#combining square fills

[sai-int]

IN CONTEMPT | simon riley

You tried to move on, but no one quite measures up; not to the way he touched you, not to the way he ruined you. But when he reappears, you can feel him even before you see him. The past has a way of punishing disobedience, and now, it’s here to settle the score.

✉️ SEQUEL TO: ‘ RETURN TO SENDER ’ | AO3 . MLIST

18+ AU, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, soft!simon, cuckolding, stalking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, extreme exhibitionism, praise, rough sex w aftercare!, breeding kink if you squint, smidge of degradation, unprotected sex, cream-pie, oral sex (f!recieving) fingering, squirting [ 16.6k words ]

Fuck Simon for vanishing, for leaving you with nothing but a £21.90-shaped hole in your wallet.

It’s humiliating, really—how twenty quid can leave such a deep dent in your otherwise empty pockets. But the alternative? A fate you couldn't afford to entertain—sleepless nights, baby-screeching, endless tears, and a lifetime tethered to a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around longer than 5 minutes after fucking your brains out, taking your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants on his way out, too. So, you swallowed the morning-after pill and kept it moving.

The immediate days after he disappeared blur together in a heavy, sluggish haze. You still show up to work, still plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes—though it never did, even before Simon. Every shift is the same bullshit but somehow worse—customers testing your patience, coworkers draining the last bit of energy you’ve got, and a boss who somehow manages to be more insufferable than the rest combined, multiplied by ten, then squared.

Your life was shit before, but that’s all been exacerbated. Nothing feels right anymore. You don’t remember who you were before him, how you managed without his touch. Everything’s off-kilter, like the world shifted just enough to make moving through it a little harder.

You try to shove him out of your mind, slam the door, bolt it shut—for your sake. But when one door closes, a window inevitably opens—and he is the draft that seeps through, whistling through the gaps, curling around you and filling your lungs, regardless of how hard you try to shut him out.

The rational part of your brain tries, with dire urgency, to tell you that it was just sex; that it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You made an offer—arguably reckless, maybe even stupid, but not regrettable—and he accepted. Weird, but simple. Clean. Done.

But even as you rationalize and deny his effect on your life, your body betrays you. It still remembers whether you want it to or not—the phantom heat of his massive hands branding your skin, the weight of him pressing you down into your creaky mattress, the primality of being wrecked, ripped apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.

It’s hard to fight the way your body craves—the pang buried deep in your bones, in your cunt, gnawing at you like a plague. It wears you down, sanding away every hard edge you put up against the hunger for him. Eventually, you stop trying. Stop pretending.

After a week, you begin to cling to the news channels like they hold your salvation, listening like their reports are scriptures to damned ears. You sit on the scratchy, cheap carpet in your living room, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of the screen nearly every night, waiting like a dog at the door for an owner who isn’t coming home.  You watch until your eyes dry, stinging as you blink, your fingers twitching around a carton of pad thai, stomach a tangled knot as you swallow each bite. Every time that breaking news banner slashes across the screen, your pulse spikes, breath snags—thinking: this is it. This is the moment his name finally breaks through the LEDs.

But it never comes. You envy how they can swallow it all down and forget him.

He’s gone. Not only from your life, but seemingly from existence itself. No reports. No shitty CCTV footage of him. No murmured speculations from tight-lipped officials. The world moved on within a couple of days as if they were paid to not to speak his name. As if speaking his name would plague them with the shadow of him as well. 

Days turn into a week, a week turns to two.

A fortnight, two weeks on the day since it all happened, and still, you can’t let go. The less you hear, the more you need him. The obsession burrows deeper, twisting its roots around your ribs like weeds, pulling tighter with every breath—suffocating, consuming.

Then come the dreams.

The first time you see his eyes in your sleep, you wake in disarray—your sheets tangled, your hair tousled and your skin sweaty. The imprint of him lingers, burned into the backs of your eyelids, in the goosebumps on your neck.

You can't deal with it anymore. 

You can’t cope with the way he haunts you. It’s cruel, really, how he lives up to his name. How he’s gone, yet has never truly left.

You download the BBC app and turn on notifications. Each alert is a spark, a fleeting moment where your breath catches in your throat, where your heart stutters against your ribs. You cling to the possibility, to the thought that maybe this time, there will be something—some sliver of information, some sign that he still exists in the world beyond your memories.

Every vibration, every chime sets you on edge. Your fingers twitch, your stomach knots. You find yourself unlocking your phone without thinking, scanning headlines with eagerness that borders on despondency. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Playing detective. But deep down, you know better.

You need him.

It’s pathetic, really, the way your mind latches onto every news clip, every report, dissecting vague mentions of overseas conflicts, covert operations, missing operatives. You read between the lines, searching for something—anything—that could be him. A shadow of a man. A ghost in the margins.

You probably look like an addict going through withdrawals—waiting, itching, restless. 

In a way, you are. You couldn’t get enough.

The second you feel the faint buzz in your pocket, your breath hitches, your pulse kicks up. Your fingers twitch before you even register the movement, scrambling for your back pocket, ripping your phone out like it’ll tell you exactly where he is, what he’s doing, when he’s coming back. But it never does.

You keep watching. Waiting. Because something must surface eventually. Because if you stop—if you let the remnants of him settle—it makes him real in the past tense. And you can’t stomach that. Not yet.

Notifications pile up as you go to work, then come home, go to work, then come home—rinse and repeat. War, corruption, scandal, catastrophe—but never him. Instead, you choke on the taste of useless knowledge, drowning in politics you couldn’t care less for, memorizing names of leaders who mean nothing to you right now.

How could they mean anything when the weight of it all feels so Orwellian? You constantly think back to a time when breathing was easier, when you weren’t so voracious—so infinitely, pathetically hungry. But now, Simon is the Thought Police, and you, like Winston, can feel something coming—stalking, circling, tightening the trap.

You tell yourself you won’t stoop to his level—that you wouldn’t degrade yourself, touching yourself to scraps like he did to your letter, your messy, faceless scribblings. But the truth is that you’re worse than he, because you don’t need a piece of paper. You’re already pent up, already had a hit of him, and that’s all you need. He’s there, beneath your skin, in your blood, indelible in every sense of the word.

You cave, slipping your fingers beneath your panties, knowing how futile it is. You can’t touch yourself like he can—can’t make yourself feel the way he does, the way his hands, his mouth, make everything feel alive. Make everything feel worth it. That hollow emptiness—the dark, insatiable void that is him; it will swallow you whole. But what else is there? What can you hold onto when nothing else has ever come close? It’s all you have.

Though, when the wind blows, when you're alone in your room, your legs trembling from the soft circles you trace on your clit, it doesn’t feel like you're alone at all. There’s something there, the faintest sense that someone’s eyes are on you—not intrusive, but there. Observing, spectating..

It’s that feeling—that feeling of being vulnerable, of being prey that gets you going. The final puzzle piece clicking into place, the last push before your back arches and you’re coming undone, gasping—no, howling his name, until it reverberates off the walls of your room.

You feel it all the time. A prickle down your spine when you lock your door at night, a sudden hitch in your breath when you pass by your bedroom windows after a shower. A pit in your stomach when you walk home from the railway station, some shadows out of place, some that stretch too long beneath the streetlights, like they’re reaching for something. Or reaching for you. 

There’s something that consistently lurks in the alley across from your flat. A narrow sliver between homes, shrouded in shadow—an odd, latent presence that doesn’t quite fit, too still, too tall to be a dumpster. You swear it’s there almost every night, the air thick with it, but whenever you try to get a closer look, from your front door or wherever, it’s always gone—vanished.

It could be a trick of the night, a cruel illusion it could be anything, anyone—but would you be this wet if it was? Would your breath falter, thighs pressing tight, when the curtains stir just enough to frame the shadow across the street?

You feel it, a slow creep along your spine. A presence you can never name, but know all the same. It feels like him, each goosebump shouting and hissing his name. It’s a connection that defies reason, something deeper than instinct, sharper than memory. A pull, a whisper in your blood, like an unspoken language only the two of you understand. You’ve never felt anything like it before, never known a presence so visceral, so consuming. If this is madness, if this is nothing more than a delusion stitched together by longing and desperation—so be it.

You’d welcome insanity if it meant he was really here.

The shadow lingers. Not moving, not retreating. Just watching. Waiting.

A whisper curls in the back of your mind, sultry and insistent—go to the window. Let him see.

You leave it open now. Always.

The only thing you’ve gained since losing your virginity to Simon is a strange, newfound confidence—like a secret only you know, a mark he’s left on you that no one else can see. The longing isn’t new anymore; it’s settled in, familiar, woven into the fabric of your days. It doesn’t sting like it used to, but it never really leaves either, just hums beneath the surface, constant and quiet.

But the irony isn’t lost on you. Because for all that confidence, you’ve never felt emptier.

You’re four hours deep into your shift. It’s a quarter past four in the afternoon and you’re standing in the detergent aisle, one hand gripping the pricing gun, the other peeling discount stickers off the roll and slapping “Clubcard Exclusive” onto bottles of Persil like a machine. Mindless. Repetitive. A perfect, numbing distraction.

Four lousy weeks since Simon. Four weeks of gaps where his presence used to be, of clawing at scraps just to feel something real. Now, all you’ve got is the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights and the sharp scent of artificial “Spring Fresh” assaulting your nose.

And then comes Keith.

Fucking Keith.

His footsteps are light, but not light enough. Like a predator who thinks he’s stealthy when, really, he’s stomping through the underbrush, scaring off anything with a pulse. You always know when he’s coming, when he’s about to invade your space. It starts as a shift in the atmosphere, an overwhelming surge of something cloying, thick, unwelcome. It seeps into your personal bubble like a scent you can’t scrub off, a presence you can’t ignore no matter how hard you try.

"Hey, love," he drawls, his northern accent grating the moment it reaches your ears. He sidles up to you with that same cocky ease, the kind that might almost be impressive if it weren’t so painfully unwarranted—like he truly believes he belongs at your side, like he’s convinced himself you want him there.

You don’t look at him. You keep your focus on the detergent, pressing the sticker against the plastic with a little too much force. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint this time.

Though, he never does.

“Didn’t think I’d find you today,” Keith continues, leaning against the shelf with that stupid, self-satisfied smirk. As if you’ve been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game rather than actively avoiding him. “Been hidin’ from me or somethin’?”

You exhale sharply through your nose, and internally count to three.

He’s not ugly. Not by any means. He’s tall-ish, broad-shouldered but lanky, with sharp green eyes that never seem to blink, like they’re waiting for something to happen. His jaw is set, strong, but there's an unsettling tightness to his smile—like he’s always hiding something just beneath the surface.

His confidence is anything but charming; it’s suffocating. It pours out of him in tides, clinging to you like obnoxious, over-sprayed cheap cologne, like the lingering stench of stale Lynx body spray that seems to follow him, no matter where he goes.

“I’m working, Keith.” Your voice is flat, clipped. Not an invitation.

“Oh, I see that.” He gestures to the bottles like he’s just now noticing them. “Riveting stuff. But, y’know… if you ever wanna take a break, I could keep you company. Maybe grab a drink after the shift?”

The same fucking offer, over and over. Like if he keeps throwing it at you, eventually, you’ll crack.

You sigh, setting the pricing gun down with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t drink.”

Keith chuckles, unconvinced. “Everyone drinks.”

Jesus Christ.

You finally turn to look at him—a mistake. His grin widens, taking your attention as a victory. His eyes rake over you, lingering a little too long in places that make your skin crawl.

“C’mon,” he says, voice dipping into something meant to be sultry but only makes your stomach twist. “I’d be good to you, y’know.”

There it is. That undertone, that expectation—the same fucking entitlement you’ve seen on him a million times before.

Your fingers twitch, itching to whack him over the head with the pricing gun. Instead, you grab another sticker, slap it onto the next bottle, and pretend he doesn’t exist.

But he isn’t done.

“You’ve been different lately,” he muses, watching you too closely, eyes raking up your body, to your face, and back down. “Real quiet. Distracted. What’s up with that, honey?”

Your jaw tightens. You press another sticker down, smoothing out the edges.

“Nothing.”

Keith hums. “That right?”

You grit your teeth. You hate this. You hate that he’s noticed. Hate that he’s perceptive enough to see the cracks. Hate that some part of you, some stupid, pathetic part, is sort of enjoying the attention —even if it’s coming from him.

Because it’s something.

Because it’s not radio silence.

But it’s not him. It’s not him, and you fucking hate that. You hate Simon for leaving you ravaged without so much as a goodbye. He ruined you, twisted everything you thought you knew, and then just vanished like you were nothing. And that’s what cuts the deepest—that you were never even worth the closure.

You should've known better, back then. But you sure as hell know now.

Usually, you’d brush Keith off with a simple excuse—a friend you don’t have, a date that doesn’t exist. A lie. You’ve perfected the art of deflection, wrapping yourself in a comfortable mask that keeps him at arm's length. He’s persistent, but you’re sharper. Always have been.

But when he presses again, you hesitate.

“C’mon,” Keith says, his voice too casual, “Just one drink, on me. What do you say?”

You feel the old reflex kick in, the instinct to shoot him down. But you hesitate. The words hang there, suspended in the air, ready to be said.

Maybe it’s the loneliness gnawing at you, sinking its claws deeper into your skin with every passing day. Maybe at this point, you’re craving anything—the heat of another person, the touch, the distraction. Anything to fill the space Simon carved out and left behind, like a hole in your chest that nothing’s been able to fill.

Or maybe it’s just a fuck-you to Simon. A fuck-you to the way he still haunts you, weaving through your mind like wind through dead branches, whispering questions that will never be answered. To the ache burrowed deep, winding through your ribs like roots splitting through concrete, relentless in its hold. 

You suck in a breath, the tension fizzling and popping inside you, and before you even realize what’s happening, you hear yourself say, “Alright. Fine. One drink.” 

At least it was on him. 

Keith’s expression shifts, his eyes widening in shock, like the idea of you saying yes never even actually crossed his mind. The surprise on his face is almost comical. He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his confusion with a quick laugh.

“No way,” he says, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I—uh, I thought you’d shut me down again.”

You don’t answer, just shrug. The words feel too heavy in your mouth like they don’t belong to you. But they’re out there now, hanging between you like a promise neither of you fully understands yet.

Keith’s smile widens, but there’s something gross behind it now. Something triumphant.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, stepping a little closer, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and something darker, more insistent. “I know a place nearby. Not too far. We can grab a pint or two, talk... maybe get to know each other better.”

His gaze lingers on you, too long, too shallow. His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Ugh.

It should make you step back, re-think what you’re jumping into. 

But you don’t. You can’t. You need Simon out of your head and gone. For good.

“Alright,” you say again, this time with a little more force as if you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him. “One drink.”

Keith grins like the Cheshire Cat, the satisfaction in his eyes clear as day. “I’ll pick you up at 9,” he says, voice low and assured. “Plenty of time to get home and change, right?” He lets out a small chuckle, his confidence oozing from every word like he already knows the night is his to win.

You nod mechanically, a brief pause before you speak again. “Yeah… I’ll uh—I’ll text you my address.” The words come out flat, detached. It’s no big deal. Totally.

His smile widens, smug in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Good. I’ll see you then.” He turns to head back toward the break room, giddily gliding down the aisle, like he's walking on air.

You just stand there, frozen for a second, watching him go. The store hums around you—distant chatter, the clinking of metal shopping carts, the soft shuffle of customers weaving through the aisles. It all feels like a blur, the noise distant and muffled, as though you're submerged in water. Your mind is far away, caught in the thick fog of uncertainty.

You don’t even know what you’re doing, but maybe this is what you need.

Simon lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow you’re always reaching for without thinking—an instinct, a reflex you can’t unlearn. And the thought of replacing that longing with something so fleeting, so hollow—something so… Keith, feels like a betrayal. Like carving out a piece of yourself and handing it to someone who will never understand its weight.

A sigh escapes you. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you look at the glowing numbers. Your heart flutters, unease building with each second that passes. But you don’t stop yourself. 

You type out your address slowly, each letter feeling like a weight added to your chest. It shouldn’t be a big deal, right? It couldn’t be that bad. You’ll just go out and try to make the best of it.

You hit ‘send.’

So much for getting to know each other. 

Keith hardly bothered to ask anything about you; the conversation is dominated by the insufferable droning on about his crypto investments. You aren’t really listening.. Your mind keeps drifting, thinking of his absence.

Simon’s absence. 

God, it bothers you how deeply he’s imprinted on your mind. Was it the fact that he took your virginity? There’s no way it could have been that chemically altering. Yes the sex was amazing, but how could he haunt your thoughts so extensively after barely saying a word to you, only ever muttering filthy things while fucking your brain numb?

Stop thinking about him fucking you. This is a problem. 

You pull yourself back to the present. The date’s going... fine. Nothing special. You’d pulled on a simple pair of jeans, a black top. Nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed you were trying—because you weren’t. What did it matter? Not like you had anywhere to go, or anyone to impress anymore. Clothes didn’t mean much when your world had narrowed down to this: a quick escape.

The pub is crowded for a Thursday night, an odd mix of tired regulars and middle-aged men—DILFs you’d much rather be accompanying. They laugh loudly, their voices thick with the warmth of too much liquor; they’re the ones you should be with, the ones who seem to care, to be alive in a way that doesn’t feel so desperate.

But instead, you’re stuck with Keith. His voice drones on in the background, talking about Bitcoin and intermittent fasting like he’s just discovered the secrets of the universe. His words are empty, meaningless in the moment, but you smile and nod, letting the noise of the pub drown out whatever nonsense he’s spewing. The drinks are good—strong, surprisingly so—and it burns its way down your throat, a welcome distraction. The alcohol settles into your chest like an old friend, warm and familiar, a little dangerous, but comforting all the same.

You’re a pint and a half deep, just enough for a pleasant buzz, for the edges of your thoughts to soften. Keith, on his third, is looser, expressive, leaning into your space a bit too much, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. The alcohol makes it easier to stay present, to focus more on the moment instead of the static in your head.

He cleans up decently. The dim lights of the pub soften the harsh hazel-green of his eyes, take the tension out of the lines around his mouth. After a pint, he’s not as awful to look at. As you near the end of your second, he’s not too hard to listen to. His presence in the booth next to you isn’t suffocating anymore. The uncomfortable tightness has faded, replaced by something more manageable—a comfortable numbness that lets you go through the motions without feeling every single heartbeat. The kind of numbness you can live with for a while if you don’t think too hard about it.

You welcome it, more than you welcome the shit storm you’ve been for the past month.

You let the minutes pass, letting yourself be carried by the momentum of it all. You finish the pint, your focus drifting to the sensation of his hand brushing against yours, to the faint, gnawing in your heart as it cries for affection. It was all so simple. So much easier than you’d expected, this little dance, this surface-level distraction.

Then, a few minutes later, it happens. Keith leans in, his lips parting, the space between you closing like a slow, inevitable collision. His conviction wraps around him like a cloak, thick and heavy, as if he knows exactly how this will unfold. The warmth of his breath grazes your cheek, his scent faint but persistent, a mix of cologne and something stale, like the night’s beer. His eyes flicker with implicit expectation before they flit shut, his lips a mere centimeter from yours.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t have the energy for that anymore. Not for the back-and-forth, the push and pull of deciding what’s right and what’s not. You’ve been worn down, layer by pitiful layer until all that’s left is this: the heat, the need, the emptiness that drives you to reach out and accept whatever is offered. You let it happen, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss tentative at first, but growing more insistent as the seconds pass.

It’s not good. His lips are too stiff, too small against yours, moving with a clumsy eagerness that reeks of desperation—like he’s been waiting for this and has no idea what to do now that it’s happening. But it’s something.

Something to dull the ache, to quiet the static in your mind long enough to pretend you’re not suffocating. Something to ground you, to remind you that you’re still flesh and bone, not just longing and regret. Something to forget in the morning.

Because why not?

Maybe if you drown yourself in something else—something that isn’t honey-brown eyes and a mask that hides too much—you can finally erase the impression Simon left behind. Finally silence the ache, the apparition of his touch that you still feel under your clothes, even within the pub. Even with Keith by your side. 

Maybe if you let yourself unravel into someone else, scatter the pieces of what Simon broke and stitch together the fragments of what came before him, you’ll be able to move on. Maybe if you swallow it all, stretch yourself wide, dislocate your jaw just to fit it all in and swallow—you’ll get by. You’ll manage. Even if it never digests. Even if it all bleeds through the cracks anyway.

So, you push further. Let your fingers ghost over his knee, lean in close—just enough that your breath brushes his skin. You whisper, low and saccharine, asking if he wants to get out of here—head back to your place. A distraction. A mistake in the making.

Keith practically yanks you from the bar, his grip firm—too firm—as he steers you toward his car with single-minded determination. His fingers dig into your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like he needs to keep you tethered. The street lights flicker overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face, sharpening the hunger in his eyes.

The drive is a blur of speed and silence, the tension between you both is thick enough to choke on. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the gas, cutting the fifteen-minute trip to your flat down to five. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s nothing to say. Just expectation hanging in the air, dense and stifling, laced with something desperate, something thoughtless. You let it wrap around you, pull you under.

Then you’re at your door, and he’s on you. His chest flush against your back, hands already gripping your hips, body pressing close, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His teeth graze your skin, just barely, like he’s tasting his kill—like he already knows he’s won.

God, you feel like a slut.

The world keeps spinning. Traffic hums in the distance, the wind howls through the alleyways, life presses ever forward, indifferent to the choices you make. But here, as your hands tremble against the cold metal of the lock—it all shrinks to this. The frantic thrum of your pulse. The too-firm grip of his hands, insistent and wandering, pressing into places they have no right to be.

Because you don’t belong to Keith.

You don’t look back at him. You can’t. Because if you do, if you meet his lustful, haughty gaze, you might stop.

And you can’t afford to stop. Not yet.

When you both make it inside, you shut the door and Keith tries to kiss you, to make this something it’s not—some messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a lustful explosion—but you’re not down for that. You tilt your head and give him your neck, dodging his lips like it’s second nature. He doesn’t notice as you guide him to your room, too lost in the idea of getting his dick wet to realize you’re steering this whole thing.

And wet, he gets it.

He fucks you on your bed, and it’s got to be the most boring experience of your life. He’s got you prone, on your stomach, and you don’t look at him. You can’t look at him—because that would make it real. That would solidify the fact that you’re here, in your own bed, fucking Keith of all people.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, on the dim sliver of moonlight seeping through your window’s curtain, as he ruts into you. The pace is off, mechanical like he’s following some half-baked porn script in his head. You have to fight the urge to ask if it’s even in, if he’s just finger blasting you. With Simon, you didn’t have to wonder. The stretch, the burn of him splitting you open, the way he had you trembling, leaking down your thighs before he even properly fucked you—that was something else entirely.

Keith leans over you occasionally, breath hot and panting against your ear, his attempt at dirty talk making you cringe.

“You like that, love?”

No, Keith. You’re jackhammering my cunt with your pencil dick.

You don’t answer out loud. You just lay there, belly pressed against the mattress, and try to conjure the feeling of someone else—someone bigger, rougher, someone who knows what to do with you. But even in the dark, even facing away, you can’t bring yourself to lie. This isn’t Simon. It’s not even close.

You wait. You endure.

Finally, he shudders and spills into the condom you made him wear, and you silently thank the universe that the miserable ten minutes are over. Simon had you writhing for at least thirty. After eating you out, too.

You continue staring ahead as Keith collapses beside you with a satisfied groan, murmuring something, pressing a kiss to your forehead like this meant anything. You don’t react. You barely register his voice.

Because out the window, across the street, there’s that shadow again.

Still. Watching. Waiting.

And for the first time all night, you feel something genuine.

You definitely could’ve found better than Keith. But God, he’s easy—easier than a prostitute in the back of a bar, and just as desperate.

It’s been a month since you first fucked him—two since Simon—and he’s like a goddamn pest, lingering, clinging, always there. But you don’t push him away, either. Not completely. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, it is nice to have someone in your bed, someone to text, someone to pick you up when you don’t feel like taking the train. He’s convenient. Reliable, even.

But his affections are only tolerable in small doses before they become suffocating. He’s a lovesick puppy, always trailing after you, those hopeful, stupid green eyes searching for something you’ll never give him. And God, you feel horrible for using him—horrible, but not enough to stop.

Each time he’s between your legs, each time his name pops up on your phone with a good morning, love, each time you toss him a scrap of attention—a lazy smile, a half-hearted hug, a peck on the cheek if he’s especially lucky—you see it. That flicker in his eyes, that glimmer of something warm and delusional, like he thinks this is leading somewhere. Like he thinks you’ll wake up one day and want him the way he wants you.

And maybe that’s the worst part. The way he clings to every half-truth, every unspoken maybe, every quiet moment that isn’t outright rejection. He’s a fool for it. And maybe you’re cruel for letting him believe in something that doesn’t exist.

But you did warn him. Laid it out in blunt, undeniable terms—this isn’t love, Keith. Just sex. No strings, no expectations.

But you suppose, for someone like him, being something to you—no matter how small, how insignificant—is still better than being nothing at all.

Simon doesn’t linger in your mind the way he used to. Not as much. Not as sharp. You shut off notifications for BBC, but couldn’t bring yourself to delete the app. Just in case. 

But every time Keith is on top of you—grunting, sweating, trying—you’re reminded of what you had. What it felt like to be wanted in a way that left bruises, but you’ve accepted the fact that Simon is gone. Gone with the wind; traceless, like he was never here to begin with.

Keith stays over some nights, always making sure to slip out in the morning. Per your request.

At first, he obeys. But then the edges start to smudge. Morning lingers too long, bleeding into midday, stretching into afternoon like melted wax. Before you know it, he’s still there. Still there when you’re making coffee, still there when you just want to be alone in your dingy flat.

You wake up one morning to an empty bed and the smell of eggs sizzling, the sound of your cabinets opening and closing. You drag yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and there he is, standing in your kitchen, bare-chested and humming some god-awful tune as he tends to eggs and flips pancakes with a spatula that hasn't been used since you bought it.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you a grin like this is normal, like he’s your boyfriend.

You blink at him, groggy, disoriented. “Where’d you even get pancake mix?”

“Had some at my place,” he says, as if that’s a completely reasonable explanation.

You texted him last night for him to come over and fuck you, and he brought food—from his own flat—to cook in the morning. Was this supposed to be romantic? Jesus, fuck. You turn back to your room, ignoring the smell of breakfast permeating your walls, and throw yourself back under the covers.

It only gets worse from there, though.

He starts using your shower, stepping out smelling like your shampoo, like your soap, like your space isn’t your own anymore. 

Even when he’s not here, he finds ways to insert himself into your day. You’re halfway out the door, ready to catch the train to work, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up

Your stomach sinks. You didn’t ask him to do that.

You sigh, rubbing your temple as you type out a quick, You really don’t have to, I can take the train.

Keith: Nah, babe, I’m gonna.

And that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter what you say. He just does it anyway.

You’re on your lunch break one day, tucked away in the breakroom, enjoying a moment of peace with a granola bar you snagged from the petrol station days ago. The store is busy, but back here, it’s quiet—just the faint hum of the coffee machine and the distant chatter of coworkers.

Then, something tugs at a strand of your hair, pulled tight in your ponytail, making your head jerk back just a little.

Your throat tightens before you even turn.

Sure enough—Keith.

He plops down in the chair next to you, all smug, too close, legs spread wide as he leans back like he owns the place.

“How’s my lovely girlfriend?” he asks, tone playful.

Your fingers tighten around the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling. “I’m not your girlfriend, Keith,” you say, feigning a small, polite smile. “But I’m okay, thanks for asking.”

Keith just chuckles like you’ve made some kind of joke. “Yeah, totally. Y’know, we’ve been at this for a while, lovey. Think you’ll let me meet your parents soon?”

You freeze mid-bite.

There’s a slow, nauseating churn in your gut, a deep unease that coils tight around your ribs, squeezing, festering.

“You can’t—” you pinch your nose bridge, “You’re not meeting my parents,” you say, firmer this time, staring at him, hoping—praying—that maybe this time, he’ll get it.

Keith just shakes his head, still grinning. “Awh, that’s alright. You’re just scared, dolly. I can wait for you.”

Your mouth goes dry. You don’t even bother dignifying that with a response. You just shove the last of your granola bar into your mouth, chew like you’re forcing down something bitter, and push back from the table.

“Gotta get back,” you mumble, standing, already heading for the door.

Keith doesn’t follow, but you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.

The more he smothers you, the more you wish you never started this shit in the first place. What were you thinking? You should’ve just put on your big girl panties, pushed the memory of Simon as far down as you could, and moved on. But each time you think of Simon, it’s like a knife twisting in your gut, because God, just the thought of being able to moan his name makes you want him all over again. You crave the way he fit, the way he understood you without all the effort. You want him to give you what you need—what you crave, even though you know deep down that it’s a fool’s wish.

With Keith, the cracks are starting to show. In bed, he starts trying too hard, like he’s desperately trying to prove something to you. He’s fishing for praise, waiting for some kind of validation. He’ll ask, “That was better than last time, right?” as though the answer matters to you. As if you’ve been keeping score.

You aren’t. You never were.

Your room smells like him now—like cheap cologne and sweat. He just gave you the most disappointing dicking yet, and he’s already passed out. The light is off and you’re lying there, forced into a state of calm that’s not really calm at all. You can feel him beside you, his breath steady as he sleeps, completely oblivious to the storm inside you. You turn away from him, laying on your side, staring blankly at the wall in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest.

Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Why the are you doing this to yourself? It feels like punishment. Like you've shattered some unspoken rule, a silent code, and now you're paying the price. You just wanted an escape, a moment to breathe. Not to be someone’s charity case. The questions spin around you, but there are no answers. No clarity. Just endless doubt.

You let out a soft sigh and toss back onto your back, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest as your head rests on the pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of Keith's hoodie, thrown carelessly over the desk chair.

As you stare at the hoodie, lying there where you first saw Simon, you truly feel it—he’s really gone. No longer in the fragments of your room, no longer in your bed, slouched in your desk chair, lingering on your dresser.

The room is suffocating, thick with heat that presses down on your chest, suffocating you with every breath. It’s heavier than it should be, the air stale and still, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Keith insists on keeping the windows shut. He hates the drafts. You hate him for it.

You sit up, your skin sticking to the sheets. The weight of the night lingers like a fog, clouding your thoughts. You sigh, lethargic, your body sluggish as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor greeting your bare feet. Your panties are discarded somewhere in the mess. You find them and pull them on absently, the fabric sliding over your skin

You round the bed quietly, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet as you approach the bedside table next to his sleeping form. Keith’s pack of cigarettes sits there, unassuming, but it calls to you. You tug one out, the familiar crinkle of the cardboard grounding you for a moment. You take his lighter next, the flick of the flame a cruel reminder of how the nasty, expensive habit has settled into your bones. You never meant to start smoking. You swore you wouldn’t. But now, it’s just another part of the routine, a pointless comfort you’ve grown too used to, another reason you should’ve never gotten with Keith.

You walk to the shut window and lift it open with one hand. The cool night air rushes in immediately, cooling your skin. You lift the cigarette to your lips, sparking it, and watch as the tip ignites. The glow is soft against the dark, the only light in the room for a brief moment before the flame dies and the smoke curls up, wrapping around you like a secret. You take a drag, inhaling deep, the burn of the nicotine settling in your chest, grounding you, if only for a second.

You lean against the window frame, half-sitting on the bottom portion as you lean to let the smoke escape outside. The night is unnervingly quiet. You guess it’s just about midnight, but you don’t bother checking your phone. You take in the sight of the street, the houses on your block, There's nothing across the way tonight, just the empty stretch of alley, and you find your gaze drawn to it, unable to look away. The stillness wraps around you, and the faint echoes of your own thoughts seem too loud in the silence.

Something coils sharp and tenacious in your chest as you stare into the emptiness. You let Keith in, let him slither into the cracks of your life, and now it’s rotting you from the inside out. You’ve been shoving anything you can into the hollow space he left—distractions, vices, fleeting touches—but it only stretches wider, gaping and endless..

A part of you aches for that shadow to appear, if only once, just to feel something. Because  another part of you knows what it is—who it is. Knows that he’s gone.

And that, more than anything, stings.

The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter, the last embers glowing weakly in the dark, a pale orange against the quiet night. A gust of cold wind bites at your skin, snapping you back to reality with a sharp chill. You turn to look over your shoulder, and Keith is sprawled across the bed, mouth hanging open in that obnoxious, ungodly way he sleeps. A snore rattles through the silence and your eyes instinctively roll.

You take a final drag, the smoke bitter on your tongue, and then snuff it out against the window sill and toss it, watching it smolder into the dirt below. You stand up, stretching your stiff limbs, and close the window, leaving just a small crack for the night air to filter in. 

Fuck Keith and whatever it is he wants. This is your house. You’re not his mom, his girlfriend, or whatever the hell else he thinks you are. If you want the window open, then so be it 

You turn back to the bed, your body aching for the solitude of your own sheets. You crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around your shoulders. The warmth is a small comfort, but it’s enough. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, beckoning you into the quiet. Your hands cover your ears, trying to block out the guttural snoring coming from Keith’s side of the bed. It’s like a fucking chainsaw cutting through the peace you crave. But you hold on to the stillness, the promise of escape—if only for a few hours.

You’re dead asleep when the sound cuts through the thick haze of unconsciousness—a soft, broken whimper. Barely a sound at all, more like a breath hitching in a throat, swallowed before it can fully form. It weaves itself into your dreams, threading through whatever meaningless fragments your mind had pieced together, distorting them into something unsettling.

Your body is heavy, limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the noise needles at you, persistent in its quiet agony. You groan, eyes still shut, rolling onto your side as you mumble something incoherent—something about Keith shutting the fuck up, that you have work in the morning. Whatever it is he’s doing, you don’t want to hear it.

For a moment, silence settles over the room like a thin sheet, barely there but present enough to lull you back into the pull of sleep. Then the bed shifts. A slow, deliberate movement, like someone rising carefully, trying not to wake you. A footstep follows, then another, the faint creak of floorboards. You breathe a little easier, thinking maybe he’s leaving—maybe he’s finally getting the hint.

But then it comes again. This time, distant, muffled. A cry, higher-pitched, threaded with something frantic. It makes your skin prickle, not with concern, but with irritation.

You frown, eyes still shut, brain too fogged with sleep to process much beyond vague annoyance. He’s either having a nightmare or, worse, a wank in the corner. Neither interests you. You don’t even want him here, in your bed, taking up your space.

You sigh, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will yourself back into unconsciousness. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.

Seconds later, you hear it again, more desperate this time, like a wounded animal with its throat ripped out, struggling to breathe. It grates against your nerves, pulling you further from sleep, until frustration bubbles up in your chest.

With a groggy grumble, you push yourself up, your movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. Your right arm props behind you for support as you rub at your face, knuckles pressing into your tired, shut eyes.

“Keith, will you shut the fu—”

Your voice cuts off mid-sentence, throat tightening as you finally blink the sleep from your vision. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across the room, bathing everything in sickly, pale yellow streaks.

Keith isn’t in bed with you.

He’s in the chair—your desk chair—against the wall and facing your bed, bound with ropes that are wrapped so tight they cut into his arms, legs, wrists, chest. A rag from your kitchen, dark with spit, is stuffed into his mouth, held in place by a strip of fabric wrapped around the back of his head. His chest heaves, his nostrils flaring with panicked breath as he stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, veins bulging against his skin.

Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.

“What the f—”

You barely get the words out before Keith starts thrashing against his restraints, his muffled cries breaking through the stagnant air of your bedroom. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the chair rocking slightly under his weight, but it doesn’t budge. The ropes hold firm.

You start to move, heart hammering, the slow creep of realization curling up your spine like a cold finger tracing each vertebra.

Then you feel it.

A large, cold, calloused hand slowly traces the curve of your upper back, dragging upward, a ghost of a touch against your spine. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the back of your scalp, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.

Every muscle in your body locks up, your breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. The room shrinks, walls closing in around you. The grip on your hair tightens—not a yank, not yet, just a firm hold that makes your scalp prickle.

Then, a shift. A press of something solid and warm against the crown of your head. The unmistakable drag of breath as whoever inhales deeply, like he’s committing you to memory. A low, gravelly hum rumbles from his chest, thick with something unreadable. Satisfaction. Possession. Maybe both.

He's right beside you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, that his presence warps the air around you, suffocating, intoxicating.

You don’t dare move.

Because you know exactly who it is.

The scent of him just like you remember—gunpowder, sweat, something faintly woody—clashes with the lingering staleness of your room. It seeps into your lungs, an old ghost resurrected, clawing its way back to the surface.

Then, finally, a voice—rough, undeniably Mancunian, curling at the edges with something almost amused.

“Been busy, huh, pet?”

The words slither into your ear, smooth and deliberate, sinking their hooks into you like they never left.

You swallow hard, the heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep, deliberate pull of his voice. It scrapes against something raw inside you, something that never healed right. Your heartbeat stutters, then picks up, but not from fear. 

Still, you don’t move. You don’t look.

If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up—wake up and risk him being gone again.

Your eyes stay locked onto Keith’s, wide and frantic in the dark, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He looks at you like you’re supposed to do something, like you’re supposed to save him.

But before you can, Simon makes the choice for you.

The grip in your hair tightens—no longer just a hold, but a command. He tugs, slow and controlled, and your head tilts back whether you want it to or not. Your breath hitches, your fingers twitch at your sides, but you let him. You’ll always let him.

And there he is.

Maskless.

Your breath snags in your throat, brain stalling, tripping over itself. You need a second—one long, aching second—to make sense of it, to stitch together the face you only ever caught in fragments. A shadowed jaw, a flicker of his mouth, the barest glimpse of his nose when he was buried between your thighs all those weeks ago.

But his eyes, his eyes don’t lie.

They’re the same eyes that have haunted you for weeks—dark, relentless, burning into you even in sleep. The same ones that linger behind your eyelids, that you’ve conjured in the dead of night, that you’ve chased with trembling hands and gasping breaths, desperate for something that feels like him.

And right now, they’re burning into you, unreadable as ever.

He’s here, in the flesh.

His bone structure is cut from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong brow, a subtly clefted chin that adds to the undeniable masculinity of his face. Soft blond stubble shadows his jaw, catching the dim light as he tilts his head, studying you with those dangerous, all-consuming brown eyes.

Scars carve their history into his skin, some thin and white, others pink and freshly healed. One splits through his eyebrow, another drags across his cheek, and two more pull faintly at his lips. They settle among the freckles dusting his nose, a contradiction of softness and violence, of things that should never coexist but somehow do.

He’s devastating.

His other hand has found your throat, palm rough and massive against your skin. He could snap your neck with half a thought, with an eighth of his strength, and yet, all he does is trace along your jugular, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s possessive. Calculated.

His grip shifts, sliding up to cradle your jaw, just before his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He presses forward, slow, deliberate, until his thumb slips past your teeth, resting heavy on your flat pad of your tongue.

You don’t think. You just react.

Your lips wrap around the digit without a second’s hesitation, without him even needing to ask.

And the look in his eyes?

Like he never expected anything else.

With his thumb hooked in your mouth, saliva pools at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill. You can’t swallow, can’t do anything but sit there, pliant and open for him, while he holds you in place like some helpless, caught fish.

His grip in your hair loosens, but only so he can guide your head forward, tilting your chin with the hand still in your mouth until your gaze lands back on Keith.

He’s wide-eyed, panic threading through every inch of him. His breaths are ragged, desperate, as he tries to piece it all together—his wrists bound tight, the ropes cutting into his skin, the oppressive weight of the man looming behind you, and the sight of you. Sitting there, silent, pliant, unresisting.

Keith’s mind races, but there’s nothing he can do. No words, no pleas that will untangle this mess. You can see it in his eyes—the confusion, the fear, the realization that he’s powerless. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore.

Simon hums, low and contemplative, a deep rumble that vibrates through your very bones.

“This y’plaything, baby? What you’ve been fillin’ y’time with?”

You try to move your head, to make some kind of response, but his thumb presses down, firm, stopping you before you even begin.

His tongue clicks, a disappointed tut that rolls through your ears like a warning. Like he already knows the answer and doesn’t like it.

“Know I left you... Wasn’t very nice of me, now, was it?”

His voice is thick, rich with something unreadable, but his grip tells you enough, a warning and a promise all at once. He tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes again.

You want to tell him no, it wasn’t nice, that he ripped something out of you when he left. That you’ve spent every goddamn second since trying to fill the void he carved. But all that escapes is a strangled, pitiful “mm-mm,” your lips parting helplessly as spit slicks your chin.

His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as they flick down to your mouth, to the mess you’re making of yourself.

“Wasn’t very nice of you, though, was it? Goin’ ‘round openin’ your legs for the first man y’see, hmm? First one willin’ to put his cock in what ain’t his…”

The words strike something deep, hot, and ugly inside you. His? If you were his, then why the hell did he leave? Why did he disappear like smoke, slipping through your fingers, leaving you clawing at the air, grasping at nothing? What is he doing here now, after all this time—after breaking into your home, tearing through your life like a storm and vanishing just as quickly, leaving you to sift through the wreckage alone?

Anger surges, reckless and unthinking, and you bite down on his thumb—hard.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just smirks at the pain like you’re some unruly little puppy testing its limits. His eyes gleam, a slow, predatory amusement playing across his features as he finally, finally pulls his thumb from your mouth.

You wipe the drool from your chin with the back of your hand, straightening as much as you can under his hold. “I’m not yours,” you say, low and firm, but your voice lacks the conviction you wish it had. “If I was yours, you wouldn’t have left so suddenly, you dick.”

His expression shifts—less amused now, more exasperated, like you’re missing something so glaringly obvious it physically pains him. He pops the same thumb into his mouth, licking the taste of you off like it’s second nature, like he’s reclaiming something.

"‘Course I left, love. Was on the run.”

You blink.

Oh.

He watches the realization flood your face, that sudden shift in your gaze that’s almost embarrassing to witness. You can feel the heat of his stare, the sharpness of it, cutting through the tension in the room. Simon leans down toward you, dropping to one knee to be at your eye level, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your discomfort. His hands rest casually on his thighs, but there’s nothing casual about the weight in his voice.

“But,” he says, a playful edge in his tone, but the undertone is sharp, cutting through the soft hum of the room like a knife. “I guess if y’not mine, then I guess I should go, huh?”

The words hang between you like a challenge, testing your resolve, pushing at the walls you’ve built so carefully. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your throat tightening. You open your mouth, but the words catch before they can form. You shake your head, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

He stands up then, straightening to his full height, and it’s almost like the air shifts around him, “Fine then,” he says, his voice low, almost amused. “No problem. I’ll leave. Y’can stay here with Keith, yeah? Let ‘em keep y’ company.”

The words hit like a gut punch, a shock to your system as you realize you’ve completely forgotten about Keith. He’s still there, bound and helpless, and a grimace pulls at your face as you glance over at him. Sure, he was annoying, but this? This isn’t what he deserved.

How Simon knows his name is a mystery, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. It never does with him. Keith’s name slipping from Simon’s lips is an ugly reminder of something you’d rather keep buried. Something you regret.

Simon starts to turn, heading toward the door, and the world tilts on its axis.

You can’t let him go, can’t let him walk out like that—again—like it’s nothing, like you can just let him leave and keep pretending that none of this matters.

Your legs feel weak, like they might give out from underneath you, but you manage to stand. Slowly at first, then with more urgency, your hands reaching out toward him without thinking. They land on his forearms—massive, firm, like steel wrapped in skin—and you grip him hard, pulling him back just a little, just enough to make him stop.

Simon’s body tenses under your touch, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He simply turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. The quiet between you two stretches.

He lets you stop him. He knew you would, he wanted you to. 

You glance at Keith, who’s dumbfounded as he struggles to comprehend what’s unfolding. Then you look up at Simon, where that insufferable, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t,” you say, voice tight.

He cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, though amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “Don’t what?”

You swallow, feel the words stick in your throat before forcing them out. “Don’t go.”

Something in his expression flickers, shifts just slightly before settling into something heavier. He doesn’t waste time. He steps toward Keith, bending at the waist until he’s face-to-face with him, a lion looming over an antelope with its throat already torn open, arterial spray painting the dirt, limbs twitching in useless protest as the last dregs of life seep out.

“Hear that, lad?” Simon drawls, voice thick with condescension. “She doesn’t want me to go. Wants me t’stay right here—stuff her full o’ my cock, yeah? Bet she doesn’t want that from you.”

Your mouth falls open, lips parting in shock. Not because he’s wrong—Jesus, he’s not wrong—but because he says it like it’s the simplest fact in the world, like he’s reading it straight from the book of universal truths.

Keith is trembling now, his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He looks so small, so pathetic compared to Simon’s hulking figure.

Simon doesn’t look away. He watches him, studies him, his gaze slow and calculating before he hums, almost thoughtful. His voice is deceptively quiet, laced with something deceptively soft. “Think that pencil dick does ‘er wonders, eh?”

Keith whimpers, eyes wide, body rigid, already feeling the metaphorical teeth at his throat. Simon just reveles in it, feeding off the fear like it’s sustenance. And you’re dumbfounded. 

And aroused.

You shouldn’t react to this the way you are. You shouldn’t feel your cunt growing wetter than it's been in months. shouldn’t feel your breath hitch at the way he’s openly claiming you without hesitation, without shame. But you do.

Because even if Simon doesn’t have the right to stake his claim on you, doesn’t have the right to act as if you still belong to him—doesn’t he?

You signed your name at the bottom of that letter all those weeks ago.

And to Simon, that was the dotted line. The confirmation.

You swallow, the sound too loud in the thick silence, your body frozen as you watch Simon’s one-man pissing contest unfold. It gets his attention, though. His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

Despite the draft floating through, the air is thick in the room; it presses against your chest as you stand frozen, caught between two men—one holding you hostage with his eyes, the other trembling with frustration and fear. Simon’s smirk doesn’t falter as he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder at you with that same cold gleam in his eyes. He’s toying with you. You know that. He has been. But there's something different now. Something sharp and jagged in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s definitively claiming the space between your hearts, drawing lines you can’t ignore.

Keith’s eyes flicker between you and Simon, darting like he’s searching for an escape. You imagine he thinks Simon is some crazy ex, some jealous, unhinged thing from your past. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He whines through the make-shift gag like he wants to say something, to demand an explanation, to plead. But he’s frozen, paralyzed, locked in place as it all crumbles right in front of him, powerless to do a damn thing about it.

Simon, however, is unfazed. Barely even interested. His eyes flick back to Keith, sharp and dismissive, like he’s looking at a stale loaf of bread.

“You, lad… are just a stopgap. Temporary. Got that?”

Simon’s voice is steady, calm—like he’s explaining something simple, something Keith should’ve already known. Then, without warning, he grips Keith’s hair, yanking his head up from the scalp and forcing him to look into those cold, unrelenting eyes.

Keith lets out a sharp, choked noise as he makes Keith’s head bob in a mockery of a nod.

“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “That’s right. Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Simon releases Keith’s head with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending it snapping backward. Keith groans, but Simon doesn’t spare him another glance.

Instead, he turns back to you. Fully. His gaze is heavy, piercing—digging beneath your skin like he’s peeling back layers, searching for the fight in you, daring you to contradict him.

But you don’t. You can’t.

And he knows it.

You want to scream at him, to remind him that you’re not a prize to be fought over or a possession to be claimed. But the words die in your throat, stifled by the raw, undeniable tension curling in the pit of your stomach. Because he’s right.

He stalks toward you, closer and closer until you’re forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, quieter, as if the world around you has paused in reverence of him. You can’t escape his eyes, those brown depths that see right through you. They peel back the layers of your mind.

His lips curl into a dangerous, knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. “Thought y’could just disobey, sweet thing?” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with venom. “Thought y’could just fuck off and be so… disrespectful?”

His words slice through the air, every syllable hitting you like a lash against your skin, the sting burrowing under your flesh. His eyes darken, becoming something primal, like he’s waiting for the moment you finally realize just how much he controls you. “Thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Thought I wouldn’t do somethin’ about it?”

You try to hold your ground, to summon the will to look away, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unrelenting. There’s a coldness there that you never thought you’d see from him.

It’s unmistakable now. The contempt he feels for you—disrespecting him, breaking his trust—it’s palpable in the furrow of his brown and the frown lines on his lips.

Your throat tightens, a mix of shame and anger swirling inside you. You want to argue, but how could you? After everything? He’s right, isn’t he? You did disrespect him. You did go to someone else, let another man touch you.

You didn’t think he’d come back, but deep, deep down you knew he would. You knew he was still there, always watching, you just didn’t want to accept it. And now, as you stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gaze, you realize the kind of power he has over you. Not just physical, but mental. Emotional. And that power isn’t something you can run from, no matter how much you want to.

His hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, the touch soft, almost affectionate, but you can feel the danger lurking just beneath the surface. 

His breath skates along your ear, scorching in its proximity, his lips barely touching but still branding you like a slow drag of a candle stick on paper. His other hand settles on your throat—not choking, just securing, owning. Like he’s collaring you, like he’s locking you back in place where you should’ve been all along.

His voice is low, every syllable laced with quiet fury. “Gotta show y’little plaything who y’really belong to, huh?”

Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, but you nod, eyes wide, body betraying you in how quickly you submit. His heat rolls off him in waves, seeping through your flimsy shirt, wrapping around you like a smothering embrace. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Words,” he murmurs, his grip flexing—just a tease of pressure, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“Yes,” you rasp, the word trembling as it falls from your lips.

And then you’re moving—you don’t know how, don’t know if he shoved, pulled, or if you just folded for him, but suddenly you’re laid back on the bed, looking up at him.

He towers over you, broad shoulders blotting out everything else, his presence suffocating in the way that makes your lungs tighten and your blood rush south. You stare up at him, and he stares right back, gaze heavy and dark, like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you.

Simon’s voice, a low, guttural growl, fills the room. “Look at him,” he commands, his fingers snapping the buckle of his belt. The metallic click echoes, a sharp, ominous sound.

You turn your head to the side, gaze locking onto Keith's. His eyes, wide and terrified, dart between you and Simon's hulking frame. His hands twitch against the restraints, his legs kicking feebly, a desperate, futile struggle.

The leather of Simon's belt snakes through the loops and he tosses it aside, metal clanking on the floor. Then, a sharp tug on your ankles yanks your hips towards the edge of the bed. You gasp, your head whipping back towards Simon, shock and fear battling for dominance in your expression.

But his hand clamps down on your chin, his grip like iron, forcing your gaze back to Keith. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. “Look at him,” he repeats, his grip tightening. “If y’so much as blink, if y’look away, this stops. And we're done.”

The threat hangs in the air. A whimper escapes your lips, a small, broken sound of surrender. “‘kay,” you whisper, your voice trembling, your eyes glued to Keith's terrified face. “... Okay…”

The fabric of your panties rasps as he yanks them down, a swift, decisive motion that leaves your pussy bared to his hungry eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and a sudden, unwelcome heat blooming between your legs. Without warning, he’s on his knees and his mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue a relentless, insistent invasion. He licks and sucks, his ministrations both brutal and exquisitely precise. 

Instinctively, your eyes flick downwards, seeking his own. His gaze, dark and intense, is already locked on yours, a silent, predatory command. He pauses, his tongue hovering just above your swollen clit, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.

You wrench your gaze back to Keith, your body trembling with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and arousal. You fight the involuntary arch of your back, the way your face wants to contort in pleasure, the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips—sounds Keith has never heard, expressions he's never earned. The shame burns, a hot, corrosive acid, mixing with the raw, undeniable pleasure that pulses through you, a traitorous betrayal of your own body.

Simon senses your restraint, the tension that coils within you, the silent battle raging in your soul. It only fuels his desire, a cruel, possessive hunger. He slips his fingers inside you, two, then three, crooking them in a teasing rhythm, stretching you wider and wider.His lips tighten, nearly swallowing your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through your core. A loud, involuntary whine spills from your lips, a desperate, animalistic sound you can't suppress. Your back arches and you can’t help but look at him, your hips lifting off the bed, as he holds your thighs hostage against his shoulders, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Keith’s panting, his chest heaving, still fighting against the restraints. But something’s shifted. His struggles are less frantic, less desperate. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with a sheen of arousal. A flush creeps up his neck, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The sight of him, both terrified and aroused, is a brutal contradiction, a twisted reflection of the conflicting emotions tearing you apart.

Simon’s fingers move inside you, stroking your g-spot while his tongue continues its work on your clit, slurping and sucking so lewdly. “Missed this fuckin’ pussy, God,” he murmurs, his voice heady with lust. “Needy girl, y’taste so good,” he groans as he makes out with your folds. He thrusts his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling and teasing. 

“Look at him” he commands, releasing your clit with a pop, his voice a low growl. “Look at how hard y’makin’ him, girl. He wants you, don’t he? He wants t’be the one doin’ this t’you.”

You feel your peak building, the pressure mounting, a wave of sensation threatening to overwhelm you. 

Your hand instinctively clutches at Simon's cropped hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as the pleasure intensifies. You drag your gaze back to Keith, his body a twisted tableau of arousal and restraint. His hips buck against the chair, a frantic, rhythmic movement, and he gnaws at the rag gagging him, a desperate, muffled sound. His eyes, glazed and dilated, are locked on yours.

You can’t handle it—you tear your gaze away, the weight of his shame, his helplessness, too much to bear. It’s unbearable, looking at him when the only man you’ve ever truly wanted is the one between your legs.

You hate that Keith is watching. Hate the way his eyes track every movement, every shift of your body. But fuck—if it doesn’t send a pulse of heat through you, knowing someone is.

You try to look away, to break the connection, but Simon's eyes hold you captive. They're dark, intense, burning. This time, he doesn't force your gaze away. Instead, his eyes silently beckon you, Come, they say, Come in my mouth, baby.

Your orgasm coils low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, heat licking up your spine like a flame searching for air. It swirls, thick and consuming, a molten ache that makes you want to cry. You arch your back, your body convulsing as you call out his name, a desperate, raw plea that fills the room. A wave of pure pleasure washes over you, and you unravel, gushing into his mouth.

Simon groans, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as he savors the taste of your release. Unbeknownst to you, he'd been rhythmically grinding his hips against the edge of the bed throughout your orgasm, his own arousal building each time you clenched around his fingers. He takes his time, meticulously licking you clean, his tongue lingering on your swollen flesh. 

Eventually, he pulls away from your pussy, but not before slapping your sensitive clit, the sound echoing in the room. The force of the impact sends a jolt of overstimulation through you, a lingering tremor that makes you twitch and gasp. He chuckles at the reaction. Asshole. 

You instinctively clutch at your shirt, pulling it off, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. Your senses are reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves to straddle your hips, his large, powerful thighs rooted on either side of your hips, anchoring you beneath him. He leans over you, planting his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you. His eyes bore into yours.

The space between you is barely a breath, just the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours. His lips are still slick, shining with the remnants of you, his cheeks streaked with evidence of just how deep he went—messy eater. You watch as his gaze flickers down, lingering on your mouth like he’s thinking about it, like he wants it, but he doesn’t move.

You mirror him, flicking your gaze from his lips back to his eyes, searching for something—an answer, an intention, a reason why he’s hesitating. Your brows pull together, your voice soft, uncertain. “Simon?”

A grunt. That’s all he gives you. A quiet, low vibration in his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.

Your fingers creep up, threading into the short, soft hair at the base of his skull, anchoring him in place. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop you, just breathes. His eyes keep flicking down, but he still doesn’t close the distance. It’s unlike him. Unbecoming of him. A man who takes what he wants without hesitation—why now, when you're right here, does he stall?

“Won't you kiss me?” The words are barely above a whisper, but they break something in him.

He nods slowly, like it’s unpracticed. Like he’s never done something so intimate before.

He nudges his nose against yours first, like he’s testing the waters, feeling out the moment before he lets himself sink. And then—his lips press to yours.

Soft. Gentle. Everything you didn’t expect from a man who just slapped your overstimulated cunt.

Your eyes flutter shut as the kiss deepens, slow and unsure. His lips are dewy from where he’s been, the taste of you lingering, and for once, you have to guide him—slowly, patiently molding your lips to his, showing how to do something other than take.

And he lets you.

The kisses start slow, tentative, like he’s learning you. But it doesn’t last. Hesitation melts into something more primal, more insatiable, and you can’t help but reciprocate. His lips part against yours, and when your tongue brushes against his, he groans low in his throat—deep, guttural, vibrating against your lips.

It sets something off between you, a chain reaction of need. His hands start to wander, dragging over the curves of your bare skin, rough palms mapping the places he’s missed. His fingers press into your waist, then skate down to your hips, your thighs, then back up again, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

You arch into him, your body betraying you, craving the heat, the weight of him. His touch grows firmer, his grip tightening like he needs to feel you under his hands to prove that you’re real, that this isn’t just a fever dream.

Somewhere between gasps and swallowed moans, he pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders and a torso carved from marble. He’s still in just his boxers now, and it’s almost unfair—the contrast between his near-nakedness and your own, how he’s still clothed while you have nothing left to hide.

But then his eyes rake over you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze dark and full of intent. He reaches out, slow, reverent, fingers tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower, down the valley of your ribs, spreading warmth everywhere he touches.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

You smile bashfully before your eyes flick to the corner, catching movement—or rather, the absence of it. Keith.

You’d once again forgotten he was still here.

He’s unnaturally silent, his breath shallow, his body frozen. But even in the dim glow of the room, you see it—the damp patch spreading across the front of his sleep shorts, dark and unmistakable.

He came in his pants.

Something cold prickles down your spine, a mix of disgust and something else, something twisted. The shame on his face is unbearable, carved into every trembling breath, every flicker of his glassy eyes. His face is utterly wrecked, drained of any fight, any defiance. Like he already knows he’s lost. Like he knew it the second tied him up. 

Simon follows your gaze as he gets off of you and leans back against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides. His gaze flicks between you and Keith, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He scoffs, shaking his head as he watches the pathetic, trembling mess still tied up in the corner.

“Jizzed his pants? Christ.” His voice is dripping with disgust, but there’s something else there too—something utterly pleased. Like Keith’s shame only serves to highlight his own triumph.

Your breath is still uneven as you turn back to Simon, watching the way his fingers stroke absentmindedly over his own stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts his hand, trailing fingers up into your hair, brushing over your cheek in one slow, deliberate stroke.

The touch is gentle. And maybe it’s that contrast, the tenderness hidden beneath all that violence, that makes you instinctively lean into his palm, nuzzling against it like you belong there.

Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something deep. But it’s gone just as quick as it came, masked behind an air of satisfaction. He stretches, cracks his neck, and then settles back against the pillows, arms behind his head, looking up at you with expectation.

“Go on then,” he murmurs,  patting his upper thigh. “Give the bloke a reason t’cry.”

You glance at Keith again, slumped against the chair in the corner, his face burning with ignominy, his breaths uneven. His teary eyes are flicking between you and Simon, his hands twitching in his restraints like he doesn't know whether to cover himself or reach out for something that will never belong to him.

Simon watches you, tracking every flicker of emotion across your face. He tilts your chin toward him. His grip is firm, but not forceful—just enough to remind you of what he expects.

“C’mon, pet,” he drawls, his thumb tracing slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Let ‘em see what he was never gonna have.”

 You don't hesitate, your body moving eagerly. Simon reclines, his fingers already toying with the elastic waistband of his briefs, a silent invitation. You crawl over him, straddling his hips, the rough fabric of his briefs a stark contrast to the slick heat between your legs. You settle your bare, slick cunt onto his clothed cock, a kaleidoscope of butterflies shooting through your core as you feel the girth of him beneath you.

Now, your back is to Keith. You can't see his face, but you can imagine the look that must be twisting his features. Simon’s enjoying the spectacle, reveling in the power he holds as he cucks him.

And, you admit to yourself, a dark, shameful part of you enjoys it too. The knowledge that Keith is forced to watch, to witness it all, fuels a perverse excitement, a thrill that makes you slicker than Simon’s touch alone does. The realization is sickening, but exhilarating.

Simon’s hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to grind against the clothed length of his erection. The fabric of his boxers, rough against your swollen clit, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, eliciting a soft mewl from your throat. His cock twitches beneath you, a hard, insistent pulse, and he hisses at the rhythm of your grinding, a low, guttural sound of barely contained desire.

You meet his gaze, your eyes wide and seemingly innocent, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “Can I fuck you now? P… please?” you ask, your voice soft, almost pleading.

“Fuck, sweets,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Take it—it's yours.” He pushes his boxers down to his knees, and with your eager assistance, reveals the full, throbbing length of him. He cups his cock in his hands, pumping it lazily, his eyes fixed on the way it reaches just below your belly button. A low groan rumbles in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, his voice ragged.

He reaches for your hips, helping you lift them, guiding you as you position yourself above him. The anticipation is a tangible thing, a thick, heavy tension that fills the room as you slowly lower yourself onto him.

You hesitate, hovering above him, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful thrum in your core. Then you lower yourself onto him. The initial stretch is intense, a sharp, almost burning sensation that elicits a low moan from your throat. You bite your lip, bracing yourself, as you take him inch by agonizing inch, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling you, stretching you wide. A whimper escapes your lips, a sound that's both a cry of discomfort and a raw expression of pleasure.

He feels impossibly large, impossibly full, as if he's somehow grown even bigger since the last time. It's an overwhelming sensation, a raw, visceral fullness that borders on pain, yet is laced with an undeniable, addictive pleasure. It's the ultimate release, the scratching of an itch you didn't know you had.

When you finally take him all, a guttural groan erupts from Simon’s throat. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, kneading and urging you on. His eyes, dark and possessive, are fixed on you, watching every movement, every subtle shift of your body. “Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Look how you take me. So fucking tight.” His gaze lingers on the way his cock distends your abdomen, stretching your skin to its limit, a visible testament to his size.

Too lost in the pleasure, you barely register Simon's occasional, smug glances towards Keith, the subtle shifts in his expression as he watches. 

You begin to ride him, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building with each rise and fall of your hips. The rhythm quickens, escalating as your body adjusts to his impressive girth, the pace becoming more frantic, more desperate.

The room fills with a cacophony of sounds: the slick slap of skin against skin, the wet, gasping moans that escape your lips, Simon’s rough whispers, a torrent of the dirtiest words imaginable, painting the air with sex. And beneath it all, Keith's muffled whines, the rhythmic bucking of his hips against the restraints, a constant, jarring counterpoint to your pleasure, a stark reminder of how he’s watching. 

The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, a burning ache that spreads with each thrust. The sensory overload, a chaotic mix of the lingering aftershocks of your previous orgasm, the constant, invasive feel of Keith’s eyes on you, Simon’s roaming hands, and the insistent, stretching pressure of his cock, begins to push you past your limits. His pubes, coarse and rough, scrapes against your swollen clit, sending jolts of raw, almost painful pleasure through you. It's too much, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.

Simon senses it all, the subtle shift in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches and catches the way the sodden walls of your cunt clench around him. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he stills your movements, halting your grinding just as you teeter on the edge. He holds you suspended, your bodies locked together, the tension building to an almost unbearable degree.

Simon pulls you close, your foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the humid air. Both of you are slick with sweat, your bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Do you trust me?”

You nod, the affirmation barely a twitch of your head, your trust in him a strange, almost instinctive thing.

With a sudden, almost effortless movement, he lifts you off his cock, setting you aside on the bed as if you weigh nothing. He rises to his knees, his eyes dark and intense, and grabs you again, manhandling you onto your stomach. Your chest presses flat against the mattress, your ass raised high in the air, and your’re directly in sight of Keith

You clutch at the bed sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, as you brace yourself. You feel Simon's hand smooth over your ass, the touch both possessive and caring. Then, two sharp, stinging slaps land on either ass cheek, making you jolt. A gasp escapes your lips, but beneath the sting, a traitorous heat blooms between your legs, your cunt leaking.

He leans over you, his cock pressing flush against your ass, hard chest against your back, the heat radiating from him. He rasps in your ear, “He’s gonna watch, sweetheart. He’s gonna watch as I fuck y’till y’brains leak out y’ears, ain’t that right?” He continues. You whimper, a small, broken sound of acceptance, your body trembling.

Keith looks utterly defeated, his face a mask of exhaustion and a strange, twisted arousal. The dark stain on his shorts has grown exponentially. A flicker of guilt pierces through the haze of your cock-drunk stupor. A pang of remorse, a whisper of conscience, tries to surface, but it’s quickly swallowed by the need that simmers within you. The shame is there, but it’s overshadowed by the throbbing between your legs.

You're repulsed by the situation, by the violation of Keith, by the way Simon is using him to make a point—as a pawn in this twisted game. Yet a shameful part of you revels in the power, in the dominance that Simon exudes. 

Simon leans back, his eyes dark and predatory, and grabs his cock, circling your entrance with the slick, glistening tip. He teases you, the anticipation stretching the moment into an unbearable eternity. “What do we say, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “When we want something?”

Your face is half-smushed against the bed, the rough fabric digging into your cheek, and a muffled plea escapes your lips. “Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

He continues to torment you, the tip of his cock dipping in and out of your swollen entrance, each teasing touch sending a jolt of desperate need through your body. A string of pleas spills from your lips, “Please, Si—” you beg, your voice thick with desire. “Please—I need it— I need you—”

Simon’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he watches your desperation. “Awh, baby,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don't ask me. I’m not the one y’need to convince.” He hums.

He reaches out, his hand weaving through your scalp wrapping around your hair, and he yanks it back sharply, forcing your head into an unnatural, painful angle. Your neck strains, and your eyes are forced upwards, locking directly with Keith’s.

“Ask him,” Simon commands, his voice a low, menacing growl.

Your eyes meet Keith's, and you whisper, your voice thick with shame and desperation, a string of broken pleas.

Simon's grip tightens on your hair. “Say it proper, pet,” he instructs, his voice hard. “Say, ‘Please let Simon fuck me, Keith.’”

You instantly repeat the words, verbatim, the phrase a humiliating echo of his command. Unshed tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill if Simon so much as grazes your clit again.

Keith looks between you both, his gaze shifting between your prettily arched body and Simon's monstrous, towering figure behind you. A flicker of something that might be resignation crosses his face. He nods lazily, a slow, almost imperceptible movement.

Simon smirks, a triumphant, possessive expression twisting his lips. He releases your hair, the sudden freedom making your head loll forward. “See what happens when you ask nicely?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.

And then, without further delay, he inches in, the head of his cock pressing against your swollen entrance.

He slides into you, the angle intensifying the stretch, filling you even deeper than before. The sheer size of him steals your breath, the slow, deliberate intrusion forcing the air from your lungs. You claw at the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, tears wetting the fabric.

He grunts as he sheaths himself fully, then pulls back before plunging in again. He watches as your cunt clenches and drools around him, sucking him in with a desperate, hungry grip. “Greedy pussy,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “She’s so fuckin’ greedy.”

You whine, a broken, helpless sound, your body trapped beneath him, forced to endure his thrusts. There's no escape, no reprieve, only the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, dominating you.

Gradually, he picks up the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more brutal. You howl, your drool soaking the sheets beneath your face. He’s hitting spots you didn't know existed, stretching you to the brim, the feeling bordering on unbearable. You can barely focus, your vision blurred by tears, the world reduced to the relentless pounding of his cock, the wet squelches from your pussy, and the raw, visceral sensations that rip through your body.

Each thrust forces a wheeze of air from your lungs, a sound that more closely resembles a death rattle than a moan. Your whole body is ablaze, and he’s the one who struck the match—watching as you burn, as the flames lick higher, consuming everything in their path.

Simon suddenly hauls you upward, his hand looping around your upper chest, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. His hips don’t falter as they continue to snap into you, your body arching involuntarily with each powerful stroke. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you, while he leans into the crook of your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there.

Your entire body, a raw, exposed spectacle, is laid bare before Keith. Your mouth hangs slack-jawed, your tits bouncing with each rapid, violent thrust that jolts through your frame. Even though he’s seen you naked before, he’s never witnessed you like this: so utterly debased, so completely at someone’s mercy.

He’s never seen anyone like this.

Simon licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your neck to your ear, his tongue tracing a path of fire across your skin, all while continuing to fuck you, his rhythm unwavering. You’re limp in his arms, your head lolling back, your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. The pleasure is so overwhelming, so intense, that you can barely even manage a sound, your vocal cords paralyzed by the raw sensation.

He harshly whispers in your ear, his voice a low, guttural growl, “Y’gonna cum,? Can feel y’clenchin’ ‘round me—fuck, y’so tight, baby—”

You manage a garbled, broken attempt at a “yes,” your voice thick with unspeakable pleasure.

“Good,” he murmurs. “‘M close too and y’gonna take it all— Gonna fill this cunny—fuck,” He pauses, his voice hardening, “And y’better not take a fucking’ Plan B this time.”

The words, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability, snap the last vestiges of your control. A wave of raw, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You gush, your orgasm violent as you squirt, your release spraying across his cock and the sheets.

He continues to fuck you, his thrusts relentless as he chases his own high, his hands squeezing your tits, urging you on. “Atta girl,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust.

You go limp, your body leaning against him, your mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim, his cum a hot, pulsing tide that leaves you feeling utterly spent.

He stills, holding you close, his arms supporting you. He’s truly fucked you senseless, leaving you a shell of your former self.

Slowly, gently, he pulls out of you, the withdrawal leaving a strange, hollow ache. He lays you on your side, his touch surprisingly tender, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You let him, your body and mind too exhausted to offer any resistance.

He rises, his movements fluid and predatory, and stalks towards Keith. From your position on the bed, you can see the hard planes of his naked form, a stark, imposing figure standing before the bound man. He speaks, his voice low and menacing, the words barely audible. Keith looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear.

Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Simon retrieves a knife he’d apparently left on your desk, the blade glinting in the dim light. He swiftly cuts through the ropes binding Keith, freeing him from his restraints.

Within seconds, Keith scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and desperate. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer a word of explanation or apology. He simply runs, fleeing the house as if pursued by demons.

You lie there, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Simon's brutal possession, your mind struggling to process the scene. You don't know what Simon said to Keith, but the fear in the other man's eyes, the sheer urgency of his escape, speaks volumes. It couldn't have been anything good.

The front door slams shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house. The sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps fades into the night. Keith is gone.

Simon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before setting the knife down exactly where he had left it earlier. The metal clinks against the wood, sharp and final.

You haven’t moved.

Your body still hums, every nerve alight, the aftershocks of everything that’s just happened still pulsing through you. Your heart slams against your ribs, beating an erratic rhythm you can’t quite slow down.

Then, warmth—solid, steady, unshakable.

Simon sidles in behind you, his presence swallowing yours whole. One thick arm loops around your waist, the other sliding up to your sternum, pulling you back into his chest, into his heat. You don’t resist. You don’t even think to.

He presses his chin to your shoulder, his breath warm as it fans across your skin. His grip is firm, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Still with me, love?” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something unreadable.

You swallow hard, blinking yourself back into the present. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

You choose the latter. Your hands settle over his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, the way he holds you like you belong to him.

You hum in response, soft and instinctive, nuzzling just slightly deeper into the warmth of his chest. It’s comforting in a way you don’t fully understand—how you can feel so at ease wrapped up in the arms of a man who is anything but safe.

Your fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of his forearm, feeling the scars, the ridges, the history carved into him. You tilt your head slightly, voice still a little breathless as you ask, “What did you say to him?”

Simon chuckles. “Told ‘em if he so much as breathed a word about this, I’d track him down, carve his tongue out, and mail it t’his mother. After I made him swallow his teeth, o’ course.”

Your eyes widen. “Jesus Christ.”

“At least I didn’t go with my original plan.”

You hesitate, blinking, your heart skipping. “What plan?”

Simon leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, completely unbothered, “Killin’ him. Tossin’ his sorry corpse into the Thames.”

A beat of silence.

“…Oh.”

Simon laughs—an actual laugh, deep and rumbling, like you just told the funniest joke in the world.

And it’s only now, sitting here, still bare against his heat, his arms caging you in, his scent thick in your lungs, that you remember he’s still a criminal.

Simon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head, arms locked around you like he has no intention of letting go. His body is warm, steady—like he belongs here, like you belong here.

Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Y’mine now.”

You let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I got that part.”

His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, one of his hands slowly dragging up and down your arm, fingertips tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you. It’s gentle—too much so for a man like him.

You shift just enough to glance at the analog clock on your nightstand. The dim glow of the numbers makes your stomach sink.

“Shit.”

Simon hums in question.

“Sun’s coming up,” you sigh, rubbing your face, “and I have work in three hours.”

He doesn’t even pause. “Nah, y’don’t.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That so?”

“Mhm.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and sure. “Told you. Y’mine. That means y’don’t have t’work.”

You blink up at him, frowning. “Simon, I have a life here. A job, a flat. I can’t just give it up.”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “I’ll get your lease terminated.”

 You turn to face him in his embrace. “Without penalties?”

His smirk is slow, lazy. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stare at him, not even bothering to ask what that means. You already know. You also know you’re too damn tired to fight about it.

With a long exhale, your fingers trace the pink scar just below his collarbone. “Where would we even go?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. 

“How do y’feel about Manchester?”

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THIS IS THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THE RETURN TO SENDER UNIVERSE. I WILL NOT BE WRITING ANOTHER PART.

[rafecameronssl4t]

omg what about the forced marriage au! but sofia tries to flirt w rafe inspite of him being a married man infront of the reader and he sets his boundaries and makes it clear that he is only loyal to the reader

Eyes don’t lie || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: I don't think i mentioned it in the background for this au but reader and her family are practically royalty in obx. I forgot to mention this in the other fic but readers siblings from oldest to youngest is as followed: William Astoria Edward Charlotte and reader

Warnings: nothing really!!

Word count: 1,609

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

Sofia’s eyes wandered around the grand ballroom, her gaze drifted appreciatively over the opulent surroundings. The architecture of the room was breathtaking, its grandeur perfectly fitting for the New Year’s Eve celebration, which was exclusive to the elite socialites of Outer Banks.

The high ceilings, adorned with sparkling chandeliers, cast a warm glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Sofia went about serving drinks to the guests, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd for a specific person. The ballroom was alive with chatter and laughter, but her attention was fixed on the grand staircase at the far end of the room.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted as the crowd’s clapping grew louder and more rhythmic. Sofia’s gaze followed the collective attention to the top of the grand staircase. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw your family make their entrance. First, your parents descended the stairs, radiating an air of effortless elegance.

They were followed by your siblings and their partners, each step meticulously coordinated, adding to the grandeur of the moment. And then, as if choreographed for a royal event, you and Rafe appeared, linked arm in arm. The sight was nothing short of breathtaking.

The way the crowd’s applause built to a crescendo as you both descended the stairs left Sofia in awe. The admiration etched on every guest’s face was palpable, a testament to the elevated status your family held. Sofia had known your family was influential, but seeing it up close was overwhelming.

The opulence and grace with which you and Rafe carried yourselves, combined with the sheer scale of the event, exceeded anything she had imagined. This elite socialite world was new to her; she had only been filling in for someone who couldn’t attend, and now she was witnessing a spectacle that felt almost surreal.

Sofia’s eyes followed you and Rafe as you navigated the room, your every movement drawing admiring glances from the guests. You both were effortlessly engaged in conversations, laughter dancing between you as you exchanged smiles. Sofia couldn’t help but notice how Rafe’s hand would rest possessively on your waist, his smile widening whenever he glanced down at you, clearly enjoying your company.

A pang of envy twisted in her stomach as she observed the closeness between you two. As the night wore on, you and Rafe made your way to the bar. Rafe took charge, ordering drinks for both of you while you chatted animatedly with your sisters. His hand lingered on the small of your back, a subtle but intimate gesture that spoke volume to Sofia.

Sofia watched this interaction with a mix of fascination and frustration. Determined to make her presence felt, Sofia stepped closer to the two from where she was behind the bar, her smile wide and her gaze fixed on Rafe. "It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it?" she said, her voice laced with a flirtatious tone.

Rafe gave a curt nod, his focus remaining squarely on you as he waits for his drinks. His body language was clear—he was fully engaged with you and had little interest in entertaining Sofia’s advances. Despite his lack of response, Sofia persisted, her smile unwavering as she tried to find another way to break through.

It was obvious to Rafe that Sofia had a liking towards him and she was not good at hiding it. Rafe’s gaze remained fixed on you, but his tone was firm and polite. “I'm just here to enjoy the evening with my wife,” he said, his words leaving little room for further flirtation. Sofia’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, trying to mask her disappointment.

“Well I hope you enjoying the rest of the party," she said, her tone still light but with a hint of frustration. Rafe offered a polite but distant smile before turning his attention back to you, his hand still resting protectively on the small of your back. Sofia, though slightly deflated by his lack of interest, couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on him throughout the night, her eyes trailing his every move.

~

As you and Rafe exchanged quiet words, you leaned in closer to him, your lips near his ear as you asked, “Do you know her?” Your tone was casual, but your curiosity was clear. Rafe’s brows furrowed slightly before he followed your gaze to where Sofia quickly averted her eyes, trying to look busy behind the bar. “Some pogue that works at the country club,” he replied flatly, his voice laced with boredom as he turned back to you.

You hummed in response, your eyes glinting with amusement. “She seems quite interested in you,” you mused, a small smirk playing on your lips as you observed Sofia’s poorly hidden attempts to steal glances at Rafe. He rolled his eyes, lifting his glass to his mouth, clearly unimpressed by the attention. “Find this amusing, do you?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he took a sip of his drink.

You could see the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Very,” you replied, your smirk widening as you watched him shake his head in mock exasperation. The easy banter between you both was laced with an intimacy that only deepened Sofia’s envy as she watched from afar, her efforts to catch Rafe’s eye futile.

~

“One minute till midnight!” a voice called out from the crowd, drawing Sofia’s attention. “Get ready for your New Year’s kiss!” The cheerful voice belonged to Astoria, whose playful tone sparked laughter among the guests. Sofia’s gaze instantly zeroed in on you and Rafe, standing close together with his hand resting possessively on your lower back, subtly guiding you closer.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the way Rafe seemed so effortlessly in control, his every movement a declaration of his claim on you. As the countdown began, Rafe gently turned you so that your back was to Sofia, shielding your shared moment from prying eyes. His gaze roamed over your face with an intensity that made Sofia’s chest tighten. “What are you doing?” you whispered, your voice barely audible amidst the growing excitement.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he murmured in response, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. His breath fanned across your lips as he pulled you even closer, his touch both tender and possessive. “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!” The room chanted in unison, voices rising in anticipation as the new year approached.

As the numbers ticked down, Rafe’s hand slid up to rest on the back of your neck, his fingers lightly grazing your jawline in a way that sent shivers down your spine. At the stroke of midnight, Sofia watched with a mixture of longing and frustration as Rafe leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. The world seemed to pause for her, the moment suspended in time as she took in the sight of the man she desired so deeply kissing someone else.

A camera flash illuminated the room, capturing the intimate moment between you and Rafe as you slightly pulled away, only for Rafe to keep you close against him. His hand remained firm on your back, refusing to let the moment slip away so easily. The room erupted into celebration—confetti rained down, fireworks burst outside, and the sound of cheers and clinking glasses filled the air.

But Sofia couldn’t focus on any of it. Her eyes were locked on Rafe, whose lips remained pressed against yours even as the celebrations continued around you. Then, something shifted. Rafe’s eyes opened, and as he kissed you, his gaze lifted over your head, locking onto Sofia’s. His cool blue eyes met hers, and in that instant, she felt as though the breath had been stolen from her lungs.

But instead of the cold indifference she might have expected, there was a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile of invitation; it was a silent warning. His message was clear—back off. He was telling her without words that he was loyal to you, that there was no room for anyone else. Her heart pounded wildly, the sound of it echoing in her ears as she stood frozen, unable to look away.

Sofia felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart pounding harder as she realized the intent behind his gaze. She stood frozen, unable to look away, as that smirk told her everything she needed to know. Rafe was making it clear that she was wasting her time, that his commitment was to you and you alone.

Rafe held her gaze for a moment longer, his smirk lingering as if to drive the point home, before his eyes dropped back to you. The moment you broke the kiss, a smile spread across your face as you pressed your hands against his chest, turning your attention to the fireworks outside. Only then did Rafe’s expression shift, his smirk fading into a polished, aristocratic smile as he glanced around the room.

He clapped along with the crowd, though his enthusiasm was clearly feigned. After a few seconds, he snatched a flute of champagne from a floating tray, knocking it back in one swift motion. The gesture was casual, almost dismissive, as if the exchange with Sofia had been nothing more than a brief interruption in an otherwise perfect night.

Sofia, left standing in the shadows, could only watch as the man she coveted so dearly turned away, his focus entirely on you. The pit of envy in her stomach deepened, but now mingled with a bitter understanding—Rafe’s loyalty to you was unshakeable, and there was nothing she could do to change that.

[cursedyuri]

fool me once | vi x reader

summary: after a night out, you cross paths with your (very married) neighbor. against her judgment (and yours), she shows you a good time. 18+ mdni! contains cheating (vi is married, r is single), alcohol use, oral sex, pet names. kinda angsty? like, maybe a little? also in my head vi is much older than reader but it’s not mentioned in the fic, so imagine it however u want!

“thank you soooo much,” you tell your uber driver, a woman around your age who had let you sit in the front seat and pick the music for your ride home. “i literally wouldn’t have made it here without you.”

“of course,” she chirps back, grinning, clearly not annoyed by your slurred words and overenthusiastic gratitude.

you rattle off a few more words of thanks as you clamber out of the sedan, heels clicking on the gravel. a sudden gust of wind sends shivers up your spine, reminding you that it’s not technically spring yet, and your too-short skirt and spaghetti strap top aren’t doing much to protect you from the cold. In fact, they’re not doing anything at all. you walk a bit faster up your driveway, glad that you’d had the foresight to turn on the porch light before you’d left earlier.

as you’re rummaging through your purse in search of your keys, the neighbor’s door swings open, and out walks a tattooed redhead. you quickly recall her name - vi. she lives next door with her wife, who you’ve also crossed paths with a few times. both women are, frankly, fucking hot. especially vi, who’s clad in a loose white tee (braless, no less) and jeans, inky black tattoos on display as she settles down into one of the patio chairs. she’s carrying a glass of wine, filled nearly to the brim.

maybe it’s the alcohol in your system from your night out. maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had sex in ages, resorting instead to sliding your hand beneath your panties at night and finger-fucking yourself to sleep. maybe it’s a combination of both. regardless, you catch yourself staring at your neighbor for a bit too long, eyes lingering on the red mass of her perfectly-tousled hair, the glimmering silver ring in her nose, the smoldering heat of her gaze when her eyes meet yours.

she doesn’t look away. your breath catches in your throat.

“hey, neighbor.” dipping her head back, she takes a long swig from her overfilled glass of wine, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and flashes a crooked smile your way. “had a good night, i take it?”

nodding, you tug your front door open by the handle. you’re tipsy, and though alcohol typically makes you feel more confident, the benefits of the many cocktails in your system don’t make talking to your hot neighbor any easier. anxious, you fiddle with the zipper on your purse. “it was fun, yeah.”

“but he didn’t let you stay over,” your neighbor shoots back, eyes narrowing just a bit. “shame. you deserve better.”

your brows lift at the comment - specifically the word he. vi can’t be that oblivious, can she?

“he? oh - no, it wasn’t like that. i was with friends.” you lean your head against the cool metal of the front door, letting your eyes drink her in some more. she’s sitting on the porch furniture like it’s a throne, shoulders squared, legs spread. her jeans fit her well, you notice, admiring the way they emphasize the shape of her strong thighs beneath the denim.

but… fuck, she’s married. and you’re drunk.

“i’m gonna go to bed,” you say, finally, smiling politely. “goodnight, vi.”

it might just be a cruel trick of your imagination, but you swear she looks disappointed - if only for a moment. her expression returns to normal just as quickly, though, and then she’s responding to you from behind the rim of her wine glass. “uh-huh. goodnight.”

when you finally get the door shut, it’s with a relieved sigh. the tension leaves your body in waves until all you feel is the light, airy haze of your buzz. you toe off your shoes and set your purse down on the table by the door, then make your way to the kitchen for some much-needed ice water. you’re halfway through your second glass when there’s a knock at the door.

as you set your glass onto the counter and walk back to the foyer, it occurs to you that most normal people would be startled by a knock on the door after midnight. most normal people wouldn’t get excited by it, and they certainly wouldn’t hope it’s their married neighbor knocking.

and most normal people wouldn’t stop to look in the mirror before they answer the door, pulling their shirt down to expose more cleavage, fixing their hair and hastily reapplying a layer of lipstick. but you’re not most normal people - you know it’s her at the door, and you know this is wrong, and you still want it.

when you turn the knob and find her staring you down on the other side of the door, her seaglass-blue eyes dark and stormy with desire, you feign innocence. ignorance, even.

“hi,” you say, voice even. “do you need something?”

“nobody saw you dressed like this and took you back to their place?” vi’s voice is low and gruff as she questions you, stepping over the threshold into your home. instinctively, you angle out of her way, letting her in without a word of protest. when you don’t move to close the door again, she pushes it shut with a flat palm, eyes never leaving yours.

“hm?” she prompts.

“i—no,” you blurt, shaking your head. “i was just with friends, like i told you.”

the heat of her gaze has your skin flushing with warmth as she looks you over, eyes lingering on the curve of your hips and the slopes of your breasts.

satisfaction roils through you, a white-hot stab of confidence from the way she looks at you. “why does it matter?”

“you’d only wear something like this to get fucked,” she drawls, one calloused hand reaching out to grab the supple flesh of your hip. her fingertips skate over your skirt’s mesh fabric, her face still relatively expressionless while you burn from her touch alone.

“well, i didn’t get fucked,” you say, surprised at how well you’ve masked the shakiness of your voice. “not that it’s any of your business.”

your tone evidently surprises vi, too. her brows pull together, an amused chuckle leaving her lips as she rubs her palm over your hip. “what an attitude,” she comments. “always been such a sweetheart, smiling all pretty at me. should’ve known you just needed a few drinks to bring out the brat.”

her boots are heavy against the hardwood floors as she steps forward to close the small gap between the two of you. she smells like cigarettes and spiced perfume and that wine she’d been drinking earlier - it suddenly dawns on you that, if she’d finished that entire glass in just a few minutes, she’s probably just as tipsy as you are.

that would explain why she’s crowding into your space, backing you up against the wall closest to the door, her arm snaking around your waist like she’d done this a thousand times before. truthfully, you’re expecting her to kiss you when she leans in close; the very tip of her nose brushes against yours and your eyes fall shut of their own accord.

but instead of her mouth on yours, you feel her lips latch onto the smooth skin of your neck. her kisses are hot, wet, open-mouthed, and a pleased sigh pushes past your lips when she pauses over a particularly sensitive spot on your neck and sucks hard. arousal pools in your gut, your thighs pressing together to relieve some of the tension between your legs as you lean into vi touch. her hands are everywhere: your hips, your ass, your tits, groping appreciatively at every inch of you she can reach.

you should feel guilty, shouldn’t you? if only you could. instead, all you can feel is the delicious slide of vi’s tongue over your pulse, her teeth nipping at your sensitive flesh until you’re pliant in her arms, doe-eyed and rosy-cheeked, watching her trail kisses lower, lower, lower. her lips brush the lace trim of your camisole and when she looks up at you from beneathher lashes to find that you’re already watching her, she grins salaciously.

“hey, sweetheart,” vi murmurs, voice low. she leans towards you again, close enough for you to smell the wine on her breath, and your heartbeat stutters when her lips ghost over yours. “can you show me your room?”

she kicks off her boots and you lead her down the hall, suddenly glad that you’d made your bed this morning.

vi’s hands are back on you as soon as you make it to the bedroom, the lamp on your nightstand providing just enough light to keep you from stumbling. she pulls your shirt over your head in one fluid motion, hands dipping behind you to unclasp your bra and work the straps from your shoulders. she’s methodical and practiced with every movement, and it makes your head spin when she gropes at your exposed tits, thumbs stroking over your pert nipples.

“fuck,”she curses down at you, her eyes on your breasts as she kneads them carefully. “look at you - so pretty for me.”

vi’s words have your cunt clenching around nothing, a shameless moan ripping from your chest when she pinches your nipples just right. you whine in protest when she moves her hands away, but you’re quickly silenced when her palm comes to rest on the back of your neck and she dips her head down to bring her lips to yours. the room seems to spin around you, though you know it’s not from the alcohol.

vi tastes like smoke and wine, just as you’d expected, but beneath it all, there’s the distinctive flavor of her. and it’s addictive - you’re hooked already, melting under her commanding grip,her fingertips digging into the back of your neck. her tongue darts over your lower lip, eventually slipping into your mouth to taste more of you. every swipe of her tongue over yours stokes the fire growing in your belly; you’re practically vibrating with arousal, your cunt fluttering every time vi’s hand flexes on your neck.

but then disappointment stabs through you as she finally breaks the kiss, her lips swollen and shiny with saliva, eyes clouded with need.

“don’t look so sad, baby,” she coos down at you, “just want you to get on your knees for me. can you do that?”

truth be told, you’d do just about anything she’d ask of you. you nod, sinking to your knees before her, your skirt riding up to bunch around your hips and expose the supple, doughy flesh of your thighs. vi even catches a glimpse at your panties - skimpy and lacy, of course. her cunt gushes wetter and she palms herself over her jeans as you settle on your knees to peer up at her, eyes wide and round and pathetic. how can you look fucked-out when she hasn’t even fucked you yet?

your hands smooth up vi’s thighs, the denim of her jeans rough and scratchy beneath your palms. it feels wrong to break eye contact, especially when she’s looking at you with such desire, so you keep your gaze fixed on him while your hands move to undo her belt, pop the top button of her jeans, and tug the zipper down. you lean closer as you work her jeans down her legs, leaving her in just the thin material of her boxers. and it’s only then that you want to look away from vi’s face, because you can feel how wet she is when you drag your hand over the clothed mound of her pussy. you need to see how wet she is, too.

you can hear her breath hitch as she watches you; the urge to please her seizes you with dizzying strength and you’re no longer caught up on the guilt of the situation. leaning forward, you press your lips to the thin fabric separating your skin from vi’s pussy, darkening with the mess of her arousal. your tongue flits out to circle the wet patch, and vi groans like she’s in pain, her hips twitching desperately. distantly, you hear her say something like don't tease, but you’re too focused on the task at hand to process vi’s words. you rub your cheek against her pelvis, your eyes flickering up to meet hers - she’s staring, lips parted, jaw tight.

“damn, you’re a slut, aren’t you?” vi’s voice is low and husky, tinged with dark amusement. her fingers card through your hair and tug slightly at the roots. “baby, stop stalling - i need to know how that pretty mouth feels, yeah?”

“mm, okay,” you murmur, a mischievous little smirk playing at your lips as you hook your thumbs behind the waistband of her underwear and tug them down to her ankles. she spreads her legs just enough to allow you to see her, cunt flushed and glistening with slick arousal beneath a fine thicket of hair. the room is still spinning when you open your mouth to lick a stripe up her pussy, tongue lingering when it reaches the bud of her clit. she tastes salty and sweet and heady, and it’s divine - you lick up the evidence of her arousal until she’s straining to keep from bucking her hips forward, thin brows knitted together.

“so gorgeous on your knees,” vi rasps. her hand moves to grip the back of your neck, blunt fingernails digging into your skin just enough to sting. you smile, but you doubt vi can see it, your mouth buried in her bush and smothered with wetness. you lick at her cunt lazily at first, tongue broad, allowing you to familiarize yourself with every slick fold of her cunt. you tongue at her clit carefully, not wanting to overwhelm her too much - but every pass of your tongue over the swollen, sensitive bud makes vi’s breath hitch in her throat.

“doing so good,” she manages to say, voice shaky. A hand smoothes over your hair. “gonna let me come on your pretty face?”

you hum your assent, eyes fluttering shut as you mouth at her burning core, the taste and scent of her slick overwhelming your senses. you’re not sure how long you spend between her legs, sucking at her clit and parting her folds with your tongue, moaning against the spit-slick hair of her bush, before the ragged moans leaving her lips grow more insistent - more desperate. you pick up the pace of the circles you’ve been drawing around her clit, bringing one hand up to her center to slip a finger into her tight heat. vi makes a sound that makes your pussy fucking throb with want. seeing as it was so easy to slide a finger into her, you add another, and revel in satisfaction when she makes another tortured sound. before long, you’re fingering her at a dizzying pace, the lewd sounds from between her legs making your stomach heavy with arousal.

there’s little warning before vi finally comes - she gasps out your name, fingers tightening in your hair as her cunt seizes up around your fingers. she thrusts her hips forward a few times, riding out her high on your face, and you couldn’t be happier to be such a fucking mess.

when you open your eyes to look up at her, you’re mesmerized. she looks beautiful like this, even as her expression crumpled with pleasure. her hair is disheveled far more than usual, cheeks painted a bright shade of pink, lips still swollen from earlier. you’re struck with a bolt of admiration for her, a fleeting sensation quickly followed by guilt because, well… she’s married to someone else.

as if she could sense where your mind was going, vi suddenly draws her hips back, gripping your hair in her fist to pull you away from her cunt. you clamber to your feet, nipples still exposed and achingly hard as your tits bounce with movement. vi pulls you in for another messy kiss, the wet sounds of your lips moving together only adding to your arousal. you’re so turned on you can hardly breathe, your slickness soaking through the flimsy fabric of your panties. vi moves you backwards to the bed, giving you a quiet command to lie back before she reaches down to yank her shirt off.

she’s on you before you can process what she’s doing. dropping to her knees at the foot of the bed, she pulls you to the edge of the mattress, wasting no time before her hands are greedily squeezing the soft, warm flesh of your thighs. she works her hands higher until she can grip the hem of your panties, working them off quickly. “ruined,” she comments, referring to the soiled fabric as it sticks to your cunt, ribbons of your arousal stretching between the underwear and your soaked folds. you can only get out a strangled moan to acknowledge her words, body white-hot with anticipation.

warm puffs of vi’s breath trail along your inner thighs, her mouth utterly sinful when she sucks a few bruises into your sensitive skin. you’ve hardly recovered from the sight of her as you ate her out, but now you have a new image to burn into your memory: vi’s head between your legs, her pupils blown, gaze fixed up at you as she splits your folds with her tongue. sloppy as she is, she’s methodical about this too. her tongue dips into the well of arousal pooled at your entrance, spreading the slickness upwards to your clit. your hips jerk and twitch when her tongue prods against the bundle of nerves, which she clearly doesn’t appreciate - her hands move to slam down on your hips, forcing them back down to the mattress. she keeps her hands there, her fingers splayed over the sliver of your torso exposed beneath your skirt; you look away when you see the silver rings adorning her fingers. one ring in particular, really.

guilty as you should feel, it’s hard to harbor any kind of regret when vi’s eating your cunt so well. she’s attentive to every moan and shiver that passes through you, expertly mapping out your body - finding what you like best. and it’s maddening, how quickly she works you to the precipice of your orgasm. you’re teetering on the edge within a few short minutes, panting and gasping, fighting every urge to roll your hips down and grind against her face.

“oh my god,” you blurt, “vi, i’m - i’m gonna–”

you interrupt yourself with a sharp whine, going damn near cross-eyed when vi slips a slender finger into your pulsing heat. you’d imagined her fingering you like this a hundred times before, but none of your fantasies could prepare you for the way a single finger splits you apart, her index finger slipping in right after, both digits scissoring carefully in the warm wetness of your cunt. if you were close before, you’re now a babbling mess, slipping into the ecstasy of your orgasm with a strangled moan and an arched back. vi licks you through every wave of pleasure, her fingers stilling inside you while you spasm around her. she hums in approval when you finally come down from your orgasm, spent and struggling to catch your breath.

“you’re so fucking messy,” vi says with a smirk, dragging her fingers through your folds and holding them up for you to see. wetness shines on her fingers, your creamy spend still pooled around the dips of her rings. “you always this sloppy, baby? or is it just for me?”

you chew at your lip. “it’s just… just for you.”

she flashes you a wicked grin, gives your swollen clit one last kiss, then rises to stand over you at the foot of the bed. you reach out for her, suddenly cold, yearning for the warmth of her bare skin against yours. but she doesn’t notice the gesture, instead turning to search the floor for her forgotten tee and jeans.

“sorry i can’t stay,” she says casually, tugging her jeans on after finding them in a crumpled pile. “my wife will be home soon, so.”

her wife.

you’d been so wrapped up in your own ecstasy that you’d let yourself fantasize about her staying the night - crawling into bed with you and cuddling after sex, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

if your disappointment shows, vi doesn’t say anything.

“i’ll see you around, sweetheart,” she says. her eyes shift to your still-spread legs, cunt soaked in her spit and your own cum.

“okay,” you respond, voice hollow. your head has started to throb - tonight’s drinks are catching up to you. you watch as vi tugs her shirt back over her head, then turns to the mirror beside her bed to fix her tousled red locks. she gives you one last smug smile as she backs out of the doorway to your bedroom, one hand lifting to wave goodbye. you hear her shuffle through the house, stepping back into her boots. the front door slams shut a moment later, the silence of your bedroom somehow deafening.

in the quiet solitude of your bedroom, you pull the covers over your naked body and force yourself to sleep. and maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll wake up tomorrow to find that this was all a drunken dream.

[shownohajimarida]

In the Beginning...

In the beginning, God made phantoms and thieves.

If you're reading this in English, there's a 90% chance you first learned the word Kaitou from Kaito himself—and only slowly come to realize just how many corners of Japanese pop-culture it's really bled into, from Tezuka to Tuxedo Mask to Princess Peach. There's thieves, there's thieves with style, and then there's phantom thieves. A law unto themselves in their own worlds and ours, a breed of gentlemen who can magically stay gentlemen while doing the most ungentlemanly things known to society.

You'd need a book—probably a whole shelf—to properly explore all the ancestors of this proud archetype, never mind all the twists and turns it's taken in modern times. But we're a bunch of poors in money and time, so let's settle for just one tonight.

Fun fact, there's a doctor in Japan who runs a full-time clinic, lectures for one of the top med schools, and still finds room to blog about his fifty-odd niche interests. With him lighting the way, we tracked down this: the oldest book Japan's National Library has ever picked the word Kaitou out of.

Not a gentleman sort of book, you'd assume—and be absolutely right. Dated 1908 (just a little after Leblanc's Lupin, just a little before his first Japanese translation), Eishirō Suzuki's Strange Worlds is a loud, proud freakshow, trotting out ghost story after tall tale after Believe-It-Or-Not article about some wackos in America marrying in a lion cage. Our story of interest comes about halfway in: six pages and change, unmistakably headed 怪盗.

What lies within? A tragically forgotten ancestor to this great and greatly profitable archetype? Or a dead-end that happens to share the name and damn little else? Or, despite all odds, a combination of both?

Why don't you see for yourself?

Pull up a seat, grab a drink, and enjoy our exhaustive translation of history's first...

Phantom Thief

In the days of Jōkyō,¹ near Shitaya's Ikenohata-town, a pawn-shop called Yamaguchi Place² stood rich beyond imagining. Its master, with eleven vaults to his name, was a long and proud worshiper at the Benzaiten³ shrine on Shinobazu Pond. Now, it happened that this man heard the Shogun’s offices had recently surveyed the pond for land-filling, and grew troubled.

One evening, having closed early and settling the day's accounts, the boy tending the shop heard a tap at the front door, and opened to look. Lo and behold—there was a magnificent palanquin, inlaid four-square with silver, bound on every side by tens of fine, sentinel-eyed Samurai. Shocked, the boy ran to his master telling all. The master, no less shocked, came out with warm greetings, asking the company into his home.

Then from the palanquin emerged a most exquisite woman, so noble and divine of bearing that she might have been taken for a celestial maiden, with face sweeter than any peach or plum, and dress of the richest twill brocade. With hardly a sound this beauty sat, drew open her vermilion lips, and bade all listen—

“To begin, my being is not of flesh, but an envoy of Her Lady Benzaiten, in whom thou hast believed all thy life. The Shogun's men mean to bury Shinobazu Pond, and Her Ladyship suffers no small distress hearing this, for Her own power may well draw sanctuary from any ladle's-worth of water, but Her kith and kin—some hundreds upon thousands of scales—must wilt and suffer without mires to call home. “Deep ran Benzaiten's pity, and with it a divine will to bring salvation of some, of any kind. Mercifully, thy garden declares a most generous pond, and in behalf of those kith and kin I call upon thee to guarantee it as their new sanctum. If thy faith in Benzaiten be strong and true, take not these words in vain. Know only that Her Ladyship wills a night of storm and squall, fast approaching, to lay Her kin. Come that day, thou shouldst make fast the doors of thy home, withdraw to thine own room, and put no eye at door-slit, nor foot outside to enquire. Heed this, and Benzaiten will grow thy riches ten-fold in reward. Such is my message, in sum.”

Hearing this, the man grew ecstatic—rapturous, even. He spared nothing treating his guest, servants and all, to the very end of their departure.

In less than a fortnight came a dawn with greying skies, and by afternoon rain was falling, the wind slowly rising. On this day the man chose to fast, thinking it the day Benzaiten would descend, and so admonished his family and cohorts, warning them to keep the doors firmly shut and let no-one out after dark.

As the night crept toward second-watch,⁴ the wind grew wilder and wilder, until all the trees and bamboo in the garden could be heard thrashing, and all the water in the pond roiling. Now every breath was held, every head bowed, every heart thundering, thinking it time for She to come. Gradually the rain stopped and the wind ebbed, and the master, unable to wait for dawn, immediately threw open the door, eyes cast on the garden and its pond. There, he saw fish darting—more than the prior day—and thought, Benzaiten, your fellows are sown. Then, thinking of the promised reward, he rushed to check his stores. But as he swept up and down the row of vaults behind his shop, what did he find? Every lock undone, and every door open! Now uneasy, he entered, and found nothing left! Not the pawn-goods, nor the furniture, nor the thousand-ryō boxes. Floor to ceiling, everything was nigh-bare. He stood alone, dumbfounded and gaping.

Now, it happened that a shrine sat in the mountains on Kōshū-Kaidō Road, and before this shrine came men in packs, reeking of banditry, laying down their fresh and ill-gotten gains, eager for a proper portioning.

Onto this the shrine opened its doors, and who should be shocked to see the bandits' chief! No older than twenty-eight years she stood, with beauty to shame the sky and stars. A beauty that laughed aloud and said—

“My, what lovely work, boys!”

It was this very enchantress who had gulled the shop-master by claiming to be a goddess's envoy—and then, catching the slightest storm, sent all these men to his shop in dead of night. Some had hitched ropes to trees and bamboo all around his garden, and whipped them to bluff the sounds of a roaring wind, while others had beaten at the pond to affect waves. Under such clamor they had cunningly hidden any sounds of vault doors opening, of wares being moved.

A most unusual—most phantasmic—thief, no?

—Eishirō Suzuki, Strange Worlds: Tall Tales and Oddities (1908).

¹ Approx. 1684–1688 CE. ² No relation to Kappei. That we know of. ³ Wealth goddess strongly associated with rivers and lakes. One of Japan's Seven Lucky Gods. ⁴ Approx. 9—11pm. Adapted from Old China's gēng-diǎn system, each "watch" marking one-fifth of the time between sunset and dawn.

[flufftober]

🍀🍂 Hello and welcome to Flufftober's (first) Fluff Bingo 🍀🍂

In our poll, nearly 50% of you voted for a handful of bingo cards to fill the other half of the year with more fluff before we jump right back into the excitement that is Flufftober - and of course, we're here to deliver 😊

Find all the important info, more cards, and all the prompts in writing below the cut.

We hope you like this event and our prompts, and now

Happy Creating 🥳

🍀 Pick your card - we offer:

🍂 one card with 5x5 prompts (as seen at the top)

🍂 two cards with 3x3 prompts:

🍂 three themed cards with 1x5 prompts:

🍂 and as a bonus, a 3x3 card with tasks instead of prompts:

🍀 How does this work?

🍂 our standard blog rules apply and you'll find answers to most questions on our FAQ post

🍂 aside from that, you can go wild: fill these cards however you like, as quick or as slow as you like, as often as you like, and use as many of them as you like. We just want you to have fun 😊

🍂 if there are prompts on the bigger cards you don't like, feel free to use the 1x5 cards as alternate prompts and switch them out

🍂 download the cards and tick them off once you've finished a square; make a post for every square or only once you have a bingo or even a blackout - it's all up to you!

🍂 as with all our events, this one will never close, you can always use these cards. If you need a timeframe/deadline because (like me) you'll never finish otherwise, consider these loose goals:

finish until July 1st when we release the new Flufftober list

finish during October, maybe by combining some of these with the Flufftober prompts

finish until the end of the year so you're ready for whatever event we plan for next spring

🍀 What about tumblr reblogs and ao3?

🍂 tumblr reblogs will still happen but not daily as you're used to during Flufftober. It will strongly depend on how many posts there happen to be at a time and how the modmin team will have time. But as long as you mention us and/or use the tag (and follow the rules, obviously), reblogs will happen

🍂 please use the tag #fluffbingo

🍂 feel free to also add the general #flufftober tag

🍂 please make sure to clearly show the fandom, either in the first few tags or noticeably in the post

🍂 contrary to how we do it during Flufftober, we will only use four tags during reblogs this time: #fluffbingo #fluffreblog #[fandom] #[your user name] - that means we will not tag any ships, characters, or which prompt you're covering

🍂 on ao3, our collection for this event is Flufftober Fluff Bingo

Prompts

We're going left to right, top to bottom!

🍂 5x5 card

Fresh Start

To-Do List

Craft Fair

Creature AU

“This was a bad idea.”

Exploring Together

Plushie

Secret Signal

“You’ll love it.”

Late Night

Hidden (...)

“It’s just so much.”

Free Space

Fake Dating

Carnival

“You’re the best!”

Royal AU

Missing the Other

Never ever, ever

Rainbow

Hanahaki

Pep Talk

“I really mean it.”

Hoodie

Movie AU

🍂 3x3 card I

“Where do I start?”

Famous AU

Traveling the World Together

Enjoying a Lazy Day

Task: Write in a tense you usually don’t write/write less than another tense

“You said you had it handled!” - “Yeah, well, I lied.”

Birthday

“Hey, wait, that’s mine.”

Direction

🍂 3x3 card II

“You’re late!”

Hospital AU

Grocery Shopping Together

Going for a Walk

Task: Write from a POV you usually don’t write/write less than another POV

“Could you not do that, please?” - “Spoilsport.”

Sunshine

“I don’t know, you decide.”

Concert

🍂 1x5 card - Smiles

Secret Smile

Relieved Smile

Honest Smile

Devious Smile

Teary Smile

🍂 1x5 card - Hugs

Soothing Hug

Hug in Celebration

Sleepy Hug

Hug from behind

Desperate Hug

🍂 1x5 card - Kisses

Kiss on the Hand

Kiss to distract

Goodbye Kiss

Forhead Kiss

Kiss on the Cheek

🍂 3x3 card - Tasks

Finish your WIP

Sort all your Ideas and/or WIPs

Edit an entire Chapter or Oneshot

Outline a Story

Work on that hard Scene that is giving you so much trouble it is holding you back

Finish the next Chapter of your WIP

Join in a Writing Event (this card doesn’t count 😉 but the others do!)

Finish a Oneshot

Dig out an old Draft and work on it

Have Fun and Go Wild 🥳

[eddieslunchbox]

sweet child of mine

summary: it's 1988 and eddie takes you to a guns n' roses concert to see your favourite song live

18+ [boyfriend!eddie x female!reader]

contains: a lot of fluff, a lot of love, kissing, brief mention of alcohol, swearing, eddie takes care of you

word count: 4.7k

a/n: extremely cheesy concert vibes since eddie never got the chance to love guns n' roses. and as will always stand, my characters are adults and no longer in high school! please reblog/comment if you enjoy my writing, any feedback is extremely appreciated ❤

Spending half his paycheck to snag tickets for a band he heard play on the radio twice was never something Eddie thought he’d do. 

At least not until you burst into his trailer one day with an Appetite for Destruction cassette tape in your hand, demanding that he let you use his boombox so you could play him the band your friend had just introduced you to that morning. The two of you then spent the night listening to the entire album. 

Well… what he thought would’ve been the entire album. 

When track 9 came on for the first time, he saw the ways your eyes lit up at the rich and memorable guitar riff combined with the first few words that rolled off of the tongue of Axl Rose through the speakers of his cassette player. 

She’s got a smile that it seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories

When everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Every time the song ended, you reached over and rewinded the tape to the beginning of the track, leaving Eddie having the lyrics memorized within half an hour, miming the guitar riff with his hands as the two of you laid on the floor in his bedroom. 

Sweet Child of Mine quickly became your favourite song, Eddie throwing it on whenever you were in the passenger seat of his van just to see the joy on your face. He later sat you down in his room and played the entire song he learned for you on his guitar. You then proceeded to climb into his lap and kiss him until his face was red, mumbling against his lips that you loved him, which just happened to be the very first time you told him that. 

So when Wayne mentioned to him that Guns N’ Roses were headlining a show in Indianapolis, he called in sick to work and drove down to the arena at the crack of dawn, standing in line for four hours to get a pair of tickets. 

It was worth every second though, when he picked you up from work that afternoon, leaning against the side of his van with tickets in hand.

You slipped them out from between his fingers, a smile pulling at your lips. 

“What’s this?” You asked, tilting your chin down to read what was printed on the cardstock before you looked back up at him with wide eyes. “Eddie- are you serious?” 

“As a heart attack, sweetheart,” he murmured and was practically body slammed into his van when you lunged into his arms with an excited squeal, squeezing all of the air from his lungs. 

He could still feel the tight hold you had on him that day if he closed his eyes and thought about it hard enough. 

You were even more excited when he said it would just be the two of you, as his bandmates briefly mentioned wanting to see them if they ever came to the city. Eddie never had the privilege of taking you to a concert before and was taking advantage of it, eager to have you pressed against his side the entire evening listening to your new but now shared, favourite band.

The drive to the venue was filled with your eager ramblings about how much you were looking forward to the evening, and Eddie was already over the moon at your delight. 

He had been to Market Square Arena once before when he saw Iron Maiden a few years back, but was in the nosebleeds with the only tickets his uncle could afford. This time though, you were on the floor, much to your surprise when you got scanned in with a bright yellow wristband being handed to you.

Eddie guides you onto the arena’s floor, hand tucked tightly in yours. There were no seats, the entire floor acting as one big mosh pit he’s sure would form sometime throughout the night. Hoards of people already crowding at the barricade, packed in like sardines despite the amount of empty space lingering behind them. 

He glances down at you to ask if you want to be closer to the front, but your eyes are wide as they scan over the crowd filled with loud, burly men with cups of beer in their hand, uncaring when the liquid splashes over the rim and onto the sticky floor. Younger people are scattered amongst the crowd as well but Eddie knows that doesn’t matter when you unintentionally falter in your step beside him. 

Wordlessly, he leads you towards the side of the room where the crowd is sparser and he can lean against the wall separating the crowd from the endless rows of seats slowly being filled behind him.

“Is this alright?” He asks, pulling you to face him as he rests his lower back against the lip of the wall. 

You nod. “You didn’t tell me we were on the floor!” You exclaim, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he smiles, holding your hand to his chest and dipping his chin down to kiss your knuckles. 

“You saw the tickets,” he teases and you roll your eyes, glancing towards the stage. “Do you want to go and grab any merch before the show starts?” 

There was a little less than an hour left before the band took stage and you’d already stopped on your way in to grab a bottle of water that Eddie insisted you have, wanting to ensure you stay hydrated throughout the night. 

“I don’t want anything,” you say and he lifts his brow at you, tugging on your hand and focusing your attention back on him. 

“I call bullshit.” 

“I don’t!” You insist, not wanting him to spend more money on you than he already has. You know that he will insist he pays for whatever you might want, but having him here with you is more than enough. “We’re already here anyways, I don’t want to fight through the crowds.” 

He saw you eyeing a t-shirt on your way into the arena and has no doubt that you’ll be changing your mind later, hopefully before everything is sold out. He would run and grab you whatever you wanted but he doesn’t trust a single person around you, other than the minimal security guards stationed in different parts of the pit. 

“You know I’ll buy you whatever you want, darling,” he says with a squeeze to your hand and you smile at the fact that you were right.

“I know you will, Eds. But I don’t want anything. Unless you do?” 

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, curls brushing the leather jacket he hardly ever takes off. And as per his request, you’re adorned in one of his denim jackets, the fabric soft with wear and draping over you with the subtle scent of him left behind.

There really is nothing he loves more than seeing you in his clothes, other than you of course, and when you lean forward to curl your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, he feels his heart beat a little faster at the reminder that you chose him out of everyone you could’ve had. He feels like the luckiest person on planet earth, with you in his arms. 

You’re relaxed in his hold, surrounded by the earthy smell of his leather jacket combined with the velvety musk of his favourite cologne. Your eyes fall shut for a few breaths and Eddie’s chin comes down to rest on the top of your head, one of his palms splaying over your back with the other dragging softly down the side of your thigh. 

The touch is innocent but when you hear a sudden wolf-whistle from somewhere behind you, your eyes flutter open to see a man watching the interaction with a sleazy grin on his face that makes you grimace. You pull back in time to watch Eddie lift his middle finger in the air, muttering “dickhead” under his breath as the man ignores him in favour of dragging his eyes down your figure before turning back to converse with someone standing next to him. 

You’re dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans with Eddie’s oversized jacket hanging down to your thighs, but you briefly feel as though you’re wearing nothing as you pull your arms out from around him and move to stand at his side instead, partially hidden from the crowd. 

Eddie wastes no time in curling his arm around your shoulders to keep you pressed into his side as he looks down at you. “Don’t even think about him. He’s a piece of shit, yeah?” 

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest as you eye the man’s back. “More like a heaping pile of shit,” you mutter and Eddie laughs, tilting his head down to press his lips to the side of your head. 

“That’s my girl,” he mumbles and your chest warms with his praise, no matter that it was at the degradation of another. 

You spend the next little while talking about whatever is on your mind and you eventually park yourself back in front of him, uncaring of the man from before now that a hundred more people have filled in the room behind him.

Eddie keeps one hand on you at all times, hooking a finger around one of your belt loops when you drift a little further away from him while you’re talking or dancing to the music filtering through the speakers around the room. He listens intently to everything you say but his eyes follow every man that walks past the two of you, particularly the ones that keep their gaze on you for a beat too long. 

Those are the moments when he pulls you back into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and lacing his fingers together at your lower back. You don’t know why he keeps doing it but you can’t complain when he looks down at you with so much love in his eyes you feel like you could burst. 

The crowd starts to get a little rowdy the closer it gets to showtime as there was no supporting act, and the next time he wraps his arms around you, he doesn’t let go. Your hands fiddle with the zipper on his jacket and his hands eventually fall to slide into the back pockets of your jeans, making your lips curl up into a smile as you speak. 

“Do you think we can stop for food on the way home?” You ask and he lets out a quiet laugh.

“You’re already thinking about that?” He teases since you both ate your dinner on the drive to the city, evidenced in the paper bags littered on the floor of his van. “Of course we’ll stop somewhere. Wherever you want.” 

“What a gentleman,” you quietly swoon and he smirks, enjoying the way you wrap your fingers around the ends of his hair, tugging softly on his scalp. 

You part your lips to speak again but get cut off when someone yells something from the back of the room, your gaze flitting up towards the seats. You turn your head and squint slightly when a familiar voice yells again, clearer the second time. 

“Eddie!” 

There’s a small group of boys waving their arms above their head in the first row of balcony seating, trying desperately to get the attention of the boy wrapped around you. It’s hard to tell, but you think you recognize Gareth and a few of his other friends. Dustin is standing at the end of the row, clearly the one yelling. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters under his breath and you glance back at him with a giggle as he lifts his hand up in a brief wave, so as not to draw any more attention to the two of you. “Even when we’re alone, they’re still just… lingering in the shadows.” 

The tiny smile curling at his lips tells you that he isn’t as annoyed as he’s making himself out to be and you look back up at the stands to see Dustin beaming at the fact that he was able to spot Eddie before the show. 

“I think it’s sweet,” you say as he promptly tucks his fingers back into your pocket and turns his back to the boys who were briefly spying on him. “You know how much that boy looks up to you.” 

You glance up over his shoulder and wave to Dustin to hopefully satisfy him enough to keep his lingering eyes on the stage for the entire evening. 

“Now this is going to be all he talks about for the next week,” he says and you smile with the shake of your head, bringing your hand to rest on his cheek. 

“Don’t be so grouchy about it, baby,” you say, your thumb tracing across his bottom lip when he juts it out in an exaggerated pout before pressing a kiss to your thumbprint. “You don’t always have to be so mean and scary when they’re around.” 

Your comment isn’t malicious and you’re grateful he doesn’t take it that way when he gasps and pulls your thumb between his teeth. You tug your hand away from his mouth and rest it on his chest as his brows pull together. 

“I’m not always mean and scary,” he mumbles and you purse your lips, giving him a sarcastic nod. “Just… sometimes. When they deserve it. Never with you, though,” he defends as your hand slides down his chest to sit against his waist, goosebumps rising up on his arms. 

You can’t help but smile at his comment, leaning into him with your eyes never leaving his. “Never with me. You buy me concert tickets and tell me I’m pretty and kiss me-” 

He squeezes your bum through your jeans and you let out a laugh as your forehead presses into his chest. “Damn right I do,” he mumbles.

You pull back to say something else but all of the lights suddenly cut out and your eyes widen as the entire arena erupts into ear piercing screams. 

“You ready?” Eddie leans down to ask in your ear and you nod, an eager smile tugging at your lips as you spin around in time for the opening chords of You’re Crazy to bounce around the room. 

It takes an hour and the band trailing into their second encore for them to play Sweet Child of Mine, making the crowd go wild.

You feel Eddie curl his arm around your shoulder, pressing softly into your chest to hold you against him. There’s a bright smile on your face when you turn to look up at him, his face illuminated every few seconds by the spotlight that passes over the crowd and the colourful lighting streaming into the audience from the stage. 

His lips pull upward in a lopsided grin as you beam up at him, his chest filling with warmth when you press a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t let you get far, lifting his hand to your jaw, keeping your head turned and capturing your lips completely. 

He kisses you until your head is spinning and you pull away with a quiet gasp to catch your breath, poorly attempting to hide the coy smile that frames your face. When he nudges you back to watch the band sing out your favourite song, his cheek comes to rest on the side of your head and you can just barely hear his voice floating into your ear, singing the words that make your heart swell in your chest. 

You’ve never been as happy as you are at this moment. 

His breath fans softly over your cheek, the vibration of his vocal chords buzzing across your skin when he dips down and his lips brush over your ear. The feeling sends tingles down your spine, threatening to beat out the heavy bass line that’s shaking the floor and sending vibrations up your legs. 

You close your eyes as he sways you to the music, your hands clutching tightly around his where it’s resting against your stomach, his rings icy against your hot and sweaty palms. You’re overwhelmed with joy and the amount of love you feel for the boy curled around you and you open your eyes when he says something that you can’t hear over the song. 

Before you can look up at him, your eyes widen as he drops his arm from around your shoulder and uses your tangled hands to spin you away from him. A squeal leaves your lips when he twists and twirls you back into his chest, your head tipping back as a loud laugh spills out of your lungs. 

Eddie’s eyes are filled with complete adoration as you stumble into him, pressing your hands against his chest and biting your lip to hide your giggles. His hands grab your wrists and tug your arms to wrap around his neck, your chest pressing into his and his foot sliding between yours. 

He can’t find anything to complain about when you immediately stand on your toes to kiss him for a second time, sliding one of your hands into the back of his hair and curling your fingers around the strands. He has little care in the world for who might be watching the interaction, but is still a little surprised at your not-so-subtle display of affection, especially after someone whistled at the two of you earlier in the night. 

You kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, tasting the lingering flavour of nicotine on his tongue, enjoying the way his bangs brush against your forehead and how he drags his hands down to squeeze the flesh of your bum over your jeans. His grip tightens when you moan into his lips and press your hips into his, letting yourself get lost in the moment as the song plays out like the perfect soundtrack to your love.

His lips are slightly chapped as they move over yours and you’re reluctant to pull back even when your lungs squeeze in your chest and he starts to smile against you. 

Eddie is the one to pull away when you accidentally let a heavy breath escape from your lungs, and he knocks his forehead into yours, shutting his eyes as he catches his own breath. 

You can’t really see him in the dark until he pulls away and catches the soft smile on your face as you sink back down onto your heels and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his chest. He smooths his hands over your back, sitting his chin on the top of your head and hugging you tightly as you listen to the crowd scream along to the lyrics that the band leans into, Axl peeling his microphone from the stand and pointing it towards the audience. 

When the song eventually trails off into its inevitable close, you don’t move from your spot around Eddie, spending the rest of the encore cuddled against him and quietly singing along to the last one you know, sandwiched between two covers. 

Eddie knows that your adrenaline and excitement is worn out when you turn your head up to meet his gaze, lip jutting into a small pout as soon as Guns N’ Roses announce their final song for the night. 

Already dreading the amount of traffic he’ll have to fight through to get the two of you home, he leads you towards the exit but stays for the remainder of the song so that you don’t miss a single word. After a couple of minutes, you glance up at him and nod towards the hallway behind you, content to leave even despite the music still blasting through the room. 

He steers you out of the arena before the major crowds of people could clobber you from the floor and the sudden shift in volume when you make your way further away from the music leaves you feeling a little like you’re in a dream as a wave of exhaustion hits you. 

It’s still busy in the winding hallway of the arena and Eddie nudges you in front of him, keeping his hands secured around your shoulders to guide you through the crowd, practically beelining towards the front door. 

He almost knocks you right onto the floor when you stop abruptly in your tracks near the stand of merchandise. 

“I want a shirt.” 

You turn to look at him and he glances at the slowly growing line of people and the piles of shirts getting sparse, sighing through his nose. He knows he shouldn’t have listened to you when you insisted that you wanted nothing, but he can’t be mad at the hopeful look in your tired eyes.

“Really?” He asks and you nod. 

He flickers his gaze up to a small group of teenagers standing in the line, huddled in a circle and paying no mind to their surroundings. As soon as the man in front of the group steps ahead in line, Eddie pushes you forward to slide discreetly in front of the teenagers, making you gasp at the sudden movement. 

“Eddie-”

“Shh, s’fine,” he mumbles, not bothering to glance at the group behind him, still chattering away in blissful ignorance. “We’d be here all night and leave with nothing otherwise.” 

You curl around him again, resting your chin on his chest as you look up at him.

“Tired?” He asks, bringing his hand up to your cheek and brushing your hair back when you nod.

“My hearing is all fuzzy.” 

Eddie slides both of his hands to the sides of your head, brushing his thumbs over your ears. “Should’ve let me bring those earplugs I offered,” he says but you shake your head, brows dipping together. 

“I wouldn’t have worn them.” 

He smiles, smoothing his thumb over the wrinkle in your brow. “If I take you to any more concerts, you’re wearing them, darling.” 

You grumble something under your breath that makes him laugh and you rest your cheek back on his chest, letting him shuffle you backward every time the line inches forward at a snail’s pace. 

The shirt you want isn’t sold out by the time you reach the table and Eddie buys you one, getting himself one to match. Before you can leave the building, you stop in a quiet corner to peel off your jacket and throw on the t-shirt over the one you’re already wearing. 

“Happy?” He asks when you look down at the Guns N’ Roses logo covering your chest and you nod. 

“Yes. Thank you, Eds,” you beam, hugging him tightly before he pulls away to drape his denim jacket back over your shoulders, the fabric draping down past your hands. 

“You’re welcome. Need anything else before we leave?” He checks as he swiftly does up the buttons of his jacket to keep you warm, but he’s thankful when you shake your head and take the hand he holds out for you. 

He glances at his watch to see it’s a little past 11:30pm and he silently wishes that he would’ve caved and got a hotel in the city for the night. 

“Can we go home now?” You ask when you finally walk out of the building and the brisk night air prickles at your face. 

“Yeah, baby, we’re going home,” he says, weaving through the parking lot to where his van is parked. 

He helps you into the van with his hands on your hips before getting into the driver's seat and cranking the heat, tugging his seatbelt over his chest. 

“That was so much fun,” you say through a happy sigh when he pulls out of the parking space to get into the line of cars waiting to get out of the lot. 

“Yeah?” He glances at you and you nod, tucking your hands between your thighs. “What was your favourite part?” 

“Being with you, I think,” you reply, voice quiet as you turn to look out the window. 

Eddie feels his cheeks flush as he pulls his lips to the side to hide the smile that threatens to form on his face, his hand coming down to rest on your thigh with a tiny squeeze. 

You stay awake long enough for Eddie to buy you McDonalds, and happily munch on the fries in your hand, feeding him a few every couple of minutes until the carton is empty. You keep quiet conversation when he finally gets onto the highway, an hour long drive back to Hawkins ahead of him, but it only takes about twenty minutes for your words to trail off into one-word replies as the rumble of his tires against the asphalt threatens to lull you to sleep. 

It’s only when you haven’t said a word in ten minutes that he looks over to see you fast asleep, his jacket now acting as a cushion between your head and the door after you pulled it off to drape over the front of you like a blanket. 

He opts to keep the radio off for the remainder of the drive, finishing off your Coke to keep him awake. 

When he finally pulls into the trailer park, he winces and slows down the van as the gravel road crunches loudly under his tires until he pulls up onto the grass in front of his trailer. The light is on inside and he knows that Wayne is still up, despite Eddie’s insistence that he don’t wait up for them. 

You’re still asleep when he rounds the front of the van to pull your door open, unclicking your seatbelt and setting the crumpled ball of his jacket in your lap. Not wanting to wake you just to get you inside, he curls his arms around your back and under your legs and lifts you off the seat, slamming the door shut with his elbow. 

Your head lulls to rest on his shoulder, a deadweight in his arms as he makes his way towards the front door which opens before he can walk up the steps, Wayne appearing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt. 

“Didn’t have to wait up,” Eddie says as he climbs the steps and Wayne rolls his eyes, holding the door open as he carries you inside. 

“And how do you propose you would’ve gotten the door unlocked?” 

Eddie mumbles something inaudible under his breath as he kicks off his shoes. 

“How was the show?” Wayne offers as he locks up behind the two of you. 

“Fucking amazing,” he replies quietly. “I had the time of my life.” He glances down at your sleeping figure before briefly flicking his eyes up to his uncle. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow… Night, Uncle Wayne.” 

“Goodnight,” Wayne says with a tiny smile as Eddie spins on his heel to carry you into his bedroom.

You finally stir when Eddie is tugging your jeans down your legs to change you into something more comfortable and he glances up at you when you let out a quiet groan. 

“Eddie?” 

He smiles, leaning over you with his hands pressing into the bed as he presses a kiss to your cheekbone. “We’re home, sweets. I’m just getting y’out of your jeans.” 

“Okay,” you mumble, mostly still asleep and not helping at all as he pulls the band shirt over your head, keeping you in the one you wore to the show. 

You do eventually move so that he can get you under the covers and you peel your eyes open, squinting in the light as he gets himself ready for bed, tugging his shirt over his head and shoving his jeans to the floor to deal with tomorrow. 

“Hey, Eds?” You murmur from your spot in his bed and he turns to you, raising an eyebrow as he slides his rings from his fingers to drop onto his nightstand. “Thank you for taking me tonight. It was the best night of my life.” 

He smirks, softly shaking his head as he flicks off the light before climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his chest. 

“I’m glad that you had such a good time. Tell me all about it in the morning, yeah?” 

You nod with a hum, burying your face into his chest. “Love you lots, Eddie.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

[jinusajas]

08/03/24; 09:45pm

sung jinwoo x fem.reader

{ 18+ thirst post - oneshot; p-rn with no plot ]

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

when you said that you had every intention of riding sung jinwoo for the sole purpose of milking him for all he was worth-

you meant it.

the squelching sounds of your lovemaking were all that can be heard across the room. and the sheets that cling to your bed had long since been ruined, with the bed creaking in tune to your eager bounces as you came down over and over again on jinwoo’s massive cock.

“hah…”

pants were heard coming from your parted lips as jinwoo worked on bouncing you up and down his dick while meeting your thrusts by angling his hips upwards. “fuck, that’s it…” your name comes out as broken syllables, with his grunts mixing in with your whines as you kept riding him with a reckless abandon.

feeling you lose all of your senses, you brace yourself against his chest, gasping before quickening your pace, making the hunter cry out from beneath you.

“oh, FUCK!”

just the mere sight of you taking him so eagerly was almost too much for jinwoo to bear, and he knows it won't be long before he reaches another explosive climax. for now, he simply relishes in the incredible sensation of being filled and used by you-

the woman he loves.

you hear the way he loudly curses in response to you riding him, letting out a breathless giggle before deciding to tease him a bit, “you like the feeling of my pussy wrapped around you like this? so wet and ready for you?”

jinwoo lets out a deep, guttural moan as your words hit him square in the groin. your sultry tone combined with the slick sounds of your bodies colliding had him on edge, craving more of your sweet heat. “oh god... yes," he groans, thrusting upwards to meet her downward strokes. “your pussy is so perfect for my cock- so tight and warm.”

his hands move from your hips to cup at your breasts, squeezing them gently as he continues watching you bounce on him. each movement sends waves of pleasure rippling through him, making him wonder if he'll ever get enough of this intoxicating entanglement. his grey eyes, now eclipsed with pure and utter desire for you lands on the movements of your bouncing breasts, making him let out a groan when he leans upwards to place your hardened nipples into his mouth. he shamelessly curls his tongue around your bud, sucking like a man starved as he could feel your hands suddenly gripping at his hair in response.

your back immediately arches, your movements growing more and more erratic when you tell him, “this feels so fucking good…! i-i am going to give you a-a million babies…! FUCK!”

upon hearing your declaration, jinwoo stops sucking at your breasts with an audible pop! eyes nearly rolling back in his head from the sheer intensity of pleasure coursing through him. the thought of filling your womb with countless offspring, each and every one of them bearing a piece of his essence, was almost too much to take in.

“a million...?" he repeats breathlessly, laying back to get a better glimpse of you still bouncing up and down his cock. with a grunt, he lifts up a hand to harshly grip on your breasts, feeling your walls tightening oh so sweetly around him as he struggles to maintain control. “f-fuck, my love... that's... that's insane..."

but even as he speaks, he can feel his resolve crumbling, his body responding instinctively to your provocative words. he gives you a few moments of freedom before letting out a primal growl, making you gasp when he flips you over onto your back against the mattress, pinning you beneath him as he drives into your aching cunt with a renewed vigor.

your eyes roll to the back of your head, with jinwoo pistoning his hips wildly in and out of you, feeling your walls clenching around him as he let out a roar of your name in response.

jinwoo’s vision blurs as your scorching heat engulfs him once more, your slick walls clenching around his throbbing length. the sensation of your juices coating every inch of his cock is almost overwhelming, sending jolts of red hot pleasure straight to his core.

"shit...!" he cries out, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm as he loses himself in the intense friction. “you cunt is... fuck…! it's milking my dick!"

with each powerful thrust, he can feel his orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter until it threatens to consume him whole. but he refuses to let go, determined to prolong this blissful torment for as long as possible-

all for your sake alone-

by now, you were a sobbing mess. your mind going blank as you could only feel the way jinwoo’s thrusts his cock in and out of you at a breakneck pace. you claw at the sheets while begging him, “please please please let me milk you dry! spill yourself into me…!”

jinwoo's eyes snap open at your desperate plea, locking onto your hazy gaze with an intensity that steals his breath away. in that moment, he realizes just how much power you held over him-

the ability to reduce him to a mere, quivering mess with nothing more than just a few choice words.

"yes... fuck yes!" he roars, slamming into you with abandon as his climax barrels towards him like a freight train, making the bed violently creak in response to his movements, “take it all... every last drop!"

with a final, shuddering thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside you, his cock pulsating violently as he unleashes a torrent of hot seed directly into your waiting womb.

“OH GOD JINWOO!”

you cried out to him, your moans echoing throughout the room with your back still arched against the bed. “yes yes yes, your sweet fucking seed… i need it, i need it so much…!”

the shadow monarch can barely form coherent thoughts as your ecstatic cries fill his ears, your inner walls spasming around his still throbbing cock. his entire focus is centered on the hedonistic sensation of your sweet pussy clamping down on him, milking him for every last drop.

“that's it... take it all..." he pants heavily, pressing kisses along her neck while he rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm. “let my cum fill you up... make you mine all over again."

despite the overwhelming pleasure coursing through him, he remains conscious enough to ensure that every spurt of his semen lands directly where it needs to-

deep within your womb.

after all, jinwoo was a possessive and jealous man, wanting nothing more than to mark you in ways that no other man could ever even hope to replicate.

after feeling the way his cock continuously twitches inside of your slick heat, the sensation of his cum mixing with your own release pushes him over the edge, and he collapses atop you, completely and utterly spent.

your hearts were still racing coupled along with your bodies being coated in a thin sheen of sweat. the air was filled with the lingering scent of your copulation, yet neither of you seemed to mind. when the post, lovemaking quality kicks in, jinwoo was the first to move, keeping his limp cock still buried inside of you as he rests his head against the palm of his hand.

“that was… incredible. you were incredible.” jinwoo speaks to you in a bit of a breathless tone, eyes gazing at you with a reverence that makes your heart fill with pure love and affection for him. letting out a dreamy sigh of his name, you allow jinwoo to lean down and fully kiss you, basking in the aftershocks of pleasure when you bring him even closer to you.

however, just as you were distracted with his kisses, you were unaware of how his large hand was already making its descent on your hips, making you gasp when you felt him (quite literally) growing from deep inside of you.

“jinwoo- oh my god…” your words become lost to a broken moan now, being subjected to jinwoo’s wolfish grin as he proceeds to ram his hips into you, his erection quickly reappearing and disappearing inside of you, fucking you into your shared bed as he grabs a hold of your leg and tosses it over his shoulder. pressing a kiss against your ankle, you watch as jinwoo’s eyes darken once more when he tells you,

“now, it’s my turn to have some fun. let’s see just how many times i can make you cum before morning begins.”

end notes: i am one thirsty girl…. i need jinwoo…. more than i need air at this point 🫠🫠🫠

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[unfgvien]

telling the the public [Seth rollins]

pairing - Seth rollins x reader

summary - Seth rollins and reader, two wrestlers, kept their romance a secret, but after a passionate match, they revealed their love, sparking a surge in merchandise sales and social media following, making them tag team champions.

word count - 1.3k

The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, pressing against Reader’s skin, vibrating in her bones. The lights beat down, hot and unforgiving, as she and Seth Rollins stood on opposite sides of the ring, trading nervous glances. Tonight was big. Tag team championship big. Facing them? The formidable duo of CM Punk and AJ Lee.

Reader had been wrestling for five years, clawing her way up from the independent circuit to the bright lights of the main stage. She was known for her speed, her agility, and a never-say-die attitude. Seth, well, Seth was Seth Rollins. The Architect. The Visionary. A wrestling prodigy with a ruthless streak and a penchant for high-flying acrobatics. And, secretly, the man Reader was hopelessly in love with.

Their relationship had started innocently enough, a shared love for the sport sparking a friendship that quickly deepened into something more. But the world of professional wrestling was a hyper-analyzed ecosystem, and relationships, especially those between performers, were often scrutinized and manipulated for storylines. They had decided, for the sake of their careers and their sanity, to keep their romance a secret. Stolen kisses in empty hallways, whispered goodnights in hotel rooms, coded messages in social media posts – that was their reality.

The bell rang, the sound slicing through the anticipatory hum of the audience. The match began with Seth and Punk locking horns, a clash of power and experience. The crowd was electric, chanting both their names in a cacophony of sound. Reader watched from the apron, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Finally, Seth tagged her in. Reader exploded into the ring, a whirlwind of energy. She ducked under a clothesline from Punk and unleashed a flurry of kicks, her movements precise and powerful. The crowd erupted, chanting her name.

AJ Lee, ever the strategist, tagged in as Punk retreated to his corner. AJ was a master technician, known for her innovative submissions and her cunning mind. Reader knew she had to be careful.

The two women circled each other, a silent battle of wills playing out between them. AJ lunged, attempting a takedown, but Reader was too quick. She sidestepped the attack and countered with a spinning heel kick that connected squarely with AJ’s jaw. 

The crowd went wild.

Reader pressed her advantage, unleashing a series of rapid-fire attacks. She hit a springboard moonsault, landing perfectly on AJ. But AJ was resilient, kicking out at the last possible second.

The match continued, a rollercoaster of near falls and heart-stopping moments. Seth and Punk traded blows outside the ring, their animosity palpable. Inside, Reader and AJ pushed each other to their limits.

Finally, Reader saw her opportunity. AJ went for a Black Widow submission, but Reader anticipated the move, reversing it into a pinning combination. One… Two… Three!

The bell rang, signaling the end of the match. The crowd exploded, a wave of pure, unadulterated joy washing over Reader. She had done it. They had done it.

Seth leaped into the ring, grabbing Reader in a bear hug. "We did it!" he yelled, his voice hoarse with excitement. Reader laughed, burying her face in his shoulder. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins, making her feel invincible.

The referee handed them the tag team championship belts. Reader took hers, the cold metal a reassuring weight in her hands. She looked out at the crowd, a sea of faces, each one a blur of excitement. They had earned this. They deserved this.

Then, she looked at Seth. His eyes were shining, filled with pride and something else… something that made her heart skip a beat. He grinned, the kind of crooked, boyish grin that always made her weak in the knees.

In that moment, surrounded by the roar of the crowd and the glare of the lights, Reader made a decision. She was tired of hiding. Tired of whispers and stolen glances. Tired of pretending that what they had wasn't real.

She took a deep breath and met Seth's gaze. He seemed to understand, his eyes widening slightly. He knew.

Reader raised her championship belt high above her head, basking in the adulation of the crowd. Then, she lowered it, turned to Seth, and cupped his face in her hands.

And she kissed him.

It wasn't a quick peck or a chaste brush of the lips. It was a real kiss. A passionate kiss. A kiss that spoke of shared dreams, whispered secrets, and a love that had been hidden for far too long.

The crowd went silent. Then, a collective gasp rippled through the arena.

Reader and Seth broke apart, breathless. The silence hung heavy in the air, thick with shock and disbelief.

Then, the silence shattered.

The roar of the crowd returned, louder than ever before. But this time, it wasn't just a roar of excitement. It was a roar of acceptance. A roar of celebration. A roar that seemed to say, "We see you. We support you."

Reader looked out at the faces in the crowd, and she saw something amazing. She saw smiles. She saw tears. She saw signs of support.

Seth took her hand, squeezing it tightly. He looked at her, his eyes filled with love and admiration. “Worth it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the din.

Reader grinned, a genuine, unrestrained smile that reached all the way to her eyes. "Absolutely worth it," she replied.

The reaction backstage was, predictably, chaotic. Vince McMahon, the chairman of WWE, was reportedly furious, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. Other wrestlers were either congratulating them or avoiding them altogether, unsure how to react.

But Reader and Seth didn't care. They stood side-by-side, their hands still intertwined, facing the storm together.

The next few days were a whirlwind of media appearances and social media frenzy. Some fans were outraged, accusing them of tarnishing the sport with their "antics." Others were overwhelmingly supportive, praising their courage and authenticity.

Reader and Seth addressed the controversy head-on, appearing on talk shows and giving interviews. They spoke honestly about their relationship, about the challenges of keeping it a secret, and about their decision to finally be true to themselves.

"We didn't do it for attention," Reader explained in one interview. "We did it because we couldn't hide anymore. We love each other, and we wanted the world to know."

Seth echoed her sentiments. "We know that some people won't understand, and that's okay. But we hope that our story can inspire others to be true to themselves, no matter what."

The fallout from their kiss was significant. Their merchandise sales skyrocketed. Their social media following exploded. And, most importantly, their relationship became a symbol of hope and acceptance for countless fans around the world.

Reader knew that their journey wouldn't be easy. There would be challenges ahead. There would be critics and detractors. But she also knew that she wasn't alone. She had Seth by her side, and together, they could face anything.

Months later, Reader and Seth were still tag team champions, still entertaining crowds around the world. Their relationship was stronger than ever, forged in the fires of adversity and fueled by a love that was finally out in the open.

As Reader stood in the ring, holding Seth's hand and basking in the cheers of the crowd, she knew that she had made the right decision. She had chosen love over fear, authenticity over pretense. And in doing so, she had not only found happiness but had also become a beacon of hope for others.

The roar of the crowd was still a physical thing, pressing against her skin, vibrating in her bones. But this time, it wasn't just a sound. It was a feeling. A feeling of belonging. A feeling of acceptance. A feeling of love.

And as she looked at Seth, his eyes shining with love and pride, Reader knew that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Right here, right now, with the man she loved, in front of the world. Finally, truly, herself.

DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY PUBLISH OR EDIT MY WORKS, I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING PUBLISHED ON ANY 3RD PARTY WEBSITE. © bunbun 2025 - 2027🖇️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[fluffypotatey]

okay so:

the year is 2021. the month is june. the new season of hermitcraft, season 8, has just started, and everything is great! the hermits are all messing around, having fun, building insane things within the first week of the server being active, and generally having a good time. everyone's collected themselves into little factions, pranking each other, and it's all the fun, lighthearted, mostly-vanilla content hermitcraft is known for.

and then the split between minecraft versions 1.18 and 1.19 is announced. the delay of new terrain, and especially of new mobs like the warden, considerably disrupt several of the hermits' plans. but it's fine, they'll figure something out, they're professionals, and it mostly goes unnoticed.

about two weeks later, on november 9th, grian turns to mumbo jumbo in one of his episodes, and asks the famous question that would seal hermitcraft season 8's fate:

"mumbo, is the moon... big?"

suddenly, the fans panic. they search back through videos and streams, and realize that the moon had been abnormally large and stuck in a full-moon phase since october 30th. the Moon Big event has begun.

this is where the roleplay really starts. once the moon's size has been brought up, the hermits start a weird combination of scrambling to figure out why the moon's growing, and how to stop it- but also of ignoring it, hoping it won't be a problem, hoping someone else will deal with it. the moon keeps getting bigger, more hermits start realizing it's going on, and a creeping sense of dread starts to grow. but it's fine. it's fine, right? they do little plotlines like this all the time. they'll figure something out, the moon will go back to normal, and we'll laugh about it when this is all over. it's fine.

and then, blocks start flying away. just floating up out of the ground, and falling right back down! like for a moment, a square meter chunk of dirt has decided it's a ballerina and leaped out of the ground! but it's fine, right? the blocks are coming back. no lasting harm is done. they're going to fix it all... right?

the moon gets bigger. it's growing every day- local hermit weirdguy joe hills measures it every stream. the blocks start flying higher. gravity starts getting... weird, with players getting the slow falling effect at random, and being lifted off of the earth themselves. the players form cults and rituals and whatnot to try and appease the moon, convince it to leave them alone, making plans to escape. nothing works. things keep getting worse, and the moon keeps getting bigger. but it'll be fine. these storylines never leave lasting harm, or at least they never have before. they'll be fine.

and then the blocks stop coming back, just floating into the sky forever. the players have the slow falling effect more than they don't now. the moon is now so big it's visible even during the day, and fills the entire sky at night. they start planning their escapes in earnest, and say their goodbyes. some hermits jump into a void hole in the overworld (it was the centerpiece of their village). some flee to the End, some to the nether, some just fly with elytras and hope they can get far enough away in time. one brave hermit, tango, flies himself to the moon in a futile attempt to blow the whole thing up before it can crash.

but in the end, the moon crashes into the server, and everything they'd built was destroyed. and the whole time, there'd been nothing any of them could've done. season eight was over, a full six months before anyone had expected it to end, and season nine wouldn't start until about three months later. and im still not okay about it.

(here's a cool animatic of the moon's crash! honestly i dont think you need too much hermitcraft knowledge to get the gist)

(also the moon crash happened on the day before my birthday lmao.)

….

holy shit

[masterwolftfs]

It was another one of those days. Rain crashing down, everyone looking pissed or gloomy, and you felt like absolute shit, aimlessly wandering about the town square, nothing to do, nowhere to go. You'd found yourself going in and out of various stores, seeing if you could perhaps buy anything to cheer you up, but nothing had worked so far. So here you were, £50 poorer with nothing to show for it other than a few bits and bobs that you couldnt remember buying.

Your phone buzzed, so you checked it. Another overdue bill notification, you sighed. Was that the fifth now? You'd lost count. Overwhelmed, you ducked into an alley, resisting the urge to breakdown and cry, and sunk to the ground, face in your hands, trying desperately not to break.

Things seemed hopeless, and they had for a while.

The rain kept pouring down, chilling you to the bone, and that snapped you out of it. You looked around for an overhang to sit under, some shelter, and saw it. A leather jacket, just abandoned by a trash can. You'd already sank low enough, you figured, so why not put it on for some warmth? You stumbled over to it and wrapped it around your cold frame. Underneath it was a beer bottle, completely sealed. What the hell, you thought, and picked it up. Hesitant to drink it, you didnt open it yet.

The jacket did smell a bit, you had to admit. A combination of wet leather, smell from being in proximity with the trash, and was that weed? But it was warmer with it on, and even if it didnt protect from the rain, it was better with it than without.

Absentmindedly, you found yourself walking back around the streets, heading back on the route youd initially come, then taking a few turns til you were in a place you didnt recognise. Everythings fine, you thought, and didnt worry. You found yourself knocking on someones door, and waiting. Why did you knock here? You thought, but you couodnt figure it out. After a long wait, the door opened to a man who shouldve looked terrifying to you, but you werent scared at all. He was short, and lean, but he was covered in piercings and tatts, his hair styled up into a bright blue and green mohawk. Not the kind of man youd want or expect to meet, but your body seemed to instinctively go in for the hug, and his stern face seemed to smile at you warmly. He kissed you, and it felt like you were short circuiting, your brain forgetting how to function, how to think, and for a second, you felt nothing but lust for this man in front of you. He stopped the kiss, and you returned to your normal self. Dazed, you followed him inside the house.

The house wasn't exactly clean, and a strong scent filled the air, that of cum, piss, cheap deoderant, musk and weed. It mingled in your brain, short circuiting it again and overwriting it.

"Yo Connah!" Said the punk, chucking a pair of clearly used, reeking combat boots at you. "Give em a sniff my man"

And you did. In bliss, shoving it to your nose, almost as if this man's words forced you too. Your body ached as you lost yourself in the smell, muscles growing, getting you taller by the second.

"Connah?" You thought. That didnt seem right. Was that your name? Of course it was, your boyfriend wouldnt lie to you. Wait. Boyfriend? What were you think-

Your thought process was interrupted by a hand on your cock, springing it to life, the punk looking directly at you while slowly but surely teasing your cock, working the foreskin back and letting his hands touch your glans, causing ripples of sensitivity and pleasurable pain to course through you. With each pulse, yiu lost yourself more and more. A cocky, dominant personality overwriting you. "Put em on me, bitch." You sneered, causing the punk to gulp and take the boots, sliding them onto your feet. Instinctively, you stood on him, pushing his face under your massive foot. He moaned, and you laughed. "Thats right bitch. You're mine now." You, no, Connah sneered. You were Connah now, you akways had been. Alpha, leader, cocky punk. You didnt remember the punk's name, but who cared? He was nothing more than your bitch anyway, and he wouldn't be the last. Connah was back bitches, and he was gonna make the entire town his gang.

[woso-story]

Midnight Cravings

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The quiet hum of the Barcelona night enveloped the house as Alexia lay in bed, her arm draped protectively over your side. The two of you had made this cozy little home together, filled it with love, laughter, and now, the exciting chaos of preparing for your first child. At six months pregnant, your body was changing rapidly, and so were your moods and habits. Sleep had become elusive, your cravings had grown more bizarre by the day, and Alexia—bless her—was doing her absolute best to keep up with your ever-changing needs.

Tonight, the hunger woke you. It wasn’t the soft grumble that could be ignored until morning. No, it was the insistent, ravenous kind that left you no choice but to get up. Carefully, you shifted out of bed, trying not to disturb Alexia. She stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible before settling back into sleep. Smiling at how peaceful she looked, you tiptoed out of the room and headed for the kitchen.

---

Alexia woke to a strange stillness. Something was missing. It took her groggy mind a moment to realize it was you. Reaching out, she found the sheets cold on your side of the bed. At first, she assumed you were in the bathroom; after all, with the baby sitting squarely on your bladder, you made frequent trips. But when you didn’t return after several minutes, concern began to creep in.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Alexia got out of bed and threw on her robe. The faint glow of the kitchen light caught her attention as she walked down the hallway, and the soft rustle of movement inside confirmed her suspicions.

She paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame as she took in the scene before her. There you were, standing in your oversized hoodie and slippers, hunched over the counter with something clutched in your hand. Alexia squinted, trying to figure out what you were eating, but the combination of smells wafting through the room was so odd it made her hesitate.

You were oblivious to her presence, too focused on your midnight feast. Alexia couldn’t help but smile. Despite the late hour, despite the strangeness of the moment, there was something so endearing about the way you indulged your cravings without a care in the world.

“Having a good time, raccoon?” she teased, her voice low and laced with amusement.

You jumped, spinning around with wide eyes, nearly dropping the pickle you had been dipping into jelly. “Alexia!” you exclaimed, your voice muffled as you tried to swallow quickly. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry,” she said, though her grin betrayed her lack of remorse. She walked closer, folding her arms as she eyed the concoction in your hand. “But I have to ask… what on earth are you eating?”

You held up your snack proudly. “Pickles with jelly. It’s amazing. The baby loves it.”

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “That… doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s delicious,” you insisted, taking another big bite and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. “You should try it.”

“Hard pass,” Alexia said, laughing. “I love you, but I have my limits.”

You pouted but shrugged, turning back to your snack. “Your loss.”

Alexia stepped closer, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and resting her hands on your growing bump. She pressed a kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering for a moment. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, mi amor. Otherwise, I’d be questioning all of my life choices right now.”

You chuckled, leaning back against her. “You knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“True,” Alexia said, laughing softly. “Though I didn’t realize it came with midnight kitchen raids and bizarre food combinations.”

“It’s all part of the package,” you said with a smirk, taking another bite.

The two of you stayed there for a while, talking quietly as you satisfied your cravings. Alexia’s hands moved in gentle circles over your belly, and every now and then, she’d murmur sweet words to your unborn child, promising them all the love and support in the world.

Eventually, you set down your plate with a contented sigh. “I think I’m done now,” you said, smiling up at Alexia.

“Good,” she replied, taking your hand and guiding you back toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you back to bed before you find something else to snack on.”

When you reached the bed, Alexia crouched down and pressed a tender kiss to your bump. “Goodnight, little one,” she whispered. “Let your mamá get some rest, okay?”

She moved to kiss your forehead, but you pouted. “Forehead kisses don’t count,” you said, giving her your best puppy-dog eyes. “I want a proper one.”

Alexia sighed dramatically, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “You’re impossible,” she muttered before leaning down to kiss you properly.

Satisfied, you settled into bed, snuggling under the blankets as Alexia joined you. She wrapped her arm around your waist, her hand resting protectively over your belly. Pressing a final kiss to your shoulder, she whispered, “I love you, mi vida.”

You mumbled something in return, already halfway to sleep. Alexia smiled, holding you close as her own eyes drifted shut. Moments like these made every sleepless night and strange craving worth it. You were her everything, and soon, the two of you would welcome a new little piece of your love into the world.

[justaz]

ygraine gives birth to a quiet child. the babe does not scream, cry, or wail when it is born. one of the midwives take the bloody babe and holds it against her chest and she rubs its back and urges it to breathe. gaius is hidden beneath her dress and he tends to her wounds that sap her strength with every gush of blood. nimueh sits beside her, holding her hand as she takes in gasping breaths, recovering from the painful and exhausting ordeal of birthing a child. nimueh’s hand is running through her hair as she whispers praises in her ear that she cannot hear.

the room begins to darken as she leans against nimueh. her vision tunnels to a golden scene hovering in the air above her. she sees a young man with golden hair and bright blue eyes. he sits atop a throne with a golden crown nestled on his head. beside him is a figure that is obscured, their features hidden from her view but she can tell they are powerful. the image in the air shifts between the two people, flipping like a coin in the air, the golden king on one side and the cloaked figure on the other. the coin slowly picks up speed until the two figures blur together.

from the distorted image, three women appear and whisper a prophecy to her, a familiar one that has been told for millennia - more a fairy tale now than the words of a seer. as the women speak each line of the prophecy, one after the other, their voices combine into one as they whisper to her “behold the once and future king, arthur pendragon”

“do you see that?” she feels herself mumble as the three women disappear and the coin begins to slow once more. the two men come back into view, now side by side, “oh, its beautiful,” she murmurs, “look at him, nimueh. my son, my son…so beautiful.” arthur shifts his gaze to meet her own and suddenly the golden visage begins to rot. his regal robes fall apart, his crown rusts, the castle around him begins to decay and collapse into rubble.

arthur begins to cry like a child, unfitting for a man of his age. he shrinks to a young boy, perhaps seven, and stands next to his father, uther, as he addresses a crowd. he stands tall and proud though it is clear something has happened. his expression is cold and unfeeling until his gaze shifts down to someone in the square and pure hatred fills his eyes. the vision moves back and allows ygraine to watch as a young woman is tied to a pyre, screaming and crying and begging and pleading for her life.

“this woman has been found guilty for the crime of sorcery,” uther’s voice commands attention though his words make no sense to her. sorcery a crime? what nonsense. uther continues, “for such a crime, the punishment is and will always be death.” he nods down at the executioner who ushers forward and lights the wood of the pyre. knights follow suit and soon the woman is screaming in agony as flames engulf her.

arthur lowers his head and averts his gaze but uther grabs his chin and pulls his face up, “watch,” he orders him, “they killed your mother. they deserve this.” young arthur has tears in his eyes but he does not let them fall. he squares his shoulders and stares down at the woman as she is burnt to a crisp. when the screaming finally stops, young arthur shifts his gaze up to hers.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, “please, save me.”

ygraine can hear her cries as the vision dissipates, her wails and denials. nimueh holds her close and whispers how she needs patience, her child will breathe yet. ygraine feels even more of her strength sap away and she understands. the deal uther made with nimueh, it called for a death to create a life. she knows now that it is her life that will be reaped in exchange. she does not have time to weep.

she turns to nimueh, “protect him,” she squeezes her hand, “you have to protect him.” she pleads. nimueh does not understand. how could she? ygraine squeezes her hand harder than she had in childbirth, “promise me, nimueh. you won’t let uther corrupt him. you won’t let him harm my son.” nimueh looks down at gaius who peeks over her dress, sorrow in his gaze and shakes his head. ygraine sobs once more, “promise me, nimueh!”

the high priestess turns back to her, “i promise, my lady, but rest assured king uther will not harm a hair on your child’s head.”

ygraine shakes her head, her body has gone numb, “you don’t understand. he will never be the same. you have to protect him. you have to protect arthur.”

nimueh nods, her expression trouble, “i promise, ygraine. i will protect arthur.”

ygraine smiles through her tears, the pain and sorrow fading as she grew weaker. nimueh’s expression grows panicked but the last thing she hears is her beautiful son’s cries.

nimueh didn’t understand ygraine’s wish until uther learned of his wife’s fate. she had expected sobbing, falling to his knees, or begging the gods. she didn’t expect the rage, though it was understandable, and she definitely didn’t expect the vitriol he spat at her, blaming her for ygraine’s passing. despite the protests that fell from her lips, she knew he was right. it was her magic from a deal she offered him that took her life.

her magic claimed ygraine’s life in her chambers. she held her in her arms as she died and could do nothing to save her. the last thing she saw when she died was nimueh, helpless to do anything to stop what she had put in motion.

uther called for his guards to round up all magic users and have them punished. gaius, a man who was always a bit selfish, surrendered to uther, denounced sorcery and magic and was forgiven for his past “treachery”. when he turned to nimueh, she knew even if she had denounced magic, he would never forgive her for what happened. he ordered his guards to have her taken to the dungeons in cold iron and spat that she would burn in the morning.

it didn’t take much magic to disappear from the throne room and reappear out in the halls. she strode through the castle up to the nursery where little arthur was to reside. something in uther shattered in that room, he cursed magic users and called them monsters, beasts meant to be hunted and killed. she wouldn’t know if he truly meant to go through with it until the first execution but she was not waiting that long.

ygraine’s last wish had been for her to protect arthur, to protect him from his father. when she had said that, she had assumed the queen was delirious from pain and blood loss. now she understood. the triple goddess had blessed her with knowledge before her passing. and with that knowledge, she begged nimueh to protect arthur from uther. nimueh would not wait until it was too late, she would not sit back and let fate have it’s way, she would not let ygraine down again.

nimueh greeted the wetnurse with a smile. the woman smiled kindly up at her and she politely requested arthur and asked her to leave. the woman was hesitant but a subtle spell over her mind guided her out and away from the room. nimueh stared down at little arthur’s face. he had thin strands of white hair that was sure to thicken and darken as he grew. he had ygraine’s nose and lips. when he blinked his eyes open it was like she was staring down at the late queen.

the sound of guards pounding down the hall alerted her of her precarious situation once more and she did not waste another second before fleeing. she held arthur tight to her chest as she fled the castle and wormed her way through the citadel. no one looked twice at her, the average citizen unaware that their queen had had a child and died just that morning.

nimueh traveled as fast as she could back to her island. she warned her sisters that resided on the island of what uther meant to do. they did not take his threats seriously until they scried and saw uther slaughtering hundreds of magic users in the coming weeks. nimueh and her sisters helped raise arthur until an attack was launched on the isle itself. she and arthur remained under the castle while the other high priestesses fought back against the armies storming their home. one of her sisters stumbled down into the room, beaten and bloodied.

“they’ve won,” she slurred, “the isle of the blessed has fallen. you must go, protect the child. do not let him fall into uther’s hands.” she cast her magic to form a gateway for nimueh and arthur, “i do not have much strength to hold this, sister. go now.” nimueh left her home behind. she heard two weeks later that the castle had been burnt and crumbled to rubble.

nimueh and arthur traveled the land, hopping from place to place and never settling for long as camelot knights were soon to follow. arthur grew quicker than she thought possible and she knew she had to settle down somewhere, yet she knew that if she were to settle in a village or town, it would only be a matter of time before camelot found them.

it took time and energy and lots of magic, but she created a cottage in the woods, hidden by wards to divert any visitors. she and arthur both learned to live off the land, to grow what they needed and survive on their own. he always found her magic fascinating and loved to watch her cast spells. since he was born from a deal she made, his very being was fused together with her own magic, marking him as hers.

he called her mama and she called him son. she told him of his other mother, ygraine, of how she gave birth to him but perished before she could meet him. she told him that she knew ygraine was proud of him because she was proud of him. arthur always wished to explore the world outside of their haven but nimueh’s paranoia kept him close.

it wasn’t until one day when arthur was ten that something changed. nimueh had been on her way out to tend to their crops when she heard arthur laughing and playing. she smiled to herself as she continued on her way. until she heard another voice, a higher voice belonging to what sounded like a child.

nimueh dropped her tools and rushed around the lawn to find arthur on the edge of their haven playing with a boy a couple of years younger than him with a mop of black hair and wide blue eyes. the boy was also inside their haven. he had gotten past her wards. he was dangerous. nimueh dashed forward and grabbed arthur, tugging him behind her as she assessed the boy. arthur complained behind her and begged her to let him stay. the boy stood up on shaky legs and didn’t bother dusting off his trousers.

“hi!” he waved a hand, a goofy smile on his face, “my mom’s busy at the market so i came to play in the woods. arthur and i were just about to play will and i’s favorite game, knight and princess. will always makes me be the princess but arthur wanted to be the princess this time so i really, really, really wanna play with him. do you wanna join? you can be…the dragon guarding the princess!! oh, you already are. are we playing now? hold on, let me get a stick so i can-“

“who are you?” nimueh finally cut off his rambling. she wasn’t sure how a child, or anyone for that matter, could talk so fast and endlessly without taking a breath. her fear eased as she recognized that he truly was just a child, but she still remained wary as he had somehow found his way past her wardings.

“oh, sorry! my mom always says i have to be more polite but i always am so i never understand what she means.” he blinked and shook his head before grinning up at her, showing off his missing tooth in the top corner of his mouth, “i’m merlin!”

[holylulusworld]

Indecent Proposal (1)

Summary: Your boyfriend wants to be part of their empire. You are the pawn he’s willing to sacrifice.

Rating: Mature

Square filled for @stuckybingo Round 5: free space - mafia au

Square filled for @anyfandomgoesbingo: Free Space

Pairing: Mobster!Stucky x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, mentions of illegal activities/mafia business/murder, strong reader, mentions of breeding/surrogate, wish for children, shady deals, shitty boyfriend, reader doesn't take shit from no one, tension, sexy mobsters

Words: 1,5k

Indecent Proposal masterlist

“Babe, how do I look?” Your boyfriend asks, almost stumbling over his words as the men he was hoping to meet at the fancy party walk inside the room. 

Well, they don’t walk like normal people. They are stepping inside the room, stopping in their tracks to look at the people in the room. It looks like the crowd parts like the Red Sea to form a path only for them.

Steven Grant Rogers. James Buchanan Barnes. – Two names you must know if you ever heard of New York City and its mob.

They are as good-looking as they are dangerous. A deadly combination of beauty and the beast hidden behind blue eyes.

If you don’t want to end up six feet under, you don’t mess with them. Or even look their way too long.

“Did you put on the underwear I told you to?” 

“What has this to do with the party?” You sigh, as you still don’t know why Scott brought you here.

You’ve been dating for a few months, and you had hoped that tonight, he’d do more than the bare minimum. He’s not a bad guy, but an awful partner.

A criminal too. Not a criminal mastermind, but you already figured out that the small business he runs is far from legal.

“It’s important, babe,” you roll your eyes at the awful pet name. You hate it and told him so before. “Okay, don’t say anything stupid. Or, just look pretty and don’t say anything at all.”

“What?” Now you square your jaw. You don’t understand what has gotten into Scott until you lift your eyes off him to meet two pairs of blue ones. “Oh…”

“Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes,” Scott looks pathetic when he bows for the heads of the mob in town. “I’m honored to meet you again. Thank you for having me.”

The men ignore Scott and his offered hand. Instead, they look at you. Steve almost shoves your boyfriend aside as he holds out his hand to take yours.

“I see you followed our invitation,” he lowers himself to press a kiss to the back of your hand. You shiver. He seems so polite, and kind. But behind his blue eyes, you can see the beast wanting to break free.

“Stevie don’t scare her off right away,” you are a little overwhelmed when James Barnes turns his attention toward you. He takes your other hand and kisses your knuckles, glancing at your ring finger. “No ring, doll? He didn’t ask you to be his forever?”

“No-“ You’re usually not shy, or meek. But these men crowd you like prey and have their hands on you. You know they are in a relationship, but right now, they look at you as if you are their latest meal. “We’re only dating for a few months.”

“A shame,” Steve cups your chin, making you whimper. You never felt like this before. Confused and aroused at the same time. These men are strangers, but oddly you feel safe in their presence. “What do you say? Shall we lead this to a more private area?”

You don’t know why they are interested in leading you and your boyfriend to a private area, but this can’t be good. People like them never have good intentions, and you assume Steve and Bucky are no exception.

“I’m good here…I mean. You should enjoy your party. Don’t you have to greet all the people you invited?” You nervously babble. 

“Doll, they don’t care if we greet them or not. They are only here to show respect to us,” Bucky runs his index finger up your arm. He smirks as you involuntarily shudder at his touch. “Let’s lead this to our office.”

“Scott,” you dip your head to glance at your boyfriend. He looks up at Steve as if the man is carrying a halo on top of his head. “Scott!”

“Babe don’t be rude. We should follow them to the office,” your boyfriend is no help. He’s wringing his hands while staring at Steve Rogers. God, he’s such a pathetic little boy. You just see it now when you watch him interact with two real men.

“Fine,” you snap at Scott if only to end his pathetic act. “Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes, please lead the way.” 

“Do you want a drink or a canapé doll? We can ask the maid to get you something you’ll like,” Bucky sits next to you on the couch, one hand running up and down his thigh, the other creeping toward your thigh. He brushes his metal finger over your exposed skin, barely listening to what his partner has to say.

“Buck, did you listen?”

“Seal the deal,” the brunette clicks his tongue, “I’ll take care of the main act in the meantime. You know I don’t care about the conditions. We already negotiated them. You can take care of the details.”

“I want to take over more important tasks,” Scott suddenly says. He glances at you, and then he looks at Steve. “Sir, I agree on the terms. I’ll do anything to prove that you can trust me.”

“Does she agree on our terms too?” Steve dips his head to watch you stop Bucky’s hand from stroking your thigh. “Buck, we are talking here.”

“I know,” Bucky huffs. “All you do is talk to that slimy little bastard. Give him what he wants so we can get what we want.”

“Mr. Lang, you know that if we seal the deal, that you cannot break it. We have rules for a reason.”

“She will agree,” Scott hastily says. You snap your head toward your boyfriend, wondering what he’s talking about. “Right, Y/N? You’ll help me with the deal.”

“I told you that I’m not going to do anything illegal,” you hiss at Scott. “I looked the other way when you sold stolen phones to my colleagues, but I won’t actively help you. I’m not a criminal.”

“You didn’t talk about the deal with her?” Bucky suddenly jumps up to fist Scott’s jacket. “You dare to come to our house and lie to us?”

“I didn’t lie, Sir…Mr. Barnes. Y/N said she finds you hot, and all. She even talked about ending up between the two of you to her friend.”

“You sick fuck spied on me and Maria?” You growl at Scott. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes…I’m sure she’ll help you have a baby and all…”

“Baby what?” You furrow your brows. “Okay. This is getting ridiculous. What is going on here?”

“Well, we want you to become our surrogate. Bucky and I love each other dearly, but I cannot give him what he needs, nor can he give me what I want. A baby…an heir. We were looking for the perfect woman, with the perfect bloodline.”

“I-what?” The room suddenly caves in. You feel dizzy and grab the edge of the couch. “You want me to be your breeder?”

“No, doll,” Steve walks toward the couch to crouch down in front of you. “We want you to spend time with us…or rather between us.” He grins. “I want you to have my baby. And then you’ll have Bucky’s. We haven’t figured out whose allowed to breed you first.”

“Breed me?” Oh. God. Your pussy just clenched around nothing. If not for the anger taking over, you’d gladly jump Steve’s bones to have all the babies he wants. “Are you fucking insane? I’m not a piece of meat you can just buy!”

“We believed he talked about the deal with you, doll. Please, don’t be mad at us,” Steve purrs, and runs his hand over your cheek. “We only wanted what we deserve. The perfect woman having our babies.”

“She will agree…” Scott nervously says. He looks at you, hoping you’ll agree to whatever the two men holding his fate in their hands want. “Right babe?”

“I hate it when you call me that,” you jump up, and push Steve aside. “What did you believe will happen when you bring me here to offer my uterus and pussy to these two? Huh? That I’ll just bend over the desk and let them have their way with me!”

“I-uh…kinda…yes…”

“Pathetic,” you click your tongue as you glance at Bucky. He cracks his knuckles, ready to rough Scott up a little for messing with them. “I knew you were no good. I should’ve listened to my gut instinct.”

You dip your head to watch Steve walk toward his partner. They are looking at you, like lions ready to pounce. Those two men set their eyes on you, and you are not foolish enough to believe that they’ll leave you alone.

If you end up in their clutches, you’ll make sure they only get their hands on you to your conditions. “You want me and my womb?”

“More than anything,” Bucky purrs. He steps behind you to place both of his hands on your belly. “And I can tell, Stevie, and will love filling you up.”

Scott hopefully looks at you. This is the moment he was waiting for. He’ll be a made man soon, and his ex will see, he's more than the loser she sees in him. 

You look at Steve, holding his gaze, “I’ll be yours if you get rid of him…”

Part 2

[mercurianchild]

🦇spooky season astro observations part 2🦇

🕸️Mars in the 8th house signals a strong connection to the occult, death, and transformation. People with Mars in the 8th may have an intense drive to uncover hidden truths, and they may be drawn to witchcraft or other forms of shadow work. Their energy can be magnetically dark, with a fearless approach to taboo topics.

🕸️Moon in the 6th house deals with health and routines, and the Moon here can bring a strong connection to emotional healing through ritual. Individuals with this placement may be drawn to herbalism, crystal healing, or other forms of spiritual wellness. Their intuition is heightened when caring for others.

🕸️Scorpio inner planets placements is the ultimate placement for those drawn to the darker, transformative side of life. Sun in Scorpio individuals are often fascinated by death, magic, and the unseen world. They thrive on digging deep into life’s mysteries and may have a natural gift for divination or witchcraft.

🕸️With Capricorn Venus love feels like a haunting echo from the past, bound by ancient karma. You’re drawn to the eerie beauty of time-worn places, old cemeteries, or crumbling ruins. Relationships may feel fated, almost as if you’ve been tied to your lover through lifetimes of karmic debt. There’s a cold, gothic romance in your heart, where love and death are intertwined.

🕸️ Saturn in Aquarius can be a sign of the occult scientist—someone who wants to apply a structured, rational approach to magical or esoteric studies. These individuals might be drawn to astrology, tarot, or numerology, using logic and systems to uncover deeper truths about the universe.

🕸️With Pluto Square Ascendant you radiate a dark, haunting energy that others find unsettling. There’s an aura of death and rebirth around you, as if you’re always walking with ghosts. People sense something powerful and dangerous lurking beneath the surface. It’s as though you’ve been touched by the underworld, and those around you feel compelled—yet afraid—to dive into your depths.

🕸️Neptune sextile Pluto aspect pulls you into the depths of the collective unconscious, where the boundaries between life and death dissolve. Neptune’s ethereal influence combines with Pluto’s underworldly energy, making you a natural channel for spirits or ancestral energies. The occult comes to you not as a study, but as a calling from the depths of the unknown. Here, magic isn’t a practice—it’s a descent into a labyrinth of shadows, where the answers you seek may come from voices long forgotten.

🕸️Moon sextile Pluto is a restless spirit, constantly seeking the unknown. Strange dreams haunt your sleep, filled with symbols and omens. There’s a wildness to your emotional world—Uranus shakes things loose, making room for paranormal experiences and unpredictable psychic flashes. It’s as if your soul is tuned to the frequency of the strange and the uncanny, always ready to hear the whispers from beyond.

🕸️With Venus trine Neptune love becomes a ghostly whisper, something otherworldly and untouchable. Venus trine Neptune connects you to love that feels eternal, as if your heart beats in tune with the spirits of long-lost lovers. You might fall in love with the idea of someone rather than their flesh and blood, forever chasing shadows in the mist. There is beauty here, but it’s veiled, as if you’re dancing with phantoms in a moonlit graveyard.

🕸️ Lilith in the 4th house brings forth ancestral shadows and hidden traumas, making you deeply aware of family secrets and the haunting legacy of those who came before. There’s a sense that your roots are tangled in dark magic, and the walls of your home may hold the spirits of your lineage, forever seeking to communicate their untold stories.

🕸️ With Lilith in the 7th house, relationships become a cauldron of dark magic and transformative energy. Here, individuals may attract partners who challenge them to confront their shadow selves, revealing deep truths and hidden desires. This dynamic often feels like a mystical dance between power and vulnerability.

That’s it for part two. Take what resonates and leave the rest.

Much love🥀 -mercurianchild

[takimakiiiii]

“i wish i was who you drunk texted at midnight”

wc!: 5.2k (i’m sorry i’ve got serious problems 😔)

ollie bearman x reader + childhood friends to ?

warnings: angst asf, heartbreak, swearing, let me know if there are any more!

part 2

summary: after moving to Chelmsford you meet ollie, the two of you quickly become friends but unfortunately you fall for Ollie. he moves away for f2 and leaves you, until he’s supposed to race in Jeddah. you fly there only to gain more than what you bargained for

type: angst (cliff hanger ending IM SORRY)

a/n: this is just something I wrote because I was sick in bed the last few days, it’s super long but so hope yall like it! Also i’m sorry if it’s bad lol i am still sick and this is just something i wrote for fun to entertain myself. ALSO no hate to Estelle Ogilvy (is that how i spell her last name) i just used her for the plot of the story please don’t come after me.). The name is inspired by “drunk text” by Henry Moodie, please give it a listen it’s such a good song, enjoy xxx

They say that you should always be friends with the person you like before you start to fall for them. Well, that’s one thing you could check off the list if you looked back on your friendship with Ollie. The truth was, being in love with your best friend absolutely sucked. Something people tend to forget is that friends can break your heart too.

6 and 6 

The first time you ever met Ollie was in a library. A week prior to that you had moved to a strange town named Chelmsford. A name that 6-year-old you found difficult to pronounce, to be frank everything in the new town sounded different to what you were used to. The people there spoke with such a different accent to what you were used to, it would take you quite a while to get used to it. As you sat in the back of the taxi with your backpack at your feet, you stared out the fogged up window. The sky was a gloomy grey and the landscape seemed to be an endless plain of sad looking meadows. 

You couldn’t seem to understand why your parents would choose to move to such a sad looking place, it didn’t make any sense. The taxi soon came to a slow stop, the brakes squealing loudly. You glanced out the window hopefully, rubbing the condensation away with your sleeve. Only to be disappointed to see a boring brick building of some sort. It was an odd combination of white wooden window frames and red bricks, like something out of one of those 1600s movies your Father once showed you. You anxiously looked back to your Mother who was watching you as your Father sorted out something with the taxi driver. Upon seeing your unhappy face your Mother chuckled softly.

“I heard that there’s a library just down the street, maybe sometime this week we could visit it.” she offered. You nodded, slightly content. Reading books was something you enjoyed and maybe with a library being close by, not all was lost. 

As it turned out, that boring brick building was your new house. 

Despite having to unpack and sort adult-y things out, your Mother took you to the library just as she had promised. As you skipped down the cobbled road, your Mother held a bright yellow umbrella over your head to shield you from the rain that was pouring down from the cloudy grey sky. 

You pushed upon the heavy front door to the library which also happened to look like a sad white brick square with a pointy red roof, a depressed mushroom if you will. You halted in your steps as giant wood bookcases rose before you, shelves full of books. Never had you ever seen so many books before. In the corner there was a lady sorting things in a trolley with her back turned to you, she still hadn’t noticed you. 

“C’mon, let’s head to the kids section.” your Mother said, taking you by the hand and leading you deeper into the library. Stunned by the amount of books that filled the shelves you couldn’t help but wander off when your Mother told you to stay put while she set up a borrowing card for you. 

Luckily, the children’s section of the library was much more pleasant looking than the eerie hallways of adult books. You scanned the shelves in search of something to read, until you came to a stop. Two round brown eyes among the books blinked from the other side of the shelf, scaring you. 

It was a boy. 

You blinked back, unsure of what to do. So you did what any other 6 year old did when they believed they had found a new friend. 

“Do you want to read with me?” you abruptly asked the boy who was still staring at you with wide eyes. A moment of silence passed before he nodded slowly, the boy rounded the corner. He wasn’t much taller than you with chocolate brown hair and small freckles that spilled over his face like tiny stars. He stuck out his hand, “I’m Oliver. But my friends call me Ollie.” he greeted, a smile taking over his face. His voice sounded odd, like the taxi driver who’d driven you from the airport to your new house. Ollie reminded you of a rabbit with his two front teeth that seemed to take up over half of his face, but you didn’t say anything because your Mother told you that saying things like that wasn’t nice. 

You took his hand cautiously in yours, “I’m Y/N.” you replied slowly. He enthusiastically shook your hand, taking you by surprise as he led you to sit down on the bright coloured bean bags. You watched curiously as he picked a book off the shelf before plopping down next to you again. You peered over as he opened the book to the first page, you frowned, not recognising the book. 

“It’s a book called Where’s Wally (Where’s Waldo if you’re American). You have to find the characters, there’s Wally, Wenda, the wizard guy and Woof - that’s the dog.” Ollie explained to you, pointing to each character on the page. The initial nervousness of meeting another kid, melting away. You began to feel excited as you nodded along while Ollie continued to explain how to play. The two of you spent the next hour doing all sorts of things, talking about favourite colours, favourite animals, reading books, drawing, playing board games together. Both getting along so easily it was as if you guys had known each other forever. That was until you heard your Mother calling your name to go home. 

You stood up, looking down at Ollie who was still seated on a yellow bean bag. He blinked up at you, with those big brown eyes that had scared you only an hour earlier. “I have to go home now.” you told him, a wave of sadness passing between the two of you as you both realised your fun had come to an end. 

“That’s okay, maybe I’ll see you at school.” he suggested hopefully upon seeing your downcast face. You broke into a smile, “Okay, bye Ollie.” you waved slowly as you began to walk away. Ollie waved back with a giant grin on his face as he watched you disappear behind the wooden bookshelves. 

“Hey Mom!” you called out to your Mother as she came into view, she was chatting with the lady who you’d seen at the desk sorting books. She paused and turned to you, “Hey, I was just talking to the librarian, she was saying about how she has a son who hangs out here while she works on the weekend.” 

Putting two and two together you realised that the book lady was Ollie’s Mother. You smiled at the lady, “I was playing with Ollie, we were reading that one book, ‘Where’s  . .  .” You trailed off, racking your brain for the name of the book he’d shown you. 

“Where’s Wally?” the librarian offered, she nodded fondly. “That’s his favourite book.” You grinned up at the lady, looking back in the direction where you’d been playing with Ollie.

“Mom, am I going to the school as Ollie?” you asked, looking up at your Mother. She chuckled softly before nodding, “As a matter of fact, you are.” 

Those golden words were what made you unbelievably excited to begin at your new school. You had barely been able to sleep with the thought of seeing your new friend again, so on that Monday morning you bounded down the stairs to the kitchen. “Good morning!” you greeted both your parents, taking a seat at the dining table, legs swinging off the chair impatiently. 

“Someone’s excited for their first day of school.” your Mother hummed as she set a plate of pancakes in front of you. You nodded, “I get to see my new friend.” you replied as you stuffed your mouth with your breakfast. 

You were basically pulling your Mother through the front gates as you scanned the sea of other children in the same uniform as you. The uniform also happened to be grey, it complimented the terrible weather perfectly. Your eyes fell onto the brown haired-freckled boy from two days earlier, you ran up to him, “Hi Ollie.” you smiled. A giant grin took over the boy’s face, “Y/N!” he exclaimed, pulling you into a hug. From that day on, the two of you were inseparable. Where one of you went, the other followed right behind, Ollie helped you adjust to your new school, showing you around and never leaving you by yourself. As the years passed the two of you only became closer, though you would soon find out that that wasn’t the greatest thing. 

13 and 13

As the two of you grew into teenagers, things began to change and not always for the better. Ollie and you still remained close friends, having dinner at one another’s house on Friday’s, walking home together after school and occasionally spending afternoons playing Mario Kart with Ollie’s siblings. Your families were also extremely close now courtesy to both you and Ollie, his younger siblings becoming like your own. But the worst thing? 

You’d caught feelings for Ollie, it had been so sudden almost like it had crept up on you, taking you by surprise. You didn’t understand. It felt so wrong. 

One day out of the blue it hit you like a pile of bricks, you just couldn’t stop staring at him. Absolutely enchanted by him, his chocolate brown hair, those pretty freckles that you’d memorised on his face. 

Ollie was like a brother to you, he was your best friend, so how come you felt these things for him?

To make matters even worse for little 13 year old you, Ollie liked another girl. A girl who absolutely hated your guts. 

What had you done to her? You didn’t know. 

You and Ollie had been having a sleepover when he told you about her, her name was Estelle Ogilvy. She was gorgeous and untouchable, by far the prettiest girl you’d ever seen. You didn’t hold a candle to her and you knew it too. Ollie had been hopelessly in love with her since the start of high school when he shared science and maths class with her. Time and time again he would ramble on about her to you, completely oblivious to your feelings for him. You could only nod along wishing it was you who he was talking about. That’s just how it was, you were stuck in a bubble of unrequited love. So all you could do now was watch from afar as Ollie ran after a girl who you just knew would never like him as much as he liked her. 

15 and 15

Ollie’s karting career really took off in the last few years and you couldn’t have been prouder, those feelings for him still lingered around but you’d come to terms that he’d never like you in the same way. Because there he was, still stuck on chasing Estelle. You couldn’t blame him, and maybe that’s what you were always just supposed to be, friends. 

Yet you were jealous, something you refused to admit. Jealous of Estelle because oh how you wished to be talked about so fondly by Ollie. To always be on his mind, to be the girl he liked and would never shut up about. You still didn’t understand why you felt this way, in your mind it made absolutely zero sense. Then why did it feel so right when you were by his side, almost like you belonged there next to him? But Ollie being Ollie could just never get a hint whenever you tried to subtly let him know. It sucked because there’s nothing worse than loving someone who’ll never love you the same way. 

18 and 18 

It got worse as the years passed, your feelings for your best friend would just not go away. No matter how hard you tried, how hard you tried to find another boy to fawn over, your gaze would always fall back on Ollie. But he was dating Estelle now, he was in Formula 2 now. It almost seemed like an eternity ago when you first met him in the library just down your street. An eternity ago when you would attend his karting races, cheering the loudest for him in the stands. All of that was now in the past. You barely even saw him now that he had dropped out of school to pursue his career in Formula 2. Now all you could do now was watch from a distance as he looked the happiest you’d seen him in ages.

He was spectacular at what he did, you would watch him race on TV every week no matter what hour the race was or even if you had school the next day. 

Yet inside of you there was a giant hole, a hole that Ollie had left behind when he abandoned you. Abandoned was a bit of a stretch but it was the only word you could use to sum up what you had felt when he left. Ollie had to move to Italy for his career, news that he hadn’t even told you in person, you had to hear it from his Mother. He’d taken your hands in his at the airport as he waited to board his plane and promised you he’d stay in touch, that he’d call every week but here you were with the last time you’d spoken to him being over a month ago. 

You refused to be the first one to reach out to him, you felt like he owed you that much effort at least. So you waited  . . . and waited only for the world to keep spinning while you were stuck in the past. That was until you finally realised that you had never meant as much to Ollie as he had to you. 

19 and 19 - present day 

“Y/N! WAKE UP OR YOU’LL BE LATE FOR SCHOOL!” your Mother’s voice echoed up to your bedroom, rattling the glass in the window frames. You groaned as you groggily sat up, pulling open the curtains only to be greeted with dark overcast weather, rain pouring down outside. You rubbed your eyes, yawning as you dragged yourself out of bed. It was your second year of university studying mechanical engineering at the biggest university in Chelmsford. It proved to be difficult with its endless nights of staying up doing work but you knew it would be worth it in the end. 

Your university never failed to confuse you and make you late for class with all of its giant identical hallways. You ran down the corridors, heels clacking on the marble floor until you came to a stop at the door to where your lecture was for that day. Slipping through the door you weaved through the seats of the auditorium to find an empty seat. Luckily for you, your friend Bianca saved a seat for you. 

“Thanks.” you whispered only to be shot dirty glares by the students around you. You winced as you looked ahead at the teacher in an attempt to catch on what he was droning on about. Bianca gently nudged you, passing her phone to you. You frowned, eyebrows knitted as you looked down at the screen. A notice on Ferrari's official instagram with Ollie’s face plastered above the words “Oliver Bearman to race in Jeddah this weekend for Carlos Sainz.” 

You narrowed your eyes and huffed, passing the phone back to Bianca who smiled nervously. “What was the point of that?” you whispered, leaning closer to her. Bianca sighed, “You’re not fooling anyone, I know you still have unresolved feelings for him.” she whispered back only to get a loud shushing sound from a nearby student. 

Bianca shot them a glare before turning back to you, “You have to go, I don’t care what you say. You are going. This is his Formula 1 debut, whether you’re still friends with him or not you’ve got to be there for him.” she whispered-shouted, looking at you sternly. You sighed, leaning back into your chair, shaking your head. 

“It’s not the same anymore. He’s clearly forgotten about me, the last time we spoke was last year and he’s been back home 4 times in the last 12 months.” 

Silence hung in the air, only the voice of the teacher rambling on and on about something you still hadn’t caught on about. 

“That Estelle girl, she’s clearly using him. You were his best friend, surely that means something to you both.” Bianca tried again but it wasn’t any use. There was no purpose in bringing up something that you both had clearly tried so hard  to forget about. 

So then why were you here booking a flight to Jeddah to watch your old best friend debut in Formula 1? 

It was something you couldn’t answer and didn’t want to. 

The thing that you hated the most is that you didn’t even think twice before booking those tickets. 

How could you care so much about a person who had so blatantly forgotten about you?

Deep down you knew the answer, it was because to you Ollie was like your home. He was the first person to make you feel like you actually belonged somewhere, he never abandoned you to eat lunch alone at school, he never cancelled plans once you made them, he was a good person, a good friend. 

Or at least he was. 

Were you insane? The answer was yes, yes you were insane. Being here was so crazy; it nearly made you want to turn around and jump on the next flight back home. You were standing in line to go through the gates when you heard someone call your name. You secretly hoped it was Ollie but much to your disappointment it was . . . Arthur?

Ollie had introduced you to Arthur back when they had raced in Formula 3 together. You hadn’t seen him in forever. 

“Arthur?” you questioned as he pulled you into a hug, you hugged him back before pulling away, still unable to believe it was him. 

“I was about to ask what you’re doing here but that would be dumb.” you confessed, only noticing now the massive crowd that was surrounding the two of you. Arthur chuckled before nodding in the direction of the gate, “C’mon, I can get you in, you’ll be my guest.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to-” you began but Arthur was already pushing you through the gates. Walking back onto a race track was like taking a breath of fresh air after being in a car for a long time. You used to accompany Ollie to all of his karting races each weekend in Chelmsford, so being in the stands had become like a second home to you. 

“Are you here for Ollie?” Arthur asked as you walked in the direction of the motorhomes. You caught yourself before you could answer too irrationally, “No, I’m just here to watch the race.” you shrugged, realising how dumb that sounded as soon as it left your mouth. No good person would fly all the way to Saudi Arabia to watch a race if there was a Grand Prix in their own country.  If you wanted to “just watch a race” you could’ve watched it on TV or gone to the Silverstone GP. Arthur only hummed, you knew he had already caught on, it was so obvious it made you want to dig a hole and jump in. 

“Anyways,” you quickly said, eager to move onto a different topic.

“Anyways.” Arthur agreed, looking at you, eyebrows raised. “You can’t fool me, I’ve known it since the moment I met you.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “What am I going to say to him?” you asked, looking to Arthur for help. He shrugged, “No clue but you might want to think of something quickly because he’s walking over right now.”

“Y/N?” 

You blinked as you came face to face with the person you wanted to see so badly for the last year and now that you were here facing him it felt like all the air in you had gotten sucked right out. He looked  the same since the last time you saw him. In the last year you wanted to hate Ollie so much but it was impossible because you still loved him and that was the big terrible truth that you refused to admit. 

“Hi. Ollie.” you said, to not let the jumble of words that you’ve kept in since the last time you saw him spill out. Arthur sent you a quick salute, “Gotta go, I’ll see you afterwards, Y/N.” and with that he left you with Ollie in silence. 

“What are you doing here?” Ollie finally asked, he was acting so . . .  so normal. As if nothing had changed between the two of you.

“I’m here because I’m your number 1 fan, remember?” you scoffed, looking up at him. A reminder of the time when you were both 10, Ollie gifted you a t-shirt at Christman with the words: “Ollie’s No.1 fan.” plastered on it for you to wear to his karting races. It was sure to be buried deep in your wardrobe somewhere. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Yeah you are.” guilt written all over his face. 

“Why’d you leave me then? Tell me the truth, did I do something wrong? Was I too normal for you?” you asked, questions pouring out of you. 

“We were best friends, how could you just leave me like that? Do I mean nothing to you? Because you were everything to me, my best friend, the first person who made me feel like I actually mattered to someone, so tell me, why did you abandon me?” 

Silence hung in the air as you stared up at Ollie. You wanted answers, perhaps it would be the only thing that would let you move on from him. He looked away, unable to meet your gaze. This was so. . . so unfair. You wanted to yell, scream at him even so he could feel even a fraction of the pain you’d felt in the past year. 

“So that’s it? You don’t even have an explanation?” you asked him, your voice shaking with anger it made your throat ache as you blinked back tears. 

“I waited and waited for you to call me, to even send a message but that was a mistake. You’ll never love me in the same way that I love you.” 

Hot tears rolled down your cheeks, Ollie finally meeting your eyes as the three simple words left your lips. 

You’ll never love me in the same way that I love you.

The world stopped like everything had been put on pause as you realised your mistake. You felt like you’d gotten hit on the head with a cricket bat. 

“I have to go.” is all that left your mouth as you turned around. The ground was moving like a spinning wheel - a blurry mess of colours. It made you sick to your stomach as you walked away, your cheeks flushed hot and your forehead sticky with sweat. Ollie didn’t even call out for you, nor run after you for an explanation because it was so blatantly clear what you’d just confessed to him. 

You wished you could hate him, hate the fact that he’d left you, forgotten you like an old stuffed toy, you hated that he didn’t love you. 

You sat on the curb, clutching your knees outside of the entrance to the racetrack wallowing in self-pity. Wiping away tears that just kept falling down your face much to your distaste. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the buildings, the sky now a deep shade of orange. You stared at your feet, it was dumb, you should’ve known that coming here to Jeddah was a mistake. Ollie had moved on, something that you hadn’t done in the last year. You felt so stupid, why did you believe you could repair your friendship?

Why did you-

“Excuse me?” a voice interrupted your train of thought, you quickly wiped your tears and looked up to see Arthur standing beside you, a pitiful smile on his face. You looked away, “What do you want?” you grumbled, folding your arms across your chest bitterly. Arthur sat down beside you, watching you closely as you stared at the trees in the distance. He sighed, “The race is about to start and Ollie’s not coming out of his driver room. Estelle said she’d be here but she’s not and he’s locked himself in.” 

The words hung heavy in the air, “And what does that have to do with me?” you asked flatly. You knew exactly what he meant. But you weren’t going to do that, you were done with Ollie and everything to do with him. 

“You know exactly what it has to do with you. Did you really think Ollie forgot about you that easily? You’re dumber than I thought.” he quipped unhelpfully. 

“Thanks,” you muttered miserably, Arthur winced. 

“What I meant is that you can’t give up this easily, you and I both know how stupid Ollie can be sometimes.” 

You chuckled softly, letting a tiny smile creep onto your face. Arthur wasn’t wrong. When you and Ollie were both 8 you invited him over for Easter to make coloured eggs. It resulted in 20 cracked eggs on the kitchen tiles when Ollie accidentally knocked them off the bench. The two of you had stared at the mess on the ground before bursting out laughing until you were both in tears. It was safe to say that you both spent the next 2 hours scrubbing the tiles and the yolk that had stained the grout in between them. 

“Yeah.” you said softly, looking at the sun that had been swallowed by the top of the palm trees, the stars in the sky beginning to appear as you sat in the light underneath a lamp post. 

“So?”

“Okay, I’ll get him out of the room but after that I’m out of here. I want to go home.” 

Arthur gave you a quick thumbs up as you raised your hand to knock gently on the door to the driver’s room. There wasn’t a reply, only dead silence and that’s when you heard it, crying from inside the room. 6-year-old you would’ve kicked down the door and done anything to get to your best friend. But here you stood outside the room, sending hopeless glances at Arthur who was standing behind you. 

“Ollie?” you called out hesitantly, the crying halted and there was another long moment of silence. You pressed your ear up against the door, waiting for an answer. 

“Yeah?” his shaky voice replied, you breathed a sigh of relief. You turned around, beckoning Arthur to leave you both, he only nodded, mouthing ‘OK’ as he slipped down the hallway. Turning back to the driver’s room you took a deep breath in, you didn’t want to go in. You didn’t think you could face him after what happened earlier. 

“You came,” he said as your hand rested on the handle of the door but there was resistance, it was still locked. 

“Of course, are you okay?” you asked, immediately regretting asking as soon as it left your mouth. You cursed yourself silently as you awaited Ollie’s answer. Soft sniffles came from the other side of the door, “Yeah.” he finally replied quietly but loud enough for you to hear from the other side of the door.

What were you supposed to say to get him out of the driver’s room?

“Everyone’s waiting for you, you can’t stay in there forever.” you gently reminded him, sighing as you sat down, back leaning up against the door. There was another long moment of silence as you rested your head on the door, stretching your legs out for comfort. 

“I don’t think I can do it.” he said, taking you by surprise. The Ollie you’d known wasn’t afraid of anything, he was confident in almost everything he did, almost it seemed. 

“Oliver, you’re being crazy. You are by far the most talented driver I’ve ever seen.” you told him, staring at the roof of the building as you heard a sigh from the other side of the door. “You’re just saying that because you’re my girlfriend, Estelle.” 

You froze as if you’d just been stabbed by icicles, Ollie thought you were Estelle. 

Of course. He’d been expecting her, Arthur had told you before. You scoffed to yourself quietly, you would’ve stood up and left if it wasn’t the fact that you were here to get Ollie out of the driver’s room he had oh so nicely locked himself in. You let out a soft sigh as you racked your brain for what you should say to him. 

“I’m not. It’s the truth, Ollie.” you told him with a heavy heart, feeling as if you were just setting yourself up to get your heart broken all over again. You took a deep breath in, “You are such an amazing driver it’s literally insane, not only that but you’re by far the kindest, most selfless person I know. It’s crazy that you think you can’t do this, because I know that you can. Ferrari chose you to drive for them for a reason, they know what you’re capable of, everyone else does too. I see you and you’re extraordinary, you have this spark inside you that’s amazing. And . . . maybe that’s the reason why I love you. I always have, and when I had the chance I should’ve told you but I didn’t because your friendship has always meant more to me than my own feelings.” you let out a shaky breath, words weighing down on your chest.

“You’re a good person, Ollie. You’ve earned a chance to show the world just how great and insanely talented you are, are you really going to throw it away?” 

You blinked back tears, who knew you could get so emotional after giving such a life changing speech?

You rubbed your eyes gingerly and cleared your throat, allowing yourself to breathe. It was time to leave now, Ollie would have realised by now that it was you who was speaking to him and not Estelle. As you began to get up, leaning against the door for support you heard a click!

Oh shit, was the only thought that went through your mind as you lost your footing and fell backwards, the door frame offering you no help at all as you grasped at it helplessly. You stared up at Ollie as you laid at his feet, a million thoughts racing through your mind. He was in his fireproofs with his race suit tied around his waist as he looked down at you, eyebrows knitted. There were tear stains on his flushed cheeks as he stared at you with those wide brown eyes you’d seen among the books all those years ago. 

“Y/N?” 

a/n: sorry if it was so quick and rushed i just wanted to post something! Thank you if you got the end, ik it was super long for no reason, so thank you! Please let me know what you think, likes and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you and have an amazing day xx

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A plate of large, very full ravioli sprinkled with fresh herbs. A close-up on one of the ravioli cut open to reveal and herb and cheese filling. End ID]

Pansooti (Ligurian stuffed pasta with wild greens)

This is a recipe for a cheese-and-herb stuffed pasta called "pansooti" in Ligurian, or "pansotti" in Italian. The name is derived from the Italian "panciuti" (singular: "panciuto"), meaning "pot-bellied"; and, as the name implies, they are meant to be stuffed until they are distinctly round on one side. In Genoan parlance, pansooti are sometimes called "ge in preixun" ("chard in prison").

Pansooti's origins can perhaps be found in Sant’Apollinare, where they were typically made for the feast of Saint Joseph on March 19. Because they are ravioli di magro ("lean ravioli")—that is, meatless pasta—they're perfect for a festival that always falls during Lent.

Pansooti's filling is cheesy and earthy, with bitter greens, nutmeg, majoram, and a light, tangy local cheese called prescinsêua (also known as quagliata, or cagliata). Traditionally, a mix of locally foraged wild herbs known as preboggión, including borage, aster, dandelion, and sow thistle, is used; and in spring, pre-mixed bundles of these pot herbs can be purchased in the markets in Genoa. In seasons when these greens are not available, Swiss chard may be used.

Pansooti is frequently served with a creamy salsa di noci (walnut sauce), which combines the sweet earthiness of walnuts, the zestiness of raw garlic, and the floral and fruity notes of good olive oil to form a perfect complement to the herb filling.

Recipe under the cut!

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Ingredients:

For the pasta:

250g 00 semolina flour (semola di grano duro rimacinata)

Pinch of table salt

Splash of white wine (optional)

About 155g water

Ligurian pasta is typically made without eggs. The adoption of eggs in pasta-making occurred in some regions of Italy over the course of the 20th century. I have seen someone go so far as to say that no true Italian adds eggs to pasta. Nor does any true Scotsman add sugar to his porridge.

For the filling:

1 compacted cup (180g) prepared preboggión; or Swiss chard

1 cup (175g) vegan ricotta; or vegan labna

2 sprigs marjoram

Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste

For the sauce:

Half a tea glass (1/3 cup) good olive oil

200g shelled walnuts

A clove of garlic

50g non-dairy parmesan cheese (optional)

200g soy or oat milk

A sprig of marjoram

50g stale bread, or breadcrumbs

Salt, to taste

Instructions:

For the pasta:

Mix flour and salt in a large bowl. Make a well in the center and add water and wine, if using. Knead by hand for 10 minutes, or in a stand mixer on medium-low for 6 minutes. The dough should be soft and slightly sticky.

Cover and let rest for 30 minutes to an hour while you prepare the filling and sauce.

For the filling:

Mince greens, or use a food processor. Mix all filling ingredients. Taste and adjust salt and nutmeg.

For the sauce:

Cut the stale bread in into cubes. Combine with milk in a small bowl, and work with your hands until the bread is fully hydrated and you have a grainy mixture.

Pulverise garlic in a mortar and pestle. Add walnuts and crush to desired texture.

Combine the olive oil, breadcrumb mixture, walnuts, marjoram, cheese, and salt and mix.

If you don't have a mortar and pestle, grate the garlic and finely chop the walnuts.

To assemble:

1. Divide dough into four pieces, leaving the ones you're not working with covered. Roll the first piece of dough out into a rectangle about 1/8" (3mm) thick.

2. Cut dough into 3" (7.5cm) squares and place a heaping teaspoon of filling atop each one. Fold each square diagonally into a triangle; then, take the two furthest points of the triangle and bring them together, pressing to seal. Take any extra dough that's crossed over and fold it around the point you just made, pressing again.

To cook:

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Carefully add pansooti and cook 3-5 minutes, until pasta is cooked through. Remove with a slotted spoon.

Top with walnut sauce and fresh marjoram and serve hot.