#x reader>>>>anything ever

[hayleesoph]

im gonna start writing fanfiction for my own personal enjoyment and no one is gonna stop me!! eddie munson, colin bridgerton, and jason voorhees better watch out because here i come!!

[dollyfetti]

“kiss me.”

“i’ve never kissed before.”

you roll your eyes with a small giggle. “shoto,” you start warmly, scooting closer to him on your bed. “you don’t need to know how..” you pause, trying to find the right words while the boy blinks back at you with a blank expression like always.

“it’s easy! like.. just..!” you demonstrate with a little pucker of your lips and squeeze of your eyes, bringing a very tiny smile onto shoto’s lips. he has to admit to himself, he’s a little nervous. he wants to be good, but how can he be good at something he’s never done?

“will you kiss me kindly?” he murmurs, white lashes kissing his cheeks as he blinks at you like a curious cat.

your toothy smile widens and you nod immediately. “sho, i will kiss you so kind, midoriya will seem like a jerk.”

he frowns, shaking his head a bit. “he could never be-”

“i know, i know,” you cut him off with a soft grin.

you look down, watching his hand press flat against his knee, like he’s unsure of what to do with it. you hum, taking it into yours. he follows your gaze, frown melting into his little smile once more as your fingers roll over his skin.

when he looks back up, you’re already admiring him. it’s a thing you do, where you silently take in every inch of his face.

your eyes flicker to his lips and you lean just a little closer. you hear his small inhale, and internally coo at your shy boy. “i’m going to kiss you now, okay?” you mumble, still caressing his hand with utmost care.

“yes.” he murmurs back, closing his eyes. “go ahead, sweet girl.”

the nickname brings a pitter patter to your heart, and that’s the push you need to press your lips against his. they’re soft, not that you expected anything less. they’re hesitant and awkward, but filled with love anyhow, and you find yourself giddy at the fact that he’s taking his time.

his lips rub against yours in a nervous manner, but his hand squeezes yours a bit before bringing his other up to cup your cheek. he even opens his eyes for a few seconds to see the happy look on your face before pulling back with an exhale of relief.

“good, right?” you say with a coo, leaning your face against his hand unconsciously.

his face softens more, if that’s even possible, and he nods gently. “yes. very good, i think.”

[mostly-imagines]

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all. 

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety. 

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it. 

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.    

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions. 

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment. 

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him? 

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more. 

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist. 

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale. 

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.  

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes. 

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling. 

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions. 

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up. 

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you. 

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip. 

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.” 

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in. 

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation. 

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.  

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind. 

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed. 

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons. 

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come. 

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed. 

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his. 

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now. 

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever  convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate. 

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop. 

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm. 

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action. 

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back. 

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

🐲 reblogging is an ancient art form, only the strong may master it 🐲

[cvntoid]

Getting The Poison Out

in which you’ve been acting up all fucking day and Joel has to put you back in your place with a punishment tailored to fit the crime.

——

under the cut (a little something new): serious daddy kink/ddlg vibes, rough spanking, pet names, lots of crying, some dubcon vibes, fingerfucking, pussy eating, PIV sex, creampie, aftercare.

——

It’s been miles with this fucking clicking sound.

You sigh, heavy, trying to squeeze your eyes shut and not be irritating - though you can feel it, a ball of growing frustration and annoyance that just hasn’t gone away in - what? 50 miles? 75, 100? Does it really matter?

Joel’s stopped a couple times now to check things over - yes, the check engine light is on. That’s typical - he’s good at working with machines, good at fixing a problem. Good with his hands. You stare out the window and, feeling like a fucking kid in a coming-of-age movie and not a fully grown adult with an attitude problem, you lean your forehead against the passenger window and stare. The clouds outside are fluffy, the sky a deep, open blue, the kind that isn’t tinted and dusty with pollution. It’s like a photograph. Soft, open fields, yellowing with the deep summer sun. Windows slightly cracked to allow in the fresh air. Abandoned, broken fences, wandering animals, dusty roads and those shimmering phantom pools in the distance that disappear the closer you get, a trick of the heat on the asphalt. You imagine dipping a toe into it, the toe of your dirty boot trying to dip into a glittering, morphing puddle and finding the stiff barrier of cracked road and dirt. Reverie over.

“That noise,” you grumble.

Joel grunts. He barely spares you a glance, glaring stonily ahead, focused on your destination. It should be coming close now, actually - some place in some barely-existent town you have to spend the night in, somebody’s spare room. Something Joel needs to collect. The hot air blows through the cracked window, through loose hairs you didn’t tie up, and you’re grateful for the sweat dripping down the back of your neck and all along your hairline.

“What the hell is that fuckin’ noise,” you grumble at the window, your own breath fogging it up. In a fit, you rub it out, putting a smear on the glass. It only annoys you further and you fix yourself eyes-forward, glaring out the windshield instead. It’s dented, cracked a little in the corner. Smeared with fucking bugs.

“M’not gunna talk to ya when you’re like that. It’s unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant,” you repeat sourly, the taste of the word in your mouth making your mood worse. You eye Joel out of the corner of your eye and the crease in his brow, the distinctive frown in his lips, well - that just serves to piss you off even more. “Well, sorry about that.”

“Ain’t sorry.”

“What?”

“Ya ain’t sorry,” he repeats slowly, loudly. He finally turns to look at you, brows drawn. He looks exhausted. Well who isn’t, right? Fuck. Fucking - you turn and look out the windshield again, beating your own pervasive guilt down by counting rusty old street signs, some of them so worn or vandalized you can barely guess where you’re at. The end of the goddamn world.

You choose to not answer Joel at all, or even acknowledge him, instead choosing to marinate in your own irritation and slight guilt. It’s not hard to do… it’s been a long day, and Joel’s been carting both of you in this fucking hot truck for hours, stopping occasionally to check on whatever might be going on. Apparently it could mean something or nothing at all. All you know is that the sound of it is grating, and Joel’s complete absence of commentary - as usual - is somehow bad today. Everything feels bad. Everything feels like a big, heavy chore, weighing you down, and you actively know you’re being unpleasant - he’s right. But facing that fact seems impossible in the face of your own displeasure.

You’re only human, right?

What-fucking-ever.

Joel’s not apparently as willing to give it up as you might have thought. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shoot you a glance - a glare, likely. It makes you feel justified in some weird way, but mostly it makes you even more miserable.

“Actin’ like a fuckin’ brat.”

Well, there it is - can’t ignore that, can you?

“Excuse me?”

“Y’heard me, kid. Actin’ like a goddamn brat. Spoiled little baby.”

“Oh, so - ” at first you ball your fists, but then you explode your fingers open in a stupid little display, throwing them up in defeat, scoffing, huffing, acting exactly like he’s describing and only getting angrier that he’s right. You want nothing more than for this trip to be over, for you to be able to lie in a bed and sweat there instead of this fucking truck, but here you are, going through hell with Joel. Knowing exactly how you’re being and having no intention of quitting anytime soon, your better sense be damned. “So, I’m a baby, huh?”

“Mmm. Reckon so.”

The next several miles are spent in silence, your burning, impotent rage filling you up until you can feel your own angry flush on your cheeks. No matter how long you stave off from looking toward Joel - which you do as subtly as you can, staring ahead and flicking your eyes toward him only once in a while - his expression never seems to change. It’s the same stoic, pinched brow, the set in his jaw that makes you want to (lick it) scream at him.

Joel pulls down a gravelly road, dust pluming up behind the tires. The air is clouded with it, but there isn’t a fucking thing either of you can do about all that. Joel glances your way as if daring you to bitch and moan about it, and for a shining moment, you consider it. You really consider it, licking your lips, going as far as to open your mouth, but ultimately you stare miserably out the window and watch the dust fly.

Up ahead, there’s a little property - a small house with another, smaller one sitting kitty-corner on the lot. Joel pulls over beside another beat up, dusty car and shoots you a look.

“Wait here,” he says simply, grabbing a duffel bag from the backseat and slinging it over his shoulder.

“What’re you doing? Why can’t I go?”

Joel simply shuts the door on your questions, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips as he turns and walks up to the house, knocks on the door. A man glances over at the truck and allows Joel inside. You slump down in your seat with an impatient sigh and play with a frayed edge on your shirt, feeling the weight of the pout in your expression but doing nothing to fix it. Who cares.

He comes back and you’re standing outside the truck, leaning against the passenger door. You open it back up and he gives you a curt shake of the head.

“Stayin’ here tonight. Get your shit.”

“Yeah, let me just grab all my luggage,” you mumble sarcastically.

“You’d do well to be a little more grateful,” Joel snaps, and his tone makes you look up at him for a second, a little twinge of fear blinding the irritation you’ve felt all day long. He looks angry and even a little disgusted, and it makes you feel even worse. “Gunna stay in that little house over there for a night or two. My friend up there doesn’t have to do that for us, but he is. Now fix your fuckin’ bad attitude. Should be apologizin’.”

“I haven’t needed a daddy in a long time, Joel, and I don’t need one now,” you snap, slinging your bag over your shoulder and slamming the truck’s door a little too hard. You turn and glower toward the house, more of a shack than anything but still a sight for sore eyes - and sore backs. If there’s actually a bed in there, you might just cry.

After you both deposit your bags on the bed, you sigh and swipe a hand over your forehead, working to open each and every window while grumbling.

“Fucking hot in here,” you mumble, crossing your arms like a petulant child as you look out the bedroom window. Insects buzz and chirp outside.

“Y’ain’t gunna quit, huh?” Joel’s glaring, and he nods toward the mattress, snapping his fingers. “Get on the bed.”

“What?”

“On the bed. Now. On your belly.”

There’s a brief moment of pause in which you’re both staring at each other. Joel sighs impatiently and comes to you, his big hands reaching for your pants. The moment you try to block him out he lightly slaps your hands away.

“Stay still, kid. Fuckin’ gunna do it m’self for ya - what’s new,” he says, voice dangerous and low. He sounds pissed. He makes quick work of the button, the zipper, and yanks them down your thighs, looping his thumbs into your panties to take them down all at once. He shoves you so that you lie on your back and then your fight-or-flight kicks in a little, and he has to grunt and struggle to get your legs under control to rip your jeans clean off your legs. “Be fuckin’ still. Quit squirmin’.”

“Joel, stop -” You wriggle a little up the mattress, lifting up on your elbows to scoot away.

Instead of answering you, Joel yanks your ankle and you’re sliding down again, on your back, the tiniest yelp leaving your lips as your face flushes. It’s embarrassing, Joel seeing you like this - no bottoms to speak of, completely bare to him while you kick and half-heartedly struggle; but there’s a little give, there, isn’t there? A part of you that likes it. That likes the feeling of his calloused fingers hooking underneath the soft, silky flesh behind your knee to keep you in place, his eyes roving over your nudity, your bare pussy.

Joel grabs your hips with purpose and flips you easily to your belly, climbing up onto the mattress himself until it’s dipped beside you. He has one large, warm hand on the small of your back, anchoring you there.

“Been a goddamn brat and a pain in my ass all day long. I know exactly how to take care of a little fuckin’ brat.”

His other hand is warm on your ass, but now, everything is clicking into place and you squirm a little again, heart pounding in your chest. “Joel, you - you can’t.”

“Sure fuckin’ can, and I will. Y’gunna stay nice and still for me so we can get this over with, hear me? Gunna listen to me for once.”

The first slap stings. The sound you make is mostly out of disbelief, your eyes widening as they train on the scratched old wall behind the headboard. There’s a nightstand, to the side there, a candle on an old, yellowed doily. Joel’s hand comes down again, harder, and this time you hold your breath. There’s a drawer - you wonder idly if there’s a bible in there.

If this is happening, you’re going to have to hold out. Not think about it too much, even though your face is already flushing. It can’t be that bad, not really - right? He’ll get it out of his system and it will be over. Joel wouldn’t really hurt you. He wouldn’t. He -

The next slap is followed immediately by more, raining down against your ass so that it really starts to fucking sting, and there you are - spine arching up a little, feet kicking again, but he has you. He holds you down against that mattress and it’s not even a contest; he’s so strong, so sure of himself, and he grunts and clucks his tongue at you.

“Y’ain’t goin’ anywhere, darlin’. Gunna take it all for me. Teach you a fuckin’ lesson.”

His callouses skate over your warm, tingling flesh and it kind of hurts. You’re already starting to hyperventilate as he raises that palm up again, body screaming with anticipation before he slaps one ass cheek and then the other. He repeats this, over and over, harder with each go.

It’s only minutes - it can’t be longer than a few minutes of this before you’re squealing under him. Your breath hitches in your throat and the tears come so fast it’s dizzying, sniffling as you press your hot face into the mattress and wring your fingers into the sheets.

“Joel, please - I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you bawl.

“Mmm. Betcha you are. Not sorry enough, though - not yet, kiddo.”

“N-no, wait -”

“Deep breaths, honey,” he interrupts, and fuck - he sounds tender, his voice heavy with something. Something you’ve never heard in his tone before, a deep, pleasant rumble that is so unlike the way he continues to spank your ass raw. “C’mon; in, out. Good girl.”

Joel hums as you sob and twitch and writhe, nowhere to go while he punishes you. It feels like your tender flesh is going numb and becoming more tender with each pass, somehow, all that sensation mingling together impossibly until your mind is screaming with panic each time his hand lifts up. When he takes his hand off your lower back and there’s a moment of peace, you don’t even move. You just shudder and hiccup, hands shaking. The clink of his belt, the sound of a zipper. His deep groan and then a hot, slick feeling against your ass cheek.

Joel’s cock. He rubs the leaking, fat head of his cock over all that burning, welted expanse. It hurts. It makes your stomach flip. He does that for a moment and then his fingers are gently probing between your thighs. Even with them pressed together, he works himself where he wants to go, parting your slit and feeling you there.

“You’re soaked,” he mumbles.

“S-Sorry, Daddy,” you whine. Oh, god, his scoff of a laugh.

“Thought you didn’t need no daddy, remember?” After a beat in which you’re too humiliated and confused to answer, Joel’s humming again, pushing one thick finger inside of your cunt, then two. “S’okay. Normal for baby girls to get wet for their daddies after a hard spankin’. But we ain’t through - not yet. Just a little more.”

He clucks his tongue again and shushes you as you whimper a weak protest.

“None of that. Be good. Be good for Daddy, sweet thing. Little more.”

The rest of the spanking is so much more intense; there’s been a moment to cool down, to start relaxing away from the sharp, burning pain of it all, and it’s so fucking rough going all the way back to 100 after that. His fingers are wet with your own fluids and it makes the spanking worse, somehow. He goes out of his way to press his broad palm right up against your cunt, grinding the heel of it so that your wetness covers his skin. He delivers the hardest slap yet with that hand, a deep, predatory sound coming up from his chest. It scares you. The fear is fleeting, however, as the hot wave of blinding pain rushes up your spine and it’s almost like you’re whiting out, just for a second. Tiny, glittering sparkles waver in and out of the edges of your vision for that moment before they burn out like fireflies, and you realize that you’re moaning, wailing. It’s like your hearing comes back into focus, your mind viciously slamming back into your own body after Joel nearly beat it out of you.

You’ve never shaken this hard before, not really. Not from anything like this.

Joel’s cock is back against your ass and it stings so fucking bad when he drags his slippery cockhead over his own welted handprints. He strokes himself and the sound of it is so lewd, seemingly louder than your own choked sobs.

“Hurts pretty bad, huh, darlin’? I’m sorry I had to do that to you,” he says, and his voice is still that deep, low tone, but instead of anger, there’s a kind of tenderness there. A warmth. “Understand why Daddy had to give you a lickin’ though, don’t you?”

“Yes…” The word barely comes out whole, drawn high and shuddering like your gasps.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Daddy, I - I’m… I’m s-sorry fuh-f-for -”

“Shush, now - no more’a that. Just let Daddy make you feel good, babygirl. Mean part’s over.”

Joel fits those long, big fingers back against your cunt, rubbing your clit in slow circles. Gentle - lovingly, almost. He does this for a long few moments while you catch your breath, murmuring little words of praise. Done so good for me. Just breathe. Good girl. Go ahead, let it out; give it all over to your Daddy. And soon enough, you’re throbbing, rocking back a little against his touch. His cock rests against the back of your thigh and you focus on the way it pulses against you, little twitches. It’s dripping, there, a hot, slippery gathering of it on your skin. Feels so warm. So do you. Your face, your aching cunt, your poor, abused ass.

Joel leaves your clit and his hands are gingerly at your waist, helping you to roll to your back as he gazes down at you.

“I know, I know. Know it’s all sore. Lemme make it better.”

God, he’s gorgeous. Big, broad, his heavy cock freed from his jeans and visibly throbbing. His eyes are so soft and heavy-lidded, licking his lips as he parts your thighs and gazes down at your pretty, pink pussy, open and swollen like some delicious little gift, like ripe fruit. Just for him.

“Baby… oh, lookit you. All this for me, huh?” Joel pushes his fingers slowly inside, crooking them to nudge against that spot inside that makes you gasp, makes your spine arch just a little bit. “That’s it - so good.”

Joel leans down between your thighs until you feel his breath against your molten, waiting flesh, his fingers still working that spot inside of you. He drags the flat of his tongue up the open seam of your cunt and moans, losing himself in the act of worshipping you like this. Making it all better - what a good Daddy. Maybe you can be good, after all. You could.

You allow your eyes to slide shut as you rock your hips against his ministrations, already so embarrassingly close for him. He inhales through his gorgeous nose and hums in pleasure, taking in your scent - that’s what he’s doing. Fuck. This realization pushes you even closer and there it is - the slow roll over the edge, falling down into that star-filled wave that has you gasping.

“Daddy, I’m fucking - oh, my god, it’s so - it’s -”

Joel only moves a little faster, a little deeper, milking your climax for everything it’s worth. He doesn’t want to put you off track, doesn’t want to fuck up the trajectory. The way your cunt flutters and twitches around his fingers makes him squeeze his free hand around the base of his cock, groaning, forcing himself to wait. He wants to take all of it from you - it’s his, after all. It’s all for Daddy.

When your loud moans melt off into sweet, keening little whimpers, Joel pulls away, sucking his fingers clean and steadying his hands up underneath your knees, pushing gently forward until you’re bent in half.

“Gunna be a lot, little girl,” he murmurs, eyes on yours. He grinds his hips and the weight of his body hovering over yours, his dick on your pussy, the sheer pressure of the thick head as he presses it up against your hole has you scared all over again. “Might hurt a little, but it’s a good hurt. Ready for Daddy? Wanna hear it.”

“… yes.”

“You know what I need to hear. Try again.”

“Yes, Daddy, I’m… ready for you.” Oh, you sound so pathetic, so small and nervous. Your big, shining eyes, lashes still wet. Lips all pink and parted like your beautiful slit.

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.” Joel sinks his cock inside little by little, thrusting shallowly in and out to gather your own mess all over his length. Easing the passage the best he can, memorizing the way your brows draw together and you wince with each passing inch. “Daddy’s gotcha. Daddy’s gotcha…”

He whispers it like a mantra as he reaches up to tenderly wipe new tears from your eyes. They gather there, big fat drops that roll silently down the sides of your temples to wet your hairline.

It’s not hard to melt you against him, and he shifts, bending you just a bit further now that he can sheath his long, thick cock all the way inside. It grinds softly up against your cervix as he waits there a beat, hissing a breath through his clenched teeth as he enjoys the slight discomfort of your tight little pussy around him.

“Fuck, honey… y’perfect,” he murmurs, rolling his hips. He works into a new rhythm, knowing he won’t be able to last long. Not with you all pressed beneath him and whining with all that flush on your cheeks, down your chest. That spray of freckles glow against the fever-spots of your cheekbones and Joel stills himself only for a moment, lest he cums on the spot. Just a little more. Just a little fucking longer.

By the time he absolutely can’t hold it in anymore, his heavy balls bouncing off the warm flesh of your ass, he reaches up to stroke your face. He pushes a thumb between your lips and there’s not a single word exchanged; you take him in, cheeks hollowing slightly as you suck. You wrap your hands around his strong forearm as if to keep him there, and you suppose it’s true - the feeling of the rough pad of his thumb over your tongue is intoxicating. Soothing.

Joel looks as though he’s in agony, and then he’s fucking into you hard enough that he can feel your teeth on this thumb as you lose focus, and fuck - you’re cumming for him again. It’s gorgeous, the sound of your tortured moans as it catches you by surprise, fingers trembling and digging into him a little. There’ll be tiny, crescent-shaped hints of your nails there later on, and he’ll run his lips over them when you’re not paying attention.

Joel grunts with each brutal thrust and finally the pressure bursts. He pumps his cum as deeply as he can, bodies flush together until you’re squirming.

“Be good, baby, you c’n take it - fuck, let Daddy fill you up…”

Joel sounds like an animal as he shoots his load in thick, hot ropes. He’s so utterly deep that if you focus, you can feel each little spurt right up against your battered cervix, each contraction as he empties his balls into you. He hangs down low enough that you manage to push up and kiss the bridge of his nose. A shiver runs up his spine and gasps, nuzzling mindlessly into it.

He unfolds your legs, slowly bringing them back down before he pulls out of your body and lies beside you. You’re both panting, and Joel traces his fingers over the ball of your shoulder as you come down in the comfortable silence. You’ve never felt this exhausted in your life. You can’t seem to muster any energy at all, eyes slipping shut. All there is are the sounds outside the window, Joel’s even breathing, the almost imperceptible rasp of his rough fingers on your soft skin.

“Feelin’ better? …get all the poison out?” His voice, so soft for once. You nod and he exhales an amused little laugh through his nose. Even with your eyes shut, you can feel his wry, handsome smile. “That’s my girl.”

[differenteagletragedy]

What if you are married to Simon but you still have eyes and Price is right there, what then ↓

It's so hot. The sun is beating down outside, summer in full swing, but inside your house the heat is oppressive. It's suffocating.

"Simon, just call someone to fix it," you whine, walking around until you find your husband with his shirt off and sweat dripping down his back, reading something on his phone.

"Don't need anyone to fix it," he mutters, not looking up at you. "Can do it myself."

You groan, because it's painfully clear at this point that he in fact cannot fix it. It's been three days since the air conditioning went out, and three days of Simon trying everything he can think of to fix it. He's been flipping breakers, messing with the thermostat, taking tools to the unit outside, but nothing's worked, because Simon does not know what he's doing.

"I'm going to die," you tell him, sinking down onto the couch. "I'm going to perish and it's all going to be your fault."

You see him smirk, but he still doesn't look up. Instead, he tells you, "You're going to survive this, sweetheart. Going to have it up and running by tonight."

"Why won't you call an actual repairman? Why are you insisting on whatever this is?"

"Cute," he says, finally glancing up at you with a grin. "You're the one who married a stubborn bastard, what do you think?"

You think it's a mix of pride and sheer unwillingness to be outsmarted by a hunk of metal and parts, but you don't say that. Instead, you continue whining.

The next morning, Simon still hasn't figured it out. You tell him more directly, dramatics aside, that you're very uncomfortable and would just like to solve the problem in a normal, reasonable manner.

He makes a deal with you. He's not ready to completely give up and call in outside help just yet. But he will call Johnny.

"Does Johnny know how to repair a heating and cooling unit?" you ask, entirely unconvinced.

He answers, "Johnny knows a lot of things."

A couple of hours later, Johnny comes over, his own tools in tow, and he's brought along a surprise -- Kyle.

You keep your groan to yourself this time and just bring the men drinks while they work. Or, well, while Johnny and Kyle nod while Simon tells them everything he's done that hasn't worked. It doesn't take them long to switch from water to beer, and at this point you're pretty sure you're actually going to die.

"You know," Kyle says at one point, carrying the latest round of empty bottles to the trash, "I think the captain had something like this happen a few years back. I seem to remember overhearing him talking to the missus about it in a call."

"Is that why she divorced him?" you ask. "He wouldn't call a repairman and kept telling her he could fix it himself?"

Simon gives you a look, and you give it right back -- you know you're being cheeky, but the heat really is miserable.

But Kyle only laughs and shakes his head, saying "No, I don't think that's what did it. He got it fixed, I believe, he's pretty handy with things like that."

It's your turn to shoot Simon at look. Your husband shakes his head, twisting the top off another beer, and says, "Absolutely not."

"Simon."

"Sweetheart."

"Please."

An hour or so later, John arrives. And, ever so slightly, the atmosphere shifts. Simon, Johnny and Kyle stand just a little bit straighter, their voices get the tiniest bit more business-like. They're not standing at attention now that the captain is here, it's not that notable, but now it's clear that someone is in charge.

It's cute, you think as you watch them. You smile softly, watching Simon as he gives John a debriefing on everything he's tried so far, and you don't notice that John's eyes linger on you just a fraction of a second longer than what might be considered acceptable.

The captain is the one who finally gets the air conditioning running again, but it's no small effort. From the window, you watch as Price tinkers with something within the unit, and you smile when you hear it kick on, a nearby vent starting the work of circulating cool air through the too-hot house.

"What did you do?" you ask John, a bit of wonder in your voice, when they all come back inside to make sure everything is in order. "Simon's been going at it for days and you got it in half an hour."

The older man gives you a small, tight smile, reaching out to tap Simon's shoulder lightly.

"Just a blown capacitor, love," he tells you. "Easy enough fix."

You return his smile like you always do -- you like John. Always have. It's something, you think, about how similar he can be to Simon. Both men are strong and solid, deeply masculine in a way that's natural, not forced. They both have deep, rumbling voices that you feel in your chest when they speak. And sometimes, though you don't know John as well as you know Simon, of course, you think that the captain has something wild in him, too. Some kind of ache that runs deep through him, one that he's muzzled and tamed long ago.

Your Simon struggles with it still, though less since you married him. It's why he still wears a mask on the job, and why he wrestles, on a base level, with the idea of being seen.

John, you think, wears a different kind of mask. You can see it when he comes over for dinner some evenings, in the way that even after a full meal, dessert and a glass of scotch, the tension stays in his shoulders. You've never seen the man relaxed, and from what Simon's said of him, he hasn't either. It's his tight grip on control, of himself and those around him. He clings to it.

"Is that thing really working?" Johnny asks, grabbing another beer. "It's still hot as hell in here."

"It'll take a while to cool down, but it's working," John answers.

He's as sweaty as the others, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe his face. You look down -- your eyes just tracking the motion, you tell yourself -- to see his belly bared, covered in a thick coating of dark hair and just the slightest bit soft.

When you pull your eyes back to his, he's giving you a grin, but if he caught you staring, he doesn't say anything.

"You wanna get Price a drink?" Simon asks, smirking at you. "For saving your life and all."

You nod, turning back to the kitchen, pulling out the scotch you keep just for him and trying to clear your head.

Sure, John is an attractive man. So is Kyle, so is Johnny. And for that matter, so is Simon. Your husband.

But still, when you return to the group of men gathered in your living room, your fingers brush against John's as you hand him the drink. And you can't help but think about what that beard would feel like against your cheek, between your thighs. How it would feel if, even for just a little while, you were the thing he felt that desperate, innate need to control.

[sceletaflores]

come on into my bed with me (i know you want to)

pair: old man!logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, some sad vibes because i can't function without them, large age gap (but isn't that obvious by now? mid 20s/old as fuck), established relationship but only kind of, falls in the logan 2017 timeline but very loosely, LONGINGGGG, gratuitous nickname use (kid, baby, honey, ect), nasty dirty talk cause he's old and gross, not so dry humping, JUST THE TIP RAHHHH, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: this was heavily inspired by imogen heap's 'i am in love with you' because that song fucks so hard and it really gave me lots of old man logan vibes. i was just so overcome with nasty thoughts that the beat possessed me and i blacked out and listened to it on a constant repeat while i wrote this instead of doing my a&p work. kisses!

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

you can't sleep, logan left his door open...

Rain pelts at the smudged glass of your window, drops trailing down the span of the panes that you follow with your eyes.

It's been raining nearly all week, a rare thing in Mexico, especially somewhere as dry as Sonora.

You used to love the rain. You felt a special kind of comfort anytime night would come and there'd be a certain chill swirling through the air, that familiar scent of damp soil and wet stone rising as the first drops hit the ground.

In Sonora, rain is supposed to be a gift—a reprieve from the unrelenting heat, a chance for the dry earth to drink.

It should feel cleansing, like a reset of sorts, and maybe it would have a few months ago.

Now it just feels heavy, oppressive. Each raindrop splattering against the glass feels like a reminder of everything that's stuck, unmoving.

The soft noise of it was almost enough to lull you to sleep, but it was still no match for your wandering mind.

You’ve been finding yourself here a lot recently, shrouded in the scratchy sheets of your bed in the quiet dark encompassing your room, mind racing.

It was raining the first night he touched you.

You've been with Logan and Charles for nine months.

A runaway hitchhiker turned caretaker after you fled from the meaningless scraps of your life back in Texas.

Logan found you on the side of the highway coming back from a shift in El Paso. One stop with the hazards on and a hasty conversation through a rolled down window later, you were throwing your bags in the back of his limo and climbing into the front seat.

You didn't realize until much later that he never truly asked you to stay, or to care for Charles alongside him.

It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement, a roof over your head in exchange for your help. Watch over his ailing father for a few days while he went out to get him more medicine, that's what you settled on.

Yet somehow, here you are, nine months later.

You cook meals in a dusty kitchen that always smells faintly of motor oil, listen to Charles’ stories about a world you’ll never fully grasp, and watch Logan patch himself up in grim silence after he’s returned from whatever trouble found him this time. 

It's strange how the days seemed to stretch endlessly, but the weeks have slipped past like a blink. You carved out a routine in this crumbling house in Sonora, built something that resembles a life even if it feels borrowed, like a second-hand coat that never quite fits right.

At first, you weren’t sure what kept you here. Maybe Charles. 

You warmed to him almost immediately, drawn in by his gentle demeanor and the way he seemed to see right through you without a hint of judgment. 

Even when his mind faltered, slipping into tangled memories or distant fragments of a life long past, he treated you with a kindness you hadn’t felt in years.

You’d come to think of him as a king, regal and noble. A king stripped of his castle, yet still wearing a crown, if ever so skewed—a king nonetheless.

You still aren’t sure, but you can’t shake the sense that leaving now would be like tearing off a scab—painful and unnecessary.

And then, one night, the rain came.

You remember it vividly, a torrent so sudden and unrelenting. The downpour soaking the dry dirt surrounding the plant. 

You couldn’t help yourself from wandering out, stood barefoot on the porch as the cool air nipped at the skin of your arms and legs.

“You’re gonna catch a cold standin’ out here.” Logan said from somewhere behind you, his voice rough and low after the silence of a long shift.

You hadn’t moved, hadn’t even glanced his way. “I like the rain.”

There was a beat of silence before he stepped closer, the warmth of his body radiating against your back. His hand had been hesitant at first, a brush of calloused fingers against your arm. 

You didn’t pull away.

The heat of his palm felt scalding, causing goosebumps to pebble along your damp skin. His thumb swiped across the circular scar just above your elbow, a cigarette burn, one of many.

He didn’t say anything as he turned and walked back into the house. You learned quickly that Logan’s not the type to fill silences with empty words, but you both knew something shifted.

He came into your room later that night. The squeaky mattress of your bed dipping under his weight as he slid his hand down your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts, a silent question.

He didn’t kiss you, but the rain pattering against the tin roof was enough to swallow your soft moans and gasps.

You settled into something undefined—a constant push and pull of need and silence. Logan touched you when he needed to, and you let him because you wanted to.

It wasn’t love, not then. It wasn’t even comfort. But it was connection. A tenuous thread in the quiet storm of your lives.

You figured that was enough.

The rain hasn't slowed. If anything, the howl of the wind is stronger than before.

The soothing rhythm of droplets hitting your window turned aggressively sharp, like darts thrown against a worn cork board.

The boom of thunder is nearly in sync with the pulse of your core, aching and insistent in its need.

It’s been weeks since Logan touched you last, his endless cycle of guilt stronger than it's been before. He’s never outright said it, but you know it’s there.

The silence between you both has stretched longer than you'd like to admit, a quiet that isn't comfortable anymore.

You know he’s got it in his head that he’s somehow taken advantage of you. A perverted old man falling weak to the pretty, young thing taking up space in the bed two doors over from him.

The thought stirs something deep within you, a mix of frustration and confusion. He’s not wrong, not exactly—but he’s not right either. You aren’t a child, and you aren’t helpless. You knew what you wanted, what you needed.

And that hasn’t dared to change.

You shift in bed, the sheets tangling around your legs as your body hums with a restlessness you can’t shake. The air in your room feels thick, charged, and suffocating, a mirror of the space between you and Logan.

He doesn’t understand that you want him too, that you weren’t some helpless thing to be protected or shielded from his darkness. It eats at you until your skin is practically buzzing with it, buzzing with the need to show him.

There’s only so much silence you can take before it becomes too loud to ignore. 

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood cool against your bare feet. You know it’s late, but you don’t care.

You walk through the dimly lit hallway, the creak of the floorboards quiet under you as you make your way to Logan’s door. It’s cracked open, a yellow glow spilling through to guide you like a lighthouse guides its ships to shore.

When you reach the beat up wood you don’t hesitate, you push it open the slightest bit, peering through the widened gap. 

He’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he knows you’re there.

You cross the threshold, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you pull the door shut behind you, leaning your back against it.

“Logan,” you say softly, your voice rougher than you intended.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The lamplight catches the sharp planes of his face, a familiar weariness etched into his features.

His fingers flex at his sides, and for a moment, you think he’s going to tell you to leave—to go back to your room where it’s safe, where you won’t make things more complicated than they already are. You almost brace for it.

But then he speaks.

“What’s wrong, kid.” His voice is nothing but a deep rumble, like gravel crunching underfoot.

You shrug noncommittally, hands messing with a stray thread hanging from the edge of your shorts. “Can’t sleep.”

Logan sighs long and slow through his nose, hands pressing into his thighs. “Thought you liked the rain.”

You smile faintly at the irony, chest swelling with something dangerous. 

You take a step further into the room, pushing yourself off the closed door. The familiar scent of him invades your senses. It’s a mixture of leather, earth, and something raw—something undeniably him. 

You stand there for a moment, letting the silence stretch thin and taut before you finally speak.

“Can I stay?” The words come out barely above a whisper, but they land like a crack of lightning.

You feel your heart thud painfully in your chest, not from fear, but from the sudden vulnerability that makes your skin burn.

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in as you step forward, each movement slow and deliberate. You stop at the edge of his bed, the sheets pressing against the bare skin of your thighs.

Logan’s gaze flickers over his shoulder, meeting yours briefly before he looks away again, like he’s trying to convince himself that the ache in his chest isn’t real.

“You should go back to bed,” he says, voice gruff. “It’s late.”

“I don’t want to go back.” You shake your head even though he isn’t turned around to see it.

Without thinking, you crawl onto the bed, the comforter making soft shushing sounds under your hands and knees. You reach out, fingers brushing the back of his neck, the muscles there tight with strain.

Logan flinches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the permission you need.

You shift closer, pressing your chest against his back, and letting your hands settle on his shoulders. The heat between you is electric, charged with something unsaid, something raw and undeniable.

“Please,” you whisper, your lips brushing against the back of his ear, your voice a mixture of defiance and desire.

Logan stiffens, but this time, you feel the shudder that runs through him, the way his body responds despite the walls he’s built around himself.

You know he’s torn, that he wants to fight this. You feel it in the tension that radiates from him, in the way his body seems to be fighting against the instinct to turn toward you.

But you don’t care anymore. You’re done with silence.

Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt against your skin as you press yourself closer. Your breath is hot against his neck now, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his veins beneath your lips as you hover just above his skin, waiting.

“Logan…” Your voice is softer now, almost pleading. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but you don’t have to.

His hand comes up, brushing against your wrist as if testing, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you lean into him further, your lips brushing the curve of his neck, whispering into the tension that still hangs heavy between you. “Please.”

The last shreds of Logan’s resistance snap under the cloying weight of your touch.

He’s moving before you can even register what’s happening, rearing up with heavy hands that land on your shoulders to push you backwards.

You fall back onto the bed with a soft gasp, bouncing on the mattress once, twice, before Logan follows. His body settles over yours like a warm blanket, thick forearms braced on either side of your head to support his weight.

"Why couldn't you sleep, honey?" he asks, dark eyes boring into yours intense enough to get your stomach churning. The green of them is deeper than normal, like fresh moss growing over stone.

“I was thinking,” you whisper, breathless. Your pulse races beneath your skin, you wonder distantly if he can hear it too.

“Thinkin’ about what?” he presses, breath fanning over your lips temptingly. 

Your brows furrow, a soft noise escaping you. You can't help but tell the truth. “About you.”

Logan hums, eyes trailing along your face slowly. He slots a knee between your thighs, groaning softly at the wet heat that seeps through to his jeans.

You gasp, hips bucking down instinctively. Your pussy aches desperately, leaking arousal into the cotton gusset of your panties.

His jaw clenches at the sound, muscle ticking just beneath the grey of his beard. “Is that right? You been layin' in that bed, thinkin' about me, gettin’ all worked up?"

Your face burns under his scrutiny, but you don’t shy away. You arch your back, pressing yourself as close to him as possible, letting the heat of your body speak for you.

“Yeah,” you breathe, the confession trembling on your lips. “I need you, it hurts.”

Logan exhales sharply, like the words knocked the air out of him. His hands slide from your shoulders, rough palms gliding down the skin of your arms before settling right under the swell of your breasts.

“Where’s it achin’, baby?” he asks softly, words almost getting lost in the dark of the room. “Show me.”

You let out a soft breath, reaching down to take his hand in yours.

Without breaking eye contact, you guide his hand down your trembling body until his palm rests over the apex of your thighs, where the damp fabric of your shorts clings to your swollen folds.

“Here,” you whisper, voice barely audible above the rain pounding against his window.

A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest, and his fingers press more firmly against you, feeling the slick heat that’s soaked through the thin cotton. His eyes darken further, the green almost swallowed by the black of his pupils.

Logan’s thumb drags over your clit, slow and deliberate, coaxing a needy whimper from your lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice thick. “You’re drippin’ for me, aren’t you? Didn’t even need to touch you, and you’re already so fuckin’ wet.” 

You whimper softly, bucking your hips against his hand, desperate for more.

"I've been like this all night," you admit, your voice going high and needy. "Thinking about how good you make me feel. How much I want you."

Logan’s eyes lock onto yours, and there’s something new swirling through them, something you’ve never seen before.

A beat passes—too long—almost agonizing. His free hand lifts from your hip, gently cupping your cheek, fingers brushing against your skin, like he isn’t sure if he has the right to touch you like this. 

His thumb brushes your lip, his gaze flicking to your mouth before returning to your eyes, asking for permission, even though neither of you had ever really needed it before.

"Logan," you say, the sound a little breathless, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, but he doesn’t keep you waiting.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, lips crashing into yours with a ferocity you didn’t expect.

It’s like the world around you falls away, leaving only the warmth of his lips, the taste of him, and the pressure of his body against yours. The raging storm outside dulling until it’s nothing but fuzzy background noise.

His kiss is rough, deep, urgent, but there’s something more in it, a slow unraveling. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, a permanent mark, a reminder that he was here, even if he never says it out loud.

Logan tastes like rich smoke and whiskey, the sharp edge of him mixing with the sweet burn of need. It sends your head reeling, arms coming up to circle around his neck.

You can’t find the words to describe it, not with the way his fingers slide through the wetness gathering at your entrance, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Your hips thrust upward, begging for more, your body hungry for the release he’s just out of reach of giving.

“Want you inside me, Logan,” you moan desperately, slick lips brushing his with every word. “Please.”

Logan's body stiffens against yours at the sound of your pleading, his grip tightening on your cheek like he's trying to anchor himself in the reality of what you're asking.

“Shit,” he growls under his breath, his forehead pressing to yours as he closes his eyes. His chest heaves, the tension in his body palpable. "I—" he pauses, struggling to form the words, but you can see it in his eyes. He's conflicted, desperate, yet still hesitant.

You move against him, your body restless, your need undeniable, feeling the rigid outline of his hard cock pressed firmly against your thigh. A thick plane of heat that has your pussy clenching around the tips of his fingers.

You don’t want to push him, not anymore. But you’re past the point of waiting for permission.

Your lips meet his again, softer this time, coaxing, until he finally gives in, groaning against your mouth as he kisses you back with an intensity that steals your breath.

“I want to feel you,” you whisper, your hands trailing down to the hem of his shirt, pushing it over the swell of his pecs. 

His skin is hot under your fingertips, rough and familiar. Your fingers trail lightly across his chest, nails scratching through the salt and pepper hair dusted across his skin as you urge him closer.

“Just the tip,” Logan mutters under his breath, barely above a whisper. His voice hoarse, like he’s bargaining with himself. “Just to make you feel good, but that’s it, understand?”

You bite your lip, the edge of frustration gnawing at you. It’s not everything you need, not everything you want, but it's something. And right now, it’s enough.

You nod your head, hands already moving to the front of his jeans. You undo the button with shaking fingers, tugging the zipper down and pushing the worn denim away. 

His cock springs free, already hard, leaking with the same desperation you feel. You run your fingers along his length, feeling the heat of him, the steady throb of his pulse.

Logan peels down the thin layer of your shorts, cursing under his breath when he finds you completely bare underneath, your slick pussy shining under the dim light.

You watch him, chest heaving, as he stares down at you—his eyes dark and full of something primal, something raw.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the outline of your wetness. He groans low in his throat, his thumb circling your clit once before moving down, dipping inside you just barely. “You’re perfect, baby.”

“Logan,” you whine, thighs spreading in a clear invitation. You patience is running exceedingly thin, your whole body alight with the feeling of a raging forest fire

“I know,” he mutters, placating. He takes the throbbing length of his cock in his hand, swiftly settling between your legs. “I know.”

The thick head drags through your folds, smearing pre-come along your skin and adding even more to the mess between your legs.

A quiet moan passes through your swollen lips, your muscles tightening as he slides himself along your clit. A slow back and forth movement that sends sparks shooting up your spine.

Logan grits his teeth, his breath shallow, as he finally aligns himself with your clenching hole. 

The air around you feels charged, a taut thread stretched between anticipation and restraint. You shift your hips slightly, just enough to encourage him, your eyes locked on his as you beg him silently with your gaze.

Then, with a low growl that vibrates through you, he pushes forward, just enough to make you gasp in relief, the head of his cock sliding home in your entrance.

And though it’s only the tip, the sensation of him inside you is enough to set your world alight. 

You can feel it, deep in your bones—the simmering, searing heat that makes everything else fade into the background.

Logan presses his lips to your forehead, his breath hot against your skin as he keeps his movements slow, deliberate, his hands holding your hips steady. "This is what you wanted, huh? Got you begging for it, honey," he growls softly. "Even if I’m only givin’ you a taste."

His hips roll languidly, staying true to his word and never sinking deeper than the thick head of his cock. His hand grips the base tightly, his fist fucking slow strokes over the length of himself to where he’s spreading your pussy open.

His scarred knuckles bump against your clit with every stroke, fanning the fire building in your lower stomach.

“Feel so fuckin’ good, honey,” he groans into the skin of your neck, the pace of his hips speeding up ever so slightly. “Feels like heaven.”

You claw at the skin of his back, touch wild and desperate. It takes everything in you not to shift your hips down, to sheath the rest of his cock deep inside your and lock your ankles around his back so he can never leave again.

Logan’s lips find your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he shifts against you. “Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice low, almost a command, yet laced with something tender. “Tell me you want me.”

You meet his gaze without hesitation, your voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

The words come out without thought, raw and honest, and you see something in his eyes shift—a flicker of relief, of something deeper than lust.

Logan groans like he got shot, his body shuddering above you as a low growl tears its way from his chest. He fucks into you faster, short, quick thrusts that steal all the breath from your lungs.

Sparks go off behind your closed eyes, bright white and glittering. You can feel yourself getting closer, your body trembling as you grind up against him, meeting him halfway, needing more, needing release.

“Logan,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders harder, nails digging in. “I’m so close. Please—”

“Let go,” he growls, his pace increasing, his body pressing harder against yours. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

With his command, you unravel, the world spinning around you as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless, gasping for air, your body quivering beneath him as he holds you through it.

Logan follows, tearing himself from the tight grip of your pussy with a sharp jerk of his hips, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he shoots thick ropes of come over your slick folds.

Your body shakes at the feeling, a breathless whimper pulled from your slack lips at the sticky warmth of his release.

He collapses onto the mattress next to you, his body shuddering enough to match your own. The room falls into a deep silence, the only sounds your mingling breaths and the distant sound of thunder.

A sick sort of dread bursts through the sweet afterglow of your hazy mind, settling in your stomach like a lead weight. You think that this is the moment where Logan will realize what you’ve done, that he’ll retreat back into himself and send you away.

Send you back to your own room and leave you to lay in the cold aftermath of your own recklessness.

You brace for it, the instinct to pull away, to protect yourself from his withdrawal, but it never comes. 

Instead, you feel his strong arm slide over your waist, pulling you closer, his body heat a stark contrast to the chill creeping in from the window.

His breath is warm against your neck as he shifts, his fingers tracing absent circles on your skin in a move that’s so endearingly human it has your chest aching.

"Stay here tonight?" he asks, his voice rough, almost a whisper.

Your heart clenches, tears burning at your waterline at the vulnerability of his tone. It breaks the dam inside you, relief and something dangerously close to love flooding your body in a bursting rush of water.

“Of course,” you murmur, your voice shaky.

Logan’s hand tightens around you, his thumb brushing over your ribs. He presses a soft kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, settling onto the mattress with a slow breath.

You drift to sleep more relaxed than you’ve felt in years, even with the knowledge of the slow journey that lies ahead of you. It won’t be easy, it never is with Logan. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

Because even though the rain falls, the desert doesn’t bloom overnight. 

And neither do you.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[shouyuus]

18+, yet more vi-shaped brainrot, mndi

yes so we have all considered rugby/college roommate!vi but have we considered waterpolo/childhood bff!vi.

waterpolo!vi who's constantly at the pool, so much so that her sweat even on her gym days smell like chlorine. who will stand in the lockers with nothing but a towel around her waist, water still dripping down her body, tits out, just texting, grinning down at her phone bc she totally doesn't have post notifs on for your instagram... like who does that, right? but damn, you look cute in the little sundress you wore to brunch last sunday with your friends -- she wonders if you'll tell her about it at lunch later today.

waterpolo!vi who's been friends with you since childhood, and you were the one who go her into swimming because that one summer when you were both eight and your mom signed you up for swim-class, you cried for half and hour bc you said you weren't gonna know anyone there. and vi, being the amazing bff and neighbor that she is, of course, volunteered as tribute. she'd never forgotten how much fun it was to play in the shallows with you after the class had ended, splashing at each other, pretending to have a tea-party, sitting criss-cross at the bottom of the sun-soaked water, how you'd pulled your hair out of the swim-cap and let it halo around you in soft, wispy waves.

waterpolo!vi who definitely hasn't told you that she only applied to this uni (on a sports scholarship bc she knew that'd get her in) bc you said it was your top choice. thankfully, it has one of the better waterpolo teams, so you were ecstatic when you found out. who, by then, has definitely figured out that her affection for you is just a bit more than straight up bff status, but she also don't wanna fuck things up with you so she keeps her mouth shut. and really, she asks herself, what's the difference anyway? i mean, you hadn't even blinked when she brought up wanting to sign up for the same freshman dorms. ("of course we are! what, did you think i'd let anyone else be my roommate? gosh, it's like you don't know me at all!")

waterpolo!vi who tries to give you your own space (having practice every single day helps with that tbh), but can't help when her heart skips a lil every time you text her, or every time you post something on social media. she tells herself that it's okay to text back immediately, you've been friends for so long after all, right? that doesn't make her look weird or desperate? right? right.

waterpolo!vi who honestly still gets off to the memory of the one time the pair of you made out drunkenly at a party in high school -- it had been one of those backyard parties where everyone was drinking fucked up jungle juice and things were already a mess when you got there. but you were always down for a good time, and so was she, but somehow, it'd ended up with the pair of you curled up in a dark corner, your legs slung over her lap, her fingers inching up the hem of your spaghetti strap top, all eager, clumsy lips and needy little moans and the taste of your strawberry-mint glitter lipgloss.

waterpolo!vi who definitely tries a bit harder to show off whenever you come to her games, always checking the stands, her face lighting up whenever she spots you in the crowd, waving at her, cheering whenever she makes a goal. afterwards, she'd find flowers tucked into her locker and the rest of the team snickering at how red she's gotten staring at them before she towel-whips the nearest one and tells them all to shut up.

waterpolo!vi who asks you to come to the gym with her, promises it'll be chill and that she won't work you too hard, but nearly short-circuits when you show up in a pair of lululemon shorts and a sports bra, your hair tugged up into a high ponytail, telling her that you got these super cute stickers from a cafe you went to last week and have been meaning to give one of them to her so your water bottles can match. who makes good on her word of not working you too hard, but she definitely suffers in her own workout that day cause she's too busy watching you do squats (she tells herself its to make sure ur form is good but we all know the truth).

waterpolo!vi who freaks out when, on her birthday, the water polo team texts her and tells her to come to the pool house, alone. she thinks it's just another one of their weird pranks, but when the lights click on and you're standing there behind a massive cake with her name hung up behind you in lurid, bright pink blow up balloons, she freezes. and then a there's champagne popping and spraying at her, completely soaking her tanktop, sticking to her skin. you squeal, laughing as you shake a bottle towards her, grinning so wide she thinks her heart might burst.

"surprise! happy birthday!"

"holy shit -- oh yeah! it's my birthday!"

you roll your eyes, dabbing at some champagne that had gotten on your cheek, glancing at a few of the other girls.

"yeah, that's the thing with birthday's vi, they happen every year. and yet somehow every year, i'm the one that remembers its your birthday."

vi just grins, pulling you in to press a fat, wet kiss to your cheek, making you squirm bc she's literally soaked with champagne still, and a few of the girls on the team smirk in her direction when they make eye contact with her, but she only glares at them before going back to watching you fuss about the cake and how many slices to cut it into.

an idea slithers into her head, a truly insidious idea. but fuck it, it's her birthday, and she deserves to have a little fun (and she doesn't think you'll be too mad at her afterwards), so she inches her hand up till it's cradling the back of your head, then shoves your face into the top layer of the cake. you yelp, jerking back with your mouth wide open, icing smeared across your skin. everyone laughs, but vi only grins and wipes a bit of the sweet cream from your cheek, sucking her thumb into her mouth.

"mm delicious, princess. thanks."

you blink at her for a few seconds before sighing, attempting to wipe a bit more of the cake from your face, and falling into a fit of giggles as well.

"whatever, i guess if it makes you that happy," you say, accepting a few napkins from one of the girls on the team. someone else takes over cutting the cake, and a few un-spilled bottles of champagne are already being poured into red solo cups. "i'm gonna go clean up -- be right back."

vi watches you make for the lockers, but someone shoves her towards you. she turns to find several of her teammates motioning furiously in your direction, mouthing go, you fucker, go!

she teeters for a few seconds before jogging after you.

"hey! i'll -- uh -- i'll come with you. since it's my mess too." she laughs, nudging you with her shoulder as she catches up to you.

waterpolo!vi who has to hold her breath when she's helping you wipe cake icing from your face, running a damp towel down your neck, you tilting your head back to give her better access.

"so, how long've you been planning this?" she asks, if only to say something to break the silence.

"not that long -- like a week or so. the cake took the longest -- i wanted to get it from your favorite place on the edge of town, but they don't do deliveries, so i had to go and get it without you knowing, and then figure out where to hide it --"

"oh is that was the 'emergency study sesh' was that you had to run off to this morning was?"

you grin, sheepish as she pulls back to look you over.

"yeah... but i mean -- as long as you liked it! it was worth it, right?"

"oh i loved it, cupcake," she says, casually bopping your nose as she tosses the towel into the big laundry cart for cleaning. she takes a breath, "you're the best friend a girl could ask for, princess."

and she sees it the, the something flicker across your face, a shadow that darkens your eyes for just a second before you look back up at her.

"uhm... about that --"

"hm?" vi turns so fast her neck almost cricks. fuck.

you're staring at her, and she's staring back. there's a moment, like the held-breath between twirling fan-blades.

"i -- uhm -- damn," you look down at your hands, your cheeks suddenly flooding with color, "i had this whole speech prepped and everything --"

vi plops down on locker bench in front of you, tugging your chin back up.

"c'mon, princess. what is it?"

your eyes catch, and vi feels her stomach flip, her heart crawling up the length of her chest to beat, bleating and desperate, at the back of her throat. she can almost taste the metallic thump of it on her tongue.

"i just -- it's --" you twist your fingers in your lap, "i've been meaning to... to tell you for a while but uhm --"

"tell me what?" fuck, her voice comes out so raspy, so needy. she swallows, trying for her usual nonchalance. "you can tell me anything, y'know that right, cupcake?"

you purse your lips, her words seemingly setting you more and more on edge. she leans forward, mesmerized by the pink plumpness caught beneath your teeth. she swipes her thumb along the corner.

"sorry -- missed a spot..." she pulls back, showing you the tiny smear of icing on her finger.

"i like you," you blurt out, the momentum of the words carrying you forward just a bit, and you're gasping when you jerk back, eyes wide, as if you can't believe you'd just said that out loud.

vi freezes.

"oh."

"sorry that was -- i was gonna tell you later tonight -- i had this whole thing planned but -- ugh, there's even a really nice bottle of wine chilling in the fridge --"

but vi's kissing you, and holy shit -- vi's kissing you. her hand at the back of your neck, her other hand cupping your cheek, and she's pressing you back so hard you almost stumble off the bench, squeaking in surprise when she nearly hauls you to your feet to press you up against one of the lockers, cushioning your head with a palm.

"v-vi? mmngh --" you gasp, lashes fluttering as she licks her way down your neck, sucking a hard hickey into the skin there, her teeth biting down as she fists her fingers in your hair.

"holy shit -- sorry -- just -- you have no idea how long i've wanted this --"

she pulls back, her pupils blown, and for a second, you wonder if she's drunk -- you wonder if you're drunk because what is happening right now -- but then you remember that neither of you have had anything to drink yet.

"y-you have?"

vi groans, pushing back in to mouth at your lips, "yeah -- sh-shoulda told you earlier but --" she tugs at the strap of your dress, reveling in the tiny little gasping sound you make as she nips at your collarbone.

waterpolo!vi who can't believe this is happening right now -- really, she might be dreaming, but even if she is, whatever. it's the best dream she's had in ages, having you whimpering against her in this empty locker, your fingers digging into her back as she rucks up your skirt.

"fuck princess, if you're joking about this you better tell me now because --"

"i -- i'm not violet, i swear if you stop --"

she keens when she tugs aside your panties and feels your wetness collect on her fingers. she grins, pulling back just far enough to catch your eyes -- they're glazed over with want, and so, so soft. it almost makes her pause, almost.

she pushes forward, sinking a finger into you, groaning at the tightness. your head lolls back against the closed lockers and vi takes the chance to admire you -- the soft sweep of your lashes as your eyes flutter closed, the round o of your mouth as you moan, the tiny crease between your eyebrows as pleasure paints itself by strokes across the delicate features of your face.

"yeah? that feel good, princess?"

"mm -- mhm --" you nod, fervently, looking back down with half-lidded eyes, reaching down to pull vi back towards you for a long kiss. you lick into her mouth, rocking your hips down against her hand. she hisses against you, her mind nearly fizzing out at the way you drop your face into her shoulder, hanging onto her for dear life as she fucks you on her fingers.

waterpolo!vi who misses nearly her entire birthday party for fucking her new girlfriend to pieces in the lockers. not like her teammates didn't know -- sound really carries in that locker room. she knows. they know. you only find out later when the pair of you come back to the party, red-faced and way too disheveled, vi looking way too smug.

"have a good time in there?" one of the girls asks.

vi shrugs, "yeah y'know. just had to make sure she was cleaned up properly."

another girl rolls her eyes, "yeah right. and im sure all the screaming was because you were just doing such a thorough job, right."

vi smirks, "i try."

waterpolo!vi who makes a point of coming back from swim practice with her hair still wet, a towel draped around her shoulders, baggy shorts around her hips, a tight white tank, and nothing else, just because she knows it makes you pause, knows it sets you off. grins when she comes home to drop a kiss to your cheek and you look up, only to swallow, eyes raking down her body.

"gonna jump in the shower, wanna join me?"

you crinkle your nose, glancing back at the group project you were trying to finish with some classmates on zoom.

"uhm -- sorry guys -- i gotta go."

"wait what -- we're supposed to finish this tonight --"

"sorry, there's uh --" you glance back at vi, who's smirking, leaning in your doorway, an eyebrow hitched, "i think my girlfriend burnt the toast in the kitchen -- sorry, bye!"

you hang up the zoom call even as vi scoffs.

"really? i burnt the toast one time."

she tugs you to her for a kiss as you try to walk by her towards the bathroom. you grin against her lips.

"yeah, and it set off the fire alarm for the entire building, remember?"

"mm. yeah, whatever," she mumbles, busying herself with tugging off your sweatshirt as the pair of you stumble into the bathroom.

"how was practice?" you ask, as vi kicks the door closed behind you, jerking off her tank with one hand, kicking it away on the tiled floor before advancing on you with a predatory glint in her eyes.

"it was fine. we did passing and man-up drills. nothing too bad -- shoulders are sore though."

"yeah? you wanna massage after this?"

"mm that does sound nice," vi says, twisting on the shower, jerking her head for you to step in, climbing in after you with a soft, satisfied groan as the hot water hits her aching muscles.

"but for right now," she says, twisting you around and pressing a quick kiss to your lips, "why don't you get on your knees for me, pretty? there's just one more thing i want you to take care of for me before that massage."

you lick your lips, kiss her back, before dropping to your knees with a sweet smile.

"ready for your post-workout?" you ask, blinking up at her with your big, innocent eyes, even as your fingers inch up her thighs, coaxing them apart. vi groans, leaning back against the cool shower tiles.

"holy fuck yeah."

[harmonysanreads]

Imagine getting kidnapped by Yandere!Anaxa and having all these dreadful ideas about him ; only to get spoonfed on Dromas themed plates and mugs, hair brushed with a Dromas themed comb, being dressed in matching Dromas themed onesies and getting put to sleep on a bed full of Dromas plushies with a cute Dromas printed blanket wrapped around you. The whiplash.

[sparkriddledfever]

Can you do a Reader reacting to their MTMTE holo forms and them expecting to fit in only to Reader to feel uncanny valley and has to explain to the bots.

Say lessss

One would might expect their beloved liaison to be excited to see their holoforms. A fake flesh at eye level to make it more sensible; nonetheless, Rodimus figured they would be jumping up and down in joy that they can do things together under covered. Showing them the life through a "human's eyes" while stuck on earth for the next few weeks.

Only for that same liaison to stare at them like the entire group of bots grown a second head.

"Why are you staring at us like that?" Rodimus crossed his arms with a frown before it morphed into a teasing grin, "is it cause of our dashing, daring looks?"

"No," their deadpanned response elicited a cackle from Whirl somewhere far in the back. His form slumps; Drift pats his shoulder while struggling to hold back his laughter behind his hand.

"Oh c'mon!" He whines, "I was hoping you be so excited! At least excited that we can blend in with you humans!"

"I- well, I mean- To be honest. On a surface level, yes. Deeper level? No."

The excitement and chatter in the air stills. Now, they're the one being stared at like they grown a second head. It confused them with the sudden shift that had them scratching at their arm in nervousness.

"What did you mean by that?" Drift perks up.

"Uh, this is going to be weird," they began, "I can obviously tell you're not human, but even if you tried so hard to make it very realistic to blend in and it just doesn't feel...right? Does that make sense?"

"Like an imposter?" Swerve pops up behind Rodimus, which made the others stare at him. He looks around confused and flustered, "What? I heard of something like this from human movies."

"Yes, uncanny valley is the best way to explain it. It just doesn't feel or look quite right, it triggers a sense of unease or revulsion in us. It doesn't feel...human to us."

"Huh...what is up with you humans?"

"Whirl!"

"WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?! YOU CAN'T SIT HERE AND TELL ME I'M WRONG?!"

"I mean to be fair, he's really not wrong. Earth got some weird shit I could get into," they mused.

"Like?" Nautica pressed.

"Scary accurate intuitions, picking up the feeling of being watched, our brains sometimes being too powerful it can trick us, noises that Earth makes. You know weird stuff."

"Don't let Brainstorm or Nightbeat hear about this unless you wanna play 50 questions."

"It's 20 questions?"

"With them, it's 50 or more."

"Duly noted."

[miraclewoozi]

SPECTACLE. -j.ww

in which your new boyfriend, wonwoo, doesn't give a crap about his expensive eyewear.

pairing : wonwoo x fem!reader. content : smut. pwp. tags under the cut. MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT. w/c : 2.7k. notes : yeah i kinda. went insane over this idea. so. bon appetite to you, and also to wonwoo ? i guess.

content + smut tags : established - but new - relationship. making out. FACE SITTING. impact play? (one gentle butt slap). the shenanigans are on a couch if that matters, i don't know. reader is a little shy about doing it. PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything.

Wonwoo looks flushed when he pulls away from where he’s been kissing and nipping at the side of your neck, hair stuck up in every direction thanks to your tugging fingers and your gentle guidance to help him find your sweet spots. His lips are pink and a little plumped. His glasses are steaming up, sitting halfway down the bridge of his nose, and every slightly heavier breath he takes makes his broad chest rise and fall where it’s pressed wholly against yours.

You can’t help yourself from leaning forward into another kiss; he’s completely irresistible. Maybe the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. And while this isn’t really news to you, the dynamic of your relationship with him shifted a month or so ago and you’re still getting used to the privilege of seeing him this close up. 

He’s still adjusting too, if the way he groans directly into your mouth, hands groping harder at the curve of your ass as you shuffle in his lap is anything to judge by. Still learning, still figuring you out. But – and this is how you know what you’re building here might be the real deal – even when it’s clumsy, and when you knock teeth while you’re kissing and burst into slightly pained giggles, or when things accidentally slip out of place while you’re getting steamy… everything Wonwoo does makes your spine tingle. Makes your stomach flip. Makes your core throb. 

Even when it doesn’t always work? It makes sense, and it’s perfect, and losing yourself in the way his lips caress and worship yours is so damn easy when he murmurs your praises just for letting him do this in the first place.

“Will you do something for me?” He asks after a small forever, pulling back just far enough that he's not breathing up your nose. His hands have made their way under your – his – hoodie now and he’s grazing his fingers over your ribs, tickling enough to make you whimper, not enough for you to want to swat him away.

You think you’d give him the world if he asked for it in that deep, rough voice he adopts when things start heading in this direction. The moon too. Shit, if you could get a lasso around the sun and bring it closer to keep him warm, you’d do that as well. So, whatever his little request is now, you know you’re going to agree; resting your hands on his shoulders (finally leaving his gorgeous hair alone), you lean back from him and nod your head.

“Anything,” you say. You’re certain that you feel his cock twitch in his sweatpants where it’s pressed against the inside of your thigh, but you’re not quite sure why. 

It makes you feel hot, though. More-so when he bites back a grin, lips curling in that adorable way. It feels greatly unfair that you can’t swoop down right this second to kiss him again, and again, and again; as painful as it is though, you do exercise enough grace to wait for him to come out with it.

“Get up,” he says softly, dropping his hands down your sides and squeezing at your hips once. 

You do as he asks and move off his lap, sitting on the other side of the couch; he doesn’t say anything else as he stands up himself, pulls his hoodie off over his head and tosses it to one side before sinking all the way down to the floor. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t see you. He shuffles into place with his back against the edge of the seat and only once he’s comfortable does he turn to look at you over one shoulder, grinning brilliantly.

“Okay,” he says, bending his knees and planting his heels into the floor. “Come here.”

You stand up off the cushions now and look down at him for a second, wondering what on Earth is going through his mind, but you know better than to start questioning his strange ideas. Especially when he’s in this sort of a mood. You step over him, one foot either side of his hips, and start to drop down too, but he puts a hand on each of your knees and stops you before you’re in his lap once again.

“No,” Wonwoo says, shaking his head. His hands then make their way to the backs of your thighs and he pushes forwards, trying to guide you where he wants you. Your knees bend of their own accord and press against the couch on both sides of his head. “Like this.”

You don’t exactly freeze up, but it is as if you forget how to control all of your muscles for a second. The ones in your legs seem to turn to jelly and you know it’s only because the sofa is currently taking a portion of your weight that you don’t buckle completely and fall onto the top of his head. The ones in your face give you a slack-jawed, wide-eyed, unblinking expression. 

Your abdominal muscles tighten and your cunt flutters at what you’re sure he’s trying to suggest, the rush of wetness you feel only worsened by the intensity in his eyes as he tips his head back and looks at you.

“Please?” He asks, all sweet but deep and rough at the same time. 

“Are you s–?” You start to ask. 

Wonwoo clicks his tongue at you and tries to encourage you further onto the couch to prove his point. “Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly. 

And then, just so you really can’t mistake what he's asking for–

“I want you to sit on my face.”

Your entire body heats up at how bluntly he says it. You squeeze your eyes shut and bite the inside of your cheek so that you don’t accidentally laugh with the nerves already trying to burst out of your tummy. 

It’s not that you don’t want to. If you had a penny for every time you’d thought about him giving himself up for your pleasure this way, you’d be rich. You do. You’re going a little crazy just imagining how good it’s going to feel. 

It’s just that him being so bold about it has you feeling shy, and that’s never happened to you before. You’re at a loss. You’re totally stumped.

When you open your eyes again and look down at him, Wonwoo is just as earnest and hungry for you as he was a few seconds ago. If anything, it’s as if he wants it more. It’s without a doubt the hottest thing you’ve ever seen and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re nodding at him; his fingers start to drag up and down the backs of your thighs happily, before they hook under the waistband of your shorts and gently make that first little pull.

“If you don’t like it, we can stop,” he says to you, only pulling them all the way down when you start to help him. They get tossed over to the side to join his hoodie after you step out of them. His eyes glance to the panties you’re wearing – the last barrier, the final thing keeping him from what he’s so desperate for – before he looks back at your face and flashes you a smile. “Just tell me, okay?”

“It’s not that,” you laugh softly, taking off your own jumper and throwing it onto the pile. Wonwoo groans at the sight of you; you roll your eyes at him. “You just… took me by surprise.”

“Good,” he sighs, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and letting you settle onto your knees in position over his mouth, pressing his fingers into the top of your thigh. 

The first soft press of his lips over your panties makes you gasp and you hold a little tighter onto the back cushions as you look down at him. His eyes are closed already as he breathes your heady scent in, deep enough to hopefully stain his lungs, enough that he’ll never get rid of it, that he’ll be able to carry you everywhere he goes. 

But Wonwoo’s closed eyes aren’t the only thing you notice between your thighs and a soft laugh replaces the pleased sounds already spilling from your lips. One hand drops down to where he's settled and your fingers brush against his temple as they try to pinch at one side of his glasses. He looks affronted when he catches your gaze.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, gently moving your hand away. 

You tilt your head at him. “Your glasses,” you prompt, moving to reach for them again. His fingers curl around your wrist and he shoves your hand into his hair instead, rubbing the tip of his nose against the inside of your thigh.

“I want to keep them on,” he tells you.

“What if they break?”

“Don’t care,” he hums, kissing his way back towards your covered pussy. “I’ll buy a new pair. I just wanna see you.”

You swallow at this and decide that you’re definitely not going to try and change his mind, instead choosing to tilt your head back and let his skilled tongue work you up through your underwear. It’s a mess of arousal and spit and they’re soaked, translucent, clinging to you by the time he’s frustrated with them; frankly, so are you, and it's a relief when he concludes that enough is enough.

“Baby,” he groans as he pulls your underwear to one side and has to crane his neck up to lick the flat of his tongue in a stripe up your slit. You whine, the cool air and his hot breaths a menacing mix of sensations, but you don’t have the sense to respond; one soft slap of his hand against your ass makes you look back down at him, though, and you’re met with dark eyes, flushed cheeks and a practically frenzied Wonwoo in the space between your hips. Your sweet, softly spoken boyfriend is nowhere to be found.

“I said, sit.”

His strong arm tugs you down and your knees slide against the cushions, bringing your pussy even closer to his face, literally forcing you to rest against his lips. He chuckles triumphantly and buries his tongue between your folds, tasting you so much more legitimately than before. The way he loves – straight from the source, the spring. You feel him prod at your hole and your walls clench around what he gives you – barely just the tip, but it’s enough to have you reeling already, and when his other arm hooks around your other thigh, when he starts to move you back and forth, you take very little convincing to start to rock your hips down against him on your own.

“Oh,” you whimper as his lips seal around your clit and he sucks at it once, giving a few experimental flicks of his tongue at the same time. The hand in his hair tightens immediately and Wonwoo groans with you still in his mouth, sending delicious vibrations through your sensitive nerves and making you gush onto his chin. 

“So fucking pretty like this,” he tells you, stroking his thumb over your waist. “Might be my new favourite view.”

He keeps lapping at you teasingly, testing circles and sideways motions, precise swipes, long drags; every subtle change as he tries to find what makes you scream in this position draws a different sound from your throat. He tenses the muscle and fucks your dribbling hole with it while encouraging you to move enough forward that his nose bumps against your clit with every jerky rock of your hips. You’re grinding faster, now, pressing down against his mouth harder, caring less by the second about whether his glasses are actually going to break in two. Besides, the way he drinks you down tells you that he could do this for a week straight without getting tired; he doesn’t want you to stop, or slow down, or ease up. He wants more. And if you’re too shy to give it to him, he’ll just take, take, take.

“Just– oh, fuck,” you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again and he laps at it with so much zeal that he could rival your favourite vibrator. “Just like that–”

Both of his hands grasp you tighter, squeezing and massaging and kneading at your soft skin as you chase your high on his pretty face. His eyes are tightly closed in his own rapture, and you hope that he won’t blame you for wanting him to open them; your hand pulls harshly at his hair again, hard enough to make him cringe, enough to make him stop for just a second before he sees how wound-up you look. You try to pull off from him a little, at least enough for him to catch a couple of breaths, but Wonwoo captures your pussy between his lips before you even hear him inhale.

“You– you wanted to s—see me,” you stutter out as the fire starts to catch and you feel warmth and ecstasy start to build at your core. “Fuck– ah–”

So he does. With big, hungry eyes, Wonwoo watches as you hurtle towards oblivion, as you writhe and squirm and grind down against his ardent mouth.

He sends you crashing over the edge with a wet sob, your own eyes closing now as you see stars in the darkness and ride your high out on his still-moving tongue. There are tears on your cheeks before you can do anything about it. Your walls spasm around nothing. He barely slows, taking back enough pressure so that your pleasure doesn’t turn to pain. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t even blink until you’re out the other side of your climax, though.

When your pants start to die down and you’re twitching to get away from him, so sensitive that even his tiny kisses make you shudder, Wonwoo drops his head back down to the pillows and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. You don’t have the strength to move yet, still reeling, still too floaty to try for any level of coordination, but he doesn’t mind. Your swollen, glistening pussy right over his face is something he'd pay millions to see.

“Didn’t even break the glasses,” you laugh weakly once your voice decides to come back to you. 

“Mm,” Wonwoo hums, sliding them off his nose and inspecting them. He ‘tsk’s before putting them back on. They’re steamed at the edges and a little smeary now, and he surely can’t actually see that clearly through them. He obviously doesn’t care. “That’s not good enough.”

“Huh?” you ask, moving carefully so as not to plant your knee into his jaw but still trying to bring your legs together so that you can sit to one side. He isn't having it, though, and slowly shuffles up onto his knees, turns around to face you and lays his fingers on one of your ankles, wasting no time in trying to pry your legs apart again.

“That’s. Not. Good. Enough,” he repeats, using his other hand to palm himself over the fabric of his sweatpants. The tent in them would be comical if it weren’t for the animalistic look in his eyes; there’s nothing laughable about the way he’s looking at you right now, though.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” You ask, opening back up for him and not hiding how you stare as he rips his shirt off over his head. Then, he slides his fingertips up the inside of your calf, to your knee, down your thigh… he drags them over the lips of your pussy and collects a little of your slick on them before bringing his hand to his lips and sucking it clean.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he tells you, groaning at your sweet taste as if he wasn’t just drowning in it a minute and a half ago. He lowers himself until he's once more level with your cunt and guides both of your legs over his shoulders, smirking up at your expectant face. “Maybe try to squeeze your thighs a little more this time. See if that does the trick.”

thank you so much for reading!! i hope u enjoyed this hehe. as always, likes, reblogs, replies, feedback and asks are always super appreciated.<3

[bratbarzal]

for your valentines event ³⁾ "you've been teasing me all this time about being single just for you to get stood up?" "....." "move over, you're lucky i'm hungry." with quinny ❤️

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

"you've been teasing me all this time about being single just for you to get stood up?" "....." "move over, you're lucky i'm hungry." with toxic!quinn!!! ALOOF!QUINN TRUTHERS THIS IS YOUR MOMENT!!! this came to me in a fever dream last night tbh and escalated so hope you enjoy once again I took creative liberties with the exact wording (I didn't want it to be too much like the nico blurb) and I'm not sure this fits the vibe of the prompt but I saw I'm hungry and my mind went to one place!! and I don't even think this mentions valentines but what can you do it's may!!! (post requested blurbs within a normal response time you say??? who do you think I am?) I'm not great at writing smut but I did my best and my best is probably taking things too far with random interlinked plot dotted throughout

warnings: 18+ MDNI!! smut!! the filthy kind tbh - dom!quinn, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, squirting, slight/light/barely even spanking if you want to be dramatic lol, degrading comments maybe, brief mentions of previous sexual encounters, quinn is a menace and a dirty talking tease :) ~cheating but not really it's a first date with no labels that's going nowhere and reader and quinn have history. he's an asshole :) but I'd let him do unspeakable things also

4.7k words!!

The last place you expect to run into Quinn Hughes is in the middle of a bar.

The venue is too crowded to be somewhere he would usually visit - rowdy guys in the corner watching the baseball on the TV, even though you're not sure it's even live, a couple pool tables occupied with the kind of people who would recognise him in a heartbeat - and maybe that's why you chose it in the first place.

But you should have run for the hills the second you saw Elias Petterson and Brock Boeser on your way in. You should have known it would only be a matter of time before Quinn himself showed up, and that you would have no chance of escaping before he saw you.

"Was gonna offer to buy you some fries to share," he comments as he slides into the booth beside you, his eyes assessing the rest of the bar as if he's trying to gauge who might notice him talking to you. "But Petey said you were meeting someone,"

God, he can be such an asshole when he wants to be.

You haven't seen him for weeks, he's been ignoring your texts for weeks, and he can't even look you in the eye?

This is exactly why you keep telling yourself that you're done. This is exactly why when you mention him to your friends, they roll their eyes and tell you to just block his number and move on.

But they haven't seen the parts of him you've seen - the parts you so desperately cling to when he's cold like this.

"I am."

"I don't see anybody."

"He got held up at work."

"Of course he did." he scoffs, "You're being stood up. You're lucky I'm hungry though, I'll save you the embarrassment of sitting here on your own."

"Just because you're an asshole who ghosts girls the second things get serious, it doesn't mean Justin is."

"You don't have to get protective, sweetheart," he purrs, glancing down at you in a way that shouldn't make your throat seize, "Just saying, it's the oldest trick in the book. I was gonna sit with you but if you're gonna be snippy about it, I'm sure Justin will turn up eventually."

Asshole.

You couldn't be more thankful for the buzz of your phone on the table, pulling you from the depths of Quinn's gaze as you glance down, Justin's name flashing on your lock screen.

Quinn quirks a brow as he looks down, too, watching as you swipe into the message.

I'm here.

And then you glance to the entrance of the bar, relief flooding your system at the sight of him - not a sensation you ever thought you'd be feeling when you agreed to meet up with him after months of him asking.

But you're supposed to be getting over Quinn Hughes.

Justin is sweet, and you suppose he's attractive in a cute sort of way. He doesn't make your head spin, or your heart pound, or your stomach swirl into knots, but you're not supposed to want that, so he's the next best thing.

You edge past Quinn without sparing him another glance, hoping it hurts him in some way - hoping he at least feels something at your feigned indifference - and you proceed to spend the rest of your night unable to shift that hope.

Every time you force a laugh at one of Justin's attempts at a joke, you hope Quinn hears it.

Every time you try to flirt, you hope he sees it.

Every time you lean over the table when the two of you move over for a game of pool, you're hoping Quinn's watching.

And you think it must be the karma that comes from craving his attention that has you colliding with somebody else on their way back from the bar, their drink spilling all the way down the front of your top until it sheers out a little, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom to go and try clean up.

You really hope he didn't see that.

You're thankful it was vodka soda and not cranberry, the stain easy to shift with a little water and a blast of the hand dryer, and you're shrugging the top back on when you hear the rap of knuckles against the door.

"Yeah, sorry," you call out, shuffling towards the entrance, "I'm finished, it's all y-,"

Quinn stands on the other side of the door when you swing it open, hair astray like he's been running his hands through it endlessly, and his stature imposing.

“What are you doing?” You ask as he crowds into your space, backing up until you’re both in the bathroom, and he’s reaching back to lock the door behind him.

“Told you, I’m hungry,” and the look in his eyes confirms just that - dark and dangerous, a stormy swirl of greys and greens that make your breath stutter, the intensity sweeping straight through you.

He advances on you slowly, your feet stumbling back until you can steady yourself against the bathroom counter, and his gaze drops agonisingly down your body, lingering way too low for any sort of friendly admiration - because that's what he'd said the two of you were too many times to count, just friends.

You feel goosebumps rise as Quinn's head tilts, his eyes meeting yours just as the calloused pads of his fingertips graze the soft flesh of your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt.

"You wore this that time we fucked in my car after a game," he mutters, pushing ever so gently until his hand slips beneath the fabric, "Did you think of me when you put it on?"

"No," you gulp, your tone entire unconvincing.

The guys had all gone out after a win, and Quinn had texted you his location - meeting you outside the bar so that the rest of his teammates didn't see you and him together - and had driven you out to some random parking lot, had you crawl over the centre console into his lap, and had pushed this exact skirt up until it bunched at your hips and he could watch himself disappear into you.

It was so hot and sticky that you remember swiping little jagged finger marks against the fog on his window, and you wondered the next day when you saw him and he pretended that none of it happened if he had just wiped them away.

You'd remembered the incident as you were getting dressed, earlier, smoothing your hands down your hips and picturing the way his knuckles whitened as he took the skirt into his grip.

You don't get how he can so easily pretend the two of you are nothing when he remembers, too.

"So you wore it for him?" He doesn't push any higher, but his hand forms an authoritative grip around the back of your thigh, squeezing until they part by instinct, and he uses the leverage to slot his own leg between yours so that you can't fully close them again.

He knows how to work you like it's second nature to him.

He brings his other hand up to shift your hair back over your shoulder, clearing a path from your neck to your collarbone where he can trail his knuckle along the smooth skin just to make you shudder.

You shake your head, again, an unconvincing response, but what else can you do? You're too breathless to speak when he crowds into your space like this, and all you can smell is his cologne, and all you can feel is anticipation of his touch.

"Does he know you like being kissed right here?" His thumb presses down on your pulse point, the pressure firm in a way that makes your spine stiffen, and he tilts his head again as you meet his eye, his smirk condescending and so so sexy.

"We haven't kissed yet," you blink slow, trying to shake the daze he's put you under.

"Ahh," the grin Quinn gives now gives a flash of teeth, and you gulp at the visual it brings - said teeth sinking teasingly into the plush skin of the thigh he's still holding, and it's only then that you notice how his hand has moved, how his fingers are now curled into the leg of your panties. "So he's not taking care of you?" And then he pulls, and you gulp as you feel the fabric fall in his clutch, loosening once they're not flush around your hips anymore and dropping when he's pulled them down enough.

"Quinn," you warn, and he waits, to give him credit - his dark eyes narrowing in on yours, pupils blown, his tongue swiping out against his lips, and it takes you back to another night, a few weeks back.

Quinn turning up at your apartment late, his game having gone into overtime and then a subsequent shootout, and he looked exhausted - hair a mess, eyes sunken, shoulders slumped. The team had lost, and the first place he thought to go was to you, and maybe this was the delusion your friends kept warning you about when it came to him, but it had been the first night things between the two of you had been slower and softer.

The way he kissed you was different - it wasn't a rushed fumble into more, it was intentional and tender, he took his time advancing it into something more, and when he finally backed you into your bedroom, the two of you laid together far beyond the two rounds he managed before tapping out.

He let you stroke at his hair, and kiss at his skin, and see him beyond the cold and unattached version of himself he so often gave to you. And he didn't leave until the next morning.

And sure, that was the last time you saw him, and every text you've sent him since has gone unanswered, entirely, but you can't help but think something changed that night.

Something he doesn't want to acknowledge, now.

A loss of control, or a surrender to his feelings.

You can only hope it's finally the latter.

And because of that blind hope, you can't bring it in yourself to push him away - not if this is the only way he's going to let you have him, teasing and detached.

You swear he sees the moment you give in, when something shifts in his gaze, and he slowly, tormentingly drops to his knees before you.

He looks up at you from the lower position, palms caressing your thighs as he pushes them both up, your skirt following his ministrations and bunching at your hips until you're bare to him, and it's only then that his eyes shift - somehow you feel the intensity of them as much as they stare at your very core than you had when he was looking back up at you.

"Please," you whimper pathetically as he admires the way your legs part even further without prompting, the way your body crumbles and you lean back against the counter, arching to reveal yourself to him entirely.

"Look at you," he mutters as he brings one of his hands to the apex of your thighs, using his fingers to swipe through your folds and pulling them back to show you the sticky mess that now coats them, "So wet, already."

"Quinn,"

"For him?"

You shake your head as he repeats his actions, running his fingers from your entrance and bumping them teasingly against your clit, looking up at you again with a raise of his brow, prompting a further response and pressing lightly at the bundle of nerves until you answer.

"For you," you breathe, your hips stuttering forward to try and increase the pressure - but he knows you too well, anticipates your impatience and lightens his touch even more. "Only you."

"Good girl."

You gasp the second his mouth makes contact with your core - tongue pressing flat between your folds until he can lick a firm stripe upward, his lips closing sloppily around your clit until he sucks it into his mouth, the pressure of his kiss divine and mind-numbing.

Your feet stumble a little against the floor, and he braces his hands against your hips, pulling them firmly against his face so that he can hold you in place, and all you can do to maintain your balance is curl your fingers into his thick hair, pulling and tugging as you please - as he pleases you.

And God, you can't believe you thought you could just give this up. He's so good. So fucking good it's insane. And you really considered leaving things alone with him, for what - some nice guy from work who barely knows how to flirt with you?

Quinn's fingers curl into the soft flesh of your hips, the pressure firm enough it'll probably bruise by the morning, and he's nipping and licking at your pussy like he can't get enough - the sound of it alone is obscene enough to make your legs feel like jelly, and you're pretty sure you're going to collapse if he carries on like this.

You tug a little harder on his hair until he parts with a wet pop, the sound making your throat go dry so that all you can do is pant down at him in response.

And his eyes are clouded over, entirely, a hunger you've never seen before taking over him. His lips are parted and slick, and his chest is heaving like he was depriving himself of breath, and the sight of it takes your breath away.

You heave yourself up onto the counter behind you, parting your legs again and leaning back a little onto your hands - all without saying a word.

You don't need to say anything, though. Not to Quinn.

He's diving straight back in as soon as you're situated like a man starved, and from where you are now, you can shuffle into him a little, grinding against his tongue as it works against you - works inside you, even, and you slap a hand to your own mouth in a last-ditch attempt to conceal the moans and whines before they carry way beyond the locked door of the bathroom.

Quinn's displeasure with that fact is obvious when he pinches and smacks at the side of your ass, his hand shooting up until his fingers curl around your wrist and he tugs it away from your mouth, pulling away from your pussy to glare up at you from between your legs.

"Don't you dare," he huffs, "I'm putting in the work, I wanna hear how much you like it,"

"But Quinn-,"

The press of his finger into your entrance cuts you off, and the squeaky, surprised moan you let out seems to echo off of every wall, heat creeping up your neck as you hear how pathetic you sound as he pushes the digit all the way in, pressing as far as it will go into your spongey walls until your back is arching and he's straightening up with it still inside you.

"You think you can hide from me?" He asks as he crowds back into your space, your faces level and his other hand coming down onto the counter beside you. "You think I don't know how to make you scream for me?"

He presses another finger into you, and the slow stretch of your walls around him has your eyes fluttering shut, your head lulling forward until it bumps into his, and your clammy foreheads press together. He shakes against you with a dark chuckle, allowing you a moment to adjust until he's thrusting them in and out, stroking up until he presses into your g-spot.

You haven't been with anybody since you were last with him - you haven't been with anybody since you were first with him, however many months ago that is, now - and you're pretty sure he knows that, for as much as he's been teasing you about your date.

"You think you can walk around in this skirt, bending over pool tables, looking this pretty, and I'm just gonna sit back and watch you with another guy?"

"No," you whine, your hips bucking and your hand reaching out to clutch at his shoulder, nails digging in through his shirt until you hope they leave a mark, too. You hope there's something left behind to remind him of this tomorrow when he wants to pretend you don't exist, again.

"No, that's right," he patronises, his lips nipping at your jaw when he leans in and brushes the bridge of his nose against your temple. "'Cause you're mine, aren't you?"

You nod frantically, chasing something more from him, as if he could possibly give you anything else - your back arching until he retracts his fingers, ignoring the instant whine you give only to push three inside, your mind going blank at the pressure of it all.

"Oh my God," you throw your head back, giving him access to the front of you, your neck bare all the way down to the low cut of your top, and he takes full advantage of the space.

You can't even bring yourself to care about marks, as stupid as it is to let him touch where someone else might see - and there's a voice in the back of your head that tells you he wouldn't risk it, anyway.

Quinn doesn't want anyone talking, not about you.

He'd rather keep you some dirty secret confined to the back bathroom of a dingy bar, the front seat of his car in the middle of some random parking lot, or the privacy of your apartment on the other side of town.

But that was before Justin, who's voice carries through the thick wood of the bathroom door accompanied by a few bangs and a call out of your name - and Quinn is the first to react, his movements more vigorous and intentional.

You grab at his wrist in some weak attempt to slow him down, but he won't budge, and then you're too consumed by how good it feels to actually get him to stop.

Your jaw goes slack as Justin calls your name again, and you can't move, can't breathe, can't blink without your space being consumed by Quinn.

"Are you good? You've been in here a while, your shirt isn't ruined, right? You can cover up with my jacket if you need to!"

You press your hand to your mouth to try and conceal the moans he's eliciting from you, his pace unrelenting as your eyes go wide, and you hate how much it spurs you on to see him enjoy this.

“Tell him you’ll come in a minute,” Quinn mutters into your ear, his fingers relentless in their movements as they curl inside you, his palm firm against your clit.

“I’ll come-,” you squeak, arching into his touch as his lips press wet, hot kisses into your neck, “I’ll come out in a minute!” You call, a little steadier though still breathless. "It just needs to dry off a bit!"

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Justin calls through the door, and you feel the vibrations of Quinn’s groan into your skin.

“Tell him I’m helping you just fine,” his mouth moves against your jaw, the low hum of his voice carrying all the way down to the base of your spine in a persistent, dizzying vibration. He starts to shake his hand with his fingers still inside you, and the pressure inside you builds to the point you think you might burst, your thighs trembling and your hips stuttering against him. "Go on, tell him you're all taken care of,"

"Tell-," you stutter mindlessly, your only thought to repeat him, not even considering what you're repeating. "I'm-,"

Quinn chuckles darkly against your throat, his teeth nipping into the sensitive flesh - and you swear you can feel him everywhere. He's relentless, he's unforgiving, he's determined to get you to come with Justin on the other side of the door, and you're in no fit position to stop him.

"I'm fine," you call out in one last attempt, praying to whatever god is up there that he finally gets the hint and leaves.

There's no way you can be quiet about this.

"Alright, I'll get you another drink!"

"You're gonna need one, aren't you baby?" Quinn asks, his grin smug and his tone teasing as he parts from your neck, your faces level again as he juts his chin to catch your drooping gaze, the pet name doing little to rouse you from your stupor as he draws you closer to an orgasm. "Gonna make you come so hard it fuckin' drains you," he promises, "Gonna make you walk back out there and sit in a mess in your panties while you talk to him, and all you're gonna think about is this."

"Quinn," you cry out, the mind-numbing pace of his fingers rubbing into your pussy bringing tears to your eyes, and your bottom lip pops out in a pout as you try to chase him for a kiss. "Please, please, please," you beg as he evades you, keeping up the fervour with his hand. You need something to occupy your mouth so you don't scream out, and he hasn't kissed you yet - not tonight, not properly.

"You think you've been good enough for a kiss?" he taunts, his fingers curling inside you just when you're at the brink, "You think that a naughty girl who's letting me fill her pussy with her date standing just outside deserves a kiss?"

"Yes," you whine, "Quinn," and plead, and you bat your lashes in one final attempt at convincing him, your eyes watering, lips trembling, spine tingling as he considers it for a brief moment.

"Come," he commands, "And then I'll kiss you."

You groan, throwing your head back as he brings his other hand into the mix, swiping at your clit with a feverish speed until you really feel like you're about to scream, gripping onto him for dear life as his three fingers plunge all the way into you, to the bottom of his knuckles, his touch pressing against the deepest part of your core until you fall apart.

And it's a mess.

The counter becomes slippery beneath you, your thighs coated in your own slick, and the way you hear Quinn remove his fingers makes you wince more than the feeling, itself.

He's still looking down at your pussy when your vision comes to, blinking away the white spots in your eyes until all you can see is him - in a daze at the way you can feel your walls contracting still, missing the way he had them filled just seconds ago.

You think you're shaking all over, too weak to move - to lift yourself onto your legs, to even lift your arms to do anything about how bare you are to his hungry glare - and you're struggling a little to catch your breath, if you're honest.

You feel hot all over, too. In your head, on every visible surface of your skin - and you can't tell if the flush is from the physical activity or the sheer mortification of the fact you just squirted in front of him.

Your last shred of dignity probably disappeared as soon as that drink fell into your lap, there's no use in denying it now.

And just as he said, Quinn bends to retrieve your panties from where they hang from one of your ankles, bending your leg to slip it in the other side and pulling them up until you can shimmy your hips into them despite how wet you feel all over. He puts one hand down beside you on the counter once they're in place, his gaze lifting to meet yours, a little lighter but stormy, nonetheless, a million unspoken thoughts swirling behind those cloudy irises.

"You said you'd kiss me," you mumble, feebly, leaning into his touch when he pushes a strand of hair back out of your face.

"Did I?" he smirks slowly, those same eyes now tracing your lips.

You nod, your tongue swiping out against them in preparation.

He hums, teasing as he leans in, and he brings his free hand up to your mouth, hooking one of the fingers that had just been inside you against your lips until they part, pushing the digit in until it's pressed against your tongue, and you close your lips around it by instinct.

He watches as your cheeks hollow, satisfaction in his stare, and the slight upturn of his lips causes your chest to puff with pride, opening your mouth again so that he can slot the other two fingers in.

"Maybe you are a good girl," he mutters, and you nod, humming around the taste of your own release until he pulls his fingers out with a pop, using them to grasp at your chin and pulling you forward until your lips collide.

It's almost like he's trying to chase the taste of you, his tongue licking into your mouth and then he's actually sucking at yours, your hands clutching at the chest of his shirt to keep him close, letting him do whatever he wants for as long as he wants, because you're trying to get your fill.

Him using you like this seems better than the alternative - him ghosting your for days or weeks at a time, making you feel like you don't matter to him in the way he matters to you, or that he'll never feel the same way.

But there's something desperate in the way he kisses you - you think that's why he tries to deprive you of it, like you'll be able to read him through the taste on his tongue.

And you get a little greedy with his affections, probably, your hands sliding down until they meet his belt, and he pulls away before you even realise, stepping back completely so that you can't reach and running a hand through his already messy hair.

"Or maybe not."

"I just thought-,"

"You really are naughty, huh?" he chuckles, "What were you gonna do, make him wait out there all night while you tug at my cock? Get on your knees for me while your sweet little boyfriend buys you drinks and sits alone?"

"No," you pout, "He's not my boyfriend, he's just a guy from work."

"Just a guy you're using to make me jealous."

"Don't flatter yourself," you scoff, suddenly finding the nerve to stand up to him - the smirk he sends your way a touch too deep, and lasting a second too long. "I didn't even know you'd be here. Not everything is about you."

"Not what you were saying when my face was just between your legs." He shrugs as he takes another step back, and the grin you found so sexy mere minutes ago now makes you want to smack him as you watch him retreat. "I'll see you around, pretty girl, don't forget to clean up after yourself before you go back out for your date."

He winks before he leaves completely, leaving you alone in your own sticky mess, feeling dirty and used just like you always do when he disappears.

You find yourself wishing he stayed as you shuffle completely off the counter, pushing your skirt back down and grabbing some paper towels to clean the spot you were just sat on.

He'd stayed that night in your apartment, and you really thought things might change after.

But you should know by now things will never change with Quinn.

Especially when you head back out into the bar and find him speaking to Justin, shaking his hand with the exact same one he'd just used to bring you to a screeching orgasm, a crooked smirk stretching across his lips as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye before he leaves for the night.

Especially when he texts you moments after, your screen flashing with his name until you press through and read, He'll never be good enough for you.

And especially when you're answering the door of your apartment to him again a week later, falling back into the same pattern and letting him charm his way back in, no matter how shitty you feel when he disappears afterwards.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒶𝒸𝑒𝒶𝑒 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝑒𝑜 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: THIS IS PART TWO! If you haven’t read [ 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒 ], make sure you catch up first! Again I'm sooo sorry—I didn’t realize Tumblr had a word count limit, so I definitely went overboard. My bad. (Also, the header? Just for fun—just me being forever haunted by this art.)

Summary—where the tension between you and Geo thickens like venom in the air. What binds you brews slow and sharp, a toxic mix of unspoken truths and something neither of you can name.

It’s fragile. Addictive. And as it sinks deeper, you both know—this isn’t something you can walk away from.

But can you survive what it’s turning into?

Or will it devour you both?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Again, this is for my dearest mutuals, @mint0hhh artist of the [ header picture ], and @lu-dao-writes who gave me the setting and plot—plus a few add-ons from anons who asked for angst (you know who you are).

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: geo x gn and self insert! reader, angst (like. hella angst. cried while writing it.), slow burn, in vino veritas, mutual pining, enemies and lovers (kinda), first kiss, queerplatonic relationship, aroace rep, mentions of OCD, hyperawareness anxiety, emotional damage, (i really hurt my own damn feelings with this one.)

Every breath you took carried the bitterness of it.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how much you tried to show who you really were, there was always something hidden beneath. Something toxic, something no one ever bothered to understand. 

You were a plant no one cared enough to take care of, a mind no one ever wanted to see, only the surface—the mask you wore to keep yourself intact, the version of you that was palatable, easy to digest.

It wasn’t about your thoughts, your ideas, your emotions—it was about what they could take from you, what they could mold you into. 

The soft, sweet persona they wanted you to be.

The version they could control.

The version they could consume.

You were always a belladonna—a striking, dark berry with soft, inviting green leaves, so beautiful in its deadly way, yet filled with a poison so potent that no one could ever truly consume you.

Too much to handle. Too much to bear.

A dangerous allure, a beautiful venom that no one could take in without choking on the truth of who you really were. And maybe that’s why no one ever truly saw you. They only wanted the delicate bloom, the surface—the easy parts. The parts were simple to look at, and simple to admire.

They never wanted the poison.

The world didn’t want you for your mind. It wanted your beauty, the image of you, soft and harmless. And no one could handle what was really inside—what you really felt.

They wanted what they could touch without being burned. The pieces of you that were easy to handle, easy to mold, the parts that could fit into the illusion they’d built around you.

Because no one could ever truly swallow the poison.

No one could bear the weight of the truth that came with it.

The pain clung to you, heavy and suffocating, a reminder of everything you couldn’t escape—of the poison everyone seemed to see in you. 

You wondered if you’d ever be more than that, more than the mask you wore, more than the pieces of you that people could control, twist into something they could digest. Before you could even retreat into the quiet of your mind, that damn poison of his move.

Your eyes catches Subaru moving closer, his unreadable gaze settling on you. 

There was something in his eyes—a flicker, something fleeting, like guilt, frustration... maybe even fear?

No, no, no—It definitely unsettled you more than it should have. He reached out, his hand, but the moment his fingers came near you, a surge of panic coursed through you, and you stepped back instinctively as if his touch could kill you.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice barely there, trembling with the weight of everything you couldn't say. “Don’t touch me, Subaru…”

But, of course, he didn’t listen.

In a breathless blur, Subaru closed the space between you—his body pressing into yours with a force that felt more like a warning than comfort. He cornered you against the closet wall, his presence overwhelming, his eyes sharp as blades as they bore down on you. 

The tears you’d already let go many times before, finally broke through again, slipping past the mask you'd worn for so long, unraveling everything you’d kept so tightly wound. You stared up at him, your voice lost somewhere between shame and embarrassment, feeling small—so small—beneath the weight of his stare. 

Exposed in every way you hated. 

The words clawed their way up your throat, scraping against the ache in your chest as you beat your fists against him—soft, frantic, useless. He didn’t even flinch. 

“How dare you pull me into this...” you choked out, voice hoarse, each word punching through the silence like shattered glass. “How dare I pull myself into this…?”

You turned your face away, shutting your eyes tight—trying to dam the rising wave inside you. But it didn’t stop. “And yet... you won’t even be in it with me?” Your voice cracked as it dropped lower, almost trembling. “You’re so fucking possessive—but you don’t care. You never even cared how it feels on my end, did you?”

Subaru’s eyes narrowed as your words hit him—sharp, accusing, too full of something he didn’t know how to handle. His brows knit tighter, not in empathy, but in growing discomfort, in the weight of an expectation he’d never invited.

He hadn’t seen it coming. Not like this.

The breakdown—the crash out—was worse than anything he’d ever warned you about. And for a split second, Subaru genuinely thought you’d lost it. Very much unhinged, unpredictable. Maybe even dangerous…? He wouldn't admit it, but yeah, it scared the hell out of him. You looked like you might kill him… And still, he didn’t move.

He just stood there, eerily calm, arms at his sides, expression carved from stone as you unraveled right in front of him. Your voice broke. Your fists hit his chest. And he didn’t flinch. Not once. As if the chaos couldn’t touch him. As if you weren’t even real.

No sympathy. No guilt. No warmth. 

Just that same unreadable stillness he wore like armor.

Then finally, his voice cut through the silence—precise, and cold.

“…I never said I didn’t care.” 

It came out like glass—sharp and brittle as if it scraped against something frozen inside him just to be spoken aloud. His hand reached out—not gently, never gently—and tilted your chin until your eyes met his again. There was no softness there. Just a flicker of restrained emotion, sharp around the edges, as though feeling anything at all was beneath him.

“Not care?” he repeated, his tone suddenly bitter. “Of course I fucking care. And I fucking hate that I do. I don’t even know what the hell it means either. I never wanted this. Any of this.”

Subaru had always kept his distance from things like this. Again, Romance. Sex. Intimacy. They were irrelevant distractions—useless, messy, and stupid. People who chased that sort of connection always ended up weak or dependent. That kind of vulnerability disgusted him. 

And the idea of being part of it? Being someone’s something? 

It made his skin crawl.

“I’m not built for that,” he said flatly, voice lowering, almost like he was confessing something he shouldn’t. “I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it. Not with anyone.”

There was no apology in his tone—just cold honesty.  

Not cruel, but detached, like he was stating a fact you’d simply failed to see. “I don’t think about people that way. I don’t want anyone like that. Never have. The idea of it—it doesn’t make sense. It’s not worth the time. Not worth the energy. And it’s beneath me.” But there was something else in his voice, buried under the frost. Something like confusion. Or maybe even fear. 

He looked at you then, fully—your tears, your tiredness, your pain—and for a second, it almost cracked through. Almost.

“Why do you care so much?” 

He asked suddenly, and his voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was quieter, rawer. Like he didn’t understand any of this—like he couldn’t fathom why you would put yourself through it.

The question hung there, heavy and quiet.

Why did you care?

Because to him, it was all just poison. 

And he’d never asked for a taste.

You stared at him. For a long, aching moment, the silence stretched so thin it felt like it might snap in half.

Your breathing was still shaky, your hands trembling slightly by your sides now instead of pressed to his chest. You weren’t crying anymore—but that didn’t mean you weren’t hurting. The tears had stopped only because there was nothing left to spill.

You swallowed, hard. 

“Because I see you,” you said finally, voice hoarse but steady.

You glanced down briefly, eyes catching the space separating you both—close, but not close enough. “I know you didn’t ask for this. I know you never wanted anyone getting this close. And you probably hate that I did. That I saw past the version you keep showing the everyone.”

You shook your head slowly, not in regret, but in something quieter. Sadder. “But I care, Subaru. I care because somewhere along the way, without trying, you got to me. Not the cold, calculated guy everyone thinks you are. Not the one who always acts like he’s in control, above like nothing sticks. I’m talking about you. The one who still bleeds, even if you pretend you don’t. The one who freezes up when something actually gets under your skin.”

Your eyes found him again, and your voice lowered, softer now, not pleading—just honest.

“I never wanted anything you couldn’t give. I wasn’t trying to change you, or fix you, or force you into something you’re not. That was never the point.”

You paused for a breath, but it barely helped. 

Everything in you felt tight, coiled, like this confession had been clawing at your ribs for too long.

“I just… couldn’t ignore what’s between us. Like, forget fucking Crowe, like he didn’t convince me shit—I wanted to talk to you on my own. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it’s messy and complicated. I feel it. And I know you do too, whether you admit it or not.” You released a soft sigh, tired, wistful. 

“I’d be lying if I said you didn’t make me feel safe sometimes. And maybe I’m the only person who’s ever gotten under your skin enough to make you feel anything. You try to hide it, but I’ve seen it—how you act around me. You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

Another pause, this one laced with something like resignation. 

Your shoulders dropped just a little.

“I know this isn’t love. Not like people think it should be. That’s not what this is. That’s not who we are.” You took a step back—just one. Just enough to breathe without brushing against his walls, the ones he always keeps up, even now.

“But whatever this is?” You gestured vaguely, helplessly, between your chests. “It’s real. It means something. Even if we never name it. Even if it irritates or scares the hell out of you. We’re both emotional, but we carry it differently. You bury yours. I try to make sense of mine. And somehow, that created something here—between us—that neither of us planned for.”

You hesitated. 

You weren’t sure if your voice cracked or if it just sounded cracked from the inside.

“And maybe you’ll never feel it the way I do. Maybe this will always taste like something bitter to you, something wrong.” You gave a small, bitter laugh—empty, aching.

“Maybe to you, it’s just poison.”

You looked at him then, like you were finally letting something go.

“But even poison has roots.”

Subaru stood there, frozen—your words weighing down on him like they’d been waiting for years to land. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrists, began to loosen. Not because he wanted to let go, but because he didn’t know what the hell else to do.

Because suddenly, nothing made sense. He didn’t get it.

Why you? Why now?

Why here—in a goddamn closet, of all places?

You, with your eyes that didn’t flinch. You, who always said too much and still somehow knew when to stop talking. You, who never looked away from him like the others did.

And now you’d gone and seen him. The version he never let surface. The one buried beneath a thousand deflections and a mask carved so clean he’d started to believe it himself.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to shove it back down like he always did. But your words had already split the surface. The cracks were showing. His armor was rattling loose at the edges, and you—you—weren’t looking away.

That rattled him more than anything else.

His gaze locked on yours, desperate to catch you in a lie. To find some sign that this was just another manipulation, another twisted game. Because that, at least, would be easier. Easier to destroy. Easier to forget.

But you weren’t bluffing.

You stood there, tired and unshaken, not trying to fix him, not trying to win—just being. And that kind of honesty, that kind of quiet truth, scared him in ways he didn’t have names for.

His jaw clenched. His grip faltered.

“…Why do you have to do this?” he muttered, voice barely audible. It wasn’t laced with anger. It was too soft for that. Too lost. Like he was begging you not to pull him further into something he couldn’t control. 

You exhaled a hollow sound that echoed like a laugh stripped of joy. Tired. Real. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t push forward. You just looked at him, like you already knew what he was trying so hard not to feel. His hands dropped from your wrists completely now, hanging at his sides like they didn’t belong to him.

And in that fragile silence, you were still there. Unmoving. Unafraid. 

Just you—the one person who had already called him out, stripped him bare, and still hadn’t walked away.

“Because I wanted to,” you said, quiet—like the answer should’ve been obvious. Your eyes didn’t waver. “You and I… we’re not stupid. We catch on fast, we read people faster. It’s not hard for us to figure out what most others miss.”

our voice dipped lower, steadier now. “And most people? They look at you and see exactly what you want them to. Controlled. Rude. Cold. Untouchable. Like you’re made of stone or something.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him with a strange sort of calm. “But I’ve been paying attention. Really paying attention. And whether you admit it or not—you’re not as unreachable as you pretend to be.”

Seconds passed.

Heavy silence.

You let out a small breath and shook your head just a little, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Subaru Oogami. Ambitious. Intense. The type of guy who holds his breath until he wins or breaks trying. Always chasing something bigger, something higher—like staying still might kill you.”

"And me?” You shrugged, casual but not careless. “I’m the charming, assertive, overly expressive one, right? Social. Playful. Emotional.” You leaned in a little, tone softening. “But I’m not here to mess with you. I’m not here to fix you either.”

You met his eyes again, unwavering. “I’m here because I see you breaking. Not all at once, not dramatically. But slowly. Quietly. The kind of breaking that no one notices until it’s too late.”

You took a step forward. No drama. Just steady. Just close. 

“I’m not trying to save you, Subaru. I just… I don’t want you to be alone in that silence. That’s all.” You gave a small, sad laugh. “People like us—we don’t scream for help. We just learn to live with the noise in our heads.”

The air between you felt fragile—like if either of you moved too fast, it might all fall apart.

“I’m not asking you to feel the same. I’m not trying to label this, or make it something it’s not.” Your words came softer now like they were just meant for him and no one else. “But whatever this is… it’s real. And I think you feel it too, even if it makes you sick to admit it.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of your words finally settling. 

“That’s all.” No demands. No strings. No expectations.

You just said it. Because it was the truth.

And maybe, if all he knew was poison—then this was the first drop of something clean. 

Something honest, just to feel.

Outside, just beyond the thrum of bass and drunken laughter, Sol moved through the house like a shadow with purpose. The party noise dulled behind closed doors, leaving only the faint echo of the chaos below as he climbed the stairs—each step quiet, controlled.

His movements were calm on the surface, but just under his skin, something was stirring. That familiar pull in his chest, too stubborn to name and too loud to ignore. He told himself he had it handled. That he had a plan. That this was just another situation to manage.

But his hand flexed at his side.

He hated how unsure he felt.

The hallway was dim, lit only by a soft flicker from motion detected overhead, the scent of cheap cologne and spilled alcohol still clinging to the air. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly where he was going.

And if he was being honest—something about this moment felt like it mattered more than it should have.

Find you, pull you aside, lay it all out. Simple.

He’d waited long enough. He’d seen Crowe with you earlier—grinning like an idiot as he tugged you by the wrist toward the staircase. Sol had caught just enough of the conversation to know Crowe had sent you to grab the party games from one of the upstairs rooms. 

Games. Right. He told himself that’s all it was.

You’d probably grabbed the stuff and got distracted. Maybe sat down. Maybe needed a breather from the noise. Maybe you were waiting for him, even. A small smirk tugged at his lips at the thought… then faded as quickly as it came. Because it had been too long.

He hadn’t seen you since. 

And Crowe had come back downstairs alone.

Sol’s brows pinched together, his fingers threading through his hair in frustration. Okay… okay, chill. You’re overthinking again. You always do this. But that silence—it wasn’t normal. Not for this kind of party. 

Not when it came to you.

It started scratching at the back of his mind. That creeping, whispering kind of worry that didn’t speak in words—just pressure. Gnawing, anxious pressure.

So he started looking.

One room at a time. The spare bedroom—empty. The office? Nothing. The upstairs bathroom—just towels and the scent of cheap soap. The balcony? No sign of you. Just wind and a couple discarded solo cups.

His jaw flexed.

Next came the hallway closet. He tugged it open—still nothing. 

His steps picked up. Sharper. Quicker. His heart started to thud in his chest in that uncomfortable, too-loud kind of way. His palms were sweating now, and that usual smirk? Gone. Stripped off like a mask.

Where the hell were you? He tried one last room—completely empty. 

He cursed under his breath, quiet but seething. Then he stopped. Froze. He heard something. 

Not loud—just a faint sound. Voices, maybe? Soft. Muffled. Like someone trying not to be heard. His eyes narrowed as he followed it. His boots were soundless over the rug as he crept toward the end of the hall. 

The closet door. The very last one.

Sol’s steps faltered as he approached it. Every movement was deliberate, but slow—as if his body already knew what he was about to find. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the doorknob, the chill of it sinking into his skin. He didn’t turn it—Not yet. He just held it there, like if he waited long enough, he could will the entire situation away. 

But his instincts screamed at him, urging him forward.

With a subtle tilt of his head, he leaned in, listening.

Your voice. Soft. Strained. Like you were trying to hold something together, but it was slipping through your fingers. Tired. Was that…? His stomach twisted as he heard the exhaustion in your tone. The words weren’t clear, but the weight of them was. 

You were drowning in something you couldn’t say.

Then came the second voice. 

Not Crowe. Not some random, stumbling idiot from the party.

Geo. Fucking Subaru Oogami.

Sol’s breath caught, his body frozen in place, muscles locking up as a wave of disbelief washed over him. His stomach dropped, a feeling of cold emptiness spreading through him, hollowing him out—No way.

Sol didn’t dare blink. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sliver of light between the door and frame. Every inch of his body was screaming at him to turn and walk away. To pretend he didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything. 

But he stayed. Sol’s shifted his body slightly, pressing the side of his head closer to the narrow gap, the cool air from the closet wafting over his face. 

His breath hitched in his throat as he glimpsed you and him inside. 

Subaru, who had always carried that cold, invincible air, was barely holding himself together. sharp, brooding features. His usual unflinching demeanor cracked at the edges, the sharpness in his eyes dulling into something almost fragile. 

His shoulders hunched forward, like a man on the verge of collapse. His fists were clenched tight at his sides, trembling as if he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

He didn’t speak. Not a word.

But the silence was louder than anything. It was heavy, oppressive—filling the space between you two with more tension than any words could ever create. He didn’t need to say anything. His silence was all-encompassing. 

It told Sol everything.

Subaru was lost. And so were you.

That realization hit harder than any argument. Because at that moment, Sol could see it clearly. Subaru didn’t just look like a man caught in a moment. He looked like someone who had already lost the battle and was too proud to admit it.

The thing that hit Sol the hardest?

You weren’t fighting to get away. 

You were just standing there. And Subaru?

Subaru wasn’t pushing you away. He wasn’t trying to run. He was just... frozen. Struggling to stay grounded in a world that suddenly didn’t make sense anymore.

It was everything Sol feared. And it made him feel small. It made him feel like he wasn’t the one who belonged there. 

What the hell was happening?

You stepped in—just a little. Not because you felt sorry for him, but because you saw things clearly now. 

Subaru wasn’t just being cold for the hell of it. He was worn down, running on fumes. Tired in that soul-deep kind of way. And yeah, maybe those words you dropped hit harder than he’d ever admit. Truth always tastes like poison to the ones who swallow silence for dinner.

You let your eyes stay on him. Really look.

Was he always this pale under bad lighting? Lips parted just slightly, like he was about to say something but couldn't find the words? And those aquamarine eyes—usually so sharp, so damn good at cutting people off before they got too close—now just looked... dazed. 

Not by you. But by the weight of being seen.

He caught it. The look on your face. No pity. No judgment. 

Just… recognition. That unspoken I know what it’s like.

That—more than anything—shook him.

He let out this scoff, low and tired, like the world had finally outed him and you were the last person he expected, “Why do you always do this?” he muttered, his voice rough around the edges. “Look at me like I’m not a fucking mess. Like you get it.”

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

You’d already said enough—maybe too much.

Any more honesty and it’d either finish him off or push the whole thing straight into cringe territory. So you just stood there, holding space for someone who didn’t even know how to ask for it.

“Damn it,” he hissed softly, voice fraying. “You're not supposed to understand. You’re not supposed to see me. Not like this.” He took a step forward, close enough that you could feel the slight tremble in his breath, his walls crumbling in quiet pieces. “You look like hell,” he murmured, deflecting—but his voice was soft. “And you still have the audacity to act like you’ve got everything figured out?”

You sighed faintly. “I never said I did.”

That hit him like a punch to the chest. Whiplash, but not from the words—from you. From the way you looked at him like you already knew the parts, he didn’t show anyone. 

Like you’d swallowed the poison and called it by name.

Subaru’s brow twitched, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours. That unreadable expression cracked—just a little. Like he didn’t know whether to flinch or lean in.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t run, didn’t push, didn’t spit venom to make the moment disappear.

He just stepped forward, slow and almost hesitant, like his body moved before his mind caught up. You barely had time to process before he leaned in—close, closer. The space between you shrank until it barely existed at all.

Then—quietly, almost like it startled even him—Subaru kissed you.

There was no warning. No dramatic pause. Just the tiniest shift forward, like gravity pulled him in and he didn’t know how to resist it anymore. His lips pressed to yours, and for a second, time just… paused.

No sparks. No heat. No cliché breathlessness.

Just weight. Heavy, quiet, real.

It wasn’t a kiss meant to ignite anything. It wasn’t desire. It was something else entirely—like he was reaching out with the one thing he did have, even if it didn’t make sense to him. A wordless gesture of, “I heard you.” Of, “I don’t know what this is, but I’m still here.”

He kissed you like he was testing a theory.

Like maybe, just maybe, this didn’t have to hurt. Like maybe everything he’d buried—every dark, rotting thing he never let out—wouldn’t destroy the first person who’d seen it all and didn’t flinch.

And you kissed him back. Softly. Once. Steady. Not because it was romantic, or thrilling, or even something you needed to do. But because it felt like the right response. Like saying, “I get it.” Like keeping the moment still enough for him to breathe in it.

When you pulled back, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t cold.

It was just… quiet.

Subaru blinked, the faintest crack in his usual blank armor showing through. He took a half-step back, not like he was retreating—just trying to figure out where the hell he stood now. His voice came out low. Barely there. 

“…Didn’t feel like poison,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, like he was still deciding if that scared him or not.

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, trying to process what the hell just happened. Then nodded slowly. “…Yeah.”

Because deadass yeah—same. You didn’t expect that. Not from him. Not like that. You weren’t even sure if it was a kiss or some weird emotional exorcism wrapped in lip contact. 

But whatever it was—it didn’t kill you. It didn’t kill him. 

And that was... something.

Then—Click.

The door creaked open, sudden and sharp like a gunshot in the silence. Both you and Subaru flinched—not visibly, but in that gut-punch way where your bodies backed away from each other before your minds even caught up. You were both expecting Crowe, maybe Deryl. Someone familiar. Someone stupid enough to laugh and shake their heads and make it a joke.

But it wasn’t them. It was Sol.

And his face—It told a whole damn story in one glance. Your eyes noticed everything quickly—knew it. Shock, plain and raw, like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see. Nah—he definitely saw the Hurt, carved right into the way his mouth parted like he couldn’t breathe for a second. Confusion, was visible in the flicker of his eyes like he was trying to make sense of what the hell he’d just walked into.

And then—rage.

Simmering. Controlled. Trying hard not to boil over. Trying so damn hard not to let it turn ugly in front of you. But it was there, all of it, coiled tight in his jaw, his clenched hands, his silence that said everything.

You didn’t move. Neither did Subaru.

And Sol just stared at the two of you—his red-orange eyes burning holes in your skin, trying to carve out an explanation that didn’t exist. His gaze flicked from you to Subaru, and for a moment, there was something almost obsessive in it, like he was weighing the truth of what he'd just seen. 

Subaru was always been the problem.

Subaru was always there. Always hanging around, always too composed to be trusted. That calm demeanor, the way he acted like he was untouchable—like he owned everything around him. Those sharp eyes, those casual touches, those little looks he always gave you—Sol saw them all. He finally noticed it all. Every little thing that made Subaru seem just a little too comfortable around you, too close.

The pieces clicked in his mind, sharp and jagged, and the rage burned hotter. Sol’s voice snapped through the tension, low and furious, but with an eerie calm. 

“You… you really think you can just have them?”

His words were a direct challenge. He wasn’t even looking at Subaru now. His eyes were fixed on Geo, a bitter fire lighting up his pupils.

Geo raised an eyebrow, nonchalantly glancing at Sol, but there was a flicker of something deeper there—recognition. He had caught it. The look in Sol’s eyes. 

He wasn’t just pissed. He was dangerous.

“You really think they want you?” Sol spat, his words dripping with venom. “You think you can just play with them like this? Control them? Manipulate them?” His voice rose in volume with every word, an ugly distortion of what used to be affection. "You’ve been poisoning their mind, haven’t you? Telling them lies to turn them against me. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?"

Subaru took a step forward, fists clenched. “Look—“

“I know you’ve been sneaking around behind my back, trying to worm your way into their head,” Sol interrupted, stepping closer, his body tense like a coiled spring. “You think you’re so much better than me, huh? Think you can just take what’s mine?”

In a split second, Sol’s hand shot out, shoving Geo hard in the chest. Geo barely moved, but the force of the shove sent the tension in the room spiraling out of control. 

Everything felt like it was about to snap.

“You’re batshit crazy emo-ass dude, like I always knew,” Subaru muttered, shaking his head. But there was no fear in his voice—only disgust.

And that was all it took.

Sol lunged. His hands shot out, grabbing Geo by the collar and slamming him against the hallway with a violent crash. His grip tightened, nails digging into the fabric, pulling Geo’s face close to his with a snarl. “Don’t you dare act like you’re innocent. I saw the way you looked at them. Saw the way you touched them like you had a right to.”

The two of them were close now, too close—breathing in the same air, teeth gritted against each other.

Subaru didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t give Sol the satisfaction of seeing him scared.

With a growl, Sol shoved him again. This time, Subaru reacted. He swung—hard—hitting Sol square in the jaw with a heavy punch that sent his head snapping to the side.

The pain bloomed like wildfire, but Sol didn’t back down. He felt the blood in his mouth, but it only made him angrier. His vision blurred with fury, the edges of everything distorting as the fight burned through him.

With a roar, Sol tackled Subaru to the ground, fists flying. He was relentless—pounding into Subaru’s chest, his knuckles connecting with skin, the blows harsh and fast. But Subaru didn’t give up. He fought back, flipping them over with a growl, using his legs to pin Sol to the floor. His hands grabbed Sol’s wrists, forcing them down, using all his strength to keep him under control.

But Subaru was wild now. The rage was consuming him, burning everything else from his mind. His body writhed under Subaru’s grip, trying to break free, thrashing to land another punch, to hurt him.

The sounds of the music pounding downstairs seemed, like again, miles away, distant as the world outside continued without knowing the mess unfolding upstairs. 

You couldn’t let this happen. Not here. Not now. This wasn’t the time or place to be tearing each other apart—especially not with the party happening right below you, people oblivious to the mess unfolding up here.

You stepped forward, voice forced out through clenched teeth. “Enough, Sol,” you snapped, taking a deep breath as you tried to steady the rising panic in your chest. “This isn’t the time for this. The party downstairs—someone’s going to hear us!”

But Sol wasn’t listening. 

“You think you’re better than me?” Sol’s voice was barely a growl as he tried to get his legs free, to push Subaru off. “You think you have the right to touch them? To take what’s mine?”

Subaru’s eyes narrowed as he tried to hold Sol down. His breath was coming fast, but there was a clear determination behind his gaze. “You need to get a fucking grip,” he snapped, voice low. 

“They don’t belong to anyone.”

The words—those fucking words—hit Sol like a slap in the face. A crack in the dam. He threw his body forward, slamming his forehead into Subaru’s with a sickening thud, forcing him to stumble back. Blood leaked from his nose, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t stopping.

His rage was deafening, drowning out everything but the need to destroy. He lunged at Subaru again, not caring about anything else. And you acted on instinct, grabbing his arm to stop him, trying to hold him back, but before you could even register what was happening, a sharp, sudden pain exploded across your face.

Sol’s fist hit you square in the jaw.

The shock of it was immediate, but it wasn’t the pain that struck hardest. It was the fact that it was Sol—Sol—the one whom you thought you could trust, who’d been there for you in his own twisted way.

You stumbled back, your cheek stinging with the force of the hit, but before you could catch your breath, Sol was already there, his hand reaching out to you with a panicked, desperate expression.

“Shit—shit, I didn’t—” He quickly stumbled toward you, his voice soft, frantic. “Pumpkin... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

But the words didn’t land. 

You pushed him back with all the force you could muster, sending him stumbling backward until he hit the ground with a dull thud.

The hallway went eerily quiet for a second, the only sound was your ragged breath and the thundering beat of the music from downstairs.

Sol sat there, looking up at you, his breath shaky. He didn’t move. 

Didn’t try to get up.

You stood over Sol, your chest tight with disgust, a slow, suffocating poison filling your veins. Every inch of you wanted to scream, to shout every truth you could at him, but the words felt so small against the weight of what had just unfolded. 

You couldn’t make sense of it. You couldn’t undo the mess.

Subaru moved to take a step forward, but you held up a hand, voice as cold as ice. “Stay back, Subaru. I’ll handle this.”

But even you knew you were barely holding it together.

 The truth was, you didn’t want him to control this any longer. You weren’t going to let him break you and then apologize his way back into your life like it was nothing. You weren’t like that.

With a sharp breath, you began, words laced with finality. 

“I don’t belong to anyone.” You let the silence hang in the air, letting it sit between you like a thick, unspoken truth. “And I sure as hell don’t belong to you.”

Your gaze never wavered from his as you continued, each word deliberate, a cold shard of truth cutting through the tension. “What makes you think you and I could ever work out? I don’t even like you, Sol. Hell, I don’t even like art enough to care about that little thing you latched onto. Yeah, we both like horror stuff, but that's not some magical bond that makes us compatible. Do you think that’s enough? That I’d somehow fall for you because you want it?”

A bitter laugh escaped you, hollow and devoid of warmth. 

“It was never going to happen, never in a million years. I don’t have feelings for you, nonexistent. Like whatever past life you and I had together had to be simply a pity, but even modern terms that have been long gone now.” You saw the flash of confusion in his eyes, the shock written all over his face as your words sunk in, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Sol just stared at you, like he didn’t know what the hell hit him. His mouth opened as if to speak, but the words never came, hanging in the air uselessly.

“You need to understand something, Sol,” you continued, stepping back just slightly, making sure your words hit home. “You’re so desperate for the poison that you think it’ll save you. But I’m not the one to give it to you. We were never meant to be anything—certainly not this. I don’t want you. I never did. And you... you’re just looking for something to destroy yourself with.”

You didn’t care that it hurt. 

You didn’t care that his feelings were crushed.

This wasn’t about him anymore. This was about clearing the air—about making him face the truth, even if it shattered him.

Sol was quiet. Instead, he looked down, fingers twitching like he was about to reach for you again. But his movements were slow, hesitant. He could see it now—could see the shift in you, could feel it in the air between you.

And that was enough to stop him.

For a moment, he just sat there, his eyes not meeting yours, his chest still rising and falling with every ragged breath. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered, voice strained, unsure. His words were softer now, quieter. “I’m sorry... for everything.”

But the apology didn’t feel real. Not after all of this.

You didn’t even flinch as you looked down at him, your eyes cold, your heart colder. “Don’t apologize. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Sol opened his mouth like he was about to say something, maybe try again, but you weren’t going to let him. 

Not now. Not after everything.

Sol's eyes flickered between you and Subaru, rage still bubbling beneath the surface, only now, it was simmering in a way that suggested he was ready to snap at any second. He was convinced Subaru was the issue—he was the one who had interfered. 

His hands clenched into fists once more, and before anyone could react, he launched himself forward toward Subaru.

But in a blur of motion, a hand shot out, grabbing Sol’s arm and twisting it behind his back with brutal force. Sol's breath was ripped from his lungs in a strangled gasp as he was forced down to the ground, his face contorting in a mix of frustration and pain.

You froze. Subaru froze. 

Neither of you had seen it coming.

“Hyugo?” you called out, a mix of confusion and shock in your voice. That’s right he came with Sol to the Halloween party.

The once-MIA student, the carefree and elusive presence you barely expected to have your back, stood there with Sol’s arm twisted at an impossible angle, his face unreadable. He wasn’t the cheerful, playful version you knew—this was a side of him you hadn’t seen before. 

Cold, decisive, and completely in control.

Subaru’s confusion mirrored yours. His eyes flickered between you and Hyugo, his expression clearly saying the same thing: What is happening right now?

Hyugo didn't respond, his grip tightening on Sol’s arm, pressing him into the ground with unyielding force. For a second, it seemed like the entire hallway was holding its breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

"Don’t put your hands on my little brother," Hyugo growled, his voice low, the words carrying the weight of a threat so heavy it could’ve cracked glass. You could feel the tension in the air as his eyes flicked between you and Subaru, before landing back on Sol, pinning him like he was already dead in Hyugo’s eyes.

Hyugo then turned his gaze to Subaru. "Get them out of here," he said, tone cold, like he wasn’t even fazed by the chaos. "I already called the cops. Leave now."

You glanced at Subaru, and fuck, his face was a mess of emotions. 

It was pale as hell, looking like he’d just seen something he couldn’t unsee—disgust, anger, confusion, all mixed up into a look you couldn’t even describe. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. But he didn’t say a word. Just took one last look around, then grabbed your arm, pulling you out of the goddamn chaos.

You both made your way downstairs, and as if on cue, the flashing lights of a police car lit up the night, blinding and warning everyone at the same time. Oh shit. The entire party started scattering like cockroaches, people rushing out the doors, running in every direction, looking for an escape. It was a mess.

Crowe was standing near Deryl, Brittany, and Jess, already looking stressed the fuck out as he scanned the scene. “Who called the police??” he barked, looking around for answers like someone had just committed a crime.

Before anyone could respond, he saw you and Subaru, and his eyes went wide. “Did I miss drama?” he asked, “Wait—how did you get out of the closet..?” but when his gaze landed on your face.

“Hella, broken lock” you replied, your tone flat.

Without waiting for any further questions, you turned and started heading straight for the back door, already feeling the weight of everything press down on you. 

“Sorry Crowe, but we gotta dip,” you called back, barely slowing down. “I’m on scholarship. Party planner out.” You didn’t even glance back as you slipped out into the night, leaving the chaos behind.

You moved through the darkened streets, not looking back, your footsteps quick and steady. The cool night air hit your face, but the adrenaline kept you warm. 

Subaru was right behind you, shouting over the noise of the night, “Hey! Slow the fuck down!” He was still trying to catch up, his voice tight with a mix of concern and annoyance, but you were too far gone in your own head to care.

Before you could even make it to the end of the block, Deryl, Brittany, and Jess appeared, practically sprinting after you. Brittany looked pissed off, her hair falling out of place as she muttered curses under her breath as Jess held on to her. Deryl, for once, was being useful—grabbing Crowe by the arm and dragging him along in a half-assed attempt to keep him from falling apart.

When you all finally arrived at the diner, it was like a collective exhale. The neon lights above the early breakfast spot flickered in the darkness, offering a sharp contrast to the chaos you’d just left behind.

You all shuffled inside, and the scent of greasy food and fresh coffee hit you like a wave. Everyone was wiped out, some still catching their breath. Deryl and Subaru seemed to be the only ones still standing strong, while the rest of you were just... trying not to collapse.

No one said a word as you slid into the corner booth, settling between Crowe and Subaru. Their presence was a solid weight on either side of you—comforting in its own, strange way.

The six of you settled into silence for a second, trying to process what had just gone down. Everyone’s eyes were darting around, unsure of where to start, like it was some sort of unspoken rule to not bring up the mess of the night just yet.

Deryl was the first to break the silence, though his voice was still full of energy like he didn’t just witness a fight that nearly ended in a disaster. “So, who’s planning the next party? Because that shit was hype, even if the cops came. I’m just sayin’,” he grinned like the whole thing was some sick joke.

Brittany, on the other hand, was visibly disappointed, slouching in her seat and poking at her menu. “I was gonna get soooo wasted by the end of the night,” she muttered, glancing out the window like she was mourning the loss of the evening. “But nooo, gotta get the cops involved. Real fucking fun.”

Crowe was sitting there, rubbing his forehead, looking like he wanted to crawl into a hole. “This is why I don’t throw parties in my guest house,” he grumbled, clearly stressed. “What the hell was I thinking? My aunt’s gonna kill me.”

You looked at him, blinking for a moment. “Guest house?” you asked, half in disbelief. “You threw that entire thing in a guest house?” You couldn’t help but sigh under your breath. “That’s rich people’s problems right there.”

Crowe threw you a look, leaning back in his seat like he was trying to disappear into the booth. “Yeah, well, I’m not throwing a party at my real house. Not a chance in hell,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the cushions.

You grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Got damn rich people,” you teased, but your mind was already working. You motioned to the table with a nod. “All right, since our night is fucked, how about you all pick up the tab?”

Crowe’s head snapped toward you, eyes widening. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” you said with a smirk, “pay for the bill. I did all the work to make sure it was perfect until the cops showed up. So, unless you wanna keep wasting my time, I’m cashing out.”

Subaru, still processing everything, threw you a confused look, but you were already counting the minutes in your head until this night would be over.

Crowe sighed, finally giving in, rubbing his temples like he weighted the world on his shoulders. “Fine, fine, I’ll pay. You guys are seriously killing me, but yeah, I’ll cover the food,” he muttered, glancing at the menu like he wanted to melt into it. Everyone at the table perked up at his words, though you could tell they were still in a bit of shock from everything that went down earlier.

The waiter moved through the group, taking orders as the quiet hum of conversation settled in. The usual noise that felt uncomfortable you first felt when it came to hanging around this friend group.

However, now?

More like the peaceful weight of a night that had finally caught its breath. The chatter that followed was filled with clumsy attempts to fill the silence, like people fumbling to catch up with the rhythm of a moment they hadn’t quite grasped.

Deryl was as animated as ever, his voice loud and scattered as he rambled about finding a new spot for the next party—praying it wouldn’t end with sirens again.

Brittany, still jittery from the night’s chaos, was looking forward to her drink like it was a lifeline, a simple comfort she could hold onto.

Jess, the usually quiet observer, seemed lost in thought, her hands absentmindedly picking at her food. Her gaze was distant as if the events of the night had nudged something inside her—something she wasn’t sure how to deal with just yet.

It was like that—the way the conversation naturally folded into a silence that no one rushed to fill. Something about the way this group connected felt like solanaceae, that fun, intoxicating beauty wrapped in a delicate skin of thorns.

You could feel it in the way each of them interacted—like this quiet understanding of each other’s complexity, how the rawness of who they were was met with unspoken acceptance.

They were like a vine of nightshade, one that, if you got too close, could prick your skin with its sharp edges, but if you leaned in just right, it would wrap around you, tender yet fierce.

Even though they were different, even though they weren’t perfect, being here, surrounded by this strange blend of warmth and edge, felt like finding a place where you could just exist without the weight of expectations.

They cared—maybe not in ways you could always understand, but in ways that were real. There was a comfort here, but it was the kind you had to lean into, the kind that could hurt, but also heal.

And somehow, it felt safe.

Even in the moments of tension or silence, there was a knowing that this was where you belonged—among the thorns, wrapped in the strange, bittersweet beauty of something real.

And then, as if to stir the pot once again, Crowe dropped the topic that no one had thought to touch.

“So,” he started, his tone more casual than before, but you could tell there was an edge to it, like he was trying not to seem too concerned, “you two…” He nodded toward you and Subaru. “You guys locked in that closet, huh? What the hell happened in there?”

You froze, instantly wishing you could sink into the booth. 

You didn’t want to talk about it.

Not with Crowe, not with anyone. 

Whatever happened in there—it stays between You and Subaru. 

The weird, messy thing that didn’t need explaining. But Crowe wasn’t letting it go, his eyes glancing between you and Subaru like he was trying to piece together the puzzle.

Subaru shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but before you could say anything, Crowe mumbled more to himself than anyone else, “I didn’t mean to put you two through that. But... watching you both not talk to each other? It’s messing with my head.”

The weight of the words hit you, and you could feel Subaru’s eyes on you, waiting for your response. You didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to give Crowe any satisfaction of knowing what had gone down. You shrugged it off, pushing the conversation away as best you could. 

“It’s whatever,” you said quietly. “We’re fine now.”

You didn’t say more because, honestly, you weren’t sure what more to say. The tension was still thick between you and Subaru, but that was something you’d handle on your own. Again, you didn’t need Crowe or anyone else trying to meddle.

Just as the conversation shifted back to the party, you absentmindedly picked up your food, taking a bite, only to have Subaru’s hand shoot out in a flash. His fingers brushed against your face, and you barely had time to react before he wiped something off your cheek with a napkin, his voice low and careful.

“Don’t eat with your mouth full,” Subaru said in that familiar, borderline nagging tone, like he was scolding you but in the softest way possible. He wasn’t angry, just a little too invested in making sure you didn’t look like a mess in front of everyone. 

Then, without missing a second, he placed a napkin neatly on your lap, a subtle, almost unconscious gesture that no one else at the table seemed to miss.

The entire table fell silent for a second. 

You could practically hear the wheels turning in their heads. Everyone was staring, eyes wide, mouths slightly agape. Subaru’s quick, unexpected affection caught them all off guard. It was strange, watching him be so… attentive in his own blunt, rude way. He wasn’t exactly gentle, but there was something undeniably tender about the way he took care of you, even if it was just wiping your face.

It was the little things that made it all so damn confusing.

“Yo,” Deryl finally broke the silence, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “What the hell was that?”

Brittany blinked a couple of times, eyes narrowing. She shifted her gaze between you and Subaru, like she couldn't figure out if she was witnessing something cute or downright creepy. "You two... are weird."

“Are you two together?” Jess asked, her voice cutting through the awkward tension. The whole table went quiet, their eyes immediately flicking between you and Subaru.

You let out a sigh, leaning forward in your seat with a smirk. 

“I don’t know, are we together, Subaru?”

Subaru froze, suddenly stiffening. His eyes darted around, probably realizing for the first time how damn odd everything must've looked. His mind must’ve been racing, trying to come up with an excuse, something that could make sense of all this mess. 

He shouldn't have done that.

Especially in front of everyone. 

He scowled, trying to brush it off, but still couldn’t pull his gaze away from you. “Oh, shut it,” he muttered, scooting away from you slightly as he turned to face the others. His eyes went sharp.

“It’s none of your damn business, you nosy fucking idiots.”

“Bruh, they deadass called you by your first name,” Deryl threw in, clearly trying to rile Subaru up.

Subaru’s eyes darkened at the mention of it, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. He gave a low huff, but his voice had that bite to it.

"Shut your mouth, Deryl."

Crowe was staring too, but his gaze was different. More thoughtful, like he was trying to piece something together. He glanced at you for a split second, then back to Subaru, before letting out a deep sigh. Finally, Crowe couldn’t resist adding his two cents, his voice laced with amusement.

“Looks like someone’s acting soft~”

Subaru’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking under his skin. He wanted to wipe that smug look off Crowe’s face, but he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of reacting. Not yet.

You couldn’t help but laugh—soft and genuine. You knew it wasn’t really funny, but the ridiculousness of it all just hit you at that moment. Maybe it was the weird energy between you and Subaru, maybe it was the whole mess with the party... or maybe you just liked the idea of breaking the tension, even if only for a second.

But right when the atmosphere lightened a little, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down at the screen, seeing Hyugo’s name flashing up. Without missing a second, you excused yourself.

“Hold on a sec,” you said, standing up from the booth. Subaru instantly furrowed his brow, watching you.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice a little too sharp.

Of course, everyone at the table immediately jumped on him, teasing. "Yo, Subaru, you can’t just let her leave like that?" Deryl grinned, leaning forward. "What, no ‘be careful’? No ‘call me later’?"

Brittany and Jess were quick to jump in too, their eyes practically glowing with amusement. "What's up, Subaru? You need to go after her?" Brittany asked, barely suppressing her grin.

Subaru growled low in his throat, clearly irritated. "Shut up, all of you."

You bit back a smile as you glanced at him. 

"Relax, I’ll be back in a minute."

Subaru’s eyes didn’t leave you as you made your way to the back area, heading toward the bathrooms. You could feel their eyes on you even as you stepped away, but you didn’t care. You needed a moment to yourself, a quick breather before dealing with more of whatever was happening at that table.

Once you were safely out of their line of sight, you took a breath and reached into your pocket to pull out your phone. 

You needed a moment to clear your head, to get away from the chaos. Pressing the device to your ear, you stepped deeper into the quiet corner near the bathroom, the noise of the party just barely audible through the walls.

"Hey, Hyugo," you said, lowering your voice, feeling the tension still clinging to you like an unwanted weight.

Hyugo’s voice crackled through the speaker, steady and calm, but you could still hear that subtle edge beneath it. "Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay after all that? Did you and my little brother make it out?"

You closed your eyes, leaning back against the cold wall, letting his voice ground you for a moment. "Yeah, we’re fine. We got away with the others. Things got... little messy, but in a fun way. Our friends are straight up messing with him, and joking about the party."

Hyugo let out a laugh, and you could almost picture the happiness pulling at his lips. "That’s so funny. I bet he’s all red in the face. He flushes easily, you know." His laugh rang through, light and genuine, and you couldn’t help but laugh too, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

But then his tone shifted, softened. "You know..." he began again, more quietly now, like he was choosing his words carefully. 

"Don’t listen to Sunny, well… Sol. He’s just…" He trailed off, and you could hear the unspoken understanding in his voice. "He’s complicated. You don’t need to let him drag you down into whatever mess he’s dealing with. You’re better than that."

You felt a weight lifting from your chest at his words. The heaviness of everything that had happened—the chaos, the hurtful words, the confusion—seemed to dissipate a little. 

"Okay," you muttered softly. "I’ll try."

You hesitated for a moment, “Where is Sol?”

Hyugo sighed before saying, "We both got out before the cops saw us,” he said. "But don’t worry, I handled him. I made sure." There was a quiet assurance in his words, like he knew exactly how to deal with his younger brother, even if the details were something you weren’t sure you wanted to picture.

His words were comforting, but it was more than that—there was a dangerous edge to them, a possessiveness that spoke of a bond you knew better than to question. Hyugo wasn’t the type to let things slide, especially not when it came to protecting those he cared about. 

You breathed out slowly, glancing down at the phone in your hand. Time was slipping away, and you couldn’t afford to be away from the table for too long.

"Thanks, Hyugo," you said, your voice tinged with sincerity. "I appreciate you looking out for us.”

He laughs softly, clearly hearing the warm of his voice, "Of course," he said, his tone light but full of that familiar teasing warmth.

"I’d be a terrible older brother if I didn’t."

There was a pause, and you could almost hear him considering something, weighing his next words carefully before he spoke again, his voice lower, quieter.

"But as his older brother..." he said slowly, almost thoughtfully. "Just... take care of my little brother for me. And of course, take care of yourself, okay?" His words were soft but firm like he was entrusting you with something important. "I just want you two to have a better life. A peaceful one, if that’s even possible, with… Subaru."

The sincerity in Hyugo’s voice lingered in your mind, a warmth that pushed away some of the tension you’d been holding. Even with everything that had happened, his words gave you a small sense of reassurance.

Maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

Maybe things with Subaru could be… different.

You sigh softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you respond. “I’ll try. We’re perhaps compatible. Like, he’s a handful, you know.”

Hyugo’s laugh came through again, deep and knowing, like he was in on some unspoken joke. "I know, tell me about it... Thank you, and I’m sorry, I’ll see you sometime around,” he added before the call ended.

For a moment, you stood there, the soft hum of your friends in the background, Hyugo’s words hanging in the air. There was something about him, something different when it came to you. And even though you couldn’t quite place it, one thing was clear—Hyugo doesn’t play about his little brother.

And maybe he did it for you….

Nah, that’s a lie because—you frowned your brows—thinking about Hyugo must know of Sol god awful obsession with you, because ain’t no damn way. Maybe that’s why he said he was sorry at the end once he realized that you have a connection with his little brother… hmm.

Anyway—you were about to head back to the table, the sound of footsteps approaching snapped you out of your thoughts. Before you even saw him, you could feel Subaru’s presence. And then his voice—quiet but piercing.

“Is he gone?”

You jumped, the suddenness of it making your heart stumble. Spinning around, you found Subaru standing there, his figure looming over you like an unspoken warning. His gaze was piercing, searching for something, maybe for a crack in your calm exterior.

“Subaru, please don’t do that,” you said, your voice strained as you tried to steady your racing pulse. His unexpected closeness, that tension between you, still hadn’t fully settled, and now he was standing there, making everything feel worse and more complicated.

“Yeah, Hyugo’s gone,” you muttered, trying to make your tone sound as casual as possible. But your voice was flat, betraying the way your chest still felt tight from the earlier conversation. 

You glanced up at him, a wave of curiosity creeping in. 

“You heard everything?”

For a moment, Subaru didn’t answer. His gaze locked onto yours, unreadable—cold, but with something sharp lurking beneath. Something almost… worried? The intensity of it made the air around you crackle with unspoken words. But instead of responding, he shifted slightly, looking away, as though something was clawing at him that he refused to face.

“I didn’t want to sit at the table with them while waiting,” he muttered, his voice edged with irritation, but there was something else there too—a softness, a crack in the armor. 

“Too many idiots messing with me...” He scowled, as though frustrated by his own vulnerability, and you could see it in the way he tried to pull away, afraid of showing too much. But then, almost as an afterthought, his voice softened again, and his eyes flickered toward you, sharper now but tinged with something unspoken.

“But I came to check on you,” he added, and even though his tone was still laced with that cool indifference, you could hear the slight hesitation beneath it. 

Like maybe, just maybe, he was just worried.

“Don’t need to be so dramatic,” you said, almost laughing. “I’m fine.”

Subaru shot you a look, narrowing his eyes at your comment, but then his posture shifted. “Text that short shit I said thanks,” he grumbled, “but don’t—I swear to god, make it over the top or he’ll never leave me alone on campus.”

You bit your lip, trying to stifle a laugh, “Sure,” you muttered, nodding as you looked at him. His expression was still cold, distant—like a layer of frost between you two. 

But his eyes? They told a different story.

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of it all, the strange pull between you two. “Anyway,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the moment. “Let’s get out of these nasty-ass restrooms. I’ll give you hand sanitizer once we’re back at the table.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Subaru…”

“And you need to drop that art class,” he continued, oblivious to the way you’d called him out. “Start taking your major classes. Plan a better route. Just in case that fucker tries to mess with you.”

“Subaru…” you interrupted again, a little more firmly this time, trying to catch up with his rapid-fire thoughts.

“I’ll start walking with you to your classes since ours aren’t far apart. You can stay with me at my place until we find you somewhere else. I don’t care what my bitch-ass father says. I’ll handle it. That emo-fucker... I don’t trust him. I can’t—”

“Subaru,” you called, cutting him off mid-rant, a touch of annoyance slipping into your voice. “Shit, you're way ahead of my ass.”

He stopped in his tracks, his words trailing off. He blinked, clearly realizing how much he’d blurted out. His face turned slightly reddish pink, his eyes flickering away from yours as he tried to regain his composure. He cleared his throat, muttering under his breath. 

“I know. Sorry,” he mumbled, his tone a little gruff as he avoided eye contact, his usual arrogance faltering just a bit.

You felt a little smile tug at your lips, but it wasn’t out of mockery. More like a realization, something that settled in your chest, warm and heavy. Subaru—despite the tough shell he put up—was starting to show you pieces of the person he used to be.

Or maybe, just maybe, the person he was becoming. 

Perhaps, in that very poison, your truthful words had managed to move him. 

Subaru looked down at you, the faintest laugh escaping his lips, mixed with that little annoyance in your voice. 

The crazy part? 

You were his, and he was yours—something neither of you could quite wrap your heads around. He leaned in slightly, his gaze softer now, the sharp edges of his usual demeanor starting to fade. 

“A Belladonna, you know," Subaru said almost lovingly but annoyed, the words falling between you like a secret just for the two of you.

You blinked at him, momentarily lost in the meaning of it before your eyes softened. The shift was subtle, but it made you appear more alluring than ever. Belladonna?—dangerous, intoxicating, wrapped in mystery and allure.

A poison, sure, but not the kind that burned. 

You were the berry, sweet yet deadly, something Subaru never thought he’d be so drawn to. And yet, here he was, tangled up in the wild, intoxicating forest of campus and your presence.

The kind of danger that didn’t destroy, but wrapped him in its pull, making him crave more. Always more. Subaru was immune to it, somehow, able to take on everything you were without being consumed. And that? That made you even more captivating in ways he couldn't fully explain.

"Didn't think you knew Italian or plants like that," you teased, an amused glint in your eyes.

Subaru sighed, that arrogant confidence of his never fully gone. "One, I speak five languages. Two, I like plants."

You rolled your eyes at his answer, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Aw, first you call me a beautiful plant, now you're pulling out the fancy language?” you scoffed, crossing your arms with mock offense. “Weird, but okay.”

Subaru gave you that look—the one that danced on the edge of a challenge and a confession. “It’s belladonna,” he said smoothly, his voice low, rough with sarcasm, “It means deadly nightshade, a poisonous plant. Don’t go twisting my words like I called you ‘beautiful’ or anything. Don’t get cocky, smartass.”

And yet… the way he looked at you as he said it—his eyes sharp and unreadable, lingering a bit too long on your lips, on the curve of your smirk—betrayed him.

His mouth said one thing, but his gaze? That told the truth.

You weren’t just a poison to him.

You were a craving. Addictive.

Dangerous in the kind of way that pulled him closer, even when he knew he shouldn't. Not toxic—no.

Just potent enough to blur the line between warning and invitation.

You caught the look in his eyes—the way they softened for just a second like he'd forgotten to keep the mask on. That wall of his, the one he built so carefully, cracked without a sound. And in that silence, something honest slipped through.

Then he said it again, quieter this time, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard.

“…My belladonna.”

No smirk. No smug edge. 

Just the weight of his voice brushing against your skin like a whisper no one else could claim.

The words settled into your chest, blooming slow and warm, stealing your breath without asking. He didn’t have to mean it like that—but something about the way he said it made your heart stumble anyway.

Beautiful poison. Deadly nightshade.

But what Subaru didn’t know—what he clearly didn’t realize—was that you knew that belladonna also meant beautiful lady in Italian. And you weren’t about to tell him. Never. Let him pretend he wasn’t sweet. Let him keep thinking he wasn’t calling you beautiful. 

You arched a brow, biting back a grin. 

“Didn’t think you were the poetic type.”

He rolled his eyes, scoffing like it physically pained him. “I’m not. You’re just dramatic. And annoying. And smug as hell.”

But he didn’t deny it. And he didn’t take it back.

Instead, he glanced away with that familiar scowl—half exasperated, half something softer, "You're lucky I even tolerate you," he grumbled, voice low and rough, but you heard it—that warmth sneaking in like it always did when he got too close.

You were his poison, no doubt—but the kind that lingered sweetly on the tongue. Addictive. Secret. Worth every risk.

You tilted your head at him, a slow smirk tugging at your lips.

“Vice versa,” you hummed. “And yet here you are, still choosing to ‘tolerate’ me. Such possessiveness.”

He rolled his eyes hard enough to see the back of his skull.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shot back, but his mouth betrayed him—edges twitching up, just barely.

You both knew what was happening. 

He wasn’t running. Wasn’t pushing away. He was already caught. Wrapped up in everything you were. Falling—grudgingly, carelessly, completely—into the mystery of you.

His belladonna.

[moonshapedbox]

swan shaped heart

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter 

a/n: whew! this story is finally leaving the confines of my drafts and i’m so happy!!! it’s longer than I anticipated it would be but ultimately decided that this will be a series. longer chapter to start with to set up the storyline. extremely self indulgent bc i want a man like this. reader is pretty freaky but we’re all adults here okay sdfjkf special shoutout to @dilf-luvr-4evr who wanted me to tag her, tysm to u and to my other dear moots for hyping me up and encouraging me to write !!! ok i think that’s everything! :D

tags: reader is in her twenties, lots of fluff, hint of age gap, ton of romantic tension. no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 hands..lots of hands (you’ll see) no smut but heavily suggestive, lots of religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), read at ur own discretion !!!

wc: 6.5k

part one | part two

He arrived in a little town 15 minutes outside Valentine– couldn’t remember the name of it nor did he care. Hell, he didn’t know why he was riding there or what he was going to do when he did get there, but he was exhausted from casing banks and stores, or sizing up the potential jobs in the area, he needed a place to rest.

He looks up at the sky, the sun had just gone behind the mountain; he was too far from camp to head back now, there was no reason to risk being caught in any attacks from rival gangs if he were to travel during the night. The slight breeze was cool and wet, there was rain coming. He needed to find shelter–and quick.

The town hardly changed at all since he last visited 4 years ago, maybe a fresh coat of paint on the post office or the new signage on the general store–it was like time stood still. As he rode into town, there were a few people who knew him, giving him subtle nods as he rode past, others not at all. He found some lodging to stay in overnight and took inventory of his saddlebags, counting all the things he lacked. He decided it was smart to make a run. Soon enough, he secured his horses outside the general store, only buying a couple things before he left town again in the morning, enough food to last on the trip and a new pack of smokes.

He got what he needed and packed his saddlebags– when his eyes met with the church. He wondered how she was doing, what she looked like now, if she even remembered him at all—the preacher’s daughter. He heard a lot of stories about preacher’s kids; lascivious, wild and unruly. Although she was different– an honorable woman, who took everything her father taught her to heart, and tried to be her best when the Bible instructed it. Her even-tempered and friendly demeanor was like a calming balm on his aching soul. It was something so refreshing, so sweet in comparison to the life he was living. If life was a long and painful drought, then this woman was the rain– and he needed rain desperately. 

“Mr. Morgan?” a voice broke him out of his train of thought. Mr. Morgan. That voice–he’d know that voice from anywhere. He looked back and sure enough there she was, standing there with her ruffled white dress, burgundy boots with laces wound up snug against her ankles, and a dainty swan pendant necklace that adorned her neck, glimmering in the western sun. 

He inhales into a small grin, “Well, I reckon I know you from somewhere” he smirks. “How you doin’ little lady?” She squeals loudly and hurries over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a friendly embrace, “I can’t believe you’re here I thought you’d never come back,” she says, holding onto him for a moment longer before he pulls away. “Can’t have you be huggin’ me like that in the street or else people’ll think we’re sweet on each other” he jokes. She finally steps back to look at him and there’s a beat of silence, so short that if you were to exhale you’d miss it, but Arthur picks up on it. It’s awkward, in a sweet way. She looks down for a moment before looking up at him again, “Town missed you Mr. Morgan, where you been?” she asked. 

He felt guilty at the question. He’d been robbing, scheming, hurting, killing. Although he couldn’t tell her all that, she’s a preacher’s daughter. He felt so surely that if she ever found out what he did for a living she’d shun him for the rest of his life, “Uh, work mainly. You know how it is darlin’,” he replied, putting a lit cigarette up to his lips, taking a drag. 

“How long you plannin’ on stayin’ for?” she questioned, looking at his face for any clues to why he’s here. He shrugs, honestly he wasn’t planning on staying for long at all but since she’s standing right in front of him, with big glossy eyes and the hint of her sweet orange and vanilla perfume catching every now and again with the slight breeze– he couldn’t say no. 

“Not long darlin’, just for the night and then I leave in the mornin’,” he explains, that should give him enough time to visit without raising suspicions. She flashes him a melancholic smile and nods, wishing that he’d stay longer. She never got a chance to spend any time with him when he came to visit for the first time. 

Arthur Morgan–what a man, it would be an honor to get to know him behind his mysterious and aloof nature. To know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, she wanted to be the one to break his walls and scoop into his soul. Her mind starts to race with thoughts as her eyes gloss over his features: warm dark blonde hair, big blue eyes and scruffy beard–he was perfect.

He gets even more handsome than the last time I’ve seen him. He must have a girl–there’s not a woman on earth that hasn’t claimed him for herself yet. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty…Lord, he’s so much older, so much more experienced– what am I thinking I ain’t got a chance. 

“You okay darlin’?” his voice broke her train of thought, she watched him put the cigarette back to his lips. She nods, “You was always an inquisitive one.” she teases, trying to change the subject. He raises his eyebrows and scoffs playfully, he never thought of himself as the inquisitive type. “I could say the same for you missy…’sides why’s your Daddy lettin’ you in town all by your lonesome?”

“I’m just going to get a couple things, we ran out of some food back at the house,” she explains, kicking some of the dirt on the ground with her foot. Arthur nodded slowly, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous? Words not coming to him with such ease, that beat of familiar silence encompasses the air again. She looks over at the entrance of the general store, “Well, I guess I must go now, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Morgan.” she softly bows her head and turns away. The sight of her leaving pains him, even if it’s just for a moment. There is something stirring in Arthur. Something big and explosive —yet strangely familiar. Before he can even think about what he’s saying, he hears the words leave his mouth, “Wait– I’ll go in with ya.” he says, stamping out his cigarette and catching up beside her, “it ain’t safe… a young lil thing like you by yourself.”

She stops and looks up at his big looming figure standing next to her, “I can manage just fine Mr. Morgan, but I will not turn down your company.” She quietly thanks the Lord under her breath and enters the store with him. She greets the shopkeeper while he follows her around, making mental notes of the stuff she’s buying, looking over her shoulder for trouble so she doesn’t have to.

“Y’know Mr. Morgan, you were our hero 4 years ago…helping us round up all our missing cattle that those awful Montgomery boys stole from us.” 

Hero? A title that he rarely heard attributed to him. Her words transported him back to that time. He couldn’t believe it had already been 4 years since a trembling, fresh faced, beautiful young woman begged him to take care of some seemingly rotten men. Men that did nothing but terrorize the town by fighting, stealing, and getting into all sorts of debauchery– including looting and descrating her father’s church. As the tears ran down her soft and supple cheeks, she didn’t know that the man she was pleading to help save them from misery– was planning to rob her townsfolk and shoot them dead if needed to. A plan that would inevitably fail, all because his heart got the best of him.

He blinked back out of thought, “It was nothin’ really. It was nice spendin’ the week in only one place for once– speakin’ of them boys; they been givin’ you any trouble lately?” he exhaled, scanning over her features. “No, you must have scared them real good Mr. Morgan, ‘cause I haven’t seen them since.” she replies, checking the pears for bruises.

Of course, because he shot them dead. 

“Well…maybe they moved away.” he gestures vaguely. She smiled politely and continued to shop for the ingredients she needed. She fidgets with her swan pendant necklace and he picks up on this small habit too–trying to etch every aspect of this woman in his mind so he’ll never forget. When she had gotten all she needed, he offered to pay for her groceries. A gesture that restored her faith in man. She insisted it wasn’t necessary but Arthur paid for them anyway. As they walk back out, they loiter around the front of the store for a moment.

 “Thank you for courting me Mr. Morgan, y’know you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh sure, I wanted to, really.” he smiles softly. 

They gaze at each other for a moment before she smiles back, “It was nice seeing you again Mr. Morgan. God bless you.” 

He nods and smiles back, watching her walk away, wicker basket of groceries cradled in the crook of her arm. He sighs to himself, it was all so soft and so sweet, truthfully, he needed this. As he began walking over to his horse, thinking over the interaction, a soft ping of metal reverberated against the wood paneling on the steps. He looks down by his foot and a glimpse of something bright catches his eye, he picks it up and studies it. 

It’s her swan pendant necklace. 

“Shit…” he mumbles to himself. He looks around the building to see if he can catch up with her but it’s too late. He sighs and gives it another look over. The picture of the elegant swan on the pendant with gold trim perfectly catching the sunlight stared back at him. It was a beautiful pendant– while her family wasn’t dirt poor, he knew her folks were certainly not rich, especially given her father’s profession. There was no way she could have the money to buy this on her own–this must have been a family heirloom. He shoves it in his pocket for safekeeping.

That evening, the rainstorm he predicted was currently pounding against the glass of the window in his room. He shuts the door behind him and thuds himself down heavily on the side of the bed. He starts to rub his eyes, watery from exhaustion, with his index finger and thumbs. The events of the day weighed heavy on him, from having to stay overnight, to having to go back to camp empty handed, it was like a weight of stress was congregating in his chest. Despite all of this, the image of her stayed in the back of his mind. She looked well off and healthy, getting to see her after so long was pleasant to say the least. He sighs deeply and kicks his boots off. 

He lays on the bed, adjusting his weight to the mattress to get comfortable. He feels something in his pockets that prod at his hip, before reaching back in only to pull out the preacher’s daughter’s necklace. While he knows it’s just an object, he shares a moment with it— reminding him of its owner. Oh how pretty she looked today, like an angel. She smelled so sweet, her smile so soft, she was divine in so many ways. He thought of how the cool enamel of the pendant would touch her warm skin. His mind starts to wander, thinking about her only wearing the pendant, how it would glimmer under the low light of a bedroom, as he caresses her soft, untouched skin. Guilt stops him for a moment, and he curses himself for thinking such a thing– this was the preacher’s daughter he was thinking about. It would never work and he knows it, she’s forbidden fruit–but there’s something that courses in his veins, something that makes his mouth water for just a small bite.

He lovingly caresses the pendant with his thumb, the ghost of a smile visits his lips. Strangely enough, he found himself dreading to give it back to her. The pendant was expensive enough that he could have just sold the damn thing and went on his way–or at least that’s what Micah would insist him to do. Although he would never inflict such cruelness on this innocent daughter of the Lord. No–he didn’t want the pendant for monetary gain, all he wanted a little memento to remember her by. He closes his eyes and places the softest kiss on the enamel of the pendant before opening his eyes again. 

“The preacher’s daughter, of all women–,” he mumbles to himself, “you sure know how to pick ‘em…don’t ya?” He exhales as he rolls over, before placing it on the nightstand. He stares at it once more before putting out the candle.

“Goodnight girl.”

The next morning, Arthur finds himself on her porch, the sun barely cracking the sky open. He knocks a rhythmic pattern on her front door, and clears his throat. He’s nervous–strangely enough. He sniffs a few times and clears his throat again. He looks down at his hands and takes another glance at the pendant, he’s shaking just a bit. He should have been back on the road by now, but here he was, waiting for the preacher’s daughter to answer the door. What was taking her so long? Maybe this was a sign from God that he should just leave and take the pendant with him–the door swings open, he shoves the pendant back into his pocket before she can see, her eyes widen at his presence.

“Mr. Morgan!” she smiles with bewilderment. Arthur looks her over– she’s stunning even for so early in the morning. He takes his gambler's hat off and holds it against his chest, “Morin’ little lady,” he responds, “I–uh, found something yesterday,” he reaches into his pocket and extends the pendant out in his hand, “I think it might be yours.”

She audibly gasps and places her hand on her chest before clutching the pendant, “Oh my stars, I have been looking for this everywhere I was sure it got lost forever!” she beams with excitement, “Praise God you found it! Where was it?” 

“Outside on the steps in front of the general store,” he replies. She lovingly stares at the pendant before looking back up at Arthur. She pauses and opens her mouth to say something, before closing it again. He cocks his head at her in confusion, she exhales and starts over, “You want to come in for a bit?”

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head, before exhaling, “Ah, I don’t know about that darlin’, I’ll gotta be gettin’ a move on. Besides I ain’t wanna intrude on y’all��s activities.” 

“Oh I insist! I know, Papa would love to see you,” she explains. Her father would love to see him? He mentally rolls his eyes at her naivety. While it was true that the preacher didn’t actively hate Arthur, he wasn’t fond of him either. She frowns at his disbelief that laid evident on his features, “Really Mr. Morgan! I’m serious, let me repay you for finding my necklace.” 

“Just a little bite before you go,” she smiles and sways her hips innocently. “I’m sure you’ll have a long journey back and you gotta eat, right?” 

He sighs and smiles softly in return, “Okay. I guess I do gotta eat…just as long as I ain’t intrudin’.” He shifts his weight on one hip.

“Not intrudin’ at all. Breakfast is almost ready, come on in and make yourself comfortable.” she stands by the door and watches his big and broad figure walk through the threshold, “You’ll have to forgive Papa for his temporary absence, he’s in his room finishing the last part of his sermon. so I’m afraid it’ll be just us for now.” she says, closing the door behind them as she leads him into the kitchen. He was more than okay with that. It was already nerve wracking enough sitting alone with her, he didn’t need anymore stress from her father picking him apart in his head, cataloging all the sins that he’s riddled with.

He looks around the living room as he follows her into the kitchen. The house is quaint yet congenial–just how he would imagine a pastor to live. The scent of breakfast wafting through the air was wonderful, he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He does what she says and makes himself comfortable at the table as she returns to the stove to gently stir the contents of the pan before joining him. 

He sees the Bible open on the kitchen table, assuming she was reading it while she was cooking, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your routine,” he gestures to the table. She adjusts herself at the table and meets his eyes, “Nonsense, you’re not interrupting anything,” she picks up the Bible, and quietly continues to read, “I just like to read a little bit of scripture in the morning to get my day started. Let me finish this passage real quick.” 

Arthur didn’t mind, he sits and fidgets with his lighter for a moment. After a few beats of silence, he puts his arm on the table and leans, trying to see what she was reading on the page, “So what’s it say?” 

She giggled at his curiosity before clearing her throat, “It says, ‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you,’ that’s Esphesians chapter four, verse thirty-one and two.” She smiles softly. 

Arthur nods, it all sounded lovely to hear. Although bitterness, wrath, and anger was all he was filled with– he couldn’t remember the last time he felt any differently. He felt like his whole life was one big sorry situation, tired of the ache of ruminating over the things that had gone wrong, people he lost, and regrets that plagued him. He was mad at everyone and everything. In Arthur’s case, forgiveness felt like water that was just out of reach for him. The thud of her closing the Bible jostles him back into the moment, he watches her get up and place the book back on the shelf in the living room.

“Y’know, you’re good at that.” he calls out to her, adjusting himself in the chair, his hips bucking forward a tad to get comfortable.

“What. Reading?” she calls back from the living room before walking back to where he was.

“Sure. If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.” he smirked.

A rosy pigment of blush spread across her cheeks, “Now Mr. Morgan, what exactly is that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know Papa has wonderful sermons.”

That’s not what he meant– her obliviousness to his gentle flirting was endearing, he chuckles to himself. “I don’t doubt it darlin’” he mindlessly fidgets with his lighter again. 

“--Hey, that’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to church with me this morning?”, she inquired, “You can sit next to me the whole time.”

His eyes widened before grimacing at the idea, that really wasn’t the best move considering who he was–although she was none the wiser, “I don’t know ‘bout all that, darlin’...” He hadn’t stepped foot in church since–well since the last time he saw her 4 years ago. “Why not?” she asks innocently, her big eyes gazing back at him. “If it’s about how you’re dressed the congregation won’t mind.”

He looks down at his attire and exhales a chuckle through his nose, mentally rolling his eyes at her assumption, “It ain’t about the clothes… it’s–” he sighs in between his words, “you know church..ain’t my thing,” he rubs his jaw, thinking over how awkward it would be to sit at one of those pews. 

“How do you know if it ain’t your thing if you don’t try?” 

He scans her soft features, “I been around a lot longer than you, trust me on this.” 

She gazes back at him and nods, walking back to the stove to finish preparing breakfast. There was a significant amount of silence that unaccounted for, Arthur who usually didn’t mind the stillness of the morning, grew restless in his chair.

“So…uh..whatcha makin’?” he asked, trying to find something to talk about. 

“Biscuits and gravy” she replied, stirring the gravy in the saucepan to keep it from burning. 

“Sounds good, ain’t had biscuits and gravy in a long time,” he taps his fingers against the table rhythmically.

Arthur was never good at small talk– he wasn’t like Dutch in that respect. That man could talk his way out of a death sentence, and God did he wish he had Dutch’s silvertongue right about now. Instead, he silently watched her cook, as a warmth spread in him. She’s wearing her Sunday best– and he notices the way her dress hugged her body and her bodice cinched her beautiful figure, how concentrated she looked when she was taking the biscuits out of the wood-burning oven, it strangely felt like home. For a moment, he forgot he was some outlaw, but just a simple man in the kitchen with his beloved. 

“Mrs. Hawthorne was askin’ about you yesterday. She saw you ride into town” her voice snapped him out of his trance, he grunted an acknowledgement, “The lady who was convinced her dolls were talkin’ to her?” he replies.

“Well she– now wait there Mr. Morgan she certainly does no such thing,” she explains, “That was just a rumor.”

“Ain’t a rumor if I seen her do it,” he laughs, “Sometimes she talks back to ‘em. Gives ‘em funny voices.”

“That’s not funny Mr. Morgan,” she frowns, trying not to laugh, wooden spoon still in hand, “Besides it’s not right to gossip.” 

“What’d I say?— Oh so it’s not okay to gossip but it’s okay to laugh at her expense? I get it now…” he jokes. She turns away, hiding her face from him. He stands up and saunters over to her, “Don’t think I ain’t seein’ you fight back a laugh. You think it’s funny too.” He chuckles. She eventually bursts out in laughter, the original joke not even that funny, it was something about his tone that tickled her. Suddenly, they both erupt in big laughter together.

The atmosphere in the room is light and airy–like both of them could breathe for once. “I think the gravy is done, you wanna taste?” she asked, her voice easing from laughter into a normal speaking pattern, wiping tears with the back of her wrist. Still grinning, he nodded in response, and leaned his hip on the side of the counter. She pulls open the silverware drawer and sighs, “Oh darn, I thought I had a spoon but I guess they’re all dirty.” she shrugs and fixes the issue by innocently tapping her finger into the saucepan, holding it out for him to taste. In her mind, she thought he would have a quick taste and tell her his opinion. Oh to the contrary. 

His heart jumped at the sight of her outstretched hand, slowly but surely he wrapped his lips around her finger, licking the sauce. The pent up desire that was bubbling deep inside of him started to rise to the surface, and before he could catch what he was doing, he began to deliberately yet gently suck on her finger. The feeling of his tongue wrapping around and in between her two fingers, made her lightheaded, electricity ran through her body and caused a heat to pool in her stomach. After licking her fingers clean, he pulled away and gazed into her eyes for just a moment.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly shaky. She gazes into his eyes for a moment, before responding with a small and trembling voice, trying to pretend she wasn’t affected. “You sure? Does it need more pepper?” 

He knew exactly what she was doing, whether she realized it or not; and he couldn’t help but find her innocent curiosity endearing. A small smile appears on his face, “I don’t know, let me taste it again.” 

A justification to have her fingers in his mouth.

Without a second thought, she taps her two fingers in the gravy again and holds them out for him, this time her hand trembles at the thought of re-experiencing the feeling. His big, calloused hand wraps around her soft wrist to steady her fingers for him. He takes them in his mouth again, gently caressing them with his tongue, silently wishing to himself that he could kiss her with this much fervor and passion. He looks into her eyes before closing them, letting out a soft groan of contentment before pulling away. “Tastes amazing.” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

Her fingers miss his mouth, they feel cold and incomplete without him. She felt lightheaded and breathless. There’s that beat of silence again, but this time it's longer than before. She pants ever so slightly, and he notices, “You alright?” he smirks. 

“Fine…breakfast is ready then,” she replies, her voice trembling with this new feeling coursing through her body. It was warm and soft, unlike anything she had ever felt before, she turned away and faced the stove again, “Go sit down, I'll fix you a plate.” refusing to make eye contact with him. They finally sit down to eat, although this time it’s different. She stares at him while he eats, trying to figure out this newfound warmth pooling in her, why everything he does makes her heart race. 

“Missed your cookin’, forgot how good it was.” he says, before taking another bite. “It ain’t that good, I appreciate your kindness though.” she replies, pushing her food around with her fork. “Compared to the stuff I gotta eat, this is like society folk’s meals.” She flashes him a small smile in return, her thoughts are loud and her heart is racing, “Society folk, huh?” her voice warbles, she tries to continue the conversation, but her thoughts are clouded by him. The way he ate was almost bewitching to her, she stares at his hands and looks away trying not to get caught. Her own fingers twitch watching him take bite after bite, reminding herself of the feeling of his mouth around her.

“When you leavin’ town?” she asks, not really wanting to know the answer. The soft early morning light starts to peer through the kitchen window. The atmosphere is still, yet full of meaning. He puts the cup up to his lips to drink long enough to ponder her question, before swallowing the warm liquid and placing the cup back down. “In a couple hours, most likely. Why you askin’?”

She shrugs and continues to eat, her left hand resting on the side of her neck. Her eyes refused to meet his, scared that he might see the disappointment in them. He exhales, something is off about her, “Somethin’ botherin’ you?”. She shrugs again and stares at her food, moving it around with her fork once more, “Why you leavin’ so soon?” she asks in an exhale, worried that she might be overstepping. 

He sighs, she didn’t need to know the real answer. “Work, darlin’...I’m on a...business trip,” he gestures vaguely. She doesn’t meet his eyes purposefully, trying to hide the tears in her eyes, it wasn’t fair that he made her feel things she never felt before, only to walk out and leave her forever. She prided herself to not be one of those girls that cry over boys. She always believed there were bigger and better things to fuss over–yet here she was. But what was the crime in missing someone? “Business trip…” she repeats under her breath before clearing her throat.

“What? Do you not believe me?” Arthur scoffs incredulously.

“It’s not that…you ain’t given me a reason to think otherwise but…” she pauses, trying not to overstep. “...But what?” He crosses his arms over and leans in closer against the table, the buttons of his work shirt pulling from the broad of his chest, she can’t help but pan down for a glance, her heart rate picks up at the sight of him. He was such a man– in the best ways possible. It was in his essence, his scent, the way he walked and talked, it drove her mad— it was so heavenly it agitated her.

“I don’t know, I ain't see why you gotta hightail it outta here. It’s been 4 years since you last been here and I mean for pity’s sake you just got here–”

“--And that bothers you?” he interrupts, slightly cocking his head at her.

She stammers, “I-I mean I feel like it’s not polite–”

He scoffs loudly, “Sorry I didn’t know you looked at me and saw the pinnacle of manners,” he places the cup of coffee back down,“Tell me what’s actually goin’ on,” he was starting to get to defensive. What had she heard about him that was making her so skittish?

The bantering conversation dies down and there’s a shared, intense silence between the two of them. 

Oh. Oh.

He felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner–or more accurately making a wrong assumption about how she felt and potentially wrecking a beautiful friendship. He stares at her across the table as she continues to eat.

“You gon’ miss me when I’m gone?” he murmurs low, studying her face, his voice shattering the silence in the air. His words suspended in the air like a fruit ready to be plucked. “We’ll all miss you,” she replies softly, trying to avoid what he’s implying. He shakes his head and grunts loudly in response, “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them... I’m talkin’ ‘bout you.”

She nods silently, before looking back up and meeting his gaze. For a moment, just a single, solitary moment–he forgot about the war raging in his mind of whether he was a bad person, or feeling like he wasn’t good enough for her. It was just him and the preacher’s daughter, sharing a meal and a loving silence. 

“Mr. Morgan–”

“You ain’t gotta be so formal with me hon, just call me Arthur.”

“Okay, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

He perks up at her statement, his curiosity giving her permission to ask. “I know you ain’t comfortable goin’ to church and I respect that,” she pauses to search for any discomfort for where the conversation was going, there was none, so she continues, “but I was wondering’ if you’d come to our annual picnic, this week. If you’re apprehensive about it being a church event– it's not. The whole town is gonna be there. It’s a town event, but I thought you'd like a bite to eat before you leave.”

He exhales and grins, “First breakfast and now a picnic? You’re really worried I'm gonna miss a meal huh?” he jokes, but she stares back at him, searching his face for an answer. His thoughts all align and he prepares to explain his reasons as to why he can’t come and that he’ll be back on the road in a couple of hours, but his words betray him, and he hears himself say something unlike him, 

“I’ll be there.” He looks at her free hand resting on the table, and gently envelops it in his.

“I’m glad, it means a lot.” she murmurs, a sparkle of joy in her eye. She stands and starts to clear the table, placing all the dishes in the sink.

There is a deep well of feeling and connection between the two of them, one could cut the chemistry with a knife. It pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know if he should act on his instincts–but dammit if he wasn’t going to at least try to do something about it.

He rises from his seat and approaches her, standing as close as he can to her. Feeling his presence, she laughs, “ain’t they ever taught you about personal space?” She looks over and he’s smiling back, but there’s a seriousness to him. She does a double take of how close he is, her smile faltering a bit, realizing he’s not kidding.

“I reckon you ain’t ever been this close to a man before, huh?” He ghosts the side of his finger against her chin. She shivers, goosebumps rise on the back of her neck and down her arms, before shaking her head.

“Why you tremblin’ doll? I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” he murmurs. 

“I know,” she pauses, trying to find the words, “I just—never been looked at in this way before.”

He scoffs playfully, “Oh you’re more naive than I originally thought,” he looks over her face and down her body once more, “Men are definitely lookin’--  they just ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re the preacher’s daughter–and they have a hell of a lot of sense to not say anythin.” he leans closer to her. 

“Well…what does that make you then?” she shifts against him.

“A fool–probably. But it ain’t stopped me from sayin’ anythin’ before,” he exhales and continues to gingerly stroke her chin, admiring her beauty. 

His voice becomes low, “You ever think ‘bout a man lovin’ on you baby?” The question vibrates in his chest. Her heart rate quickens, a beautiful shade of crimson spreads across her cheeks at the idea of something so scandalous, “Lovin’ on me?” she repeats. 

“Yeah, you know, what married people do.” 

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. She often would imagine in vivid detail, what she would do if she found herself in a scenario such as this. It was essentially drilled into her mind from a young age– that a man making advances was to strictly be condemned. That her purity was to be intact for her husband and only for her husband. The script of her imagination playing in her head, she’s seen it a hundred times–”sorry sir, I’m flattered but I ain’t interested”. It’s all she had to say…although for some reason she was rendered speechless, hanging onto his every word like her life depended on it.

in this moment– in some sick and twisted game of life, it was almost as if Arthur was forcing her to pick between which sin to commit– lying: claiming to not be interested in him; when in reality, the curiosity was gnawing in the pit of her stomach, or lust: throwing caution to the wind and letting him carry her bridal style to defile her in the bedroom that she grew up in.

She decides lying would weigh less on her soul.

“Mr. Morgan this ain’t proper…it’s immoral. I-I don’t entertain thoughts like that. I ain’t got a reason to.” she denies, refusing to acknowledge something so foul. It pained her to lie, she felt the guilt starting to creep in. Arthur smirks at her response, he doesn’t buy it, although her defiance and naivety makes his own pulse quicken. “Mmph, I see. So you don’t ever think about what your wedding night would be like? To finally have a man to warm your bed? Touching you all over and keepin’ you satisfied?”

Her breath hitches at the idea, never considering that a thought so filthy could have a moral loophole; but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, she continues to shake her head. The improperness of the conversation and her willingness to lie starts to make her feel sick with guilt. She shouldn’t be talking like this, not with a man no less. The mix of good and bad emotions swirl in her stomach like a bittersweet concoction about to boil over. As for Arthur, that insistent attitude of hers turns him on even more, and he can’t help himself to gamble how far he could go, “Oh c’mon darlin’, not even how it would feel? To have a man take his time with you and run his hands up your–” 

He found her limit, she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. “No Arthur!” she barks, “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore! You will not bring this–this debauchery in this house; especially with my Pa in the next room, have you no shame?!” 

He knows he should take her seriously but the way she’s yelling at him is getting him even more worked up. He laughs a hearty chuckle, “yeah for somethin’ so repulsive to ya– ya sure are flushed!”

“Stop it Arthur it’s not funny.” She frowns, the guilt washes up in her like a shoreline. This must be what Papa was warning about on Sundays, the sin that drives a person crazy, to commit crimes and all sorts of deeds all in the name of passion. Arthur was creating new emotions she had never experienced before, the only cost of receiving it was with a backing note of remorse. Although, there was a cadence to Arthur that beckoned her to his presence. Like a siren beckons the sailor out to sea–only she was the sailor.

They gaze into each other’s eyes, unwavering and raw, “Arthur,” she exhales, leaning softly into his touch. He grunts in response, gazing lovingly back at her, his index tracing down her neck, making its way down to her collarbone, the other hand resting gently on her hip. She squeaks at the sudden weight of his hands on her, newfound warmth spreading in her. He scans her face for any hesitation, when suddenly she finds the words she’s looking for.  

“I’m waitin’ til marriage…”

He figured as much. What was he even doing? He knows this already. Lightly removing his hand, his palm hovers over her hip. He treats her like glass, scared he was gonna break her if he touched her at all– what a delicate little thing gazing up at him. He blinks and clears his throat, staggering a couple steps back. “Right. I know…I don’t know what I was—I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, miss.”

She crosses her arms and as if she is trying to warm them, her fingers finding a way to the pendant Arthur rescued for her, fidgeting with it between her fingers, “You didn’t…I’m not upset… I just– I think– it would be best for you to leave now. For both of us.” she murmurs, “I’ll give Pa your regards.” He nodded in response, pressing his lips into a fine line, “Okay” he says barely above a whisper.

“Mr. Morgan?” his heart sank at her sudden formality— a fear that he ruined everything between them began swirling behind his chest, he came to a halt at her words.

“You still coming to the picnic?” 

He stands by the backdoor, loitering around the frame, before looking back over his shoulder, he exhales and gives her a small, sad, smile, “Thank you for the meal, darlin’. It was nice seeing you again.” The door hinge squeaks before he walks outside, the sound of boots shuffling against the gravel becomes quieter and quieter before it dissipates completely. She’s left with the burn of his shadow haunting the doorframe and the ghost of his touch printed permanently on her frame.

thank u sm for reading it means so much to me truly <3 hope you all enjoyed part one !!!

[awearywritersworld]

thinking about sitting in joel miller's lap, one hand on his chest, the other threaded through his disheveled curls.

you whisper quiet assurances to him— that he's a good man. reliable. compelling.

he leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses from your collarbone up to your jaw.

not that he'd ever say it aloud, but you could ask him for anything in the world right now and he'd oblige you.

how could he not, when you're wearing nothing more than a tiny tank top and sleep shorts, your attention and affection his entirely.

his grip on your waist tightens when you shift in his lap. his hands begin to wander, pulling a soft sigh from your lips.

"so good, joel," you hum quietly. "you're so good to me."

"thank you, baby," he murmurs, his lips at your neck. "gotta take care of my sweet girl, don't i?"

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

Viktor has carried a torch for you for months, maybe even years, before you know anything about it.

He knows exactly when it started. Not at first sight, which relieves him- at least he's managed to avoid one cliche in this embarrassment.

You'd been regularly visiting the lab for a while. As one of the three people Jayce would call an actual friend, you had carte blanche to occupy the space whenever you liked (which Jayce had given without consulting Viktor. He likely wouldn't have minded, especially in those early, heady days of partnership, but still, it's the principle of the thing), and weekday afternoons often found you lounging on the beaten couch in the middle of the room, neck-deep in your literary and political studies. Those days were often quiet, except for the rustle of pages, the scratch of chalk on blackboard, the occasional sigh as someone's focus stuttered. Nothing to object to. Nothing to notice.

Unfortunately, long-term serenity was perhaps too much to ask considering his choice in business partner. As frequently as your days were spent in deep thought, they were spent in constant conversation with Jayce, and that is where Viktor's problem began.

Viktor has been self-contained for so long that he can no longer remember whether or not his isolation is a choice or simply consequence of who he is. He has always preferred the company of his own mind to the friendship of others, with one, perhaps two, exceptions. Almost always, he prefers to observe, watching the people around him rather than engaging. When he has something more important to think about- which, today and also basically every day, working so hard to bring magic to a material world, he certainly does- he simply allows conversation to wash over him and continues his work. Instinct, not just habit.

Except. From the first, listening to you speak- really speak, with passion or sincerity or wryness, anything so long as you're saying something- was as distracting, as riveting, as the snatch of orchestral music heard when passing a concert hall. The bell-struck sound of your laugh, your quick, dry wit. The way you managed to make the most mundane topics and the dullest days seem worth notice. It was- you were- distracting. Distracting enough that he found himself joining in with you, parrying a point you've just made or riffing on a joke. And when you'd counter him, or laugh at one of his asides, or, memorably, descend with him into a near-shouting match over which neighborhood bakery made the best macarons, he felt electric. You made him braver, funnier, more himself. Within months, you'd become the second person he would call a friend.

It's humiliating, frankly. He, a grown man who prides himself on his rationality and composure, whipping around in his chair whenever there's a knock on the laboratory door and feeling himself deflate when the person who walks through it isn't you. He, a respected scientist, unable to sleep when he finally makes it to his bed (or, more frequently, the couch in the lab) because he can't close his eyes without seeing your face. He, a man who has always prided himself on his rationality and composure, doodling on half-forgotten pages of work while he daydreams about burying his face in your hair.

He tries to distract himself. It doesn't work.

He's sick with you- that's the only way he can think to describe it on the sodden, drunken night he spends with Jayce the day after his birthday (how Jayce ever found out when his birthday was is still a mystery that irks him to no end), when the liquor and the tide of his emotion create an impulsive need to speak to someone, anyone, about you. You've made him sick, lovesick, in the truest sense of the phrase- he can hardly eat, hardly sleep, you've taken over so many of his thoughts. Overhearing you talk about your date was enough to undo him, send him straight back to the rib-breaking jealousy usually reserved for teenagers, and he's nearly thirty. He got nauseous- physically, actually, nauseous- picturing another person touching you. It's humiliating, unbearable, completely unbefitting a man of science.

He feels out of his mind, possessed. You haunt him like a ghost. The idea of you hovers at his shoulder as he goes about his day asserting itself at every opportunity. He wants it to stop. He wishes it was you and not your spirit.

Jayce, to his credit, handles this remarkably well. He waits until he's sure Viktor's tirade is over before he asks do you want to do something about it?, but Viktor only laughs derisively and slams the rest of his vodka glass back like it's water. I only take risks when there is a chance of success.

If Viktor was less drunk, he would notice Jayce's tells. He would notice how he's been practically bouncing with energy, how he's been fighting to hold back a grin. He might even ask what the problem was. As it is, he's smashed, and too wrapped up in self-pity to do it anyway. So it comes as an immense surprise when Jayce replies, I'd take the bet.

Viktor's head jerks up . What?

I can't really say. There would be a direct attempt on my life. Jayce drums his fingers on the table between them. Insider trading, you know, deeply frowned upon. But trust me. Ask. See what happens.

The moment he says it, Viktor knows that he will.

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

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