#your ask had me laugh out loud in the street

[norrisainz33]

itll be ok || ln4

summary: the aftermath of jeddah when you weren't able to be there

pairing: lando norris x famous!reader (well established relationship)

warnings: hurt/comfort vibes. sad lando. bad language. also pls ignore time zones

a/n: the triple header hurt my feelings so here we are. this is def self indulgent but ln4 nation we rise again in miami

word count: 2,264

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

you hurriedly threw your purse onto the couch of your new york city hotel room, barely noticing it bounce off the cushions and hit the floor with a dull thud. you turned on the tv with a quick press of the button, eyes immediately scanning for the familiar graphics of the f1tv broadcast.

it was saturday. quali day. and you were supposed to be soaking in the high of your final press tour stop, wrapping up interviews, meeting fans, attending industry dinners but your mind was thousands of miles away on a brightly lit street circuit in jeddah where lando was gearing up to push his car to the limits.

you had regretfully missed q1 and q2 due to back-to-back press obligations and a delayed ride from the studio which meant you’d only just now had a chance to sit down. but your heart leapt the moment you saw his name still on the leaderboard.

“ok,” you mumbled, kicking off your heels and letting them clatter to the floor. you crawled onto the bed, still in your dress, makeup smudged and hair sticking to your temples from the whirlwind of the day. the moment your head hit the pillow, your eyes didn’t left the screen.

q3 was underway. the camera panned across the glittering circuit, engines roared and you held your breath every time the papaya blur of lando’s car flashed by. he was on a flying lap, the screen showing purple sectors and strong exits.

then everything changed.

"lando norris into the wall!” one of the commentators cried, his voice rising sharply in alarm.

your heart stopped. “no, no, no, no -- NO!” you gasped, your voice cracking as you lurched upright in bed.

the screen cut to replay footage - dust and sparks, the slow-motion horror of carbon fiber shattering and his car spinning. you didn’t even register the gasp that tore from your throat. your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide, breath shallow.

the camera zoomed in on the wreckage of the car and time completely froze.

every second stretched unbearably long, each one twisting your stomach into tighter knots. panic rose like bile in your throat, your chest aching from how hard it was to breathe. your mind spiraled with worst-case scenarios — what if he was hurt? what if something broke? what if?

then finally, mercifully, the shot changed. a figure moving and a radio message letting you know he was ok.

you let out a sob of relief, half-laugh, half-cry, as tears pricked your eyes. you clutched a pillow to your chest, body trembling from the adrenaline.

“ok” you whispered to no one, tears running down your cheeks. “ok. he’s ok.”

you repeated the words to yourself like a mantra as if saying them enough times would calm the tremble in your fingers or the ache in your chest. but the truth was, you only knew he was physically ok - walking, standing, uninjured but mentally was a whole different story.

lando was his own harshest critic. he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders all the expectations, the pressure, the comparisons and this triple header had been relentless and unforgiving. you’d heard it in his voice on every late night call, seen it in the way his texts had grown shorter, more tired, less like him. he hadn’t said it out loud but you could feel it: he wasn’t in a good place and it pained you to not be there for him.

you looked down at your phone which lit up with a flurry of notifications. texts from family, from friends, from people on your team, all asking the same question in different ways.

is lando ok? just saw quali. jesus. is he alright? are YOU alright? let me know if you need anything.

but your eyes only searched for one message and found it. it was from the ln4 admin who was one of the few people you trusted who was with him this weekend.

they’re taking him to the med tent. he is ok, y/n/n. i promise.

you clutched your phone to your chest for a beat, exhaling shakily. you wanted to be there. more than anything, you wanted to be there to hold him, to brush his curls off his forehead, to tell him that it was ok to not be ok. that he didn’t have to be strong for everyone all the time.

but instead, you were stuck in a hotel suite with tear-stained cheeks and a breaking heart in a place that felt a million miles away, waiting for the one person you wanted to comfort to call and let you do just that.

minutes passed. then hours. and you were still curled up on the edge of the bed when your phone finally rang.

lando. you answered before the second ring.

“lando?” you breathed out, trying to keep your voice steady. “baby, are you-"

his voice cracked before you even heard words. “hi.”

it was barely a whisper, strained and small and so far from the confident, easy tone he usually had. he sounded like he’d been holding back tears and had finally stopped trying.

“oh, lan,” you whispered, your heart breaking all over again. “talk to me.”

“i just -” his breath caught, and you could hear the tremble in it. “i’m so tired, y/n/n and i know the season just started but i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i don’t feel good in the car. i don’t feel like me right now.”

“you’re just burnt out my love. this season started off so quickly and you've been going nonstop for weeks. you’ve had so much thrown at you. it’s okay to feel off. that doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you.”

he let out a shaky breath. “i hit the wall like a rookie. like a fucking rookie. and everyone’s watching, waiting for me to mess up. i can feel it. and I keep trying! god, I’m trying so hard! but nothing feels right right now.”

the silence on the line stretched, heavy with the weight of all he wasn’t saying. you knew this part of him. the part that hated letting people down even when he hadn’t. the part that pushed and pushed until he had nothing left to give.

“lando,” you said softly, tears falling again. “you don’t have to be perfect. you never had to be perfect to be loved. not by me. not by your team. not by anyone who really matters.”

he sniffled on the other end of the line. “i wish you were here.”

“i know. me too baby.” you sighed. “i’d give anything to be there, to hold you and remind you how proud I am of you. not because of a quali or race result but because of the man you are, on your worst day and your best one.”

he didn’t say anything for a moment but you could hear his breathing which was slower now, steadier.

“i love you,” you whispered. “no matter what. no matter how fast the car is. no matter what the headlines say. I love you.”

there was a pause and then a soft, broken laugh. “you always say the right thing.”

“i'm just telling the truth baby.”

A long silence followed and you could hear him getting himself into bed. eventually lando spoke again, his voice still raw but quieter now.

“can you stay on the phone? just until I fall asleep?”

you laid back down on the bed, curling up with the phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline. “of course baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

and you didn’t. not even when the line fell silent and his breathing evened out. you stayed right there, whispering sweet nothings into the dark, tethering him to peace. because even if you weren’t in jeddah, you’d always be right there when he needed you.

after the race the next day, where lando had an incredible recovery drive going from p10 to p4, you had finally made it back to your shared apartment in monaco. you checked the time on your watch and let out a sigh. lando should be home in a few hours too but lando didn’t text when his flight landed. he didn’t call when the car dropped him off either. you only knew he was home when you heard the familiar rattle of keys in the bowl by the door and the soft thunk of his suitcase being set down in the hallway.

you were curled up on the couch where you had fallen asleep waiting for him in one of his quadrant hoodies. you sat yourself up and kicked the blanket you had been wrapped up in off. and when he finally stepped into the living room, you could see it all written across his face - the exhaustion, the weight, the sadness still lingering behind his eyes.

he didn’t say anything. he just looked at you.

you were on your feet, crossing the living room in a heartbeat, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he buried his head in your neck. no hesitation. no pretending. just him, finally home and finally letting go.

“i'm sorry for not texting” he mumbled into your neck, voice cracking.

“you don’t have to be,” you whispered, hugging him tighter. “you’re here. that’s all that matters.”

you felt him nod against you but he didn’t move. just stood there clinging to you like you were the only thing holding him together. eventually, you guided him to the couch letting him lay across your lap as your fingers gently combing through his curls as the silence stretched.

he stared at the ceiling for a while before finally speaking. “i'm scared,” he admitted softly, like saying it out loud might break him. “Iim scared I’m not good enough. that something’s changed. i keep doing everything right but… it still doesn’t feel like enough. i don’t feel like me in that stupid car.”

“you’re allowed to feel that way,” you murmured. “you’re not a robot, lando. you’re human and humans get tired. they get overwhelmed and make mistakes. they crash but they also get back up.”

he swallowed hard as he looked up at you. “everyone keeps telling me I’m doing great. that I should be proud but all I can see are the mistakes. the podium and top steps I've missed. the pressure I’m putting on everyone else.”

you leaned down and pressed your lips to his forehead. “you are doing great but it’s okay if it doesn’t feel like it right now. you don’t have to be proud today. i’ll be proud enough for the both of us.”

lando’s hand found yours, threading your fingers together, grounding himself in the way your thumb traced lazy circles on his skin.

“i don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

you smiled, “good thing you don’t have to find out.”

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

a/n: thanks for reading! likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[differenteagletragedy]

It’s just past 1:00 am in a seedy bar in some no-name town, and Simon is well and truly wasted.

When Simon Riley gets drunk, he’s not loud, he doesn’t stumble around or start fights, nothing as boisterous as that. It’s internal, a sort of buzzing that takes over his brain and blocks out all the noise. His restraint, his history, all the cold, strange little parts that he’s made of swim around in the liquor. They drown.

So when you come up to him, some lovely soft little thing that seems to have taken a shine to him tonight, he entertains you.

You’re drunk, too — you’re not falling over yourself either, but as loose as your lips are, there’s no way you’re sober.

“You look like you come from good stock,” you tell him, squeezing his bicep.

He laughs at the idea, knowing exactly what sort of stock he comes from, and you pout, clarifying, “You look strong, I mean. Like you’ve got … I dunno, dominant genes. Like if you had a baby it’d be all tall and big with pretty eyes too.”

If Simon was sober, he’d shut down the conversation. He’d know he doesn’t need some pretty woman touching his arm and talking about what kind of babies he’d have. It’s a bad idea that would only stir up things he’s been trying to push down for too long.

But tonight, he’s not sober. He feels like his blood might be half whiskey now. And he wants to keep talking.

"That what you think, pet?" he asks, his hand moving to grip your hip a little too tightly. "What's a little thing like you thinking about babies so hard for?"

You shrug, give him a little coy grin, and say, “I don’t know. I think I’d be a good mom.”

He pictures it, for just a moment. What you would look like if your hips were a little wider, your bust a little fuller. How it would feel to hold your belly, round and tight with the skin taut, and know that the thing growing within was a part of him. To have worked his way so far inside you that your body and your life would never be the same.

When you take his hand and lead him back to your apartment, he doesn’t fight it.

“I want you to put a baby in me,” you moan in his ear as he presses you to the wall. “Please…”

You trail off, like you’re thinking of something, and he huffs out a laugh and offers, “Simon.”

“Please, Simon,” you sigh, not missing a beat. “Come inside, ok?”

He groans, and a few seconds later, he does just that.

The next morning, he wakes up with a splitting headache back in his own room, alone. He feels like death, but part of him wishes he’d have drunk just a bit more — enough to black out, so that he wouldn’t have to remember you.

The thought of you doesn’t plague him after that night, not exactly, but it lingers. It’s a nagging little itch, not a gaping wound: it doesn’t hurt, but it’s enough to notice.

Some nights, he’ll think back to how good you felt wrapped around him. Others he’ll focus on the way you begged him to leave the condom off, telling him, over and over, that you wanted his baby. Either way, the encounter plays on a loop in his mind for months after it happened. Years, if he’s honest with himself.

Simon doesn’t like to be honest with himself about some things, preferring instead to think of himself as the man he’d like to be — or the man that it’s easiest to be.

But when he finds himself back in your town a few years later and comes across a gangly little girl in the street, all golden curls, long blonde lashes and big brown eyes …

Well, some things are harder to deny.

[bbina]

it didn't take a while for chenle to finally show up at the lobby where he asked you to wait in

he casually strolls next to you in an entirely different outfit. he's out of his usual crisp suit that he wears like its his skin. this time he's just in a shirt and some sweatpants

"let's go" chenle chirps all excited, giving you his duffel bag which you assumed was where he kept his things

you huff as you feel the weight of his bag being slung to your shoulder carelessly

"why is your bag so heavy" you huffed, adjusting the straps on your shoulders while you carry your own work bag on the other

chenle doesn't even look back when he answers you

"the company's lifeline is in there. also my laptop so be careful with that" he notes, walking towards the entrance of the building

you simply glare at the back of his head as you trudge behind him. you hope that this wouldn't take too long as you still need to catch up with the girls later on

. . .ᝰ.ᐟ

you had assumed that you had to ride in the same car as him when you first saw his text about needing to accompany him for his basketball practice but it turns out, there was a basketball court just right out of the corner of the street the company building was on so it doesn't take long you two to get there

"i thought you were going to your basketball practice?" you ask, setting his duffel bag gently onto the bleachers

"we're at a basketball court" chenle points out, looking around

you roll your eyes as you take a seat next to his bag

"i mean i thought it was gonna be at some private gymnasium or something and not a.. community basketball court"

chenle shrugs, placing his phone inside his duffel bag

"depends. i'm playing with the guys tonight so technically, it's still basketball practice but you're not wrong. i do go to a private gymnasium sometimes when i need professional classes" chenle explains

you sigh, making sure its loud enough that chenle can hear it. if you weren't at this stupid basketball court, you could've been in the city with your friends karina and giselle having a great time already but no. you were once again stuck with your boss, who had already changed out of his usual work clothes into something comfortable while you were stuck in your work clothes

"why am i even here" you muttered, grabbing your phone out of your bag to start your doomscrolling as you wait for the time to pass

chenle had the audacity to laugh at your demise

"because you're my assistant. you quite literally have to be with me and attend to my needs all the time now"

you scowl at your boss who starts cackling at your reaction. before you can say anything back, a loud voice calls out from the other side of the court

"yooo bossman!" someone hollers, waving his hands like crazy

you look to the side and there you see three guys who you seem a little familiar jogging over to your side

"oh my god it's the famous assistant!" hyuck gasps, covering his mouth in shock. "i heard so much about you! we're even mutuals on twitter!"

"... uh hi?" you greet awkwardly, not really knowing what to say

"it's me donghyuck! the pr manager!" he introduces himself, sliding next to you as he grabs your hand and shakes it, "but you can call me hyuck since we're basically friends now"

it's a little weird to see donghyuck or hyuck in the flesh in real time. it was like he was just a figment of your imagination. someone who just replies to your not so direct tweets towards chenle like a bot on twitter

but no. this is your colleague. the company's pr manager

jisung and mark shortly introduce themselves not long after hyuck

"i'm mark. nice to finally meet you" mark smiles

"and i'm jisung, the hr manager. just so you know" jisung smiles awkwardly

you politely smile as you greet them back while hyuck was busy taking a good look at you, the infamous assistant that has lasted for over 3 weeks now handling chenle like an absolute champ

"alright enough hogging my assistant. there you three finally met her. can we start now?" chenle's voice cuts through the air. the three boys all turn around to look at him

"oh hey bossman" hyuck shrugs, "almost didn't see you there"

chenle ignores him and walks to his duffel bag to grab his own basketball

"let's play" chenle calls out to his friends, walking into the court as he starts dribbling the ball. he suddenly turns around and looks at you, "this won't take long"

you simply roll your eyes as you begrudgingly nod. not like you had any other choice anyway. hyuck lets out a giggle at your interaction. this was the very first time he's witnessing how you two act in real life and not through your tweets

"this is like straight out of those webtoon episodes–"

before he could elaborate further on what he could possibly mean by that, mark drags him to the court by the ear

"OW! OUCH!" hyuck yelps as his head jerks to the side

"next time don't come if you're not gonna play with us"

"no i will cause that means i'm getting a free ride– OW! MARK WHAT THE FUCK!"

you don't even know what to say if you're being honest. all you wanted to do was to go home but nope you're going to be stuck here for a while

. . .ᝰ.ᐟ

this basketball practice did in fact take too long. you've been sitting at the bleachers for what seems like an hour now. so much for him saying this won't take long when at the moment it seems like chenle was having the time of his life on the court

you hate to admit it but whenever you'd hear some cheers from the court, you can't help but look up to see what was going on and there you see your boss, chenle, who seemed to be in his element. acting like he was about get drafted into the nba if they found him playing here at some random community park

unfortunately, chenle was a little too good at playing basketball

then again, what do you know about the sport?

chenle was quick on his feet. never missing a beat when he shoots the ball straight to the net with absolute ease. like it was second nature to him

he is the walking definition of confidence and charisma. he just oozes these two characteristics that you kinda hated it about him. why was he just so good at everything? from being a ceo and running a million dollar company on his back at his young age, he had to be good at sports too?

whatever. he's still an asshole, you think to yourself. diverting your attention back to your phone. you wouldn't want to be caught staring at your boss after—

SMACK!

all of a sudden your vision turns black and you feel a stinging sensation on your head

did you just get hit by a ball?

"oh my god"

"that wasn't me"

"you literally yelled 'this one is for you!' and missed the net!"

"are you okay?!" chenle's voice rings your ears. he runs to your side as he watches you cradle your head after the impact of a lose ball hitting you square in the head

you snap your eyes open, glaring at your boss in front of you

"you. absolute. fucking. dickhead!" you screamed

chenle doesn't know to laugh or to be concerned but based from your reaction, you seemed to be okay. fine even

"it wasn't my fault! it was mar-"

"i don't care whose fault it was! did i look like the fucking net to you" you throw your hands up in the air out of pure frustration

haechan was full on crying from laughing, jisung had to turn around or else he'd laugh while mark was wheezing

chenle opens his mouth to defend himself but you weren't letting him

"you know what. i'm going to hr on monday. report you for employee endangerment! putting my safety at risk outside work hours!" you threaten chenle, glaring at him

chenle rolls his eyes, "you're being dramatic. it's not like i meant to hit you–"

"adding that to the report. wait til sir kun hears about this" you tell him, whipping out the work gc on your phone ready to tattle on chenle to kun, aka the only person you respect more than chenle

chenle groans, running a hand through his face realizing that you weren't going to let this go

"fine. i'm sorry i hit you on accident" chenle apologizes half heartedly, "i guess i can let you go home after this"

chenle has never seen you go back to normal after hearing that you could go home. you instantly calmed down and happily grabbed your bag as you stood up from the bleachers as if you didn't just get hit by a ball

"that's more like it. report cancelled. see you" you bid your farewell to your boss as you walk away from the court

when you were out of sight, chenle walks back to the boys as they all try to catch their breaths from laughing so much

"i see why you keep her around. she grounds you some way some how" hyuck teases

chenle raises an eyebrow. he didn't need any grounding. it wasn't his fault that you were the type to not back down

"what do you mean by that?"

"i think he means she knows how to handle you. she's not afraid of you" mark points out while hyuck starts cackling again, replaying the memory of you getting hit by the ball because of jisung's weak pass to chenle that caused the ball flying to your direction and maybe right to your head

"does she know i'm hr... i told her didn't i?" jisung asks no one but himself out loud

"eh beats me. come on one more round" chenle cuts the conversation short, not thinking much of it

BUSINESS PROPOSAL ᝰ.ᐟ . . . AFTER WORK HOURS

✎ . . . things aren't going as planned the way you thought it was going to be. especially the part where you find yourself falling in love with your own boss– which was definitely not part of the agreed proposal.

[ PREV / NEXT ]

✎ AUTHORS NOTE . . . i didnt proof read the narration im too sleepy neow LOL

✎ TAGLIST . . . @mrkleelvr @jenodigital @https-dandelion @rik0shii @spacejip @yyangj3lly @multifandomania @taroddori @222brainrot @amouriu @defzcl @va1entinaa @carelessshootanonymous @onlywonb @flaminghotyourmom @do-you-remember-summer-127 @grimlinshere @yayayaiheardyouthefirsttime @hoeingthefuckup @meltinghershey @alwayswook @dutifullyannoyingstrawberrie @dudekiss3r @sibwol @planetmarlowe @doraemiz @morklee02 @httpsxnox @firydst @yuyita-rosier @ayukas @cottonjaems @monomya @neocults26 @greenyweirdo

[itsmerelliwellie]

Yeah, Not Friends | R. Kaji x Reader

---

For this pretty over here

---

4.) "We’re not friends. You just keep showing up out of nowhere.” “You keep letting me.”

Prompts

---

Warning(s): Nothing?

Important Warning: You know the drill

---

Ren Kaji’s voice rang out across the lot with a sharpness that only he could pull off. His usual scowl deepened as he glared at you, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his headphones hanging loosely around his neck, and a lollipop carelessly dangling from his mouth. Despite his tough, almost brooding exterior, there was always something about the way his eyes softened when they landed on you that betrayed his attempt to keep you at arm’s length.

You, on the other hand, had a smile that could rival the sun, always ready to tease him just a little too much.

You cocked your head, eyes glinting with mischief as you leaned against the fence, a comfortable distance away. “Oh, really?” you said, voice laced with teasing. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been showing up in the same spot every day for the last two weeks.”

His friends—including his juniors—stood in the background, grinning and exchanging looks as the tension between the two of you grew more palpable. You had no idea what they found so funny. It was just a typical morning routine, wasn’t it? You showed up. Kaji denied you. The end.

Except this time, there was something different in the air. You could feel it.

“We’re not friends,” Kaji repeated, this time with more force. His jaw was clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching ever so slightly as if he were trying to contain some feeling—something deeper than annoyance. “You just keep showing up out of nowhere.”

You raised an eyebrow, enjoying the game of cat and mouse. “You keep letting me.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and full of implication. Kaji froze for just a moment, his eyes flicking to yours with an unreadable expression, before he quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere, suddenly very interested in the concrete beneath his feet.

“Please,” Enomoto, the loud one, laughed from the sidelines. “Don’t lie, Kaji. You’re practically begging [Y/N] to stay.”

Kaji’s eyes shot toward Enomoto, his lips pressing into a tight line as if he was about to retort, but before he could, another voice spoke up.

Kusumi, the quiet one, who had been watching the entire exchange from the corner of his eye, tapped a note in his phone and showed it to Kaji.

We can see it clearly (VwV)/

Kaji’s cheeks flushed a faint red, just enough for you to notice, and your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions, not really.

You smirked, letting your eyes wander to the group. “What? Is it that obvious?” you asked, teasingly.

Before Kaji could respond, his eyes flickered back to you, and he muttered through gritted teeth, “You’re not my friend.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, taking a few steps back. “Okay, okay,” you said, chuckling lightly. “I’ll go. But only because I don’t want to be the one to destroy your cool reputation.”

With a wink, you turned to leave, feeling the eyes of his friends following you. But before you could take more than a few steps, you felt a rough pull at your wrist.

“Not so fast,” Kaji’s voice came, low and strained, as he tugged you toward him with a surprising force. The lollipop was still in his mouth, but his grip on your wrist was firmer than usual, making your heart race for reasons you couldn’t explain.

“What are you—” you started to ask, but he didn’t give you a chance to finish.

“We’re not done talking,” Kaji growled, pulling you into a quieter part of the schoolyard away from his friends.

The town was quiet in the afternoon, the sun lazily sinking toward the horizon as you walked through the streets, casually glancing into shops and enjoying the warmth of the day.

But something had changed in you. Since that little encounter this morning, there was an electric tension hanging in the air, thick and undeniable. Kaji’s reaction had left you wondering, especially when his eyes lingered just a little too long when you teased him.

“Why was he so weird about that?” you murmured to yourself, shaking your head and deciding to forget about it.

What you didn’t know was that Kaji had been following you, keeping his distance but watching your every move. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him, but something about the way you’d walked away from him, smiling that sweet, irritating smile, had driven him crazy.

He hated that you always seemed so comfortable with him, even though he was doing his best to avoid you. It was a game he didn’t know how to play, and yet you kept playing it anyway.

As you walked down the street, enjoying the cool breeze, a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Hey there,” a guy from your class appeared, smiling like he’d just won a prize. His eyes were dark with intent, and you could already feel the vibe of the conversation shifting to something uncomfortable. This was the third time you’ve seen him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” he said, stepping closer to you. “You always look so good. You finally wanna hang out sometime? Maybe we could grab a coffee.”

You smiled politely but took a step back. “I told you that I’m really not interested,” you said firmly, already feeling the tension building.

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, he moved closer, his hand brushing against your arm as he leaned in just a little too much. “Come on, don’t be like that. We could have a good time together. I know we would.”

Your skin prickled with discomfort, but before you could speak again, a cold, unmistakable voice cut through the air.

“Hey,” Kaji called out, stepping forward with a glare aimed squarely at the guy. His posture was stiff, his hands clenched at his sides, and you could see the anger rolling off of him in waves. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away?”

The guy blinked, momentarily surprised, but then his cocky grin returned. “What is it to you? You jealous? You the boyfriend or something?”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought Kaji might actually punch the guy. His hand twitched at his side, the lollipop still stuck between his lips, but it was obvious he was holding himself back with everything he had.

Before you could say anything, Kaji grabbed your wrist again, this time with more urgency. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice barely more than a growl as he started walking away, dragging you behind him.

Your breath caught in your throat at his sudden forcefulness. You tried to resist for a moment, but it was useless. Kaji wasn’t letting you go, and at that moment, you realized just how badly he didn’t want you talking to anyone else.

“Where are we going?” you asked, half breathless and half intrigued.

“Somewhere quiet,” he muttered, still walking briskly, and the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. He was angry. He was angry because of that guy.

Kaji didn’t speak a word as he took you down a side street and pulled you into an alley. When he finally stopped, he turned to face you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, and his fiery, intense eyes locked onto yours.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” Kaji spat, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. “I don’t want anyone else flirting with you. You’re mine.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You stared at him, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to process what he was saying. But before you could gather your thoughts, Kaji was right there, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that was nothing short of ferocious.

It was messy and needy, and you could feel his desperation in the way his fingers curled into your hair, tugging you impossibly closer.

For a second, you were too shocked to respond. But as his kiss deepened, as he pulled you tighter into his chest, something in you snapped. You kissed him back, hands flying up to his neck as your lips parted against his, your body pressing closer as you felt the heat rising between you.

When he finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, his eyes dark with emotion.

“I can’t keep pretending,” Kaji admitted, his voice low and raw. “I’ve been fighting this for too long, but I can’t anymore. You—you drive me crazy.”

Before you could say anything, Kaji grabbed your hand, his fingers twining with yours, and he started walking again, dragging you along with him, not caring if his friends saw. He wasn’t going to hide anymore.

As you continued walking with Kaji, his grip on your hand never loosened. His headphones were back around his neck, but he didn’t put them on. He kept his eyes on you, his face unreadable, but the tension between you was palpable.

His friends were watching from a distance, and it was obvious they were trying not to laugh. Enomoto, Kiryu, and Tsugeura exchanged glances, their eyes full of amusement as they walked alongside Kaji.

“You know, Kaji,” Enomoto called out, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you can’t pretend you’re not in love anymore. It’s kinda obvious now.”

Kaji shot him a glare, but his fingers tightened around your hand, and for the first time, you didn’t try to pull away.

Kaji might have been denying it, but his heart? His heart was no longer willing to lie.

---

A/N: He'll get there guys. Trust.

---

[missmadella]

To loud for Love (Bokuto x Reader)

Summary: You loved Bokuto quietly, from high school to pro league— through heartbreak, through his toxic relationship, through everything. He never noticed. Until one stormy night cracked everything open.

You were always the one who supported him the most.

Words: 8493

You hadn’t meant to stay late that day.

The rain had come out of nowhere — a sudden spring storm that turned the sky dark and made the hallways buzz with static and thunder. Your club meeting had been cancelled last minute, and by the time you realized the buses were already gone, you were soaked from running across the courtyard.

You ducked into the gym for shelter, the one place that still had lights on.

And there he was.

Bokuto Koutarou. The third-year ace. Golden boy of the volleyball team. Loud, reckless, brilliant.

He didn’t notice you at first — no one did. You sat on the bleachers, dripping and trying not to shiver, while the team ran drills. His laugh echoed across the court like sunlight — bright, warm, impossible to ignore.

“ONE MORE! I’m feelin’ it today, Akaashi!”

You saw the setter — calm, cool Akaashi — nod once, his movements sharp and practiced. Another spike. Another perfect hit. Bokuto beamed.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until he caught your eye.

He turned mid-stride, eyes lighting up like someone had just handed him a puppy and a cupcake all at once.

“Hey! You! Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, you!” He jogged over, towel around his neck, hair a mess, sweat clinging to his jaw. “You look like a drowned cat!”

You let out an embarrassed laugh, brushing your wet hair behind your ear. “Yeah, uh. Got caught in the rain. Just waiting for it to pass.”

“You should’ve come in sooner! We don’t bite.” He grinned. “Well, I don’t. I can’t speak for Konoha.”

“Hey!” someone yelled from the court.

“See?” Bokuto winked. “You hungry? We’ve got snacks.”

You tried to protest, but he was already grabbing his bag and pulling out a crushed convenience store pastry — a chocolate-filled bun, half-smashed but still in its wrapper.

“Here. Emergency sugar. You need it.”

You stared at it, then at him. “You’re just… giving me your snack?”

“Course I am!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Can’t have anyone passing out in my gym.”

Your gym.

He sat beside you, not caring that you were soaked or that his hair was still damp with sweat. He just was — fully, comfortably, unapologetically there.

You nibbled on the pastry while he talked. About volleyball. About class. About how the school vending machines never stocked his favorite juice. You barely said a word, just nodded and listened.

You thought: How can anyone be this full of life and not burn out?

And then:

How could anyone ever tell him to be less?

___________________________________________________________________________

You walked home together that day. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he insisted on walking you to your street, even though it was out of his way.

He asked if you liked owls. You said yes — mostly because you knew he did.

“I think I like you,” he said suddenly, then laughed when your eyes went wide. “I mean — not like that! I mean, you’re cool. You listen really well. And you laughed at my ‘cat’ joke.”

You laughed too, trying to hide the twist in your chest.

“Yeah. You’re… pretty easy to like, Bokuto.”

“Really?” he asked, hopeful, eyes wide.

You nodded.

“Cool! You should come watch a real match sometime. When I’m really on fire.”

He threw his arms up dramatically, mimicking a jump serve in the middle of the sidewalk. You smiled through the quiet ache in your chest.

That was the moment.

The exact second your heart decided.

And you knew — whether he ever looked at you like that or not — some part of you would always belong to Bokuto Koutarou.

___________________________________________________________________________

“Catch!”

You barely had time to register the voice before something soft smacked into your chest.

You looked down — a melonpan bun, still in its wrapper.

“Breakfast!” Bokuto called from across the courtyard, grinning like he just solved world hunger. “You skipped it again, didn’t you?”

You laughed. “How do you know that?”

“You always get this pouty look in class when you’re hungry. Super tragic.” He puffed out his cheeks dramatically. “Like this.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already doing that thing — that fluttery, warm squeeze that had become way too familiar lately.

You watched as he bounded over, hair catching the morning sun, eyes crinkling from how hard he smiled.

And just like that, it hit you.

Oh.

I’m in love with him.

The thought stopped you cold.

Not a crush. Not some passing thing.

You were in real, awful, aching love with Bokuto Koutarou.

And he had no idea.

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t realize Akaashi was nearby until you felt his presence beside you, quiet and unbothered as always. He stood under the shade of the sakura trees, hands in his pockets, watching Bokuto enthusiastically try to convince a squirrel to come closer.

“You’ve got that look again,” Akaashi said softly.

You blinked. “What look?”

“The kind people get when they’re trying not to fall apart.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Akaashi didn’t press. He just stood there, calm as ever, letting the silence settle between you like snow.

You stared at your shoes.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked finally.

“To most people? Probably not. To me? Yeah.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“It usually doesn’t work that way.”

Bokuto called your name again — waving now, a leaf stuck in his hair from chasing the squirrel. You waved back without thinking, smile automatic, heart aching.

“He’s not trying to hurt you,” Akaashi said gently. “You know that, right?”

You nodded. “He’s just… being him.”

“And you love him for it.”

The words sank into your bones, even though they were already carved there.

“I do,” you whispered.

Akaashi didn’t say anything for a while. Then, softly:

“You’re not alone, you know. Even if he never sees it… I do.”

You turned your head to look at him, surprised.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, giving you the smallest, most sincere smile. “And for what it’s worth… you’re not too much, either.”

You didn’t know you needed to hear that until he said it.

Bokuto came jogging back toward you, grinning wide, holding up his phone.

“I got a picture of the squirrel!!” he said triumphantly.

You smiled through the ache.

“Of course you did.”

And that was how it was — back then. You, falling in love quietly. Bokuto, shining like the sun. Akaashi, watching the whole thing like a steady moon, always there to catch the shadows you tried to hide.

___________________________________________________________________________

What you did not expect was how much hurt you would get.

It was a barbecue.

The kind of casual, end-of-summer thing where old teammates and mutual friends sprawled across picnic benches and plastic chairs, everyone drinking too much soda and pretending they weren’t all dreading the next chapter.

You hadn’t seen Bokuto in a few weeks — training camp, he said — and you tried not to count the days. But when you spotted his head above the crowd, hair a little longer, eyes as bright as ever, your heart gave the same stupid lurch it always did.

He saw you and lit up.

“Y/N!!”

His hug was full-body, chaotic, perfect. You clung to it for half a second too long, not ready to let go.

And then he pulled back, grinning.

“I want you to meet someone!”

You knew before he said it. You just knew.

“This is Emi! My girlfriend.”

Your stomach twisted, but your face held the smile you’d been practicing your whole life.

She stepped forward — tall, elegant, the kind of girl who looked like she belonged in every room she entered. Her smile was dazzling.

“Y/N, right? Koutarou talks about you all the time. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Her voice was warm. Genuinely so. She didn’t hesitate to hug you — not the fake, half-hearted kind either. She smelled like vanilla and something expensive.

“He told me you used to bring him snacks during practice,” she said, laughing. “That’s so cute. He never shuts up about how much he misses that.”

Your throat closed.

“Yeah,” you said. “He likes the melonpan with the chocolate chips.”

“Ugh, I tried one — way too sweet for me,” she said, scrunching her nose, but still smiling. “But I guess that’s Koutarou, right? Always going over the top.”

Bokuto laughed. “Hey! Over the top is my thing!”

You laughed too, even though something inside you curled up like paper under a flame.

She was sweet. Funny. Perfectly polite.

But something in her eyes — something sharp, a flicker of calculation behind the warmth — made your skin crawl. Like she was seeing through you and cataloguing your place.

Still, she held your hand for a beat too long and said,

“I hope we get to hang out more. You’re important to him.”

And that was it, wasn’t it?

Not “I can’t wait to know you.”

Not “I’m happy to be friends.”

Just a quiet warning wrapped in sugar.

You smiled.

You didn’t say anything.

Because Bokuto was happy. Or at least, he looked it. And what right did you have to ruin that?

You spent the rest of the evening sitting between conversations, laughing at jokes that didn’t reach your eyes, watching the way she looped her arm around his and whispered things in his ear.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That as long as you got to stay in his life, that was enough.

But that night, lying in bed, you replayed her voice again and again.

“You’re important to him.”

And for the first time, you wondered how much longer that would be true.

You thought you could handle it.

You told yourself — over and over again — that it was enough just to be in his life. To hear your name in his laugh, to have him fling an arm around your shoulders like nothing had changed. To have him still text you when something reminded him of you. To have him still care.

But the truth was quieter. Meaner.

Because he wasn’t texting you as much.

Because when he did talk, he talked about her.

Because when he laughed, it wasn’t always with you anymore.

You weren’t losing him, not really.

You were just… being replaced.

And smiling through it.

It wasn’t that Emi was unkind.

She wasn’t.

She remembered your name, asked about your classes, even complimented your shoes once. Every word was soft and golden, like honey dripping from a spoon. Sweet enough to stick.

But it always felt like you were standing just outside the circle. Not exiled — not fully — but not quite in it either.

She was good at that.

And Bokuto? He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

He still hugged you tight and ruffled your hair and called you “my favorite melonpan buddy.” But then she’d call his name, and he’d look back — and that look in his eyes, the one that used to land on you like sunlight, would drift away.

And you’d pretend not to notice.

One night, after a group dinner, you stayed back to help clean up. Akaashi was there too — stacking plates in his calm, quiet way, watching you from the corner of his eye.

You didn’t say anything at first.

But he did.

“You’re allowed to be hurt, you know.”

Your fingers froze around a glass. “What?”

“You don’t have to act like it doesn’t bother you.”

You swallowed. Your throat burned.

“He’s happy,” you said, voice thin. “That should be enough.”

“Is he?”

That stopped you.

You turned to look at him. Akaashi’s gaze wasn’t judging. Just… knowing.

“She’s nice,” you said weakly.

“She’s polite,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”

The silence sat heavy between you.

“She makes him feel like he has to be less,” you whispered. “And I… I can’t tell him that. What if he thinks I’m jealous? What if I lose him completely?”

Akaashi dried his hands on a towel. Stepped closer.

“You’re already losing pieces of him,” he said gently. “By pretending none of this hurts.”

You stared down at your feet.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then let it hurt,” he said. “At least it’s real.”

That night, you lay in bed staring at your phone.

No new messages.

Just a saved one from weeks ago.

Bokuto: You’re one of my favorite people in the world, you know that?

You closed your eyes.

And let it hurt.

__________________________________________________________________________

Things only got worse from there. The way he started looking at her and not at you, how your heart ached more with each passing day — that hurt the most. But the worst part was the slowly growing, passive-aggressive comments she directed at you. They dripped from her voice, masked in sweetness, but you could hear the underlying bite. It didn’t just make you sad; it made you angry. And, little by little, you began to resent her in a way you never wanted to feel.

But the hardest part of all was how she made Bokuto feel like he was too much. That was the real knife in your chest. The fact that she was changing him in ways you couldn’t undo — that upset you the most.

And then it began

It started small.

A sigh from her when he interrupted her story — not playful, not teasing. Sharp.

A twitch of her jaw when he laughed too loud in a quiet room.

A glance across a crowded gathering that made him shrink a little, shoulders curling inward, voice dipping softer.

He never said anything.

But you noticed.

You always noticed.

You watched it happen in pieces.

At first, you told yourself maybe they were just different. Maybe opposites attract. Maybe she didn’t mean it like that.

But over time, Bokuto changed.

Little things.

He stopped blurting out jokes mid-conversation. Stopped sending long, excited texts about random things like a new owl video or a cool new energy drink flavor. Started asking “Was that annoying?” after telling stories.

That one hurt most.

He never used to ask that.

And you’d smile — reassure him — tell him, “Never. You're the best part of every story.”

But the worry would still linger in his eyes, like he was trying to hold himself back from being too much.

Like someone had made him believe that he was.

You didn’t see the worst of it until one night after a match — he didn’t play well, off his game, shoulders slumped.

She barely looked up from her phone when he walked over.

“Hey,” he said, voice small. “Did you see the—?”

“Yeah. You were kind of all over the place today.”

“Right.” He tried to laugh it off. “I guess I was kinda... too fired up?”

“You always are,” she said flatly. “It gets old, Koutarou.”

He laughed again — but quieter. That kind of laugh people do when they’re pretending it didn’t sting.

You felt it in your bones.

You met his eyes across the room. And even though he smiled at you, it didn’t reach all the way.

And then one day, he stopped smiling at all.

At least, not the same way.

And you couldn’t help but wonder — how much of himself had he given up, just to be loved by someone who only wanted a quieter version of him?

___________________________________________________________________________

The café was warm, cozy — quiet jazz playing, low lighting, soft clatter of cups.

But the silence between them was sharp.

You sat two tables away. Not eavesdropping — not really. But close enough to hear the edges of their conversation.

Bokuto’s back was to you. Her face wasn’t.

She looked bored.

His hands moved as he spoke, excited about something — maybe a new campaign, a match, or a show he’d started watching.

You watched him gesture, eyes lit up, trying to pull her into it.

And then she said it.

Flat. Careless.

“God, Koutarou. Do you ever stop talking?”

He froze.

It was just a second. A beat.

But it was loud.

You saw his hand falter mid-air. Saw the way his eyes dropped to the table. Saw him shrink.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just thought it was cool.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s exhausting sometimes. You’re always on. Like… not everything needs to be a performance.”

And that was it.

That was the moment.

You watched the light drain from his face — like someone had turned down the dimmer on the sun.

You stood up before you knew what you were doing.

You couldn’t stay in your seat.

You couldn’t pretend everything was fine. Not when his whole world had just cracked, and you were sitting idly by, watching it happen.

You stood, your chair scraping against the floor, heart pounding against your ribs. You walked over to their table, not really knowing what you were going to say, just knowing you had to say something.

Bokuto hadn’t noticed you yet — his eyes were still lowered, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller, quieter. You knew he didn’t deserve to feel like that.

Emi, on the other hand, noticed immediately. Her gaze flickered over to you, and for a second, there was something cold in her eyes. But she quickly masked it with a tight smile.

“Hey, Y/N,” she said sweetly, as if nothing had happened. “Did you need something?”

You looked down at Bokuto, who hadn’t looked up at you yet, his hands fidgeting with his drink, tapping nervously on the rim.

Your throat burned.

You could see it now. You could see how uncomfortable he was around her. How she was making him smaller, quieter, less him. And you were done pretending you didn’t see it.

You cleared your throat. “I think... I think Koutarou deserves better than that.”

Her smile dropped for a second, a brief flash of annoyance before she masked it again. “Excuse me?”

You ignored her, speaking directly to Bokuto. “You don’t have to be quiet for anyone. You’re not too much, Koutarou.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, like he hadn’t expected to hear those words. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“I just…” You faltered for a second. “You shouldn’t have to shrink yourself for anyone. Not for her.”

You didn’t care how this came out. Not anymore. Not when you saw how much he was hurting.

Emi’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’re out of line.”

You didn’t look at her. Your focus was on Bokuto, whose face was frozen, torn between confusion and something else — something deeper.

“It’s not you, Emi,” you said softly, but firmly. “I’m not saying anything about you. I’m just saying…” You swallowed hard. “Koutarou’s loud. He’s messy. He’s too much. But that’s him. And he deserves someone who can love him just like that.”

The table was silent for a beat. You could hear the background hum of the café, the clink of cups, the soft murmur of conversation. But it all felt like it was happening too far away.

Bokuto was looking at you now, eyes wide, unblinking. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming.

“I don’t…” he started, then trailed off. His voice cracked, and you hated hearing it. “I didn’t think it was that bad. I just… I thought maybe I was doing something wrong.”

Your heart twisted. He thought he was doing something wrong.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you said gently, but your words came out thick with the emotion you’d held in for so long. “You’re you. And you don’t have to change for anyone. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

You wanted to reach out, to hold him, but you didn’t. You didn’t know if it would make it worse.

Emi stood abruptly, a sharp gesture that made the glass in front of her rattle. She threw a glance at you, then at Bokuto.

“I think I’m done here,” she said coolly. “Koutarou, I’ll see you at home. Don’t forget to be on time for practice tomorrow.”

Her words stung, but you didn’t let your face show it. You stood your ground, keeping your gaze locked on Bokuto, hoping he would understand.

She walked away, not sparing another glance at either of you. The door to the café chimed as she left, and the air between you and Bokuto felt heavy, thick with all the things that hadn’t been said.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, Bokuto exhaled, a shaky breath escaping his lips. His voice was small, unsure.

“Did she… really say that?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He stared at his drink, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I don’t… I didn’t even realize it was happening,” he admitted, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “I just thought I was being too much for her...”

You sat down beside him, not saying anything at first, just letting the silence hang there. His words echoed in your mind — too much for her. And you wanted to shout that he wasn’t, but you didn’t. Because maybe he needed to hear it from someone else. From someone who wasn’t so tangled up in everything.

“You’re not too much, Koutarou,” you said softly. “And you don’t ever have to be quiet. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

He sniffed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what to do. I just… want things to be okay. I want to make it work.”

Your heart ached. “Maybe she’s not the one who can let you be who you are.”

There was a long pause, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was thick with something else — vulnerability, regret.

“I don’t know if I can keep pretending this is working. I don’t know what to do.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Whatever happens… I’ll be here, Koutarou. You don’t have to do it alone.”

For the first time in a long while, he looked at you — really looked at you — his eyes filled with something raw and real. Maybe it wasn’t love, not yet. But it was something. Something that felt like a promise.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

The rain beat down against your window, the heavy drops tapping rhythmically against the glass, almost like a heartbeat you couldn’t escape. The wind howled through the city streets, making the whole apartment feel like it was shaking in time with the storm. The weather mirrored the chaos in your chest — the tension you hadn’t quite shaken, the ache of everything you hadn’t said yet.

You lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. It was one of those nights where the silence of your apartment was louder than the rain outside, and the stillness made it impossible to avoid your thoughts.

Bokuto was on your mind, as he often was.

You thought about his smile, the way it reached all the way to his eyes, how he used to brighten up a room with just his presence. You thought about how much he had changed, how his laugh wasn’t as loud anymore. How she — Emi — had quieted him, made him second-guess himself. You thought about the way he had looked at you earlier, in that café, when you told him he didn’t need to shrink himself for anyone.

You wondered if that would be enough to make him realize that he wasn’t the problem. That it was her.

You sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to push the thoughts away.

But then, the doorbell rang.

Your heart skipped. You weren’t expecting anyone. For a moment, you lay there, unsure, until the ring came again, more insistent this time.

You swung your legs off the couch, the wet chill of the floor seeping through your socks as you made your way to the door. Your heart picked up its pace for reasons you couldn’t name.

You opened it, and there, standing in the doorway, soaked to the bone, was Bokuto.

His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead, and his clothes clung to him, dripping with rain. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and for a split second, you didn’t even know what to say.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to get caught in his throat, his chest heaving like he had run all the way here.

“I... I broke up with her,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “Emi... We had a huge fight.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The news hit you like a wave, a flood of emotions crashing over you.

Without thinking, you reached out, pulling him inside. His wet clothes left a damp trail across your floor, but you didn’t care. He needed comfort, and you’d never turn him away, especially not now.

You led him to the couch, your hands shaking slightly as you gestured for him to sit. He collapsed into the cushions, running a hand through his drenched hair, still breathing hard.

“She... she said so much,” he began, voice wavering as if he was trying to hold it together, but the dam was breaking. “She told me I was... I was too loud, too much. That I was exhausting. And I—I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to be that person for her anymore.”

You sat down next to him, your heart aching at his words. The sound of the storm outside seemed to fade into the background as you focused entirely on him.

“You weren’t too much, Koutarou,” you said softly, trying to steady your voice, but you couldn’t stop the rush of emotion that followed. “You’re not. You’re you, and you never have to apologize for being yourself.”

His eyes flickered to yours, and for a moment, you could see the vulnerability in them — the cracks, the fragility he had been hiding so well.

“But she made me feel like I was... I don’t know, like I was too big for her. Like my energy was too much.” His voice faltered as he ran a hand over his face, clearly exhausted, mentally and physically. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I kept telling myself I could, that maybe it was just a phase. But then we fought, and it all came out... and I just—"

He stopped, breathing heavily, his hands trembling now.

You reached out without thinking, pulling him into a tight hug. He froze for a moment, as if surprised, but then his arms wrapped around you desperately. You could feel the dampness of his shirt against your skin, but it didn’t matter.

The storm outside seemed to roar louder, but inside, it was just the two of you.

“You’re not too loud, Koutarou,” you whispered again, your voice thick with emotion. “And you never have to shrink yourself for anyone. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

He tightened his hold on you, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I thought I was the problem,” he said in a broken whisper. “I thought maybe... maybe it was just me. But now I see. Maybe I was just trying to be someone else for her... and I lost myself in it.”

You held him tighter, not knowing what to say. You could feel his tears soaking through your shirt, and you didn’t pull away. He needed you, just as much as you needed to be there for him.

The storm outside began to ease, the wind dying down, but the tension between you two remained. You could feel him slowly unraveling, but there was something else — something in the air. The kind of moment that hangs between two people who are learning to share the weight of each other’s pain.

“I just... I don’t know what to do now,” Bokuto murmured, his voice hoarse. “Everything feels so... empty.”

You gently pulled back, enough to look him in the eye, wiping a tear from his cheek, though you didn’t have any words left. What could you say? Everything will be okay? It wouldn’t be just yet.

But in that moment, you knew one thing for sure: whatever happened, he wouldn’t be alone. Not anymore.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said quietly, your voice steady, even as your heart pounded in your chest. “I’m here. You’ll figure it out. And I’ll be here.”

He stared at you, his eyes still red but softer now. Slowly, he nodded, his lips trembling like he was trying to find the right words. But for now, words weren’t needed. Not yet.

He leaned back into the couch, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he just let himself be. Just be with you.

The storm outside had calmed. But inside, you both knew the journey was just beginning.

___________________________________________________________________________

The sunlight crept in slowly, slipping through the slats of your blinds, painting the floor with soft gold. The storm had passed sometime during the early hours, leaving behind a hush that clung to the air — like everything was trying to be gentle, not to break the moment.

You were already awake, sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee you didn’t really taste.

From the other room, you heard the creak of the couch, followed by the familiar sound of Bokuto’s voice — groggy, quiet.

“Hey…”

You turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from a shower, his eyes softer now, though rimmed with exhaustion.

“Morning,” you said, your smile gentle. “How are you feeling?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, giving a sheepish grin. “Like I went twelve rounds with a hurricane… but thanks for letting me crash here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

You wanted to say, You always have a place here. But the words got stuck behind your teeth.

“Anytime,” you said instead.

He wandered over to sit across from you, hands wrapped around the mug you slid in his direction.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just there, quiet and waiting. You glanced at him while he stared into his coffee, and you wondered if he realized — how close he was to breaking your heart without even meaning to.

He looked better than last night. A little more like himself. But he still didn’t see it. He didn’t see you.

Later that day, you left him at your place to rest while you went to run errands — and that's when he showed up.

Akaashi met you halfway home. He had that unreadable expression he wore when he was holding back exactly how much he knew.

“He’s at your place?” he asked after you filled him in.

You nodded. “Didn’t want to go home. I get it.”

He studied you for a long moment, brows drawing together slightly.

“And you’re okay with that?”

The question hit you in a weird way. Of course you were okay with it. Or maybe you weren’t, but you couldn’t say that out loud.

“I just want him to be okay,” you said softly.

Akaashi tilted his head, and something passed behind his eyes. It was the same look he always gave when he knew more than he let on.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you’ve been in love with him since our third year. Don’t look at me like that. I was paying attention.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words didn’t come. Not when Akaashi was looking at you like that — not when he was being so frustratingly right.

“Why are you telling me this now?” you asked.

Akaashi shrugged, calm as ever. “Because he’s not going to figure it out on his own. He’s never been good at seeing what’s right in front of him.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“And what am I supposed to do? Just confess while he’s still in pieces?”

“No,” Akaashi said. “But maybe… maybe someone should help him see what’s always been there.”

He didn’t say you. He didn’t need to.

Meanwhile, back at your apartment, Bokuto sat on your couch, staring out the window.

Your blanket was still bunched where you’d been sitting that morning. The place still smelled like your shampoo, like the warmth of something safe. He couldn’t explain it, but being here — being with you — made him feel like he was finally breathing again after holding it in for too long.

His phone buzzed.

Akaashi.

“You’re an idiot.”

Bokuto blinked. Rude.

Before he could respond, another text came through.

“She’s been in love with you for years, Koutarou. Start paying attention.”

The words stared up at him from the screen, his heart skipping a beat.

He sat there frozen, the warmth of the room suddenly feeling very different.

And then he started remembering — the way you’d looked at him in the café, the way you didn’t say anything when Emi had been fake-nice to you, the way you hugged him last night, like it hurt.

He replayed a hundred little moments he hadn’t given weight to before.

Oh.

His chest tightened, not in pain, but in realization. In recognition.

How hadn’t he seen it?

How long had you been right there, loving him quietly while he tried to fix something that was never meant to be fixed?

The door opened, and you stepped back in, pausing when you saw him still sitting there, staring at his phone like it had personally ruined his life.

“Everything okay?” you asked cautiously.

He looked up at you, blinking once, then again.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he really saw you.

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect the look on his face when you walked in. Bokuto was still, phone loose in his hand, eyes fixed on you like you’d just said something life-altering — except you hadn’t even spoken yet.

“Koutarou?” you asked again, stepping forward, frowning. “Is everything okay?”

He blinked, like he was dragging himself out of a trance.

“Y-Yeah,” he said, voice slightly hoarse. “Yeah, it’s just... Akaashi texted me.”

You raised a brow and gave a small, curious smile. “That explains the look. What did he say? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Bokuto muttered, more to himself than to you. “Just… something I should’ve seen a long time ago.”

You paused, watching him carefully. There was something different about him. The open hurt from last night had quieted, and in its place was this strange, slow-burning tension — like he was standing on the edge of something and wasn’t sure if he should take the leap.

“He told me something,” Bokuto said, still not quite looking at you. “And I don’t know if it’s true. But if it is… I’ve been really, really stupid.”

Your heart skipped.

You forced your voice to stay even. “What did he tell you?”

He looked up at you, finally meeting your eyes — and this time, there was something raw and real in his gaze. Something unguarded. Curious. A little afraid.

“He said you’ve been in love with me. For a long time.”

The words hit the air like thunder, and all you could do was stare. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a statement, either — it was a door. One you could walk through. Or not.

You took a shaky breath, eyes dropping to the floor.

“He had no right to say that,” you whispered.

“Is it true?”

Silence pressed in around you. The kind that could either hold a confession or crush it.

Your throat felt tight. “Why does it matter now?”

Bokuto stood up slowly, crossing the room. Not in a rush. Not storming. Just… careful.

“Because if it is,” he said gently, “then I owe you an apology. For not seeing it. For not seeing you.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t expect you to. You were in love with someone else.”

He flinched at that, the guilt hitting him sharper than he expected. “Yeah. I was. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you. Or that I don’t now.”

“You cared,” you said, voice low, “but you didn’t choose me.”

That stopped him in his tracks. The truth of it settled heavy in the room.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. And maybe I wasn’t supposed to — not then. But I don’t want to keep being blind, or selfish. I want to understand what I missed. I want to try.”

You looked up at him slowly, trying to read the uncertainty in his face, the softness there. His vulnerability mirrored yours.

“And what if you realize it’s not what you want?”

“Then at least I’ll know. And I won’t be wondering anymore. And neither will you.”

You didn’t realize how long you’d been holding your breath until your lungs started to ache.

This wasn’t a confession. Not yet.

It was a spark. A match struck in the dark, waiting to catch.

“I can’t go through another Emi,” you said quietly. “I can’t watch you chase someone who doesn’t see you. Or someone who doesn’t see me while I stand right here.”

Bokuto nodded, stepping just a little closer — closing the distance to hug you.

“I don’t want another Emi either. I want something real. Something honest. And if you’ve been carrying this all alone for that long…”

He took a breath.

“Maybe it’s time I start carrying it with you.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. You just nodded, barely, your eyes glossy but warm.

And Bokuto, finally, finally started to see what he’d been missing all along.

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been a few weeks since that night.

Since the storm.

Since the hug that lasted just a little too long, and the conversation that cracked something open in both of you.

Things hadn’t gone back to how they were — not really. There was a new tension now, quiet but undeniable. A closeness laced with awareness. A pause between touches, a flicker of eyes held just a second too long. A silence that felt like it was waiting for something to be said.

And Bokuto had been trying to understand it. To understand you.

At first, he thought he was just sorting through the wreckage of his last relationship — picking through the emotional shrapnel Emi left behind. But the more time he spent with you, the more he started to realize something:

With you, he didn’t feel broken. With you, he felt whole.

It was late — well past midnight — when he found himself outside your apartment again.

No storm this time. Just a quiet city and a heart that wouldn’t let him sleep.

He didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just… knocked.

You opened the door in one of those big, soft t-shirts you always wore to bed, hair messy, eyes still carrying the weight of sleep and surprise.

“Kou?” you blinked, voice scratchy. “It’s late…”

He ran a hand through his hair, awkward. Nervous. But steady.

“I couldn’t sleep. I needed to see you.”

You stared at him for a moment, heart in your throat. And then, silently, you stepped aside to let him in.

Bokuto stepped inside, the soft click of the door behind him sealing the world out. Your apartment smelled like sleep and rain-damp air, quiet enough to hear the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of city traffic outside.

You stood there for a moment, both of you unsure of what to say — or maybe just trying to hold the moment steady so it wouldn’t collapse under the weight of everything hanging between you.

“Want tea or something?” you offered, voice soft.

He shook his head. “No, I… I didn’t come for tea.”

You nodded, lips pressing together like you were bracing for something. He saw the flicker in your eyes — like you already knew what was coming.

He took a breath. “These past few weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out how I missed it. How I missed you. And I keep thinking about that night — when you held me like that… when you didn’t say anything, but I felt it anyway.”

You turned to face him fully now, the air thick with unspoken things. “Kou…”

“I get it now,” he whispered. “I really do.”

And that was all it took.

He stepped in, slow and careful, like he was afraid of breaking the moment. His hand found yours — warm, grounding — and when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers curled around his like it was instinct, he took another step.

“You’ve been here this whole time,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “Loving me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I didn’t see it.”

Your breath hitched, eyes shining. “You always deserved it.”

Something in him broke at that. In the best way.

He cupped your cheek, gentle — reverent — his thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

And then, without another word, he kissed you.

Not a question. Not a maybe.

It was soft, but full — like a confession in motion. Like an apology. Like a promise.

You melted into it before you could stop yourself, hands curling into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer as the months — years — of aching silence finally cracked open between you.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been holding his breath his whole life and had only just now remembered how to exhale.

And when you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, foreheads resting together, he smiled — wide and real and a little teary.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

You touched his face, eyes soft. “You’re here now.”

He nodded.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

___________________________________________________________________________

The crowd at the Jackals' home arena was wild tonight.

Fans were decked out in black and white, the team’s logo emblazoned on jerseys and banners, camera flashes going off every time a player moved. It was the kind of energy Bokuto fed off — chaotic, loud, electric.

And you were right there in the front row, wearing his jersey — number 4 — oversized and cozy over your long sleeves, with your face painted in team colors and a handmade sign in your lap that read: “TOO LOUD? NEVER. GO KOU!”

He spotted it during warmups and nearly tripped over his own feet.

Atsumu whistled low as they stretched at the net. “That sign yours?”

Bokuto’s grin stretched wide. “Damn right it is.”

“Man’s in love,” Hinata muttered with a teasing nudge.

“So what?” Bokuto beamed. “Let me be loud about it!”

And when the match started, it was like something clicked into place.

He was on fire. Every spike came with that signature Bokuto flair — yelling, fist-pumping, absolutely hyping the crowd (and himself) up like it was game 7 of a championship, even though it was a regular season match.

But the best part wasn’t the crowd screaming his name, or the scoreboard lighting up after every kill.

It was the way you cheered — standing up every time he hit the court, clapping until your hands stung, eyes following him like he was the only one playing.

And he noticed. Every time.

When he landed a particularly brutal cross shot in the third set and the crowd lost it, he didn’t look to the bench.

He looked straight at you.

You stood up, holding your sign above your head, mouthing the words: “You’re doing amazing.”

He pointed at you, grinning like a man in love and absolutely not trying to hide it.

After the game — a win, obviously — Bokuto bounded off the court with energy to spare, waving to the crowd, but beelining straight for where you stood by the sideline.

He didn’t care about cameras or interviews or Atsumu yelling “bro, media obligations!!” behind him.

He ducked under the barrier, wrapped you in his arms, and kissed you hard — like he needed to say thank you in the only way that mattered.

“You were louder than the whole arena,” he mumbled into your hair.

“I was trying to match your energy,” you teased, breathless from both the kiss and his lingering excitement.

“Impossible,” he grinned, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and bright. “But I love you for trying.”

“You know I love your loud, right?”

He paused, just for a second — then pulled you into a second kiss, slower this time. Sweeter. And whispered:

“That’s why you’re everything.”

__________________________________________________________________________

You hadn’t expected to see her.

It was supposed to be a casual alumni mixer — a volleyball charity gala organized by the V.League. You were there with Bokuto, of course, dressed up, hand in hand, laughing at his bad jokes and proudly wearing the diamond ring he’d put on your finger two years ago.

Everything felt golden. Safe.

Until you turned toward the back of the venue, and there she was.

Emi.

Standing by the bar in a fitted black dress, glass of wine in hand, looking like time had made her sharper — not just in looks, but in attitude. Her eyes locked on you with a glance that could cut glass.

You felt the cold before she even took a step toward you.

“Wow,” she said, voice smooth and brittle, like lacquer cracking under pressure. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Still trailing behind him, huh?”

You blinked. The comment was so casual and so sharp you almost laughed.

“Actually,” you said, holding up your hand just slightly, “I’m his wife.”

She smiled — tight, practiced.

“Oh, right. I heard you two got married. Congrats.”

There was something venomous in her voice that didn’t match the words. You kept your expression calm, your voice steady, the way you always did when people like Emi tried to rattle you.

“Thanks. We’re really happy.”

And then — she leaned in, too close, voice dropping so only you could hear it.

“You think he’s going to stay that happy? You think it’ll last? You were always hanging around, waiting for scraps. Maybe he settled. Ever think of that?”

You felt your stomach twist — not because she got to you. But because once, years ago, she had.

You didn’t flinch now.

You looked her dead in the eyes and said:

“He didn’t settle. He chose me. Every day. And he’s never been happier.”

She scoffed, trying to mask her discomfort behind a bitter smirk.

“You really think he needs someone like you? You’re not even—”

“Hey.”

Bokuto’s voice cut through the tension like a wave of sunlight breaking a storm.

He was suddenly there, stepping between you and Emi, all sharp shoulders in a tailored suit and fierce, protective warmth.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, voice calm but edged with something firm — something that said don’t you dare.

Emi’s confidence cracked just a little.

“I was just saying hello to an old friend.”

“She’s not your friend,” Bokuto said, eyes hard now. “And she doesn’t need to hear anything from you.”

He took your hand — not just held it, but threaded his fingers through yours like a promise. Like a line drawn in the sand.

“We’re good, Emi. Really good. I hope you find that someday.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned back to you, voice softening instantly.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Better now.”

And the two of you walked away — heads high, hands locked, hearts steady — while Emi stood there, quiet for once, watching the love she tried to break still burning brighter than ever.

___________________________________________________________________________

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, muffling the world outside.

Bokuto toed off his shoes with a dramatic sigh, arms already reaching for you the second you stepped past the threshold.

“Come heeere,” he whined playfully, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder. “I hated seeing you upset.”

You melted into him with a little laugh. “I wasn’t upset.”

“You were tense. I felt it. I’m emotionally attuned to my wife, thank you very much.”

You snorted as he guided you toward the couch, refusing to let you go. The second you both landed on the cushions, he pulled you into his lap like it was instinct, one hand sliding under your sweatshirt to press warm against your waist.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, there was just soft light, the hum of the heater, and the steady rhythm of his heart under your palm.

“You okay?” he asked again, this time softer.

You looked up at him — his bedhead messy from running his hands through it all night, tie long since abandoned, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your heart flutter.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered. “You always make it better.”

He kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheek — and then, without warning, dug his fingers into your sides.

You squeaked.

“Kou! Don’t you dare—”

But he was already grinning wickedly, arms locking you in as he started a full-on tickle attack.

“Oh no,” he said, mock-dramatic, “I do dare. You’ve been brave and beautiful all night and now I have to balance the emotional scale with a little chaos.”

You squirmed and giggled, batting at his chest, trying to wriggle away as he laughed — bright, open, and entirely unbothered by your mock protests.

“Say ‘Bokuto-san is the best husband in the world!’”

“Never!”

“THEN SUFFER.”

You shrieked through your laughter, eyes tearing up from how hard you were laughing, until finally you collapsed against him, breathless and smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered into his chest.

“You love me,” he said, smug and a little breathless himself.

You tilted your head back, met his eyes — warm, soft, molten.

“I really do.”

His smile faltered just a little, shifting into something deeper. The playful shine in his gaze quieted, replaced by something darker, more intent.

He leaned in slowly this time, his voice low.

“Then let me show you.”

And when he kissed you, it was nothing like before.

This kiss was slow, unhurried — all heat and hands and years of love folded into the space between breaths. His palm cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like you were something sacred. He kissed you like he needed you. Like you were the only thing in the world that could hold him together.

You shifted in his lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders, deepening it — and he made a sound in his throat, something low and almost reverent.

“I’ll show you,” he whispered again, lips brushing your skin between kisses, “how much I love you. Every day. Every night. Always.”

You nodded, already breathless, already his.

And in that moment, tangled in his arms, the world outside didn’t matter.

Not Emi. Not the past.

Just this: His warmth. Your heart. And the loud, undeniable kind of love that was never too much.

[angeliccss]

Compliance

Pairing: Dr. Florence Seward/Reader

Words: 7.7k

Summary: She came to Dr. Seward drunk, angry, and halfway broken—hellbent on burning herself out before anyone could stop her. But Florence didn't flinch. She never does.

Warnings: Doctor/Patient Relationship, Slowish burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ownership but in a Loving Way, Rough sex, Fucking out the Brat, Self-Destructive Behavior, Soft Sex, Alcohol Abuse, Reader is a Whore

Read on AO3

AN: I wrote this whilst on some very strong painkillers, so I hope it makes sense. Don’t mind any mistakes that I probably made. Xx

It had been a month.

Four weeks of sitting across from Dr. Florence Seward in that too-quiet room, pretending not to care while her sharp eyes dissected every word, every silence. Four weeks of cold tea gone untouched, of stilted greetings and clock ticks loud enough to make you want to scream.

You hadn’t made it easy on her, not that it mattered. You hadn’t made anything easy on anyone lately. Not the boys you let fumble their way under your skirts in darkened corners, not your poor aunt who’d dragged you here with desperate prayers, and certainly not the woman who now sat across from you, all spine and discipline and unspoken judgment.

Dr. Seward never raised her voice. Never showed anger. She listened with that unnerving stillness, lips pressed in a thin line, pen poised just above the page. Sometimes she didn't write anything at all. Sometimes she just watched you.

And you hated her for it.

The visits blurred together: You told her lies, she wrote them down. You laughed at nothing, she did not. You flirted, she blinked once—slowly—and asked if your father had been affectionate with you. You cursed, she adjusted the buttons on her sleeve. You spoke of nothing, and still, she made you speak.

Until today.

You stumbled into her office half an hour late, still wearing last night’s perfume. Your hem was dirty with London’s filth, your eyes rimmed with whatever makeup hadn’t been rubbed off by someone else's sheets. Your breath smelled of gin and rebellion.

She was already seated, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. Not a hair out of place. You smirked as you collapsed onto the settee. “Don’t say it. I know I’m late.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Seward said coolly.

Her voice was soft, but it cut. That was the worst part—how she didn’t need to raise it to make you feel like you were sixteen and in trouble again. You laid back dramatically, one arm slung over your eyes. “Rough night. I doubt I’ll remember much of it. Can’t say I mind.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” You peeked at her from under your arm. “Or just something you’re projecting?” She didn’t answer right away. She just sat there, unreadable, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly as if deciding whether to speak at all.

Then she rose, slowly, deliberately, and walked to the edge of the chaise. You didn’t sit up. You looked up at her, daring. “Do you know what I see when you walk through that door?” she asked, voice low. “A girl trying very, very hard to disappear.”

“Oh, how original,” you drawled. “Let me guess—Daddy didn’t love me, so now I fuck strangers and drink poison to feel alive. Does that about cover it?” Seward didn’t flinch. But she leaned down, sudden and close, and before you could move away, her fingers were on your chin—firm, unshaking—as she tilted your face toward hers.

“Why,” she said, her tone flat but burning underneath, “are you doing this to yourself?” You froze. For a second, you saw something behind her eyes. Not pity. Not even anger. Something worse. Understanding.

Your jaw tightened. “Let go of me.” She didn’t. “Let go of me!” You slapped her hand away and stumbled to your feet. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Then tell me.” You laughed—a cold, bitter sound. “Go to hell.” And you left. Stormed out the door like you hadn’t wanted her to follow. Like your hands weren’t trembling by the time you reached the street.

The next time you showed up, you were on time.

Not early, never early, but not late either. It was raining, a soft, misting sort of rain that clung to your clothes and frizzed your hair. You didn’t bother fixing either. You just walked into Dr. Seward’s office, dropped your coat in the same corner as always, and sat down without a word.

She looked up from her notebook. A flick of the eyes, nothing more. No comment about last week. No questions. Just a quiet, “Good afternoon.” You nodded once. "Doctor." It was the most civil greeting you’d given her since your first visit.

The room was as it always was—too warm, too still, the kind of quiet that made your skin itch. You watched the fireplace instead of her. She watched you instead of pretending not to.

After a moment, she closed her notebook. “You haven’t spoken to your aunt,” she said. You shrugged. “She hasn’t spoken to me.”

“Because you haven’t answered her letters.”

“I didn’t ask her to write them.” Seward didn’t sigh, but you could feel the weight of one behind her silence. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, thumb rubbing idly against one of her rings.

"You left abruptly last week." You smiled without showing teeth. “Did I?”

“You seemed upset.”

“Did I?”

She tilted her head, just slightly. “You’ve been coming here for over a month. In that time, I’ve observed a pattern of avoidance, agitation, and self-destructive behavior. You deflect when spoken to. You perform indifference. But when pressed—” she paused, measuring the words, “—you react strongly. I believe that suggests there’s something beneath the surface you don’t want touched.”

“Or,” you said, lounging back against the settee, “you’re just really bad at your job.” She didn’t even blink. You weren’t sure if that disappointed you or impressed you. Seward’s voice remained even. “I’m here to help you. But I can’t do that if you insist on presenting a façade.”

“You keep using that word—‘help.’ I don’t think it means what you want it to.”

“Then what do you think it means?” You stared at her. She didn’t look away.

Help. It was a bitter word. Thin and brittle in your mouth, like dried leaves. People only ever offered help when they wanted something. Your aunt wanted the scandal to go away. The boys wanted you to stay broken enough to be easy. The world wanted you to be manageable.

And Seward—what did she want? You didn’t answer. The silence stretched between you like a drawn wire. Seward shifted, just slightly. “I’d like to ask you something different today.”

“God, finally.” Her mouth twitched again. Not quite amusement. Not quite disdain. She reached to the side table and picked up a small wooden box. You hadn’t seen it before. She opened the lid and withdrew a single card from within.

It was blank. “This is a method sometimes used when speech is difficult,” she said. “I’ll write a word. You respond with the first thing that comes to mind. No explanations. No context. Just instinct.”

You rolled your eyes. “Really?”

“Humor me.”

You crossed your arms but didn’t move. Which was, of course, permission. She dipped her pen, wrote a word on the card, and held it up.

“Mother.” You snorted.

“Dead.” A flick of her wrist. She wrote another.

“Faith.”

“Lost it.”

Another.

“Desire.”

You hesitated. Only for a second. “Inconvenient.” Her gaze didn’t waver. Neither did her pen.

“Shame.”

You looked at her. “Overrated.”

“Love.”

You gave her the smallest smile. “Hilarious.”

She set the pen down. The game was over. “You don’t believe any of those things,” she said. “I said the first word that came to mind. Isn’t that the point?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward. “But you chose those words carefully. Not instinctively.”

“So now you’re accusing me of lying.”

“No,” Seward said. “I’m accusing you of hiding.” You stood. Too fast, too sudden. But she didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what kind of broken girls you’re used to, Doctor, but I’m not one of them. I come here because I have to. Not because I want to be saved.”

“I know.” That stopped you. She said it plainly. Not in anger. Not in pity. Just fact. “I know you don’t want to be saved,” she repeated, standing slowly. “But some part of you wants to be seen. Or you wouldn’t keep coming back.”

Your throat went tight. You hated how she said that. Calm. Certain. Like she’d cracked something open without even raising her voice. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

Seward didn’t answer. The clock ticked. The fire crackled. She stepped toward you, and for the briefest moment, you thought—But no. She only reached for her notebook. “Same time next week,” she said. You hesitated at the door. Didn’t look back. Didn’t thank her. But you came back next week. You always did.

You were already drunk when you arrived. Not tipsy. Not charmingly flushed. Drunk.

The type of drunk that curled around your spine and dulled your eyes, that slowed your words just enough to make them dangerous. The kind of drunk that couldn’t be hidden with powder and perfume. The type of drunk that told the truth.

You stumbled into her office twenty minutes late, grinning like a lunatic with your coat half off your shoulders, hair damp with rain and sweat and someone else’s cologne. The buttons of your dress were misaligned. You hadn’t bothered to fix them.

Seward looked up from her desk, and something in her expression shifted, just barely. Not surprise. Not disgust. Something colder. You collapsed onto the settee with a groan. “Ugh. Christ. This city should be burned to the ground. Nothing but whores and cowards.”

She said nothing. She watched you carefully, as always. You let your head roll back. “You’re probably going to tell me I shouldn’t have come here like this.”

“No,” she said, voice low. “I was expecting it.” You laughed bitterly. “Were you? You must be clairvoyant.”

“I’m observant,” she said. “And you’re not subtle.” You looked at her now, really looked—at the tight line of her mouth, the stillness of her hands. “What’s the diagnosis today, Doctor?” you slurred. “Want to talk about my father again? Or shall we skip straight to you pretending to care?”

“I don’t pretend,” she said. “No, you just stare at me with those cold little eyes and take notes on how fucked up I am.” Seward didn’t blink. “Have you slept?” You scoffed. “Define sleep.”

“Eaten?”

“Half a roll. Two days ago.”

Her voice softened—barely. “Have you been… alone?” You laughed. And you didn’t mean to. It was a high, cracked sound, ugly and real and full of everything you’d been choking back.

“Alone?” you echoed. “God, no. I’ve had more men in the past week than you’ve probably spoken to in the past month. Rich ones, dumb ones, ugly ones. Doesn’t matter. They’re all the same with their hands on me—wanting something I don’t even have anymore.”

Seward stood. The movement was slow. Quiet. But something in the air changed. You felt it like a drop in pressure, like a storm rolling in behind your ribs. She crossed the room in three steps.

You smiled at her, vicious. “Don’t look at me like that. You think you’re better than me just because you wear black and speak in measured tones? You’re just another woman playing pretend.”

Her jaw tightened. You leaned back against the couch, daring. “What’s the matter, Doctor? Not used to your patients being honest? Or are you just pissed you can’t fix me?” She didn’t respond. Not with words.

Instead, she reached down, swift, controlled, and took your face in her hand again. Not gently. Her fingers pressed into your cheeks, firm and deliberate. Your breath caught.

“I have tried,” she said, and her voice was different now. Quiet, yes, but sharp. “I have sat here, week after week, listening to you lie and unravel and destroy yourself while pretending you’re in control.” You blinked, stunned. Her grip didn’t loosen.

“If you’re so determined to burn yourself down,” she continued, “then by all means—do it. But don’t come in here reeking of gin and men, slurring your venom, and expect me to treat it like anything less than what it is.”

Your heart was pounding. “I—I don’t—” She leaned in, lips close to your ear. “If you’re going to act like a whore,” she whispered, “then I will treat you like one.” The words were ice and fire all at once.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The shame came first. Then the heat. A furious flush rose to your cheeks, down your throat, across your chest. Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up—knees tightening, stomach twisting, pulse roaring in your ears.

She let go of your face, but the air between you crackled. You opened your mouth—to shout, to run, to do something—but all that came out was a choked breath. She watched you. Unmoving.

And in that stillness, you realized something terrifying. You didn’t want to leave.

You wanted her to do it. You wanted her to make good on the promise in her voice. To take control. To make it stop—the spinning, the need, the gnawing emptiness that no drink, man, or night could fill.

“I…” Your voice broke. “I don’t know what to do.” That was the truth. Naked. Frightened. Whispered like a prayer. Seward stepped back. But only a little. She looked at you like she could see through your skin.

“You’ll listen,” she said quietly. “You’ll stop pretending.” You nodded, tears hot in your eyes. “And you’ll let me teach you,” she added. Not a question. A command. You nodded again, this time slower. Your knees were trembling. And still, a part of you—deep, hungry, defiant—hoped she wasn’t finished yet.

Seward didn’t speak again. She just turned, crossed to the door, and locked it. That sound—click—sent something electric down your spine.

She returned slowly, deliberately. Her eyes raked over you like a scalpel, stripping away whatever pieces of control you had left.

You tried to put your usual smirk back on. “Is this part of your process, Doctor? Going hands-on with the damaged girls?”

The words barely left your mouth before she was in front of you again—closer this time, standing over you with that same unsettling calm.

“You don’t want tenderness,” she said. You didn’t answer. “You want discipline. Structure. Something stronger than the chaos you keep throwing yourself into.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but she grabbed your wrist and yanked you up off the couch with startling force. You gasped, stumbled, but she held you steady with one hand gripping your chin. “No more talking,” she said sharply. “On your knees.” Your breath caught in your throat. “What—” Her nails dug into your jaw. “I said knees.” You dropped.

It wasn’t graceful. Your head was spinning, your dress rumpled around your thighs. But your knees hit the rug, and you stared up at her, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal.

She circled you once, slow and precise. "You think acting out gives you control," she murmured. "But all you’ve done is beg to be broken.” You flushed—furious, humiliated, and wet.

"You want to be taught a lesson?" she asked, standing still behind you now. "Then you’ll learn it. You’ll learn what it means to be obedient." Her hand fisted in your hair and yanked your head back, hard.

You moaned—unintentionally, embarrassingly. “That’s more honest than anything you’ve said in five weeks,” she said coldly. You squirmed, thighs rubbing together, heat pooling under your dress.

"But your still so mouthy," she muttered. "Maybe I should find something to shut you up." Your stomach flipped. She tugged your hair again. “Strip.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the buttons of your dress, fumbling them open. The fabric stuck to your skin, damp with sweat and rain and shame. You peeled it off slowly, and when it fell to the floor, you were bare beneath—no corset, no underthings, not even a slip.

You didn’t miss the way her breath caught. “No wonder the men come so easily,” she said. “You offer yourself like a gift to anyone who asks.” You clenched your jaw. “And now you’re doing the same.”

She stepped forward, grabbed your jaw again, harder. “The difference is,” she whispered, “I’m not asking.” She pulled you up, rough, controlled, and bent you over the desk in one swift motion. The wood was cool against your breasts, the edge biting into your hips.

You tried to twist away, but her palm came down hard across your ass. You cried out, shocked more than hurt.

“Still squirming,” she said. Another slap. “Still disobedient.” You bit your lip to stifle a moan, but she heard it. Felt the way you trembled under her touch. “You don’t get to hide anymore,” she said.

Her hand moved lower, between your thighs. She didn’t go slow. Didn’t coax. She slid two fingers through your wetness and let out a dark, satisfied sound. “Dripping,” she said flatly. “All that attitude, and you’re soaked just from being put in your place.”

You whimpered, humiliated and turned on beyond reason. “Say thank you,” she ordered, still teasing your entrance without giving you what you wanted. You shook your head, defiant.

Another sharp slap across your ass. “Say it.” “Th-thank you,” you choked out. She rewarded you—finally—by thrusting two fingers inside. You gasped, arching into it, greedy and aching and ruined.

She fucked you with steady, punishing rhythm, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet office. You clenched around her, hips rocking back into her hand, chasing every brutal stroke.

“Pathetic,” she said against your ear. “You act like you’re above it all, but this is what you really want. To be used. Owned. Controlled.”

“Yes,” you moaned, hating how true it was, how badly you needed it. Her fingers curved just right, found that spot, and pressed hard. You screamed into the desk, legs trembling, and she didn’t stop.

“Don’t you dare cum until I say.” You sobbed, biting your lip, trying not to shake apart on her hand. But she didn’t let up—her other hand gripping the back of your neck, holding you down, voice low and deadly against your ear.

“You’ll cum when I say, and not a second before. You belong to me now. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor,” you cried. “Yes, yes—please—” And then—finally—she gave the command. “Now.” Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You shattered around her, loud and broken and soaked, collapsing against the desk like a puppet with its strings cut.

But she didn’t stop.

Seward’s fingers kept moving inside you—slow at first, then harder, more deliberate. You whimpered, your body hypersensitive and twitching, legs trying to close around nothing.

“Don’t you dare pull away,” she murmured, voice dark and steady. “You said thank you once. You’ll say it again.”

“P-please,” you sobbed, overwhelmed, “I can’t—”

“You can.” Her other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady. “You will.”

She curled her fingers just right, again and again, hitting that same raw, aching spot that had you shaking, crying, your breath catching on every pulse of pleasure that rose too fast, too soon. “Thank you.”

You were past the point of pride. Past control. Your body betrayed you entirely, tightening, coiling, begging. And then it broke again.

You came a second time with a raw cry, your entire body clenching helplessly around her hand, legs trembling, skin flushed and slick with sweat. This time was worse—better—too much. You buried your face in the crook of your arm, sobbing into the desk as the wave crashed over you, deeper than the first, more humiliating in its intensity.

Only then—only then—did Seward slow her movements, dragging her fingers out of you with aching care.

She pulled her hand back slowly, letting your body twitch and spasm. Then silence. You were panting, undone, trembling. She straightened your hair with slow, deliberate fingers. Then let the quiet settle again. And when she finally spoke, her voice was calm as ever.

“Now. We begin.”

You stayed slumped over the desk, chest heaving, legs like water, skin flushed and burning with shame and need and something you couldn’t name.

And she—she moved behind you like nothing had happened.

No lingering touch. No gentleness. She stepped away, walked calmly to the washbasin tucked in the corner of the office, and washed her hands. You watched her through your lashes, heart thudding in your throat. There was no rush in her movements. No emotion, either.

Just method. Clean-up. You were shaking as you slowly, stiffly, stood. You tried to speak, but your voice failed. She dried her hands with a white cloth, folded it neatly, and turned back to you. “Get dressed,” she said, her voice even. Professional.

You hesitated, still dazed, still bare. “Just like that?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you need clarification on?” You looked down at the floor, at your discarded clothes, at your still trembling hands.

“No,” you whispered. “No, Doctor.” She waited as you dressed, not offering help or distraction. You fumbled with your buttons again, faster this time, shame making your fingers clumsy.

When you finally sat, your cheeks were still burning, your thighs sticky, your pride in tatters. Yet you felt quiet. Not calm, exactly. Not peace. But the noise in your head had dulled, just a little.

Seward picked up her notebook again. The session continued. “As I was saying,” she began smoothly, “You’ve developed a habit of self-destruction. The alcohol, the men, the provocation, they’re not the cause, they’re the symptom.”

You blinked at her. “You’re really going to pretend that didn’t just happen?” She didn’t look up from the page. “Everything that happens here is part of your treatment.” You opened your mouth. Closed it.

You couldn’t argue with that—not without revealing how badly you wanted it to happen again.

She glanced at you, finally. “Would you like to tell me what you were running from last night?” That hit harder than anything she’d done to your body. You looked away, jaw tight. “I wasn’t running.”

Her silence said otherwise. You swallowed. “I just… I don’t like being alone. I don’t like the silence. It gets too loud.” That was the truth. Maybe not all of it—but more than you’d given before.

Seward nodded once. Didn’t press. Just wrote it down. You clenched your fists in your lap. “You think I’m broken.”

“I think you’re avoiding the root of your pain,” she said simply. “But no. I don’t think you’re broken.” You didn’t believe her. Not yet. But for the first time, you wanted to.

You sat in silence for a moment, unsure of what came next. Unsure of how to fill the space between you now. Seward closed her notebook and checked the clock. “Our time is up.” Of course it was.

You stood on legs that barely held you, still reeling from everything she’d taken—and everything you’d given. She walked to the door and opened it. You turned, hesitated in the threshold.

“…Same time next week?” you asked, quieter than you meant to be. She nodded. “Unless you need me sooner.” That promise hung in the air like smoke. You stepped into the hall, the echo of her control still clinging to your skin. And for the first time, you didn’t want to run.

You wanted to come back. You needed to.

The streets blurred around you—wet, glowing, half-real. Your shoes were gone, or maybe you'd kicked them off somewhere between the stranger’s apartment and the sidewalk. Your dress hung lopsided over one shoulder, and the cheap perfume you didn’t remember putting on made your stomach turn.

You didn’t know why your feet carried you here. You just knew you couldn’t go home.

You’d left the party half-drunk, half-numb. Some man with a sweet smile and dead eyes had his hands on you, and for a while, you thought that was what you wanted. What you deserved.

But then he kissed you, and everything tasted like ash. So you ran. No purse. No plan. Just instinct.

You didn’t even realize where you were until you were standing in front of her door, shivering, mascara smeared across your cheekbone, still smelling like sweat and alcohol and the man’s cologne. You didn’t knock. The handle turned easily in your hand.

The office was dim, warm, quiet. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the shelves and the leather couch where you’d sat—sassed, deflected, confessed—so many times before.

And there she was. Seated in her high-backed chair beside the fire. Legs crossed. A tumbler in one hand, something golden swirling slow inside it. She looked at you like she’d been expecting this exact moment.

“You came,” she said simply. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. She gestured with her glass. “Shut the door. Come in. Before you catch pneumonia on top of your poor choices.” You did. Because what else could you do?

You closed the door behind you, pressing your back to it for a moment like you needed the solid wood to hold you upright. You didn’t move. Just looked at her—at the firelight dancing across the sharp planes of her face, the way her eyes didn’t soften but didn’t judge, either.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you said finally, voice rough. “You knew,” she said, sipping her drink. “You just didn’t want to admit it.” You swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Neither should you.” Silence.

You crossed the room slowly, arms wrapped tight around your ribs. You still hadn’t fixed your dress. One strap was off your shoulder, your hem was hiked dangerously high, and your skin felt fever-hot and cold all at once.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said quietly. “With him.”

“I know.” You blinked. “How?” She tilted her head, eyes scanning you with surgical precision. “Because if you had,” she said, “you’d still be there. Or you’d be somewhere trying to forget. Not here. Not with me.”

You looked away, suddenly ashamed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You never did.” That should have stung. But it didn’t. It just felt… true. You sank down into the armchair across from her, legs trembling. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked. You glanced over at her glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Brandy.” You wet your lips. “Is it helping?”

“No.” A tired laugh almost escaped you, but it broke halfway through. You pressed your fingers to your mouth, suddenly blinking fast. She watched you, quiet. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” you said again. “It’s past midnight.”

“I was waiting,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I knew you’d come.” Your head snapped up. “How?”

“I know the shape of your self-destruction,” she said softly. “And I know where it ends.” Her words knocked the wind out of you. “I didn’t mean to come here,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to be alone.”

She stood slowly, glass still in hand, and crossed the room to you. You stayed still. She looked down at you—not cruel, not kind. Just aware. Unflinching. “There’s a reason you couldn’t go through with it,” she said. “And there’s a reason you ran here instead.”

You looked up at her. Your voice came out like a confession. “I think I wanted you to stop me.”

“I will,” she said, voice low. “But you’ll have to let me.” Something in your chest cracked open. Just a little. But it was enough. You didn’t cry. Not yet. But for the first time, you wanted to.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like the beginning of something else. Something dangerous. Something necessary. Something real.

You didn’t mean to fall apart. You didn’t come here to cry.

But when Dr. Seward set down her glass and sat beside you, opening her arms—not saying a word, just offering—you collapsed into her like a wave hitting the shore, the dam inside you finally broke. You pressed your face into her shoulder and sobbed.

Ugly, silent, shaking sobs. The kind that lived in your ribs for years, waiting. Your fingers curled into the lapel of her blazer like you might drown if you let go. She didn’t speak. She didn’t hush you. She just held you—solid and still—like someone who’d done this before.

Like someone who knew not to rush the breaking. You weren’t even sure what you were crying for at first. But once it started, it all came tumbling out.

“My parents never looked at me like I was worth anything,” you choked, voice thick with phlegm and shame. “Not even once. I was just… there. In the way. A mistake that got in before they could lock the door.”

Her hand moved slowly across your back. Not soothing, exactly. Just there.

“And school was worse,” you went on, hiccuping now. “The kids knew. They knew I didn’t belong anywhere. They could smell it on me. I tried to be pretty, to be fun, to matter, but it never worked. They always found a way to break me down again.”

You clenched your fists against her chest. “So I got louder. I got mean. I figured if I couldn’t be loved, I could at least be feared, or wanted, or used.” Seward didn’t interrupt. She didn’t let you go either.

Your voice cracked, softer now. “I’ve been trying to punish myself for being unlovable ever since.” That truth hovered in the air like smoke.

Her voice came low, steady, unshakable. “You learned early that affection was conditional. That you had to earn it with pain or performance. So now, when someone looks at you without cruelty, it doesn’t feel safe. It feels suspicious. Unfamiliar.”

You nodded, your breath catching on the edge of a sob. “But it isn’t love to hurt yourself. It’s not proof of strength to survive things no one should have to.” You were quiet. Her hand smoothed your hair.

“You act out because you want someone to stop you. You want someone to see you in the mess. To pull you back.”

“I don’t want to need that,” you whispered.

“I know,” she said gently. “But you do.” Another silence passed. This one less jagged. “I don’t know how to fix it,” you said, barely audible.

“You don’t need to fix yourself,” Seward said, and her voice was so calm it anchored you. “You need to understand yourself. To learn where your pain came from, so you can choose something else. I can help you do that.”

You shifted in her arms, looking up at her, eyes swollen and wet. “Why would you want to?” Something flickered behind her eyes. Not softness—never that—but something deeper. Sharper. Inevitable.

“Because I don’t believe you were born to destroy yourself,” she said. “And because you came back to me.” Your breath hitched again. Not from grief this time. But from something quieter. Stranger. Hope.

You leaned your head against her chest, your voice small. “Will you keep me?” Her hand paused. Then resumed its rhythm. “For now,” she said. “But only if you behave.” You smiled through your tears, and it felt strange on your face.

You weren’t healed. You weren’t whole. But in her arms, for just a little while, you were held. And maybe—maybe—that was a start.

It had been six months since you left your aunt’s cold, unforgiving home and stepped into the strange sanctuary of Dr. Seward’s.

You were no longer the girl who stumbled into midnight sessions, half-dressed and hollow-eyed from parties you couldn’t remember. You no longer let strange hands touch you just to feel something. Seward saw to that.

She never forbade you. She didn’t have to.

The only time you’d dressed up to go out, she hadn’t raised her voice. She’d simply stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable, and said, “If you walk out in that dress, you won’t come back to this house. You’ll be a guest. But not mine.”

You stayed home. That was the first time you realized how much you needed her. And she’d never let you forget it.

Now you lived in the upstairs room—the one she said used to belong to her husband. You ate when she told you to. Read when she told you to. And at night, when the wind howled down the chimney and your hands trembled from withdrawal or shame, she let you sleep beside her—only if you asked politely.

You were still drinking. Not in public anymore. Never in front of her. But she knew. She always knew. And tonight, she was waiting. You’d slipped a small silver flask from her cabinet that afternoon. Just enough to stop the shaking. Or so you told yourself.

You’d taken it upstairs, locked the door, and curled beneath the heavy quilt, pretending not to exist. By the time the grandfather clock in the hall chimed ten, your head was heavy and your thoughts were thick, and that was when her footsteps came.

Slow. Inevitable. A knock. You froze. “It’s me,” she said simply. You opened the door. She looked you over. Not with shock. Not with rage. Just disappointment. Quiet and surgical. She stepped inside. You stepped back.

“I’ve allowed you freedom in this house,” she said calmly, shutting the door behind her. “I’ve given you a bed, books, warmth. I’ve never locked the cabinet.”

“I didn’t take much,” you murmured, eyes downcast. “Just a little.”

“There is no little when it comes to you,” she said, voice cold and sharp as glass. “You know that.” You sank down onto the edge of the bed. “I’m trying.” Her expression didn’t change. “Are you?” You nodded. Then shook your head. “I don’t know.”

Seward sat across from you, folding her hands in her lap like she was conducting a session—but her eyes said something else. Her presence had changed. She wasn’t just your doctor anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time.

She was your keeper. Your guardian. Your tether.

“This isn’t just about alcohol,” she said. “It’s about control. You’ve given yours away your entire life. To men. To pain. To the bottle. To your guilt. What do you have left, if not your will?”

You looked up, eyes burning. “You.” For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Then she stood, walked over, and sat beside you. Not touching you. Not comforting. Just close. “You’re not wrong,” she said, voice low. “You do have me.”

And she reached over, gently pried the flask from your shaking hand, and set it on the mantle. “I will be your control,” she said. “Until you’re strong enough to take it back.” You leaned your head on her shoulder. “Will that ever happen?” Her lips brushed your temple.

“If you let me take care of you,” she said, “yes.” You closed your eyes. You didn’t know who you were without your chaos. But maybe, just maybe, you were ready to find out.

It started with small things. No locked doors. No meals skipped. No alcohol unless Seward poured it. But now it was more than that.

The house was quiet. Controlled. The walls knew your footsteps, the furniture knew your shape. And she? She knew everything else. You’d once flinched at the idea of someone owning you.

Now you found yourself chasing the feeling. You were brushing your hair in the mirror when she came in, unannounced—as always. No knock. No warning. This was her room, after all. You just slept here. “I’ve spoken with the house keeper,” she said. “She’s to stop bringing you tea in the mornings.” You frowned. “Why?”

“Because you don’t get out of bed until half the day is gone. If you want your tea, you’ll rise before I leave for the hospital and present yourself properly dressed.”

You turned on the stool, mouth open, a protest rising. She cut it off with a look. That sharp, surgical calm you knew too well. “You’ve lived here almost a year. You’ve had time to rest, to unravel. But rest becomes rot when it lingers.”

You gritted your teeth. “So what now? I’m your patient and your servant?”

“No,” she said. “You’re mine. And it’s time you started acting like it.” The air left your lungs in a quiet rush. There was no teasing in her tone. No heat. Just truth.

You were hers. You lived under her roof, ate at her table, wore her clothes and let her dictate your every move. And the terrifying part—the part that gnawed at your belly most—was that you wanted to belong to her. Not because it was easier. But because it felt right.

“What does that mean?” you whispered. “To act like I’m yours?” Seward stepped closer. Her eyes bored into yours, all steel and slow-burning fire. “It means you obey.” You swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

She leaned in, one gloved hand lifting your chin. “Then you’ll be reminded of your place. The way you always respond to best.” You flushed. Her thumb traced the edge of your mouth, just once.

“You’ve been living on borrowed control,” she murmured. “It’s time you gave it up properly.” Your breath hitched. “And if I can’t?”

“You can,” she said, voice like a scalpel. “You just need to be taught how.” You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. But when she turned to go, you slipped down from the stool and followed her without being told. Just like she knew you would.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat by the window with your knees pulled to your chest, watching the fog roll over the garden walls. Somewhere below, the streetlamps glowed dull amber, flickering like a memory. You didn’t hear her come in.

“I told you to be in bed by ten.” You didn’t answer. The rustle of her skirts was the only warning before her hands came down gently on your shoulders. Not restraining. Just present.

“You think I do this for control,” she said, quietly. “But I do it for you.” You let your forehead rest against the cold glass. “I don’t know how to live without someone telling me who to be,” you admitted. “I know.”

“I hate needing that.”

“I know that, too.” She turned you to face her. Her expression was unreadable again—torn somewhere between discipline and concern. “But I don’t want to be your patient anymore,” you whispered. “Not just that.”

A silence passed. Heavy. Real. “You’re not,” she said, finally. “Not anymore.” You searched her face. “Then what am I?” She brushed your hair back from your cheek, thumb resting just beneath your eye.

“You’re mine,” she said. “And I’m yours. If you’ll have me.” Your breath caught.

“But I can’t keep having you call me Doctor,” she added, voice softer now. “Not if we’re going to do this honestly.”

You blinked, surprised. “You want me to call you—?”

“Florence,” she said. “My name is Florence.”

It hit you like something sacred. You hadn’t thought of her as anything other than Doctor Seward—your caretaker, your tether, your anchor. But now she was more. Now she was asking you to see her.

“Florence,” you tried. The name felt unfamiliar in your mouth. Intimate. Strange. Like a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

She smiled. Not her usual closed-lip curve—but something real. Warm. Like spring breaking through the cold. “Again,” she said.

“Florence.” Her fingers tilted your chin up. Her lips brushed yours once. Gentle. Not demanding. Just there. And when she pulled back, you reached for her. Not because she told you to. Not because you were trying to be good.

But because you wanted her. Her hands were still firm when she guided you back to bed—but her mouth was soft, reverent. She didn’t undress you tonight. Didn’t punish or command. She simply lay beside you, wrapped around you like a promise, one hand over your heart.

“You don’t have to be fixed overnight,” she murmured into your hair. “But you will stop running.” You nodded. She kissed your temple. “Good girl.” You breathed her name again like a prayer. “Florence.” And for the first time in years, you truly slept.

It had been a year and a half since the first session and a year since you moved into her quiet, book-lined house.

The girl who arrived broken and angry no longer existed. She’d been burned away in the long, slow fire of Florence’s care—her discipline, her devotion, her unwavering refusal to let you self-destruct.

You no longer drank. You no longer slept in past noon or wandered the streets looking for something nameless to fill you. You read. You walked with her in the gardens. You kissed her knuckles each night before bed, and you said thank you when she tucked you into her arms.

And you loved her. God, you loved her. Not with the desperate, hollow hunger of that first year. But with something deeper. Something patient and reverent.

Tonight, you found her in her study, seated beside the fire with a book balanced in one hand and a glass of port untouched on the table beside her. She looked up when you entered, and her face softened instantly.

“You’re late,” she said gently. “I got distracted,” you replied, curling into her lap like you’d done a hundred times before. Her arms came around you easily. Familiar. Certain.

You were quiet for a long while, curled beside her in the hush of the room. The fire cracked softly. Her breathing was slow, steady. Familiar.

And still, your thoughts clawed backward.

“I was a whore,” you said finally, voice flat. “Back then. I mean—when I came to you. That’s what I was.”

Florence didn’t speak right away. She simply reached out, brushing her knuckles along your jaw, turning your face gently to hers.

“No,” she said, firm. “You weren’t.”

You tried to scoff, but it caught somewhere in your throat. “You said it yourself. That night, remember? You told me if I acted like a whore, I’d be treated like one.”

A beat of silence. Then, “I did say that,” she admitted quietly. “And I regret it.” Her thumb traced your cheekbone, slow and thoughtful.

“But even if you were,” she added, “who cares?” You blinked. “I would’ve loved you anyway,” she said. “Whether you came to me broken or proud, drunk or clean, angry or aching. Whether you’d been with no one or everyone. It wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

Her voice was steady now. Clear. “Because I didn’t fall in love with a past. I fell in love with you.”

You pressed your face to her neck, trying to swallow the burn behind your eyes. “You always make it sound so simple.”

Florence smiled against your temple. “It is,” she murmured. “Love is simple. People just make it difficult.”

You stayed like that for a while longer, just breathing her in, your cheek pressed to the silk of her blouse, your fingers tracing the faint lines at the edge of her sleeve. “Florence,” you whispered eventually.

“Yes, darling?” You shifted in her lap to look up at her. “Take me to bed.” She tilted her head slightly, brushing your cheek with the back of her fingers. “You’re sure?” You nodded. “I want it to be like this. With you. Soft. Real.”

Her eyes held yours for a long, quiet moment. Then she stood, holding you in her arms as if you weighed nothing. She carried you upstairs.

There was no rush.

She undressed you slowly, laying your clothes aside one by one as though each layer was a piece of armor she’d earned the right to remove. She touched you with care, with reverence—her fingertips never leaving your skin for long, her mouth trailing soft kisses across your shoulders, your ribs, your thighs.

You trembled, but not from fear. Not from shame. “Look at you,” she murmured. “My beautiful girl.” You reached for her, unfastening her buttons with unsteady fingers. She let you.

When she finally joined you beneath the covers, the heat of her body against yours made you gasp. This was no lesson. No punishment. This was love.

She kissed you deeply, her hand finding its way between your legs—but there was no command in her touch. Only worship. Her name left your lips over and over, broken into pieces, reassembled like a prayer.

You came slowly, the pleasure curling through you like sunlight, like a tide, like forgiveness. And when you collapsed into her arms, boneless and weeping with something far too big for language, she held you tighter.

“You’re safe now,” she whispered against your temple. You pressed your face to her neck. “I’m yours.” She smiled, lips brushing your forehead. “You always were.”

The fire had burned low by the time you stirred again, still curled against her in the warmth of the sheets. Her fingers were tracing slow circles over your back, and your cheek rested above her heart, lulled by the steady rhythm beneath her skin.

You felt weightless. Remade.

Your voice came quiet, almost timid—half a whisper against her collarbone.

“In your professional opinion…” You smiled against her. “What kind of girl do you see when you look at me now?”

Florence didn’t answer right away.

She brushed your hair back, kissed your temple once, then pulled you just a little closer—like she needed the distance gone before she could speak the truth.

“I see a girl who clawed her way out of the dark,” she said. “Who chose to stay. Who learned to be soft without falling apart.”

Her voice was low. Measured. As if giving a diagnosis.

“I see a woman,” she continued, “with an unruly heart and an extraordinary capacity for love. Who no longer uses her body to feel wanted, because she finally knows she is. Always.”

You swallowed hard.

Florence tilted your chin up, her gaze steady and warm, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“In my professional opinion…” She smiled, soft and devastating. “You are the bravest girl I’ve ever known.”

You blinked, eyes stinging.

“And in your unprofessional opinion?” you asked, teasing through the ache in your throat.

She leaned in, kissing you again—this time slow and lingering, lips warm and certain. “In that opinion,” she murmured against your skin, “you are the love of my life.”

[brattiva]

the nativity play on xmas       jj maybank oneshot

pair: dorkling!reader x jj maybank   heartburn by wafia.

summary: flashback scene of Dorkling and JJ during their school days. this is inspired by Nate MaCauley and Bronwyn Rojas of the One of Us Is Lying book series. warnings: a bit of angst(?), fluff, very adorable, no smut, childhood memories, a flashback scene, humor, rom-com vibes, very very cute 💕

December 24th 2016. Both of the characters are 13 year olds. This is a flashback scene of their shared past. There will be a divider that separates the flashback scene from the present scene.

She hadn’t been so nervous in her whole life. And that was saying a lot, since there was so much more worse that could happen than acting out as Mother Mary in a Nativity scene: doing end of year tests, losing on the Spelling Bee with her strict parents at the front row of the audience, not finding a matching sock.

And then there was JJ, who never in fact took anything seriously. It was so infuriating to her. Why couldn’t he just… tone it down a little? For her?

He just kept talking and talking, and it made her nervous go tingly and— she snaps.

“JJ, would you just go!” She exclaims, snapping at him louder than she expected. Of course he wouldn’t understand how important this was. Her parents would murder her if this wasn’t played out right.

He had nothing to lose and she had everything to. Then her eyes widen a little, hearing how loud she was, the way the room echoed.

And then JJ stopped, and his eyebrows furrowed. His arms crossed, and she never wanted to take back her words so badly as much as she wanted to do now. Why couldn’t he just make things easier….

“No… JJ—!” She says quickly, walking up to him and he has that look of hurt on his face as he walks off and she wanted to get rid of it from JJ's face. This wasn’t meant to happen. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. She needed him there. She didn't know how she was going to do this. Her nerves was making her go all jumpy, like she might bust if she doesn't calm down the bad feeling rotting in her tummy. As she made her way to the stage, her hands trembling as the spotlight fell on her. Her face crumples. The audience could tell she was on the verge of crying. All of a sudden, the play stops. Because the baby Jesus doll was gone, and it ruined the entire show. Little did they know, JJ was the one who stole baby Jesus, just to give her a piece of his mind for snapping at him, when he did nothing wrong. But when he saw her break down on that stage from the stage fright, he felt a little bad. The guilt was building up on him, like being stoned, right where his heart was. He ruined everything for her. He always did.

They were sat at the stairs of some abandoned street, free from the company of others, and in their own company. She narrows her eyes at the blonde haired, her arms crossed in her usual posture, the same old square shaped glasses pressing against the bridge of her nose. But the usual stupid grin on JJ's face makes a smile creeps up on her lips. "You— you're the one who stole baby Jesus." She snickers. "Sorry 'bout your baby Jesus, dork." JJ says, that southern accent seeping through the cracks. And it makes her laugh even more. Then she meets his eyes. And really, looks at him. Like really looks at him. "Why?" She asks abruptly, her eyes falling on his face. He pauses, like he's actually not wanting to say the truth. Which was odd to her, because JJ was never one to hold back, he spoke with chest, almost most of the time. So this surprises her a bit. Making her raise her eyebrows, as if silently asking him to continue. He finally meets her eyes. "I just wanted you to see me." He says, fidgeting with his fingers. The same way he did when he realised what a mistake he made after stealing Baby Jesus. "I was always a burden to you." He mutters. "You just kept me around as your idiot." Her eyebrows furrow. "Not true." He crosses his arms. "I'm just a circus clown to you." He looks away from her. "No, you don't." She's quick to say. And it fell on deaf ears. "I ruined your day." JJ slurs, as he takes a whisk from the beer. "Stop!" She says, with a smile as she swats his chest, and then takes his hand, putting a hand on his face turning him to look at her. As she puts the beer onto the floor. "Stop doing that." She repeats, resting her forehead against his. He had that horrid alcohol breath she loathed. But she didn't care. As their noses nudged, JJ laughs a little. "Don't you go and break my heart." He says, pointing at her and poking her nose with a boop. JJ lowers his head down on her lap, and her fingers meet with the unkempt locks.

A smile reaching her lips. "I only have one." He pouts dramatically, and she laughs.

She looks down at him. Her fingers brushing his hair around. It was fun to play with. “You won’t have to worry about that in a very long time.” She smiles.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, baby.” He slurs, his fingers reaching out for her. His fingers were sprawled out, like he was reaching for an angel. Except this one came in typewriter notes, perfectionism and Maison Margiela’s Whispers in the Library.

Intertwined fingers. Joint as one.

“I’d hate to live here all alone.” He frowns, sighing loudly.

He mumbles lowly, his voice almost bordering on quiet. “No one to check up on me. Or keep me in line.”

“You have me.” She mutters but her tone was firm.

He looks up, stops fidgeting with the zipper of her leather jacket. “Yeah?” Soft smiles tracing his lips.

“Yeah.” She smiles back.

© 2025 Mayra — @brattiva

please do not claim, rewrite ( without permission if I originally wrote it ) copy or steal my work. my work is my own and it will stay that way. thank you, from mayra.

@bbyg4rl healing ur heart not breaking it.. this time. Should I make Dorkling into an oc?

[creatchie8]

Yellow Soul: Chapter Eight

Pear

Chapter Summary: With Trevor Tillerson missing, you are pulled back into the tangle of secrets, regrets, and the Abbott family you once tried to leave behind.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minors DNI- A lot of angst and yearning (but other than that a fairly tame chapter)

Word Count: 3,800ish

A/N: Oh besties do I have something in store for you. Don't you just love heartbreaking internal conflict? Will they, wont they??? Don't worry though I'm already cooking up the next chapter <3

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - Masterlist

It was Friday and Trevor Tillerson was missing. 

While your dad was flipping through the channels he stopped on the local news. The practically decrepit newscaster (a man you had met three or four times, he’d rather die than retire) in a fitted suit saying something about how a little girl in Casper, Wyoming had been missing for over a month. 

Her parents, he said, were “not giving up hope.” It was a script that was familiar to you, all reporters using the same one for every disappearance. 

Upon hearing this your mother shouted from the pantry the news about Trevor Tillerson.

“What?” You whipped your head towards her, standing up from where you were fiddling with the sleeve of your dad’s oxygen tank. But you just saw him. And although Rhett left him in bad shape certainly it wasn't that bad? Surely he must just be in the town over or something. 

Or something else easily explainable. 

“Jennifer told me when I went to go get your dad’s medication earlier.” Your mom shrugs and acts like it’s the most plain thing in the world. Your mind flashes back to Wednesday night, his body slumped to the ground and bleeding. The image made you shiver and you pushed it away, turning down the volume a bit on the too loud TV. 

The action makes your dad grunt in protest, a shaky hand grasping the remote and turning it up one, a compromise. 

It brings a slight smile to your face and you leave him to go look at the grocery list your mom made. She was still in the pantry on a wobbly step ladder, rifling through boxes of cereal and throwing them into the silver garbage bin below. 

“Why?” You ask as you step into the pantry with her, looking at the boxes in the trash.

“Why what? Cereal or Trevor Tillerson?”

The question makes you bark out a laugh, despite the unfortunate circumstances, “Cereal.” You clarify.

“Every grandkid needs their own cereal. But all of ‘em end up just eating the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms.” She grumbles in response, throwing the last box down and stepping off the ladder with a huff. 

“Ah, I see.” You say and follow her out, leaning on the cold kitchen counter as she writes down the last few items on her list. Her handwriting, once enviably perfect, had grown shaky. The loopy, elegant O’s of your childhood now looked sharp and slivered, like cat eyes. You used to copy her handwriting on school reports. It never stuck.

“This all?” You ask and pick up the loose leaf paper, scanning the items on the list. Your mother nods and hands you her card. 

You took it, though you didn’t plan to use it. You never spent her money when you could help it.

-

You park on a side street close to the pharmacy, making a quick stop to grab a prescription that hadn’t been ready earlier. The sun was shining and it was warm despite a slight breeze in the air. 

Inside, it was practically deserted. The sterile white walls and tall shelves formed a maze leading to the counter. Jennifer was busy with another woman who had shiny golden hair that looked unbrushed. Standing closer you notice she smells like campfire, smoke clinging to her colorful clothes. 

You busied yourself by playing with a loose thread on the cuff of your sweatshirt, only glancing up when their conversation faded. The hippie woman turned, gave you a quick smile, and brushed past. You can't help but notice her unique white teeth. 

Up at the counter Jennifer grabs the orange bottles on a shelf behind her, packaging them up in front of you. 

“Fifty-four dollars even, insurance paid for the rest.” She smiles and you nod, pulling out your card and rubbing the raised numbers anxiously as you wait for the card reader to turn on. You thought about asking her about Trevor, how she knew about him leaving town. 

But the words dried up in your throat. You didn’t want to know the answer. Not here. Not now.

Some clouds have covered the sun by the time you leave the pharmacy, dulling the atmosphere. Looking up, you try and decide if it’s going to rain. The clouds weren’t ominous, just lazy. Maybe it’d blow over.

Then you saw him. 

Rhett was leaving the bank and heading towards his truck. Your heart leaps into your throat. He was a ways off, taking off his hat and running his hand through his hair before replacing it. 

“Rhett!” The word came out wrong, your voice too high, too sudden. It didn’t even sound like your voice, and you regret calling his name almost immediately as you watch him stop dead in his tracks, whipping his head around to see who called him. 

When his eyes meet yours, you shrink under his gaze and he looks over his shoulder again, as if to see if anyone was watching him. Rhett starts to walk towards you cautiously, as if you were going to bite him or someone (or something) was watching him. 

You meet him halfway, clenching that white paper bag in your fist. With every step you can hear the pills clink against their plastic container. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” Rhett asks, his voice hushed. His eyebrow is bruised from the fight and his lip is cut, but your mind flashes to the memory of how he left Trevor bleeding on the ground. 

“Did you hear what happened to Trevor?” You start, completely ignoring his question. Rhett’s Adam's apple bobs and he visibly tenses at your question. 

“I did…” He hesitates and you raise your eyebrows, urging him to go on. He searches your face, his baby blues tracing your features, “I actually wanted to talk to you about that.” 

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, eyes dropping to the ground. A leaden feeling settled in your stomach. You didn’t want to talk about that night. Or what you said. Or what he did, “Listen, I really need to go to the grocery store for my dad-”

“It'll be quick.” He grasps your elbow as if you would run away. The touch jolts you like a live wire and you look down at his rough, callused hand before trailing your eyes up his arm and to his face. He’s staring at his own hand, as if surprised he was touching you. 

“You know uh… How the Tillerson’s can be.” He dropped his hand to his side and looked anywhere but your eyes, as if he was scared what he would find there. Something was terribly off with him, something that you couldn't quite figure out. 

You nod simply. Someone would have to live two towns over to not know about the Tillerson’s and their… demeanor. Their history was well known within the sleepy town of Wabang. 

“Truthfully I’m not too proud of the way I acted Wednesday.” Rhett went on. “And I’d really appreciate it if you could… keep quiet. About what happened.”

“Well you know I think Maria saw the whole thing too so you-” You looked away. Your words came out wrong, too smooth, too helpful. Not like you at all.

“That’s actually the reason I’m in town today.” Rhett interrupted and threw a thumb over his shoulder. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was gesturing to where you saw him walk out of. But, it still took you a second to process that he was in there. 

With her. 

Sharp, unreasonable jealousy burned in your chest. You tried to swallow it down. You were too old for that. Whatever that meant.

“Oh! I didn't realize she worked at the bank.” You sounded stupid and your cheeks were burning in embarrassment. Honestly, you wished more than anything for a car to make a wrong turn and run you over right then. 

“How’s your dad?” The question surprised you, all prayers to God abandoned as your eyes found his once again. 

“Still sick… He’d love a visit, though. He’s bored outta his mind at home.” The words tumbled out too fast.

“You sure that wouldn’t be weird?” Rhett cocked his head in confusion.

You snorted in response. “Why would it be weird?” The question hung between you for a moment, swelling with all the memories of why. Of course it would be weird. “Just text me if you plan on coming over. Or I can text you when I’m over.” You played it cool, convincing yourself that it was only weird if you made it weird.

“Yeah sure, I got a new number though so-” Rhett starts, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Here.” You pull your phone from your back pocket and unlock it, swiping and clicking to add a new contact before holding the phone out to him. 

Rhett took your phone, his fingers brushing yours. You pretended not to notice, but the warmth of his skin stayed like a fingerprint. He typed slowly, like the numbers were harder to remember than they should be, then handed it back.

On instinct, you look down at his saved contact. Rhett Abbott. As if you would forget the last name you were destined to have six years ago. 

“I’ll text you first,” he says.

“New number, though. Remember?” You tap your nails on the back of your phone and hold it up.

That makes him smile, crooked and a little sad. You used to run your thumb across that exact smile like it was something you owned.

Rhett mirrors your earlier actions, handing you his phone. He steps closer this time, just slightly, and your breath catches before you can stop it. You’re toe to toe. He could kiss you, if you hadn’t left. If you weren’t both standing here like you were about to start something and end it in the same breath.

You type your number along with your first name, no last name. Just something simple before handing it back to him. You realize he’s looking at you like he wants to say something else. Like there’s a thread between your rib cages and he’s not sure if pulling it will unravel everything or finally tie it all back together.

“Was good seein’ you.” The trance is broken by Rhett’s deep drawl.

All you can do is nod in agreement, clutching the white paper sack tighter in your sweaty palm. You want to say you too. You want to say don’t go. You want to say when are you free next?

Rhett leaves and it hurts more than it should. A crow screeches overhead, its black body perched on a swaying powerline. It caws again, seemingly sneering at you, teasing you as it flies away. 

-

Cheap beer spilled down the side of the solo cup and over your knuckles as you walked up the creaky metal stairs to the bleachers. The sun is low, caught somewhere between gold and rust, casting long shadows across the seats. People fan themselves with programs or their hats, boots propped on rails, knees pressed close under crowded seating. Denim on denim, the occasional rhinestone glinting in the sun. Everyone smells faintly like leather and hay.

“Ugh I hope we see that guy again tonight…” Madison mumbles as you find your seats. You remember the initial text you got that brought you here in the first place. 

Rhett Abbott: I’m riding Sunday night

He was a man of few words, and you would be lying if when you saw it you didn't let out a short laugh at the bluntness of it. 

“Mads, I’m gonna be honest. I have no intentions of going after that guy-” You paused and took a sip of your beer as you surveyed the arena, “So I give you full permission to go after him.” 

Madison’s eyes widen as she turns to you slowly, “Really?” She asks tentatively, as if you were tricking her. It makes you laugh, the sound coming from deep in your stomach. Madison grins back, giggling behind her hand.

“Yes really, I hope he’s here tonight. Just for you.” You assure her with a smile.

“Hmmm me too.” Madison hums, turning her attention back to the dirt arena.

The air smells like a thick blend of dust, sweat, and sweet kettle corn. Smoke from a nearby grill hangs near the food stands, curling around strings of carnival lights strung up between poles. There’s a constant low murmur. Laughter, vendors shouting, kids whining for funnel cakes… but it reels in like the tide when the announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers.

-

You were halfway to a booth selling churros when you heard her voice calling your name.

You turned, already halfway into a smile before your chest tightened. Cecilia stood in her usual garb, dark denim jacket with embroidered paisley print on the cuffs, brown hair hidden under a felt cowboy hat. She looked exactly the same. Maybe a little softer around the eyes. 

“Oh, honey, look at you!” Cecilia exclaimed with open arms like nothing ever happened, and you didn’t hesitate. She pulled you into a hug that smelled like vanilla lotion and cigarette smoke. 

“Girl, it’s been what, six years? You look good. Life been treating you all right?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. She cupped your face in both hands like you were still twenty-three, still hers. A pang of want settles in your chest, twisting at your heart and reminding you of how loved you used to be by this family. 

Then you heard boots scuffing behind her.

Royal. Sturdy as ever, arms crossed like the fairground was his personal kingdom. He gave you a nod, slow and steady. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You gave a quiet, “Didn’t expect to come.”

His eyes held yours a beat too long. “Life’s like that.” 

A flash of blonde hair lingers behind Royal’s legs and you shift your weight, attempting to look behind him. 

Cecilia notices you and turns around, letting out a soft noise of realization, “Amy- Amy come here.” She says and walks a few feet over to Royal who was seemingly keeping his distance from you. 

A little girl who couldn't be more than five pokes her head out from around Royal’s legs, her tiny hands gripping his jeans. Cecilia pries her hands away from the fabric and guides her out from behind his legs. 

The girl, Amy, had deep blue wide eyes that looked at you with interest as Cecilia led her over to you. Behind them, Royal took a few steps towards you as well, clearly very protective of this little girl. Perry’s girl. 

And for the briefest second, it hits you sideways. That if you’d stayed, if you and Perry hadn’t ended the way it did, that could’ve been your little girl. Kindergarten-aged. A child old enough to lose her first tooth, to ask questions about the world with her whole chest, to pick out her own clothes in the morning and still get apple sauce and crayola marker stains on everything.

You can’t even picture it.

You’re almost thirty, sure, but the idea of having a child right now, of packing lunch boxes and scheduling parent-teacher conferences, feels like trying on someone else’s skin. A version of yourself that never existed.

You wonder if she would’ve had your smile or Perry’s eyes.

You wonder if you would’ve been any good at it.

“Amy, this is Miss.Madison’s sister. Say ‘hi’ now.” Cecilia explained to her. You hunched down so you were more level with the little girl. 

“Hi Amy, do you go to after school care with Madison?” You ask with a smile and she nods, her eyes dropping to her feet, “The cow on your sweatshirt is very cute.” She grins and touches the screen printed cow, muttering a soft, “Thanks.” 

You are about to ask her another question when she gets distracted by something behind you, her eyes lighting up, “Daddy!” She squeals and bolts past you. Before you can even stand up you start sweating and you feel like hyperventilating. You felt him before you saw him. The air dropped five degrees.

Perry Abbott stood tall in a flannel button up with the sleeves rolled, hat tipped back just enough for you to see the exact moment his eyes landed on you.

He lifted Amy easily into his arms, his hand resting protectively on her back as she giggled into his shoulder. His jaw was already tight by the time she turned around and pointed back at you.

“Grandma says that’s Miss.Maddie’s sister.” Amy exclaims matter-of-factly. Perry’s gaze followed her finger. It hit you like a punch, sharp and deliberate. He looked tired and bordering on miserable, the cut on the bridge of his nose and the bruise on his jaw only aiding his gaunt appearance. His knuckles are scabbed and bruised from the fight with Trevor. 

It was strange seeing him here so tender with his little girl. When last time you saw him he was sloshed out of his mind and could barely stand on his two feet. You wonder if his parents knew about that if they’d be disappointed in him at his big age. 

“Didn’t know you were still hanging around town.” Perry’s words take you back, so much so you're sure you make a face in response. 

“Her dad is sick, remember Perry?” Cecilia answers for you, coming to stand beside you. Her tone is firm and warning, as if telling him to behave.

Perry walks past you, stopping by his mom, “She doesn't need people flitting in and out of her life.” said low enough that Amy won’t understand, but you heard perfectly fine. 

And with that, he walked, boots crunching against the gravel, Amy’s tiny hand waving over his shoulder like a white flag you weren’t sure you deserved as Cecilia and Royal reluctantly followed. 

-

Stadium lights illuminated the kicked up dust in the arena, catching like glitter in your eyelashes. Madison had been giving you sympathetic looks for the past hour, ever since you got back to your seats and explained your run in with the Abbotts. 

Her hand trailing down your back was the last straw, “Mads stop it, really. I’m fine.” You huffed and slouched against your seat. 

“All I wanna say is don’t take it personally. The Abbotts been havin’ a real hard time since Rebecca left.” Madison held her hands up in a surrender (one holding her half-eaten churro), her body turned towards you.

“Rebecca?” The name sounded familiar but not enough to spark any sort of memory.

“You're joking-” Madison started, giving you a skeptical look. Slowly, it melted into a look of realization, her mouth forming a small ‘o’, “Wow you really don't know…”

“Know what?” You raised your voice an octave, annoyed at her secrecy. 

“Shhhhh- quiet!” She slapped your elbow and leaned in close to your face as if she was spilling top secret information, “Rebecca is Amy’s mom… Rebecca left like, nine or so months ago I think. The only reason why I know about it is because Amy hangs out at the school before someone picks her up. Poor girl.” 

“Poor girl.” You repeat quietly, nodding your head before looking back at whoever just came out of the gate, their bull thrashing and kicking. Though, Perry’s words keep swirling around in your head. She doesn't need people flitting in and out of her life. What was the story with Rebecca, the real story? A strange feeling overtook you and you shivered, hugging your jacket closer. 

The announcer’s voice boomed again, pulling everyone’s attention toward the center of the arena.

“And up next, we’ve got Kenny Tuthill ridin’ Bad Medicine—this bull’s meaner than your ex and twice as ugly, so y’all hold your breath!”

Your stomach dropped. Madison’s head whipped toward you, eyes wide. “What the fuck did he just say?” Once you turned to her, her lips pressed together stifling her laughter. You tried to talk with a straight face, only muttering out a few syllables of… something, before the two of you exploded in laughter, tears blurring your vision as you grabbed onto her bicep. 

“Shut up, shut up! Everybody’s lookin’ at us!” Madison tried to collect herself but you could tell she was only biting her lip to keep from laughing more. You buried your face into her shoulder, your body still shaking in laughter as Kenny Tuthill finished his ride. 

“Now who we’ve all been waiting for, Rhett Abbott back in the game after a slight misstep last week. I know y’all are eager to see our hometown hero ride once again!”

Slowly you rolled your face away from her shoulder to watch. The chute rattled, the bull inside snorting like a freight train behind the rusted gate spray painted with a bold #3. 

He exploded out into the ring like lightning striking dry grass. Dust flew. The crowd screamed. And there he was. One hand in the air, the other locked to the rope, body snapping with the bull’s every violent twist.

He looked exactly the same. Only somehow more dangerous.

You didn’t realize you were still gripping Madison’s arm until she winced, “Ouch.” she whined, pulling your hand away from her.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your eyes stayed locked on him.

Eight seconds never felt so long.

Or so short.

You don't even know that you are standing up with everyone else until you hear the roar of the crowd around you, all cheering on Rhett as he scuffles around on the ground, attempting to regain his balance. You hold still with bated breath, eyes flicking nervously between him and the screen. 

82.5

The number forty-four hung on by a thread against his back, the black vest a sharp contrast to his striped blue button up. Even from the bleachers you can see his expression completely change, his eyes lighting up and the corners of his mouth turn upwards. 

Rhett turns back to the crowd, beating his chest as confidence exudes from him. 

But then, like something tugging at him, his gaze lifts.

And finds you.

It’s not immediate, not dramatic. No slow motion, no gasp. Just his eyes locking with yours across the arena like it was always meant to happen. Like he knew exactly where you were sitting before the chute even opened.

Slowly, as if not to spook him, you raise your hand up the smallest amount. Just above your hip and give him a little wave. 

His smile falters, not quite fading, but shifting into something deeper. Something older. Like recognition. Like memory. His chest still heaving from the ride, sweat tracing a path down his dirt caked temple, but he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

Madison says something beside you, but it’s muffled, a blur.

Because all you can think is God, it’s still him.

And then…

A nod. Small. Almost imperceptible.

But it’s meant for you.

Then he turns, swallowed back up by his team, by handlers and friends slapping him on the back.

And still, your heart hasn’t started beating again.

See me on AO3 as Creatchie8 too for a full list of tags & more!

Tag List: @keepingitlokiii

[dissvicious]

That comment is perfect because I was debating on wether or not to send you this ask, but I firmly believe Law is mostly in charge of writing lyrics and songs as a whole, because Kidds idea of what songs are and how they are made is like :

*drumsolo* *drumsolo stop.* *guitar riff **All Instruments stop*

Kidd: „I smelled my farts and they smelled like-„

Suddenly screaming while all instruments go haywire:

„FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTTTTS!!!!“

Platonically kissing you on the mouth.

Law investing in this group after a drunk evening when they were all "we should totally make a band together". Regretting it the morning after. Staying mostly for spending time with Osha (never admitting it he has the communication skills of a wall) and because deep down it kinda helps with his chronic edginess depression. Waking up every morning, having to deal with supernova alliance all day and G.R.O.A.R all night. Regretting being born. Trying to get the best out of it (his birth and the band) anyway.

But ALSO.

Law THINKS he's the best with writting and poetry. Truth is whenever you let him write it turns like Scott pilgrim's "this next song is called I'm so sad so very very sad. One, two. SOOOO SAAAAD. thanks." Would be hilarious that killer is, in fact, the most skilled in writing lyrics. Law and Osha are skilled with composition and arrangements anyway, they spend alone time playing guitar & bass together and composing. Kidd is skilled to scream insults toward the public. Bartolomeo is a fan and has all their merch.

[rowarn]

IF YOU NEEDED ME !

simon riley/reader – 7.1k words sale of a lifetime mini series !

tags: smut, childhood best friend!simon, virginity for sale trope, unrealized feelings, soft!simon, protective!simon, virgin!reader, afab!reader, no prns for reader

cw: loss of virginity, cunnilingus, wet & messy, fingering, creampie, mid-sex love confession, a little arguing but nothing crazy tbh, petnames (love, lovie, sweetheart)

; he remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. he never thought he was deserving of such happiness. but now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

or.

he may not have been the first man you picked to give your first time to. but looking back, you realized he was the only right choice in the end.

Meeting some unknown, shady guy out on the street outside of a seedy bar wasn’t the smartest decision you’ve ever made. Nor was it how you actually intended to spend your Friday evening. But it was the only option you had at the moment, so you swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to stay put at the spot the guy had chosen despite the fact that being out on the street made you feel x10 more nervous and vulnerable. 

You could hear the loud music and chatter inside the bar every time the door opened to let someone in or out. There was a chill in the air that had you contemplating actually going inside and just telling the guy to meet you in there – you were about to give the bastard your damn virginity, the least he could be was accommodating to your temperature struggles. Plus, you could really use a drink.

A car, expensive by the looks of it, pulling up to the curb had you pausing in that train of thought. You recognized him from his profile picture when he stepped out of the vehicle – Lucas, you recall being his name. Whether that was really his name or not didn’t matter; all that mattered was he brought what he promised.

“You have the money?” you asked when he approached you, giving him a tight-lipped smile as a greeting.

“Yeah, got it in the car. All cash, I hope that’s alright,” he grinned, a sight that made a shiver go down your spine. His tone didn’t match the smile, all transactional and dull despite the glimmer in his eyes.

He wasn’t necessarily unattractive but he certainly wasn’t your type. There was a look in his eyes, one that made your skin crawl because you felt like you were nothing but a piece of raw meat in front of a starving, salivating predator. 

“We should get going,” he said, hurrying to open the backseat of his car for you.

You paused, “Aren’t we going to go inside or something?”

He looked confused, grip on the door tightening for a moment before he bursted out laughing. When he saw the shocked look on your face he sobered up, “Sorry, sorry, that was rude of me. Sweetheart, this isn’t a date. I’m just here to get what I paid for.”

“Oh…” you swallowed around the lump in your throat at the condescending tone, humiliation making your cheeks burn, “Right.”

Tears stung the back of your eyes and you quickly averted your gaze so he wouldn’t see how much that stung. Of course, you knew it wasn’t a date. This was a transaction. But you at least thought you’d get to know the guy who was about to take your virginity. You should have known better.

A man who was paying for your virginity wasn’t bound to be someone you could trust to feel comfortable around. You quietly sigh, resigning yourself to this all for the sake of some fucking money. 

You settle into the car, heart jumping into your throat when the door slams. It feels as if you’ve just sealed your fate and you can’t deny that you’re scared. 

But there’s an envelope next to you that you can see stuffed with bills and you clench your fists, trying to calm your racing heart by closing your eyes and breathing. 

You just hope this decision doesn’t cost you your life or something. You’d hate to imagine what that would do to a certain someone.

Suddenly, the car jostles. Your eyes snap open and you see Lucas is jacked up against the side of the car, a very familiar form caging him in. His scarred hands grip the man’s shirt in tight fists. You can’t hear what they’re saying but you can see Lucas is chattering frantically, gesturing wildly with his hands in an attempt to quell the angry man in the skull balaclava. 

You curse to yourself, a different kind of terror shocking through your system. Lucas is thrown to the side and you wince at how hard he hits the pavement before the car door is jerked open.

You can’t even say anything before a strong, rough hand wraps around your arm, yanking you out. You stumble once you’re on your feet, falling right into his chest. 

You try to pull away but his arm clamps down around you. 

Lucas is cursing and screaming his head off, words you don’t even bother to try and decipher because you’re too preoccupied with the masked figure that made his sudden appearance. Nerves make your knees shake and from the look of pure rage in his eyes, you know you’re in deep shit. 

Lucas opens the car door and slams it before driving off, tires squealing against the pavement before he vanishes. Along with that wad of cash that was going to be yours in just a short time. 

Suddenly you’re angry, shoving your hands against his chest to get him away from you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Riley?!” you shriek, shooting him the fiercest glare you could muster.

“I should be askin’ you that,” he sneers, “The hell were you doin’ with that prick?”

“I–”

“Don’t answer that,” he snaps, cutting you off swiftly, “I know what you were doin’. If you needed money that badly you should have told me.”

“It’s not your concern, Simon!” you cry, resisting the urge to petulantly stomp your foot.

You’re so pissed. 

Simon Riley and you went way back, childhood friends. The two of you had always been in each other's lives. Simon especially was always there when you needed him, a beacon of safety and protection. Your best friend and someone you loved to the ends of the Earth. 

But right now, you’re so angry with him that you can’t seem to think straight.

How dare he show up now, when you’re about to do the most humiliating act of your entire life. How could he show his stupid, masked face here when you didn’t even ask for his help in the first place for a reason. 

“You are always my concern,” he shoots back, scarred knuckles turning white from how hard he clenches his fists, “I have always taken care of you. You should have come to me for help instead of puttin’ yourself in danger like this. You didn’t know that guy, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Anger makes your skin hot, sweat beading on your forehead, blocking out the chill that once made goosebumps rise. You feel ashamed that you were caught in this situation – that the man you’ve known your entire life knew you were about to sleep with some random asshole for a fat wad of cash. You don’t like that he’s made you feel ashamed and confronted you with it.

“Just fuck off, Simon!” you shriek, the only thing you can think of before turning on your heel and stalking away from him.

You don’t glance over your shoulder to check if he’s following because you know he most likely is – from a safe distance to make sure you make it inside your apartment alright but far enough that you can’t get mad at him for it. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that you feel a headache radiating down your neck. 

By the time you reach your apartment, the anger has simmered and all you’re left with is a festering shame that makes tears fill your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself and quickly shuffle yourself inside, not bothering to check if Simon is out there or not. All you want is to get a hot shower and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend. 

You do just that, letting the burning hot water scald your skin until you can’t feel any emotions except exhaustion. And then, you crawl into bed and let sleep overtake you without a second thought. 

When you wake up, it’s clear that it’s late into the afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and shining painfully bright through the crack in your curtains. You groan and roll over, slapping the bed to find your phone. 

You grab the device and unlock it, taking a moment to scroll through your notifications. There’s some angry messages from the guy from last night – cursing you out for setting him up to be jumped. It makes you roll your eyes before a particular notification catches your eye.

It’s from your bank – alerting you of a deposit. 

You sit up straight in your bed, brows furrowed before your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see your bank statement. It’s more than you needed and you know exactly who was responsible. 

You jump out of bed, not even bothering to dress out of your pajamas before you’re shoving some slides onto your feet and storming out of your apartment. 

You’re so heated that you can’t even remember the walk to Simon’s place, your mind racing a million miles a second. You storm up to the door and slam your fist on it, the hard wood making your hand sting from how hard you pound. 

The radiating tingle of pain is quickly forgotten when the door swings open. 

Simon stands there, looking down at you expectantly. He leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an army-issued t-shirt that’s a bit too tight. The sleeves stretch taunt around his biceps and you can make out the swell of his pecs. It’s not very often that you get to see his tattooed arms, littered with scars since he tends to wear long sleeves most of the time. 

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you, clearly having expected you. The apathetic look in his eyes just solidifies that you were right all along.

“What the hell is your problem?!” you cry without so much as a greeting.

He sighs, broad shoulders rising and falling with it before he opens the door wide and motions you inside. You duck underneath his outstretched arm, turning to watch as he closes the door and locks it. 

He wanders into the kitchen and you realize you can smell bacon. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by your outburst nor does he seem interested in acknowledging your question.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, only solidifying how unperturbed he is by your display of anger. 

“No!” you snap, “I want to know why you did that, Simon!”

He sighs again, much louder but doesn’t respond. You stand in the doorway to his kitchen, watching him plate his lunch – which is actually just breakfast food. He places the dish on the table and pauses, looking up at you.

“You needed the money, I had it,” he offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I was handling it on my own,” you say, “I-It was my problem to solve.”

“By sellin’ yourself to some prick?” he snarls, the anger he was masking coming out in a flurry.

“I wasn’t selling myself–” you refute but he slams his palms down on the table. His cutlery clatters with the action and you jump.

“I read that post you made,” he hisses, teeth bared, “There’s no fuckin’ reason you should be selling your virginity for some cash when I was right here the whole time!”

Your cheeks burn when he brings up your virginity, crossing your arms over your chest protectively, “I-It’s mine to sell if I want to! I needed that money!”

“And now you have it,” he says with finality. 

He takes a seat and you stand there, fuming. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding together as your mind races to find a rebuttal. He begins to eat, taking large, fast bites that just shows how he’s been conditioned to eat quickly by the military. 

“That’s not the point, Simon,” you huff, growing less angry and more frustrated by this conversation. You were just going around in circles. 

“Then what is the point?” he snaps, snatching his empty plate and angrily tossing it in the sink. He turns to you again, a frown evident on his face, “You got the money you needed safely. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s too much money, Simon!” you cry, “I was selling something in exchange for it!”

“I care about you,” he says, “That doesn’t matter to me. What’s mine is yours, you know that.”

You silently glare at him, wishing that the heated stare would get through to him. He stands unbothered, staring blankly at you with his fists clenched by his sides.

You hang your head, sighing, “I-I can’t take your money, Simon, alright? I’m already in debt and I’m not going to be in debt to you of all people.”

“You feel like you owe me, is that it?” he asks.

You nod your head, heart rate spiking when he stalks towards you. You’re close enough to smell his body wash and aftershave, a painfully familiar scent that you adore. He stares down his nose at you, brown eyes lidded and lazy. 

He reaches out suddenly, rough hand gripping your cheeks, smushing them together until your lips pucker, “Then give me a kiss as payment.”

“H-Huh?” you whimper dumbly, eyes wide in shock as his face grows closer and closer.

“It can be payment for a kiss, lovie,” he coos, syrupy sweet and soft, “Will that make up for it, then?”

The air in your lungs suddenly doesn’t feel like enough. This is a man that you’ve known almost your entire life so you’ve obviously thought about him in a romantic sense at some point. Hell, when you were a teenager you even had a crush on him. But he never once looked at you any other way than as a friend so you quickly got over it – or maybe that’s just what you told yourself. Because as you stand there, staring into his eyes, you realize that kissing him would feel like a dream come true. 

You find yourself nodding despite the inner turmoil going on in your head. Simon huffs through his nose before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. 

There’s a shock of electricity that goes through you at the contact. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into the kiss, letting him take over. He works his lips expertly against yours, eventually abandoning his hold on your face in favor of wrapping his arm around your waist. You gasp into the kiss when he suddenly yanks you closer, your body pressed close against his. 

He’s warm and sturdy against you, a solid form of muscle that makes you feel safe and content – just as he always has. His hands are big and rough as they grip your hips, kneading the soft flesh there as he gets lost in kissing you. 

“S-Si,” you find yourself muttering without realizing.

He hums in response, chuckling when you continue to mindlessly kiss him. He pulls back, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat, thumbing at your jaw as your eyes slowly focus on him, “What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

“I-I don’t…” you swallow thickly around the forming lump in your throat, “I don’t know. I just…”

“Show me,” he breathes, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. 

The sweet, tender look in his big, brown eyes is what gives you the courage to grab his wrist, leading it just under the hem of your shirt so he can touch your bare stomach. You give him a shy glance from under your lashes, hoping he’ll get the hint that you want more. 

You want him.

Simon, in all his experienced wisdom, understands immediately what it is you’re aching for. His hand travels up further, pausing at your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. Your heart hammers in your chest when your gaze meets his. His eyes are lidded, long lashes obscuring his pupils but still burning into you. 

He stares deep into your eyes, waiting for any sign of hesitation as his fingers creep higher and higher. You suck in a breath when he cups your breast in his palm, squeezing lightly to feel their weight. 

A large, calloused thumb creeps up, passing ever so softly over your nipple until the bud peaks and hardens under the attention. You sigh at the feeling, new shocks washing over you that you’ve never experienced before. 

Sure, you played with yourself plenty – you had a healthy masturbation life, you’d say. But you’d always just been focused on reaching an orgasm, never on the build up. You imagine, however, it would never feel as good by yourself as it does with him.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine, lips parting as the sound escapes. Simon takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your hands grab his shoulders, desperately clinging to his shirt as you lose yourself in the sloppy kiss. 

Drool drips down your chin – it's messy and hot between the two of you. His hand switches to your other breast to give it the same attention as the other. You tremble in his arms, overcome by the insatiable throbbing between your thighs. 

You shift on your feet, the fabric of your panties stick uncomfortably to your core. You’re so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been in your life. By the time he pulls back, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. 

“You want more?” he asks, voice gravelly as he speaks, as if he’s drunk. You nod your head and he clicks his tongue, “You gotta tell me, sweetheart.”

“I-I want more, Si,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks burn as you admit it. 

“Let’s go,” he hums, taking your hand in his as he leads you around the couch towards the hallway.

“Where?” you ask dumbly, hoping that making some kind of conversation would ease the nerves steadily building in your chest. 

“The bedroom,” he responds, stroking his thumb over the top of your hand as if he can sense that you’re nervous, “Wouldn’t want to be stripped down in the middle of the living room, I imagine.”

“N-No,” you squeak, cheeks burning even hotter at those words. 

You’re going to be naked. In front of another person for the first time. In front of him. Simon. 

“There now, lovie,” he whispers as he shuts his bedroom door behind the both of you. He takes your waist in his hands, kneading the soft flesh there, “It’s alright.”

“I-I’m just–”

“Nervous,” he finishes for you, smiling softly when you nod, “I know. We can stop anytime you’d like.”

“I don’t want to,” you rush out, hands coming up to press against his firm chest, “Just…d-don’t be upset when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The tender way he looks at you sets your heart pounding like a little rabbit. A ghost a smile appears on his lips, “I would never do somethin’ like that.”

“I-I know, I just…” you look down at your feet only for him to catch your chin in his fingers, pulling you to look up at him.

You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat, holding your breath as he descends down. His lips find yours all over again, as exhilarating and mind-melting as the first time. 

Just the sweet, deep kiss he gives you has your nerves dissipating a bit – back to normal levels. You no longer feel the desire to flee, you just feel an intense longing and anticipation. You crave more from him.

As if sensing this, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. He slowly starts to pull it up, agonizingly slow. But you’re grateful for it, it gives you time to prepare before you’re bared completely to him. You lift your arms for him, a sign that you’re still okay with this. 

He pulls it up over your head and lets the fabric drop to the floor. But he doesn’t look down, he continues looking in your eyes, softly pecking your lips as his hands cup your breasts once more. 

When you sigh and lean into his touch, he finally lets himself break the eye contact. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees how pretty your tits sit in his hands. He touches them softly, sweetly brushing over your nipples in admiration. 

“Perfect tits, lovie,” he coos, chuckling when you whine in embarrassment. 

His head descends, pink lips parting to take one of your nipples in his mouth. It’s hot but his tongue is soft when it circles and flicks at the bud. He sucks, popping off lewdly before switching to the other one. 

The sensation makes you squeeze your thighs together, imaging what that would feel like around your clit. Your hole clenches around nothing, drooling messily into your panties. The fabric was so wet by now that it couldn’t soak it up anymore, leaving it to slick up your thighs instead.

Your core ached, a feeling only Simon would be able to soothe. 

“Please, Si,” you finally break, whimpering pathetically. 

He detaches from your breast, lips wet and swollen from the worship he had been giving your now sore nipples. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing brown and you were sure that yours looked the same. 

He stands to his full height, nudging you backwards until your knees hit the bed. They buckled at that, leaving you to fall back against the bed. Simon’s bedding was soft, the scent of detergent and his own body wash filling your senses. You relax at the familiar, comforting scent, sinking into the blankets with a bashful smile on your face.

To Simon, you’re an ethereal beauty. You take the air right out of his lungs with the way you look at him.

He remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. He never thought he was deserving of such happiness. But now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you. 

He scooches you up the bed, crawling on after you until he’s on top of you. Though you’re still wearing your pants, you feel so vulnerable beneath his weight. He’s heavy and warm and he smells so good. You can’t focus on anything except for him – he’s all around you and it’s exhilarating. 

Feeling bold, you reach up and tug at his shirt. He pulls it off with ease, revealing his toned, scarred upper body. You can’t help but trace over some of the ones you’re familiar with – there’s one from a time he fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat that you had been crying about. He fell out of the tree on the way down, a jagged branch stabbing into his upper arm and slicing it open. There was another one from when you were teenagers, some other kids jumped him and he took a stab to his shoulder trying to protect you. You kiss that one and he softens, as if he’s remembering it too. 

He’s always been there for you, an overwhelming presence that you simply couldn’t live without. The fact you’re here, in this bed, about to give him your virginity is something that you never would have expected. 

And to think, you were planning to sell it off to some random loser. 

“I’m glad you stopped me,” you find yourself whispering. 

He looks confused for a second before he hums, nodding in understanding, “I am too.”

“I-I want it to be you, Si,” you whisper, the confession leaving you embarrassed. It’s true, all this time, you realize, he’s all you’ve ever really wanted. You had just buried it deep down so you no longer felt those sparks towards him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers back, as if the two of you are sharing some secret little moment that no one else can hear about even though it’s just the two of you in this room. 

“You always do,” you respond, the words making his dark eyes light up. 

He kisses you deeply, moving his lips slowly against yours. When your hands come up to grip the back of his neck, he takes that as his cue to move down to your neck, then your collarbones, down the center of your chest between your breasts, the spot between your breasts, and finally your navel. 

You lay back, head in his pillows with your hands on either side of your head. You watch him, breathing labored as you wait for his next move. He pauses in his path, looking up through his lashes at you before his fingers find the hem of your sweats. You swallow thickly, holding your breath when he slowly begins to pull the fabric down. You lift your hips to help him, pulling your legs free while being careful not to kick him by accident. 

He keeps his gaze on you until you’re settled back down into the bed and the pants are forgotten on the floor to be collected later. Then, he looks down. 

Even though you still have your panties on, you know that the white cotton is soaked through and hides absolutely nothing from his view. 

You watch as he licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly bone dry. His hands are burning hot when he touches you again, sliding over your thighs to your hips. He leans down, pressing his lips against each of your thighs. 

His thumb reaches down, stretches over your pubic bone to touch the sticky fabric. You nearly jump at the sensation – someone’s fingers other than your own touching you there for the first time. Simon’s fingers.

As if he can’t help himself anymore, he tugs the waistband of your panties and yanks them down your thighs. You squeal when you’re jostled under the force. 

He holds the material up and you’re mortified to see just how wet they are. He runs his thumbs over the crotch and you whine, drawing his attention from them. He drops them to the floor and returns his hands back to you, gripping underneath your knees, so he can spread you all the way open. 

Your hands fly to your face, covering your eyes in embarrassment at how exposed you are. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing a kiss over the top of your hands before moving back down your body. 

You peek through your fingers only to find him already staring at you with a sparkle in his eyes. He carefully spreads your slippery folds apart with his thumbs, the movement causing a wet, sticky sound to emanate from between your legs. The little bud of your clit is hard and twitching as it’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. When he’s sure you’re looking he leans down, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. You stop breathing as you watch a fat glob of spit roll down the surface of the smooth muscle and splatter right on your clit. 

“Si-!” your squeal of his name is cut off when your eyes roll back in his head as that sinful tongue slides right over your bud. 

Your whole body twitches at that, hands falling away from your face so you can reach down and grab his hair. It doesn’t even seem like he notices your grip, focused on slurping up that sensitive nub into his hot mouth. 

You choke out a moan, tilting your head back into the pillows as your back arches. It feels just as good as you thought it would when he was giving the same, lewd treatment to your nipples. 

He continues to suck and lick your clit until your mind is completely blank and all you can think is him. Then, all at once it stops and he pulls back, letting your bud slip from the heavenly clutch of his lips.

“You ever have somethin’ inside you, lovie?” he asks, bringing up one of his fingers to swipe through the folds of your entrance, as if to show you what he intends. 

You swallow to moisten your throat before nodding, “J-Just my fingers.”

“How many?” he asks, growing more confident in prodding at the tight little hole. 

“T-Two,” you breathe, any embarrassment you felt long dissipated in the face of true pleasure.

“Alright, lovie,” he hums, “Just lay back, I’ll take good care of you, yeah?”

You nod and do as he says, turning utterly boneless against the blankets. The sweat already slicking your skin despite the fact you’ve only just begun makes the fabric stick to you. 

He prods at your entrance for only a second longer before finally, he pushes his thick middle digit inside you. Your cunt is so wet and pliant that it hungrily swallows it up to the very last knuckle. You clench around it intentionally, getting used to the feeling of the foreign finger inside of you for the first time. 

It feels so different compared to your own, thicker and rougher. The sensation is so strange but you can’t say you don’t like it – in fact, it feels amazing. You already want another, feeling like one just isn’t enough to give you that unknown feeling you’re chasing. It’s like you have an itch that needs to be scratched and only Simon can do it for you. 

As if sensing this, ever the reliable one, he carefully introduces a second finger. The stretch is unfamiliar, a burn around your entrance following as he reaches the last knuckle on that one too. His middle and ring finger stuffed snuggly inside your gooey little cunt as you whine and squirm from the feeling. 

Once you’ve adjusted, he slowly begins working them in and out of you. You slick up his fingers easily, streaks of creamy white coating his skin and making his mouth water. When he crooks his fingers up suddenly, prodding at that tender little spot inside of you, your entire body twitches and the most beautiful moan rips from your chest. 

He can’t resist leaning down and trapping your pulsing little clit under the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t slurp it into his mouth like before, instead, he just licks over it, pressing it down with the muscle. Your eyes are rolled up and your mouth hangs open as you moan and moan, tugging mindlessly at his hair as he works you towards your orgasm. 

It grows and grows, the unrelenting pleasure of his fingers fucking deeply into you and his tongue lapping sloppily at your clit like a mutt driving that knot in your belly to tighten. Drool spills out around his tongue, slipping down to meet his fingers where he easily fucks it into you – the added lubrication not needed but so very welcome with how much wetter and messier it makes you. 

“S-Simon…” you pant, gasping to catch your breath as the pleasure makes it hard for you to even think. 

He glances up at you through his lashes but doesn’t offer any other acknowledgement. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to wring this orgasm out of your little cunt whether you like it or not. 

And fuck, do you love it. 

The orgasms you brought yourself in the deep of the night, little hands stuffed down your panties as you played with your clit and stuffed yourself with your own fingers was nothing like what you were experiencing now. Simon’s thick fingers and hot tongue were torturing your little clit until your entire body started to lock up.

You looked at him desperately, unsure what was even going through your mind besides him and how fucking good you felt right now. 

Just as you teetered on the edge of this orgasm, he suddenly changed up and swallowed your twitchy little clit into his mouth. He sucked, sending you flying over the edge with a shrill wail of his name. Your legs kicked and twitched, heels hitting him on the back as you trembled and shook through the orgasm that he eagerly fucked out of you onto his fingers. 

He suckled your clit, swirling his tongue around it until it was too sensitive and you were tearily pushing him away. When he finally released you, slipping his fingers from your cunt, you were boneless and twitching on the bed. You didn’t even try to close your legs when he pulled away, giving him the perfect view to watch your cute little pussy clench and messily drool cum in the aftermath of your orgasm. 

He popped his fingers in his mouth, eyes rolling and lashes fluttering at the taste of your cum tingling on his taste buds. As you came down, eyes closed and breathing heavy, he began pulling at his belt. 

You could hear the metal clinking as he dropped it to the floor, peeking your heavy lids open to see him pull the button of his jeans open. As he slowly pulled them down, his underwear went with and suddenly you were more aware than ever. 

His cock was something to behold. Thick and veiny, bobbing in the air where it hung – too heavy to actually stand upright. You’d seen dicks in porn before but none of them prepared you for Simon’s. Precum dribbled from the tip, creating a long, gooey string down towards the floor before it broke. 

He wrapped a big hand around himself, giving a few good strokes as he reached down to cup his own heavy balls. The hair wasn’t wild or offensive, but neatly trimmed short. 

“All good, lovie?” he asked, stepping out of the pool of his jeans and boxers so he could kneel on the bed again.

“All god-good!” you blushed as he laughed, leaning down over you to balance his weight on his elbows.

“You still want this?” he asks, hushed and sweet, 

You glance between your bodies to see that intimidating cock, drooling messily over your skin. You realize, quickly, that you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

When you voice such, he looks relieved, like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. He sits back on his heels and spreads your legs, pushing your knees up to your chest.

“Hold them there,” he orders, which you follow immediately. 

Your elbows circle around your knees, holding yourself open for him as he asked. He whistles low in appreciation when your cum-slicked cunt was spread and exposed for him to prod his cockhead against. 

He swipes the tip up and down through your folds, humming appreciatively when your little hole tries to suck him in every time he grazes past it. He nudges your clit, the little bud still hard and sensitive from your orgasm but so eager for more. He couldn’t wait to grant your wish and make you cream on his cock. 

You watch him with wide eyes as he starts to push into you. Your jaw drops as you feel that burning stretch, an ache settling between your legs as he continues to sink himself into you. 

“F-Fuck, wait, Simon!” you squeal and he halts immediately. 

He’s only reached just past the head of his cock but he reaches down to pet your clit. The pleasure shoots through you, making your toes curl and your walls relax around him. He keeps his eyes on your face for any sign that you want him to stop as he moves his hips again. 

More and more of his cock sinks inside and his thumb keeps working little circles over your clit until his hips are flush with yours. Your voice breaks as you moan when you realize you’ve taken every single inch of him. 

He’s heavy and throbbing inside of you and you clench around him intentionally, forcing a moan from his chest. 

He leans down, arranging your knees over his shoulders, folding you up and pressing down on  you. He’s heavy and it makes it hard to breathe but that makes it even better – the pleasure of being speared on that fat cock and being utterly helpless underneath this man is better than any fantasy you could have made for yourself. 

“Fuck,” he snarls, rolling his hips back before rocking them forward again, heavy balls slapping against you as he does, “Can’t believe you were gonna give this little cunt away to some prick.”

“S-Si,” you whimper, biting your lip at the feeling of him slowly and carefully rocking his hips against yours, “‘M sorry, sh-shoulda been you all this time.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hums, “No one else gets to love you but me, sweetheart.”

“O-Only you!” you agree, nails digging into his shoulders when he hits that spot just right. 

He can feel you soaking his cock, drippy cum lathering him up to make every glide of his cock wetter than the last. He sits back up on his knees, adjusting his grip so he can pin your legs wide open, giving him the best view of your greedy cunt swallowing his length up. 

He begins to fuck you in earnest, pulling out halfway before sliding home again - nothing like the little movements he gave you to prepare you. He was going to show you exactly why you should only think of giving him this precious pussy for the rest of your life. No one will ever be able to fuck you as good as he can, he’s going to learn your body like the back of your hand and you’re never going to be able to cum as hard as you can with him. You’ll never even want to use your own fingers again when he’s done with you. 

You can’t do anything but lay there and take it, take the pleasure and take his cock. He hits so deep, prodding at your cervix in a way that aches but it only feels that much better when it’s mixed with mind-numbing pleasure. 

Simon looms above you, panting and groaning as he fucks you like he was made to. He angles his hips just right, blunt nails biting into your thighs where he pins you open, neither of you caring if he happens to break skin while he does. You don’t even register the bite of pain underneath the way his cock prods you g-spot so perfectly. 

Your own fingers would have been tired by now, no longer able to work that little spot like you need. Simon’s cock, however, is unrelenting. The pleasure builds and mounts uninterrupted, every stroke of his length sending you higher. His body moves fluidly, rolling his hips tirelessly so he can give you every ounce of pleasure your sweet little cunt needs. 

You’re creaming around him, a frothy, milky ring forming around the base every time he sinks in and becoming visible when he pulls back. It’s filthy and messy and makes your cheeks burn but Simon seems to not mind in the slightest.

“So fuckin’ messy, love,” he coos, breathy and slurred, “Look at that, pretty cunt needed some cock, huh?”

“Y-Yours!” you manage to choke out.

“What’s that?” he asks, a crooked, teasing grin on his face. 

“Y-Your cock! Only needed your cock, Simon,” you pant, reaching up to grope your own tits, pinching and rolling your nipples meanly. It hurts so good, making you clench around his cock. He moans at the sight, his pretty little virgin tormenting your own nipples.

“That’s right,” he hums, reaching a shaky hand down to thumb at your clit, “Keep pinchin’ those pretty tits, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”

You nod your head, unable to form a vocal response from the new sensation of your clit being played with while he fucks you. It feels so damn good that you could go drunk from it all. Everything in your brain is slow, thoughts of only him and how good you feel are all that’s there. Your entire world, right at this moment, revolves around Simon Riley. 

He knows it too, a cocky grin on his face as he works you to your orgasm. You dangle, almost helplessly, staring unblinkingly at his handsome face as he works it out of you. 

After what feels like minutes, but is probably only seconds, you cum. Hard.

Your head slams back against the pillows, back arching as you cunt clasps tight around him. You cry out in pure, unadulterated pleasure as he fucks you through it. His thumb keeps working your clit as it twitches and pulses under the digit, cumming nice and pretty for him just like he wanted. Just like you deserved. 

You cream his cock messily, it drips down his balls and down your ass to the bedding below. So fucking sloppy and wet, a perfect little cunt made to take his cock. 

His brows furrow, mouth falling open as his own orgasm mounts and builds. Now that your well-earned orgasm is out of the way, he can finally let go and allow himself to experience it as well.

“Where do you want it?” he grits out, teeth clenched from the ache of holding back.

His balls draw up, heavy and full. He feels ready to positively explode when you gasp, “I-Inside!”

His head falls back, the loudest, most drawn out moan you’d never expected to come from a stoic man like Simon falling from his lips. It’s deep and primal, full of nothing but euphoria as he spills into you. His load is hot and thick, drooling out of the sides of his cock as he slows his thrusts to milk the least bits of pleasure from the orgasm. 

When he comes down, he collapses. Your legs lock around his waist and he draws you tightly into his arms, neither of you caring for the way his weight crushes you. All you care about is being wrapped up in his arms where you belong. 

He pulls his neck from your chest and kisses your forehead. Then he kisses your nose. Then your lips. 

“Pretty,” he breathes, still drunk on the endorphins of the sex so his lips are a little looser than they’d normally be, “Always thought you were pretty.”

“Really?” you prompt, cheeks heating at his confession. 

He hums, “Glad you’re finally mine.”

You beam, “No one deserved me as much as you.”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, rolling off of you with a sigh. His cock unplugs your cunt and a gush of your mixed cum comes out, making you whine. He laughs softly, drawing you back into your arms. 

You’ve never felt safer and warmer in your life, knowing in that moment that you should have come to Simon all along. There’s no one in the world who would be there for you, more willing and able than he. 

this work belongs to rowarn. do not repost to third party websites or use for character ai. reblogs welcome and appreciated!

[screampied]

‘ I JUST WANNA HEAR YOU (S)CREAMMM ! ’

ᡴꪫ sum. what’s your favorite scary movie? is it carrie? psycho? or maybe nightmare on elm street? perhaps picking up the phone was a bad idea, but you don’t scare easily! or do you?

wc. 6.0k

warnings. fem! reader, ghostface geto & ghostface nanami, college au, threesōmes, unprotected, brief phone sēx, roleplay, dirty talk, praise, overstim, implied multiple ōrgasms, spit, manhandling, brēeding, hair pulling, oral (f & m receiving), cowgirl dp.

an. from this ask!

“hello.”

“hello?”

“what’s your favorite scary movie?”

you deadpan, almost as if you’ve seen this movie before. it was around close to midnight. you were the only one sober at some random frat party you got dragged to. everyone besides you were probably wasted or shoving tongues into mouths. sitting up on a cushioned bed, you hold the landline up to your ear. “mean girls two. bye.”

“….girl what? that’s not a—”

you hang up, averting your eyes back towards the tv screen that displayed some cheesy soap opera. about precisely thirteen seconds pass before the landline screeches a loud deafening ring again.

sighing, you answer it. “stop calling this number. prank calls aren’t funny.”

“no.” the voice replies, and it’s very deep—you swear you’ve heard something like it before. a best way to describe it was that it had a gruff pitch to it, baritone running all underneath it. his voice was also a bit sly too. “i just wanna talk to you.”

“bother some other girl. bye.”

“don’t hang up on me.”

for whatever reason, you don’t hang up. his voice sounded a bit stern—you sit up before growing quiet. you’re fully alert now.

“good girl. now, i’ll ask again. what’s your favorite scary movie?”

pressing your back against the comforter, your thighs squeeze together. with another vexed sigh, you say the most random movie that comes immediately to mind. “halloween.”

“pft. basic.”

“wha— you’re the one who asked.”

“oh, doll i’m just joking. but anyway, you like slasher movies, yeah?”

for whatever reason, the more you talked to this total stranger, you start to feel a sudden uncanny stir delve around your stomach. you weren’t scared, yet at least, but it was oddly peculiar. his voice sounds a bit familiar the more you listen to it. with how teasing the caller on the other line appeared, it was strangely intriguing. you kind of didn’t wanna hang up anymore, besides this party you were at was quite … not the best.

“not really. i am a jamie lee curtis fan though, i only watched because i make fun of the deaths.” you mumble.

“hmmm,” the voice hums through the other end. it’s as if he’s pondering what his next choice of words will be to you. “so…you got a boyfriend?”

you were taken aback by how abrupt the change of subject was. the man on the other end laughs at your awkward silence before you finally speak.

“no, and it’s not like it’s any of your business.”

“easy, girl. i’m just curious. besides, what if i wanna ask ya out?”

you grow quiet again before rubbing your neck, you were growing a bit hot.

“whatever. no, i don’t have a … boyfriend.”

“ooh. you hesitated there.”

you grumble. “shut up. i’m hanging up.”

the man immediately replies with a chortle.

“wait, wait. heh, serious though. you never told me your name, doll face.”

with an eye roll, you utter, “why do you wanna know my name?”

“because i wanna know who i’m looking at.”

“what?”

“what?”

each word he spoke breaks through the phone due the deep mess of his voice. a few rough sparks from his dialogue punctures through the soundbox of the device. again, he did sound oddly familiar. you just couldn’t put your foot on it.

the man chuckles before responding in a more sly tone—changing the subject again.

“you know doll, you sound kind of out of breath. call me crazy, but before i called you, were you playing with yourself?”

your legs suddenly squeeze shut, you were wearing one of your borrowed hoodies and shorts underneath. any sane person would have hung up eons ago, but for whatever reason—you felt your heartbeat start to race. the more you listened to the deep voice on the other end, the more you started to grow more curious. what’s wrong with playing around for a little bit? besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen—you dying?

you scoff, thinking this was nothing more than a dumb prank call—you decided that playing along wouldn’t hurt. you had nothing else to do anyway.

“so what if i was playing with myself?”

“i bet you didn’t even make yourself finish, doll.”

his voice, the more it spoke in that rough pitched tone—you couldn’t help but press the landline up to your ear just a bit further. you furrow your curled up brows, lowering your guard a bit. probably foolish, maybe you’d regret this later, but alas, reality wasn’t on your mind at the moment.

“are you saying you can make me finish?” you mutter, growing amused now.

“oh i know i can. i can make you get off from just from my voice alone.”

he was toying with you, but it was too late to back down. you intake a honed breath before humming.

“okay, prove it then.”

he chuckles.

“mhm. take those panties off first. actually no, slide them to the side for me.”

you really felt like you were in a movie, shamelessly at this random guy’s beck and call. as the show played in the background, you press the middle part of your thumb against the volume button to turn it down four notches. the room was practically silent now, the only noises heard were from the blaring beat drops of edm music downstairs. sprawling your legs out, you creep a shaking hand between your thighs.

the voice grows quiet, you finally move your panties toward the side before slouching back against the pillow.

“you must be really bored. talking to a random girl at the m-midnight.” you exhale.

“heh, m-maybe,” he mocks your falter. “but i’m sure you’ll keep me entertained with that cute voice of yours.”

he was so smooth. smooth as if he was prepared for every word that flew out of your mouth. as your fingers glide against your now exposed entrance, you let off a shaky breath.

he was right, out of boredom you tried to play with yourself— yet, that didn’t work out because you could never make yourself finish. your attempt was basically useless. with a frowning pout, you reply. “now what?”

“finger yourself, silly. and i wanna hear, put the phone up against that pussy for me, doll.”

he was filthy.

you felt yourself start to throb before removing the landline from against your ear and placing it right against your doused entrance.

with heavy jagged breaths becoming more irregular, the person on the other line hears the wet sloshes of your cunt up against the phone. again, he grows quiet—it’s almost like you can make out his deep attractive breaths and it makes you pulse even more.

“bet you’re so nice ‘n soaked. sounds so sloppy.”

gnawing on the softness of your bottom lip, your thumb briefly skims past the nub of your clit and you whine. you were already a bit sensitive from before, starting to stroke your fingers against it. bringing the phone back up to your ear, you ease a single finger inside. it feels warm—you were slick, coating your own finger with a nice amount of your obscene arousal. it doesn’t take long for you to start to pant, slithering another finger inside of your cunt before moaning. it fits nicely, nice and snug.

“you sound so pretty. i want you to imagine those are my fingers, pretty girl. can ya do that?”

“y-yeah,” you start to stammer, feeling a sudden spongey texture inside of you—you gasp, not expecting to reach your sweetened g-spot so soon. it was a mere bumpy texture, gloopy gummy walls involuntarily accepting your two slender fingers with an open gesture. “fuck, ‘m still a bit sensitive.”

he guffaws lowly.

“yeah, i bet you are. poor baby can’t even make herself cum.”

you swallow, the playfulness in his voice making your thighs start to tremble a bit. with relaxed fingers stretching throughout your walls, you focus on your breathing. each pant that came out of your hot breaths seemed like it was gonna be your last. after a while, your toes start to curl up in pure pleasure—you moan, feeling a sudden rush of weightlessness nirvana overtake you.

“find your g-spot for me. tell me when you do.”

“i- i already found it,” you whine, a sheaf of nerves that store inside of your pussy pulsating at a rapid speed. your head throws itself back as you’re just moaning melodically. “fuck, why don’t you just come over ‘n finish for me already.”

the voice laughs again.

“yeah? you want me to come over instead? maybe i should use my tongue since your fingers are so useless, dollface.”

at this point, you didn’t really care. maybe making simple rational decisions today just wasn’t in your favor. the eerie voice, each second you spent listening to it the more aroused you became. maybe getting off to a pure stranger’s voice was embarrassing but you were feening. the air felt suddenly thick. so thick you could cut it with a knife. with your bottom lip being chewed on like gum, you briskly shiver. cold, wintry air wafts against your skin and you moan for the nth time. an unforeseen chill runs down your spine before you hold back yet another whine.

“f-fuck, just come ‘n finish for me. i can’t do it. please.”

he grows quiet for a solid good four seconds before replying in a cheeky tone.

“okay. turn around.”

your panting stops and instantly, you turn your head the other way—of course, no one was there. figures, the only things your eyes were met with was the wooden headboard. with a disappointed grimace, pulling your occupied fingers out of your cunt, you turn back around. as you’re about to speak into the phone again, you open your mouth before pausing.

there, you’re met face first with what appears to be some guy in an infamous ghostface costume. he was tall, staggering inches on him before you don’t see one but two. they both had the same getup, ghoulish ghost mask, a long black robe, and the same spectral, tilting head-stance.

one of them takes off a mask and it’s suguru geto, your roommate.

your eyes concisely widen. once he yanks off the mask, his silky well-kept black strands fly loose. no wonder the voice sounded a tad bit familiar. the other removes his mask and it was nanami, two of them—now you really felt like you were in a movie. “you always did say how much you liked scream,” and then you glance at nanami who had a sheepish expression. “don’t be shy now, someone’s gotta help ya finish.”

“o-oh,” you remember, sitting up against the bed. now you were embarrassed. just a few seconds ago, you were getting off to your roommate’s voice. suddenly, you felt even more hot. you did end up talking their ear off about your adoration for the beloved franchise, ranting about your cute little ghostface obsession.

truth be told though, you didn’t know they’d make it a sheer reality for you. the two of them get on the bed towards you before nanami brings a gloved hand to your chin. he strokes your chin softly, and geto moves underneath.

“sorry princess,” he whispers. “suguru wanted to scare you but i told him we should just show ourselves,” and as he’s speaking, you get lost in his soft, honeydew eyes. such gentle compared to geto who was a bit more—crazed. “he didn’t scare you too bad, did he?”

you moan once you feel geto run a thumb against your already exposed cunt. with a firm head shake, you huff. “no, n-not really.”

“aw what. i thought i was pretty scary,” and you whimper out once he blows against your folds. for a concise moment, geto stares up at you—dark eyes keeping a strong gaze on you. “tell us what you want, pretty girl. you want us to help you finish?”

you nod, feeling geto spread your legs apart further.

nanami, with a gloved hand purses your lips together, forming them into a tight squeeze before humming. “words, princess. use them, okay?”

the more you feel geto’s breath fan against your clit, teasing you—you were about to go feral. you stare up at nanami before letting off a sweet whine. “i- i want you both to help me finish,” you stutter out, stumbling over your pathetic words like you’d stumble with an untied shoe. “make me cum, please kento.”

he leans in to kiss your forehead and you hear geto scoff underneath. “i’m the one between your legs but whatever,” and you feel his soft lips kiss against your pussy. “kento, keep her distracted for me, will ya?”

“you’re so pretty,” he mutters, lightly lifting up your chin. as he wore black gloves—the fabric gently brushes against your lip, popping a thumb into your mouth. he doesn’t expect for you to happily take it in his mouth, sucking on it. “oh,” he breathes, a bit speechless. you stare into nanami’s eyes, swirling your tongue around his thumb in such an erotic way. lowly hooded eyes stare at him the entire time, you moan once you feel the flatness of geto’s tongue run against your sweet clitoral hood. his tongue—the texture of it was so cold, the moment he digs in he makes you know the pure definition of sloppy. all with his tongue, he slowly flicks it against your nub before delving his tongue deeper between your soddened folds. nanami pulls your chin to face him again before softly purring, “don’t look at him, look at me pretty girl.”

as your eyes focus back towards nanami, you could already feel your legs quavering. you felt hot, the lewd way geto drags his tongue against your pussy makes you gasp out three strained second puffs of air.

“k-kento,” you moan, pawing your hands at the low part of his robe. he watches, lowering his head at you before you reach there. nanami’s bulge, he has an abashed expression as he realizes what you were fondling at. “take it off.”

“ah, ask nicely,” he coos. your lips were now glossed with your own spit he smears against you as he pulls his gloved thumb out of your mouth. even though nanami was more tame than geto, his voice had a bit more dominance in it. he grabs your chin gently, cocking his head toward the side. “tell me what you want ‘n i’ll give it to you.”

your legs felt like they were standing on its last few hinges—geto’s tongue runs down your slit, taking a moment to depart his lips and spit on it, only to then lap it up again. a few annoyed grunts escape out of him partially due to his long strands of hair getting in the way. “so sweet,” he mutters, you whimper once he prods two fingers against your outer entrance. every few seconds he’d kiss near your thighs, leaving a few bite bite marks before focusing back towards your folds. “mhm.”

barely even able to keep focus, you gaze back up at nanami who’s standing near the edge of the bed—you’re laid back against the pillows with geto between your thighs. finally, a sweet mewl of words leave your glazed lips. “i- i wanna taste, ‘ken. wanna suck you off,” and he gives you a playful eyebrow raise, prying his pink lips open a few inches apart before you correct yourself. “pretty please.”

“better,” he murmurs, a hand of his reaching towards your head to give it a good pat. “good girl. go ahead, lift it up ‘n enjoy the meal.”

with a soft slackened sigh, you lift up the obsidian black robe. you’re met with ripped jeans, for some reason you just figured he’d already be sprung out for you. as geto’s still lapping up every drop of your taste, you unzip his fly before yanking down his pants. you were so impatient— and with geto’s demented pace, you were getting close. he chuckles, watching you struggle with the zipper for a bit before finally reaching near his boxers. they were a cerulean blueish color, his bulge was just appetizing. the entire shape of it, you felt yourself starting to drool the longer your eyes made direct contact against it. so rounded and full. with clammy hands, you tug them down before his thick cock springs out.

“it’s okay,” he whispers with a nod, watching you glance up him—a silent gesture as a way of asking if you could go further. nanami brings a hand towards the crown of your head, gingerly massaging his fingers through the crevices of your scalp. “you can be a little messy for me.”

a wretched whine that was raw rips from your throat once you feel geto’s tongue latch against your cunt. by now, he was sucking against your folds. the squelches were so sloppy, a hand of yours grab onto his hair for leverage and he shoots you a sly smile.

“don’t be shy girl, yank on it.”

dark pooled irises linger into yours for a long time before you get a good grip of geto’s hair, dragging him closer towards your entrance. over and over and over.

he giggles, hot breath ghosting against your folds and you throb even more. with dilated irises staring back towards nanami, you wrap your free hand around his length—he was so thick, such full balls that you just wanted to run your tongue all across it. he had a few veins skim down his beige, weighty cock. you could make out a few drops of lustrous pre-cum that decorates near his very tip. “u-ugh,” he shakes, the warmth that your tongue provides has him smothering his lips together. nanami watches, you’re slow but deadly.

pursing your lips together, you gradually start to sink him into your mouth.

geto’s still between your thighs, shoving two fingers in and out of you now—he surrounds your clit with his mouth, the suction he creates with just his lips was brutal. you’re moaning, even whilst your noises were pretty much muffled due to nanami’s fat cock. “easy,” he whispers, tapping a thumb against your cheek. “no teeth, okay? you’re doing s-so good.”

nanami groans, goading the same thumb against your cheek before you inch yourself further and further down. he has a shy smile at the way your hair forms in musses due to his tight grip. within no time, your throat’s already stuffed and few droplets of your own saliva trickles down the sides of your mouth. geto’s still making sure to thrust his gloved digits in and out of your soaked cunt and you don’t know which roommate to focus on.

“m-mphm,” was all you could manage out, your legs in a swift spread-eagle position. as you’re outstretched, you feel yourself about to cum. you’d recognize that feeling anywhere—the feeling when a swelling pool of heat residing inside your stomach tickles throughout your entire abdomen. that same feeling of nirvana courses through your veins as you’re now leisurely bobbing your head. every time you pull on geto’s long hair, he grunts—spanking your clit in response and that only causes you to whine for more. nanami strokes your face as he starts to feel his dick prod against the roof of your mouth. for a split second as you’re breathing through each nostril—you gag, long lashes fluttering in sync together.

your legs couldn’t hold still, geto’s continuously pushing you towards your limit before you whimper out. your tongue lathers over the splotches of pre-cum that paints nanami’s tip a pretty shade of snowy white.

he just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, especially not with a face like that.

low eyes, sheepish smile, furrowed eyebrows. you’re convulsing profusely all in geto’s mouth, the sides of your thighs occasionally hitting against his face and he titters. “such a sloppy m-mouth,” nanami inhales deeply, and he starts to gently drag your head against his cock. he’s got your mouth filled with so many inches—your cheeks were all puffed up from his immense length, sheeny slobber emanating all down the sides of your mouth before he pants. “gonna make such a mess ‘n your mouth, princess. ‘s that what you want?”

you nod, feeling the vein that runs down his girthy cock twitch in your mouth. you moan, he’s feeling weightless—you’ve got his knees trembling, a hand’s still attached to your head like velcro before gyrating your tongue all over the crownhead of his shaft. “such a pretty face,” he gruffs lowly, swiftly pulling your hair side to side to take every inch. “s-shame i gotta ruin it a little.”

even nanami’s dirty talk was tame— it was cute to witness, the way his blond brows would tug into a furrow. he’s so pent up, and out of nowhere—you feel a sudden rush erupt within your cunt. before you could even react, you end up cumming hard. it shoots out of you like a rough wave, it’s such pure bliss that it takes you a few seconds to realize. geto’s making out with your pussy, slowly sliding his two protected fingers in and out of your sopping wet entrance and you shudder. “what a fuckin’ mess,” he hums, taking sight at how saturated you were. as geto laps his tongue against your folds once more, he stares back up at you and nanami. “aw. look at you two,” and he leans down to kiss your forehead. “slobbin’ everywhere, messy girl you are.”

your eyes go back up towards nanami, he’s sweating.

he felt as if the fabric of his robe stuck against his skin. while he’s holding it up with one hand, you sneak a stare at his abs, perfect washboard abs that looked quintessentially sculpted against his body. “g-gonna cum,” and he stares at geto, growing a bit flustered once all attention’s on him. “suguru, don’t just stand there. p…praise her.”

geto scoffs, kneeling beside you on the bed before moving a few strands from your face. “so bossy,” he grits before giving you your second head pat. he leans up close to your ear, grabbing the voice changer again and brings it up to his lips. “c’mon, doll. make ‘ken cum, yeah. doin’ so good for us. you’re gonna make him whine for you, heh.”

nanami’s legs felt like mush, he throws his head back, his long black robe syncing with his movements before he’s gently pulling your head against his thick cock. he shudders, welts of twinges close in on the undersides of his thighs before he finally finishes. it builds up gradually before you find him pouring into your mouth with a nice amount of parching hot cum. it’s hot, a good mass of satiny ropes coat the flat middle part of your tongue and you moan. “f-fuuuck,” he heaves through heavy lungs, it’s still trickling, you savor the taste. it’s bitterly sweet. he pulls out of your mouth before letting off a tremulous sigh. “good girl, f-fuck.”

“aw. don’t hog her, give me attention too,” geto sneers, softly grabbing you by the neck, making you face him. with his right hand, he squeezes your lips together with a rigid grip. “ah, don’t swallow yet. c’mere.”

with half-lidded eyes, you do—leaning into his touch before geto plants his warm lips onto yours. you’re caught by surprise for the umpteenth time today, prying your mouth open for him and he lolls his tongue down your throat. you let off a whine, feeling his gloved hands rub against every inch of your body. immediately, he tastes the candied flavor of nanami’s cum and it makes him groan. he didn’t even bat an eye—you return the kiss, feeling geto’s hand slither further down towards your ass. he caresses it, giving it a mean spank to make you moan out in ecstasy.

after a while, he pulls away, humming at nanami. “ken ken, don’t be so shy. you want a taste too?”

“yeah,” he mutters, needy eyes staring at your lips that were lubricated with your own sheeny spit. “can i?”

you nod, and he’s so gentle with you. a hand nimbly wraps around your throat before he brings you into a deeper kiss. geto’s still for his hands on you, strumming his fingers near your pulled to the side panties. you let off a soft pant, feeling the spiral of nanami’s tongue go against yours. he tastes sweet — savory even, his flavor was purely mouthwatering. a thumb drags down the passageway of your throat before he pulls away. it’s slow, a polished concoction of saliva departs from each mouth and you whimper. you were throbbing, desperate for more and they both knew that. if this— whatever this was was some sort of movie, you never wanted it to end. you never wanted the credits to roll because you felt like you were floating on cloud nine.

with the two of them, you were stretched in every way possible. if you could compare who was bigger, actually you couldn’t. throughout multiple positions, you felt as if you were gonna snap in half. they had you so stupid. pink tongue rolled out, full lungs of oxygen departing out such hot breaths of air, you were the definition of stupid.

cockdrunk at its finest. each orgasm that got ruthlessly snatched out of you had your head spinning, heart racing entirely.

you felt like something was creeping up behind your shoulder, chills. whenever you’d coax out yet another teeth-shattering orgasm, all you felt was stone cold chills. time after time, it felt like pure bliss—you thought you were in a whole new world, barely even able to move your thighs an inch. being sandwiched between the two of them, perhaps you were a little greedy but you just couldn’t get enough. geto’s degrading you whilst nanami’s whispering sweet pleasures into your ear, you’ve never felt more soaked.

you didn’t wanna stop—

currently, you’re straddling nanami. he’s got two rough hands gripping your waist, intaking every inch of your pretty physique. his stare sends you butterflies, his shaft was underneath you and only then pulls out. with a cute, “phew,” he swipes a sheet of sweat that expands across his forehead. you rode him so good that he couldn’t even figure out what to say. he was so flustered, tips of his ears a reddish hot before he watches geto creep behind you. “think she wants more, suguru.”

“bet she does,” he whispers, bringing a few sweet kisses near the inner corners of your neck.

you’re promptly sat up straight. the brief sounds of booming speakers roar from downstairs as you wrap your arms around nanami. geto licks near your collarbone before purring seductively. “say, doll. how ‘bout you try to take us both? would ya like that?” and with a gloved hand he gives your ass a squeeze. “wanna be the final girl ‘n prove your worth? our final girl?”

without an inkling of hesitation—you nod, mewling out a sweet, “yes, yes jus’ hurry up, sugu. ‘m still c…close.”

“so wet, so impatient,” he whispers once more, and with two hands he makes you sit up from nanami. you gulp—swallowing whatever sanity you had left, preparing to be quite literally double stuffed with your roommates. you aren’t so sure why, but the fact that they both still had on their ghoulish costumes made you pulsate a bit more. geto’s helping you slide back down onto nanami’s length before slowly making his way into you also. “god, you’re so hot in here. gonna fuckin’ swallow me whole.”

you moan, everything goes so slow—your cunt was a ticking time bomb. you clamp down on each before slumping into nanami’s chest. you’re met with kind eyes, he strokes your forehead before kissing the bridge of your nose, panting in a hushed voice. “eyes on me, princess. just relax.”

you wriggle a bit at the positioning—being on nanami’s lap, geto directly behind you, you’re quite literally being filled in every orifice by thick inches of cock. nanami’s words were soothing, filling up your tummy with a pool of fluttering butterflies. you keep your eyes on him, clenching down on geto a bit before you hear him hiss in response. “ugh. doll open up for me a little m-more, yeah.”

his voice was deepened heavily—you let off a cute gasp once they’re both finally in and a few shaky breaths exit past your lips. “hold my hand, i got you,” nanami coos, and that’s when geto starts to rock. he had more control between the two of you, the grip on your hips was firm and you let off a sweet babble. each individual entrance was stuffed, you swallow the invisible lump in your throat as you start to feel the sweltering friction of your thighs slap against nanami. “you’re so pretty like this,” and he kisses the temple of your cheek.

every kiss presented from nanami makes your heart race—being sandwiched between nanami and geto, you really did feel like the main character.

your lip tremors, grinding back and forth between each of them, you feel geto wrap his thick fingers around your neck.

whilst you’re still straddling nanami—you moan again and again, feeling a free hand of geto’s spank your ass. the stretch that you continuously felt had your mouth watering. you heard the harmonic pap pap pap’s until it rang throughout your ears. “fuck, ya like being stuffed don’t you, pretty girl? feel full enough?” geto rasps, pressing his body right up against you. you felt his hot temperature go against your skin. making you feel every amount of his heat. your brain’s swelling up with fog. giving him an inert nod, you hear him click his tongue. “didn’t say to nod your head, doll. i wanna hear that sweet voice.”

whenever geto lowers his voice a bit, you feel the abrupt tension arise between your legs. leaning against nanami, you whine out a, “hngh y-yesss, ‘m so full, sugu. want more, stuff me more.”

“let me stuff your mouth too then.”

and before you could come up with a reply, geto removes his glove—shoving your mouth with two fat digits. he grunts, watching as you’re so compliant with your throat being filled with his fingers. nanami stares at the entire scene in front of him, his dick idly twitching inside of you. your tongue runs down his fingers before your own spit starts to seep down the corners of your lips. it was messy—you were messy. your hips jitter and judder and you knew with having both holes stuffed you weren’t gonna last that much longer. it was probably the dozenth orgasm your pussy’s been introduced with and you could feel the creeping pleasure brew up inside your abdomen.

“suguru, ‘m gonna cum.” nanami groans, bringing his own hands to wrap around your waist. you lessen your tense from his touch before gagging a bit from the prodding of geto’s fingers way back into your throat. “she’s s-squeezing me so good.”

geto snickers, making eye contact with nanami. “are you? ‘ken, you’re more whinier than usual today.”

“shut up.” he grumbles, slapping a hand over his face in embarrassment — nanami wasn’t so known to be all flustered and abashed, but whenever he was, it was so cute.

you’ve still got a mouthful of geto’s fingers before he pulls them out only to shove them into his own mouth. he hums, sharp hips snapping into you repeatedly as his other free hand tightens its secured grasp around your hip. “mhm,” he groans, feeling himself reaching his peak also. “you taste like a final girl. so sweet like candy.”

with the piston of geto’s vigorous hips, you’re so loose that you feel the fleeting sensation of your cunt gaping.

its cavernous, you jerk forward against nanami before seconds later — geto groans, abruptly finishing two seconds early. even his moans were pretty, he tugs his fingers out of your mouth to wrap them around your neck. strands of black hair glue to his forehead and he puffs out a single breath. licking a stripe near your neck, he feels thick volumes of his cum ooze into your hole. it’s so sticky, you bring your hips to a slowing halt before nanami shoots inside you too.

“f-fuck, sugu,” nanami grunts, feeling his thighs stick underneath you. he was panting heavily, each breath that ran from his lips sounding more and more wearied. “damn, so m-much.”

everything spurts into you at once. they mirror each other inside of you perfectly. callused stubby fingertips of geto’s squeeze your neck softly, watching as you’re just being filled with bulky strings of cum, it floods your cunt until it drizzles further into your womb. you’re drooling, it feels so hot, sweltering hot. it sticks against your entrance before your arms wrap around nanami. “so f-full,” you whimper, and he returns the gesture by brushing his thumb against your waist. droopy eyes hang low before nanami pulls you into another deep kiss. you decided—this was far better than some dumb party. the cottony fabric of the ghostface robe pricks against your skin as you lean into his heinous touch.

you shift your weight against nanami’s lap, feeling geto pull out before he leans down between your legs. “spread your legs,” he mutters, and in the midst of your tongue roaming down nanami’s throat, you part your thighs—gasping once you feel geto’s own tongue lap against the freshly created mess. he makes little tiny licks, tasting the ropes of crisp cum that’s sloppily easing out of every entrance—you pulsate before he chortles, warm breath ventilating against your sobbing pussy. “so messy. don’t want any spillin’ out. gotta push it back in.”

you’re moaning, after a while you break away from nanami’s lips before he strokes your cheek lovingly, a cute drowsy look before he huffs, “did you hear me, pretty?” and he gently pokes your cheek. “you always do this..”

confusion hits you before your eyes suddenly open—you jolt up, both of your roommates beside you, gawking at you with a look of deadpan. you’re leaning against geto, the third movie of scream playing in the background—it was near the ending where the killer was being revealed. you sit up, staring down at your legs and you were fully clothed—there was no geto eating between your legs, no being stuffed with nanami, nothing.

“hellooo, earth to roomie,” geto waves his hand in your face, you stare at him before furrowing your brows. “you okay? you fell asleep on me again. what’s got ya so spooked? looks like ya seen a ghost.”

so it was a dream?

a mere glimpse of your lewd imagination—?

you have a sudden sheepish look, running your fingers near the nape of your neck. “huh. oh, i’m fine. i thought the movie would be over by now.”

nanami rubs your back. “we still have like twenty minutes left,” and then he looks at you with a concerned look. so gentle—so tender. “are you sure you’re okay? we can watch a rom-com if you want.”

“i’m okay,” you insist, slumping your head back against geto.

that was weird, out of all the dreams you’ve had throughout your life—none of them ever felt as surreal as that one. for some reason, you were still aroused though. you were a bit out of breath and felt chills run all over your body.

abruptly, your phone rings,

“sugu, can you pass me my phone?” you sigh, trying to relax. you were pretty bummed you weren’t at that party getting stuffed with your two roommates but instead—in your generic dorm watching a scary movie.

he hands you the phone, grabbing the remote to turn it down a few notches.

once you take it, succinctly, your eyes scan across the screen—it reads that it’s from an unknown number. not really thinking much, you decide to answer, swiping the green button to answer. “um, hello?”

“hello.”

“hi,” you rub your eyes. “can i help y-”

“what’s your favorite scary movie?”

rolling your eyes, you peer at your two roommates beside you, nudging them and peeling the phone away from your ear for a moment. “very funny, suguru.”

geto gives you a look of confusion and nanami mimics the same. he shrugs, averting his eyes back toward the movie. “very funny what.”

and suddenly you’re laid back, an unbelieving expression was expressed on your face as you were left with a weird feeling. if it wasn’t them then who—

that same chill eerily creeps up your spine before you put the phone back near your ear. it’s that same low voice you heard from before, each word it speaks pitches deeper before you grow quiet at its final haunting response,

“oh baby, i’m not suguru or nanami..”

[enviedear]

while not abnormal, it was strange having jason out so long. you've managed to will yourself to perform menial tasks to pass the time, laundry, picking up your boyfriend’s books, sharpening his knives.

anything to fight the urge to be that girlfriend. in actuality, you're not, and you trust JASON TODD more than anyone.

you simply…miss him. in a different way than when he's out on patrol. no, tonight—while he's out with his friends—you selfishly miss him more than when his life's on the line. because at least then, he’s working. serving a purpose. and you can't really fault that.

but drinks with roy and dick? that’s leisure. that’s laughter and warmth and something you selfishly crave as much as you can. you try not to stare at your phone. somehow successful. but the moment you hear the front door open and the soft shuffle of boots against hardwood, you're practically at attention.

he stumbles a little—just a little—and kicks the door shut behind him. hoodie down, jacket open, trademark black tee, cheeks absolutely flushed. his eyes are trained on you, soft and glossy.

“hi, sweetheart.” he says, voice a little too loud for the quiet apartment. “miss me?”

you blink at him from the couch, blanket still pulled over your lap. “you’re drunk.”

he grins, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “little bit.”

you tilt your head, watching him, skeptical. “you drove?”

“nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ as he drops his keys in the bowl by the door. “dick called us a ride. he’s annoying like that.”

“responsible, you mean.”

jason points to you, swaying just a bit. “that too.”

he trudges toward you with all the grace of a man who’s fought off armed gangs but now can’t quite coordinate his feet. the couch dips and groans when he crashes beside you. he immediately flops sideways into your lap with a dramatic groan, stifled by your sweatshirt and blanket.

“ugh. my girl.” he mumbles, face smooshed against your thigh. “missed you.”

you fight the smile curling at your lips, running a hand through his hair. “you smell like cheap whiskey, todd.”

“it was expensive whiskey.” he says into your leg, offended.

you hum, fingers dragging gently along his scalp. “you hungry?”

“nah. full of street vendor shit—buncha bad decisions.”

you laugh quietly, smoothing your thumb over the little scar near his temple. “you good?”

he rolls onto his back, head still pillowed by your thighs, blinking up at you like you hung the stars, “m’okay. just tired. and maybe a little tipsy...and definitely in love with you.”

your breath catches, eyes softening. he's too good at this—really. he says it so casually, so sweetly, it knocks the wind right out of your chest.

“…yeah?” you ask softly.

“mhm,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “love you so much it’s stupid.”

writer's note .☘︎ ݁˖ you mfs loved drunk!reader and jason so ofc i had to give you drunk!jason. he's hot and i missed writing for him!! i'm glad to be back from my break—i hope you like my first little writing back! if you do—consider reblogging and/or commenting <3

@bunyx-kiss 4 u, thank you for wanting it !!

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[readwritealldayallnight]

“-other than that, wasn’t so bad.” Simon says, readjusting the material of the balaclava across the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His other hand is busy, keeping yours warm as you lead him down sidewalk after sidewalk.

The two of you have just finished having Sunday morning brunch at a local cafe, something you insisted was becoming ‘tradition’ after the second time it happened. And according to you, after finishing eating, (Simon never wanting to hear a word about you paying for a thing) the next part of this lazy morning routine calls for strolling about at a pace that he would normally find pointless, if not downright frustrating. But for you, he slows down.

“Butcher’s an interesting first job.” You reply, nodding along in thought. You picture a younger Simon, fresh out of school, probably fresh faced as well. He was likely as tall, though not yet as muscular as the military would make him. A meat clever in hand, bloody apron around his waist, he was likely still inadvertently intimidating people back then the way he does now. “I was mostly just taking babysitting jobs until I graduated. Liked it well enough.”

“I actually had to babysit a neighbour one time, when I was younger. Actual baby at tha’ too.” He tells you with a chuckle, slightly shaking his head at the memory.

“What?” You laugh as well, the image in your mind now swapping out the meat clever in a teenaged Simon’s grip for a drooling infant. “How did that work out?”

“Neighbour comes bangin’ on our door, she’s carryin’ the thing, it’s screamin’ its bloody little head off,” You roll your eyes at the way Simon refers to the child, swatting his arm playfully but listening on. “She tells me her husband thinks he’s havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack. None o’ the other neighbours are home or answerin’ the door. ‘Fore I know it, she’s passin’ me the kid, askin’ if mum can watch her while she drives him to the hospital. Next thing I know she’s gone and I’m left with the thing.”

“Oh my gosh! Well where was your mum?” You ask, in disbelief that you’ve never heard this story from him before, half wondering if he’s pulling your leg.

“She wasn’t home, I can tell you that! Only me and the new lil’ orphan were.” He utters, strengthening his grip on your hand as you start to hunch over with laughter.

“Okay so wait, you were home alone? Oh no! How long did you have to ‘babysit’ for?” You giggle.

“Well technically Tommy was there but he would’ve only been a hindrance, told him to stay in his room.” Simon adds, pulling his hand out of yours, only to wrap it around your shoulder, now that you’ve come to a standstill at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. “Fuckin’ nearly 4 hours went by before mum came home and took over. Longest hours o’ my life. I think that might’ve been the day I enlisted actually.”

You elbow his side as you continue to laugh, seeing that he’s teasing you at the end now. You open your mouth to tease him right back, but your eye catches sight of the shop you’ve been standing in front of, jaw dropping wider.

“Simon!” You’re pulling him with a strength he would otherwise be impressed by if he wasn’t so suddenly caught off guard, senses kicking into high alert now as his head swivels in search of the cause of your distress. “How have we never seen this before??”

Oh.

He should’ve known better.

He actually had been avoiding taking you down this street for a little while now, but had been too caught up in his story telling to notice the direction you’d taken in him. His subtle effort of wrapping his arm around you to tilt you away from the storefront obviously hadn’t worked out. He opens his mouth to answer, but can only sigh when you’re already making your way towards the entrance of the pet store.

“We’re only lookin’, right?” He asks loud enough for you to hear as he follows you in.

Wrong.

[cheriecoke]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

[vicorices]

18+ mdni, collage au, use of marijuana, high sex, blink and you'll miss perv!vi, you smoke while she eats you (feral), spit, stoner!vi that got out of hand.

masterlist // requests // wc: 1,931

dealer!vi who’s deep down a damn loser when it comes to you, an unmeasured crush that started out when you bought weed for the first time and she got your number under the premise of talking to you whenever she had good stash.

she stares for a good while at her phone after, trying to find out a reason to talk to you without sounding lame, the last time she was so afraid to talk to a girl she was what? sixteen? so fucking lame.

dealer!vi who leaves in the middle of a party cause you texted asking is she was up and well, it's her fault when she's spoiling you rotten, constantly selling to you her very best stuff at a stupid low price: she wants you to keep coming to her, so she makes sure of making an undeniable offer.

she's knocking at your door and it's way to late to be in the streets, standing with her hands shoved inside her jacket as she waits for you to open up.

dealer!vi who's impressed actually by your rolling skills cause how the fuck did you learn how to roll a joint like that? you have such a good technique she finds herself looking at it, fingers in perfect control as they swiftly pour the green from your purple grinder into king-sized pink rolling papers — is it indirect kissing when you're licking the paper and she can visibly see strings of your saliva? must be.

she looks at you when you light up the joint and the air is quickly filled with the intense smell of weed, a subtle fruity and citric aroma as you passed her the joint. indirect kissing. indirect kissing when vi's smoking from the very same spot you did, sitting close to you after selling you a good amount of weed and accepting a sudden invitation to stay for a while and smoke, make the journey at least a bit more worth it and not leave after five minutes with you.

it doesn't have to be just pure business.

you're oblivious to it, but her gaze lingers in your legs and the subtle way your shirt rides up showing more and more skin without you noticing, worried you'll find out she's right there high and dry in your sofa.

stoner!vi who laughs at your jokes, leaning forward when talking to you cause even high she just thinks about how beautiful you are, eyes red, half lidded, relaxed in the comfortable of your small apartment close to the uni.

and like a good stoner she forgets about she's holding the joint at some point, too busy with the conversation, your company and the atmosphere you’ve so easily created, the ashes falling to the ground now. she has sold you marijuana for months, yet she's not able to talk to you for more than explaining you what strain she's carrying to sell until well — now.

liking your photos, flirting but not at all, it's absurd the amounts of times you appear on her mind without even trying to, messy haircut, she's sure you have a tattoo hidden under the winter clothes cause she can be a proud stoner, but she pays attention, at least when she wants something, when it comes to you.

"are you ever going to make a move on me, vi? cause i'm getting tired of waiting for you to snap out of it."

and maybe it's the weed, that dizzy and nice sensation on her chest that makes her smile, cause she's sure you're pulling her closer even when she's the one moving on her own.

"a move, you want me to make a move on you?"

you're taking the joint from her fingers and she swears it's the hottest thing she's ever experienced, the way you were suddenly so close to her only to pull away after, letting the smoke linger in the air when you light it again: she has felt that very same thing before, the awful need of pulling you into a kiss.

"i thought it was obvious when i texted you in the middle of the night, but you don't seem to get it much" the music seems to drown her unsteady breathing, the loud guitars by the speaker in the table while your bratty attitude only seems to turn her on even further. "should i spell it out for you? send a formal invitation?"

stoner!vi who's really bad in controlling her force when high, cause her hand fist in the fabric of your shirt and she's finally erasing the distance she was once polite to keep, moving you without much effort across the cushions to pull you closer to her, make you lay on the sofa to pin you down beneath her.

her muscles flex on top on you and she's finally aware of the effect she has on you, when she's finally kissing you and you're responding to her even when she barely touches you — so maybe it's not as lame as she thought, cause her kisses travels down your throat, messy, sloppy open-mouthed kisses she places as she holds you there, still and where she wants you to, not lame at all when you cannot control yourself either, squirming, already asking for more.

and fuck it's good. she can smell the subtle smell of weed in your clothes, and swear could choke 'cause you're parting your legs for her, a silent invitation she just gets with no need to spell it out for her now.

"gonna smoke it all by yourself?" vi's messing with you at first, watching you take the joint you forgot in your fingers to place it over your lips — "or are you gonna share that with me?"

stoner!vi who fantasizes with the thought of spitting right over your parted lips when she's helping you smoke, lighting up the joint as she sits on top of you. she's slower, but her hips press down against yours just right, and trapped in between her thighs is a damn sight. her blushed cheeks match her cherry hair who's much longer now since the first time you meet her, and you, a demon as always, let your hand find the skin beneath her shirt, the pad of your fingers roaming against her hip bone, trailing it down her pants.

with two fingers, she places the joint over your lips. your breathing collides against her hand, and she can feel the softness in your lips for a moment before you're blowing the smoke in her direction, slightly and for nothing more than five seconds but enough to make her think about kissing you again, yearning when she's stealing kiss after kiss, taking away the joint to have you pay attention to her instead. needy.

the weed makes her like that she'd say, but in reality vi's going to pieces even before her eyes become glassy. shambles when the music on the speaker is not enough to muffle your gasps, the irregular sound of your breathing after she slowly begins to ask you for more — hungry even when she's full fed.

she's building you up, taking her time since she dreamed about this a lot, and she desperately wants it to make it last, savor it as long as she can have it, so vi's dragging your shirt upwards, enough so she can see the obvious lack of a bra, latching on the skin of your breast until it's bruised and sensitive, purple because of her.

you do have a hidden tattoo, only for her to see.

yet it's her name on your swollen lips what she enjoys the most, how she's there in your lungs inside you, the sound of your moans when you ask if she could keep going. your always perfect hair lays now messy, and god she just want to imprint the sight of you in her brain, how your skin shiver when she's kissing the expanses of your belly, that flirty look on your face she can see even when she's completely on her knees for you already.

"you forgot about the joint again, peach" vi mutters against your navel, her chin presses against your stomach and the mere contact makes your skin burn "you okay up there? 'cause last time i recall i was invited to smoke with you love, you're making me feel a little betrayed here."

stoner!vi who likes the fact you're smoking from her weed. may seem stupid but she damn prides on knowing you choose her every time even when uni is fucking plagued with providers all around: you praise about her quality, chanting about how good your high was, how she never disappoints.

the world seems to stop against your skin, the time dies between your thighs, the intense smell of your arousal clouds her with longing and her mouth waters at the compulsion to lean forward.

"it's not fair, making me feel so- fuck so-" the words die on her tongue, cause your panties are soaked through, clinging to your folds and she's already drunk on it, lost in the haze as she looks up to you, barely illuminated by the lights in the apartment, the ember of the joint lighting every once in a while.

"talk to me," your voice is rough as your hand reaches down to her hair, taking the long strands of the mullet between your fingers — "how do i make you feel, huh? tell me vi."

stoner!vi who's a chaotic eater. she whimpers at your praises as her tongue laps from over your slick underwear, drool escaping from the corners of her mouth as her nose rubs against your sensitive cunt and she doesn't really care if she stinks like pussy after, if you're gushing all over her cheeks as she's making your underwear to the side; she's surrendering entirely, spreading you with her fingers and sinking her face in your puffy, swollen lips already sticky with a sheen of arousal.

she cannot seem to have enough, one arm tangled around your leg as she's comfortable enough to gather a good amount of saliva on her mouth so she can let it fall against your already leaky pussy, scooping it with her fingers to use it as lube when her digits are forcing themselves against your entrance, opening you up for her as vi's mouth sucks greedy around your clit.

so you forgot about the joint laying between your fingers as you hold her face against your sex, moving your hips against her mouth until she's looking at you through half lidded eyes and you can see how her face seems to glisten thanks to you. vi seems to be hitting all the nice places when her fingers scissors inside you, rubbing on your walls as you become pliant in her touch, inviting as you seem to suck her in deeper.

stoner!vi who pays attention, cause she's fixated in your face when you fall apart, dissolving into pleasure, splintering in lust for a brief moment she prolongs as much as it's possible, slowly pumping her fingers inside your tight entrance to keep seeing that pretty face all constricted in need, babbling about how good she's eating you, how full you are when her fingers fuck you dumb like that.

stoner!vi who shoves her fingers in your mouth right after fucking you, using her thumb to trace them along the seam at first, coaxing you to open them for her, pushing down on your tongue as soon as she's granted permission.

it's her turn to smoke now.

[iixch]

He’s family! He’s a dog.

synopsis: I just really love Titan (everyone’s favorite Great Dane!) and Simon’s dynamic, so here’s more of it!

warning: cursing

more Titan shenanigans: Pt.1 - Pt.2

Titan was usually a dick to Simon. He still was a dick to him, but less of one as of late, and Simon couldn’t tell why but- thank god almighty! You know how tiring it is to be knocked behind your knees, get your ankles nibbled on, with constant scratching and barking? Hell. It’s hell.

The only thing that sedated Titan was you, and because you and Simon have taken the next step in your relationship and you’ve moved in- Titan has been over the moon, because you spoil him tooth achingly rotten.

“Get the damn mutt down my bed.” Simon growls when he comes into his bedroom- he’s tired. exhausted from days work and just wants to sleep when he sees the devils hell hound on his side of the bed.

“But he wants cuddles….” You say cuddling into Titan side.

“He also wants to occasionally eat shit.” He huffs as he walks over to his side of the bed and tries to push the Great Dane down. Titan doesn’t budge.

“Baby you gotta ask him, nicely.”

“You’ve lost your goddamn mind, I am not asking him anything.” He tries again, Titan just smiles.

“Si, ask him.”

“Y/n, baby, no.”

You sigh at his stubbornness and decide to put aside your hope of him asking. “Titan, can you please lay to the foot of the bed?” You ask him motioning to the spot. And as if he spoke English the dog shifts down to the end of the bed.

“What has the world come to? I have to ask the mutt permission to lay in my own bed.” He mutters as he scoots under the sheets.

——

Simon started to notice the way you treated Titan, like he was a person or something, and it drove him crazy.

“One piece for me,” You whisper before taking a bite of bacon. It was noon and you and Simon… and Titan, were having a lazy Saturday. “One piece for you,” You give Titan a strip of bacon. He sat under the table head peaking between your thighs as you secretly fed him.

Simon’s the twitches as he knows your feeding hells hound. “Y/n, stop feeding it.” He says as he eats his eggs.

“First off, it is a he,” You say pretend you haven’t been dealing under the table, “and i’m not feeding him.”

“I can feel his tail slapping my legs with every piece you give him.” He says unimpressed. “He has dog food.”

“Just a little spoilage. He’s all muscle, he’s not fattening up anytime soon.” You say defending your cause.

Simon groans.

——-

Your lazy Saturday day consisted of cuddles, conversations and snacking. You’ve been in pjs all day. Simon was currently in the kitchen popping popcorn on the stove when he peers to the living room to see you.

“Y/n, that’s too far.” Simon says suddenly.

“What?” You ask taken back.

“You’re letting him rest his head on your tits!”

“I let you rest your head on my tits.”

“That is not the same.”

“I can make the argument that you’ve been down bad like a do-”

He shoots you a glare and you can’t help but laugh out loud.

——-

You both decided that you both needed to get some vitamin D, so you two were currently in the crisp Autumn air, arms linked and Simon holds Titan leash.

“How long have you had Titan?” You ask Simon as your head rest against his forearm, his arm protectively around your waist.

“Master Evil? I’ve had him since he was a pup. He was better than, back then he wasn’t a hellion. It’s been five years since I got him.”

“Yeah? You guys have been together for a while.”

“Eh, I guess after five years you gotta.” He thinks, “There was this one time, before I had him trained, I was out, and he ran out the back gate and when I got back it was so late and I couldn’t find him. Scared the shit out of me. Was out on the streets like a damn fool, random ass shoes on my feet as I find and chase him.”

You laugh and watch as Simon glances at Titan with melancholy and memories.

“He’s part of the family, huh?”

“Y/n please-”

“He is! You love him, despite all your complaints.”

“I don’t love him. I tolerate him.”

Titan suddenly stops walking and Simon runs into him, grunting as he trips.

“Never mind, take it back. He’s a bitch.”

“But he’s ours.”