything?” He’s polite enough to ask, but it makes you want to hit him. Instead, you wave him off with the simple wave of a tired hand. Matthew smiled, “find me later,” then, he was gone, lost beyond the front door of his house to continue his night as a good host. 

You remained in the driveway, your tired body leaning up against the hood of his car. There was a chill in the night air that left the beads of sweat on your skin, feeling like cold raindrops. You shivered, suddenly wishing you had a sweatshirt to pull over your dress. But you quickly had the next best thing, the arm of your friend draping over your shoulder as she leaned back against the car beside you. 

She hugged you tight with that single arm before it slipped away from you to delve her hand into her pocket. When she pulled it out, she had a lighter and joint in hand. How it hadn't been crushed during the hug or during her flirtations over the course of the night was beyond you, but you were relieved. As you were slowly coming down from the high of your climax, your mind racing with the thoughts of what you had just done. It both excited you, and left you feeling nauseous. Smoking a joint with your friend seemed like the perfect solution.

You watched as the tip of the joint glowed red as she took a long drag. When she finished taking another, the smoke leaving her mouth in wisps that were caught by the night breeze; she handed it to you. You took a long drag; the smoke suffocating your lungs and only did you exhale when the burning reaching your ears and the smoke left your lips in a harsh cough. But that didn’t stop you from going in for a second drag before you were handing it back to your friend. 

“I’m bringing Joseph back home with me tonight,” she told you, your fingers barely grazing as she took the joint from you. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, go crazy,” you encouraged as you leaned back against the hood of the car. You took deep and steady breath, the daze of the high already beginning to fog your brain. You smiled as your tight muscles relaxed, a satisfied hum leaving your lips that was maybe a little too loud. 

“Careful,” your friend cautioned, a sense of urgency in her tone, “you know how men get with their cars.”

Your shoulder shrugged carelessly. “I don’t think he’ll mind. I already ruined his back seat.”

Gasping, she lay out on her stomach, her limbs hanging over the hood of the car awkwardly as she gazed in through the windshield. When she gasped, she shot upright, her hand reaching out to hit you playfully as she exclaimed, “you slut!” It was said with great love and endearment. You both laughed.

TAGLIST: @mp0625 , @starshine-hockey-girl , @wingedwheelprxncess , @kurlyteuvo , @couldawouldashoulda50

[echobx]

A Mistake - Pope Heyward × fem!reader

summary: Pope and y/n wake up after a heavy night of drinking, and what looks like a hookup, and have to face the consequences of the night.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: talk of sex, morning after pill, fluff, tw throwing up memtion, mention of use of drugs and alcohol

author's note: this is my first time writing Pope, so idk if it's good or not. but I had this idea after I thought about Sex Education (the Netflix show) and I couldn't stop thinking about it, so here I am, presenting this fic to you like a newborn baby (i should stop making sick jokes)

The night was a daze. You can barely remember anything that happened after you found that unopened bottle of tequila. The only thing you do know, is that you finally, with the help of alcohol, had the guts to tell your crush how you feel about him. 

Waking up hungover is a slow process, first you blink open your eyes, the room looks unfamiliar to you, but that's just how it is sometimes. Your head feels like it's grown ten times bigger overnight, and your throat feels sore. Although the pounding in your ear is growing quieter, it doesn't help with the overall nausea that has your body and mind in a chokehold. You try to remember what happened; how you arrived with your best friends; how they both basically vanished after each found a respectable guy for the night; how you drank your loneliness away and- You roll over to your other side, slowly, to not wake the person who just groaned next to you. 

Pope feels like the night before was probably the lowest point in his life. He got high and drunk, thanks to no other than his best friend JJ, and went on a rant about how Kiara had fucked him over. Usually he keeps his face clean with the nice facade of “I'm over it” but that was washed away by the third shot and the end of the first joint. Pope has a philosophy to not hold grudges against his friends, because he knows that it's just gonna ruin his friendships in the long run. Also, he would have too many grudges up until now if he did hold onto them. But when Kie lied to him about liking him too, when she stole his first kiss just to break up with him a day later- He was hurt to say the very least. 

“Dude, just let it all out,” JJ encouraged him that night, and boy, oh boy, did he. But what Pope didn't expect was when you had popped up, basically out of nowhere, and yelled at him about how oblivious and annoying he was for not even seeing you as anything more than his lab partner. And maybe, if he wasn't drunk, he wouldn't have been so bold to ask you to dance after you were done screaming at him. 

And maybe if he hadn't asked you to dance, you wouldn't have kissed him and asked him to go upstairs. And then maybe he wouldn't have slept with you, and he could remember more about it than just how good it felt. 

“Oh God,” he groans louder than he wanted to, making his own head hurt even more. 

“You're alive,” you huff, sitting on the edge of the bed, your clothes already on after you scrambled to get up as soon as you had seen him. 

“What happened?” Pope asks, but he knows it's just what he thinks it is, what he feels with his body naked under the flimsy sheet. 

“We made a mistake,” you shake your head, not daring to look at him and get lost in his eyes, or the curve of his lips. 

“Did we-” Pope doesn't want to say it, maybe because there is still a tiny bit of hope that it had just been a dream. 

“Yes,” you hiss, walking around the room trying to find the one piece of evidence that you need. 

“What are you doing?” He rubs his face with his large hands, and when you look at him, it's almost like you can still feel it; the way he held you and touched you, scared to hurt you, as if you're the most delicate and precious thing he's ever gotten to hold. 

“I'm looking for the condom. I'm pretty sure we used one, but I want to be double sure,” you mumble while leaning down to check under the bed, yet you find nothing.

“Uhm, okay. Do you- Was I okay?” he asked sheepishly, his Adam's apple bobbing and making you want to kiss him again, just to know if it feels as good now as it did last night. 

“I think so. Can't remember much, just that you kept asking if I was okay and that you weren't hurting me,” you say and he nods. 

“Okay, cool,” he keeps on nodding, holding onto the sheet and looking at you as if he's uncomfortable in his own skin. 

“You know what, I'm gonna go and you can keep looking. But I'm like 98% sure we used one,” you speak up and turn to leave without another word. 

As soon as you are home, you start puking until you feel like your stomach has turned inside out. 

You hate yourself for what you did, for saying all those things to him and then still ending up in bed with him. Pope doesn't sleep around, that's a well known fact, but you can't help but wonder if he only did it to shut you up and get you to stop pursuing him, like a “get it out of your system” fuck. 

And while you ponder over the night, and try to piece together every little detail, even texting mutual friends to see if they have more knowledge about it, Pope finds himself lying on the porch couch at the Château. 

“That’s my man,” JJ laughs loudly as he walks up the stairs and Pope flips him off. 

“Can you be quiet,” he groans, folding his arms over his head to block out as much light as possible. 

“Dude,” JJ quiets down a bit, but he's still laughing. “First you go full crazy bitch on Kie, and then you fuck that nerdy chick? Please tell me if she's just as much of a freak as she looks like.” 

“What?” Pope lifts his arm to glance at the blonde. 

“You know, the shy girl stereotype?” JJ quips, sitting down in an armchair.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, and I can't remember anything. I can't even remember if we used protection. I'm fucked. Completely fucked, JJ,” Pope sighs, if he could sink to the bottom of the ocean to avoid the embarrassment, he would do it. 

“That's not good. You can pray that she's on birth control, dude, or like get her Plan B,” JJ shrugs and leans back.

“Why did I even listen to you? You're like the devil on my shoulder,” Pope shudders, his body isn't as accustomed to hangovers like JJ is. 

“Shut up, you love me. And you needed that, if not just for a good fuck. I mean, when was the last time you got laid?” JJ asks, but his friend doesn't answer, too embarrassed to admit it, after all JJ is the one who keeps trying to get him to hook up with girls, always making sure they can both get some, the perfect wingman. 

“No way,” JJ shakes his head. 

“Way,” Pope sighs. “What if she's pregnant? What if I fucked everything up, and I can't even remember?” 

That's when his phone rings, and he feels like throwing it against the wall, and if he had the money for a new one he would just do it. 

“Pope's phone, JJ speaking. How can I help you today?” JJ had picked the phone from his pocket and took the call, with Pope even trying to intervene. 

“Is Pope there? I have to talk to him,” your voice quivers and JJ almost drops the phone, he's as giddy as he was the first time he saw boobs, maybe not as much, but it's in the range. 

“Yes, I'm gonna hand him over right now,” JJ grins and hands the phone to Pope. You don't understand why Pope hangs out with his friends, most of them aren't really who you would expect him to be friends with, but you don't want to judge him, or them, too much because truly you only know the rumors. 

“Hi, Pope?” you ask after a low “m-hm” came through the speaker. “It's y/n, uhm, I wanted to ask if you could come by the pharmacy and help me out.”

“Why are you at the pharmacy?” Pope hates the fact that his brain doesn't work as well when he's drunk or hungover. 

“I'm trying to buy the morning after pill, just to be sure, you know, but I don't have enough cash and their card scanner is broken,” you whisper into your phone, not wanting the pedestrians to hear what you were about to do. 

“I can be there in ten,” Pope replies while sitting up, but he feels like he's about to empty his stomach on the floor boards as soon as he's steady in his seat again. “Maybe fifteen,” he breaks out before managing to run into the bathroom and throwing the phone back to JJ. 

“He'll take twenty, looks pretty nasty. Sorry ‘bout that,” JJ tells you, and you nod patiently. 

“Okay, I'll just wait here. I'm sorry about the- Anyway,” you sigh. 

“So, is he, like, freaky? ‘Cause it's Pope and-” JJ starts, but you hit red faster than he can finish his sentence, not wanting to think about what you had done the night prior. 

It takes Pope thirty minutes to get ready and look at least somewhat respectable when he gets to you. He's wearing light gray jeans shorts and a dark green cut-off shirt, paired with some sunglasses. You can't believe that, even hungover, he looks hotter than you want to imagine at the moment. 

“Sorry, I got here as fast as I could manage,” he apologizes, and you nod, not knowing what exactly to say. 

“I'm ten bucks short, and she was already judging, so I didn't wanna ask to pay later and-” You stop when you feel his hand on your shoulder, but it's gone as quick as he placed it. 

“Sorry. It's okay, that's all I wanted to say. I'm gonna pay for it, was my fault after all,” Pope gives you a tight-lipped smile.

The pharmacy is cold compared to the heat outside, but the judgmental glare the lady behind the counter gives you is worse than the shudder that is going down your spine while standing right under the AC. She hands you the pill, explains the usage and Pope pays, refusing you to pitch in. It's almost like waking up from a fever dream when you walk back out. 

“That was horrible,” Pope sighs, heading for the small corner store. “Come on, you need something to drink.” 

“I think I'm better going home,” you mumble and something inside him clicks, how nervous you had been last night, much like him. 

“I wanted to talk a bit, make sure you're okay,” he says quietly, holding a hand out for you, and your heart makes the choice to take it before your mind can tell you otherwise. 

He takes you into the store, asking you all kinds of questions, like what your favorite snack is, and your favorite drink, and once you're done you have a bag full of stuff that you didn't even ask for. It feels like he is trying to make it up to you. 

So, when you sit down on an old pier, looking out onto the sea, you can only hope that this isn't just what he always does. 

“You know, you didn't have to do all this. I'm okay on my own,” you tell him and turn to look at him, but he's already looking at you. Admiring how pretty you look with the soft glow of the setting sun shining on your skin. 

Pope doesn't get confused often, but he does feel a sense of insecurity when it comes to how his body feels when looking at you. Sure, you have always been pretty, beautiful even, and he likes the jokes you make in class and how quick you are with your answers to difficult questions, but he has never paid as much attention to you as he does now. 

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask, and he shakes his head. 

“No, you're just really pretty,” he sighs contently, before realizing what he said and shaking his head as if to clear his mind. “I'm sorry, that wasn't-”

“Pope, it's okay,” you smile at him, taking his hand and drawing his eyes back to you. 

“I've never done this before,” he gulps. 

“Bought Plan B? Me neither,” you giggle, and he thinks it's his new favorite sound. 

“No, all of this. You're probably gonna think I'm fucking you over when I say this, but as embarrassing as it is to admit with the circumstances, this was my first time,” he speaks quietly and your eyes widen. 

“Your- I thought you and your friend-” your words get stuck in your throat. 

“No, she broke it off before anything could happen, and I'm glad she did.” He smiles, but it looks like he's still hurt by it. “You?”

“Not the first, but I don't have any more comparisons to make here,” you laugh because it feels like a sick joke. “At least your friend isn't as much of an ass like my ex.” 

“I'm sorry,” Pope says, and you feel like he truly does care. 

“It's okay,” you tell him and take the small package in your hands. The instructions the lady gave you are the same as on the manual inside. 

“Bottoms up?” you tell Pope and hold your soda out, making him clink his can against yours. The pill goes down smoothly, but you're unsure if it was even necessary. 

“You'd think there would be more foolproof ways to this than… all that,” you sigh and point at the world around you. 

“What do you mean?” Pope asks, taking another sip of his soda. 

“Even if you do everything right, life can still fuck you over. You can play by all the rules, be a perfect little angel to the world, and still lose.” 

“You mean, like chaos theory?” Pope ponders.

“Maybe. I'm not sure. It's just not fair and shit keeps happening and just for once I would like it to go not wrong,” you sigh exasperatedly. 

“Maybe it doesn't have to,” he mumbles, and a small smile creeps into his face. Pope is aware of the comedy of the situation, to suggest you start dating after hooking up is probably one of the craziest things he has ever done, right after drunkenly hooking up with you and not being able to remember it. Yet, you are his favorite lab partner, and he likes your brains and your smile and how you are really not shy when you know you're right. 

“What are you proposing?” you ask, and he beams at you. 

“Would you go out with me?” 

You nod, hesitantly at first, but with every move of your head you get more confident in your choice. “I'd love to.” 

please don't copy and/or post my work onto other platforms! ~e©ho

taglist: @redhead1180 @spideysimpossiblegirl @drwstarkeyy @princessmaybank @ijustwantttoread @kys4-20 @immyowndefender @julczimozart @m2m2m2 @mochimms @itsme-again @maybankslover

[remlionheart]

⟡˙⋆ MDNI ⋆˙⟡

Teacher's Pet

♡༊·˚ the second installment in my euphoria x jjk drabbles. this takes place where megumi's left off, but it's still a standalone fic so it's not necessary to read both parts if u don't want to ♡ tw for drug use and slight coercion. gojo x shy fem!reader. 𐙚 praise kink girlies who have ever dreamt of an authority figure having their way with you - hi, hello, welcome, enjoy your stay 𐙚 your former teacher's house was a place where anything and everything happened. a place people came to let go of their responsibilities and lose themselves for the night. there was only one rule: no one was allowed to step foot in his bedroom... shout out to the loml @bratbby333 for literally being gojo. 3.9k words. porn with a plot. lemme know whatcha think, luv u ♡༊·˚

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Satoru Gojo had never been the most morally sound, neither in his personal or professional life. There were many things he was willing to turn a convenient blind eye to, secrets he was willing to keep in order to protect himself and those he deemed valuable enough. In a world predominantly made up of black and white, he was the condemning shade of silver that connected the two. Always towing the line but never really committing to either side.

With the amount of wealth and status he possessed, there was hardly anything he couldn't have - not a person or a drug or material object that was off limits to him. The entire world had always bent to his will, and he intended on keeping it that way.

His footsteps were heavy as he maneuvered through the crowd of sorcerers that were scattered about his living room.

Every weekend was the same, a hazy blend of laughter and smoke and blue lights. Girls snorting coke off of his marble countertops and couples fucking in the pool, not caring at all who saw. It was the place that people wandered to when they needed to let go of their inhibitions for the night and succumb to their own vices. "Gojo's house of debauchery" as Megumi would so endearingly name it.

He tilted back the rest of his drink while he made his way upstairs, pleased with the way bodies parted for him without him having to say a word. He was imperious, subconsciously operating with an effortlessly powerful presence anywhere he went, but especially within the domain of his lofty penthouse.

He came to an abrupt pause, noticing the door of his bedroom was cracked open. There were hardly any rules when it came to his Saturday night depravities, but the one thing that everyone knew was to not step foot into his room.

His jaw clenched, grabbing onto the door handle with every intention of having to drag someone out when the tension in his shoulders suddenly settled. A small smirk crept across his face as he closed the door behind him, his annoyance completely overruled by a new sense of perverse curiosity as he noted the way his sheets hugged the side of your hip.

"You lost sweetheart?"

Your eyes snapped open when you heard the click of the lock, your mind was racing trying to piece together where you were. You'd taken at least 4 shots too many before you'd stumbled upstairs.

The last thing you remembered was searching for a bathroom, barely being able to push your way through the crowd when Nobara noticed you. "You don't look too good," she had shouted over the music, "here, follow me." She'd forced you to drink some water while you peed and then guided you to the connecting bedroom. "You need to lay down for a little bit, 'kay?" It was the last thing you had heard before your head hit the pillow and your surroundings finally stopped spinning. You'd assumed that she'd taken you to one of his many guestrooms, but no, in her own drunken haze, she'd managed to leave you in his bed.

"Gojo-sensei," you immediately grimaced at your own formality, scrambling to correct yourself while you rolled over to face him. "I - mean, Gojo." Satoru? No, definitely not. You shook your head at the thought. "I'm sorry, let me just grab my stuff and -"

His smirk only grew at your hesitation though, a slight laugh leaving his lips as he waved a dismissive hand and took a seat on the edge of the bed next to you. "You're already here. Stay."

Your body froze when you met his stare, the low glow from the red light above his headboard emphasizing the sharpness of his face. You were surprised he even recognized you considering you hadn't seen him since graduation. Out of all of his former first-years who would so frequently pass out after overindulging, you had never been one of them.

Never, until now.

His eyes drifted along your silhouette, noting the curves that had replaced your once slender frame. The maturity that had stolen your timid teenage smile. You’d always piqued his interest, but you were now piquing something much more sinister inside him as he continued to look you up and down.

"This is new for you, hm?" He asked, looping a slender finger under his blindfold before pulling it down. "I mean, you were always a good girl, right?" Your heart stuttered in your chest when your stare caught his fully. An impossible shade of cerulean gazing back at you through thick lashes. "A bit shy from what I remember."

You shrugged, thankful for the way the lighting was covering up the heat that had migrated to your cheeks. You were better off than you were 2 hours ago but you still weren't as coherent as you should be, especially for this situation. "I was a kid back then." You finally managed.

"Seems like you're still one seeing as you couldn't handle a few shots without needing to lay down." His tone was more amused than it was scolding. "Look, it’s all about balance. If you're drinking or taking more downers than you're used to, you need an upper to counter it."

It almost felt like you were back in his classroom listening to one of his lectures, only the lesson he was about to teach you was definitely not Jujutsu High approved. He leaned over, grabbing a black Versace box from his nightstand. "If you're ever bordering on the verge of blacking out, the quickest way to regain your composure is this."

You watched him pull out a bag of white powder along with a dainty, almost doll-sized spoon, scooping out a bump before holding it to the left side of his nose while another finger covered the right. His pupils bloomed as he inhaled, letting the drug enter into his system with ease. "Come here." He instructed. 

You leaned toward him, it was almost muscle memory the way your mind and body both followed his directions with such blind obedience. A slight grin pulled at the corner of his lips as he brought another spoonful up to your face, his free hand closing one side of your nose for you. “Take a deep breath f’me.” He gave you a low nod as you complied without a second thought. “There you go, just like that.” 

Your jaw tightened, an odd sense of clarity washing over you when you looked back at him this time. The coke had managed to reel you back in, neutralizing at least some of the alcohol in your system as your body buzzed from the stimulants. Reality suddenly had a stronghold over you, reminding you that you weren’t just in your former teacher’s bed, but you were in it with him while he spoonfed you drugs.  

“Better?” he asked, cocking his head at you with the same smirk.

All you could do was nod, gradually coming to terms with the fact that you were powerless to the two opposing substances that were now working within you. Your heart rate was slowed by the alcohol but accelerated by the coke, neither one of them necessarily overpowering the other. They were instead coming in waves, almost taking turns as they flooded your thoughts and calmed your nerves. Gojo-sensei was always right, but you never imagined this would be something you’d learn from him. 

“A lot better.” You admitted, watching him set the box on the nightstand, wondering if the way he left the bag inside of it open was intentional or not. 

“Good.” He pulled at his tie, loosening it around his neck as he stripped out of his black blazer leaving him in just a white button up. “What were you doing here tonight anyway?”

Your mouth opened and then closed as you met his stare again. There was no subtle way to admit that you were still recovering from your latest breakup. That you’d come out tonight in a sad attempt to maybe, accidentally run into him.

“Oh, god,” he groaned, reading like you a fucking book. “Please don’t tell me you came here to get Takuma's attention.”

Your pupils dilated for an assortment of reasons, embarrassment churning in your stomach as you shook your head in denial. “What? No, I just wanted to get out for a few and -"

“Bullshit.” Despite the sharp edge in his tone, he was still wearing the same coy smile, his leg lightly grazing yours as he positioned himself closer to you. “You always had a thing for him. I remember the way you used to follow him around the hall like a lost puppy.” 

“That was years ago.” You countered, trying to process the fact that he’d watched you that carefully. 

“But you did, didn’t you?” His hand reached up, his slender fingers gently tangling into your hair, his voice dropping down to a pointed whisper. "I even heard you wanted him to be your first."

Your heart was racing, but it suddenly had nothing to do with the coke. Gojo-sensei had never been the most professional teacher. He was always joking with his students. Always getting into gossip that had absolutely nothing to do with him, but you never thought that his interest in his student's personal affairs extended to you considering you hardly ever had anything noteworthy going on. You sat in the back of the class. You barely spoke to anyone. You were a wallflower from hell. The fact that he remembered your crush on Ino was astonishing. The fact that he knew you wanted Ino to be your first was insanity.

His hand was still attentively drifting across the back of your neck, light fingertips gliding across your skin while his eyes roamed along your lips. You were forgetting how to breathe between the way he was looking at you and the sudden realizations that you were quickly having to come to terms with.

"You didn't actually let him take your virginity, did you?" His tone was dripping with taunting curiosity.

"He -" you faltered as his palm met the small of your back, the oxygen all but gone from the room. "He was my...first and...." You nearly choked on your own honesty, your face matching the deep red lights decorating his wall. "...only."

Satoru's body stilled, an incredulous look taking over his face before a vicious laugh erupted from him. "You're joking. So, have you ever cum then? Like, even just by yourself?”

"Of course I have." Your response was immediate. Almost too defensive to be true. "Plenty of times." You tacked on, which only made it worse.

You froze as his grip found its way around your waist, his fingertips lightly digging into your skin. "Show me then." he challenged.

Your heart felt like it was going to explode. His touch equal parts tantalizing and intimidating the closer he got to you, his hand cradled your jawline, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. "Show me how you make yourself cum when no one's around."

Your breathing came to a complete stop when he closed the already small gap between you, his hand gliding down your neck as his tongue parted your lips. His body was warm and inviting, pressing against yours with ease. "Let me see it," he continued, slipping the straps of your tank-top down your shoulders.

You were stuck somewhere between the desperate desire to pull him closer and a nagging sense of insecurity that you couldn't shake no matter how hard you tried. You weren't stupid, you knew that he was much more experienced than you. He'd probably been with plenty of beautiful women who had given him more of a show than you felt capable of giving.

He pulled away slightly, picking up on your apprehension as his eyes met yours again. "You wanna be here, right?"

You nodded back at him, an aching feeling building between your legs at how dominant yet unexpectedly gentle he was being with you. "I do, I just -" You felt your jaw clench, the coke mixing with your self-doubt causing your body to tighten up even though it was the last thing you wanted it to do. "My head is just kind of everywhere right now." You admitted sheepishly.

"Here," He shot you a small smile before leaning over to reach back into his nightstand while you stared at the ceiling, trying to relax into the softness of his bed. "Open." he said, hovering over you again.

His stare was locked firmly with yours as you lolled your tongue out for him obediently, swallowing down the yellow circular pill he'd given you. "Good girl." He praised, tracing over the side of your face with his finger. "We'll take things slow, yeah?"

You didn't know what you'd just taken. Truthfully, you didn't even care with the way he was talking to you. His voice was like silk when he leaned back into you, carefully wedging himself between your legs as he kissed you again. His movements were fluid but thoughtful. His fingers grazing along your skin softly, leaving little goosebumps in their wake.

He may have been with more people than you had, but you were gradually starting to realize that it was more of a positive than it was a negative. He was able to read you so easily, he knew exactly where and how to touch you.

You let out a faint whimper as his palm met the inside of your thigh, slipping up your skirt and moving your panties to the side. "Keep your eyes on me, okay?"

The way your bottom lip lodged between your teeth while you looked back at him with a doe-like expression made it all the harder to restrain himself, but he somehow managed to keep his resolve.

His long digits spread you apart before his middle finger slid between your folds and began drawing light but firm circles against you. He could see your timidness slowly dissipating, the Valium he had slipped you clearing doing its job as you arched your back from him and let out another whine.

You were overwhelmingly comfortable, your body completely melting under his touch. He was running uppp and downnn your clit with just the right amount of pressure, creating a heavenly amount of slick for the both of you.

"That’s it. Gettin' so wet for me." He breathed, his lips just barely ghosting yours. "Do you have any idea how perfect you look right now?"

The moan you let out was beyond your control, your vision was blurred by silver hair and blue eyes and how unbelievably good it all felt. "Gojo-sensei," you panted, your body writhing beneath him as he slid in a thick finger inside of you this time. "F - fuck."

Satoru groaned, plunging even deeper into you. He never knew how badly he needed to hear you moan out his formal name until you suddenly couldn't stop doing it. Your hips were bucking up towards him, your lips urgently crashing into his as more dazed out noises poured out of you.

"Keep going." He instructed, reeling in the way your eyes widened as he added another finger. "You're doin' so good."

You were grabbing onto the collar of his shirt, your walls clenching around him. He was hitting spots that you'd never been able to reach before. Spots that Ino had apparently neglected too. You felt yourself slipping. Your mind was racing. Your body grinding against him desperately and your voice breaking with each word you tried to get out.

"Go-jo... I'm - gon-na..." But you didn't have to say it for him to know. He slammed into you, nodding at you in encouragement as fire flickered through his steel eyes.

"Let it out." There was a fierceness to his tone that he couldn't mask anymore, his composure was crumbling right along with yours. "C’mon, let me fucking feel it.”

Watching you come undone like this was such a sharp contrast from the shy schoolgirl he once knew that used to skip class just to avoid group projects. You squirmed under him, mewling out his name like it was the only word you knew as an orgasm finally raked through your body, stealing away every last bit of hesitancy you once had.

You were staring back at him like he'd told you to, never breaking eye contact no matter how hard it was for you to keep still. Your irises bloomed with pleasure, a noise you didn't know you were capable of making escaping you as you drenched his hand.

"Good fucking girl."

He pulled out of you, bringing his fingers up to your mouth. Your lips parted without him having to say anything, sucking them clean as you continued to look back at him with the same innocent expression. He was afraid he was going to no choice but to get you pregnant if you kept this up.

"Takuma ever make you cum like that?" he asked, releasing himself from you so you could speak.

You bit back a smile as you shook your head. "No," you conceded, helping him lift your tank-top above your head. "Not like that."

"I didn't think so." He smirked, unbuttoning his own shirt while you slid out of your skirt, both of your outfits being tossed to the floor.

You felt your center throb watching him strip out of his boxers. An overwhelming sense of neediness flooded over you as you took in the intimidating masterpiece that was Gojo-sensei's body. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't imagined what it looked like a time or two when you were in his class. It was hard not to with the way girls fawned over him, but you'd managed to keep your infatuation to yourself up until now.

Seeing him stroke himself as he lined up with your entrance was prettier than any daydream you could've ever conjured up.

"Need you to focus on your breathing.” he said, rubbing his tip between your folds to wet himself with your slick. The temptation to absolutely destroy you was plaguing his mind, but he knew he needed to ease you into it. The only person you'd been with was Ino for god's sake, you deserved to be fucked properly.

You followed his lead and inhaled slowly, thankful for whatever magical relaxation pill you’d taken you as he prodded into you. It didn't take long to realize why he'd told you to breathe, his tip alone was stretching you out more than you were used to. You found yourself grabbing onto his forearm, your nails digging into his skin as a hazy whimper filled the space between you.

"It's alright, you can handle it." Your walls were smothering him, so impossibly snug and tight that he struggled to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. "Just like that. Juuust like that."

He pressed into you carefully, harnessing all the restraint he could possibly manage while you tried but failed to hold back your whines. "God, you feel fuckin' good." He groaned. "Takin' me so well."

You were still clutching onto him, your mouth dropping open the further he went. You'd never felt this full before - this entirely enamored by someone being inside of you. You thought that you knew what you liked up until this point, but he was drawing noises and feelings out of you that you didn't even know existed.

Gojo's urge to break you was getting harder to ignore. You were so pouty and delicate and naively trusting of him. He'd been trying to keep a steady pace, watching you intently to make sure you were still comfortable, but the moment the words "deeper" and "please" left your mouth, he felt something inside him snap.

His hand laced around your throat, his thumb and index finger pressing firmly into the sides of your neck. The smirk he shot you was lethal. "Deeper? You sure that's what you want?"

It was your one and only chance to back out, but you couldn't. There was a coiling tension in your abdomen. A depraved craving coming from your core. It wasn't just that you wanted more, it was that you needed more. You could barely get out another, "please." before he was suddenly plunging into you.

His rhythm was merciless, his grip tightening around your airways turning your moans into strained gasps.

He leaned in, his hair brushing against your forehead as he watched your eyebrows knit together, your eyes locked with his once more.

"You've always been so fuckin' cute, y'know that?" His hips met yours with another damning thrust. "So good at doing what you're told."

The red lights blurred together, a mixture of stars and sedatives clouding your vision as the aching feeling between your thighs amplified. Your cunt felt like it was pulsating, that burning build suddenly breaking away from just your stomach and spreading throughout your entire body.

"Oh, fuck." He grunted. "There it is. Keep goin’.”

Your walls spasmed, drool spilling down your chin while you wriggled under his grasp. Your pelvis tilted up feverishly to meet his as you took every inch of him. You were teetering on the verge of passing out. Nearly crying from how overwhelmed your senses were when another orgasm ripped through you.

His grip loosened on you, his movements becoming more frenzied. The fucked-out look on your face coupled with the pouty, suppressed cries you let out when he removed his hand from your throat was enough to drive him over the edge too.

His lips caught yours with feral urgency, his hand tangling into your hair as a lewd warmth filled you, spilling out onto his sheets. “I want you over here again next weekend," he said in between breaths. “Got it?"

You nodded back at him, your mind humming from overstimulation as he slowly pulled out.

He took a moment before getting to his feet, admiring the mess that he'd made of you. "C'mere." He smirked, helping reposition you up to the front of the bed.

He placed a pillow under your head and brought the blanket up over your shoulders. There was no way you were making it home tonight.

He lazily slipped his pants back on, only bothering to button up half of his shirt as he ran a hand through his hair and reached for the Versace box on his nightstand. He divvied out another bump and held the spoon to his nose, inhaling sharply before turning off the light for you and venturing out of the room to see how many people were still up and about.

The music had died down for the most part, the once packed hallway now mostly empty. He rounded the corner, just about to head downstairs when he came to an abrupt pause.

"Ino." he called out, noticing the brunette wandering out of one of his guestrooms. "Didn't realize you were here."

"Oh, yeah." He shrugged, tilting back the rest of his beer. "Was just lookin' for someone, Nobara said that -" he stopped himself before he could finish his thought, shaking his head. "Y'know what, it doesn't matter. She's too needy to deal with anyway."

Gojo's eyebrow raised, an arrogant smirk cutting across his face as he played along, offering him faux words of shallow comfort. "Ah, yeah. Bet she's pretty whiney too, huh?"

"Right." Ino snorted, completely oblivious to the condescending trap he'd just walked into.

"Probably says you're not deep enough." Gojo pressed, earning another clueless drunken laugh from him. "Always so pouty."

"Exactly. Like she's never satisfied."

"Girls," he mused, adjusting the collar of his shirt from where you'd grabbed onto earlier while you were soaking him. "Sounds like she needs someone to teach her a lesson..."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[mochiroreo]

And I will fuck you like nothing matters

Dark!reader x Rafe Cameron

TW: M18+ NON-CON, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, implied heavy smut at the end, degradation, non-consensual use of drugs, mentions of rape and domestic violence, mean!rafe, psycho!dark!reader, non-consensual recording (sorry not sorry rafe lol)

Author’s note: I am back just to post this blurb cause I love dark!Rafe but I also want to read something about the reader being the unhinged, pyscho one 🤭 . Also, this is unedited so if you see some wrong grammar or wrong spelling.. no you didn’t.

“Hmm..” a dull, throbbing pain made him tightly closed his eyes. His body feeling heavy and sluggish. He felt like he slept in a wrong position for two days, with how his muscles are aching. He was about to stretch and move his arms when he felt a tug that restricted his movements.

“Wait.. wha—?” The sensation made Rafe open his eyes, his baby blues scanning the room in utter confusion. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the low light, looking up at his wrists tied together above him, and his legs tied to the bed frame. “What the fuck..?” He mumbled in a slurred manner, his baby blues darting around the room before feeling the bed dipped beside him.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Rafe immediately looked up, his breath slightly hitching with how close your face is.

“A-angel?” He whispered his nickname for you, confusion more evident on his face now with his brows scrunched up. “How— why—“ Rafe’s questions were cut off by your giggle, airy and as if the whole situation is amusing, making his jaw tick in irritation.

For him, maybe it’s not as amusing. For you, however, it is definitely the highlight of your life.

“What are you doing? You think this is funny?” He asked, voice low and threatening, as if he is not the one tied down tightly on your bed right now. You just looked at him with a soft smile, a soft hand landing on his forehead to smooth the creases between his eyebrows before affectionately running your hand through his buzzed hair.

“Oh no, Rafey. I just think this suits you..” you words hanged onto the air, making him anticipate what’s next. “After all, isn’t this what you had planned for me? I just switched up who will be the victim.” You answered, ignoring the slight widening of his eyes with your answer.

His heart was thumping loudly inside his chest now, feeling the rope’s roughness that bound both his wrists and ankles. “W-what? I don’t— I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about.” Rafe looked straight into your eyes, trying to convince you. Yet your smile sent a chill down his spine.

“What do you mean? I know your plan silly!” You giggled, biting your bottom lip which made the boy gulp. “I am very much aware of the Kook king’s personal life and the rumours surrounding you, you know. The rape allegations at the parties after slipping some drugs on their drinks. Or maybe asking them to drink a bit too much. I have also heard how much you have punched and kicked your previous girlfriends.. lucky that your daddy knows how to bail you out!”

Your eyes travelled down Rafe’s disheveled state, the buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing a slither of tan skin underneath. His taut muscles evident as he squirms to move. While you were distracted, Rafe tried to free himself, struggling as the rope got tighter and tighter the more he tried to escape.

“Where was I? Oh! And so— I have heard from Topper how it’s now my “time” apparently. Then there you were! In front of my house, asking me to drink with you cause you were feeling lonely. I knew you slipped a drug on my drink,, so I have beat you to it and knocked you out.” You admitted with a shrug, moving away to stand up while still watching Rafe closely.

“You’re fucking crazy. I-I didn’t even— wasn’t planning to do anything!” Rafe tried to reason out, gritting his teeth when the rope wouldn’t budge.

“Really? Cause the rope that I used was from the back of your truck. I even found some little baggies.” You inserted your hand inside your bra, the action making Rafe stare straight to your chest and take in what you are wearing.

You wore white lacy set of lingerie, hugging the swell of your breasts and thighs, accentuating every dips and curves as if you were carves by the gods to look like a literal angel on earth.

Except, you are holding every variety of drugs that Rafe owns with a big smile.

Each bag has some different sized pills and powders, which you were sure were party drugs and coke from his drug dealer best friend, Barry.

“Now come on, Angel. Don’t you know that you shouldn’t touch what’s not yours? You don’t even know shit about drugs or-or how expensive those are!” He groaned, unable to do anything. Rafe is at his limit, his patience running thin as he think of the things he will do once he breaks free from the ropes, promising to himself that he will definitely fuck you to the point that you’ll beg him to stop plowing your abused cunt. Your appearance and his imagination making his thick cock hard despite his anger.

“Hmm.. I know which drugs is which. I think I stalked you enough to know which one is your favourite other than coke.” Moving closer, you brushed your hair away from your face. “And to be honest. I thought you would have more.” You grabbed a bottle of water on the bedside table before straddling Rafe’s chest.

The action made Rafe’s shorts tighter with how painfully hard he is, his point of view accentuating your breasts, seeing your nipples perky from the cold air inside the room. Once again, he struggled with the intention of trying to free himself to grab you and slap the shit out of you while drilling his cock to your wet pussy, he gritted his teeth and whispered menacingly.

“Now now, Angel. We can do this without the rope.. you know? If I have known you were a little freaky.. I would have asked you properly instead of what I was planning to do.” His words made chuckle, raking your manicured nails on his chest, making him let out a low groan.

“But where’s the fun in that?! Besides it would be unfair to just let you do that.. knowing how much you’ve been a bad boy here in Outer banks..” leaning forward, you balanced yourself and gripped his arms, slightly rutting your clothed core on his stomach. The action made Rafe groan, his anger disappearing as he thinks that you are just a closeted little freak that is now removing your disguise to fuck him. Rafe’s hips were bucking slightly, loving the hazy look in your eyes as he lets you to revel on the power you have over him right now.

“This is exciting, but I want to make it wayyy more pleasurable for us two.” Dragging your tongue on his collarbone, you moved away to grab one of the baggies containing some neon pink and green pills making Rafe eye you suspiciouslly. As far as he remember, he did not order some odd looking pills from Barry.

Grinning at him like the devil, you took two from the bag before going back to your position, your left hand tracing the bottom of his lips as you bite your own. Rafe’s lips parted, his pink tongue slightly peeking, urging you to lean down and finally kiss him.

The kiss was hot and messy, and Rafe kissed you like a man starved. His tongue immediately invading your mouth, savouring the slight dominance that he has knowing that he cannot escape your bed to flip you over. Rafe was so into the kiss that he did not feel both of your hands wrap around his neck.

Your hands were getting tighter and tighter, making him pull back with wide eyes that is staring right straight to your in panic.

“A-angel— hey hey..!” He tried to fully scream at you, nails slowly digging into the flesh of his neck. Rafe was slowly running out of air, his vision swimming in the dark while looking at you smiling so gently to him as if you aren’t choking him to death right now. His lips parted in a silent scream, before you let go to forcefully shove the pills down his throat which almost made him puke.

You let go once the pills were stuck down his throat, Rafe immediately heaving and gasping for air, making the pills slide down with his spit. He didn’t waste any time to steady his breathing, immediately screaming at your face.

“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?! YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH, I WILL FUCKING RIP YOUR HEAD OFF AND YOUR FUCKING PUSSY IF I GET OUT OF HERE! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” His neck was red, veins popping out from him screaming directly on your face. You faked a sniffle, eyes slightly watering before you broke into a laugh.

“Woah calm down, pretty boy!” You managed to squeeze out as you continue to laugh, making Rafe jolt with the want to punch you down and force himself on you. “I just want to make sure you drink the pill candy without a fight.” You stated, offering a water bottle pointed at his lips. His breathing was erratic with anger, nudging the bottle away from his face before it dawned on him.

“Fuck—“ he mumbled. “What the fuck are those pills?!” You just shrugged, shaking your head as you so. “I have enough of your bitchy brat games, you fucking psycho! What the fuck are those pills!” Wiping down the spit that landed on your chest, you sighed giving him a faux pout.

“It’s just something to relax you.. and maybe give you more strength as I use you the whole night?” As if on cue, his cock that went soft with the stunt that you pulled suddenly hardened, blood immediately rushing down south. Rafe’s body slowly started to feel hot, he feels so lightheaded that his eyelids were almost closing on him while he tries not to pant and control his breathing. “Shit shit shit” he mumbled in panic, mind swimming with all the possibilities what the pill might be and what it might do to him.

You cut his thoughts short when you swiftly undressed him, his eyes wide and watery as you blow air on his clothed cock that was immediately weeping before letting it spring free. You thumbed the continuous flow of his pre-cum, making him buck his hips for more. Your touch was cold on his burning skin, a soft whine passing by his lips when you gave his leaking tip one kitten lick.

“Fuck please— what— what did you do to me..?” Rafe whispered softly, slowly losing his mind with the need and desire to feel your mouth, cunt, or your ass on his dick that is now standing proudly against his stomach.

“Nothing really. I told you I’ll make sure to make this more pleasurable for us, didn’t I? Must have been frustrating to be on the receiving end, huh?” Straddling his waist, you move your lacy panties aside to rut it on his cock, his pre-cum making it slide easier on your sopping wet pussy. You continued your actions, ignoring Rafe’s please to let him put his cock in you.

“You know.. I’ve heard how much you wanted me.. how much you think you can ruin me, to manipulate me into your ‘slut’. But I don’t want to be one of those girls that you took advantage of, Rafey. I want to be special, I want something more.” Your body was slowly getting covered with a light sheen of sweat, lips so close besides Rafe’s ear as you lick and tease his ear lobe. Soft whines and gasps escaping your lips before smirking as Rafe tried his best to listen to you despite him slowly losing his mind.

“So I decided to just show you, decided that maybe I’m the one that can break you..” Rafe lets out a deep strangled cry as he cums, body vibrating with the intensity of his ejaculation while he shut his eyes close. “Oh my, you just cummed but you’re still hard, Rafey!” Your statement made Rafe open his eyes weakly, vision slightly blurry with unshed tears, his cock more sensitive that ever.

Your left hand encircled his thick shaft, slowly dragging your palm up and down, making Rafe choked out a sob “‘s too much— please— fuck— ‘s too much” Rafe rambled, making you stop playing with his cock; giving him soft kisses on his cheeks, kissing his tears away. “Oh shush, don’t cry Rafey. I will make you feel good, make you feel so so good.” You whispered against his flushed skin, licking the lone tear that slid down while you console him.

You grabbed the water bottle and popped a pill on your tongue, Rafe watching you with blown out, unfocused eyes. “See? I took one as well!” You stated, slowly getting rid of your lingerie which made Rafe’s cock bob up and down, pre-cum once again leaking out of him despite coming just seconds ago.

“Gonna show you how special I can be, Rafey.” Whispering on his skin while you trail wet kissed down his chest, Rafe sobbed when you lightly bit his nipple, the action making him cum once again. You felt his warm load spatter on your ass, making you giggle.

“ ‘m gonna show you how I can make you feel like a god.” You eyed his drowsy state, drool sloppily pooling on the side of his mouth. Lightly tapping his cheeks, he opened his eyes before you pointed at the red dot on the corner of your room, which he eyed for a moment.

“Don’t forget to smile.”

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

I've Got You

AI-Less Whumptober 2024: Day 25. Betrayal, "How could you?" Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Jake “Hangman” Seresin, f!reader Summary: A night at The Hard Deck takes a dire turn when you realize someone has slipped something into your drink. As the drugs begin kicking in, you turn to your pilot for help. Word Count: 2326 TW: Reader is Hangman's Backseater, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Drugged, Spiked Drink, Betrayal, Jake Carries Reader, Fighting, Implied Future Sexual Assualt, Language, NOT ALL TWs LISTED READ AT OWN RISK  Notes: Thank you to @ohtobeleah for looking this over 💕 Part of @ailesswhumptober's event

For the third time, you jammed your fingers down your throat trying to expel whatever drug had entered your system into the toilet in front of you. Yet as hard as you tried, nothing else was coming up. You collapsed sideways and dragged yourself over to the back wall. There, wedged between the toilet and the side of the stall, you tried to figure out what to do next. Your head was growing foggier by the minute and your body was becoming so heavy that it was a struggle to even lift your hand or hold your head up. 

Using what little strength you had left, you dug your phone out of your pocket, and, with it lying on the floor beside you, you typed the words “help. bathroom. now.” into your last text chat and pressed send. Then all the tension left your body as you slumped limply against the toilet.

You had no idea how long you waited like that, but eventually, you heard a soft knock at the stall door. “Sunshine? You in here?”

“Jake…”

That was all he needed to hear. You only ever called him Jake when you were being one hundred percent serious or the situation was dire. There was a second of silence before the door smashed open, the lock shattering as the full force of Hangman’s foot slammed into the door. He looked around before he noticed you wedged in the corner. His eyes grew wide and his tanned skin paled in the fluorescent lighting as he dropped to his knees in front of you. 

“Oh my god…” He grabbed your chin between his fingers and tilted your head to get a better look at your eyes. “Your pupils are huge. What the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

“Drink…” You swallowed and tried to claw your way out of the darkness you were slipping into. “S-someone put something in my drink.”

“Fuck…” Jake muttered, glancing over his shoulder. Then, his attention returned to you as he leaned in, his beer-scented breath breezing across your face. “Who were you drinking with? Sunny, stay with me.” He gently slapped your cheeks to get you to open your eyes. “Who was it?”

You tried to think but the fog rolling through your mind made it hard to focus. Finally, you recalled, “Frogger. Frogger and Screwball.”

“Okay, good.” Jake ran his hand up and down your arm, trying to keep you awake. “We need to let Penny know and have her call the cops. And probably the MPs. I won’t let them get away with this.”

“Thank…you…” you muttered, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of your lips. For the first time since you realized what was happening, you felt safe.

“I’m not gonna let someone mess with my backseater, now am I? Only I’m allowed to do that,” Jake smiled back, ruffling your hair. Then he placed his arms under your arms and legs and lifted your limp body off the floor. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Now, let’s get outta here.”

With your head carefully tucked against his chest, Jake carried you from the bathroom. Your eyes were half-lidded and your vision was still tinged with darkness but at least it wasn’t getting worse and you were no longer fighting to remain awake with everything in you. You were still having trouble moving your limbs or lifting your head, however, it didn’t matter as you were safely gathered in Jake’s arms. 

As soon as Jake walked into the main room of the bar, Penny noticed the two of you and gasped. Tossing her bar rag onto her shoulder, she hurried to Jake’s side, placing her hand on your cheek as she asked, “Oh my god! Is she alright?”

“She will be. But you need to call the cops.” Jake nodded towards the end of the bar where Frogger and Screwball were still sitting next to your empty seat. “Those two bastards spiked her drink.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Seresin?” Frogger demanded, sliding off his bar stool as his face grew red. “We didn’t do anything to her! We were just flirting a little.”

Screwball looked like a deer caught in headlights as he glanced from Frogger to you and back to Frogger. “Frog—”

“Shut up,” the other pilot growled under his breath. Then, turning back to Jake, he said, “I don’t care what the bitch says, we didn’t touch her or her fucking drink. You’re not pinning this on us. I’m not going down for something I didn’t do.”

“You were the only ones with her since she got her drink,” Penny snapped, her hands on her hips. “And I sure as hell didn’t drug her when I served her.” 

Screwball jumped off his chair and took off for the door, but before he could get more than a few steps, Rooster, Coyote, and Payback blocked his way. All three men had at least four inches and twenty pounds on the small pilot and they all looked out for blood after an attack on one of their own. 

Screwball whirled around and pointed a trembling finger at Frogger. “It had to be him! I just wanted to play some darts but he’s the one who insisted we chat up Sunshine. He has to be the one that did it!”

“You son of a bitch!” 

Frogger turned and launched himself at Screwball, knocking both men to the floor. Before anyone could react, Frogger began pummeling Screwball in the face as he yelled, “Take it back, you fucking traitor! I didn’t do it!” 

The three pilots who had been guarding the door dove into the fray and pulled Frogger off Screwball even as he continued kicking and cursing. Screwball curled into a ball and sobbed, alternating between cries of pain and cries of his innocence. 

Penny had momentarily vanished in the scuffle but reappeared back at your side with her phone and a water bottle that she held out to you. “Here, honey, drink this. It’ll help flush whatever they gave you out of your system.”

With her help, you took a few big sips out of the bottle, spilling some of it down your shirt. However, the cool water felt refreshing on your feverish skin and you relaxed into Jake’s arms with a sigh. 

Penny smiled, tucking the water bottle between your arm and Jake’s chest. Then she dialed 911 and waited for someone to answer. Glancing at Jake, she asked, “Should I have them send an ambulance too?”

“No, it’s okay.” Jake shifted you slightly so he had a better hold on you, then began heading towards the bar’s exit. “I’ll take her to the hospital, make sure she’s alright.” 

“Thank you, Jake,” Penny smiled, the phone still up to her ear. Pointing at him as Bob held the door open, Penny added, “All your drinks are on the house for the next month.” 

“I’m gonna make you regret that,” Jake chuckled, then he carried you out into the night.

It was a short walk across the parking lot to his truck. Once there, Jake settled you into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver’s side and climbing in, placing your water bottle in the cup holder. When he started the engine, he cracked your window so you could get a little breeze then he pulled out of the parking lot. 

Between throwing up, the cool night air in your face, and the water Penny gave you, you were starting to feel more alert. The world around you was still swimming slightly, but you were able to sit up and lift your head. 

Jake must have noticed because he grinned as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes. “Hey there, Sunshine. How you feeling?”

“Better,” you mumbled, blinking a few times to try and clear your vision. Smiling softly at him, you said, “Thank you, Hangman. I don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.”

“It’s what I do, Sunny,” Jake said. “I’m your pilot. I’ve always got your best interest in mind.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, leaning your head back against the door to get more air. “I guess you do.”

The two of you drove in silence for a few minutes and you were just about to drift off when you realized where you were. Sitting up, you asked, “Wait, I thought you were taking me to the hospital. Wasn’t that the turn?”

Jake shrugged. “Yeah, but they are doing construction down that road. I can turn up here.” He grabbed the open water bottle Penny had given you out of the cup holder and held it out to you. “Here. Drink some more of this. It’ll help.”

Taking it from him, you downed it in one gulp. You didn’t register the bitter sting on your tongue until after you had swallowed yet you recognized it immediately as the same taste that had initially alerted you that something was wrong back at the bar. But you had drunk half the water bottle when Penny first gave it to you without noticing anything off. Which could only mean…

Slowly, you raised your eyes to look at your pilot, the man you trusted with your life on a daily basis. “You wouldn’t…”

A smug grin spread across Jake’s face as he continued to stare at the road in front of him. “You know…I was so sure you had figured out it was me when I got your text. I thought you noticed me slipping the drug into your drink when I came up to the bar to grab my beer and that the game was over before it really even began. But then when I looked at you, huddled there on that disgusting floor looking so pathetic, I realized things had gone better than I hoped. I knew you’d tell someone what happened—probably Phoenix or Bob—then I’d step up to drive you to the hospital. I just never imagined I’d be the one you went to for help. Not when we weren’t on the clock.”

Tears slipped down your face, your voice quivering as you whispered, “How could you?”

“Come on, Sunshine. We both know you’ve been teasing me for months now, just begging me to make a move. Like I wouldn’t notice that perfume you’ve been wearing just for me? How I catch that faint trace of it in the cockpit when you shift in your seat behind me? Or how you always tie the arms of your flight suit around your waist when we’re going through after-training checks, showing off those perky breasts beneath that thin white tank top? Bending over in front of me rubbing that perfect ass in my face? You know how many times I’ve almost pinned you to the side of our plane and had my way with you? But no. You wanted to play the game, so I played the game. Now I’ve won, I’ve got you, and I’m ready for my prize.”

Horrified, all you could do was stare at this stranger with your pilot’s face. This was not the Jake Seresin you had been flying with for the past six months. The one who would flirt with almost any woman who crossed his path, yes, but who would never cross the line or hurt anyone…or so you thought.

Even as your body began to go slack in your seat as this new round of drugs kicked in, you tried to reason with him. “Jake, I’m sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression, but I don’t want this. I-I was just doing my job. I wasn’t trying to tease you or lead you on. And it’s not too late. P-Please, stop this now and we’ll just forget everything that happened tonight.”

“Oh, I know you will.” Jake’s grin took on a sinister edge as the shadows between street lights flashed across his face. “That’s the best part of this drug. You won’t remember any of this in the morning.”

“What?” you breathed, a whole new level of terror settling in at this revelation. 

“But don’t worry, Sunny,” Jake purred as he turned into the driveway of a house you vaguely recalled visiting once to pick up some paperwork he forgot to file. “That just means we can play this game over and over and over again.”

He threw the truck into park and jumped out. A second later, your door opened and you tumbled out into his arms. Before in the bar, Jake had carried you so carefully, making sure you were positioned comfortably in his arms. There was no care or regard for your comfort this time. Now, he placed his arm under your knees and shoulders, letting your head hang down loosely and making the world turn upside down as he lugged your body around like a lifeless sack. 

Whatever he stuck in the water bottle must have been slightly different from what he gave you in the bar because while you couldn’t even manage to turn your head or lift your finger, your head wasn’t swimming like before and your vision was clear. 

Tears rolled up your face and up into your hair as Jake carried you up the driveway towards his front door. You were too weak to call out or struggle against him and, once he got you inside his house, you knew there was nothing to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to you. 

As he opened the door, you silently prayed that what he said earlier was true. While you knew you needed to know what happened tonight to recognize the monster hiding behind the toothpick and perfect smile you saw in the seat in front of you every day, you didn’t want to remember a second of what he was about to do to you.

Jake stepped into the darkness of his house and the door slammed behind you.

[artyandink]

the art of heresy forged 1983

SUMMARY: Modern day, 2022, and you have no clue what’s going on. You knew what you went through. You knew it was real, but why were there people trying to convince you that everything that happened to you wasn’t real. Hell, you called bullshit. But you get your chance to fight back when you get a call at your door.

TW: psychological torture, trauma, angst, smut, slight fluff, drinking, consumption of drugs, smoking, mentions of sex, blood, gore, Ben (cause he’s an individual warning), derogatory remarks, gunfire, murder, killing, lots of it, it’s The Boys so be careful guys, really creepy shit, literal crack

A/N - divider by @chachachannah

NOW PLAYING: Dynasty by MIIA

COST A MILLION

The air in Nicaragua was thick with humidity and tension. You had gotten used to the way it clung to your skin, the oppressive heat wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket each time you stepped outside. But this mission felt different. The atmosphere was charged with something more than the stifling weather—an unspoken heaviness that pressed down on you as if the universe was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable storm to break.

Payback had been sent in for a routine covert operation—one of many you’d done over the years. The plan was simple: go in, make a scene, and get out before anyone could blink. Routine. Yet from the moment your boots hit the dirt in this godforsaken jungle, a strange tension simmered beneath the surface. You could sense it in the way your teammates interacted, in the fleeting glances exchanged when they thought no one was looking.

Something was off, and the unease gnawed at your stomach like a bad premonition.

Ben—Soldier Boy—was leading the charge, as always. Commanding, arrogant, larger than life, with that cocky grin plastered on his face that made him look every bit the hero the public believed him to be. It was part of what had drawn you to him, despite everything you knew about him—despite how much of a mess he could be. He was reckless, a human hurricane, always looking for a fight, but you had gravitated toward that storm.

Maybe because, in your own way, you were a storm too.

But today, even Ben seemed off. His usual bravado felt... strained, forced. You couldn’t place it exactly, but the way he kept glancing over his shoulder, like he was expecting something to happen, unsettled you. His jaw was tight, his movements sharp, as though he was anticipating an attack that hadn’t come yet.

And the others—the rest of Payback—were acting strange as well. Their easy banter had been replaced with silence, their body language stiff. There were too many sidelong glances exchanged when they thought no one was watching, too many moments where they huddled together in low whispers.

“Hey,” Ben had said to you earlier, his voice breaking through the noise of the camp you had set up for the night. “Stay close tonight, alright? I don’t like how things are looking.”

You had given him a wry smirk, trying to mask the unease that had been crawling its way up your spine all day. “What’s the matter, hero? You worried someone’s finally gonna knock your ass off that pedestal you love standing on?”

He had laughed, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through your bones in a way that always made you feel grounded. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” he’d said, that cocky grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Just stay close.”

You had nodded, but the brief moment of humor didn’t do much to shake the feeling that something was wrong. The unspoken worry lingered in the air between you like smoke from a smoldering fire, just waiting for the right gust of wind to fan it into flames.

As the night wore on, the feeling only grew worse. The jungle around you was alive with the usual cacophony of chirping insects and distant animal calls, but the camp felt unnaturally quiet. The others moved about like shadows, too stiff, too controlled. Even the way they carried their weapons seemed off, like they were holding them too tightly, waiting for something to snap.

You kept your distance, observing them, trying to piece together what was happening, but the answer eluded you. All you knew was that something was about to go very, very wrong.

You had been out scouting, trying to clear your head and focus on the mission, when everything fell apart.

When you returned to camp, the eerie silence hit you first, cutting through the thick air like a knife. The usual sounds of your team preparing for whatever came next were gone. No low murmurs of conversation, no clatter of weapons or boots on the jungle floor. Just... nothing.

Your heart rate picked up, a sharp spike of adrenaline surging through your veins. You moved cautiously, scanning the area as you stepped through the dense underbrush, your powers humming just beneath your skin, ready to be unleashed if necessary.

And then you saw him.

Ben.

Soldier Boy.

Your Ben.

He was lying on the ground, motionless.

“Ben?” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat as you rushed forward, your heart hammering in your chest. He was sprawled out in the dirt, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, his face pale and still. His chest barely rose and fell with shallow breaths.

Your stomach dropped as you knelt beside him, your hands shaking as they hovered over his face. “Ben!” you called out, louder this time, but there was no response. His skin was cold, far too cold, and his eyes were closed, the usual spark of life that radiated from him completely gone.

Your hands moved frantically over his body, checking for injuries, for any sign of life, your mind racing as panic clawed its way up your throat.

“What the fuck happened?” you whispered, your voice thick with disbelief. This wasn’t possible. Soldier Boy didn’t just go down like this. He was invincible, indestructible. That was the whole point. That was why he led Payback. He wasn’t supposed to be vulnerable—not like this.

You felt a sudden chill creep up your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Something wasn’t right. The camp was too quiet, too still, like the calm before a storm.

You heard the soft rustling of leaves behind you, the crack of a twig snapping underfoot.

You spun around, your powers flaring instinctively as you rose to your feet, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Crimson Countess stood before you, her expression twisted with something you hadn’t seen before—cold, calculated hatred. Her red eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, her posture relaxed but predatory.

Your pulse quickened, the blood roaring in your ears as your mind raced to make sense of what was happening.

“Countess?” you said, taking a cautious step back, your muscles tensing as you prepared for a fight. “What the hell is going on?”

She didn’t respond. She moved faster than you could track, her hand glowing with a deep crimson light as she lunged at you, her fingers crackling with energy. You barely had time to register the attack before she struck, her hand slamming into your abdomen with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

Pain exploded through your body, white-hot and blinding. You doubled over, gasping for air as the energy from her hand surged into you, searing through your skin and muscle. Her hand dug into your stomach, aiming with brutal precision.

Your vision blurred, the world spinning as you collapsed to your knees, clutching your stomach in agony. Panic surged through you, your mind racing not just with fear for yourself, but for the life inside you.

The baby.

The realization hit you again, sharper than before. You were pregnant. And she knew.

“No...” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whisper as you fought to stay conscious, to hold on to the thread of control that was slipping through your fingers. “Why?”

Crimson Countess knelt beside you, her expression cold and unfeeling as she watched you writhe in pain. “Because he’s a threat,” she said, her voice low and filled with venom. “And so are you.”

She pressed her hand against your abdomen again, harder this time, and you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat as fresh waves of pain wracked your body.

You tried to summon your powers, tried to push her away, but the agony was too intense, your focus shattered. All you could do was lie there, gasping for breath as the pain consumed you, as the reality of what was happening set in.

The baby was slipping away.

You could feel it, the fragile life inside you fading, slipping through your fingers like sand. And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Tears streamed down your face as you clutched your stomach, as the grief and fear overwhelmed you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to lose everything like this.

Crimson Countess stood, wiping her hands on her pants as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience she had dealt with. You watched her through blurry eyes, rage and helplessness surging through you, but your body was too weak, too broken to fight back.

She didn’t spare you another glance as she turned and walked away, leaving you there in the dirt, curled up in pain, alone.

Time passed in a blur. You weren’t sure how long you lay there, the pain ebbing and flowing in waves, each one leaving you more exhausted than the last.

The sounds of the jungle around you were distant, muffled, as if you were underwater. You could barely hear the rustling of the trees, the chirping of insects, the distant calls of animals. The world felt... distant, as if you were no longer part of it.

But you weren’t dead. Not yet.

Slowly, painfully, you forced yourself to move. Your body screamed in protest, every muscle aching, every breath a struggle, but you had to get up.

You didn’t. You slipped away, your eyes closing just as your feet were grabbed.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the light—blinding, sterile white light, so bright it seared into your brain like a physical force. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut against it, but the pain followed, sharp and pulsing, lodging itself deep inside your skull. Your thoughts were sluggish, slipping through your fingers like sand, and each time you tried to catch hold of them, your head screamed in protest.

Where am I?

You forced your eyes open again, wincing against the brightness, and blinked until the room came into focus. The ceiling was plain white, featureless except for the overhead lights, which buzzed faintly in the otherwise silent room. It wasn’t just the ceiling—everything around you was white. Sterile. Empty.

A hospital? No. This was different, too cold, too controlled. A clinic? No… a cell.

You were lying on a bed—if it could be called that. The mattress was thin, barely a few inches thick, and wrapped in some kind of synthetic material. The walls around you were padded, stark white and seamless, stretching from the floor to the ceiling with no windows, no doors in sight. It wasn’t the comforting sterility of a hospital. It was the suffocating sterility of a prison.

You tried to sit up, but the moment you moved, a wave of nausea slammed into you, hard and fast. Your stomach churned violently, and you had to grip the edges of the bed to keep yourself from collapsing back into the thin mattress.

What the hell is happening?

Your thoughts were scattered, fragments of memories slipping in and out of your consciousness like shards of broken glass. You could almost grasp them—flashes of images, sounds, feelings—but they were distant, blurred. You struggled to hold onto them, but they kept slipping away, leaving only a pounding ache behind.

Then, like lightning, something cut through the haze.

Nicaragua.

You gasped, the memory of it sharp and vivid, forcing its way into your mind all at once. The jungle, the heat, the tension in the air that had clung to you like a second skin. The mission. Ben’s voice, low and warning, telling you to stay close.

You tried to focus on that—on him—but your mind was pulling you in too many directions at once. The camp. The silence. Ben lying on the ground, cold and unmoving.

No. No, no, no. That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right.

Your breathing quickened, your pulse hammering in your chest as you struggled to piece together what had happened. You could see his face, pale and still, and the way your heart had stopped when you saw him. You’d tried to wake him up. Tried to shake him out of whatever trance he was in. Then…

Crimson Countess.

Her hand had felt like fire when it slammed into your abdomen. The pain had been so intense, so immediate, it had stolen the breath from your lungs. She had attacked you—attacked your baby.

Your baby.

You felt a surge of panic as your hands flew to your stomach, only to find that the familiar curve was gone. Flat. Empty. The sickening realization hit you like a sledgehammer, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through you, but this time it wasn’t from whatever drugs they’d pumped into your system.

The baby. My baby.

The horror of it clawed at you, rising up from your chest and threatening to choke you. You could still feel the heat from her hand, the burning pain as she ripped your world apart.

A sharp prickling sensation crawled along the back of your neck, and you suddenly became aware of the tightness in your arms and legs. You looked down, blinking rapidly to clear your vision, and saw thick, padded restraints binding you to the bed. They were strapped across your wrists and ankles, holding you in place.

A burst of anger flared inside you, burning through the haze clouding your thoughts. You tugged at the restraints, pulling against them, but they didn’t budge. It was useless, and it only made the pounding in your head worse, but you kept trying anyway, refusing to give in to the panic threatening to drown you.

Footsteps.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the sterile room. Two figures appeared, barely visible through the thick fog of your vision. Their white coats blended into the walls, making them seem like ghosts as they moved toward you. You blinked again, hard, trying to clear the haze from your eyes, but it only made your head throb harder.

They weren’t ghosts. They were doctors.

Or something close to that.

“Her vitals are spiking again,” one of them said, his voice low and clinical. “Heart rate’s all over the place.”

“She’s still fighting the sedatives,” the second one replied, his tone exasperated. “We’ve already upped her dose twice. What the hell is she running on?”

They stood at the foot of your bed, their faces obscured by surgical masks, their eyes cold and detached as they studied you like you were some kind of science experiment.

“She’s a supe. That’s what she’s running on,” the first doctor said, stepping closer to your side. He looked down at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned in to inspect something on the monitor beside your bed. “Her system’s rejecting the sedatives faster than we can administer them.”

“Then up the dosage,” the second doctor snapped. “We need her under control.”

You tried to focus on them, tried to make sense of their words, but it was like your brain was wrapped in cotton, everything muffled and distant. They were talking about you like you weren’t even there, as if you were some malfunctioning machine they had to fix. You struggled against the restraints again, pulling harder this time, but it only made the doctors glance at each other in silent disapproval.

“We’ll have to restrain her further if she keeps fighting it,” the first one said, his voice clinical and detached. “She’s not responding to the current protocol. We might need to explore alternatives.”

“Alternatives?” the second doctor echoed, his tone sharp. “You mean the psychotropics?”

The first doctor hesitated, glancing down at you before giving a curt nod. “It’s either that or we keep increasing the dosage and risk damaging her brain function.”

“Fine,” the second doctor said, waving his hand dismissively. “But we need to keep her compliant until then. Get the others on standby.”

The others.

A new surge of panic gripped you, your heart pounding painfully in your chest as you pulled harder at the restraints. You weren’t sure what they meant by “the others,” but you knew it couldn’t be good. You had to get out of here. You had to—

The first doctor’s hand moved toward your arm, and before you could process what was happening, you felt the sharp sting of a needle piercing your skin. You gasped, jerking instinctively away from the contact, but the restraints held you down, and there was nowhere to go.

“No,” you whispered, your voice weak and hoarse. You tried to summon your powers, tried to push them back with the force of your mind, but the drugs were already working their way into your bloodstream, dulling your senses, making it harder to focus.

“She’s still resisting,” the second doctor muttered, stepping back to observe you as you fought to keep your eyes open. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The room began to spin, the walls and ceiling blending together in a dizzying swirl of white. Your thoughts scattered again, slipping through your fingers, and the more you tried to grasp them, the harder it became. You could feel yourself being pulled under, dragged down into the blackness, but you fought against it with everything you had.

You couldn’t lose control. You couldn’t let them win.

But your body was betraying you. The drugs were too strong, your mind too clouded, and no matter how hard you fought, the darkness was closing in.

Your last thought before everything went black was of Ben.

You didn’t know how long you had been out when you woke up again. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time felt slippery, impossible to hold onto, and your brain was slow to catch up with your surroundings.

The light was still painfully bright when you opened your eyes, but this time it didn’t feel as sharp, as if your senses were dulled by a thick fog. The pounding in your head had lessened, but the ache was still there, a constant pressure behind your eyes.

You blinked, your vision slowly clearing, and realized you were still in the same room. Still strapped to the same bed. Still alone.

The doctors were gone, but their words lingered in your mind, echoing in the empty space like a distant memory.

“She’s still fighting the sedatives.”

“Get the others on standby.”

You tried to move, but the restraints held you firmly in place, the padded straps digging into your wrists and ankles. Your muscles felt weak, heavy, as if they had been drained of all their strength. The drugs were still in your system, slowing everything down, making it hard to think clearly.

But you had to think. You had to find a way out of this.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath, and tried to focus. Tried to push through the fog clouding your mind. You had been trained for this—trained to keep control, to maintain focus even in the worst situations. But this was different. The drugs were messing with your powers, keeping them just out of reach, like they were buried beneath layers of cotton and static.

You couldn’t even feel them anymore.

You had been in this cell for what felt like an eternity. Time moved in strange ways here, dragging out into long, oppressive stretches of monotony. The walls were still white, still padded, and still held the same sterile stench of disinfectant and despair. You weren’t sure if you were truly awake anymore or trapped in a constant cycle of drugged sleep. The doctors came and went, administering their injections, monitoring your vitals, and talking about you like you were an object, an experiment they were struggling to understand. You couldn’t fight it like you used to. The drugs coursing through your veins made sure of that.

But today was different. You could feel it, the tension in the air, like something was about to snap.

They hadn’t come for your usual dose. No doctors, no needles. That was the first thing that tipped you off. You had counted the minutes after your last injection as best you could—always trying to keep some semblance of control in this place. It helped to have something to focus on, something to keep you tethered to reality. So when they didn’t show up, that creeping sense of dread started to gnaw at the back of your mind.

And then you heard it. The sound of footsteps outside your cell door. Not the soft, professional shoes of the doctors or the heavy boots of security personnel. No, these were heavier, clumsier. You knew that walk.

A door you hadn't noticed before creaked open, the sound grating against the silence like nails on a chalkboard. The room, already claustrophobic, seemed to constrict even more as you turned your head toward the source. And there he was.

Edward.

Your father.

He stood in the doorway, his face half-shadowed by the dim light spilling in from the hall behind him. His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, darted around the room before they finally settled on you. There was a flash of something in his expression—regret? Guilt? No. It was something more pathetic than that. A weak, watery fear. He looked smaller than you remembered. Older. And even now, standing there like some shameful ghost from the past, he reeked of whiskey and failure.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest as memories flooded back unbidden, painful and relentless.

Edward, your father.

He had always been a drunk. Your earliest memories of him were of his staggering frame, his rough voice slurring insults and apologies in equal measure. The smell of alcohol clung to him like a second skin, as did the stench of wasted potential. He had once been a man of promise—at least that’s what people used to say—but that had been long before you were born. By the time you came into the world, he was already spiraling, his life unraveling thread by thread, dragging you down with him.

The debts he owed to Vought had crushed whatever was left of his dignity. And when they came calling, demanding payment, it wasn’t him they came for. It was you. He had offered you up like you were some kind of pawn, a sacrifice to save his own skin. You had been young, desperate, and stupid. So you went along with it. First as a call girl for their executives, working the seedier underbelly of Vought’s influence, and later… well, later as something else entirely. They had seen potential in you, something they could use, mold, and control. And so they did.

But that didn’t erase the truth.

You became a supe because of him. Because of his debts. Because he sold you to them like you were nothing more than a bargaining chip to save his own worthless life.

And now, he had the nerve to show up here.

“What… the fuck are you doing here?” you rasped, your voice hoarse and raw from disuse. Your throat felt tight, constricted, but the words still came out thick with fury.

Edward shuffled forward a step, his eyes still darting around the room as if he couldn’t bear to look at you directly. “I… I came to see you,” he mumbled, his voice slurred and weak. “They told me where you were… I thought—”

“You thought what?” You cut him off, your voice rising in volume and intensity as anger surged through you. It was the first real emotion you’d felt in what seemed like forever, burning hot and fierce, cutting through the haze that had dulled your mind for so long. “You thought you could just waltz in here like nothing happened? After everything you did?”

He flinched at the venom in your voice, but he didn’t back away. “I didn’t know… I didn’t mean for things to get this bad. I just—”

“You didn’t know?” You barked out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and grating in the small, sterile room. “You didn’t know that selling me to Vought would ruin my fucking life? You didn’t mean for things to get this bad? You sold your own daughter, Edward. For what? So you could keep drinking? So you could gamble away whatever little money we had left?”

Edward’s face twisted in a mixture of shame and defiance, but he still couldn’t meet your eyes. “It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t have a choice…”

“You always had a choice!” you snapped, pulling against the restraints that held you to the bed. The fury building inside you was almost too much to contain, your vision blurring as the blood rushed to your head. The drugs were still in your system, but the anger was cutting through them, sharpening your senses in a way you hadn’t felt in months. “You always fucking had a choice, but you chose yourself. Every goddamn time.”

He looked at you then, his watery, bloodshot eyes finally meeting yours. There was something there—something that might have been remorse, but it was too little, too late. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words falling out of his mouth like they meant nothing.

“Sorry?” You spat the word back at him. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it, you piece of shit.”

You could feel your powers stirring beneath the surface, sluggish and dulled by the drugs but still there, simmering just below your skin. It had been so long since you’d felt that familiar hum, the power thrumming through your veins like a second heartbeat. You wanted to lash out, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he had caused you.

“I never wanted this,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this…”

You cut him off with a scream, pulling against the restraints with all the strength you had left. The padded straps bit into your skin, but you didn’t care. You wanted to tear him apart, to make him bleed for what he had done.

“Shut the fuck up!” you screamed, your voice breaking as you thrashed against the bed. “You ruined my life! You did this to me! You!”

Edward took a step back, his face pale and frightened as he watched you struggle. “I—I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice shaking.

The fury inside you exploded, and you lashed out with your mind, your powers surging forward in a wave of raw energy. The restraints on your wrists and ankles snapped open, and you shot up from the bed, your body trembling with rage as you advanced on him.

He stumbled backward, his eyes wide with fear. “Wait—”

But you didn’t wait. You lunged at him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall with a force that rattled the room. His head cracked against the padding, and he let out a choked gasp, his hands fumbling at yours as he tried to push you away.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’ve fucking done to me?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…” he wheezed, his hands weakly trying to pry your fingers from his shirt.

“You’re pathetic,” you snarled, tightening your grip and lifting him off the ground. “You sold me to them like I was nothing. And now you come here, acting like you care? Like you’re sorry? You don’t get to be sorry.”

You slammed him against the wall again, harder this time, and he let out a strangled cry. “Please,” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Please… I didn’t know they would… I didn’t know…”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You didn’t know? You didn’t care. You never cared.”

He was sobbing now, his body shaking as he clung to your arms, his face twisted in a grotesque display of fear and regret. It was pathetic, watching him like this, begging for forgiveness that you would never give him.

And yet, even as you held him there, your powers flaring and your anger burning white-hot, there was a part of you—a small, quiet part—that hesitated.

He was your father.

No. He was never your father. Not in any way that mattered.

You released him suddenly, letting him fall to the floor in a heap, his sobs echoing in the small room. He curled into himself, clutching his head as if he could block out the pain, as if he could hide from the consequences of his actions.

You stood over him, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back the rage that still simmered inside you. You could kill him right now. It would be easy. A flick

of your wrist, a surge of power, and he would be gone. Out of your life forever.

But somehow, that felt like too easy of an end for him.

“Get out,” you said, your voice cold and flat. “Get the fuck out.”

Edward didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking as he stumbled toward the door. He didn’t look back as he fled, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, hollow thud.

You stood there for a long time after he left, your body trembling with the aftershocks of rage and adrenaline. The room was silent again, but the echoes of his voice, his pathetic apologies, still rang in your ears.

You sank to the floor, your back against the wall, and buried your face in your hands.

The room was silent. Not the kind of peaceful silence that could lull you into some semblance of comfort, but the oppressive, suffocating quiet that seemed to cling to everything, pressing down like a weight on your chest. The padded walls and the sterile, artificial light made it worse. It was as if the air itself had been drained of all life, leaving you alone in a vacuum with nothing but your thoughts.

And those thoughts were darker than anything else in this room.

You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the cold wall. You could still feel the residual anger in your bones from your father’s visit—the way your hands had shook with the need to break something, anything, just to release the tension that had built up inside you. But it had passed now, leaving only the hollow echo of rage in its place. That empty feeling, the one that had become so familiar to you over the years, was all you had left.

And then, there was her.

Your mother.

Bethany.

The name felt like a lifeline and a wound at the same time. You hadn’t spoken it out loud in so long. It was too painful, too raw. But now, as you sat here in this sterile, lifeless room, it was the only thing that kept you grounded. She was the only thing that had ever made sense in your world, the one person who had never let you down. And now, she was the one you couldn’t reach. Not physically, not mentally, not in any way that mattered.

You had heard that she was sick. The whispers had reached you even in this place, carried by the few scraps of information you were able to glean from the doctors who passed through the halls. They didn’t tell you much, didn’t need to. You could feel it in your bones, that deep, gnawing fear that had been eating away at you for months.

She was dying, and you weren’t there.

She was slipping away from you, and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

You opened your eyes, staring at the ceiling as you tried to organize your thoughts, tried to find a way to say what you had been avoiding for so long. You couldn’t speak it, not out loud. Not here. But maybe… maybe you could think it. Maybe you could put it into words in your mind, like a letter she’d never read but somehow, in some way, maybe she would know.

So you started, your thoughts coalescing into something that resembled a letter, though the words were rough and jagged, just like the emotions behind them.

Mom,

Where do I even begin?

I’ve thought about writing this letter a thousand times. I’ve thought about how I’d start it, how I’d try to explain what’s happened to me, why I’m not there with you right now. And every time, I’ve stopped myself because the truth is… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to explain what’s going on in my head, how to make sense of the mess that my life has become. But now, I can’t avoid it anymore. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s fine, that I’ll figure it out eventually.

Because I don’t have time. You don’t have time.

I know you’re sick, Mom. I know that the cancer is eating away at you, bit by bit, and that there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I know that you’re suffering, and that you’re probably lying in a hospital bed somewhere right now, wishing I was there, wondering why I haven’t called or visited. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I haven’t been there for you. You deserve so much more than what I’ve given you. You’ve always deserved more.

But I’m trapped here, in this place. This prison. Not just this cell, but in my mind. I don’t know how to escape it. I don’t know how to be the person you need me to be. I’ve made so many mistakes, and I’ve hurt so many people. I’ve hurt you, even though that was the last thing I ever wanted to do.

God, Mom, I don’t even know how to tell you what happened. I don’t know how to explain why I let myself get wrapped up in Vought, why I let them turn me into… into this. Into something that barely resembles the girl you raised. I was so desperate. So fucking desperate to prove that I wasn’t like Dad, that I could be better than him, that I could fix everything he broke.

But in the end, I just ended up breaking myself.

I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to know that your daughter was caught up in their world, that I was doing things you’d never approve of. I didn’t want you to see what I’d become. I wanted to protect you from it, to shield you from the truth, because I knew that if you found out… you’d be disappointed. And that’s the one thing I couldn’t stand.

I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at me with that same look you gave Dad when he was too drunk to stand, when he was screaming at you and throwing things. That look of tired, quiet disappointment that broke my heart every time I saw it. I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t want you to look at me like that.

But now, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because I’ve already failed. I’m already like him. I’ve hurt people. I’ve let Vought use me, manipulate me, turn me into their puppet. I let them get inside my head, and now I don’t know how to get them out.

I know you always believed in me. You always told me I could be more, that I could be better. And I wanted to be. For you. But I don’t think I can anymore. I don’t know who I am, Mom. I don’t know if I ever did.

I’m scared. I’m scared that when I get out of here—if I get out of here—it’ll be too late. That you’ll be gone, and I won’t have had the chance to say goodbye. That I won’t get to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I love you. Because I do, Mom. I love you more than anything in this world, and the thought of losing you… it’s killing me. It’s tearing me apart.

But I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix myself.

I wish I could talk to you. Really talk to you. I wish I could sit down with you and tell you everything—about Vought, about what they’ve done to me, about what I’ve done. But I can’t. I’m too scared. Too ashamed. I’m afraid that if I tell you the truth, you’ll hate me. And I can’t take that. Not from you.

You were the only one who ever believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. You were the only one who saw something good in me, something worth saving. And now… I’m not sure that’s true anymore. I’m not sure there’s anything left in me worth saving.

I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you. I’m sorry that I’ve let you down. I’m sorry that I’m not the daughter you deserve.

But I love you. I love you so much, and I hope that, wherever you are, you know that. I hope that you can feel it, even if I can’t be there to tell you in person. Because I can’t lose you. Not yet.

Not before I’ve had the chance to make things right.

I’m going to try, Mom. I’m going to try to get out of here, to fix the mess I’ve made of my life. For you. Because you deserve better than this. You deserve better than me.

But I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.

I love you. I’ll always love you.

Your daughter.

You stopped, your thoughts trailing off into silence as you sat there, your heart pounding in your chest. The tears that had been building behind your eyes finally spilled over, hot and heavy as they slid down your cheeks. You hadn’t cried in so long. Not since you were a kid, hiding in your room while your father’s drunken rages echoed through the house. But now, you couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that came crashing down on you, wave after wave of grief, guilt, and helplessness.

You curled into yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees as you sobbed, the sound echoing off the padded walls. It felt like you were drowning, sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of despair that had been growing inside you for so long. And there was no one there to pull you out. No one there to save you.

You thought of your mother again, her warm smile, her gentle hands, the way she used to sing to you when you were little, soothing you to sleep with soft lullabies. She had always been your anchor, your safe harbor in the storm that was your life. And now she was slipping away, and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

The thought of her lying in a hospital bed, weak and frail, fighting a battle she couldn’t win… it broke something inside you. The woman who had always been so strong, so resilient, was now vulnerable, fragile. And you weren’t there. You couldn’t hold her hand, couldn’t tell her that everything was going to be okay. Because it wasn’t. Nothing was okay.

And it was your fault.

You stayed like that for a long time, your body shaking with sobs, your heart

aching with the weight of everything you had lost. There was no one to hear you, no one to comfort you. You were alone in this place, just like you had always been.

But as the tears finally slowed, and the silence settled over you once again, you made a decision. You didn’t know how, and you didn’t know when, but you were going to get out of here. You were going to find a way to make things right. For her.

Because your mother deserved better. She had always deserved better.

And you were going to give her that, even if it was the last thing you ever did.

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

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[sumeruin]

tag, you’re it!!

pairing: yandere! dottore x afab test subject! reader

tw: written by a minor!!!, dddne, heavy noncon, wound fucking, gore, biting, mentions of vomiting but it doesn’t actually happen, biting, lots of blood, blood drinking, kidnapping, drugging, use of weapons, stalking, pet names, dehumanization, i think that’s it, but if i missed anything please let me know!!

a/n: i honestly can’t defend myself on this one um. enjoy <3

minor writing smut, dni if uncomfortable!!

you don’t think your heart has ever beat so fast. you can feel it racing beneath your skin as you run barefoot through the forest, blood rushing through your veins as you hold a hand over your mouth to muffle your desperate, horrified sobs. behind you, you can hear the man that’s been chasing you for the better part of an hour. his heavy footsteps, his terrifying laugh, his sickeningly mocking remarks as he spots the footprints you leave in the mud, unable to cover them up with him right behind you. the wind cools the tears on your face, and it feels like the archons are mocking you. you internally curse them for not granting you a vision, a way to get out of this horrible situation.

your legs burn, and your pace involuntarily gets slower as you sob helplessly, his voice filling your ears, condescending and horrible. “what’s the matter, little rabbit? i can hear you crying.” your legs give out, and you collapse on the muddy floor, your sobs increasing in their urgency as his footsteps get closer and closer. you squeeze your eyes shut, curling your body against the tree you fell against as he finally reaches you. you haven’t gotten a good look at him yet, and you hope you never do. you don’t want to put a face to the voice that’s been tormenting you all night.

you flinch when he reaches a hand out and strokes your cheek, shockingly gentle compared to what you had expected, and he lets out a condescending chuckle and yanks your jaw up to meet his eyes, growling out his words as he speaks. it seems he’s dropped the faux kindness from earlier. “look at me. look at me.” when you obediently open your eyes, sniffling and letting out pained sobs every few seconds, he grins, baring his unnaturally sharp teeth from below his mask and nodding as he appraises you. you feel like a piece of meat, and you’re sure that’s his intent. to dehumanize you, make you feel less than.

he nods to himself, then speaks again. “good. you’ll make a fine specimen, i’m sure.”

you stare up at him in fear, doe eyes widened as you try to flinch away from his iron grip. he doesn’t let you, you didn’t expect him to, though your struggling does seem to please him. you find yourself only more terrified at that fact. your voice is quiet, weak, and he only grins more at the sound. “what… what do you want from me?”

he doesn’t respond, only gives you another horribly wrong looking smile before, almost inhumanly fast, pulling out a syringe and sticking it in your neck. the last thing you remember before everything goes black is how painless it was. like he’s had practice.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ୨୧ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

when you wake up, the first thing you notice is the apparent lack of foliage around you, instead replaced with sinister looking metal structures and cages that are stained with something that looks horrifyingly like blood. the second thing you notice is how securely restrained you are. there’s tight, thick straps around your wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, neck, and waist, all of which have locks on them, presumably so you can’t escape.

your mind wanders back to the man in the forest, and what he injected you with. how quickly it worked and left a gap in your memory. as you think more about it, you consequently get more scared. you’re suddenly pulled out of your thoughts by a loud, horrible beeping noise, which you come to realize is the heart rate monitor you’ve been hooked up to. you try to take deep breaths to lower it before the man comes in and realizes you’re awake, but you fail. of course you fail.

his footsteps fill the room, and the beeping gets faster as your heart rate increases more with the terror he inspires in you. he smiles at you again, and his voice rings out, terrible and anxiety inducing. “i see you’re awake. tell me, what’s gotten you so worked up, hm? is my laboratory scary? do you not enjoy your accommodations?”

he leans in closer to you, and you feel tears starts to pool in your eyes as your body fills with dread. the man seems amused by this, cooing softly at you and pinching your cheek in a way that’s somehow more dehumanizing than anything else he’s done so far. “please… please let me go,” you’re painfully aware of how pathetic you sound as you speak, but you hope he’ll take pity on you instead. realize you aren’t meant for whatever he has planned and release you, though you know deep down that you aren’t that lucky.

he laughs, then shakes his head no before speaking again. he talks too much, you think. “i’m afraid i can’t do that, little rabbit. though, i suppose some introductions are in order. i am il dottore, the second of the featuring harbingers, and your new master. i’ve had my eye on you for some time, dear. you… intrigue me. i have never seen someone quite as pretty as you are. so, you see, i just had to have you. you understand, i’m sure,” his voice gets on your nerves, though you know it’s best to be compliant when dealing with lunatics, so you simply nod your head as best you can with your restraints as he continues.

“good. you must be wondering what i plan to do with you, correct?” you nod again. “i have many ideas, i can’t say i’ve ever felt this way before, especially about someone as insignificant as you, so there’s quite a few things i’d like to try. of course, i will bathe you, then examine you more thoroughly than i managed in the forest. after i’ve collected your baseline vital statistics, and you have been thoroughly examined and cleaned, i will take you. for my research, of course. i believe it would be beneficial to encourage in coitus with you, as it might help me to better understand the origin of these feelings.”

you’re sure he can see the alarm on your face at how casually he mentions violating you in such a personal way, for he gives you a pat on the head that you think is meant to be comforting. it has the opposite effect, it only makes you more concerned. you shake your head no and give him a desperate, pleading look, your eyes filling with tears at the thought. “please, no! anything but that, i swear i won’t ever try to leave, just… please, don’t!”

his eyes light up, and you finally realize he’s removed his mask. you had been too caught up in your panicked fear to really pay attention to him, but as you examine him, his heavily scarred face, his blood red eyes, his aquiline nose. he’s… undeniably attractive, your brain supplies. you immediately try to push those thoughts away, he just said he was planning on raping you, for archon’s sake, you cannot find him attractive. he clearly picks up on your inner struggle, judging from the amused smile he wears and the way he leans in closer to you, softly caressing your cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“i suppose if you’re that against me taking you vaginally, i could find another way to have you. though i can’t promise it will be as pleasant. it is quite hard to give the recipient pleasure in other orifices,” his cologne fills your nostrils as he leans in so close to you, your lips just barely touching. he smells like roses and leather, with just a hint of blood and bleach along with other chemical smells you can’t quite place. you hate yourself for thinking it, but it’s not an entirely unpleasant scent. in fact, you think you’d quite enjoy it on anyone else.

he hums, nosing against your throat and leaving a bite where your neck meets your shoulder. it’s painful, and you have to bite your tongue to resist crying out as the tears that had been building finally start to fall. you can’t hold back the choked sob that escapes when you feel the copious amount of blood that falls from the wound, sure to leave a scar. an inescapable, undeniable, permanent reminder of what he’s done to you and what he plans to do to you.

he ignores your distress, only whispering half hearted coos as he licks up all the blood from your fresh bite mark and groans softly at the taste. the realization that he’s getting pleasure from this makes bile start to rise up your throat. “shh, shh… you taste divine. perhaps that’s why i’m so enchanted with you. you’ve put a spell on me.”

dottore softly laps up the blood that pours from your wound, and you hate yourself a little more for thinking the feeling is somewhat pleasant. his tongue is soothing on your wound, his saliva is unnaturally cold, and surprisingly doesn’t make the cuts sting. you don’t know if it’s the blood loss or the paralyzing fear you’re feeling, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

he pulls his mouth away from your wound and wipes the last few beads of blood away from it with his thumb. he examines the way the ruby red liquid reflects the light and contrasts the back leather of his glove as it sits on his finger, and then he brings his thumb to your lips, his tone leaving no room for argument as he commands you. “open.”

you reluctantly obey, looking at him tiredly as the blood loss starts to hit you more and more, your vision slowly starting to become fuzzy at the edges, painting everything in a sort of giddy haze as the pain mixes with the pleasant feelings his sweet words and scent invoke in you. he gives you a smile, patting your head once again as he slides his thumb, still carrying your blood, into your open mouth. “good… good pet,” his hand strokes your forehead comfortingly, and the lights suddenly seem all too bright, your eyebrows furrowing weakly as you try to turn your head away from them.

“shh… just sleep, little rabbit. i’ll take good care of you. when you wake, i’ll be ready for the last part of my plans.”

you don’t have time to really think about what he means by that before the fuzzy edges of your vision fade completely to black, your consciousness quickly ebbing away.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ୨୧ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

you’re passing out far too often for your liking, you decide as you come to. this time, you’ve been restrained on a soft bed in what looks like the private chambers of some very wealthy individual. it takes a moment for everything to come back to you, but the dull, throbbing pain in your shoulder quickly helps you remember.

you examine your surroundings once more, taking note of the black and dark blue color scheme of the room, along with the silver accents and luxurious feel of, what you assume is, dottore’s sheets. as you try to move to assess how secure your bindings are this time, you come to a horrifying realization. you aren’t wearing your knee length, cotton chemise anymore, and there isn’t a trace of any mud on your skin. someone has bathed and changed your clothes, into a much more revealing, practically see through babydoll dress.

you realize something even more horrific as you examine your body more closely. someone has also shaved you completely bare.

your attention is snapped to the door as dottore enters, holding a briefcase that gives you a horrible feeling. “good, you’re awake. i was almost worried i had injured you fatally.” he sets the briefcase down on the bed, not giving you a moment to speak, and pulls out a terrifyingly sharp dagger, turning to you with a small smile.

“now, since you seemed so distraught over me having vaginal intercourse with you, i’ve decided on an alternative,” he doesn’t elaborate further, only approaching you and inspecting your body as he marks out various places, mostly on your upper thigh or abdomen. you feel horribly exposed, wearing nothing but a sheer, short babydoll, but there’s nothing you can do about it. you have no idea what he plans to do, but you’re sure it will be torturous.

he finally settles on a spot, a fatty area just above your belly button on the left side, and he walks over to that side of the bed with the blade. he marks out a relatively large circle with a pen, and you realize what he means to do.

your struggles are reignited, and you start to sob as he places the pen back in his breast pocket and gently shushes you. “calm down. it will only be worse for you if you struggle, dear.”

your sobs grow louder as he makes the first incision, you start thrashing around in your bindings and trying desperately to get away from his blade. you give him a pleading look as he continues to carve a horrifyingly deep hole into your skin, and your voice is weak, breaking with every word from the excruciating pain of getting carved into without any sort of numbing solution. “p-please, can- can’t, ‘s- ‘s hurting me, st-stop-!”

he completely ignores you, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic from his bag and spraying it on the large wound. your pain is only increased, and you realize why you’re retrained so tightly. he finally looks back at your tear covered face, and gives you a smile as he pets your hair. “there, the hard part is over. now it’s time to continue the experiment.”

you sob, shaking your head no as you cry out from the pain, watching in horror as he undoes his pants just enough to pull his cock out. he positions it at the hole he’s created for himself, and, without any sort of warning, thrusts himself deep inside. you cry out, choking on your sobs and gagging from the all encompassing pain as bile starts to rise up in your throat once again.

he gives a deep moan as he starts to move, completely uncaring of your protests and the agony you’re in as he chases his own pleasure inside of you. his fingers curl around the other side of your torso, and he pulls you into each of his thrusts, only increasing your pain. “you truly are fantastic…”

you think you’re going to be sick.

how dare he enjoy this? how dare he violate you in such a way and have the gall to moan about it? if you had the strength, you think you might kill him.

you dissociate for most of the experience, something your eternally grateful for. you don’t want to remember any of it. the feeling of his thrusts into your limp body starting to falter and his cock twitching inside your, now more of a gash, really, remind you of the very real threat that he’ll cum inside of your large wound.

before you get a chance to plead with him not to, though, you feel the burning, hot liquid fill the space nothing should ever touch. it hurts, almost more than the actual fucking did, and you think you pass out from the feeling.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ୨୧ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

when you come to for the third time, you’ve been bandaged and stitched up and dottore holds you in his arms, tucked snugly against his side while he writes notes, presumably about the torture he’s just put you through. he smiles down at you, petting your hair once again before he stands up, leaving you tied to the bed. “i wished to make sure you would wake up. now i must get back to my work.” he pauses in the doorway as he leaves. “you were wonderful, and my hypothesis was incorrect. having intercourse with you did not cure me. in fact, it only made me more taken with you. …i have decided to keep you, in light of this revelation.”

with that, he swiftly walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. you cry softly to yourself, and then feel a sudden weight on your lap. as you look down, you feel bitterness fill you at the sight.

there, sitting perfectly on your lap, taunting you, is a shiny, anemo vision.