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trippinsorrows · 14 days ago

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matters of the heart

authors note: hi, friends! this one here is courtesy of the lovely @romanreignsbae who approached me with this concept a couple of weeks ago. we worked out a lot of the kinks, but i've made some....changes and additions to switch things up a bit. 😅

warnings: smut (oral, penetrative, different positions, etc), age gap (10 years), toxic (?) dynamics, and slight, blink and you'll miss it, angst.

words: 7k

“Shit!”

Her palms grip the cool metal of the railing, freshly filled acrylics lightly scraping and pressing into the banister that’s the only thing keeping this moment of pleasure from a scene of horror. That and the relentless grip he has on the meat of her hips, big hands digging into her supple skin the same way his tongue invades the most sacred part of her.

Forehead against that same cool metal, Solana closes her eyes and bites down to keep from screaming. To keep the entire posh neighborhood that is her view from this angle knowing just what’s taking place. Not that he’d care. No, she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he wanted. A spectacle, an X rated scene to be made. For the entire city, his city, to see, to hear, to know.

A low groan sits in the back of her throat, begging and dying to be released when he drags his tongue up the entire length of her soaking cunt. His hand moves to her ass cheeks, spreading them apart, granting him unobstructed access.

“Fuck,” she curses, that grip on the railing tightening with each lethal lick of that dangerous tongue of his. The sounds of the bustling city before him, tall buildings lit up, filled with workers doing overtime, streets that are barren sans the few bodies walking and praying to make it home safely. It’s a beautiful view but one she’s gotten so used to seeing that the initial razzle dazzle of it all faded a long time ago. Plus, it’s hard to focus on the sight before her with the man behind her, on his knees, eating her out like his life depends on it.

She should have known, should have known the minute she stepped on his massive balcony to get some air that he’d have her this way, bent over, face buried in her pussy. The same way she knows when he’s finally had his fill—whenever that is—he’ll have that dick buried inside her next.

Her cunt flutters at the thought.

Something that doesn't miss him. Unsurprising. Not much does.

Hence why his deep voice vibrates, chuckling before another insertion, that of his thick finger, dragging out that groan and moan from Solana. Followed by another finger. Prep. He’s preparing her to take him, the way he usually does, because despite months of fucking, it seems like every time Solana goes to tackle that part, there’s a bit of an adjustment. His dick is so unforgiving, always needing to stretch her out like it’s the first time every time.

And, they are well past the first time.

The sounds of him slurping and sucking on her as if the space between her legs holds to key to all of life’s mysteries does little to help the seldom self-control she has regarding her volume. Again, though, it feels like that’s what he wants.

He wants her to come undone. Wants her to lose control. It’s like he gets off on it.

Because he does.

“Roman, please…” She begs, the moan stretching the same way his thick fingers stretched and fuck her tight hole. “Dios…” More words of Spanish tumble out of her mouth at the same time he groans under her, pulling her closer, like the space between her cunt and his face isn’t already nonexistent. He’s insatiable.

He keeps her that way for God knows how long, bent over the railing of his balcony, on his knees, eating her out until she feels her knees only have one more buckle in them before giving out entirely.

But, the minute he moves from off his knees to his feet, her forehead laying on her forearm, she tries to steady herself from the orgasm—or two—that he just gave her. That's when she hears it. The familiar sound of the foil wrapper being ripped open, latex slid on that length that has to be dripping cum on the porcelain tiles.

Her hand grips the railing for the thousandth time as he begins to slide himself inside of her slippery, dripping walls.

“Fuck,” his deep voice groans behind her, hands on her hips helping steer and guide him. “Feels fucking amazing every time…”

Shared sentiments.

As uncomfortable as the stretch can be, it’s always outweighed by the pleasure that fills her, at the way he fills her. Overwhelming and all consuming. The best sort of reprieve from even the most stressful of days, and it’s been a stressful day.

Hence why when her phone lit up with a text from him, she wasted not a second nor a minute before responding with an immediate, obvious answer. The way she was barely inside his penthouse when he had her slammed up against the closest wall, mouth on her, clothes already being ripped off.

That was hours ago.

She’s not sure what time it is now. Just that it’s late as fuck, and she’s most likely spending the night.

Again, wouldn’t be the first time.

Roman rocks into her, behind her, thrusting into her with a need, dick digging deep into her. It’s his turn to say something in a language he can’t understand but something that is universally understood. Pleasure. He feels pleasure in this moment. Same as her.

His hand fisted in her hair as he slams his hips into hers, repeatedly, again and again, knocking into her g-spot, eliciting delicious, carnal moans. Silence and volume be damned. It’s nearly impossible to stay quiet with him fucking her like he is.

And, that silence is clearly not what he’s wanting anyway.

“Stop trying to suppress it,” he groans, mouth near her ear, biting down gently on the lobe. “I want to hear you. Tell me how good it feels.”

Fuck. She’s not sure there’s enough words in the English language to describe how good it is, how amazing it feels. All of it.

Roman fucks her into yet another orgasm, one that once again has her knees buckling, and her body operating off of fumes from the reserves.

Yet, that doesn’t stop him.

Of course not.

He carries her over to the bed, dropping her down on her stomach, the jiggle and motion of her ass earning yet another slap and jiggle courtesy of that big hand of his. Solana fists the sheets at the same time the bed dips under the weight of him joining her. Pushing her frizzed, fucked out hair out of her face, she catches just in time the dangerous sight of him sitting up against the headboard, stroking that still erect, long, thick dick of his that’s coated in her cream.

His eyes lock onto hers, tone even, gesturing to his lap. “Ride me.”

Damn.

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Fatigue be damn, the desire to have him inside of her outweighs logic, as it does most times and in most scenarios involving him.

Solana quickly moves up to her knees, climbing onto his laps and lowering herself down onto his length, both of them moaning almost in tandem as she uses his strong, solid chest to steady her as she moves atop him.

Head thrown back, mouth parted, she works herself, back and forth, sliding along his dick, his hands moving up her stomach, fisting her heavy breast.

“Fuck,” he curses, thumb ghosting over her hardened nipples. “Just like that.”

His praise does more to her than what makes sense, not that any of it does. Hence why Solana continues to do as she’s done for the past few months.

Enjoy the ride.

—-------

The next morning, Solana wakes up to an empty bed and the curtains shut, bathing the room in darkness sans the light that peeps through underneath the dark drapery. Rubbing her blinking eyes, she rolls onto her back and aimlessly reaches for her phone on the nightstand.

7:15am blinks back, reminding her that she needs to get her ass up and now, because while she doesn’t have to be at the hospital today until late afternoon, she does work in two hours, and getting home, getting settled, and everything else, will take some time.

So, the sooner she’s out of here, the better.

Climbing out of bed, she yawns, stretching her sore limbs while walking across the room to grab her bag. She refuses to call it what it is. Her sneaky link bag. That…that’s just too much. It also doesn’t feel like what this is. Whatever this is, anyway.

At one point, she questioned it. She questioned it a lot, because what would make the self-proclaimed king of Gotham pick her, of all people, that night.

It was a simple thing. A night of clubbing and dancing away all her problems with Hannah, her best friend since moving to Gotham a few years back for school. More importantly, the celebration of a long overdue breakup.

Solana just wanted to have fun. Live a little. She was open to a one night stand. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was the man with whom she ended up leaving with that night.

Roman Reigns.

The Tribal Chief. The Capo. The Head of the Table. God himself, to some people.

One of the first things she learned when arriving in the grand—not so grand—city of Gotham, that everything the light both touched and didn’t touch belonged to him. The leader of two of the biggest crime syndicates in the world, he ran the city with an iron fist. Nothing happened without his knowing or his approval. An open sort of deal where he didn’t need to hide his hands, the Bloodline and Cosa Nostra influence and presence far too long and deep for that. They were everywhere, and they all connected to him.

Roman was the exact type of danger Solana’s family back home in Mexico warned her about. The kind of “darkness” her mother and abuela feared would consume her when she announced she’d decided to attend Gotham university, located in the city of Gotham. A choice that made all the sense at the time as, despite being the home base for open crime, GU boasts one of the best pre-med and medical schools in the country.

Solana promised she’d be careful, determined to fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming a doctor, of being more than what she grew up seeing. A lot of love, so much love, but also a lot of struggle and poverty. She wasn’t going to let that be her story as well.

Which is why when Roman sent one of his men to bring her to where he sat, perched up nicely and kingly in the VIP section, clearly intent on finding a woman to bring home, that should have been all she needed.

She should have said no. Politely declined. Grabbed Hannah’s hand and led them the hell out of the lion’s den. But, that wasn’t what happened. She didn’t reject the offer. She simply double checked that she was still sharing her location with Hannah and followed the flustered redhead up to his section.

Stood in front of him as he took in her, the same way she took him in. That perfectly chiseled face, neatly trimmed beard, pink, full lips set in a straight line, warm brown eyes that bounced back and forth from her breast to her face. A man, in every sense of the word.

“This isn’t your scene.” His deep voice broke through the silent stare-off of sorts, the way they both seemed only focused on one another despite his entourage.

And, with a boldness, to this day, she hasn’t the slightest clue where it came from, she responded, voice soft, eyes never leaving his. “So why am I here?”

He smiled, and it still remains one of the best sights one could ever be worthy of viewing. His eyes remained locked onto hers, but his command was directed to everyone else. “Get out.”

And like Moses parting the sea, the bodies emptied out until only two remain. Herself and the Tribal Chief.

A small part of her still struggles to understand just how in less than twenty minutes following his clearing of the space, she ended up where she did. Bent over the arm of one of the sofas, skimpy blue dress raised up to her waist, thong discarded who knows where, his massive dick pumping into her.

And especially what happened after that.

Solana clutched onto the back of his head, her face buried into the crook of his neck. Her body was on fire, the feeling of him still buried deep inside of her doing little to help her cope with the aftermath of her orgasm. Especially with every subtle movement he made, including the way his fingers stroked her spine.

But, it was when he traveled that hand upwards, forcing her gaze onto his, lust meeting lust. His thumb moved over her bottom lip, parting her lips, teasing an entrance. “Leave with me.”

Staring at him, nothing but the thought and feel of him hardening once more, consumed her judgment. The answer rolled out before she even realized what she’d agreed to.

“Okay.”

Up until that point, it was the craziest thing she’d ever been told. Not done, because letting a man ten years her senior, a dangerous man at that, fuck her in the VIP section of the city’s hottest club, Harley’s, snagged that spot in the ‘done’ category.

It shall always be one of life’s greatest mysteries.

Solana made sure she kept her location on and shared with Hannah but certainly still left with him that night and got fucked thoroughly and properly for the first time in her life. All throughout the night. 12/10 in any and all areas. It was erotic, sensual, and everything she never knew she needed.

It was also one and done. Or, at least, that’s what she’d thought.

Because almost five months later, she stands under the shower in his penthouse after yet another night of explosive sex. It was his suggestion that started it all. She was fully prepared to do her walk of shame afterwards, leaving with the benefit of knowing she’d at least fulfilled her initial goal of having a good time.

A very good time.

But, he’d been the one to stop her, to ask for her number, to say he wanted to “see” her again.

Fuck.

He wanted to fuck her again.

And truthfully….she felt the same.

Sex was always just an okay thing with her prior boyfriends. Never anything to run, scream, and leap for joy about. That wasn’t the case with Roman. She wasn’t sure if it was the age difference and his obvious copious amount of experience compared to herself, but it was vastly different in all the best ways. A wonderful sort of distraction for the third year med school student.

So, not a hard sell. Not a hard sell, at all.

Thus, the arrangement. Random hook ups that typically took place at his place, sometimes the back of his SUV, sometimes his bathroom. Eventually bleeding over into her place from time to time. Not her preference, however. Her shitty apartment seemed almost disrespectful for the billionaire mafia kingpin, even if it was solely used as a place to fuck.

Granted, she tries not to think too hard about the little things that have improved since he first came over that one day. Like, how the fucked up AC unit she’d been complaining to her landlord about since the 99 and 2000’s was suddenly replaced with something top of the line. Or, how the random rent increases she's dealt with since moving in disappeared, her rent dropping even lower than what it was when she first signed her lease.

Nope. She refuses to think of any of that, especially the way that random drop-in sexcapades have included her often spending the night, having a change of clothes and emergency bag kept tucked away in his closet and the drawer in his dresser he’d made just for her.

Or, the casual conversations they had sometimes, as they laid in bed together.

None of that mattered, cause it was just sex. They gave each other an….out, something each desperately needed from time to time.

And, she refused to see or acknowledge anything more than that.

About half an hour later, Solana is dressed and in the kitchen, fixing a quick breakfast and cup of coffee before she leaves. She also does not acknowledge the few times she’s cooked for him….for them.

Irrelevant.

She's just brewed her eight ounces of french roast coffee and looks over to where the options for creamer sit, waiting for her to pick which one will be the flavor of the day. Solana can’t recall if that stack was always sitting there the first time she came over, or rather, the first time he welcomed/allowed her into his kitchen.

Also, irrelevant.

“I need to talk with you about something.”

The deciding between which creamer to use—Hazelnut or Vanilla Almond—is suddenly replaced with the confusion and semblance of dread that fills her at that infamous statement.

Rarely has she seen anything good come out of such an opening. Foolery is usually what follows. Something undesirable and uncomfortable.

And turning around, mug of freshly brewed coffee in hand, meeting his dark gaze, the tick in his jaw he does when irritated, Solana just knows she’s in for some shit.

Fuck.

He’s standing before her, shirtless, dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips. Distracting, but not enough for the weight of that statement.

“Okay.” The perfect facade for a calm demeanor when she feels anything but. “What—” She clears her throat. “What’s going on?”

Solana leans back against the counter of his expensive granite, opposite of where he leans against the granite of the expensive ass island. The ten second bout of silence between her question and his answer is torture.

“I have…a proposition for you.”

Her nonchalant expression shifts just a bit. A proposition? She moves her weight from one foot to the other, using the only thing she has to pull from, the nature of their dynamic, to muster up a guess.

“I told you, I don’t….” Just saying it feels off. Has her struggling to maintain eye contact. “I—I don’t do threesomes.”

Then again, before him, she didn’t do friends with benefits either. Yet, here she is. Still, Roman is hard from a friend. Not even an acquaintance.. He’s just….a person.

A person she has amazing sex with from time to time.

Maybe more than just time to time.

His gaze darkens. “And, I told you I don’t share.” She looks back up, realizing not only was her assumption loud and wrong, but it’d also clearly irritated him as well. Great. “I have a dilemma.”

He has a lot of things, it seems, except the actual reason for this whole random ass, intimidating ass conversation.

“Okay…”

When he looks away, suddenly interested in the double door stainless steel refrigerator, it’s hard for her to not focus on his side profile. Roman is easily one of the most attractive men she’s ever encountered. Sculpted and cut from the Gods. If only the beauty didn't stop with his appearance.

Because as great as the sex is, outside of those few occasions where he's less….him, he can be an asshole. Another reminder that this arrangement is simply physically based. Roman may be attractive on the outside, but that inside…it leads a lot to be desired.

A lot.

“I need an heir.”

Silence.

For the eighteenth time in the span of less than five minutes, she has no idea what to say or how to respond to that. Hence, her repeating of the same word. “Umm, o–okay.” Because, again, what does one say to that? Congratulations? Her next question, however, is the one sitting at the top of mountain confusion, hence needing to be asked. “What does that—”

“I want you to be my surrogate.”

Her eyes widen, the mug in her hand almost slipping and shattering into a thousand pieces. “You—what?”

Solana blinks once, twice, and then slaps her temple lightly, for good measure, because there’s no way he said what she thinks he just said.

No way in hell.

But, instead of him offering a different answer, he looks over at her, doubling down with both big ass feet of his. “I need you to give me a child.”

It’s that statement that has her placing the mug of now lukewarm coffee on the counter as she brings her hands to her head. “Oh my God.” She can only focus on the design of the marble flooring and not the lunacy that just left his mouth. “Hannah was right. You are secretly crazy.”

To be fair, Hannah had also joked—not really—that she, too, was crazy for ever even leaving with him that night, for fucking him not once, but many times at this point.

And, right about now, Solana is thinking her best friend was right.

About the both of them.

“Shut up.” His irritation returns with his curt dismissal of her sudden realization. Months of fucking this man, and this is how it comes out that he really is crazy. Of course. “Let me explain.”

Her eyes are as wide as saucers, any and all appetite completely depleted. “What’s there to explain about that?”

He rolls his eyes, Solana realizing it’s probably not wise to take her focus off this beautiful, dangerous, potentially psychotic man. “I’m dealing with pressure from the Elders—”

“Who are they?”

Irritation flashes. “A group of older men in the Bloodline who serve as a council of sorts.” Something tells her they’re not his favorite group of people. Makes sense. Roman seems like the type of man who doesn’t do well with answering to….well, anyone.

“They want me to produce an heir. I’m not getting any younger, and they think it's irresponsible for me to not have one at this point in my life.”

Makes sense. Solana can acknowledge that. Even with her limited knowledge as to how all this works, Roman being closer to 40 than anything and not having an heir to inherit his empire when he dies really does seem irresponsible.

Of course, they’re putting pressure on him. It’s just her…place(?) in all this that doesn’t make sense. Why he’s asking her.

Why is he asking her?

Regardless, she has another question teetering at the top of her list. “What do you think?”

He just looks at her before completely avoiding the question. “I would just need you to carry and birth the child. You won’t need to be involved in his or her life after that.”

But, as he provides what he considers clarification, Solana sinks further into the realization that he’s not crazy.

He’s serious.

That doesn’t change the fact that the situation, proposal, whatever is still insane. And, she voices as such.

“This is….”

She trails off, now pacing before him, hugging herself, unable to wrap her head around just what she’s hearing.

“I’ll cover all of your medical expenses along with paying off the rest of your schooling and anything else you owe.” At that, she stops, turning to look at him, eyes widening once more. His intense gaze is locked on hers. “You'll graduate medical school and finish residency with zero debt.”

What the fuck?

Solana falls back against the counter, scoffing in disbelief. Is he….is he for real?

“All because....you....you want me….to have your baby?” The more she says it, even thinks it, the crazier it sounds, but he’s continued to look just as serious as he was the minute he walked into the kitchen.

“It’s less about you and more the convenience of you.” There’s something about his response, the almost offensive nature of his tone that makes her shift her weight once more. Makes her feel something close to…hurt? She’s not entirely sure, just knows that the impolite expression on his handsome face and audible in his deep voice aren’t exactly helping the situation. “You’re in prime childbearing years, and your medical records don’t indicate any fertility issues—”

“Wait.” Pause. “How…how did you get my medical records?”

And, just like that, an already….weird situation just got infinitely weirder. Because, once more, what the hell?

However, he remains seemingly unbothered. “I’m Roman Reigns.” Something about his tone makes her stomach flip, makes her nails tap against the counter she continues to grip. “If I want something, I get it.”

She doesn’t deny that. She can’t. Clearly. HIPAA be damned.

Still, that cloud of shock remains sitting prompt and directly over her head. “I don’t…” She rubs her temples. “This…this is a lot.” To say the least. “How would…” A distracted thought that’s sidetracked from another important question that pops into her head. “Wait…I thought heirs were only recognized through marriages. How….” And, it’s when she looks over at him, sees the slight shift in his eyes, that she realizes what he either hasn’t gotten to yet or was hoping to maybe avoid altogether. “You’re kidding.” Alas, he’s not. He’s not at all.

Her mouth drops open, stammering a reflection of the hits that keep on coming. “You…you want me to marry you, too?”

“I don’t want any of this.” More harshness. Another wince on her end. If anything, he’s honest. Brutally. “It’s simply a business arrangement. The marriage would be in name only, and the minute the child is born, we file for divorce.”

Pacing back and forth, Solana does her best to not allow herself to fall into information overload, even though she’s damn near already there.

Roman wants her to give him a child. Have his baby. Marry him. And then….pretend like nothing happened?

She should have just stayed in bed.

“Roman, I—”

“You don’t have to give me an answer right now.” Solana isn’t sure she could, even if he did need one right now. “Think about it. I’ll have everything laid out in a contract. Read it over, and let me know before the end of the week.”

Partial relief, as it only being Monday gives her a couple, but not a lot, of days to really sit on this all. Not even the….proposal but just….everything that’s happened since she first met Roman Reigns that fateful night in the club months prior.

She nods, voice quiet once more. "Okay."

No. Not okay. Far from okay.

—------

“So let me get this straight.” Solana stabs the spoon into the shared carton of moose tracks ice cream being passed and forth between the two friends. She scoops an unnecessarily large amount and stuffs it into her mouth, intentionally downing it slowly to help prolong the answer she’s far from eager to give. “He asked you to marry him.”

Solana swallows. “Not…not necessarily.”

“So, there was no mention of marriage?”

“Well, yes—”

Hannah’s eyes widen. “Then. he essentially asked you to marry him.” Solana groans, leaning deeper into the dark sofa that’s always been more uncomfortable than not but the best that she could afford at the time. Still, really. “And he wants you to be his surrogate.”

Solana winces. Just hearing it makes it sound even more insane. “Technically, we have to be married in order for the child to be recognized as his—”

“His little mafia prince or princess?”

“Hannah.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, snatching the carton back, explaining almost panicked, “this is all way too much for me.”

Solana scoffs. “You?” She shakes her head, acknowledging the most uncomfortable part of it all. “I’m the one who has to give him an answer.”

An answer that’s not as easy as it should be, or maybe as she’d like it to be.

Hannah quiets down, the only sound in Solana’s small apartment coming from the TV playing a show neither women have watched since sitting down to discuss the proposal. A waste of electricity, if Solana was thinking clearly, but she’s not, because she’s too caught up in her head over what could end up being the most important decision she’ll ever make.

“So, tell me again, what exactly it’ll include,” Hannah asks, offering the carton to be shared once more. Solana takes another scoop, relaying everything Roman said, the premise of his offer. It would probably be easier to just share the contract Roman had his assistant, Paul, email her. But, she doesn’t. Probably cause that makes it all just way too official. “Wow….do you know how rare it is for someone to graduate college and medical school and everything else with zero debt?”

It’s not rare.

It’s unheard of.

Because, it doesn’t happen.

But, Roman is prepared to do just that.

“I know,” Solana murmurs, her interest in ice cream waning by the second, prompting her to place her spoon down on the napkin laid out on her old coffee table. “It…it feels too good to be true.”

“But, that’s why he said you’d guys sign a contract, right?”

Solana nods. “Yeah.” Leaning back into the sofa, she begins to play with the bottom of her oversized shirt, a random purchase from Walmart’s graphic t-shirt rack. At one point, it had a portrait of Prince from Purple Rain. Now, it’s just distorted, tarnished, and nothing but a comfy thing to sleep in. “But, like…a baby, Hannah?”

Hannah frowns, her full lips more pronounced. “I know, but….it’s not like you’d keep it?”

True. However, that doesn’t negate her counter. “But, I’d still have to carry it for the better part of the year.”

Hannah shrugs one shoulder, her top falling just a bit to exposed, smooth, flawless, brown skin. “Well, yes, that’s how pregnancies work.”

Solana closes her eyes and moans. “Hannah.”

“I’m sorry,” the other woman apologizes, messing with her box braids. A sign of nervousness. “I’m just….I don’t know what to say.”

Fair, because Solana, too, doesn’t know what to say.

Or do.

On one hand, Roman’s proposal sounds like the craziest thing ever. The rest of her collegiate expenses paid off in exchange for marrying him, giving him a baby, leaving the baby to be raised by him, and his family, with a divorce to top it all off as she continues to live her debt free life?

But, also, like Hannah smartly pointed out, to be able to enter her dream career, making more money than she could have ever imagined, saving lives and doing what she loves without the cloud of student loans over her head?

That could change so much for her. She could maybe buy a house, help her parents pay off their mortgage and their debts. She’d be in such a good financial position for when the time came for her to actually settle down and start a family.

And, then there's that whole side of it. Family. How the hell is she supposed to tell her family about this? How could she ever help them understand why she's agreed to be the surrogate for a literal killer in exchange for financial freedom? How does one go about explaining that to their family without being put on an involuntarily psych hold for temporary insanity?

She'll wait.

Solana groans, appetite completely gone. This shit sucks. It should be an easy decision, but it's not, and as much as she would like to say her answer is no, and that's that....she can't.

She can't bring herself to do that, because the appeal of living an essentially carefree life when it comes to finances feels almost too good an opportunity to turn down.

A dream come true, depending on how one looks at it.

It’s just the getting there that has her so torn.

Because the idea of conceiving and carrying a child right now doesn’t feel or seem all that appealing. And, it’s not that she doesn’t want kids. She does.

Just not now.

She wants to finish up school and be a bit established in her career before going down that road.

But.

It’s not….it’s not as if this will be her child. Yes, biologically, he or she will be hers, but she’ll have no place in their life. Roman will be the father, and what story he tells them about their maternal parentage is for him to figure out. Plus, he has a big family. The child will be loved.

She’s just the conduit, of sorts.

And, as far as the marriage part, plenty of people get divorced. She’ll just be a part of that fifty percent club. Not to mention, it won’t even be worth mentioning to any future partners. Neither will the surrogacy, really. It’ll just be….a chapter in her life.

One not worth revisiting when the last page turns.

—-------

Roman fucking hates waiting.

He understands why in this situation, but it doesn’t make him any less annoyed.

Another heavy, irritated sigh at having checked his phone once more only to see a lock screen full of notifications, none of them from the person he’s wanting to see on his phone.

Needing, in some instances.

Jaw ticking, that just spikes his irritation all over again. He hates that shit, too. Needing something. Anything. From anyone.

Hence why his hatred for the Elders has only been exacerbated by this whole fuck ass situation they’ve put him in.

It’s fucking aggravating, and the urge to tell them all to fuck off is something he struggles with on the daily.

But, deep down, beyond the layers of stubbornness, he knows they’re right. At 36, approaching 37, he needs an heir.

It’s long overdue.

Hence his approach to Solana.

Not ideal. Not ideal at all.

But, of his options, of his roster of women, she makes the most sense. She’s easy. No drama. No theatrics. For months, they’ve had their arrangement, and she’s never once tried to make it more than what it is. She just gets it.

He just hopes she can get this as well.

Roman understands her apprehension as well as her shock, but in laying out the facts and details, he's optimistic she can understand that it's nothing more than a business arrangement. Just as he told her.

Stepping into the shower, Roman allows the water to wash away the stress of the day and lingering thoughts of his official-unofficial non-friend with great benefits, scrubbing and washing his body clean.

The entire night routine, of sorts, ends with him walking into his bedroom and climbing into his bed, despite his mind still racing. The last glance he gives to his phone, still without the notification he’s been waiting for, is the last thing he sees before drifting off to sleep.

—------

The sounds of nature, the ray of sunlight bleeding into the room through the open doors that lead to the balcony. Roman’s frown is deep as he blinks his eyes open and inhales deeply, the scent clean and subtle, a combination of her perfume that lingers on the sheets, her side presenting an absent space.

Roman sits up and rolls his shoulders, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, sliding his feet into the Nike slides. Making his way out the room, the framed photos on the wall of the hall that lead him to the staircase tell a story.

Their story.

That Valentine’s Day card she made for him when they were in the second grade, the edges torn, that stain in the corner that smeared her artwork the result of some shitty classmate that “accidentally” spilled apple juice on it.

The same way Roman “accidentally” punched him right in his stupid face immediately after.

The collage of polaroids she’d made for him on his 13th birthday, a gift of labor and love, photos of mostly him, but them as well, along with a few including the twins.

The photo of them at prom, an event he was 100% okay with skipping, never really caring much for shit like that, but she wanted to go, so they went. Back against him, her dainty hands placed atop his as she smiled so bright, her eyes creased slightly, her happiness from that night seeping through the photo that documented what she’d once called the “best night” of her life.

Her partially agrees, and not for any reason related to the actual prom. No, that shit was a disaster. The music sucked, someone spiked the punch, Jey and Nicki were kicked out of the hotel for their usual bullshit, Jimmy and Naomi almost broke up, Bayley landed a suspension for beating the shit out of Samantha in the girls bathroom. It was....a lot. But, what made it memorable for him was afterwards, was where instead of attending the after-party, she asked to go back to his place, and they became one with each for the first time.

The first time he ever told her he loved her.

Then there's another collage, of course, created by her, reflecting the week they spent together, just the two of them, in the Maldives to celebrate their high school graduation.

That...that will always be one of his fondest memories. For one week, it was just him and her, no pressure, no outside distractions. Just the two of them.

Happy.

Roman swallows, realizing revisiting only makes things worse. He opts to keep his focus on the cherrywood steps that lead him to the first floor and the backdoor that, similar to the doors in the bedroom, remain open and inviting.

That’s where he finds her, out on the patio, standing in front of the easel, paint brush in one hand, working efficiently and dutifully. The sleeveless, long white dress grants him a view of the inked “Roman” written across the back of her upper arm. And, even with her curls and coils down, the wind pushing her hair up and to the side teases the small R tattooed on the back of her neck.

The same way he has two tattoos for her located discreetly on his body, embedded and hidden within tribal ink. Etched on his soul.

A small smile on his face that grows with each step he takes towards her, only to deepen and his eyes to shut when he’s able to wrap his arms around her.

She smiles, lowering the paint brush, looking over her shoulder. “Can I help you?”

He says nothing, kissing the side of her neck. She giggles, and it’s the best thing one could ever hear. He looks over at the unfinished piece, not enough completed for him to make a guess at what she has in mind, hence him asking, “what is it?”

Her smile shifts into a smirk, her voice teasing, “guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Groaning, she giggles once more, placing the brush and palette down as she turns around and beams up at him. “How was your day today?”

“Long.” Too long. They’re always too long.

She presses her lips together, fingers dancing up his chest. “That great?”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he dismisses. Unsurprising, or it shouldn’t be. Roman lifts his hand to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing over that single letter, his expression softening. “I just wanna enjoy you.”

The wind brushing against them makes her curls flap around wildly just as the smile on her stunning face grows. She moves to take his hand in hers, leading them back into the house. Roman says nothing, hand firm in hers as she guides them upstairs and into the bedroom.

His eyes never leave hers, like he’s scared that doing so will make her go away, make her leave.

He had that happen once before.

Never again.

She lays down on her side, prompting him to do the same, captivated by her eyes, a warm rich brown, just a few shades deeper than her complexion, glowing and illuminated from the sun of the open windows adjacent to their bed.

She smiles, deeply, dimples on full display. “So, you asked her.”

And, just like that, the softening expression of his shifts into something else. Hardened. Irritated. “I don’t want to talk about that, either.”

She says nothing, reaching and stroking his beard. “Not talking about it won’t make it suddenly go away or disappear….” She swallows, full lips dipping into a bit of a frown. “I like her.” Her gaze lifts to him. “And, so do you.”

It’s an easy, quick dismissal. “She’s a means to an end.”

A knowing smile. One he’s seen a million times over. “You were never able to lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he defends, reaching to push back some of her coils. “She means nothing to me. It’d be a business arrangement.”

Her frown deepens once more. “She’d be giving you a child, Roman.”

“Also, a business arrangement.” A staunch defense followed by a hushed, vulnerable admission, “it shouldn’t even be her.”

She swallows. “Roman…”

“It should be you.” His voice is thick and even, jaw clenched from building emotion. “It should be us.”

She just looks at him, stares at him, finally asking in the quietest voice, “how long are you going to keep blaming yourself, my heart?”

A powerful question for which, after all these years, he still has no answer for.

He’s not sure he ever will.

Roman shoots up in bed, chest heaving, the lightest sheen of sweat across his forehead. The bedroom bathed in light colors, the sunlight from the beautiful day, and the wrinkled space beside him no longer present.

She’s no longer beside him.

It’s none of that. None of her.

Just him.

Alone.

He swallows, jaw clenched as he tries to settle himself. All these years later, and he still struggles with this portion. The coming to. The most painful reminder he could ever have/experience. The return to reality. A reality he’d give anything to not be his reality.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the view of his phone lit up on the nightstand. A phone he hasn’t touched since getting in bed, thus there being no activation on his end to cause it to light up.

That means he has a new notification.

Blowing out a deep breath, he runs his hand through his partially dry hair, grabbing the iPhone.

And, for the first time in days, a message from the name that hasn’t appeared since their last conversation.

Solana.

It’s not missed upon him how he takes a second before unlocking the phone and navigating to the messages app, her thread at the very top, reading an unambiguous response.

Solana: I’ll do it.

--------

authors note: and, here we are, folks. if you've been around here long enough, you know i don't typically ask questions of ya'll at the end of the chapters, but this particular au is, i think, pretty different from the others. or, maybe i'm just delusional.

because, in case you missed it, the 'she' roman was dreaming about is not solana. thus, i'm curious. lmao. specifically, what do ya'll make of roman and solana's whole....fwb, of sorts, arrangement? seems like they both view it the same but also...maybe not.

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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bxeckersz · 24 days ago

Text

TWENTIES | wnba!Paige Bueckers x OC black fem reader

summary: Neveah and Paige have a brutal break up over paige cheating. Paige is thriving in life while neveah is not doing so well.

warnings: Angst, flashbacks, language, mentions of oral, cheating

A/N: hey guys! Givēon is so incredibly underrated likeee i swear. but anyway enjoy this! ignore any spelling errors😓.

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know I’d be wasting my time spending my twenties on you” - 0:51

“spend my time wondering why I spent my twenties on you” - 1:10

“I was so young and dumb. Six years gone down the drain” - 1:51

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Paige was my first love. Matter fact, she was my first everything. First relationship. First kiss. Took my virginity. First date. And so on.

We were together for six years. Six long, excruciating years. I was there for her through everything. First brand deal. Injuries.

And she threw that all away for some head.

I’ll never forget that day.

Paige butt dialed me. I was supposed to be going to the store after work to get things for our date night.

When my phone flashed of the “P💜👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩” I instantly answered only to be met with moans.

“Hey, baby” I said into the phone, already in my car and heading to the store. No response. “P?”

“Fuck- yeah that’s good. right there” I heard. I prayed I was crazy. Maybe she was just watching a movie. But no- that was her voice.

“Paige.” My voice cracked. No response. Only a groan that was so clearly Paige’s. And slurping. God awful, sinful slurping.

My heart dropped to my ass. I kept the phone call on and raced to our apartment.

Once I got there, all hell broke loose. I unlocked the door, sprinting to the bedroom. “Paige i’m gonna fuck you up!” I screamed, opening the door with all my might.

It was a brunette. I’d recognized her. A cheerleader. “The fuck” I murmured before lunging at the two. “veah- what the fuck!” Paige screamed, throwing a cover at the ditzy girl to cover up with.

“Are you fucking deadass! You got some other girl in our bed?” I screamed, walking up to Paige and pushing her back. “I fucking hate you” I spat out, slapping the blondes face.

“Bitch, get out!” I screamed at the girl who was standing there like a deer in headlights.

That was the last time I talked to Paige. That nights I packed all my shit. I’d been staying at a friend’s house until I got my own apartment which was a few weeks ago.

I stayed through everything. Through all the rumors of Paige cheating. Through all the late nights. Through all the arguments.

I was so fucking young and dumb.

When our breakup hut headlines, it was brutal. All of her little fan girls came at me like I was the problem. And granted, they will never know the hell Paige put me through when we broke up. I’m not gonna do that to her.

TikToks about me were posted and didn’t stop no matter how much Paige addressed the videos and told them to.

It was painful. and it still is

They accused me of cheating on her. Some even made up rumors of me sleeping around. If only they knew they had the wrong person.

Paige plays for the Dallas Wings now. And I can’t lie, she’s been thriving. Like she didn’t ruin me months ago.

But it’s all good. I needed out anyway.

While Paige was out in Dallas having one hell of a rookie season and fucking any girl who threw themselves at her, I was in Connecticut barely holding on.

Some nights I’d find myself looking at old photos of us. Reading our old texts. And I’d catch my finger hovering over the ‘call’ button.

As much as I wanted to erase her from my life, she was always gonna be there. When you’re with a person for so long, they never really leave.

Single strands of blonde hair. Clothes I never returned. I always got a whiff of her scent everywhere I turned. Things that she bought me.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully let her go. And I criticize myself for it everyday.

Sometimes I go to sleep cuddling a pillow wishing it would be Paige instead. Sometimes I wouldn’t sleep at all with the girl racing my mind.

She had condos in my head. And I wonder if I ever crossed her mind like she did mine.

I wonder if it eats her alive. I wonder if she regrets it. I wonder if we would’ve lasted. Probably not.

My friends would try to set me up with people. “You just need a good fuck” They would tell me. But I didn’t want it if it wasn’t her.

I hoped that maybe, in another universe, we’ll get a do over. And everything’ll be perfect. Just like we planned that one night when we were juniors.

“We’re gonna get married. I’ma make you my wife.” Paige murmured to me, fingers tangled in my hair as I laid on her chest.

“I’d love that. We’re gonna have 2 Kids. A boy and a girl.” I replied back, lifting my head to look at her. “And we’re obviously gonna be sports parents” she would go on to say.

“We’re gonna buy a huge apartment or condo where I’m playing in the WNBA. Not a house though, because I might get traded. But we’ll buy a house when I retire”

“And I’m gonna decorate because you’ll just make it look like a man cave and a frat party combined” I giggled.

We’d spend time like that. Fantasizing about the future. About a life with no stress. No regrets. Just us. And our two kids.

I miss her so fucking much. I’ll never stop missing her.

I’m scrolling religiously on instagram, tucked away in my bed with a bag of chips next to me.

And that’s when I see it. An instagram post from Paige.

“Happy birthday to my favorite girl, my rock, my forever, my ride or die, my partner in crime. It’s always gonna be you. Thank you for sticking with me when things got rough. You make it all possible. You’re my ‘why’! I love you so much, babe. Cheers to 24💜🥂🥳. @jasmine.lee”

The caption reads. A hard launch. Theres 8 pictures. the first one is the girl, jasmine, sitting on Paige’s lap with paige’s arms wrapped around her waist, clearly taken by arike.

The second one is a picture of Jasmine asleep on Paige’s chest.

The third one is a picture of them in the mirror, paige’s arm thrown lazily around the girls waist, her toothbrush in her mouth.

The fourth one is a picture of the girl off guard curling her hair.

The fifth one is a picture of the pair kissing after a game.

The sixth one is a picture of Jasmine cuddled into paige with a movie playing on the tv in the back ground.

The seventh one is a picture of the two holding hands while walking, another clearly taken by arike.

And the eighth and final one is a picture of them hugging, Paiges lips on Jasmine’s. Her hands wrapped tightly around her waist, Jasmine’s around her neck.

My heart aches as I look at the song. It was our song. Best I Ever Had by Drake. That was our fucking song. We would drive around Connecticut listening to it. She would tell me she always thought of me while hearing it.

I scoff as I look through the comments.

arike_ogunbowale: my favorites! Happy birthday jas!

nalyssasmith: 🥹🥹 Happy birthday jasmine!

dijonai: my cuties🥹💜. I love you guys, happy birthday sista girl @jasmine.lee

jasmine.lee: I love you baby❤️‍🔥

jasmine.lee: thank you so much. my favorite girl ever💜

I feel like throwing up as I exit the comment section and the app completely.

She moved on. And I was still here like a bump on a log, hoping for her to come back.

Fuck her.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

haven’t wrote in a minute god damn

enjoyyy!!

#basketball #wlw #uconn wbb #paige bueckers #wlw post #spotify #paige bueckers fic #paige x reader #paige bueckers x reader #dallas wings #wnba x reader #wnba basketball

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pizzaapeteer · 9 months ago

Note

I’ve really been thinking about toxic!boyfriend mattheo. I’ve seen like 100 Theo headcannons of it but not my king matty 😔

AH yes anon I completely agree, let me be his addiction - his obsession - his fucking drug, where we ruin each other.

An: I’m very fortunate to have like zilch interaction with a toxic boy so praying this hits right bb 💛 also thank you to @finalgirllx for this sexy edit of matty! tw: talks of some verbal or emotional abuse, he's still a dick basically. @suugarbabe @fuckaperioddrama much love for your help 💛

Toxic!BfMattheo; who secretly gets a thrill from arguing, turns him on in a way he never knew could. Literally fuels his dominance, makes him feel powerful when he raises his voice or throws in a swear word. ‘The fuck!, You’re fucking delusional, I never said that’, 'Are you gonna stop spitting out bullshit or do I need to fill your mouth with something else?" Taking his anger out on you in the best way he knows how. Toxic!BfMattheo; who hides his insecurity of losing you in his jealousy, and will never admit to it gaslighting the hell out of you. But it's done in a subtle way that has you believing him pretty quickly. He’ll make sure to kiss your forehead and temple while he tells you, you’re wrong.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who has the stupidest double standards ever. Will snap and lecture you about talking to other men (he doesn’t believe it's ever innocent). But who will always brush it off as not meaning anything and how you have nothing to worry about when he does the same with girls.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who gets extra vulnerable when he’s drunk. Love bombs HARD, how he can't live without you, how he won't take you for granted. Opens up a lot about his father and shares a side he still only trusts with you.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who hardly ever apologises for anything with words. He won't let himself admit when he’s wrong so he’ll just buy you flowers, or he’s coercing you with sex in a way that has you somehow begging him that you forgive him. Promising him you love him and will never leave, that you are his.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who's controlling but plays it off as just being protective and looking out for you. 'You really want rumours starting that you're a whore, didn't think so - go change.' ‘I’m just looking out for you baby.’ But is secretly glad you listen and only he gets to see your body that way.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who gets irritated when you get busy with studies because he’s needy, but also doesn’t want to show it and pretends to be nonchalant that he doesn’t care. But he’ll avoid you for like almost a week to balance it out in showing that he also too doesn’t need you.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who gaslights and belittles you for acting upset and getting emotional when you express your feelings about his absence. He’s quick to call you ‘so fucking sensitive’, ‘dramatic’, ‘crybaby’ that is not a big deal and he just needs space.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who won’t shy away from bragging about how he has you eating out of the palm of his hand. Making sure to leave specific details out about your body, after all you’re ‘his’ and he doesn’t need his friends knowing all the visuals. But he’ll make it clear how good he fucks you to make them jealous. ‘Where’s your girlfriend?’, ‘Recovering from last night’.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who wouldn’t stand up for you if his friends are being sexist. If they look at you or flirt with you he’d punch them but if they made some joke at a woman’s expense he’d laugh it off.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who will hold a grudge if you make a mistake, but goes ballistic if you bring up his own shit in retrospect. Using excuses such as, ‘I’m just really stressed’, ‘I’ve just been going through it can’t you just be there for me,’ ‘you know the pressure my father puts on me.’

Toxic!BfMattheo; who does love you, he’s completely obsessed. But he’s so deeply rooted in his toxic behaviour that he won't change. Or at least he doesn’t see it as a big deal, something you should get used to if you love him. That if you truly loved him you’d accept him for who he is. He won't hesitate to emotionally manipulate you to stay if you dare.

Toxic!BfMattheo; who you loved deeply, craved and were so attached to. Injected into your veins, and who you knew loved you at the end of the day. That he had picked you out of everyone. No matter what he did, or how he treated you, you knew you’d always be by his side and loving him.

Masterlist Thank you for reading any and all interaction is appreciated 🤍

#mattheo riddle #toxic mattheo #toxic boyfriend mattheo #I can fix himmmmm #divider by saradika #pastel floral divider #slytherin boys #pizzas requests

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javierpena-inatacvest · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 2- Awakening

Summary: There was once a time in his life where knocking on your front door was the best part of Frankie's day. Now, the thought of having to ring your doorbell to face you makes him sick to his stomach.

Word Count: 4.1K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n, reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: (the tiniest hint of) smut (18+), illusions to masturbation (m), angst/regret, fluff, awkward adolescent yearning (I have quickly come to learn this is my favorite thing to write whoops), Frankie realizing he's caught a case of the ✨feelings ✨ and doesn't know what to do

A/N: Less than 10K word chapters?!? Posting a series on a schedule?!?! I don't even know who I am anymore?!?! AH, thank you guys for all your sweet words about this series so far. Writing this has sparked such a joy inside me, and it means so much that y'all are willing to read my silly lil story 🥺💛 This chapter is from Frankie's POV- I know the first chapter had both reader and Frankie, but as I've been writing, it seems like it fits the story better if some are both POV's and some are just one!

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Frankie, Present

“Bring these next door.”

His mother doesn’t even ponder the idea of phrasing it as a question when she practically drops the plate of chocolate chip cookies into Frankie’s lap.

“Ma, it’s 7:30 in the morning.” Frankie looks up at her dumbfounded.

“And? You’ve never eaten a cookie for breakfast when you’re sad? Go now, they’re still warm.”

There’s no way he’ll be able to head anywhere but straight out his front door, but Christ, he at least hoped he would have been able to buy himself a little time before having to face you.

“I just got back from a run. I smell like shit. Can I at least shower first, por favor?”

“Fine,” she groans, reluctant to give in so easily, “but be quick. Don’t think I won’t turn the hot water off, mijo. I don’t want these getting cold.”

She knows her son would take an hour long shower if he could. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’s spent way too long in the bathroom, over analyzing every inch of himself before going to see you. His mom isn’t sure if she should thank you or not for her son’s dedication to hygiene. She could barely get him to shower for the first 10 years of his life, but after you moved in, a few days before the start of 6th grade, bathing had magically no longer become an issue.

Frankie understands her threat of an ice cold shower is very real, and a very effective way to finally get him four doors down. He lets the hot water wash over his skin, turning it to a temperature that’s almost too painful to stand. He hopes that somehow, it’s hot enough to wash away all the sins he’s prayed you’d forgive him for, that the regret of every poor decision he’s been plagued by washes down the drain, disappearing never to be seen again.

He wishes it was that easy. That a simple shower would grant him the forgiveness he’s not sure you’ll ever give him. He wouldn’t blame you if you never did.

He forces himself to put on the first pair of shorts and t-shirt that he pulls out of his suitcase. If he doesn’t, he’ll be stuck in his room for the rest of the day trying to figure out what to wear to bring a plate of cookies to your doorstep.

“You should apologize, you know.” It’s the first thing his mom has to say to him as he makes his way down the stairs, barely three steps into the kitchen before she’s at his throat again.

“For bringing them dessert at 7:30 in the morning? I was planning on it.” Frankie huffs, trying to deflect the plan for the real apology he knows he should be making.

“Dios mio, Francisco, you know what I mean. I hope you’ve thought about how you’re going to explain yourself to her. You owe that girl an apology for the hell you’ve put her through.”

Frankie can’t blame his mother for the way she’s twisting the knife that’s stuck in his gut. He’s the one who put it there in the first place.

“I know. I’ve thought about it, believe me.”

They both know that’s the truth. Frankie’s spent more hours than he can count thinking about what possible combination of words he can string together that won’t make you hate him anymore than you already do. In fact, he’s spent so long thinking about it, replaying the million and one things he could say to you over and over in his head, that he’s convinced there’s nothing he could tell you that would buy him even a shred of forgiveness.

“Fuck you, Mackenzie. Fuck you for ruining my life. It’ll be better off without you fucking in it.”

Three years ago, he disappeared out of your life and those were the last words he left you with. He's spent three years of letting the last thing he had to say you haunt him like some sort of ugly ghost he can't forget.

At this point, there's a part of him that's not even sure he's worthy of forgiveness.

“Mom?” Frankie asks, eyes peeled to the ground, trying to keep his voice from breaking, “Am I making a huge fucking mistake coming back here?”

“Well mijo,” She pauses, gently cradling her son’s face, lifting his chin enough to let his tired, worn eyes meet hers, “That, I cannot tell you. Some things you have to figure out on your own. I think this is one of them. But what I can tell you,” she stops again, ensuring Frankie is listening, really listening to what she has to say, “is that you have never been one to leave things unfinished. I think there are still things left to finish here for you, Francisco.”

The slow nod of his head in her palm tells her he’s heard every word. He knows he needs to finish what he’s started.

“You also need to finish bringing these cookies to the Andersons, sí? Don’t think I forgot.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Frankie’s not sure the walk to your house has ever felt this long. Every step against the pavement makes his feet feel heavier, weighing his body down, its final attempt at keeping him from showing up at your front door. It takes every ounce of strength he has left to get him there, but he does. He won’t himself fail you again. He can’t.

When he knocks on your door, he’s suddenly 11 years old, palms sweating and heart racing as he rings your doorbell for the first time, hoping the cool girl who moved in down the street still wants to play football with him.

Right now, he’d give anything to be that 11 year old boy again. God, what he’d give to grab little him by the shoulders and shake all of the stupid decisions he plans on making in the years to come right out of him. He’d give anything for someone to come shake the stupid out of him now.

Seconds pass like hours as he waits for someone to answer his knock. Maybe it won’t be you who does. Maybe he’ll get lucky and it'll be your mom. Maybe your dad, who is sitting on his literal deathbed, will be blessed with some divine miracle that grants him the strength to get up and answer the door instead of you.

“Be right there!”

He’d recognize your voice anywhere. It’s been three years since he’s heard it. Even with all the time that’s passed, there’s not a doubt in his mind he knows it’s yours.

Fuck, he’s missed the sound of you more than he’d ever like to admit.

He braces himself as the lock clicks on the other side of the door. The knot in his stomach tightens as he watches it open.

His heart wants to burst out of his chest when you finally appear on the other side.

“F-Frankie?”

“Hi, Mackenzie.”

Frankie, Fall of 2002, Age 14

It’s been 3 years, and Frankie still rings your doorbell every time he’s at your front door. Both you and your parents have been more than adamant he’s welcome to let himself in, at this point, they leave the door unlocked just for him.

As much as he wants to just slip through the front door unannounced to see you, he knows his mom would kill him if he didn’t wait to be let in and make his presence known.

“Francisco, I do not care how often you are over there, you are a guest in their home. If they are gracious enough to let you over, the least you can do is use your manners and greet them at the door.”

Frankie’s always been polite, but the world would stop spinning before his mother would let anyone else even have an inkling of thinking otherwise.

Truth be told, he doesn’t mind. He’d be hard pressed to find any 14 year old who didn’t have some sort of complaint about their parents, but you never really do, and he can see why.

They’re your parents, and he loves his mamá more than life, but the Anderson’s had taken Frankie under their wing from the moment he had crossed the threshold from their patio to their living room and never looked back.

It didn’t take long for the three toned chime of your doorbell to become the favorite part of his daily routine.

“Hi Frankie! Come on in, honey.”

Mrs. Anderson has that soft kind of sweetness that would make anyone’s day brighter, the kind of gentleness that a gardener has when tending to a field of their favorite flowers. She’s the type of person that would put anyone before herself, to a fault. It’s no wonder that given the circumstances, a house that should be shrouded in sadness is one of the places that Frankie feels the happiest.

“Thanks Mrs. Anderson. Can I put this in the freezer for Kenz? I figured she may want it when she gets home later.” Frankie gestures down to the chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzard he’s holding, trying to keep it from melting any further.

It’s become a sacred ritual that every Friday night, you and him ride your bikes to the Dairy Queen two miles down the road. He always gets an Oreo Blizzard, you, a chocolate chip cookie dough one. On the few Friday nights you can’t spend together, it’s an unspoken agreement that a Blizzard will still end up in the other’s freezer for the next day. It’s only happened once that a cookie dough Blizzard hasn’t been found in your residence within 24 hours of the start to your weekend- the one time Frankie was out of town to visit his family, you were pleasantly surprised to find not one, but two Blizzards in your freezer on Monday night upon his return.

“Frank the Tank! How’s it going, buddy?”

It’s always nice to see your dad up and around the house. His cancer has taken a lot of things from him, but his personality certainly isn’t one of them. Some bouts of chemo and treatment are worse than others, but it never ceases to keep Mr. Anderson from being the happiest man Frankie’s ever met. You always tease Frankie that he comes over to your house so often just so he can spend time with your dad. While of course it’s not 100% true that Doug Anderson is the only reason Frankie finds himself at your doorstep nearly every day, he also won’t deny the sense of comfort it brings him that your dad treats him like his own son.

“Hi Mr. Anderson!” Frankie smiles, shoving your Blizzard in the top left corner of your freezer between the ice packs and frozen vegetables.

“Another Blizzard for me? Always so generous, Frank. I’m convinced you might start running a Dairy Queen out of our kitchen pretty soon.” Mr. Anderson teases, giving Frankie a light punch to the shoulder. “How’d your algebra test go the other day, bud?”

“Pretty good, I think.” Frankie shrugs, trying to play off his confidence.

“Think you got a higher score than Kenzie?”

“I think so. But don’t tell her that.”

“Oh believe me, I will. Smart kid like you has gotta put her in her place every once and a while.”

Frankie blushes. School has never been his strong suit. He’s smart in the way he could fix just about anything from the time he could barely walk, but sitting in a classroom trying to absorb information through reading, taking notes and test taking has always made him feel like an idiot. You, on the other hand, could graduate in your sleep with straight A’s. He’s not sure how you do it, but it’s enough motivation to make him want to at least try. He thanks his lucky stars that this year, math is finally starting to make sense, and he’s got the upper hand on you for now.

“Is Kenz upstairs? I know she’s got her soccer banquet tonight, I just wanted to hang out for a little before she has to go.”

Normally he wouldn’t mind staying longer to talk to your dad, but on days he knows he’s working on a limited time table, efficiency is of the essence.

“Should be. If not, we have a problem on our hands.”

Frankie scurries from the kitchen and through the living room, up the familiar and well traveled path to your bedroom door. His heart always races a little faster every time he reaches the top step to the second floor.

Normally, it’s three long strides to cross the threshold into your bedroom before he plops himself on the edge of your bed, but as he takes a left turn at the top of the stairwell, he’s surprised to find your bedroom door is closed, and locked.

“Kenz! It’s me! Open up!” Frankie raps his fist on the back of your door, knuckles thumping against the wood.

“Not now, Frankie!”

He’s taken aback by your protest, scrunching his brow at your response and the distress in your voice through the other end of the door.

“What? Why? What’s wrong?” He asks, now a little more concerned.

“It’s just- Ugh! It’s nothing! It’s stupid, okay! I just don’t have time for this right now!”

You and him both know that’s not enough to get him to leave. Frankie is persistent. He’s not going anywhere until you open that door and he gets an answer as to what’s making you so upset.

“C’mon, MacKenzie.”

He only pulls the full name card for serious occasions, because he knows it’ll work. It’ll work every time. That’s why he can’t help but smirk at the click of your door handle unlocking, giving him permission to step inside.

Except he can’t.

“Kenz, get off the door and let me in!”

“I’m not on the door! Ugh, hold on.”

With the force Frankie was using, he nearly falls flat on his face as the barricade you’d built on your side of the door is removed, stumbling into your room and landing face first in a pile of clothes. As he looks up, he’s greeted with a sight he’s never once seen before in your room, and he has no idea what to make of it.

“Jesus Christ, dude, what happened in here?!”

To say a bomb had exploded in your closet would have been a polite way to put it. Every piece of clothing you owned was now a casualty on your bedroom floor, down to every last pair of shoes. You could barely stand to have a singular, stray sock on the ground, your bedroom always the near picture perfect scene of immaculately neat. So to see the disaster your room had become, Frankie knew that something had gone very, very wrong.

“I don’t have anything to wear for tonight!”

“Yeah you do, have you seen all the clothes on your floor? I think you have enough clothes for a small village.”

“Francisco!”

If she’s already pulling the full name card on him too, it must be serious.

“Sorry! Is this because of the end of the season soccer party tonight? I thought you said you were just gonna wear like, a skirt or something?”

Frankie’s never even contemplated the idea of you being upset over an outfit. You’d always been amicable in the wardrobe department- t-shirt, shorts, sneakers, same has him. This is uncharted territory for the both of you.

“Yeah, but then at lunch today Katie and Morgan said all of the Seniors want to dress up, like, really nice, and now I’m freaking out because I don’t know what to wear and I don’t wanna look like an idiot Freshman who shows up in something dumb.”

Frankie knows you’re stressed from how intensely you’re picking at the skin around your nails, leg bouncing furiously while your eyes dart around the room at the heaps of clothes stacked around the floor.

“You’re not gonna look dumb, Kenzie. You’re the only Freshman that’s made the Varsity soccer team in like, a million years. Hard to look stupid if you’re that good.”

It may not be much help, but it’s at least enough to bring you off the brink of tears.

“I guess,” you pause, too stubborn to admit that he’s right, “It’s just- all the other girls on the team are so pretty. When we’re playing it doesn’t matter ‘cause we’re all sweaty and gross, but- I don’t know, I feel like I’m gonna look so awkward next to everyone.”

But you are pretty.

It’s the first thought that pops into Frankie’s brain. He’s not sure how it got there so fast. All of a sudden he feels a hundred degrees hotter, hoping you won’t notice the way he visibly tries to shake the thought out of his head..

Where did that come from? She’s your friend, Frankie. Your best friend. She’s not pretty, she’s just MacKenzie.

“You won’t look awkward, you’re gonna be fine. I promise.” He’s relieved his response doesn’t seem to raise any suspicions, like you would have been able to read his mind and watch his thinking play out in real time.

“If I um- If I- Never mind, this is stupid! Ugh, this is stupid.”

You’re pacing now, arms crossed so tightly over your chest, he’s worried you’re going to squeeze your own eyes out like one of those little squishy toys you win from a claw machine. That’s if you don’t burn a hole in your carpet first.

“What?”

“If I-” You stammer again, scrunching your face at your own frustration, “If I try on what I think I should wear, will you tell me if it looks dumb or not?”

You’ve asked Frankie plenty for plenty of favors in the three years you’ve known him- being the one to lead the two of you home on a bike ride in the dark, opening your pudding for you at lunch because it exploded on you once and you’re terrified it will again, catching the giant spider that makes a recurrence in the top right corner of your bedroom and throwing it out the window- He’s not sure why out of all those things, this is the most terrifying favor you’d ever asked of him.

“Y-yeah. Okay.”

The two of you quietly nod at each other for a moment, Frankie hoping that he’s not the only one who’s wondering why the air has all of a sudden seemed to have gotten thicker.

“Okay. Well, um- turn around.” You point for him to take his usual spot on the edge of the bed, ensuring that his back’s to you and eyes only have the choice to roam the floor or the wall above your desk before he hears the shuffling of clothes behind him.

It’s then that everything starts to move in slow motion, like a flip has suddenly switched in Frankie’s brain as a wave of unsolicited thoughts begin to flood his head, feeling himself drown in the panic and confusion that’s washing over him.

What if he did turn around? You’re probably taking off your clothes right now. Are you in just your underwear? What color is it? Maybe you’re all the way naked. What would you look like? Why does he all of a sudden want to know so bad? What’s wrong with him?

In his manic state, his eyes are darting everywhere, trying to find something to lock onto that will shake him from whatever obscene cycle of thought he’s caught himself in. He instantly regrets when he lets his gaze fall to his feet, because peeking out of the pile of clothes beneath him is the better part of a bra.

Your bra.

He feels so awful that he can’t stop looking at it. So guilty that he can’t help the fact he’s trying to commit every detail of it to his brain- the teal and green polka dots, the thin lace that covers the shoulder strap, the little bow that sits in between the two cups where your breasts would go. He can’t stop staring. He can’t stop thinking about what you would look like in it. The only thing that stops him is hearing your voice from over his shoulder. And somehow, your voice only makes his chest feel tighter.

“You promise you won’t make fun of me if I look stupid?” Your words are so soft, delicate and fragile in a way he’s never heard you use them before. However scared you are, right now, Frankie would be willing to take that feeling and triple it for himself.

“Promise.”

His eyes are still closed when he swings his legs over the other edge of the bed. He’s too afraid to open them.

“You’re gonna have to open your eyes, unless you’ve suddenly obtained x-ray vision that you haven’t told me about in the last thirty seconds.”

The way you tease him grounds him enough to give in. It doesn’t ground him enough from leaving him speechless the moment he opens his eyes.

“Kenz… You uh, you- um-”

He’s stumbling over his words, trying to find them fast enough to stop the disappointment that’s flooding over your face because you think he hates the way you look. That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“I look dumb, don’t I? It’s fine, Frankie, you can just say it.” You’re back to pacing again, storming around your room with a desperate, crazed look in your eye. “Ugh! This sucks! Why is this so hard, I just wanna-”

“You look really pretty.”

It stops you dead in your tracks. He can almost hear how hard you gulp, looking back at him like a deer in headlights.

“W-what?”

You ask it like you didn’t hear exactly what he said. He knows you did. You always do. It doesn’t stop him from trying to twist his words to help him out of the hole he’s already dug himself into.

“Your- Your dress. It looks really nice. You should wear it.”

He’s not sure how much time passes as the two of you finally lock eyes. Thirty seconds? Ten minutes? An hour? The way you’re looking at him right now is enough to make his world stop turning. It only makes it worse that he swears he can see your lips trying to fight the smile that’s slowly curling in the corner of your mouth.

“MacKenzie! We need to go, sweetie! Dad and I will meet you in the car!”

Frankie doesn’t know if it’s divine intervention or a devilish curse that your mom is calling for you from the bottom of the stairs. Whatever it is, it’s enough to snap both of you out of the strange spell that had overcome your bedroom and make Frankie feel like the only appropriate response was to race out of your house and hide in embarrassment for the next forty-eight hours.

“I should um- I should go, too. Santi’s probably waiting for me at his house. Have fun tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, o-okay. You have fun, too. Tell Ding Dong I say hi. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Frankie’s in a trance the rest of the night. Physically, he spends the next few hours in Santi’s basement, glued to the couch while his friend yells at him that he’s not using the right combination of moves to max out his points in Tony Hawk Pro Skater 3. Mentally, he’s convinced he no longer exists on the same planet as anyone else around him.

When he gets home, all he can do is stare at his ceiling. If he closes his eyes to try to fall asleep, the only thing he can see is that teal and green bra laying on your bedroom floor.

He wishes the thought of you in it didn’t make his stomach churn. He wishes it wasn’t you he was picturing when he lets his hand creep below the waistband of his sweatpants. He wishes it wasn’t your name he was muttering under his breath as he makes a mess in hand, hips stuttering into his grasp.

He wishes it wasn’t you.

At least that’s what he tells himself. Maybe one day, it’ll work.

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

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@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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fallstaticexit · 8 months ago

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The Art of Being Seen - a Nancy Landgraab story

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔴𝔬- 𝔘𝔫𝔦

Prev / Next / Beginning / Pillowfort

Part II - Uni -After a traumatic outing that tears her away from her first love, 19-year-old Nancy Landgraab turns to her faith and her relationship with Geoffrey as a way to cope with her longing for Vanessa. Just as she starts to put up her walls, she meets five women, each teaching her valuable lessons about herself and about life.

Transcript under the cut

Transcript:

Nancy: Heavenly Father, help me to find peace in Your love and wisdom.

Nancy: Grant me the courage to resist temptation and to stay true to my faith. Help me understand Your will for my life and to trust in your plan. Help me...

Nancy Narrates: [For two years, I prayed until my voice grew weak]

Nancy Narrates: [Until my knees bruised from kneeling]

Nancy Narrates: [Until I forgot the color of her eyes]

Nancy: Ok, we can go now.

Geoffrey: How do you feel?

Nancy: Like I’m going to throw up. I hate crowds.

Geoffrey: You’re going to do great, Nancy.

Nancy: Are you a bettin’ man?

Geoffrey: I am now.

Nancy Narrates: [The tenderness I’ve developed for Geoffrey over the years surprised me]

Nancy Narrates: [When he returned from holiday break, I was suffering from a heartbreak I thought would kill me. All he could do was hold me as I mourned]

Nancy Narrates: [In the end, he was all that I had]

Nancy Narrates: [Loving him was the least I could do]

Becca: Hello! Have you accepted Jesus Christ into your heart? No? Think about joining our bible study group! There’s free pizza every Thursday!

Darling: I don’t know shit about this club if I’m being real with you. Coach is making me do it. Something about building your resume, don’t ask me. You joining or what?

Siobhan: A Landgraab on campus? Now that’s a treat.

Becca: [squeals] I know you! I can’t believe it’s really you!

Nancy: I’m sorry? Do I know you?

Becca: I’m Becca! Becca Clarke? I won the Landgraab Foundation Scholarship! You’re the reason I’m even here!! I am freaking out right now! My Nana will not believe this!! [gasps] Would you be interested in joining my bible study group? Of course you would! Is this your boyfriend? Sooo handsome!

Becca: Can I just say, that the Foundation is a true blessing from God. The opportunities you give to people like me is- [sniffles] sorry, I’m getting emotional.

[muffled voices]

Nancy: I- I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I thought you were-

Morgan: It’s cool, I get mistaken for all the other freaky witchy chicks that go here. [smirks] That’s a joke, by the way. I’m the only one. I’m Morgan Fyres. Interested in tarot card reading?

Nancy: Fyres? Is your father the owner of the hotel chains? Dominic Fyres?

Morgan: STEP father, actually.

Siobhan: If you’re looking for real Fyres royalty, then look no further. Siobhan. No need to introduce yourself; I know exactly who you are, Nancy Landgraab.

Morgan: [grumbles] Annnnd cue the cameras.

Siobhan: I’m the president of Theta Omega Pi, the same sorority Queenie Landgraab pledged to. She proudly hangs in our hall of fame, so it would be a privilege to welcome a true legacy into our sisterhood.

Becca: Hey! I found her first!

Morgan: How about you two back off? You’re bringing bad vibes to my stand.

Siobhan: Relax, creature of the night. I was going to discuss Nancy’s future with Theta.

Morgan: Maybe she wants to start tarot reading? This isn’t some business opp, fake Barbie wannabe.

Becca: T-t-tarot!? The devil’s board game!? The Landgraabs are Christians! She wants nothing to do with that, right, Nancy?

Siobhan: [sighs] Find your own Landgraab, Virgin Mary. Grown-ups are talking.

[distant bickering]

Darling: The fuck is a Landgraab?

#The Art of Being Seen #the landgraabs #sims 4 #sims 4 stories #ts4 simblr #sims 4 simblr #siobhan fyres #morgan fyres #darling walsh #becca clarke #side note- I don't think it was stated that Siobhan and Morgan are step sisters but I felt it made sense that they were

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drewsbraziliangf · 6 months ago

Text

there'll be happiness after you | Drew Starkey x black!reader

summary: what can you do when you're back in the same place where you had your heart broken for the last time? Is there any way to move past all the hurt and longing?

a/n: ok so I'm sorry for the long wait for this... This will be the last part of this story :'( I want to thank you guys for the love shown in this because this is my first time writing for anything other than House of the Dragon in a loooong time. I hugely suggest listening to "No Goodbyes" by Dua Lipa, "Funeral" by Zara Larsson or "happiness" by Taylor Swift during this read. I hope y'all enjoy it!

dividers: @/saradika

warnings: some cuss words, angst.

The morning after a was never my favorite. Always waking up with a pounding headache and lips as dry as a desert is not the best way to start a day. But there was something about today that made it all worse, for some reason, my brain decided to remember most of the events of the previous night─ touches, kisses, promises, apologies─ everything.

A part of me prayed that I'd forget about it and be able to sneak out without him noticing, but seemed like he was expecting that already and gotten up before I was even awake. The only thing that made it clear that he was indeed at home, was the soft sounds coming from the kitchen.

Okay... I know this apartment like the back of my mind, so since the kitchen door wasn't a direct line for the main door, maybe if I'm quiet enough I'd be able to leave without him noticing, right?

Dwelling on it would only make it worse, so I got up, picked up my clothes from the day before, and quickly got dressed again, this time feeling much more exposed than I did last night. I looked around for my phone, but it wasn't anywhere to be seen. Cursing myself, I remembered that I left it in the living room. Great, a detour.

Thankfully I didn't have to worry too much about how my hair looked as the braids did half the work in keeping it presentable. With a sigh, I walked out of the room with my heels in hand and kept quietly praying to the gods above to grant me this one wish. I just needed my phone and then I'm able to leave.

As I reached the main hall, I could see the bathroom door closed and the lights on. Great, this would be even easier. I quickly walked towards the living room looking for my phone, thankfully it was exactly where I remembered leaving it. It took me no time to grab the device and turn toward the door, only to have one of the biggest jump scares of my life.

"HOLY SHIT!" My left hand instinctively went to my chest as my heart rate increased.

Yeah, there goes my prayers. Drew was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a black tank top and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair was messy and there was still a small air of sleepiness around him. He cleared his throat as he stared at me.

"Yeah, I knew you'd try to do that," he said with a shrug.

"Well, this is exactly what I was trying to avoid," I snap back after I'm calmer.

I could feel my hands getting sweaty and the weight of his gaze upon me was making me feel so uncomfortable. Like there was this white elephant in the room getting bigger by the second.

"Uhm, I kinda have to go-"

"Come on, let's talk over breakfast."

Without giving me a chance to answer he walked back towards the kitchen and I had no choice but to follow him. With a bit of reluctance, I dragged my bare feet after him. The cold tiles on the floor were not even bothering me as they were five minutes ago.

The worst kind of deja vu bathed me as I stood by the counter. The last time I was here was the worst day of my life, so I wasn't feeling great watching him move so effortlessly.

He filled two glasses with black coffee and the toaster with white bread before picking up some jam and cottage cream cheese.

I sat on one of the benches and quietly accepted the plate he handed me once it was all done, he then proceeded to sit by my side and we began to eat in silence, more like me watching him eat as I sipped my coffee.

"So you were just going to sneak out?" He asked casually after a few minutes as he coated his toast with jam.

"What did you expect me to do? I shouldn't even come here in the first place," I bite back and he places his mug down.

"Well, I thought you would at least grant me the chance to talk. We have a lot to talk about."

"No, we don't. We fucked and that's it. It shouldn't have happened and it won't happen again. It can't happen again." I confess, with the instinct of avoiding to meet his eyes.

"What do you mean? We have to talk this through and fix what happened. I know that I fucked up but you just left. As if it all meant nothing to you. We were getting married, for fucks sake." He says, throwing his hands in the air in annoyance.

At that, I stand up and begin walking back toward the living room. I had to leave. This could escalate and both of us leave even more hurt than before.

"I'm not doing this again. I didn't just leave. You pushed me away. You didn't give me a reason to stay. That's what happened."

"I love you! How can you say that?"

"Yeah, you might. But do you like me?" The words leave my mouth before a second to think them over.

He watches me for a second before running a hand over his face. All the traces of sleep were gone from his features now.

"Because I did. And I was so in love with you too," I continue, as my eyes begin to sting. "I was so ready to have the rest of my life by your side. So, how could you do that to me? When did I stop being enough?"

The questions kept flowing out and I couldn't filter my feelings or my words. I just wanted this to end once and for all. My brain couldn't stop reminiscing on last night's events. His touches, his kisses, him.

But being sober now and knowing it all was killing me. How could I be such a fool? After I tried so hard to erase him from my mind...

"No, baby, please listen to me, okay? Just let me talk," he pleaded taking a step closer.

"No, Drew. There is nothing to talk about. I shouldn't have come here and this shouldn't even be happening."

My voice is slightly pitchier than I'd like but I couldn't help it.

"Do you have any idea of how hard it was for me?" I ask looking at his glossy eyes. "I don't get to travel all around the world and the country so I can simply put what happened aside. I had to deal with pitying looks for weeks. I had to walk around the city remembering a life we planned together but wouldn't have anymore. I have to keep on living knowing that that the man I loved didn't choose me when I really fucking needed him to."

At this point, I wasn't trying to keep track of my tears or my words. I just needed that out of my chest so I could be free. I was so tired of carrying these in my heart that even if it hurt, it was freeing.

"So it would be so fucking unfair to me if I just walked back into this," I say as I wipe my face with the back of my hand. "I can't do this to myself again. No matter how much a big part of me still cares about you. I deserve better. I have to choose myself because you clearly didn't."

He didn't say anything at that because there wasn't anything that could be said. Both of us knew that I was right.

Seeing him cry was like picking at an open wound, it made me feel even worse. But, what else could I do? I could feel this eating me up inside and I couldn't look past all the suffering I went through just because he showed up again.

"Loving someone isn't enough to keep a relationship going. You have a lot to do and you didn't, you really didn't. So I'm sorry if I can't just pretend to be okay with everything after a few hours spent together after a few months."

"You think you're the only one suffering in this? I lost you and I had to wake up in our bed every day. I had to be in this apartment knowing that the person who made it a home wasn't going to return. And that no matter what I did or who came by, it was never going to be the same."

His confession made my heart clench but he brought this upon himself. It wasn't me who gave up on it.

"And who's to blame for that?" I say looking into his eyes.

"I know. Don't you think I've blamed myself enough for that? Because I did, for all the days that you have not been here. This is the first time in seven months when I have felt a sense of normalcy and that's because you're here. Don't you see that?"

Now that the bandaid was ripped once again, the both of us were in tears standing in the middle of the living room. The walls felt like they were getting closer and closer each second that passed.

"Did you know that Frankie came by on the third month? She gave me the TED talk of my life."

That caught your attention, Frankie has never mentioned that. At all.

"She told me that she knew that I wasn't good enough for you from the start, but that she had never expected me to be a shitty partner too. That she had never seen someone disrespect their girlfriend as much as I did without even knowing and that now that I was single the reason for my breakup pushed me aside for someone more interesting. So that not only was I trash for how I treated you but I was also dumb for not seeing it."

His words come as a shock to you. With shaking hands and deep breaths, you look around the room trying to focus on something that isn't his red face.

"And she's not wrong, you know? And I was also a coward for never coming to you and watching your life on the sidelines."

At this point, I was feeling the huge urge to sob. My hands were sweaty, my tears were not even drying in my face as new ones came down.

"So I'm sorry, okay? I'm so fucking sorry for it. But please, don't say that I didn't care enough about you. Because I did."

His words keep ringing in my ear for a while as I try to place my thoughts correctly. Seven months ago I thought that it would be the last time I would see him and then I'd be able to heal and move on, but now seeing him and hearing everything was bringing a new wave of unaddressed feelings that I have not dealt with yet.

"I can't." A whisper comes out of my lips after a while. "And you have to understand why I can't do this again. I can't ignore everything."

He looks at me with his lips trembling as his tears keep on falling down his face. In the walls of this apartment now the only sound that rang was defeat. This was a lost cause and no matter what happened, both of us would be losing today.

"I'm sorry, Drew. I really am, but there's nothing that can be done anymore. " I declare as I finally feel like he might let me go. "I hope you find someone who's ready and brave enough to love you through it all, you deserve to be loved and the times that I felt genuinely loved by you were the greatest. That person just won't be me."

Like the first time, months ago, I turned towards the front door and walked out. Knowing that he would not follow me and that whatever had remained seven months and thirteen days ago, was completely over this time. Even if a huge part of me kept screaming at me to forgive him, I knew I couldn't. Not only it wouldn't be fair to me but I knew what would happen. Of course she wasn't as present in his life anymore, she completely isolated him from any potential significant other he could have. And if we got back together, the cycle would repeat itself and I would never put myself in a situation where I had to fight for someone's attention just to be tossed aside as if I was nothing.

In this story, there was ever only one winner and it wasn't either Drew or I.

💖taglist💖: @emmaafinchh @rafecamerons-national-anthem @bvleeeeeee @a-j-stuffs @maybankslover @lovelylove268 @cooper8224 @esquivelbianca @dreamybabbyy @lulubabii @idiotussupremus @drewsphswife @ietss @noneofyabuisnezs @chenslucy @yvbe99 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @theeternaloptimistt @roselibrary @daddydraco0 @iheartcats444 @allopathi

#drew starkey #rafe cameron x reader #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x black reader #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #rafe cameron #drew starkey smut #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #rafe cameron obx #drew starkey imagine #rafe ca #rafe cameron x female reader #obx

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snorlaxlovesme · 1 year ago

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alright everybody, it's time we talked about Hostage. (buckle up because this is going to be long, but it'll be worth it)

season 2 episode 8 of Link Click was one of the most confounding episodes in the entire season while airing. starting with Lu Guang's insane boat crash/martial arts smackdown rescue of Cheng Xiaoshi and ending with Cheng Xiaoshi diving into a photo to possess Lu Guang to get answers for his actions, from start to finish it was a wild ass ride where we, the fandom, AND the characters spent the whole time questioning Lu Guang and his motives

and...puzzlingly... didn't really get an answers by the end of the season

Lu Guang wasn't granted any post-climax time to explain what happened that day from his perspective, and while Cheng Xiaoshi was possessing him he didn't get any answers because he literally WAS Lu Guang, just doing whatever the hell he thought he needed to do.

the thing about Hostage that has always felt extremely off to me, is that we DO get explanations for Lu Guang's actions during the episode, but they're from people wholly unqualified to be giving them.

Captain Xiao finds Lu Guang's phone, hidden in a folded towel, and concludes that Lu Guang had left them clues. Qiao Ling, after seeing that Lu Guang had taken a photo that night, came to the conclusion that Cheng Xiaoshi must have been the one possessing Lu Guang during his deranged rescue plan at the pier, seeing as Lu Guang wasn't an adept fighter at the dojo and he was acting extremely impulsive. She even goes so far to say, later in the episode, that Cheng Xiaoshi HAS to dive into the photo, because it's already happened, and needs to follow Lu Guang's words to not change the timeline.

all of these assumptions, to me, are horseshit

I refuse to listen to ANYTHING Captain Xiao says. one, because he simply does not know these kids and should not be making assumptions about them, and two he is in fact the worst cop in the world. and Qiao Ling, bless her heart, has only found out how their powers work mere DAYS ago and doesn't understand the nuances of them at all

so I'm gonna debunk all that nonsense and explain to you what Lu Guang's REAL actions were that night, and what was up with that cryptic photo he took

now you might be thinking, Kelly, you're not even starting in the right place, because those weren't Lu Guang's actions, they were always Cheng Xiaoshi's, just in Lu Guang's body!

FALSE. on two counts! we have evidence of Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi performing the act of escaping the hospital differently. Lu Guang does not use the kettle to break the window to distract the cops. we're not sure what he uses, but that kettle is still there.

Lu Guang also places his phone face down in the towel

while Cheng Xiaoshi places it faceup

so by the end of the episode we have literal, physical evidence that these two performed this timeline differently, and therefore it was not "Cheng Xiaoshi the whole time" like Qiao Ling tried to misinform us to believe. i also have another Big Brain post [x] that explains why Lu Guang being an impulsive, supposedly "good" fighter during that pier rescue scene are both in-character for him.

(and if we wanna get really nitpicky about how an injured Lu Guang could have raced across town in his condition, i simply believe that Lu Guang was smarter about it that Cheng Xiaoshi, and probably took a bus or cab. Cheng Xiaoshi, pure of heart and dumb of ass, ran because HE physically could while inhabiting Lu Guang's body. our injured catboy did not sprint across town while holding his organs in place)

so if we already have all this cold, hard evidence stating that Lu Guang really is THAT bitch and did all that shit on his own, what the hell is my problem? why can I not let this episode go?

BECAUSE I WANNA KNOW WHY LU GUANG TOOK THAT PHOTO

Captain Useless seems to think that Lu Guang took that photo as some sort of helpful clue left behind for the gang

but what, pray tell, was this photo supposed to tell us without someone with Lu Guang's powers there to interpret it? without Lu Guang to tell him what to do, Cheng Xiaoshi left to his own devices knows just as much as himself as he does possessing Lu Guang

and, the bigger question, is if this was supposed to be some sort of almighty clue for the gang, why did he not text this photo to either Qiao Ling or Cheng Xiaoshi before escaping the hospital? he took the time to text Qiao Ling the location of the boat, did he not? why not the photo too? seems like a crappy way to clue someone in, to take a photo and save it on your password protected phone that you just went out of your way to hide from plain sight

because that's the thing! after the season finale we discover that Lu Guang's password is literally a reminder of his dive, or even more specifically, a reminder of his trauma. we KNOW that he didn't share his password with Cheng Xiaoshi, he just just happened to figure it out on his own

so tell me how Lu Guang expected this trauma-password protected phone, with it's one singular picture, to get in the hands of Cheng Xiaoshi, hmm? riddle me THAT

so we've established by now that 1. Lu Guang's actions in the beginning of episode 8 were indeed his own and 2. that photo was never meant to be seen by Cheng Xiaoshi, who shouldn't have known Lu Guang's passcode

given the trauma-passcode, we have to believe that the only person ever meant to see this photo was Lu Guang. i've made ANOTHER post previously [x] stating that Lu Guang might have used his powers in a way we haven't known possible, by taking a photo and using his Blue Eyes White Dragon powers to see 12 hours into the immediate future

plausible, but not what i'm about to propose now.

because I think Lu Guang took that photo as a contingency plan

listen, the only person who had ANY credentials to theorize what Lu Guang was up to that night was his trusted partner. while Qiao Ling and Captain Xiao spouted their nonsense theories, Cheng Xiaoshi said the only smart thing that entire brainstorming session

and I think Cheng Xiaoshi was right. he wasn't wrong in assuming this photo was a Save Point of sorts, the only thing he was wrong about was who would be using it

the only other person in this show capable of diving into a photo, we find out during the finale, is Lu Guang

we also find out in the finale that powers are transferrable, and it looks like they transfer when the owner of that power dies in someone else's arms

Lu Guang took that photo that night NOT for Cheng Xiaoshi to find and use, but for LU GUANG himself to use. i believe Lu Guang firmly believed that Cheng Xiaoshi was to die that night, and he would do everything in his power to make sure he had a chance to change it again if he needed to.

that meant:

1.taking a photo on his phone as a Save Point.

2. hiding his phone in the hospital bathroom so it could not be taken from him or busted later in the night. and

3. racing to where he knew Cheng Xiaoshi would be, so he could either

4. a.) rescue him, or b.) ensure that during CXS's death, the diving power was transferred back to him so he could do the night over again.

Lu Guang took that photo as contingency plan to save Cheng Xiaoshi's life should he get killed that night.

but that plan was botched when Cheng Xiaoshi used it instead to possess Lu Guang, because each photo can only be used once.

which might also explain why Lu Guang was SO DISTRAUGHT when Cheng Xiaoshi was shot

they had deleted all their photos earlier that week to prevent the twins from possessing them remotely

that was the last photo Lu Guang had taken. the ONLY photo on his phone. if Cheng Xiaoshi died that night, there would have been no Save Point to return to

#link click #cheng xiaoshi #lu guang #shi guang dai li ren #this is such a long post but i truly do believe i'm onto something here #no i do not know how Lu Guang OR Cheng Xiaoshi hotwired a boat tho #i'll have to believe that's somehow a sidehobby they both share

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ms-inreallife · 2 months ago

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The invention of the social class “creative” is the worst thing to happen to our generation. Hoards of people have deluded themselves into thinking they are artist. Actually they don’t think that, they think they’re “creatives” whatever that means. Meanwhile these major institution rake in profits while we are forced to consume the most shallow versions of gifts that were supposed to be granted to select people by God. You are destroying our collective soul because you want to “ get your name out there” and “make it”. You are not blessed with that gift. Go get a job and help save our planet from the clutches of white supremacy, instead of hoping and praying you can wiggle into the room with them. That not so hidden and subtle desire for money, power, status and fame shows each time. You don’t need to be a creative everything you make is shit. Go be a social worker and give some people the will to live for real cuz your “art” wont.

#ms inreallife #2025 no more fake shit.#i see right through you #kill that ego #you can never be rich making real art

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eleanor-bradstreet · 2 months ago

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Okay I'm back from a whirlwind zip through London and Florence, heart full of love and eyes full of Benophie so let’s make a breakdown of my errant unhinged thoughts on the season 4 sneak peek!

Benophie: They are somehow both my parents and my children 🥹

Goobie hurts either his ears or his delicious slender fingies and then tries to play it off hoping no one saw

Beneloise are going to continue to be the best, obviously

Violet. VIOLET 🥵 Mama is ready to SLAY. Marcus better be disguised as a cat at this party because that man should be on all fours ready to lap up whatever treats she gives him.

Also: don't even get me started on Eloise of Arc there in the background and how the show dressed her in the coolest possible iteration of this costume. Holy shit, season 4, slow down. I’m starting to think this is a quality tv show…

LOOK at the masquerade! LOOKADDITT!! This is not the cacophony of metallic technicolor vomit season 3 taught me to expect. This is not chintzy flowers and sequins. This is a reversion to season 1’s muted palette. This is dark fantasy. This is the masquerade in The Labyrinth. It’s spooky, it’s moody, and it’s better than I had ever hoped for from Jess Brownell. She said herself Bowie covers may make it onto the soundtrack. I’ll start to pray now.

Uh, Jess Brownell...is that you?

The unicorn-head lady is absolutely sending me 🤣🤣

My sweet, beloved, beautiful John all returned from Scotland and having fun 😭😭😭 why do you do this to me

So clearly costuming decided both to grant mercy to Penelope and bypass her Leprechaun-ification (presumably problematic given Nic is Irish) and give Pirate Colin his Behemoth-Hatted Pirate Wife, Penelope the Blonde. I think Pen has just become Nicola at this point. It's...a lewk and I'm here for it. But who exactly wants to speak to Mrs. Bridgerton now that she's a known mole for the Queen is beyond me.

There she is, the people's princess, absolutely radiant 🥹🩶

Benedict being a smart ass: "Please enter my mother's domicile to begin your tenure of servitude while I begrudgingly permit you to have free will, all the while intending to grabass you in the halls and woo you into being mine forever."

Cinderella era, here we gooooooo

God, they already look like bitches. I'm going to love to hate them.

*screaming, crying, throwing up* as he holds her like she's made of glass; like she's a dream that will evaporate if he looks away, as he touches her for the first time and teaches her to dance 🫠 The way I have DREAMED of this for YEARS 💙

MY COTTAGE MY COTTAGE MY COTTAGE MY COTTAGE WET MY COTTAGE

EX-FUCKING SCUSE ME, WHO INVITED CLIVE OWEN ONTO THE SET? I legitimately had to pause to realize this was him because I saw both Clive Owen and EDMUND first and now I'm remembering how a critic ages ago described the similarity to Clive and also how good the casting is that he looks just like his father and I fucking CAN'T and he's not the only thing that's soaking wet and heaving 😰 giving her those fuck me eyes right from the get

Apparently because his disguise is so shit, his masquerade tekkers is to whip out his gravely Batman voice. Okay, Bruce Bridgerton, calm down. You won't tell your mother? I recall this was also your concern three seasons ago. Always sneaking behind Violet's back, aye? Just kidding, baritone daddy. Let's keep our dirty gazebo secrets together uwu

They did it. They fucking did it. They gave him the phaeton.

THEN WHY DON'T YOU GO AHEAD AND RIP MY OVARIES OUT WITH YOUR BARE HANDS SHONDA? GO RIGHT AHEAD AND SHOW ME CANON PAPA BEARDTHONY AND WATCH ME DIE RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY COMPUTER SCREEN. THANKS.

So, in summary...

Season 4 already looks waaaaaay better than I had dared to hope for. The palette. The vibes. The obvious book accuracy. I have...no notes, other than to squeal in barely-contained excitement for *checks watch* about 18 months. Here's hoping it ultimately does satisfy. I'm at least grateful for the very juicy crumbs we're getting in the meantime 💙

#el updates #seriously so fking thrilled by this #benophie #bridgerton #bridgerton season 4 #an offer from a gentleman #benedict bridgerton #sophie baek

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envy-of-the-apple · 1 year ago

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Hello! I love your writing, especially that mad dog Drabble! Could you maybe do something similar for Oikawa? Noncon if you’re comfortable with that too. Thank you so much!

I wrote this awhile ago and then I never got around to publishing it and now I refuse to reread it because i cringe at my old writing but i remember spending a shit ton of time on this so here's my three year old trash fic. enjoy.

(Warnings: dark content, non-con touching, rape, non-con/sexual harassment, verbal degradation, forced orgasms, public-sex, overstimulation)

18+ content

Tutoring Sessions

You knew Spanish.

Not an expert by any means, but you could probably get by if you were stranded in a Spanish-speaking country. You were good at it. Decent.

You just weren’t the teaching type. You could barely learn, let alone, pass your skills on to someone else. Teaching required patience and diligence. That wasn’t you.

But, really, what could you say when the Captain of the volleyball team himself asked you to tutor him? He looked so desperate too, looking down at you with pleading eyes. He asked for an hour-no-just thirty minutes. All you had to do was correct his grammar, jot a few vocabulary words for him, and maybe teach him extra conjugations.

Looking back, you should have declined. You should have made any bullshit excuse you could think of. You should have laughed nervously, apologized- have done anything to get out of his attention.

You shouldn’t have let him coax you into the fourth floor of the library, trapping you with his tall body in an isolated booth.

At least then his hand wouldn’t be currently rubbing your thigh.

His movements were slow, casual, as his fingers made lazy circles up and down your leg. You couldn’t tell if it was intentional if he was touching you on purpose or mindlessly moving his hands. His face betrayed nothing, solely staring forward at the sheets of paper.

“So, I just replace the ‘ar’ with ‘aron’?” He asked, his hand slowly moving higher and higher, “Why can’t I use ‘aban’?”

You bit your lip, “Because it has a definite ending. The-the sentence is ‘they spoke with me yesterday’. The action ended yesterday, that’s-that’s why we use the preterit form.”

Your breath hitched when his hand trailed underneath your skirt, skimming across your panties. Your hand balled into a shaking fist.

You wanted to tell him to move, you wanted to shove his hand off you, but you weren’t confrontational. Instead, you elected to push down the feeling of unease in your chest, trying your best to ignore his ministrations, praying that he’d drop his hand by himself.

He didn’t.

“Right, you use preterit form for a definite ending,” He’s murmuring now, a sultry rumble that sends shivers down your spine, “I keep forgetting that." His laugh twinkles through the air. It's a jarring contrast to his warm hands.

“So ‘Hablaron me ayer’?”

He took that moment to slide past your panties, lightly rocking on your heat. You sucked in a short breath, gritting your teeth. You couldn’t pretend like he didn’t know what he was doing, not when his fingers were sinking deeper and deeper-

A finger tapped on your inner thigh. Play along.

“It’s-it’s ‘me habl-ah-hablaron ayer’. The object comes first-” You flinched when his pointer finger stroked over your hot skin, “And-and then the subject.”

You wished he’d stop making you talk. You wished you could just push him off you. You wished so many things, things Oikawa wouldn’t grant you.

“Okay,” He’s grinning now, a little less put together. His breathing is a little ragged, hitching whenever you uncomfortably shift. Though he’s still resolutely staring at the pages before him, his eyes are shining. Eager, “-makes sense,”

You just realized how empty the library is.

You can feel his calloused fingers crawling under you, searching for something. His middle finger curls a little, softly brushing over your sensitive clit.

You stumble forward. He says something, but you’re not listening. Not when his fingers are hovering over your hot button, delving down to push and prod.

Your reached up to cover your mouth, instantly silencing any noises you knew would come spilling out. He laughs at that, finally finally breaking the act of playing innocent.

Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing. He’s looking at you now, a knowing smirk on his pretty face.

Repulsion burns through you. It’s quickly replaced by humiliation as a wet squelch erupts from the place he’s touching you, making you lurch.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” He hums in satisfaction, “You already dripping? You must really want this, huh?”

He stares at you, daring you to reply, knowing fully well you won’t. No, you wouldn’t say anything, you wouldn’t do anything either. You would just sit there and take it.

Exactly what he wants.

He’s moving at a rhythm now, rubbing your clit with his thumb as his fingers inch down your folds. Your nails are digging into your trembling palm, but you don’t tell him to stop. You don’t say a word. No, that would be acknowledging what he’s doing. It would make it real-

your thoughts vanish as a slender finger sinks into your pussy. Your sigh is muffled by your clammy hand, digging further into your mouth as he starts fucking you in earnest. He’s going too fast; your mind is spinning. You can’t keep up with the waves of pleasure coming in and out and in and out and in again.

Your hand slips and the moan that escapes your mouth surprise you. It was loud and so dirty, you couldn’t believe it was your voice-it was you who made that noise.

His finger curls, bending in your tight walls and you feel like wailing. Oikawa strokes against a spot deep inside you that has you seeing stars.

You unconsciously lean against him. Oikawa draws you in closer, forcing you to rest against his shoulder as a second finger sinks into your heat. You whine as it pushes through your sopping walls, completely stretching you out.

You think you hear him snarl a quiet fuck but you’re not paying attention. Your head is pounding, matching the brutal thrusts of his fingers. It’s devouring you it’s too much and you want to stop, you want to breathe. Oikawa isn’t keen on helping, not when he’s rubbing fast circles on your clit, stretching his fingers inside you when he feels you’re not making enough noise. He wants something from you.

And you’re forced to give it to him.

There’s a hitch in your breath, the tiniest pause, before you clench around his fingers with a muffled scream. He hushes you, allowing you to bury your face into his shoulder as he keeps fucking your pussy until you collapse in his chest.

You’re panting when he finally removes his fingers, wiping the slick haphazardly on your inner thigh. You shift uncomfortably when he pulls away, feeling your hole clench again. The orgasm fades away and all you’re left with is the shock of what you’ve done and utter humiliation.

He lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. His brown eyes were dark, coated in lust. He’s sneering at you.

The kiss surprises you. You weren’t expecting his lips to be soft as he gently melts into yours. It’s so tender, a stark contrast to what he was like before. Maybe it was because you didn’t really put up a fight, your lips falling open when he stroked his thumb on your sensitive skin.

It’s still intense and when he pulls away, you take your first real breath.

“See?” He hums, a hand settling on yours, “That wasn’t so bad, right?”

“Oikawa-”

He’s pulling you out of your seat before you can finish your sentence, dragging you away from the abandoned table filled with unused highlighters. Your legs are still weak, you stumble around a little. Oikawa doesn’t mind, towing you like he’s carrying nothing but air.

He slips into an empty storage closet, with you reluctantly trailing behind him. The door closes behind you with a dull thud, and you’re forced to stand with him in the darkness.

When the light comes back on, he’s towering above you. His chest presses against yours, pinning you against the wall. His smile is manic, filled with a hunger that you know won’t be satisfied with just one taste.

No, he wants to devour you whole.

It’s the realization, that he will ruin you, that make your eyes sting. Hot tears creep down your cheeks as your lips waver.

He coos at that, “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll be okay. I took care of you, right? I made you feel so good?” He shuffles closer and you can feel something hard and stiff press against your thigh.

“Now you gotta’ do the same for me. It’s a fair trade, right?”

He’s kissing you again. It’s rough, this time, as he bites on your bottom lip, hard enough to tear skin. Your yelp is muffled as he shoves his tongue into your drooling mouth. You taste the smallest hint of something metallic.

His lips move down, covering your jaw with soft butterfly kisses that made your head spin. When they find your neck, he clamps down on your soft flesh, licking at biting at everything he could taste. Your breath hitches, a sound that’s in between a gasp and a moan. The sensation of his teeth against your neck causes you to lean your head against the wall, reluctantly giving him room. He purrs at that.

“Good girl.”

His hands are fiddling with your buttons. You barely have time to speak before he impatiently rips your shirt, sending the round objects scattering.

A half-hearted apology is mumbled into your skin. His fingers skitter over your bra, you cry out when his cold hands push the material up to feel your tits.

It’s still not enough. His body is feverish, you feel so hot against him, so pliant, so beautiful. You’re crying, whimpering, softly whispering for him to stop but do you even know how desperate you sound? Your voice sounds so needy, it’s hard to be sated from just touching.

Oikawa yanks down your skirt, letting them pool at your ankles. Your thighs are still glistening from his previous ministrations and your panties are wet, still soaked.

He feels pure euphoria watching them slide down your legs, landing on the ground next to the other piles of clothing.

You’re standing before him, barely clothed, shivering. He gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek, mumbling a soft ‘be good for me, okay’, before he reaches down to his pants.

He doesn’t pull it down all the way, just enough to reach inside and pull out his throbbing cock. It’s already an angry red, a single drop of precum leaking at the tip.

He gives it a few cursory pumps, before he stills.

“I really wanted to see you cum, bet you looked so pretty. Do you mind doing that again, just for me pretty please?”

He grinned when you didn’t reply. You can’t understand how someone so beautiful could hide so much cruelty.

“No? That’s okay, I’ll just make you. Again.”

In one single movement, he hikes your leg against his hip and thrusts his cock inside you.

You wail as he pushes himself inside, already starting to set a rough pace. It hurts, much bigger than two fingers. Whatever he did before clearly didn’t help make it feel any less painful. You give a choked scream, hot tears clouding your vision.

He’s not quiet either, leaning his forehead against the wall behind you, moaning shamelessly. He’s saying your name like a prayer, repeating it over and over again until it sounds like that’s the only thing he can say.

“You have to relax, baby-fuck you’re so tight.” Oikawa hisses, hiking your leg higher to fuck you deeper.

The pain fades. You wish it stayed, keeping you sober while he pushes you against the wall, greedily palming your tits, sucking on your neck.

But it disappears and a loud moan leaves your lips, too breathy to be made from anything but pleasure.

You instinctively cover your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds your traitorous body is making.

“Nope, not this time,” He cheerily says, ripping your hand away, “I wanna hear you scream.”

He angles his hips, his cock sinking into that spot and you do scream.

The pleasure that waves up and down your body blinds you. Your body isn’t listening to you, anymore. Your cunt keeps sucking him back in with each thrust. You can feel beads of precum roll down your thigh. Oikawa’s head is resting on your shoulder now. His weight makes your shaky legs buckle, digging your back further into the hard concrete.

He kisses your hand, encouraging you to drape it on his shoulder. It limply falls beside his neck, barely brushing against his hair.

You shift your hips and his cock stutters almost stopping his rhythm before Oikawa’s cooing something dirty into your ear, reaching down to rub your clit until you’re crying out again.

It’s addicting, he realizes, having your cunt flutter around him like this, leaking out his precum. It’s a feeling that makes him piston himself into you over and over again, relishing in the way your pussy tries to suck him in, like you were begging for more.

“O-oikawa,” You finally gasp when you finally regain the ability to speak, “Slow down please please slow-slow down.”

His laugh is breathy, “You want me to slow down, angel? What, are you close again?”

You don’t respond, but it’s enough to make him go faster, ignoring your pleas in search of your gradually rising voice.

He hisses when his knee hits the wall, grimacing.

“-Wanted to do this at a bed, you know,” He grunted, “Somewhere soft. But-but I didn’t wanna-hah-scare you, you’re so anxious it was so-fuck- hard choosing a place-place you’d actually show up in.”

He rubs your clit, feeling your walls grow tighter and tighter. He pulls back to look at you, eyes shut, your lip caught between your teeth, your face filled with lustful pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby. Show me how perfect you are.”

You follow his orders, your orgasm making you cry in ecstasy. It makes you go limp and you almost sink to the floor before Oikawa catches you, keeping you upright as he chases his own end.

He doesn’t stop, not even when you beg him to slow down that it’s too much. No, he just hushes you again, stumbling over a tensed ‘Just a little more’, before he’s going faster and faster until you feel something warm, wet, and sobering fill your cunt.

He’s slows down then, his eyes shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward, milking as much as he could. When he finally pulls out, he does it with a hiss, making you flinch as his skin hits your sensitive clit.

He doesn’t catch you this time, letting you drop to the floor. You tumble to the ground, your hands barely catching your fall. The tile is so cool against your sensitive skin, it almost makes you forget the milky liquid spread on your legs, the finger-print shaped bruises on your thigh.

You don’t think you have anymore tears left, but they still fall, running down your cheeks.

He’s instantly over you, brushing a hand down your face.

“Oh, don’t cry, baby, you did such a good job,” Oikawa cooed, wiping your tears away.

He’s not comforting you. His smile is too satisfied to make you think he had any semblance of pity. You briefly wonder what he’s seeing. You, exhaustedly crumpled against the wall, your legs curled, cum seeping out, your neck and chest littered with teeth marks. No wonder he looks so pleased.

He pets your hair, shifting it back in place and it’s so domestic-so loving that it makes you sick.

Oikawa grins, showing teeth. “How about next time we study at my place.”

#yandere #yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa tooru #dark oikawa tooru #dark content #oikawa isn't a good person #x reader #tw:noncon #reader inserts #afab reader

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queeranarchism · 1 year ago

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Society is usually kind of hard on people who suffer without having this easily understood and accepted reason. Things like compassion and recognition and support are often hard to come by and they're even harder to come by when people can't categorize you into the 'groups I have decided deserve compassion' box.

And so you get a tendency to take every suffering and squish it into a label that is a little bit understood and accepted.

Sometimes this medicalizes us. Having a hard time has to be either depression or trauma or some other diagnosable label, it can not just 'be'. It has to be assigned to a specific category of hard time to access even the minimum amount of support or compassion. And so if you don't fit one of those labels easily, you try and try to squeeze your hard time into the label that seems like the nearest fit and you try to ignore the parts that don't fit. And you pray that no one finds out that you're not being entirely truthful.

Sometimes this colonizes us, because the recognized labels are almost always invented by white people in Europe or the US. Experiencing your identity differently from the dominant concepts of 'man' and woman' can not just 'be'. It has to be labelled as trans or nonbinary or gendernonconforming. Recognition of your oppression is inaccessible unless you fit this white category that we sometimes grant the minimum amount of recognition. And so you try and try to sqeeuze your gender into the label that seems like the nearest fit and you try to ignore the parts that don't fit.

And when you address this, there's often a tendency to pretend that this forced assimilation is purely benevolent. "Trans isn't white or US/European, it's an umbrella term for everyone!", while ignoring who gets to define the dominant cultural narrative of what trans means. "We all deserve to be able to get diagnosed and/or self-diagnose! It gives you access to tools and medications!", while ignoring the destroyed possibilities of exploring our hard times through a non-medical lens. And of course in both cases: while ignoring that the assimilation isn't a choice, it's a necessity to be treated like someone who is going through shit.

We're often quite good at recognizing the causes of these problems: gender roles, gatekeeping of transition care, capitalism forcing us to prove that we're really too sick to work, etc. But what we need to get better at is being generous with our compassion and recognition and support towards people who don't fit our recognized categories of 'oppressed', especially those who are caught misrepresenting parts of themselves to fit into a category so that they might access compassion and recognition and support.

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maxiemclaren · 1 year ago

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Comforting Logan after the Miami Gp

Comforting Logan

Logan Sargent x reader

a/n First Fic

After placing last for his home race to say he was on edge the night before was an understatement. Returning to your hotel room you tried to reassure him that race day would be better, “Logan I’m telling you it's not your fa-” you falter what you're about to say when he looks at you like someone just accused him of murder, a rage filled energy falling over the hotel room. “Not my fault? NOT MY FAULT!? ARE YOU BLIND!? This is my home race and I couldn’t even have a good qualifying. Seriously y/n, P20 is not where I wanted to be.” You looked at him with sympathy slowly moving towards him, he took a step back and apprehension flickers across his eyes. “I’m not saying that you WANTED to start at P20 but sometimes we have shit qualifyings Logan '' Using his full name to hopefully knock some sense into the boy. He looks down feeling regret that he lashed out at you for just trying to help. “Want to head to bed? I’ll give you extra cuddles” You say while walking towards the room.

Watching the race was nerve-racking. You knew that no matter how hard he would fight for a points position he would still be a little grumpy. So here you were in the garage watching him navigate his way through, your eyes were practically glued to the screen until lap 28 when you needed to go to the bathroom from all the water you drank because of the heat and humidity. When all of a sudden you hear that contact was made between two cars, praying whoever it was is okay. You felt your heart drop when you saw that it was Kevin and Logan, a bubble of anger started to rise within you. You started yelling “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND KEVIN!?” Everyone in the garage turned to look at you with a look of ‘is she okay’ You looked at the replay and it seemed to look like Kevin was pushing past and Logan didn’t see him, granted there was not enough space for two cars in that corner. You know he's going to be so upset that he wasn’t able to continue the race so you head to the drivers room and wait.

He opens the door and sees you and immediately approaches and engulfed you into a hug, quite sobs escape him. You squeeze him tighter and let him release all his emotion, you reassure him “You did what you could my love, you made me so proud today. Hell, you make me proud everyday when you step out of the car unharmed and I get to go home with you.” His sobs just grew louder as he kept murmuring “I just wanted to show them I deserve a spot and chance here, my home race my family is going to be so upset with me. I’m a fucking disappointment” He spits out. Grabbing him by the face your eyes bore into his “You listen to me Logan Hunter Sargent, you are by far not a disappointment. What happened was unfair and frankly not right, Kevin has been all over the place this weekend. You are not to blame for his mistakes” He sniffles and nods his head “I guess so, Kevin has been pretty wild” he manages to chuckle out, slowly calming down. Giving him one last hug before media duties and debriefs, you smack his ass to make him laugh. “Ouch y/n my ass” You laugh “I’m serious though, you making it through a race or anytime you just step in the car, I’m proud of you and will continue to be proud of you even if you have to retire the car.” Heat rising to the back of his neck and ears he looks at you with admiration and love. “Thank you my love, that means the world to me. We will get them next time”

#formula 1 #formula one #logan sargeant #logan sargent x reader #logan x reader #f1 x reader #logan sargent fluff #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #fluff #logan sargent x yn

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trippinsorrows · 8 months ago

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through your eyes + au future

a/n: i had this idea and needed to write it. it's a bit into the future, much past where i currently am, so feel free to skip. i'm still posting the next part later this evening, but i just needed to get this out of my head and figured i'd share lol

*gif courtesy of google*

words: 1.6k // warnings: solana is sad, roman is pissed, and their families ain't shit

taglist: @fearlesschimera @sayyestoheav3nn @annfg8 @cyberdejos2 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @trentybenty @empressdede @tshepisho @southerngirl41 @callmekayd

Solana should have listened to Roman.

Should have known better than to ever think this was a good idea.

To think that they could have both of their families in the same vicinity and everything would go fine. Granted, the type of division she was expecting has been relatively tame. There hasn’t been any violence, largely due and thanks to the weapon deposit bins by the entrance.

Weapon free establishment and all.

Yet, she’s not naive enough to think that the lack of guns, knives, and other unmentionables could stop her or Roman’s family from throwing down if they wanted. But, they haven’t. No punches have been thrown nor bones broken. It’s been more of a clear separation. Roman’s family only interacts with each other, and her family interacts with each other.

Not the kind of cohesion she was hoping for but a much better alternative than what it could be.

But, while conflict and violence between the in-laws has, so far, been avoided. There’s still another major issue that has Solana locked in one of the back rooms, sitting on a random chair, crying her eyes out.

The bullying.

Towards her.

Towards Roman.

Towards their baby.

It started out light, Solana having to politely shut down a near fight between her brother and Roman.

Wes lifted the beer to his lips, eyeing Roman. “So, how many people have you killed today, Reigns?”

“Wesley!” Solana’s sharp use of his name was conjoined with a disapproving expression. He’s too old for the petty jabs.

Roman, however, simply smiled coldly, scratching his beard as he delivered a chilling warning. “So far none, but you keep fucking talking, and I can change that real fast.”

Thankfully, Solana was able to de-escalate, her sister-in-law, Hazel, prying Wes away before any violence could commence.

Then there was the conversation Solana unintentionally walked into while conversing with two of her older cousins she’s not as close with.

For good reasons.

“Aren’t you at all worried?”

Solana frowned. “About?”

Her cousin leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Roman as a dad. I mean, he’s not capable of love. Do you really expect him to be a good father?”

There’s no words to describe how much hearing such a thing about the man she loves hurt Solana. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her other cousin, however, simply rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying, everyone knows that man is a sociopath. You’re better off cutting your losses now, taking the kid to Mexico with your mom’s side of the family, and praying he doesn’t turn out like his psycho dad.”

Solana had to excuse herself for that one. She had nothing nice to say in that moment, but beyond that, she just needed to get a few tears out.

And she did, hoping that would be the last of it, but no, that was just too good of a hope to be true.

It was the comments overheard by some of Roman’s relatives, however, that did her in.

“I just can’t believe out of all the women, the respectable options who come from more established families, he chose her.”

The other woman snorted, shaking her head. “Right? It’s obvious she was looking for a sugar daddy. What is she, like 25?”

“I heard her father’s not doing well financially and told her to seek out Roman.”

“Makes sense. Look how easy she was. Didn’t waste any time opening up her legs and trapping him with a baby.” The woman rolled her eyes, adding, “at the very least, he could have found a Samoan woman. It’s bad enough he’s afakasi, but this child of theirs? The girl is Mexican and Black. He’ll hardly have any Samoan blood running through his veins. Our Bloodline could die out because of her.”

The first woman to speak snorted, smirking almost as she suggested, “that’s assuming it’s his baby. Roman’s smart though. I’m sure he’ll have a paternity test done as soon as she pushes out that bastard.”

“Assuming ICE doesn’t deport her first.”

The two women fell out in laughter at the same time Solana darted off, desperate to get away and have a safe space to cry.

It’s all just been too much. Too much hatred spewed for something that should be filled with love and excitement.

It’s been anything but, and it hurts.

It hurts a ton.

The knocking on the door is loud and borderline erratic, Solana quickly wiping her eyes and clearing her throat to inform that she’ll be out in a minute. But, a deep, familiar voice beats her to it.

“Solana.” It’s Roman, and he doesn’t sound happy. “Open the door.”

She blows out a deep breath and does her best to feign a ‘normal’ voice. “Just—just a second.”

“Now, Solana.” Before she can ask why, he adds in a calmer voice,“I know you’re crying.” Damn.

“So you either let me in or I’ll break this goddamn door down.”

He’ll do it. She knows he will. There’s nothing ever stopping Roman from comforting or being there for her when he knows she’s upset.

And this would definitely be one of those times.

Solana sniffles, trying to gather herself as she carefully stands up from the toilet seat. Wiping at her eyes, she flips the lock and is barely able to turn the knob when Roman is opening the door. Stepping back, he closes it behind him and moves his hands to her face, gaze locking with hers.

“What’s wrong?”

So many things, but this isn’t the time or place, so she shakes her head. “N–nothing. I’m just—baby hormones.”

“Bullshit,” he scoffs, voice still surprisingly gentle. “Baby, talk to me. What happened?”

Solana looks away, hating how just that question, coming from him, tone so understanding and soft almost, is enough to pull the truth out of her.

And it does.

“You were right. This was a bad idea. I should have never—” She stops herself, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I just wanted…..I thought….I thought they’d be happy for us.”

“Sol, you know it’s not that simple.” Though his words could be seen as insensitive, the way he says it is anything but. “Who said what?”

She closes her eyes, grasping onto his white button-up shirt. “It wasn’t just…..one person….it’s everybody.” He wipes at her tears, as she continues to feel the emotional weight of it all. “My family saying cruel things about you—”

“Sola—”

“Your family saying things about me, about our baby—”

At that, all gentleness drops and is replaced with something else. Something she knows Roman knows well.

Anger.

“Who?” It’s one word. One single word that means a multitude of things and none of them good.

Solana shifts her weight, shrugging, “I—I don’t know who they are. Some….some cousins of yours. But, it doesn’t—it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does fucking matter.” Roman drops his hands from her face to instead take her right hand in his, holding it firmly. “And we gonna address this shit right now.”

Solana's eyes widen a bit. That’s….that’s not what she wanted. “Wait, Roman—”

He’s not listening though. His stride is purposeful and determined, as he leads them out the bathroom, down the hall, and into the main section of the venue where most of their families are gathered.

Roman guides them over to where the DJ has his setup, Solana gasping as Roman uses his free hand to yank a set of chords out the wall, effectively stopping the music.

The DJ looks just as confused as most of the guests but cowers away in fear when Roman ‘iffs’ at him, like he’s going to hit him, before snatching the microphone.

The abrupt ending of the music has attracted most gazes to where Roman and Solana stand, him moving them to the middle where all can see and hear.

He never once releases her hand.

“Imma say this one time, and one time only.” She swallows, her eyes landing on her parents. Her mom looks confused, while her dad wears the same expression he’s worn since the moment Solana finally came clean about her relationship with Roman.

Disappointed.

“Cause if I have to address this shit again, it’s not gonna be verbally.” Chills move up and down her spine. There’s not an ounce of her that questions if he’s bluffing or not. Roman doesn’t bluff. If he says it, he means it. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about me. That includes her family and mine, but I’ll be damned if I let any of ya’ll disrespect her or our child.” Solana’s hand naturally moves to her belly, her bump that’s pronounced and especially visible in her white bodycon dress. “We’re together. We’re having a baby. However way any of you feel about it, keep it to your fucking selves, because there’s no reason Solana should be crying at something that’s supposed to be a happy occasion.”

She swallows, noticing how the entire room has gone silent under the deep voice of Roman’s address. There’s not a person who looks uninterested or annoyed. It’s just a sea of various scared and nervous expressions.

“So, the next time you find yourselves talking shit about her, and especially our baby, understand it will absolutely be the last thing you ever fucking do.” Solana watches Roman begin to hand the microphone to the flabbergasted DJ before he snatches it back, turning once again toward the onlookers. “And one more thing……when you address her, make sure you do it properly.”

Solana’s throat goes dry. She shakes her head. He can’t be doing what she thinks he’s about to do. “Roman—”

“It’s not Solana Miller.” Oh my God. “It’s Solana Reigns.”

The sea of silence quickly morphs into an ocean of various gasps, exclamations, and even shouts.

Meanwhile, Roman simply smirks as he sticks the nail in the coffin before dropping the mic on the ground. “—we’re married.”

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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vrsey · 1 month ago

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EVERY BREATHE YOU TAKE - III

ZIGGY KATS - When You Finish Saving The World (2022)

pt1 , pt2 w/c; 1.8k ⌗ no use of y/n , not proofread

—

You certainly hadn’t expected Ziggy to genuinely apologize so quickly. On the same day? You had to be dreaming.

Of course you knew he wouldn’t have done it without his mother holding his hand the entire time, but that just meant he wanted to make sure it was perfect. That in itself made you feel a wave of closure, a relief you’d only prayed for.

Now here you were, thumbs shakily typing out a response to his casual confession. It shook you to his core that he had feelings for you just as you did him, it was just as surreal to read it.

‘oh my shit ziggy no no i feel the same way’

You nibbled at your cut nails, staring at the now-sent message before quickly following with another.

‘god dude ive been liking you’

You felt that jittery feeling you’d felt after riding a roller coaster— the exhilarating pool of adrenaline sitting in the pit of your stomach as your eyes frantically watched for a response. It was funny that so much could change in one day; the unfortunate thing that came with teenage emotions.

‘no yeah so have i idiot’

The message immediately gets unsent, replaced with a—

‘I reciprocate your feelings, and like you a lot.’

You huff through your nose; imagining his mom scolding him to send a different message was amusing to say the least. You thumb runs along the side of your screen, lips curled in.

‘we good now?’

‘were we not before..’

‘u rite u rite’

‘so how bout that weed ;))’

‘Ziggy is grounded, you’ll see him at school.’

‘oh sjit sorry ziggy 😭😭’

‘aOh MY GOD FUCK YOU WHYD UOU JAVE TO MENTION IT’

‘LMFAAOOO’

The weight on your shoulders eased knowing things were normal. Yes, you were friends now. Your feelings are out there, yeah, but that changes nothing— just a bump in the road. Every friendship had its hiccups of unsure feelings, this was just another example. Surely.

—

You were wrong. So wrong. Things were weird now, once warm and wholesome moments turned hot and awkward. You couldn’t sit too close to him without being hyper aware of his Walmart cologne, Ziggy’s signature musk that you’d catch a whiff of when you’re alone at night. A scary occurrence that happened more often than it should’ve.

Though you knew for a fact that he had feelings for you, it was hard to believe when he’d quickly pass you your headphone as to not brush his fingers against yours. Or when he wouldn’t nudge you back when you tried being playful with him. God, that stung more than anything.

You missed the mundane moments of your friendship; gossiping about the couples at your school, listen to the same ten songs on his Ipod touch on a loop, even just laying with him while high out of your minds, practically hot-boxing his bedroom.

You realize now how youd taken those seemingly meaningless moments for granted. You’d give the world to have a lazy moment with Ziggy again.

Today was no different than the rest, you sunk into your usual spot on his bed, curling into the blankets as your eyes stuck to the wall, staring at the fluorescent neon light that reminded you this wasn’t another dream.

Ziggy sat beside you, shoulder stiffly against yours. The tension was pliable, your only focus was on breathing right, trying not to sound like you just ran a marathon. When did it get so hard to just exist anywhere near him?

You glance at him, picking at your nails. “Do you still have those edibles?” He blinks, nodding quickly upon registering your words.

“Uh, yes, yeah.” His arm reaches over to his backpack, which sat right next to his bed. His hoodie rides up, giving you a glimpse of his midriff. oh my god stop being a creep.

He turns back to you, your gaze immediately averting as you pretend to stretch and force a pathetic excuse for a yawn. He throws the baggie onto the blanket which was splayed over you two.

He gets comfortable, grabbing it and shaking it around a little. “They’re gummy bears” He huffs with the corners of his lips slightly quirked up, shuffling a few out onto his hands.

“Is that enough?” he shows the 5 gummies. “Yeah, if i wanna overdose” You crack a grin, shoulders tensing up. “okay then.” He raises his brows, giving you the smallest one— lemon flavored, the worst one. “The old you would’ve done three blunts, two edibles, maybe even hit a bong.” He shakes his head in feign disappointment with a dragged out sigh.

“Okay, fuck you, not even.” You hold back a smile, taking three out of his hand, flicking back the lemon one. “Im still the old me.” You pop them in your mouth all at once. “See?— oh shif i gof fhe grape one.” You grumble incoherently as you chew, face scrunching in disgust.

He laughs, the back of his palm coming up to cover his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled, his smile so wide you caught a glimpse of his gums, a sight you hadn’t seen in such a long time.

“You do it to yourself, really.” He mocks, a dorky smile on his face as he pats your shoulder. The gummies muffle your laugh as you swat his hand away, shoving one of the lemon gummies through his lips, which makes him flinch, “Jesus!” he gags.

“Evil.” He spits, nose scrunched as he halfheartedly pushes your head away with his hand while wiping his mouth with the back of his other, making you snicker. “Okay, i’m sorry, your highness.” You raise your hands in defeat, putting on a synthetic look of sympathy.

“Oh, you wound me, really.” He rolls his eyes, a smile remaining on his lips. He pops about three of the gummy bears while you sit back, waiting for it to hit.

Your shoulders touched once more, this time without discomfort or hesitance. Maybe it was the edibles, you think. Whatever it was, you were at peace now. You exhale, head deep into his pillow, sinking into it in a dreamy kind of way.

The colorless grey of his ceiling began buzzing in a sort of static, your eyes trailing to his, realizing he had been getting to that slurry state too.

“Has it hit?” You grumble, rubbing your eye.

“It takes more than three gummy bears to get me high.” His stated matter of factly, glancing at you with the haziest, bloodshot eyes ever. You stiffle a laugh.

“Oh, of course. My fault.” You nod, looking back up to the static ceiling. Your fingertips press against each other, counting to yourself idly as you embrace the syrupy high. Your finger trails down, only to find itself on something cool— a ring? You don’t wear rings. You look down, realizing you’d been playing with his hand.

“Why’d you stop?” He asks lazily, eyes fighting to stay open.

Your jaw clenches. You mutter a small ‘whoops’, continuing your ministrations along the crooks and crevices of his hands. The back of your neck got hot— you were playing with Ziggys hand, oh my god.

You try to relax, convincing yourself that this was nothing more than simple physical touch. You sigh, leaning your head back again, focusing on basking in the lightness the edibles had made you feel.

“It’s too quiet” He yawns, knuckles brushing into your palm. You hum, glancing at his bedside table. “Do you have your ipod?” You ask quietly. He nods, hand slapping onto the surface of the table without bothering to look, trying to feel for it.

He grabs it, along with the mangled mess of his headphones. He passes them to you to untangle as he turns on his small device, rubbing his eye with his knuckle as he sets it on his chest, snatching back the wire to plug it in.

“Wanna listen to some Ziggy hits?” He smugly murmurs, winking. You snort. “Just put it on shuffle. I don’t feel like having my ears bleed out tonight.” He frowns then mimics you “Mimimi..”

He passes you your headbud, putting on his own shortly after. He presses the play button, leaning his head back.

A familiar tune starts playing, your touch stilled on his hand.

‘Every breathe you take,’

You swallow, turning your head over to look at him, his eyes already on yours. Intense dejavú. Though hazy, he had a knowing look in his eyes. His fingers slid into yours slowly, as if testing the waters.

He clears his throat, wetting his lips as if he’s about to say something— but hesitates. “You look pretty like this.” You say, a grin growing on your face. He eases, huffing a small laugh.

“Likewise.” He mocks.

‘Every move you make,’

He shifts a little, turning his body to face you better, “Do you think maybe..” his thumb traces the inside of your palm. “we could try again?” He winces as the words come out, unsure how you’d react.

You felt your heart launch up to your throat. “You’re high, Ziggy.” You reason.

‘Every bond you break, every step you take, i’ll be watching you’

“And you’re not?” His brows furrow incredulously, keeping a relaxed smile on his face.

You stay quiet for a moment, gnawing at the inside of your lip. Was he only saying it because he was high? Even if he is, why not take your chance while you can? No, that has to be morally wrong..

“Listen, if you really don’t want to..” He shakes his head a little, beginning to slip his hand from yours. “No no no” You quickly recover, your grip on his hand tightening slightly. “I wanna try again.”

‘Oh cant you see, you belong to me?’

He nods, looking at you as if trying to pick you apart. “You sure?” He asks one last time. “Yeah. his hand slipping from yours only to land on your jaw, the cool touch of his rings making you wince for a moment. His eyes travel down your features in fascination before stopping abruptly on your lips.

‘How my poor heart aches!’

Your eyes stare into his, through his thick lashes into his opaque, soft eyes. His thumb runs over to your chin, right under your bottom lip.

‘Every breathe you take!’

He leans in, your breathe hitching as his soft, chapped lips brush into yours. You feel his colored cheeks flush on yours, the dip of his nose pressing against your bridge, his rings digging into the side of your jaw— everything slowed, your body practically floating in a euphoric bliss.

The kiss drowns out the music, nearly forgetting you were sharing the earbuds. Your hand finds its way up the nape of his neck, into his thick curls. His lips in effortless sync with yours, a chaste and gentle kiss that felt almost out of character for Ziggy.

He parts from your lips, out of breathe despite being the most tame kiss in history. You can’t help but smile at that. His hand squeezes into your cheek. “You taste like grape gummy bear.” He mumbles, his freckled cheeks flushed.

“Yeah well, you taste like lemon gummy bear.”

“Woah, struck a nerve there.”

hi guys i finally finished part 3 woohoo !! i was pretty pumped writing this one c: idk if i should end it here but i’m not sure how i would go about a chapter four, i’m pretty okay with how this one ended but lmk what you think!! i love love love seeing comments but either way, thanks so much for reading, feedback is appreciated ㅤᵕ̈!

#๋࣭⭑vrsey #ziggy katz x reader #ziggy katz #when you finish saving the world #wyfstw #x reader #fanfiction #finn wolfhard #they get high

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