#Artificial Sand Making | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sai-int · 3 months ago

Text

IN CONTEMPT | simon riley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then come the dreams.

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

You can't deal with it anymore.

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

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

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

You need him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leave it open now. Always.

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

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

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

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

And then comes Keith.

Fucking Keith.

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

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

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

Though, he never does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keith chuckles, unconvinced. “Everyone drinks.”

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

But he isn’t done.

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

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

“Nothing.”

Keith hums. “That right?”

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

Because it’s something.

Because it’s not radio silence.

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

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

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

But when he presses again, you hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

At least it was on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hit ‘send.’

So much for getting to know each other.

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

Simon’s absence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t pull away.

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

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

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

Because why not?

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you feel like a slut.

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

Because you don’t belong to Keith.

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

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

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

And wet, he gets it.

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

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

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

“You like that, love?”

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

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

You wait. You endure.

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

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

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

Still. Watching. Waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It only gets worse from there, though.

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

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

Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up

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

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

Keith: Nah, babe, I’m gonna.

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

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

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

Your throat tightens before you even turn.

Sure enough—Keith.

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

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

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

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

You freeze mid-bite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You aren’t. You never were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that, more than anything, stings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keith, will you shut the fu—”

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

Keith isn’t in bed with you.

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

Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.

“What the f—”

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

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

Then you feel it.

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

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

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

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

You don’t dare move.

Because you know exactly who it is.

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

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

“Been busy, huh, pet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there he is.

Maskless.

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

But his eyes, his eyes don’t lie.

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

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

He’s here, in the flesh.

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

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

He’s devastating.

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

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

You don’t think. You just react.

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

And the look in his eyes?

Like he never expected anything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” you say, voice tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And aroused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t. You can’t.

And he knows it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he lets you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d once again forgotten he was still here.

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

He came in his pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s never seen anyone like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You haven’t moved.

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

Then, warmth—solid, steady, unshakable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen. “Jesus Christ.”

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

“…Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit.”

Simon hums in question.

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

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

You let out a tired laugh. “That so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“How do y’feel about Manchester?”

official taglist: @sinarainbows @reyeslaurent @roreeee123 @reader-without-a-story @bunnybeaches @watersquirtpewpewboomm @thefutureastronaut @capykento @tessakate @ibreathesmut @rottensage

others: @emily-roberts @izzibizzo @ellielovesfics @jennablue19 @barcelonaaababe @cheese-pull @dravenskye @Leah-66 @letaliabane @vioxsoo @just-lilita @montenegroisr @humblechumbble @iamtoriasworld @laduenadelswing @420-hun @boney-horse @exitingmusic @koovill @madsdawson @babylambdietcoke @xentyyy @ariariari-ari @fiti5588 @drewsuncrustables @lenaiatrash @girl-of-multi-fandoms @rambinru @rafaelacallinybbay @darkravenqueen98 @onlyoursol-ace @vixorell @m-artemisa-c @headphones-on100 @blahox

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

6K notes · View notes

thedarkestrivernymph · 4 months ago

Note

Soft yan clan leader has me soo🫠 imagine the horror if he were to argue with his beloved wife or try to deny her something and she looks like she's about to cry or the grovel if he pissed her off and she ignored him ahhh i neeeed himmm

Oh my... the ideas in my head... 😶‍🌫️

Soft Yandere! Clan Leader x Wife! Reader

warnings(?): slight angst, very cheesy/romantic, emotions

note: it's written from his perspective:)

"I refuse." his tone was strict, reminiscent of a dull dagger that someone forgot to sharpen. That's what you did to him; you took his bite away.

Sighing he massaged his temples.

"I don't want my wife roaming around the streets ever again without my explicit knowledge." his fingers curled until his knuckles whitened.

"Do you have any idea of the sheer number of ill-intending people out on streets at nighttime? My love what if danger befell you while I wasn't there to shield you? What if some sick bastard—."

"Husband. Did I hurt you so?" your bottom lip trembled, shame glistened in the corners of your eyes; those beautiful eyes that he wanted to bind with silk so that no one else could admire them.

"My love I just worry—"

"I didn't want to cause you to worry." now you started sniffling and he could audibly hear his heart shatter. "I just missed my hometown so much and— I forgot myself. I am sorry." you muttered. He could detect the insecurity creep into your wavering tone; he was losing you again to the demons in your pretty head.

"I won't ever cause you trouble again, husband."

"My love that isn't what I—"

"Goodnight." you spun on your heel, adamant on slipping through his fingers like sand before he could even raise his voice in protest, demanding you to stay. If you just knew that he didn't blame you for getting carried away by the memories of your childhood, longing for a time much more innocent nor that he found you troublesome—he only wanted you safe and snug under his wing, why couldn't you understand?

But he wouldn't have that. No more. He would never tire of chasing you—but he couldn't bear the sight of your backside any longer.

"Love," his breath tickled the shell of your ear, on hand splayed across your waist, the other wrapped around your jaw, "don't run away. At least not today. I apologise, so much, for your husband's inability to make you understand just how much he loves you."

He sighed again, pressing a kiss to your earlobe, over the dangling diamond that had once belonged to his mother.

"Please don't think you're troubling me. I only worry because wherever you go you take my soul with you. And a man can't survive without that, now can he?" he drew you further in, engulfed you in his embrace, letting the darkness of the night be the only observer of the intimacy between the two of you.

"My love." he breathed.

"My love," he repeated,"I love you, please stop believing otherwise. I beg you of you. Please love me too." there was clear frustration in his tone, silent suffering that would only rarely slip through the cracks of his usual mask yet with you; he discarded that very facade alltogether.

The room was cloaked in darkness like so many other nights, yet this night felt colder, icy even. He was desperate to reach through to you. Slowly, the words he would always spit out felt repetitive; too artificial for his liking and he feared you would perhaps never believe in them.

"My love please—"

You kissed him.

He had searched for heaven before he met you, but now he found it between your lips. In the way you hugged him not with your arms but with your mouth, glossy gaze a split open, gazing at him as if you had finally, finally, accepted the truth.

It was mind-numbingly sweet; it didn't last very long, your tongue only shyly prodded at his bottom lip before you tried fleeting back like a startled deer, eyes everywhere but on him. Still, he held you in his arms refusing to let you escape—because now that he finally had a taste of heaven, he would never let you out of his embrace.

"I love you." he uttered. And now, even as you didn't reply, only looking away bashfully in the way he found so cute he could pinch your cheeks, he knew that he had finally succeeded.

He had captured your heart—the soul of his heaven, his sacramentum, his moon.

You were his.

#yandere #yandere story #male yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere stories #yandere x reader #yandere male #male yandere #yandere x y/n #yandere oc #light angst #comfort #hurt/comfort #soft yandere #yandere clan leader

2K notes · View notes

wonderjanga · 3 months ago

Text

Getting Into the Mood

Billy loves customizing his character, aka Captain Marvel. It’s just so fun to see him (his dad) in silly stupid little costumes for special occasions.

Like when he had to go undercover as a butler at a gala:

Marvel: *pulls up in the butler fit with the mustache and monocle*

Alfred: “Ah. Mr. Marvel. It is a pleasure to make your aquaintance.”

Marvel: “You as well, uh…”

Alfred: “You may call me Pennyworth.”

Marvel: “Yes, you as well, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Alfred: “Indeed.” *passes him a tray of champagne flutes* “Please pass these around if you will. Also… Is that a mustache?”

Marvel: “Yes, Mr. Pennyworth! It is quite splendidly grown is it not?” *all proud*

Alfred: “Yes.” *has to hold back a little British chuckle* “It is. Quite wonderful. May I ask what gel you use for its swirls?”

Marvel: “None! It’s home grown with none of that artificial stuff.” *little wave before leaving to pass out the champagne*

Or when Batman had no one to go to (almost everyone he immediately trusted to be responsible was busy, Superman, Wondy, and Martian Manhunter just to name a few. So, he went with the most responsible out of the least responsible)

Robin!Dick: “Woah…” *blinking up at him in little kid wonder*

Marvel: *in the detective fit with the tobacco pipe and comically large magnifying glass*

Robin!Dick: “You… you look awesome!”

Marvel: “Thanks! Now, time to solve some crimes— Mr. Batman Sir is a detective right?”

Robin!Dick: “Yup, the best.”

Marvel: “Alright! Then time to solve some crimes!” *leaps off a building*

Robin!Dick: *looks down at him, shrugs, and then jumps off too*

Or when he was manning the grill for a party, the jail was having on a beach during the summertime. So he pulled up, looking like the uncle/dad who discusses grilling tips with the other dads but ultimately isn’t that good at grilling himself. Don’t worry though, Billy’s actually good at grilling though.

Marvel: *rocking the faded red tee, the khaki shorts, the sandals, and the apron while flipping some burgers*

Junior: “You look like an uncle.” *literally points and laughs* “Loser.”

Marvel: “Shut up! You can starve for all I care.”

Junior: “Hey!”

Mary: *building a sand castle with Robin!Stephanie, doesn’t even look up* “Marvel, you can’t starve Junior.”

Marvel: “Oh, come on!”

Mary: “You know why you can’t!”

Robin!Stephanie: “Cause he’s his kid?”

Mary: “What? No, cause Junior will complain and possibly try to trip him with his crutches a bunch times until Marvel buys him some food to make up for it.”

Robin!Stephanie: “He needs crutches?”

Or when he pulled up to some magical farmer’s market in the Sorcerer Mickey fit.

Magician 1: “Oh my days…”

Magician 2: “He’s showing his greatness!”

Magician 3: “I wonder which powerful magic user’s robes are those. He must’ve won them in a battle!”

Marvel: *whistling a little tune as he goes up to a stall* “Can I trade a pouch of pixie dust for a pouch of powdered Albanian newt?”

Trader: “Of course.”

Marvel and Trader: *trade*

Trader: *clears throat* “I must say, Champion, your robes are truly magnificent.”

Marvel: “Oh, thanks. A real hero of mine wore these once.”

Trader: “Really?”

Marvel: “Yes, unfortunately, he’s retired from the whole magic biz. I think anyways.”

Trader: “I see…”

That magic user was left wondering if this person was his mentor or not. Perhaps he was even previous champion? Who knows…

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #captain marvel dc #fawcett city #fawcett #fawcett comics

617 notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 3 months ago

Text

౨ৎ thinking of summer slasher!pazzi...

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

cw: slight gore, sexual tension, light sexual content, manipulation, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs murder, unhealthy relationships bc y'all...p is killing people. but she loves her girl.

notes: i did not intend for this be 10.2k when i started. so, there's that. as always, feel free to give me all of your thoughts in my inbox. let me know who you think the other killer is. i try my best to respond to it all.

p.s. please don't date your best friend who's obsessed with you if she's murdering people, no matter how beautiful and charismatic she is.

okay, love you.

𓇼 it’s one of those summers marked by memories smeared with heat and a lazy humidity that fills you with a sun-soaked exhaustion. the girls are taking part in a training camp for the season. they flush with warmth and glitter with sweat, muscles flexing under tanned skin as they stumble in and out of cool gyms and concrete courts. the best parts come after when they lay alongside one another, tan lines left behind by the tightly tied straps of their bikini bottoms, slices of sunburned skin coming up rosy despite the efforts to slather on sunscreen.

𓇼 the world is safe here. they are safe here. they know one another, can recognize one another by laugh—morgan’s is sweeter, clear like a bell. kk’s is child-like, loose giggles with a rise in the middle. they know who is standing above them by the slant of a shadow. this perfect space, the smell of it will haunt them forever: something deep blue, sticky with coconut, cream, and vanilla. a memory of artificial fruit smoke and the moon shape of golden thighs atop golden thighs.

𓇼 at the center of it all lies paige with her river of blonde hair only growing blonder in the sun, her violet swimsuit revealing perfect scoops of sun-darkened skin. she keeps her sunglasses tucked right on top of her head, her toned stomach flexing in and out as she rotates on the soft blanket they have spread out on the grass (there are no more chairs).

𓇼 her shadow, azzi, has her head right on her thigh. she feels bleary and disoriented, the sun shining down with a strength that feels personal. her swimsuit is sugary baby pink, a sweet match to the girl lying underneath her. her curls have been dragged into a high bun in frustration, baby hairs slick against her neck as she sweats. her belly piercing sparkles, calls the eye to the soft dip of her hips and the thin strip of her bikini bottom.

𓇼 paige is terribly hot below her but she wouldn’t move azzi for anything, instead pressing loose strands out of the other girl’s eyes as azzi tries to sleep.

𓇼 eventually azzi rolls over, patting a hand loosely on paige’s stomach as a thank you for being her human pillow. paige grins, gives in to her boyish nature and pinches the curve where azzi’s thigh meets her ass.

𓇼 “you’re such a fucking teenage boy,” azzi murmurs. paige laughs, reties the strings of her swimsuit top. “you love me.”

𓇼 azzi does. it makes her stomach roll.

𓇼 the world is safe here. they are safe here. and then they hear the news.

azzi can’t hear anything past the buzzing in her ears.

three female students found dead.

the newscaster's voice snakes around her, and drags her to the pool’s tiled floor. her chest burns as she holds her breath, her heart close to bursting. the world is watery and filtered bright blue through the pool water; the sky is an endless slur of pinks, oranges, and purples.

the sun is setting, the world going dark, and there are three students—three girls—dead by knife at a camp nearby. three girls she knew in passing, had watched stretch and laugh together on the sands just before a friendly game of beach volleyball.

the police had said they might’ve been dead for days, up to two weeks. aubrey had switched off the broadcast, visibly shaken and trying to spare the rest of them. jana had sat silent and still, frozen as the older girl pried the remote free from her grip.

she might be crying. with all of this water, it’s so hard to tell. azzi closes her eyes right as the pool lights come on and more water surges in from the jets, the chlorine smell made almost unbearable by the onslaught of the propellers. she has at most fifteen minutes before someone notices she’s gone—five max before paige realizes she’s slipped out from beside her.

azzi stays under until her lungs scream, until she can’t.

until the burn in her lungs forces her up, air slicing hot into her chest as she breaks the surface. the sky is darker now, the last streaks of sunlight bleeding out into deep navy. the lampposts lining the pool deck have flickered on, turning the concrete a smokier grey and the water a deeper, artificial blue, shimmering against the tile.

azzi drags a hand down her face, slicking back her hair with wrinkled fingertips, and that’s when she sees her—paige, sitting at the water’s edge, feet dipped in, watching. azzi exhales, slow, tries to settle the way her body still hums with nerves.

“you good?” paige asks, voice easy, head tilting just slightly.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she pushes forward, the water parting around her as she swims to where paige sits. she stops between her legs, lets her head tip forward, forehead resting against paige’s thigh.

paige doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift away. just smooths a hand over the crown of her curls, fingers lingering at the nape of her neck.

“i’m really scared,” azzi says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “i knew those girls.”

paige hums, a soft, knowing sound. “i know. jesus. i hope they catch those fucking freaks.”

azzi shifts closer, pressing her face into paige’s stomach. she clutches at paige’s back, now covered by an oversized camp shirt, fingers twisting in the cotton fabric. it’s a hold that feels instinctive, that’s symptomatic of the heavy intimacy of their friendship—something azzi’s done before, maybe a thousand times, but never quite like this. paige lets her, like she always does, one hand still at the nape of azzi’s neck, the other resting easy on her shoulder.

she’s warm and solid. the kind of presence that makes azzi feel safer.

for a moment, they just stay like that, the quiet settling thick between them. the distant hum of crickets, the low lap of water against the mouth of the pool. paige is the first to break it.

“what, you think you’re in a horror movie or something?” she teases, but there’s something serious about her tone, too.

azzi huffs a quiet laugh, but it barely reaches her eyes. “maybe,” she mutters. “i mean the situation matches up.”

paige tilts her head, studies her. “you’d make a shitty final girl, you know.”

azzi scoffs, pulling back just enough to glance up at her. “excuse me?”

paige grins, slow, shifting the hand on her shoulder to tap a finger against azzi’s chin. “you’d be too nice about it. you’d try to help, and then—” she makes a little slicing motion across her throat. “lights out.”

azzi rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch, betraying her.

“lucky for me,” she says, resting her chin against paige’s thigh now, eyes flickering up, “i have a history of surviving things.”

paige hums, gaze first flicking behind azzi as if she can see the puckered scar over her knee from here, and then back to her face like she’s turning something over in her mind. then, with a quiet finality, she says, “hey. you’re okay.”

it should be comforting. it almost is. but it lingers, just a little too long.

and for some reason, it doesn’t feel like reassurance. it feels like a promise. azzi squeezes the sides of paige stomach and pushes past the unease in her own.

“we both are,” she says.

𓇼 so, then it changes. no one goes anywhere alone, day or night. it takes some getting used to, the constant partnership. it’s more than they are used to, even as teammates. the extra measures come with their own irritations.

𓇼 jana grumbles as she’s basically kicked awake by sarah to go to the bathroom with her at three in the morning. morgan’s nose twitches anxiously like a rabbit as she asks aubrey to come to get food with her at the mess hall, and the others try not to laugh when aubrey makes an off-hand remark about how she never realized just how much morgan snacks in a day.

𓇼 but azzi…azzi feels a little like the chosen one. because god, paige never complains.

𓇼 if azzi wakes in the early morning with an urge to pee, paige is already unlinking their legs in their shared bed and sliding out to go with her. when azzi can’t sleep and sneaks to the living room of their cabin, just to read on her own, paige follows blinking weakly like a child with her bedding over her shoulder. she shoves azzi to the side, sinking down into the ancient cushions and bringing the blankets to her chin as she easily falls back asleep. azzi will go to say thank you, to tell her she’s sorry, but paige will only reach out a large hand and squeeze azzi’s sweaty one as if to tell her knock it off. it’s what i’m here for. and it's vice versa.

𓇼 things seem to calm down. maybe it really was just a freak occurrence. camp comes to a close and the girls move on to another one, this time a larger one interspersed with girls from other college basketball teams. no one talks about the volleyball girls. it’s the one silent rule: don’t ruin a good time with the ghost of the girls you once knew, please! and lock the doors behind you when you leave the gym late!

𓇼 but azzi doesn’t forget, and it turns out she’s right not to—because it happens again.

𓇼 the morning it happens, the air tastes wrong as if the trees have stopped producing oxygen entirely. the counselors try to shield them from it, but there's no hiding this—another girl, another athlete, this time from duke, found behind the equipment shed. the world slows down, gets sticky and hot, and impossible. azzi is struggling to breathe, a hand over her mouth as she tries not to throw up. her other hand is occupied by ice’s tight hold.

𓇼 there are whispers of coincidence, of copycat killers, of something worse. the camp directors hold an emergency meeting. no one is to leave their cabins after dark. no one is to be alone, not even for a minute.

the shower runs too hot against azzi's skin, but she doesn't adjust it. her muscles ache from today's drills, the coaches pushing them harder than usual, as if physical exhaustion might distract them from the horror unfolding around them. steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until she can barely see her own reflection.

she hears the bathroom door creak open.

"just me, princess," comes paige's voice, casual and easy. "kk and ice went to dinner early."

azzi relaxes her shoulders, not realizing she'd tensed them in the first place. "be out in five," she calls, rinsing conditioner from her curls.

when she steps out wrapped in a towel, paige is perched on the closed toilet lid, scrolling through her phone. her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. she doesn't look up.

"they found her shoes in the lake," paige says, voice flat. "emma's. the duke girl."

azzi's stomach drops. "jesus."

"yeah." paige tucks her phone away, finally looking up. there's something unreadable in her expression. "you know what's weird? i had a conversation with her yesterday. about three-point shooting form."

azzi turns away, pulling a clean t-shirt over her head. when she looks back, paige is staring at her hands.

"you okay?" azzi asks.

paige nods, but doesn't speak. azzi runs a hand down her back as she passes her, at a loss for words.

later, as they walk to dinner, azzi can't shake the feeling that something is off. they pass the equipment shed, now cordoned off with yellow police tape that flutters in the evening breeze. she looks away, sickened by the sight of blood in broad daylight.

morgan jogs up behind them, slinging her arms around both their shoulders. "hey," she says, voice strained and far too bright. "you guys hear they're thinking about ending camp early?"

"no way," paige says immediately. "they can't."

there's an edge to her voice that makes azzi glance over. paige's jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in her cheek.

"i mean, someone's literally killing people, paige," morgan says with a nervous laugh. "seems like a good reason to shut things down."

"that’s not—" paige starts, then stops herself. "whatever."

she pulls away from morgan's arm, walking ahead faster. morgan gives azzi a puzzled look.

"she's just scared," azzi says automatically, defending paige like she always does. but the words feel hollow in her mouth. “she’s probably worried this will follow us home, you know?”

they're almost to the mess hall when azzi realizes she left her inhaler back at the cabin. the thought of going back alone makes her throat tighten.

"i forgot something," she tells morgan. "can you—"

"i'll go with you, ma," paige says, appearing suddenly beside them. her eyes look different in the fading light—sharper, focused, a darker blue than azzi has ever seen them. "save us seats?"

morgan nods and continues on without them. as they turn back toward the cabin, azzi feels paige's hand slip into hers, their fingers linking with ease. paige squeezes it once.

"you good?" paige asks, the same question azzi had asked her earlier.

"yeah," azzi says, but her heart hammers in her chest. "just freaked out about all this."

paige's thumb rubs circles against azzi's palm. "don't worry," she says, voice soft. "i've got you. nothing's gonna happen to you. swear"

with a nod, azzi breathes out and flashes paige a soft smile. as they walk, she stumbles over a stick and looks down her eyes catching on paige’s feet. her eyes narrow slightly, focusing on the dark stain on the cuff of the left sneaker—something that looks disturbingly like blood.

“az?”

azzi looks up, and suddenly she can't quite remember if it was there before.

𓇼 as expected, camp is shut down. the girls are silent on the bus ride back to their university, terrified in their own way. it’s mid-july so the school lets them move in early, assuaging their parents’s questions surrounding safety with vague answers that do nothing to assure them.

𓇼 the school is eerily empty on their side of campus; the off-campus athletic apartments even eerier. they stick to their buddy system. jana & sarah. morgan & aubrey. ice & kk. they’re sectioned off. every girl has their other half. without question, they pair paige and azzi.

𓇼 it should be relieving, but it only brings more observations to the surface. paige is evasive, leaving their apartment at odd hours and coming back even later. she tells azzi not to worry, that she’s just putting the work in to start the season right. she flashes that hollywood smile, her teeth bleach white, and blows her off with a quip: “maybe if you answered my texts before the week passes, ma…”

𓇼 and azzi, to her detriment, always laughs—so easily pulled into paige’s warmth, into the intoxicating orbit of being paige buecker’s favorite.

𓇼 they settle back into routine. the fear fades. well all fear except the massive amount belonging to one azzi fudd. azzi feels gaslit by everyone’s desperation to get back to normal. do they not see the pattern? the killers allow them to relax and then slice someone else up.

𓇼 “you have got to chill,” sarah says one night, the girls getting ready for a night out. it’s somewhere different than their usual haunt. “i need to see the world outside of ted’s or i might just die,” jana had grumbled, grinning when yanna let out a laugh. azzi’s gut had clenched at the mention of death.

𓇼 azzi presses her lips together, tries to focus on the strawberry sweetness of her lip gloss and the vanilla vodka taste of her breath. still, they slip out, saccharine and sarcastic. “sorry, it’s a little hard to chill when there are killers roaming and they haven’t been caught yet. but sure, i’ll try my hardest to be cool for you.”

𓇼 jana’s eyebrow raises and its at that second when azzi looks up to see paige leaning against the wall, her own blonde brow raised in agreement. azzi closes her eyes and huffs, scrambling up to storm into the kitchen and get another drink.

𓇼 sometimes the girls forget just how mean and snappish she can be, especially when she feels overlooked. but paige knows, which is why she follows her. “az—” she starts, and azzi is already filled with irritation because paige had disappeared around two am last night and this time she was the one not answering her messages. when she came back she’d offered no explanation, rolling her eyes when azzi asked after her. so azzi ignores her.

𓇼 “az, i know you can hear me.” at this point, all bets are off. she’s either murdering to her heart’s desire or sleeping with someone azzi knows nothing about. she doesn’t know which one makes her more ill. she ignores her best friend with fervor, reaching up to grab the 818 tequila placed dangerously at the edge of the highest cabinet shelf.

𓇼 her dress is deliciously mini, sequined, and a buttery yellow that paints a stunning contrast to azzi’s bronze skin. as she reaches higher, one leg leveraged on the counter to better push herself up, she hears paige let out a curt breath. she’s either getting annoyed or she’s seen the edge of azzi’s cream-colored, lace panties.

𓇼 (it’s both.)

𓇼 they leave the house like that.

azzi’s pressed into the corner of the backseat, her cheek against the window, feeling the slow drag of streetlights flicker over her skin. the night is thick, humid, sticking to her bare arms, her exposed throat. up front, someone—maybe nika, maybe ashlyn—is laughing too loud at something on the aux, the bassline thumping low in azzi’s chest.

paige is next to her, legs sprawled, taking up space like she owns it. she’s been quiet most of the ride, one arm draped over the back of the seat, the other resting on her thigh, fingers drumming against ripped denim. azzi’s felt her watching, though—casual, weighty, something unreadable sitting low in paige’s gaze.

azzi shifts, her own patience thinning. “can you stop staring, please? thank you.”

paige doesn’t even blink. “then stop being so twitchy.”

azzi rolls her eyes, exhales sharply through her nose. “you’re so fucking annoying.”

paige’s fingers twitch, then move—quick, sure, catching azzi’s chin between them. not hard, but firm, the kind of touch that says pay attention.

the car isn’t moving fast, but everything inside it tilts.

paige leans in, close enough that azzi can smell her—the faded trace of her cologne, something clean, warm, uniquely her. their friends are right there, blessedly oblivious, but it suddenly doesn’t matter. the space between them is tight, electric, stretched thin like the air before a summer storm.

"azzi," paige murmurs, low, almost thoughtful. her grip tightens, just a little. "don’t piss me off right now."

azzi stills. it’s nothing, just paige being paige—too confident, too rough, all bark with a bite she only ever shows on the court. but something in the way she’s looking at her now—head tilted, eyes dark, mouth set like she’s waiting for something—makes azzi’s stomach flip, cold and hot all at once.

for a second, just a second, she’s scared.

and paige sees it.

the shift happens so fast it barely feels real. paige lets go, leans back, scoffs like azzi’s being ridiculous. the corner of her mouth lifts, teasing, but her eyes are still watching, still waiting.

"damn, princess," she says, voice easy, lazy, as she settles back into her seat. "you dramatic."

azzi forces a breath past her lips, unclenches her jaw. she looks away, out the window, at the blur of streetlights sliding past.

she doesn’t say anything.

but she knows paige felt it.

and worse—paige knows she did, too.

𓇼 they make up within the week. it’s not really the plan, but things change when another girl is found dead and gone. this time it’s a neighboring university’s tennis prodigy, her dark hair gleaming wetly across the pavement as she presses a hand to the neat crescent across her neck.

𓇼 she wants to go home. she wants paige. azzi ignores the guilty looks the other girls send her as she’s proven right. instead, her mind is whirling. there’s no connection between the victims, at least none that she can see. the killer (killers?) are doing this for fun, for sport. for sport. wait.

𓇼 the campus becomes a ghost town as news spreads. three more volleyball players from neighboring schools are found dead within days of one another. the pattern is undeniable now—athletes being targeted, sliced up with precision. azzi's phone chimes constantly with texts from her parents begging her to come home. she doesn't tell them that she's secretly packed a bag, ready to run at a moment's notice.

𓇼 security increases on campus. guards patrol the athletic buildings, checking IDs at every entrance. the team is assigned a personal security detail that follows them to and from practice. it should make them feel safer, but the constant scrutiny just reminds them of the danger. morgan complains about it the loudest, says it's making her play worse. paige stays suspiciously quiet during these conversations.

𓇼 azzi starts noticing things. small things at first—paige's late night disappearances becoming more frequent, the way morgan tenses whenever the murders are mentioned on the news, how the two of them exchange glances when they think no one's watching. one night, azzi wakes to find paige's bed empty, and when she checks her phone, there's a text from morgan: roof in 10. it wasn't meant for her.

𓇼 a memorial is held. everyone wears black, everyone cries. morgan the hardest, paige the least. her face is almost carefully blank. when jana breaks down during her speech, azzi watches paige's expression—there's no sadness there, only impatience. that night, azzi googles "sociopath traits" and then immediately deletes her browser history.

𓇼 geno cancels practice after another body is found—this time it's someone from their own school, a soccer player azzi shared an english class with last year. the girls gather in kk and ice's apartment, seeking safety in numbers. "we need to stick together," paige says, her hand finding azzi's under the table, squeezing once. azzi notices how paige's eyes never leave her face, watching her reactions with an intensity that makes her skin prickle.

𓇼 azzi can't shake the feeling she's being watched. not just by paige, but by someone else—someone in the shadows. she starts looking over her shoulder in the hallways, jumping at every sound. "you're being paranoid, princess" paige tells her, but her eyes are watchful, protective. that night, azzi finds a note slipped under their apartment door: hope you had a great day, a! it might just be your last.

𓇼 she shows it to paige, who crumples it in her fist, jaw set in a way azzi has never seen before. "no one's going to touch you," paige promises, voice low and dangerous. "not while i'm here."

𓇼 they decide to go out again one night, all of them, a desperate attempt at normalcy. the bar is crowded, loud, and for a moment, azzi can almost forget. until she sees nika and paige in the corner, heads bent close together, nika's hand on paige's arm like she's stopping her from something. azzi watches them argue, watches paige's face harden before she stalks off to the bathroom.

𓇼 when azzi follows, she finds paige gripping the sink, knuckles white. "i can't keep doing this," paige says, not looking up. she stops when she sees azzi in the mirror. "can't keep doing what?" azzi asks. paige's smile is strained. "can't watch you keep torturing yourself," she says. "you're safe with me, ma. you know that, right?"

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer her, because paige is so obviously lying to her. so, she only extends her hand. “c’mon. let’s go back.”

the bar is loud, too loud, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clinking of glasses and the occasional laugh. paige is over-compensating, those oceanic eyes flickering over the crowd with that signature cocky smirk, and azzi can’t help but notice the way her attention seems to settle on the girl at the bar, the one who’s been giving paige lingering glances all night.

azzi's irritation bubbles up in a slow burn. it’s not jealousy, of course. no, she’s just—well, it's not like that. she crosses her arms tightly over her chest, trying to hide the way her jaw clenches. she’s tired of watching paige flirt with random girls like it doesn’t mean anything. it doesn’t mean anything, she knows that. oh my god, there’s a killer on the loose. this is not the time.

but something about the way paige does it, so casually, so effortlessly… it’s like she’s throwing it in azzi’s face, just because she can.

"hey, you’re gonna let that one get away?” the girl at the bar smiles at paige, leaning forward just a little too much. azzi rolls her eyes at the way it pushes her cleavage up. what a slut.

she feels terrible as soon as she thinks it.

paige laughs, clearly enjoying the attention. "maybe, maybe not. who’s to say?"

azzi feels a knot tighten in her stomach, the familiar burn of irritation seeping deeper, until she can’t take it anymore. she storms out of the bar, muttering something under her breath about goddamn bullshit.

𓇼

the cool night air hits her as she steps outside, the weight of the world following her like the world’s most suffocating blanket. she walks fast, not caring if the killer is nearby. let them come. she’s tired. she’s tired of pretending like she doesn’t care, tired of watching paige flirt—no. she’s just tired of this. of living her life in fear, of housing a deep paranoia inside of her, and being unable to trust the people she previously loved without question.

behind her, paige’s voice breaks through the quiet night. “azzi.”

azzi doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t even turn around. “i’m surprised you even noticed i left. what, got bored of flirting with your latest victim?” the choice of words is intentional, and azzi takes great satisfaction in the silence that follows.

paige’s footsteps speed up, and she’s beside her now, matching her pace. “what the hell is your problem?”

azzi rolls her eyes. “i told you, nothing. it’s whatever.”

“don’t give me that,” paige snaps, stepping in front of azzi, her arms crossed. “you can’t just walk off like that, azzi. you gonna walk around alone at night with a maniac on the loose?”

azzi bites her lip, prays for patience. “oh my god, paige. what-the-fuck-ever. go back to her. she’s waiting.”

and there it is—the envy slips out, biting and sharp. azzi curses herself immediately, but paige catches the hint, that flicker of something in her voice. she raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“oh. oh, that’s not fair.” paige leans in a little closer, her gaze dropping to azzi’s pursed lips, making azzi wish she could not feel the way her chest tightens. “you want me to go back, huh? c’mon. use your words, mama.”

azzi seethes, but she won’t admit it. “it’s not like that, paige.”

“sure, it’s not.” paige grins, leaning back casually against the nearby streetlamp, clearly not ready to let it go. “so you’re mad because…i’m just having a little fun. that it?”

azzi turns away from her, irritation boiling over. “you know what? i don’t need this,” she huffs. “i’m going home.”

paige lets out a soft laugh, but there’s something different about it. she’s amused, but there’s an edge to it now, like she’s not ready to back off.

“azzi, stop this shit. you’re not walking home alone, alright?” paige grabs her by the arm, pulling her back gently when azzi tries to shake her off.

“actually, i think i am. i don’t need you, paige.”

“mm, yeah, you do.”

paige steps in front of her, blocking her way again. azzi’s about to argue when she realizes—paige’s not going anywhere.

“get in the car, az.”

“no.” azzi stands her ground, but she’s not fooling anyone, least of all paige.

“fine,” paige shrugs, and before azzi can react, she pulls her over her shoulder with one swift motion. azzi squeals, kicking her legs, the sound of her protests echoing in the night.

“hello! put me down, paige! i’m wearing a mini skirt!”

paige doesn’t even flinch, holding azzi firmly with one arm. “ain’t nobody looking.”

azzi’s face flushes a soft, dusky red as paige strides to the car, not letting azzi squirm free. “stop it! paige madison, you better put me down right now.” she slaps paige’s back, half laughing, half annoyed.

paige doesn’t answer, just opens the car door and tosses her inside as if she weighs nothing, sliding into the driver’s seat in a matter of minutes. “there. isn’t that better?”

azzi’s breathing hard, a mix of frustration and something else. paige catches her eye, and for a moment, the world feels oddly still between them.

“whatever,” azzi mutters, but it’s a little softer this time, the tension in her voice barely there.

paige’s smirk never falters. “you’re welcome, princess. feel free to use the drive home as a chance to fix that attitude.”

azzi grumbles, sinking back in her seat, but she doesn’t argue anymore. she just watches paige drive, the weight of everything pressing feeling a little lighter now that they’re together.

𓇼 the campus goes on lockdown when another victim is found alive but badly injured. she describes her attacker as tall, athletic, wearing a mask. "there were two of them," she says. "one did the cutting. the other held me down." azzi is in the library when the alert comes through. she tries to call paige but gets no answer. when she finally reaches her, paige sounds panicked. "where are you?" azzi asks. "on my way to you," paige says. "don't move. please, az, don't fucking move."

𓇼 but this is a slasher, so of course, azzi moves. she wants to get to her best friend who sounded terrified out of her mind. but when azzi steps out of the library, someone grabs her from behind. she feels the cold press of a blade against her side, hears a voice—distorted, but somehow familiar—whisper in her ear.

𓇼 azzi’s chest heaves in shallow, terrified gasps, her fingers slipping against the cool steel of the knife handle as she grapples with her assailant. the force of the attack knocks her into the corner of the hallway, and she barely catches herself before she’s on the floor, hands shaking, blood trailing from a shallow cut on her arm.

𓇼 the world is spinning, the air thick with the acrid scent of fear and sweat. azzi is crying—really crying, the kind of sobs that break you down from the inside. it’s not supposed to be like this. she’s not supposed to be here, in this hell, with a blade pressed dangerously into her ribs.

𓇼 “please—please stop,” azzi wheezes, her voice breaking in ways it’s never broken before, raw and desperate. tears spill down her cheeks, streaking through her makeup, and she’s shaking—shaking so hard she can’t breathe, her lungs fighting the air like they’re full of water.

𓇼 “azzi!” paige’s voice cuts through the haze of panic, thick with rage. it’s a sound Azzi hasn’t heard in a while—feral, protective. it’s all the warning azzi gets before paige is there, hauling the killer off her. she’s never been more grateful for location sharing.

𓇼 “get the fuck off of her!” paige screams, her grip vicious as she tosses the killer aside, sending the ghostly figure sprawling into the wall. her anger is palpable, her voice high with fear, her stress pushing her past the normal calm. azzi’s reminded that they’re both just young women, college students trying to stay alive in a way they didn’t have to before, and she feels so ashamed that she ever suspected her.

𓇼 azzi, gasping for air, curls into herself, her hands trembling as she presses them to her stomach. she can’t stop the sobs. Every breath feels too hard, too sharp. the pain from the cut doesn’t matter. it’s the terror that makes her break.

𓇼 paige drops to her knees in front of her, her hands shaking, trying to find zzzi’s face. her phone clatters out of her pocket. “az, baby, please. please, look at me. it’s okay, you’re okay.” the older girl is borderline hyperventilating, casting panicked glances over her shoulder at the limp body of their unknown attacker. “i need you to move your hands, okay? just move them. i need to see how bad it is.”

𓇼 azzi’s eyes are wide, glazed with fear, but it’s the tremble in her voice that cuts paige deeper. “it hurts, p… it hurts so bad. i don’t want to die…”

𓇼 the words slice rip paige like a bullet, her heart almost collapsing at the sound of them. she doesn’t care if she’s bleeding too. she doesn’t care about the rest of it. she just needs Azzi to be okay. “i told you, ma… i told you, you’re not gonna die, alright? you ain’t going nowhere, you hear me? i got you. i got you.”

𓇼 the killer groans, rising with a hand to their masked head. “fuck!” paige whispers. “az, baby, we gotta move. ‘m gonna carry you.” azzi groans in pain as paige practically hauls her in her arms. “i know. i know, princess. fuck, ‘m sorry.”

paige is pulling azzi into the bathroom, her grip firm but not hurting. she's trying to keep herself grounded, trying to focus on the fact that at least in this moment, azzi’s with her. paige’s chest is caving in with the force of her fear—she can taste bile in her throat—but she’s trying to stay quiet.

“shh, shh, baby…” paige’s voice is low, like she’s trying to coax azzi to stay calm, and her hands are already moving over azzi’s skin, lifting her shirt to see the damage, all business, checking for injuries, feeling for anything that could give her a glimpse of what’s happening underneath.

and then her fingers brush over azzi’s ribs, her stomach, and there's a faint tremble in azzi’s breath, and there’s this sudden tension between them, a pressure rising along azzi's spine.

azzi’s heart is racing, her breath ragged, but it’s not just from the pain. the nearness, the intimacy of it, the feeling of paige’s hands on her skin—it’s like fucking fire. the tenderness of paige’s touch, the way she moves so carefully over her body, it should be comforting but it’s only electric. azzi can't stop the warmth rising in her chest, can't ignore the strange pull of need that refuses to fade, even here, even now, in the middle of this absolute nightmare.

“please don’t say it. don’t you fucking dare, paige,” azzi chokes out, her voice shaking, half laughing, half sobbing, as she wipes her eyes. it’s too much. too much emotion, too much fear, and too much everything.

“you’re good, ma,” paige mutters, her thumb brushing over azzi’s stomach, gentle despite everything. “i’ve seen you like this before, don’t act like it’s new.” there’s a certain gruffness to paige’s words, like she’s pretending she doesn’t know the effect of the situation.

azzi huffs a little, trying to hide how embarrassed she is, how exposed she feels under paige’s touch. “i’m not wearing a bra,” azzi whispers through her tears, an attempt to divert attention from what was happening. it’s absurd, even in the face of this horror, how awkward she feels.

paige’s grin is soft, the kind of smile that azzi wished was occurring in a situation better than this. “ma, i’ve seen it all,” she teases, that teenage boy bravado in her tone. “we’re best friends. besides, you look good, like always. that ain’t new either.”

azzi laughs, but it’s broken, her body trembling with the sudden onslaught of pain. the adrenaline is wearing off. the blood, the fear,—it’s all so real, but somehow paige’s words make it feel like a momentary sick joke at a really intense tailgate. she can’t help it. she hits paige’s shoulder, weakly, but paige just takes it, laughing a little.

“not the time, az,” paige says, trying to keep things light, but azzi can feel how her voice shakes, how she’s keeping it low to not attract attention. and then, just like that, the sound of a booted footstep outside the door cuts through the tension. paige freezes, her eyes darting toward the crack under the door.

azzi, still struggling to breathe normally, goes stiff. her hands instinctively press against her stomach, trying to hold in the pain, trying to keep herself from falling apart.

“shit.” paige’s voice is even quieter now, the heat between them suddenly shifting, turning to a survival instinct. “we gotta go. now.”

paige doesn’t give her a second to argue, her hand on azzi’s back, guiding her away from the bathroom door, moving like they’ve practiced this a thousand times before—silent, swift, desperate.

𓇼 they spend hours in the police station, paige getting more and aggravated as the officers keep pushing for answers they don’t have. “what do you mean did they leave clues? bro, isn’t this your job?” azzi focuses on not having a panic attack. its only when the officer that seems to irritate paige the most dares to insinuate that maybe azzi should’ve been more careful that she realizes paige may recreate the crime scene.

𓇼 “come on, p. i want to go home.” paige shoots the man another glare and wraps a hand around azzi’s waist, using her phone to call them an uber.

𓇼 if azzi thought paige was clingy before, she was absolutely oppressive now.

azzi steps into the bathroom, about to close the door when paige’s voice calls out, “azzi, come on now, let’s use our brains. you know i’m not letting you even shower alone after all this.”

azzi rolls her eyes, trying to shut the door but paige’s arm is already wedged in, blocking it. she sighs, giving in. “paige! you can’t just follow me everywhere.”

paige raises an eyebrow, her tone completely unbothered. “girl, this is a classic horror scenario. haven’t you seen psycho?” she leans against the counter, casually pulling her phone from her pocket.

azzi stares at her in disbelief. “are you seriously standing there while i’m trying to take a shower? get out! go sit outside like a normal person!”

paige grins, looking incredibly comfortable in the moment. she’s changed and swept her hair into her signature slick-back bun, her bright blonde strands falling in just the right way, a thin silver chain resting around her neck. her sweatpants hang low and loose, and the black tee paired with it does wonders to show off her biceps as she crosses her arms.

azzi shifts on her feet, feeling a strange pulse in her chest. she’s not sure if it’s from frustration or something else entirely. her gaze flickers down to where a tan strip of skin is revealing itself just above the rim of those damned sweats, and she unconsciously squeezes her legs together. paige notices, her smirk growing wider.

“be lucky i ain't coming in there with you,” she teases, her tone cocky as she scrolls on her phone, clearly unfazed by azzi’s protests.

azzi huffs. “spare me.” paige looks up and raises a brow. “you wouldn't.”

paige shrugs, scrolling casually. “we’ll see. i’ll be right here if you need me.”

azzi folds her arms, feeling a little cornered by both the situation and the fact that paige looks really good right now. it’s enough to make her blush, and she tries to pretend like she’s not noticing. “paige, seriously. get out.”

paige smirks, her eyes not leaving her screen as she leans a little closer to the bathroom door. “that’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

azzi rolls her eyes again, clearly fed up but also a little flustered. she glances at paige, then starts to undo her socks, taking one off slowly like she's in no hurry to just give in to the absurdity of it all. the moment she takes the sock off, paige whistles loudly.

“god damn, look at you.” she crosses her arms again, shaking her head, completely over the top with her reaction.

azzi freezes, her face turning the color of a maraschino cherry. “read my lips, paige. get out or i swear to god!”

paige raises her hands in mock surrender, laughing at her best friend's embarrassment. “alright, alright, i’m leaving! no need to bring our savior into it. you know you love me.” she steps back, still laughing to herself.

azzi rolls her eyes, trying to pretend she's not still flustered, and waits until paige is out of the bathroom before she breathes a deep sigh of relief.

𓇼

when azzi finally steps out of the muggy bathroom, her satin robe clings to her body in a way she really wasn’t prepared for. it’s short, the fabric cool and slick against her skin in a lovely shade of emerald green, and it leaves very little to the imagination—especially with how it sticks to her curves, still damp from the shower.

paige looks her up and down as she passes by, eyes narrowing in an exaggerated once-over, her lips curling into a smirk. “my god, az, you really trying to make me feel some type of way right now, huh?”

azzi huffs and quickly pulls the robe tighter around her, trying to ignore the avid embarrassment creeping up her spine at the way paige is looking at her. “oh my god, can you not?”

paige raises a brow, stepping closer, still completely unbothered. “what? you look phenomenal, mama. stop trying to act like you don’t know.” she steps in front of azzi now, blocking her way, a wicked grin tugging at her lips. “you could at least act a little embarrassed. i’m not the one who came out here in the world’s shortest robe, babe. that’s your problem.”

azzi tries to shift away, but paige reaches out and places a hand on her stomach, pressing gently—so gently, though azzi still sucks in a breath. the wound. the pain of it.

azzi’s breath hitches at the sensation, and she freezes. “p,” she starts, her voice wavering just a little, “seriously, it’s fine. i’m okay. we’re fine..” but she knows they’re not, not completely. not when the pressure of her best friend’s hand on her body sends an inebriate mix of heat and anxiety coursing through her.

paige doesn’t move, her thumb running in soft circles over the satin. the moment hangs there, both of them silent and unsure. she looks azzi in the eyes, her cocky mask slipping, replaced with something more raw, more vulnerable than azzi’s seen in a long time.

“that was way too close, az,” paige mutters, her voice low and almost trembling despite herself. “i’m not trying to be disrespectful or anything, but i wasn’t—i didn’t think it was real, y’know? like, it was always happening to other people, but then it was you—and that shit scared me.”

azzi looks up at her, the words hitting harder than she expected. it isn’t what paige usually says. it’s not the same sure, settled paige who never gets rattled. this is different. and it makes azzi’s stomach twist in a way she’s not sure she wants to think about right now.

“hey,” azzi starts again, her voice a little more sure this time. “i’m okay this time. really.” but the words feel thin.

paige doesn’t pull back. she presses just a little harder against azzi’s stomach, right where the wound is, and for a split second, azzi feels like she can’t breathe. but it’s not pain—it’s something else. something that makes her flush. paige stares down at her for a long moment before taking a step back, but not without catching azzi’s gaze. her voice is back to being light, the flip switched but the edge of uncertainty still lingering there.

“next time,” paige says, crossing her arms and giving azzi an appraising look, “i don’t care if i gotta lock you in a damn safe. you ain’t going anywhere without me. not even to pee. got it?”

azzi laughs weakly, but it’s forced. she’s shaking her head, though the tightness in her chest doesn’t loosen. “yeah, whatever, paige. you really think you can keep me all locked up?”

“trust, i will find a way. better start growing those curls out and change your name to rapunzel,” paige says with her trademark megawatt smile.

azzi just sighs, rolling her eyes. “you’re so—.”

before she can say more, paige adds, more softly, “i’m serious, az. i’m not letting anything happen to you. i look after what’s mine.”

azzi’s heart thumps hard in her chest at the words, and she looks away quickly, brushing a wet spiral of hair behind her ear to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. before she can respond, paige’s phone buzzes loudly, breaking the tension between them. paige glances down at the screen, and her expression hardens.

“i have to go,” she says. “i forgot i promised kk help on an assignment.”

azzi gives her a small, searching look before nodding. she watches her go, her stomach beginning to crawl with that uneasy feeling that only arises when she senses a lie.

𓇼 azzi wakes to the sound of the front door closing. it's three in the morning, and paige is slipping back into their apartment, her steps careful, measured. azzi pretends to be asleep, watching through slitted eyes as paige peels off her jacket, revealing a white t-shirt stained with something dark.

𓇼 paige's hands are slightly trembling as she stuffs the shirt into the bottom of the laundry hamper. when she turns, her face is hollow, haunted. she looks at azzi's sleeping form with an expression that's almost tender, almost desperate. azzi squeezes her eyes closed, a single tear rolling down her face like a saltwater diamond.

𓇼 but like all things do, it comes to a head. paige is right back at it—the lies, the exceptionally late nights, the brushing off of azzi’s concerns. “so, you can be worried about me, but i have to play it cool?” she yells at paige’s retreating back. paige turns to face her before she slips back into her bedroom. “you got it, ma.”

𓇼 it's stupid and slick and she’s so obviously being cute and—why the fuck is it turning azzi on?

𓇼 regardless she’s had enough. so, azzi takes things into her own hands.

the sound of the front door unlocking makes azzi tense, fingers curling around the blanket draped over her lap. the tv hums softly, casting pale light over her bare arms, her collarbones, the rise and fall of her chest. 2:47 am.

paige steps inside like she owns the place. she’s all black and strategic shadow, hoodie zipped up, joggers hanging low, her hair twisted into that stupid bun that looks effortless but isn’t. there’s something different about her tonight, something undeniably thick in the air between them.

azzi swallows. something is off. something's been off. she tries to find her strength from before.

paige kicks off her crocs, stretches her arms overhead, and looks at azzi with that familiar, lazy smirk. "damn, you almost scared me. you waiting up for me, princess?"

azzi doesn’t answer. just watches. the way paige moves—calm, controlled, unbothered. like she wasn’t just out in the dark doing god knows what.

paige tilts her head. "silent treatment? that’s crazy."

azzi’s stomach knots. she should just say it. just ask. her eyes flick up—linger at paige’s bun. she sees it now. the dried rust clinging to the strands, almost lost in the honey-blonde.

"there's blood in your hair."

paige stops in front of her, close enough that azzi can smell the warm spice of her cologne, something deeper beneath it. her grin flickers, like she wasn’t expecting that.

then she laughs, low and amused. "yeah?"

azzi nods, her throat dry. she’s suddenly so aware of her body. "yeah."

paige’s gaze dips. a quick flick—barely there—but azzi feels it, the weight of her eyes dragging down to the square neckline of her top, the way it presses tightly against her skin and pushes up her tits. it’s so quick she might’ve imagined it, but when paige looks back up, there’s something else in her face, something dark and hungry.

azzi’s heart skips.

paige leans in slightly, all sharp eyes and quiet hunger. "take it out and see." she grabs azzi’s wrist and presses it against her scalp, her fingers warm and firm over azzi’s skin.

azzi’s pupils blow wide. her heart slams into her ribs.

"see, az?" paige murmurs. "you’re just as bad as me."

azzi rips her hand away and backs up. paige follows, smooth, easy, and unhurried. azzi’s breath catches—there’s nowhere to go but down the hallway. she moves before she can think, turns—but paige’s voice follows her, teasing.

"aw, don’t do that, princess. you know you can’t run from me."

azzi doesn’t listen. her socked feet slap against the hardwood as she bolts, and she almost slips, rounding the corner toward her bedroom. she doesn’t make it. paige is already there.

azzi’s breath shudders. she saw her in the living room. she just felt her presence behind her, but now she’s in front, her body loose and relaxed against the doorframe.

azzi skids to a stop, heart hammering. paige just grins, cocking her head. "that was cute."

azzi’s stomach drops. she whirls around, runs back through the kitchen—paige is at the fridge, watching her like this is all some kind of game. azzi stumbles, chest heaving. she didn’t even hear paige move this time. didn’t realize how close she was until—

she trips.

a sharp gasp rips from her throat as she hits the floor. she scrambles to get up, but paige is already there, grabbing her ankle and dragging her back, slow and deliberate like she has all the time in the world.

azzi twists, pushing up onto her hands, her breath ragged, sweat clinging to the hollow of her throat. she might be screaming, but she can’t tell. her curls stick to her forehead, her lip combo still glossy, her skin warm and glowing in the dim light.

paige watches her struggle, mouth curving into something that shouldn’t be so blatantly fond. and then, low and appreciative: "jesus, ma. this top."

azzi gapes. “you can’t be serious right now.”

paige laughs—actually laughs, full and throaty, before ducking down and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to azzi’s throat. azzi jerks, whimpers as a slow heat floods through her.

"paige—"

"relax, baby," paige murmurs against her skin, lips grazing the pulse pounding at her neck. "you know i’d never hurt you."

azzi squeezes her eyes shut, chest heaving, fear and something unidentifiable tangling in her stomach. then paige pulls back, sighing like this is exhausting for her. she reaches into her hoodie, pulls out something small and sharp—a knife—and flicks it across the room. it clatters onto the hardwood.

azzi stares.

paige cups her face, tilting it up, her thumbs pressing gently into her cheeks. "look at me."

azzi does, breath uneven, her throat tight.

"i’m not gonna hurt you," paige says, softer this time, steady and sure. "you know that, don’t you?"

azzi’s lips tremble. and then the tears spill over. she makes a choked sound, shaking her head, her breathing turning sharp and uneven.

"please," she whispers, voice cracking. "please, paige. you’re lying to me, i— i thought we were best friends. what did i do wrong? what—whatever it is, i’m so sorry.”

paige freezes. her face twists with an emotion so raw, that azzi is unsure if there’s a name for it. “azzi—”

azzi wrenches away from her grip and pulls back, hands tangling in her curls, her whole body wound tight. "there’s always two of you, right?" she gasps, voice rising in panic. "oh my god, i’m gonna die."

paige’s expression crumples. "don’t you dare say that shit."

azzi flinches, still hyperventilating, her shoulders rising and falling too fast, her vision swimming. paige exhales sharply and moves, pressing a steadying hand to azzi’s waist, keeping her from stumbling.

"azzi, you can be pissed in a minute, mama. swear. but i need you to calm down first."

azzi blinks up at her, dazed, ribs aching.

paige tightens her grip, her voice dropping into something warmer, more familiar. "need you to breathe for me, baby. please."

and somehow azzi listens. her breath hitches in her throat as she slows it down, lungs expanding in time with paige’s steady exhalations, but it’s the space between them that feels suffocating now. paige’s grip doesn’t loosen. azzi thinks of her promise from before: i don’t care if i gotta lock you in a damn safe.

azzi’s fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt, her skin still slick with sweat, as her mind races to catch up with everything that’s happening. that flicker of fear still burns deep in her chest, but—god, she’s so close to paige. too close. her neck is still tingling from where paige kissed it, the skin still warm and alive from her touch.

but paige… paige is a killer. the killer.

she tries to pull away again—shaking her head, trying to break free from the grip she can’t seem to escape. "i—i can’t."

paige doesn’t let her go this time. instead, she leans down, their faces inches apart, her voice like honey and danger all at once. "you can, though.”

azzi swallows. "you’re not the paige i thought i knew."

a pause. paige’s eyes darken just the slightest bit, but there’s something else in them, something softer, a flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of regret. but it’s gone before azzi can pin it down, replaced by something colder.

"ma," paige says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something that cracks in a way speaks to her. "azzi, this ain't easy for me either. i didn’t—this isn't the person i wanna be in front of you."

azzi’s breath hitches. "then don’t be." she shakes her head again, frustration boiling over. "i don’t understand, paige. i don’t even know what’s real anymore."

paige’s hands tighten around her wrists, gentle but firm, and for a second, it feels like she’s holding herself together instead. "what’s real is my promises. i swear to god, az, i’m not gonna hurt you."

azzi laughs, but it’s hollow, the sound falling against the floor. "how do you expect me to believe that?”

“you do believe that. that’s why you suspected me for so long and didn’t say shit.” azzi freezes. "you know why i keep you close? cause you make me wanna be better."

azzi scoffs, eyes wide. "what? it’s not my job to save you, p.”

paige leans in, her forehead brushing against azzi’s. "but you do it every day. you’re the one thing in this world that still feels right. and i’m not about to let anything happen to you. not now. not ever."

azzi’s heart tugs with the weight of paige’s words. the sincerity in her voice wraps around her like a velvet rope, pulls her closer. but then—then—the cold reality crashes back in. azzi shakes her head, her eyes filling with that uncontrollable fear again.

"i can’t be part of this, paige. i can’t be in this world with you. it’s too much. i don’t—i don’t know who you are anymore."

paige’s expression hardens, but she doesn’t let go of azzi’s face. "you do know me," she says, a soft, dangerous promise in her voice. "i’m still me. the same person who’s been by your side, who’d do anything for you. i swear, azzi, you’re all i care about."

azzi blinks, her vision blurry through the tears, her chest tight with the weight of it all. "then why—why do you hurt people?"

paige’s jaw clenches, the shadow of the killer flashing across her features again. but when she looks at azzi, it’s with something broken. "i’m trying to protect you. to keep you safe, az. you don’t get it. i’m doing this for you."

azzi shakes her head, backing away again, her hands trembling. "you’re still lying."

"no," paige breathes, reaching for her again, but azzi pulls back, pacing quickly, hands tangled in her hair again, trying to pull herself together. "please, just calm down. i need you to calm down, baby. we’ll figure it out."

azzi whips around, her hand swiping at her eyes. "i can’t figure this out, paige! i can’t! you’re not just a friend to me, you’re— i can’t lose you, but i can’t do this either!"

paige’s face softens, and this time, she steps back, giving azzi space, her shoulders sagging just slightly. "i’m not going anywhere. not unless you tell me to."

azzi pauses, her breath still coming in jagged bursts. "why wouldn’t i tell you to leave?"

"cause you love me," paige says simply, but it’s not a boast. it’s the truth, in a way azzi can’t ignore. "and i love you too, maybe even more. and that’s enough. it’ll always be enough, azzi. just trust me."

azzi’s breath catches. "you can’t make this go away, paige." and suddenly she’s just so angry.

her hands curl into fists, eyes brimming with the weight of everything she's been holding in. she looks away, but paige reaches out, gently grabbing her chin. the touch is light but unyielding, pulling azzi back into her orbit. “hey, what are you thinking? talk to me.”

azzi stares at her for a beat, then explodes, words spilling out faster than she can control them. "you don’t get it! you’re so obsessed with how i feel, with fixing everything with me, you can’t even see how badly you’re fucking up. you don’t see it, do you? you just want the thrill of being the one i choose! what even is this? are you just throwing your whole life away for five minutes of fucking fame, paige? you can be so fucking selfish when it comes to me, and you won’t even admit it."

paige stands there, quiet for a second, then slowly smirks. “yeah, okay. i am selfish about you. i don’t see anything wrong with it. you right, ma.” she steps forward again, closer to azzi, inching her way into her space until there’s nowhere for her to go. “but that doesn’t mean you get to make me feel like shit for it. ‘cause you like being special.”

azzi’s breath stutters in her chest, caught off guard by paige’s rather self-accountable response. she opens her mouth to retort but doesn’t get the chance before paige leans in, close enough that azzi can feel her breath, her warmth.

“i know., i know. i’m not taking you seriously. i’m not listening. yep, for sure, ma,” paige murmurs. “just—”and then she kisses her. it's slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s not just about desire but about the release of it.

azzi kisses back almost immediately, closing her eyes and digging her hands into paige’s hair. she opens her mouth, and paige slips her tongue inside, dragging a hand down to squeeze azzi’s waist. azzi moans, whole body shivering as paige presses two fingers to her aching clit. the pressure is fucking divine, and something sickly sweet swells in her tummy.

paige is playing dirty, and azzi is finding it hard to claw her way out of the web her best friend continues to spin.

she pulls back, blushing as a thin string of spit connects them for several seconds before snapping.

“don’t think for one second that you’re off the hook,” azzi says, voice shaky and defiant.

paige only grins, smug, and presses harder against her pussy, rubbing gently through the fabric. “mmhmm. you taste so good, you know that? like fucking sugar, just straight honey.”

azzi’s pulse is racing, her chest tight, and she’s this close to yelling at her again. “you’re not even listening to me,” she says, but it comes out as a half-sigh, half-moan.

paige doesn’t back off, though. instead, she leans in again, slow and steady, keeping the pace of her fingers up as if she’d always known that this was where they’d end up. she presses her lips to azzi’s again and again, and azzi, against all her better judgment, melts every time. the next time it’s paige who breaks their contact.

"i don’t know how to make it go away yet,” paige says, her voice quieter now as she speaks to azzi’s earlier worries. "but i need you to trust me. please."

azzi hesitates, eyes still wet, her chest tight. her heart aches. but for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself believe in paige. just a little bit, just a little more.

"what are you protecting me from?" azzi whispers, voice barely audible. “is it someone else?”

paige doesn’t answer at first, just steps forward and pulls azzi into a desperate hug. that only confirms it. this other person, the second piece to this horrific puzzle, has it out for her.

"you don’t have to worry about that, baby. i got you. always."

azzi wants to believe her without any reservations because she knows, on a level, that it’s true.

that’s the worst part.

𓇼 it turns out azzi can forgive a lot when it comes to paige. loving her is a part of her genetic code.

𓇼 it's what she was meant for, body and soul.

𓇼 fuck.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #wlw #lesbian

503 notes · View notes

guiltyandashamed · 25 days ago

Note

beach day with brothers + dateables!!!

headcannons: beach day (brothers + side characters)

Diavolo had the brilliant idea to host a full-day beach getaway at his private artificial beach. It features shimmering white sand, crystal-clear saltwater waves, and a state-of-the-art sun that mimics the perfect warmth of a human-world summer day. Everyone was invited. Swimsuits, drinks, games, and even a fire pit for roasting food by moonlight (the artificial sun does set eventually). It’s rare to have everyone relaxed in one place, so the day is something special.

Lucifer

At first, he's very much the dad of the trip. Clipboard. Schedule. Trying to make sure everyone packed sunscreen, water bottles, and spare towels.

Arrives in black swim trunks and a crisp, partially unbuttoned linen shirt he refuses to take off for the first hour.

Stays under the large shaded canopy with a drink in hand, sunglasses on, pretending to read but mostly watching over everyone.

You convince him to go for a swim. Eventually. He gives in only because it’s you, and ends up surprisingly graceful in the water.

If you splash him, expect revenge but in the most calculated way. He’s not above dunking you playfully. If Mammon tries splashing him he's holding his head underwater for a concerning amount of time while Mammon thrashes about.

Ends up walking along the shore with you when the sun starts to set, a rare soft expression on his face as he listens to you ramble.

Sighs dramatically when he sees the shenanigans his brothers are involved in.

Mammon

The first one to run into the water, yelling “BEACH DAAAAAAY!” at full volume.

Hawaiian shirt open, board shorts, and designer sunglasses.

Tries to impress you with backflips off the dock. Fails. Pretends it didn’t hurt.

Is constantly trying to initiate beach games—volleyball, frisbee, tug of war, sandcastle competitions. Loses half the time. Doesn’t care.

Suggests burying someone in the sand. Ends up being the one buried after losing a bet. You sit and talk to him for a while, picking sand out of his hair.

Pulls you into the ocean, especially if you’re standing too close to the edge. “C’mon, don’t be boring! The water’s perfect!”

Gets extremely jealous if he sees anyone else putting sunscreen on you. Immediately demands to do it himself. Badly.

Buys matching seashell bracelets from one of the vendors. Won’t admit it’s cute, but he's always making sure you're wearing it.

Leviathan

Wears a rash guard and swim trunks with anime character print. Brings floaties. Even though he can swim.

Spends the first hour hiding under an umbrella with his phone and a cooling towel. Eventually, you coax him into the water.

Loves snorkeling once he gets going. Spends half the day with a snorkel mask and fins, pointing out coral and fish with excited gestures.

Brings waterproof game consoles and challenges others to Mario Kart in the shade.

Gets shy around you in a swimsuit, especially if it shows a lot of skin. He tries not to stare. Fails. Blushes violently.

If you play in the tide with him, he relaxes into it, laughing when you chase each other around the shallows.

Builds a sand sculpture of Henry 2.0 and acts like it’s no big deal, but beams when you praise it.

Satan

Shows up with a good book, sunglasses, and a sunhat that somehow looks annoyingly classy on him.

Picks a spot slightly away from the crowd, claiming it’s for “peace and quiet,” but you notice he keeps looking your way.

Wades into the water calmly, then ends up challenging Lucifer to a swimming contest just to stir the pot.

Spends part of the day collecting interesting shells and smooth stones. Gives you the best ones without saying much.

If you sit beside him to read, he will occasionally murmur commentary to you, low and intimate.

Secretly loves the idea of you in beachwear but keeps his reactions well hidden, until someone else comments, and then he's suddenly standing very close to you.

Helps the Little D's build sandcastles and explains the physics of how sand holds shape. Somehow, they love it.

Gets very competitive when involved in the beach games. Especially if Lucifer is involved.

When you lie down beside him near the end of the day, he traces a small circle on your back with a lazy finger and says, “This wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

Asmodeus

Fashionably late but impeccably dressed. Swimsuit? More like a full beach look: designer shades, sheer sarong, glitter sunscreen.

Gasps when he sees you. “Darling, you look stunning—but next time, let me style you too!”

Spends most of the day posing for selfies, dragging you into half of them, applying lip gloss like he’s on set.

Teaches you the “perfect beach photo angles,” then takes a scandalously good photo of you and makes it his lock screen.

Flirts nonstop, both playfully and sincerely. If you look even slightly sun-touched or flushed, he fawns over you.

Starts a tanning circle with fancy drinks and gossip. Pulls Simeon in for juicy stories, much to the angel’s dismay.

Tries every water activity but hates getting his hair wet. “Beauty before fun, babes.”

At sunset, he grabs your hand and leads you to the water’s edge for a photo. He says the skies beauty is nothing when in comparison of you. You hold hands while walking along the shore.

Beelzebub

Shows up early to help carry the food, grills, umbrellas, everything. Walks shirtless without even noticing the effect.

Wears blue swim trunks with little hamburgers printed and a big smile. Greets everyone like it’s a family reunion.

Immediately scouts the food tables. Devours an entire platter of sandwiches before lunch. Apologizes sincerely.

Loves beach sports. Volleyball, swimming races, tug-of-war—he’s game for all of it. You team up with him, and you always win.

Brings you drinks without you asking. Wipes the sweat from your temple with a towel like it’s nothing.

Offers you his giant towel to sit on if yours gets sandy. Doesn’t mind sharing it, actually, he prefers it.

If you seem tired, he lifts you up bridal-style and takes you to a shady spot without hesitation.

At the end of the day, he shares a bite of grilled pineapple with you, his voice low and content: “Days like this are the best, huh?”

Belphegor

Complains the whole way there, dramatically yawning and dragging his feet. “Sun? Sand? Effort? No thanks.”

Ends up stretched out under an umbrella within ten minutes, asleep with a straw hat over his face.

Wakes up when he hears your laughter. Watches you from his shaded spot for a while before pretending he wasn’t looking.

Eventually joins you in the water, floats on his back, eyes closed, just listening to your voice. “This is... kind of nice.”

Builds lazy little sand mounds around you while you sit. Calls it a “defensive perimeter.”

Gets annoyed when others flirt with you. Won’t say anything, but suddenly appears at your side, shoulder to shoulder.

Asks you to take a nap with him in a hammock strung between two palm trees. When you say yes, he hums softly as you both sway.

Murmurs, half-asleep, “You make this whole place better. Just so you know.”

Diavolo

Absolutely thrilled by the beach idea. He personally arranged the sun, weather, and waves. “It’ll be fun!” he says, grinning like a golden retriever.

Wears brightly colored swim trunks and insists on matching floaties. Looks ridiculous but makes it charming.

Tries every single beach activity, from surfing to grilling. He's not particularly good at any of them, but his joy is contagious.

Drags you into water games with him, laughing when he falls over and splashes you.

Organizes a sandcastle-building competition, with prizes, and names you a judge.

Hands you a drink halfway through the day and earnestly says, “Thank you for spending this time with me. It means a lot.”

At sunset, he quietly watches the sky shift colors. You sit beside him, and he nudges your knee with his. “We should do this again. Just the two of us.”

Barbatos

Shows up perfectly prepared: picnic basket, umbrellas, refreshments, towels—all color-coordinated and neatly packed.

Wears modest swimwear and sandals. Somehow still looks graceful.

Spends most of his time setting things up and making sure everyone else is comfortable. Doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Brought the Little D's to help set up and to serve food, but let's them play around in the meantime as long as they don't cause trouble.

You catch him once, standing alone in the shallows, pants rolled up, letting the water rush around his ankles. He looks... peaceful.

He lets you coax him into sitting for a moment. You feed him fruit, and he smiles, truly smiles. “You bring out my softer side, it seems.”

Makes you the perfect drink to cool down, garnished and all. Later slips a shell into your bag with a quiet note written on parchment.

Tucks your hair behind your ear if the wind blows it around. Doesn’t say a word about it.

Solomon

Wears a half-buttoned linen shirt and swim shorts that are probably enchanted. Looks like he walked out of a resort magazine.

Is weirdly good at beach volleyball. Smirks every time he scores. “Want to play doubles? I always win with you.”

Teaches you how to draw magical sigils in the sand that animate briefly before washing away.

Starts a bonfire using a snap of his fingers, then sits beside you, playing with the firelight and your shadows.

Laughs at Diavolo’s antics but sneaks you away from the crowd just to walk along the water’s edge. “I like when it’s just us.”

Gets a little possessive if someone flirts too much with you, he’ll suddenly show up at your side with a casual arm slung around you.

Asks you to dance with him in the sand after most have gone home. No music, just the sound of waves.

Simeon

Wears tasteful white swimwear and brings an oversized sunhat that somehow makes him look angelic and rich.

Offers to help Barbatos serve drinks and snacks. He’s the charming host type, complimenting everyone with that soft voice.

Watches you with a fondness that’s easy to miss unless you’re looking for it.

When you join him under the umbrella to rest, he hands you a cold drink and says, “You look radiant in this light.”

Is incredibly flustered if you tease him about his beach body. Turns red but covers it with a laugh.

Later, walks with you at the edge of the water, letting the foam rush over your feet. “Moments like this feel... timeless.”

Offers to rub sunscreen on your back in the most respectful and innocent way, but that little smile he gives when he touches you says otherwise.

Mephistopheles

Shows up overdressed, insists the beach is “beneath his status,” then proceeds to enjoy it more than anyone else. He'll talk someone's ear off about Diavolo's ingenuity in setting the whole thing up.

Wears old-fashioned striped swim trunks and carries an umbrella he refuses to share unless you ask nicely.

Complains about the sand but helps you build a sand sculpture of the RAD tower anyway.

If you’re in a swimsuit he likes, he gets tongue-tied for a split second before scoffing and looking away.

Brings sunscreen from the human world and brags about it. Offers it to you like he’s doing you a favor.

Gets into a ridiculous water fight with Mammon and drags you into it as a “shield.”

Pretends he doesn’t care if you sit next to him on his towel, but adjusts his posture to be closer to you as the day goes on.

Thirteen

Immediately sprints toward the water, dives in headfirst, and does a backflip just to show off.

Wears a two-piece swimsuit with skeletons and pastel flames on it. Carries a surfboard even though she can’t surf.

Dares you into games and races. “Loser owes the winner a favor. You scared?”

If you wear something cute, she whistles. “Looking good, human.”

Buries Mammon in the sand while he naps. Writes “Dunce” on his forehead in seaweed.

If she catches you getting tired, she drags you onto a floatie and pulls you around the water like a lazy river.

Hogs all your snacks but shares her favorite juice with you. “You’re the only one I’d share this with. Feel special.”

Raphael

Shows up with zero fanfare, dressed simply, and settles in the shade with a book.

Declines most invitations to play or swim. until you ask, and then he quietly obliges.

Very protective. If the waves seem too strong or someone splashes you, he steps between without comment.

Doesn’t flirt, but the way he towels off your hair or hands you water feels deeply personal.

When you sit beside him, he lets his guard down just a little. “You seem happiest here,” he says softly. “That’s worth more than any mission.”

Wades into the shallows with you and silently watches the sky, arms crossed. He’s not the type to say it, but he enjoys your company immensely.

During beach activities, he rarely puts in effort but he does surprisingly well. Almost wins the sandcastle competition.

At the end of the day, gives you his towel without being asked and waits to walk back with you.

301 notes · View notes

muletia · 2 months ago

Note

If you do heat related asks but we all know the meds are down bad obsessed for reader on the regular…what happens when their heat hits?~

A loooot depends on the mer and what stage of the relationship you’re currently in. Pre-relationship predicaments below:

Optimus will be much cuddlier than usual. He constantly wants to be in physical contact with you, and when he can’t be, he dials up the courting in hopes of earning, in your eyes, the status of someone worthy of interfacing. And even though the hormones are absolutely wrecking his mind and it’s getting really hard for him to think about anything innocent when you’re nearby, he will be insanely patient. If you’re not responding well to the courting, he might relieve a bit of that tension by grinding/humping against rocks or sand deep at the bottom but that’s it. And if you do say yes? Well, then he’ll be visiting the sex cave very, very frequently <3333

Megatron becomes a lot more possessive. He won’t be quite as cuddly, but he absolutely won’t let you leave his lake’s territory during those few days of heat. Any attempt is met with a symphony of warning growls. And lots of biting. So much biting. Neck, arms, legs. You’ll look like you’ve been mauled by some wild animal but it’s just Megatron making sure no one else will show interest in you. His feelings for you may be complicated, sure but you are his. Mate or not.

Ratchet won’t even let on that he’s in heat. He’s old and is convinced he doesn’t deserve a mate anymore. He doesn’t want to be a burden, even if it means enduring horrendous discomfort and trying to act normal around you… unless you’re the one to initiate any kind of affection. Even a simple, innocent kiss on the cheek is enough to shatter that artificial composure of his, and he’ll flee to the ocean, hiding his opening slit from your sight. For his own comfort, it’s best to help him through it. He’ll be immensely grateful and it’ll break down yet another wall he’s built between you.

Arcee won’t want to let you out of the water at all. She’s constantly touching you down there, encouraging interfacing. Lots of biting and dry humping. Everyone needs to know you belong to her especially you. And since I headcanon her as a sea otter, expect a lot of predator play from her. She’ll chase you, nibble you, stalk you occasionally teasing you by tugging at your leg or arm, making it harder for you to swim.

Bumblebee/Smokescreen are in your pants 24/7. They’re so starved for attention and they’ll do anything to get it from you.

Knockout/Breakdown are just the same. Knockout will get bolder with his flirting, trying to look even prettier than usual, while Breakdown tries to look more powerful in your eyes. You’d best be careful around them, because the moment you come within reach of their claws, you’re not getting out of their arms.

#be silly #merformers x reader #merformers #optimus x reader #mer optimus #ratchet x reader #mer ratchet #megatron x reader #mer megatron #arcee x reader #mer arcee #mer bumblebee #mer smokescreen #mer knockout #mer breakdown #valveplug

272 notes · View notes

rottiens · 10 months ago

Text

contents. satoru gojō x fem reader, alcohol consumption, all the characters are adults, secret relationship au.

"How many shots would you have to take to kiss Gojo?" Nanami asks the group as his eyes are on you, you laugh against the bottle stumbling against your lips.

The question isn't out of place since you just answered that you would kiss Principal Yaga after taking at least about five shots out of respect and how nervous he makes you feel. However everyone knows what your relationship with Satoru is like, so the question catches you off guard.

"Zero." Shoko answers for you and Satoru looks at her over the sunglasses, clearly displeased. "There's not enough alcohol in the world to make her kiss him."

"Oh, no, no, wait... she's really thinking about it!" Haibara points an accusing finger at you and you can't help but laugh again, you feel the skin on your cheeks stretch and burn from the silly grin you can't wipe off. Satoru's stalking gaze feels like a torch on the back of your neck.

You pretend to think it humming out loud, though the answer is clear to you. "At least about ten," you say, tilting the bottle up to your mouth, getting the group around the campfire to laugh filling the beach with echoes.

"Heeey." Satoru pinches your forearm which makes you look at him, a tiny pout is later replaced by a couple of wrinkles on his forehead.

"What?" you ask softly and have to force your hands to stay still and not reach out to touch him.

"Ten shots? That's almost an alcoholic coma."

"There are actually many things that could influence an ethyl coma," Kento clarifies.

"You can't explain much about alcohol to a person who doesn't drink." Your numb brain is sure that was Hibara, too lazy to check since your eyes were still on Satoru who was still indignantly staring at you.

"What?" you repeat almost in a whisper.

"Nothing." His attention returns to the campfire, the heat from the fire burns his pink cheeks and the bright flame dances on his face making his eyes look much lighter mimicking the shade of the sea at midday.

Satoru pushes his glasses up on top of the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes completely.

"I'm going to get more beer," you say looking at the group, then tug on Satoru's arm to help him up, who does so reluctantly. "Can you help me with the box?"

He walks beside you without adding anything else, shaking the sand out of his red shorts and pushing his hair out of his face.

"Are you really upset?" The answer was obvious but you had to make sure, Satoru walks silently, sinking his feet aggressively into the sand until you reach the parking lot where your toes have never felt more grateful to touch solid ground. "Hey?" you tug on his hand and stop your steps, standing still in front of him.

"Hhm?"

"Are you really upset?"

"No," Satoru assures, avoiding your eyes.

"Satoru, did you really want me to tell them that I would kiss you sober? Without a drop of alcohol?"

You see him licking his lips battling with himself on whether to stay annoyed with you or understand your point.

"I know."

"I thought we were going to go slow..."

"I know!" His hands cradle your cheeks tenderly, bringing his face up to meet yours to leave a kiss on your lips. "I was dying to touch you."

"You know we didn't go public for you." You remind him, letting him rest his forehead on top of yours. The artificial taste of the strawberry beer he drank earlier sneaks into your mouth in little gasps.

"Let's do it when we get back to the city," Satoru murmurs, brushing his lips over yours. "I think they know anyway." Oh, you're sure they know. You're both too obvious but you didn't want to push your boyfriend when he told you he wasn't ready to admit in front of everyone to officially having a partner. "But I don't like having to hold your hand on the sly or sneak out of meetings so I can kiss you and God, I'm just addicted to that watermelon gloss you use."

You laugh giving him fleeting little kisses, taking advantage of the position to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you.

"Just admit you're addicted to me, Satoru."

"Maybe I am..." He says in that tone that indicates danger. That voice that tells you you're not going back to the group you had run away from.

Satoru squeezes your waist possessively, his fingers trace on your sun-toasted skin and you moan between his half-opened lips the moment he asks for your tongue silently, his nose stumbling against yours.

"We should get back..." you say in a whisper, remembering this fact more to yourself than to him.

"We can disappear for ten minutes..." Pause. His lips move to your collarbone and his warm breath tickles you. "Fifteen minutes..." Pause. Small bites along your jaw take him to your neck. "Twenty..." His tongue dances over your salty skin, gently licking what he can reach and has to physically force himself not to suck.

"It's never ten minutes..." you say between a choked moan, tugging at his strands sweetly until he's looking at you again. Dark sunglasses hide his eyes from you but his mouth is at your disposal, half open, red and appetizing and the tiny freckles that bathe his nose make your stomach knot.

He grunts, as if battling with himself to understand that you are right. Satoru brings his face to the line of your neck and sighs heavily, leaving one last kiss to pull away from you against his will.

"Let's go back then," he says resignedly. And he had never wanted the weekend to pass as quickly as he wanted it to now, being the impatient person he is, he didn't want to wait to have your hand entwined with his and fill his chest with raw pride where he could finally admit in front of everyone that you were his.

#wr #wr.gojo #scr.gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #cw alcohol #divider by adornedwithlight!

803 notes · View notes

unadulteratedsoulsweets · 8 months ago

Text

A DC X DP IDEA #37

Progenitor

Imagine dis…

I saw a TikTok about this and some A03 fics inspired me as well.

It is about the eldest daughter being parentified by her parents towards her younger siblings.

Many fics portray Danny as much closer to Jazz as she is the one who raised him since their parents are so focused on their ghostly research, and even during crucial days like holidays are filled with arguments.

There are very few where I saw Jazz feeling motherly love towards Danny, doing things only a mother would dare to do for the sake of her child.

…

Danny was originally born as Danyal Al Ghul, the lesser twin of him and his older brother, Damian Al Ghul. Danyal has the softness that no Al Ghul should have, the innocence that seems to bloom within his heart that seemed impossible to grow under the harsh desert sand and discipline within their grandfather’s rule. He tried to open up to his twin, after all, they came together, so there must be something to be linked between the two brothers.

Yet it was naive thinking of him, it had met him a deep scar on his right cheek for such an act.

He also tried to reach out to his mother, surely the woman with whom he shared a connection both blood and flesh, and the woman who had carried him and his brother within her womb instead of the artificial womb that grandfather insisted for their development for future advantage.

He received nothing but a slap and an hour under intense torture that no toddler should ever experience.

He also tried to reach out to their guard, the guard with hazed eyes. Damian had immediately lost interest in their supposed guard but he stayed. He observed the guard found little things that he quite enjoyed with the guard, the nameless guard would hold the book as if reading but now actual movement reading, so he would occasionally sit on his lap and let him read a book and read it out loud, sometimes he would see him nod along or a slight twitch of his fingers or face.

He got attached to his guard, and despite being catatonic he still had the moves of a deadly fighter so Danyal began copying him, learning from him, every time he got as much as a scrape his guard would kneel and stare at the wound as if he could stare the injury away. It made Danyal smile as he knew that his guard was trying to make it better but knew nothing of how.

Under those glazed eyes Danyal heard him speak for the first and last time. It was another day for Danyal and his guard yet when he entered his chamber he was gone, leaving Danyal to care for his heart that had been broken for another time.

Slowly but surely he made a wall around his heart, he loved so much, he loved so much yet no one stayed for him. No one gave their love and devotion back to him. So he put up walls, so that his fragile heart that had been torn into pieces by those he gave his heart to, would never further break.

It was a normal day really, a small time group of assassins that had been absorbed by the League a long time ago held loyalty to their former leader who had been executed by Ra. In an act of revenge, the remaining assassins poisoned the two heirs of the Demon head and immediately killed themselves.

As Danyal lays down on the cold floor of their private chambers with Damian already unconscious he begins to wish, from the books he manages to read with his guard he learns of a legend, wish upon a star tell no one and your wish will come true, he began to wish for his next life for someone to love him with all his heart.

…

He was reborn, the moment he blinked his eyes he noticed that had regressed into a mere baby. He was born into a family of scientists, if he can call them that, ever spent most of their time tinkering away and discussing their l; latest project. It did not bother Danyal Daniel much as he had experienced firsthand how to be compared and be ignored in favor of your much in favor of brother.

But this time it was different, instead of being left behind by the older sibling she stayed. Jasmine or Jazz as she preferred, stayed and looked after him, which confused him for a bit, being the more favored sibling both by their parents and the desolate town around them, she could left him to fend for himself, but still, she stayed.

She read so many books that reached passed her height, about parenting and how to take care of a baby. It was all new to him that he didn’t know what to do with all of the attention and love that seem to radiant from his sister to him.

He saw some of his age group civilians see how they look at their guardians and parents and how said guardians/ parents would act towards them and made a realization that he finally found the one, the one where he could lower his walls and give his entire heart to, mother? Or father? Titles that whispered inside his head. Whenever he needed help she was there, whenever he was in distress she was there to comfort her. Each time she was there, both mother and father she had filled both roles despite having the opportunity to go away and be great using her intellect and own means she stayed just for him.

He physically fumbled and tripped at what to do with the amount of love that he could ever wish to have, not only that 2 more joined in loving and caring for him. Samantha Ingrid "Sam" Manson and Tucker Foley are friends who are with him through thick and thin, even at the moment of his death they were there.

To get back to them forever loving him, he defended the town where his precious people lived.

Ellie was a surprise he sometimes wished to have a younger sibling to care for, it may started rough but both are going somewhere. Then there is his older self from the future, he saw himself if he managed to lose the most important people in his life. Dan knew both in and out the things he kept secret and every thought he made, both made a slow and shaking bond but when something clicked within them, it was there to acknowledge.

It had been perfect, Daniel Danny’s life had been, a family that loved him it was all he ever wished for. If only Maddie and Jack never did discover who he was, being cut open and witnessing how your very insides move and twitch made even the hardened soldiers faint. Jazz’s scream echoed the deep lab that coated his blood at every nook and cranny.

The moment he woke up he felt nothing but dread, he was back….

Deep within the walls of the League, a lone boy let out a silent scream to the skies.

…

Danyal woke up three days after Damian woke up, He could not get into his head, he still retained the memories of when he was Danny, some scars that only Danny ever had yet it all felt like a dream, a haze and illusion that his mind had made. From that day on he began moving through the motion, without putting any life or force in each swing, being the good little soldier that all wanted. Slowly the light in his eyes was lost and if you were to observe him from afar you’d see an asset, not a boy walking through the motions of the day.

Ra was pleased, the tool that he had seen but a dull knife was slowly sharpening itself, while both Damian and Talia remained indifferent.

…

The twins were 10 when they were sent off to their father in Gotham.

Richard “Dick” Grayson immediately took a liking to Damian as he not only saw Jason in him but also a child that needed guidance, which was cemented when they all thought that Bruce had died, it was right then that moment when Dick ensured to be the guidance that Damian needed, all while leaving Danyal.

Jason tried to be closer to the demon brat but whenever he tried to initiate some of his old habits back when he was in the League and back when his mind was still hazy he was met with a sword in his face he thought that he was shy and kept on trying to connect with said baby brother, all while leaving Danyal.

Tim is reserved and becomes guarded when Dmain threatens him and cuts off his line, he also sets up expectations towards the silent twin who seems to be a wallflower most of the time but that doesn’t deter him, so when Tim and Damian begins working on a relationship, they just didn’t see the other twin that had been left behind again.

Bruce has many regrets in his life and when his biological kids appeared he swore to be there for them, it was when he was lost in the time stream that he promised himself to be more involved in all of his kid's lives, from Dick’s job as a cop in Bludhaven to Damian’s artwork at school. He made sure that he had the time for all of them, never repeating his mistakes, yet he also left Danyal behind.

…

Constantine is sweating, as much as he rather summon another bloody demon to deal with the problem at hand, he knows that even the strongest demons he could call forth could not defeat a denizen of the Realms. He already explained to the rest of the JL that only a denizen that is either equal or greater power can defeat whomever it is making the citizens of Metropolis depressed and being murdered left and right. As he drew the summoning circle to summon the strongest that could catch this call, he just hoped it was something he or the JL could pay.

As he activated the circle, large blue flames began to surround the entire JL base that are both cold and hot. He closed his eyes shit at the sheer intensity of this being’s raw power to the point every JL member from both Dark and Maine is pushed 5 feet back at the intense power when he opened his eyes to look at what kind of being he just summoned he immediately paled to the color of paper.

There she is, in all her glory, blue flames that flow down to her back, standing 8 feet tall carrying a javelin, she wears a stunning navy blue gown that combines elegance with a militaristic edge. The sculpted shoulders, embellished with gold-embroidered epaulets, gave her a commanding presence, while the fitted bodice embraced her figure with effortless grace. A satin belt with a gold buckle tightened her waist, and the A-line skirt fell just past the knee. Subtle gold accents traced the seams, giving the clothing a regal appearance. The garment, worn with tailored slacks underneath, gave her freedom of movement evoking the authority of an empress.

He just summoned the bloody Mother of the Infinite Realms, the mother of the prince of the Infinite Realms that defeated the tyrant Pariah Dark. He immediately prostates himself alongside the rest of the JL Dark realizing whom John Constantine just summoned.

…

The rest of the JL that remained standing looked in awe and caution at the being that Constantine managed to summon, as well as the rest of the JL Dark’s behavior towards the being. All sweaty and bowing in reverence. In the most polite tone they ever heard from the con artist he asked for their assistance in containing a rouge denizen and their payment for such an endeavor.

The being looked at each of them slowly, feeling their very instincts to bow at least at the being when they felt their eyes on them and ultimately paused on Batman. She pointed her weapon at the Bat cladded hero and asked him for him as payment, not anything that Constantine was thinking but hearing his skill as a great detective their payment was for Batman to look for her treasure that she had lost and at moment she had felt the moment they stepped into this universe. Batman agreed after they had smoothed over the details of said contract. The empress, Nightigale, summoned her knight and told him to deal with their denizen and toss them back into Walker’s prison.

Looking blankly at Batman, he had no choice but to let Empress Nightingale follow him back to the cave for her to foresee the investigation of her treasure and to ensure he fulfilled his end of the deal.

…

The moment Bruce stepped inside the cave he noticed Empress Nightgale had also stopped dead in her tracks and looked intently at his youngest, Danyal, who had been training at one of the cave’s training mats. What’s more interesting is that Danyal also stopped and stared at the visitor that Bruce brought along. Just as he was about the introduce the two, he saw Danyal the ever-quiet child sprung into life and tackled the empress, while Nightgale herself had her long arms wrapped around Danyal.

Bruce saw Danyal’s eyes spring into life, tears welled up in his eyes and a pure smile stretched across his youngest face. Suddenly Bruce felt Bane had punched him again, he had never seen his youngest so happy, so full of life ever since he met him. He always thought that his youngest was independent, so quiet that he had left him with his devices, somewhere within Bruce’s mind whispered that he was too late once again.

…

News about Danyal’s sudden change of attitude had reached all of the members, even in the deep corner of space.

Dick, Jason, and Tim are now seething with rage and disappointed at themselves for the wasted time they wasted in being Danyal’s life. Who has now an older sibling that despite his menacing appearance adored and teased Dnayal in a way that erupted laughs and giggles from the boy?

Dick forgetting that they were twins, Dick kept reassuring himself that he was too busy but with each memory that he visited Danyal is always right behind them looking at them with lifeless eyes, as if he had just made a different choice back then.

Jason for forgetting his ward that had adopted when he was in the League, probably the only thing that kept him sane as the green clouded in his mind when he was dunked in the pit was the fact his little chick was within the walls and the thought that he might hurt him halted his massacre.

Tim who had now noticed the small notes scattered on his desk that were not the handwriting of anyone he knew yet the initial DW, always assumed that it was Damian who was quietly helping him in cases but the revelation that it had been Danyal made him want to turn back time. He had noticed early on that Danyal wanted to be closer to him, but pushed the boy away for expecting to be like Damian.

Damian is seething with jealousy as he notices that Danyal begins spending most of his time outside with the demon that stole his brother. He kept bringing up to his father that the being that Constantine summoned was a demon already mind-controlled Danyal. But even though he cannot stop and drink in the joyful face that Danyal has whenever he is with Nightgale, he keeps remembering the time Danyal acted this way towards him.

Talia is also seething beneath her mask of indifference how dare this thing claim to be her son’s parent? It is not she who had given birth nor she is the one who ensured they both survive, but the fact that thing gifted Danyal the head of the Joker and her father’s head after revealing to her son her own father’s plan that even she is not privy on made her want to revive her father herself and be the one to end his pathetic life, how dare his father plan that horrendous ritual behind her back.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: An inspiration bug bit me and would not let me rest until I finish this.

PPS: Got too long for my liking again.

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #danny fenton #jazz fenton

812 notes · View notes

sunseed-fandump · 4 months ago

Text

Time Travel is Kind of Messed Up, Actually…

Short Bad Batch AU one-shot featuring Wild Strawberry Cookie. Word Count: 1,920

When Wild Strawberry was first spat out into this timeline, her only concern was to lie low. The TBD no doubt would be attempting to track down all the members of Twizzly Gummy’s crew. Even with the group officially disbanded, there was no way the TBD would just let them go. No, they’d broken whatever nonsensical laws those cookies had decided to impose on the natural chaos of the timelines, and now Twizzly Gummy and the rest of her crew had to pay, Wild Strawberry included.

So she kept her head down, stayed quiet, and stayed out of trouble. (For the most part. After all, a girl’s gotta eat, and she was low on funds as is. So a few vendors would find their stock a bit smaller than they last remembered it being.) Unlike the other members of Twizzly’s crew, Wild Strawberry Cookie had something the others distinctly lacked: patience. And it was this skill she used in spades as she scoped out any and all information she could gather about the timeline she’d found herself stranded in.

The good news, there didn’t seem to be any indication of a TBD agent asking around about weird cookies and rifts. The bad news, Wild Strawberry Cookie had found herself in a castle owned by a Witch whom all the castle residents feared.

Kind of okay news, she had found a couple of cookies to help her get the hell out of there.

She wasn’t quite sure what to think of the pair at first. A wizard mad with power and a zombie hellbent on revenge. She kind of recognized their faces from her time-hopping adventures, but these two were distinctly… different than the iterations she had only caught glimpses of. They were missing something, but what?

It wasn’t until much later, when they had gotten a bit closer as a unit, did Wild Strawberry realize what it was they were missing.

Her. Or, at least, this timeline’s version of her. In all the other timelines she had seen them in, one of her counterparts seemed to be nearby. It was like the three of them were destined to at least meet each other in some way or another, even if they didn’t wind up traveling together.

The night Wild Strawberry came to realize this, anxiety churned in her gut. After all, if there were two instances of the same cookie running around in one timeline, then that would absolutely come up on the TBD’s radar.

And yet… There was a distinct lack of agents knocking on her door and ripping her away from her new friends cohorts and the life they had begun to make for themselves.

The implications left her unnerved and distracted. The idea that she might be nothing more than a replacement made anger boil in her dough.

So she did what she always did when she started feeling wound up; she took her frustrations out in the training room. It was the middle of the night, she couldn’t sleep, so she hauled her ass out of bed, set up a punch bag, and started going to town on it.

With every solid ‘fwak!’ of her fist the more angry she got.

Because it wasn’t fair.

‘Fwak!’

It wasn’t fair that the TBD could decide to rip her away from everything simply because she didn’t belong here.

‘Fwak!’

It wasn’t fair that she was already dealing with an insecurity of being a fake cookie due to having artificial ingredients, and now she has to deal with the insecurity of not even being this timeline’s real Strawberry.

‘BANG!’

Wild Strawberry jumped a bit as the punching bag went flying across the room and hit the far wall, the sand inside spilled everywhere. Oh. She broke it. Whoops…

The girl experimentally opened and closed her fists, only just now realizing how sore they felt. She guessed she was a lot more zoned out than she thought, she hadn’t felt anything. With a resigned sigh knowing she was probably going to have to clean that up later, but not wanting to do it right away, Wild Strawberry turned to go fetch another punching bag.

Only to pause when she noticed someone over by the door.

“Can’t sleep?” Gingerbrave called over from where he was leaning against the wall.

“... No.” Wild Strawberry forced herself to look away and head over to the closet where the spare equipment was kept. After she hauled the oversized punching bag over to the ceiling hook and set it up, she got ready to start venting her frustrations yet again.

But as she wound up for her first punch, she stopped when she heard a sigh.

“Okay, Ber’, what’s wrong?” Gingerbrave asked with a deep frown on his face as he came to stand beside the punching bag. Wild Strawberry pointedly did not meet his eyes.

“Nothing.” Was her clipped reply as she threw a punch, hitting the bag with a significantly weaker ‘slap!’. Gingerbrave quirked a brow at her and let her get a few more punches in. Her form, usually perfect, was off. She was distracted. Definitely not okay.

“Then how come you’re not in your room grinding away on your games?” Gingerbrave pressed. “It’s almost midnight. You never come in here this late to train. So what gives?”

“Maybe I just wanted to switch things up for once.” Wild Strawberry growled, a much harder punch made the bag swing further on the hook.

“Or maybe you’ve decided to take out whatever’s bugging you on the gym equipment.” Gingerbrave gave her an unimpressed look. “Though, this is our last punching bag. So if you break this one, you’re gonna be out of luck.”

‘Slap! Fwak! THUD!’

“FINE!” Strawberry snapped, knowing that if she didn’t satisfy him he was just going to keep annoying her about it. She spun sharply to meet his gaze, fists clenched at her sides. “Fine, you want to know what’s been eating at me so badly? I’m not fucking real!”

Gingerbrave’s face screwed up in confusion. He looked her up and down, and then reached out a hand to poke her in the shoulder. “I dunno, you feel pretty real to me.”

“Not like THAT!” She facepalmed, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m not the real Strawberry Cookie! I was never meant to exist in this timeline! We were never supposed to have even met!”

Now the boy had at least the decency to look surprised. Of course, he and Wizard knew of her time-criminal status. She made no secret of her origins in that regard. However, this was the first he had ever heard her have a crisis about it. He had never even considered the possibility of there being two Strawberry Cookies running around.

There was a beat of silence as Gingerbrave processed what exactly it was his friend was feeling. It was long enough for Wild Strawberry’s frustration to simmer enough for her to turn back to the punching bag and start throwing hands again at a far less enthusiastic pace.

‘Thap! Fwak! Slap!’

“Okay…” Gingerbrave finally said, slowly nodding his head. “So, there are two Strawberry Cookies now, why does that bother you?”

“It doesn’t.” She bit out as she threw another punch. “I’ve seen a lot of other me’s. What’s bothering me is there isn’t two Strawberry Cookies in this timeline.”

“But you just said…” Gingerbrave scratched at some of his stitches, feeling even more confused. Every time he thought he got this weird timetravel stuff down, it just got confusing again…

“There was a Strawberry at one point, but she’s most likely long dead.” Wild Strawberry paused, once again flexing her fingers and knowing they were going to be aching like hell in the morning. “And I’m just a shoddy replacement.”

Gingerbrave literally pouted at her as if she had just said some sort of terrible insult. “Now hold on just a second, you are not shoddy! You’re like, one of the coolest cookies I know!” When Wild Strawberry rolled her eyes, the boy threw his arms out to the side. “I’m serious!”

“That’s nice and all, but doesn’t change the fact that I literally don’t belong here.” She pointed out, which made Gingerbrave laugh.

“And you think I do?! Look at me! I was made in this timeline and everyone treats me like a monster.” His expression turned into something a bit more reserved as he continued. “Who cares about who comes from where and when? The only place you belong is right here with me and Wizard.”

“But the real Strawberry–” She was cut off by Gingerbrave putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gingerbrave’s frown morphed into that cheeky shark-toothed grin she knew all too well by this point. “That Strawberry wasn’t there when Wizard and I needed help busting out of the Castle. That Strawberry doesn’t have our backs against those two-bit Heroes. That Strawberry isn’t here to help me find my head every time I lose it!” He laughed at the last part. “That was all you! So even if you weren’t born in this timeline, you’re still our Strawberry Cookie. And if those TBD losers you told us about try to come and get you, then they’ll have to get through Wizard and I first. Got it?”

She stared at him for a long moment, unfortunately her hood hid most of her expression but Gingerbrave was sure he saw her eyes widen a fraction.

The tenseness melted from her shoulders, and she looked off to the side with a small, “Have it your way.” Despite the less than stellar reaction, Gingerbrave could tell she was feeling a lot better.

“Great!” He threw an arm around her shoulders and began to steer her toward the door. “Then how’s about me and you head over to the game room and you can kick my ass in that fighting game you love to play so much! I think I’m getting better with my main!”

“Your main is literally F-Tier.” Wild Strawberry pointed out, not bothering to fight him as he dragged her out of the training room.

“But tonight he’s gonna be A!” The statement got a rare chuckle out of her, and Gingerbrave smiled in victory. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t originally a part of their timeline, she was here now and she was here when it mattered. That’s all Gingerbrave could ever ask for in a friend.

“Hey, actually…” Gingerbrave mused aloud. “Does this mean we’re friends in every timeline?”

Wild Strawberry blinked at the sudden change in topic. “...It looked like that in all the timelines I saw.”

Gingerbrave’s smile widened. “Awesome! Then, yeah, that definitely proves you belong here with us! No doubt about it!”

There was a lot of technicalities and actual facts that Gingerbrave was glossing over, but that tiny part of Strawberry’s mind that so badly yearned for the kind of life she saw her counterparts having clung to it like a lifeline. The comforting assurance that she wasn’t just a poor replacement and was instead meant to be here, fell over her like a warm blanket.

“... Gingerbrave?” She whispered softly, making the boy pause.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but she could tell he was happy.

She might not have been the “real” Strawberry Cookie, but she was Gingerbrave and Wizard’s very real friend.

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #gingerbrave #strawberry cookie #bad batch #crk fic #fic #crk fanfic

293 notes · View notes

p-seduonym · 3 months ago

Text

The Little Light That Got Lost (Part Two)

A/N: You guys your notes have sent me over the moon! I'm really glad you like this fic and will try to keep up with you guys. Now, uh, to the bad news, I think I might avoid the typically "reader" insert fic style and keep it as logs, records, and documents. Just to stay consistent. If you hate it, that's fine I probably won't try this type of style of writing again after this. OKKAYBYE--

Checkout @cheust's Ghost Caretaker AU, it's the best!

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT

Session Date: [REDACTED] Session Type: Individual Therapy Therapist: Dr. Johanna Hoffman Patient: Casey Wayne, Age 5 Location: Gotham Pediatric Clinic Recording Start Time: 4:30 PM Recording End Time: 5:30 PM

[VIDEO BEGINS]

(The camera feed opens to a warmly lit therapy room. The walls are painted pastel blue and sage green, decorated with a meadow mural. A plush rug covers the floor, and shelves stocked with fidget toys, kinetic sand, and art materials line the room. A small, child-sized table sits in the center, topped with a tiny vase of artificial flowers. Soft instrumental music plays in the background. Seated at the table is CASEY WAYNE, a small child with tightly coiled hair and striking blue eyes, their hands resting neatly in their lap. DR. JOHANNA HOFFMAN enters the frame, taking a seat across from them with an open, relaxed posture.)

DR. HOFFMAN: Hi, Casey.

CASEY: Hi, Johanna.

DR. HOFFMAN: You look happy. Did something good happen?

CASEY: [nods eagerly] Mmhmm, I’m five now!

DR. HOFFMAN: I heard! That’s very exciting. How was your birthday?

CASEY: It was fun! I got to eat cake and stay up late!

DR. HOFFMAN: Wow, that sounds fun! What flavor of cake is your favorite?

CASEY: Chocolate! It’s really yummy.

DR. HOFFMAN: That’s my favorite too.

CASEY: [gasps] Really?! Do you like the kind with sprinkles?

DR. HOFFMAN: I do! Sprinkles make everything more fun. Did your cake have sprinkles?

CASEY: [nods] Mmhmm! And a big number five candle! I got to blow it out all by myself.

DR. HOFFMAN: That’s a big deal! Did you make a wish?

CASEY: Yep! But I can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.

DR. HOFFMAN: Of course! It’s a secret wish. But I bet it’s something really special.

CASEY: [giggles] It is!

DR. HOFFMAN: I love birthdays because they’re all about celebrating you. Did you get any special presents?

CASEY: [nods excitedly] Uh-huh! Alfred gave me a tea set.

DR. HOFFMAN: A tea set?

CASEY: Yep! It’s really pretty and has flowers on it.

DR. HOFFMAN: That sounds beautiful. Do you have tea parties?

CASEY: [grins] Yeah, I had one with Yaya!

DR. HOFFMAN: I see. Does Yaya like tea?

CASEY: Yep! She taught me how to pour it! Did you know that a long time ago they used “tea bowls” instead of cups? And if you didn’t want any more, you had to put it on the little plate—

DR. HOFFMAN: The saucer?

CASEY: Yeah!

DR. HOFFMAN: You know a lot about tea parties, Casey. Did Yaya teach you all that?

CASEY: [nods] Mmhmm. It’s a real tea set, but we drank pretend tea. I said it was chocolate tea though, 'cause that’s the best!

DR. HOFFMAN: Wow, that sounds delicious. You have quite the imagination!

(CASEY giggles and leans forward in their seat.)

CASEY: Thanks!

DR. HOFFMAN: Do you think you’ll have more tea parties?

CASEY: Uh-huh! You can come too!

DR. HOFFMAN: I’d love that! I’ll make sure to dress really fancy too!

(CASEY laughs happily.)

DR. HOFFMAN: Do you think your family could come to one of your tea parties?

(CASEY suddenly falls silent. They look down at their hands, fingers fidgeting slightly.)

DR. HOFFMAN: Casey?

CASEY: [softly] I dunno.

DR. HOFFMAN: You don’t know? Why’s that?

CASEY: [shrugs] They’re busy all the time.

DR. HOFFMAN: All of them? Have you ever asked them to come to your tea party?

CASEY: I asked Daddy but he said he was busy.

DR HOFFMAN: Well, what about your siblings? I’m sure they’d like to come.

(CASEY frowns, thinking)

CASEY: I don’t want Damian to come. He’s mean.

DR. HOFFMAN: Well, it doesn’t have to be him? What about your other brothers?

(CASEY pauses to think)

CASEY: Jason’s scary.

DR. HOFFMAN: He’s scary?

CASEY: (nods) He’s angry and it scares me.

DR. HOFFMAN: Is he angry at you?

CASEY: (shrugs) I dunno.

DR. HOFFMAN: That must be really hard for you, Casey. Do you ever talk to Jason about how you feel when he's angry?

CASEY: [shakes head] No, I don’t wanna talk to him when he’s angry. He gets loud.

DR. HOFFMAN: That sounds tough. It’s hard when someone’s loud and angry. Do you know what makes him angry?

CASEY: [looks down] He’s angry about stuff. I dunno what.

DR. HOFFMAN: It’s okay if you don’t know. Sometimes people get angry about things we can’t see. Do you think it would help if you told him that his anger makes you feel scared?

CASEY: [quietly] I don’t think he’d care.

DR. HOFFMAN: Hmm. You might be right. But it’s okay to tell him how you feel, even if he doesn’t understand. You’re allowed to feel safe and not scared at home.

CASEY: [nods slowly] I guess.

DR. HOFFMAN: You know, Casey, you have a lot of courage. Not everyone can talk about their feelings like you can. And sometimes it’s okay to ask for help if someone is making you feel unsafe. Do you think you could ask someone in your family to help you talk to Jason?

CASEY: [hesitates] Maybe... like Yaya?

DR. HOFFMAN: Yaya cares about you alot. Maybe you can talk to her about how you feel with Jason?

CASEY: [pauses] I can’t…

DR. HOFFMAN: Why’s that?

CASEY: Jason doesn’t think Yaya is real. He says she’s imaginary.

DR.HOFFMAN: Like your Daddy?

CASEY: [nods and points at head] He says she is here and not real.

DR. HOFFMAN: That must be very hard for you, Casey. You know, sometimes people don’t understand what’s real for others. Yaya is real to you, and that’s what matters. But I can see how it might be confusing if others don’t see her too.

CASEY: [Frowns] No one believes me though. But she’s really nice and helps me.

DR. HOFFMAN: Sometimes, it’s hard for others to understand. But I can tell Yayais very important to you, and would want you to talk to someone about how you feel. Do you know anyone like that?

CASEY: [Shrugs] Maybe Dick. He’s nice.

DR. HOFFMAN: That’s a good choice! Have you tried asking him?

CASEY: [Shakes their head] No…

DR. HOFFMAN: Well, maybe you can ask him next time?

CASEY: [quietly] Maybe.

(Dr. Hoffman watches Casey for a moment, noticing their fingers still fidgeting with the hem of their sleeve.)

DR. HOFFMAN: You seem unsure. Is something else on your mind?

CASEY: He’s gonna be busy too.

DR. HOFFMAN: He is? How are you so sure?

CASEY: (Frustrated) Everyone’s always busy!

DR. HOFFMAN: Really? Everyone?

CASEY: (Nods) Dick is always with Daddy, Alfred’s gotta clean, Tim’s in his room, Steph and Cass don’t talk to me cause I’m little, Damian’s mean a-and–”

(Casey stammers, before stopping suddenly and lowering their gaze)

CASEY: ….and no one likes me.

(Silence. Dr. Hoffman watches as Casey shrinks slightly, their small hands gripping the edge of the table. The soft instrumental music plays faintly in the background.)

DR. HOFFMAN: Casey, why do you think no one likes you?

CASEY: … cause no one wants to be with me. Only Yaya does.

DR. HOFFMAN: [softly] Casey, I’m sure that’s not true.

CASEY: [nods] It is. Everyone is always gone. Only Yaya stays.

(Silence permeates the distance between them once again. The soft music continues to play, undisturbed.)

DR. HOFFMAN: Casey, I know it’s hard to understand right now, but I want you to know that people care about you and how you feel. Even if they’re not always around, they still want you to feel better. I know it might not feel that way now, but please trust me—you’re not alone.

(CASEY remains silent, looking at the artificial flowers in the vase.)

DR. HOFFMAN: I think that’s enough for today.

[VIDEO ENDS]

THERAPIST’S OBSERVATIONS: During the latter half of the session, there was a distinct shift in the patient's demeanor. What initially appeared to be the typical presence of an imaginary friend seemed to evolve into something more complex. Yaya may serve as a coping mechanism, a response to the neglect and lack of emotional support the patient has endured. Of particular significance was the patient's final remark, “Only Yaya stays.” This statement seems to carry deeper implications, suggesting that Casey’s emotional detachment may be rooted in more than just familial neglect. The comfort they find in Yaya, someone others dismiss as imaginary, points to a more profound and perhaps darker emotional struggle—one that might not be easily addressed through conventional therapy or rationalization.

A/N: oh boy I'm tired I wrote all of this after work so it might be rushed.

#yandere #yandere blog #yandere core #yandere batfam #ghost Caretaker au #yandere reader #platonic yandere #just let me ramble #i'm so tired #the light that got lost

231 notes · View notes

himasgod · 3 months ago

Note

hello!! i saw that requests were still up, and to seize this opportunity... may i request for diasomnia dealing with a merperson s/o? it'll just be interesting seeing them deal with fish... - 🎣 anon

Diasomnia x Mermaid/Merperson!Reader

Headcanons of what a relationship between the Diasomnia boys and a merperson would be like…

Malleus Draconia

For him, having a mermaid partner is something fascinating and unique. He's heard stories about sea creatures, but he never imagined falling in love with one.

He has no problem with the water, but the ocean isn't exactly his favorite habitat. However, for you, he'll learn to swim in the depths without difficulty.

He takes you to explore places on land you may have never seen, like ancient forests and hidden ruins.

If there's an oceanic tradition for engagement, he wants to participate in it.

He finds it adorable when you get excited about seeing rare human objects on land, but he doesn't understand why you're obsessed with forks. (REFERENCE ❗❗)

Lilia tried to explain the reference to him, but he didn't understand.

When you try to teach him how to communicate underwater with songs or ultrasounds, his voice booms so loudly it scares the fish away…

But we all know he sings very well. Thanks, masquerade event 🙏

If you choose to sleep out of the water, he'll use his magic to make sure you're hydrated and comfortable.

Lilia Vanrouge

"Oh, how interesting! It's not every day you meet someone who can breathe underwater~"

He's met merperson in the past, but each one has their own habits. He has a blast discovering yours.

Without warning, he can jump into the water to surprise you. The worst part is that, while it should be difficult for someone his size to move so quickly in the water, Lilia seems to simply defy logic…

He loves to cook for you, but his dishes aren't always suitable for sea dwellers (or anyone, really).

The first time you tried his food, you were sick for two days. Still, he remains convinced that "maybe this time it will taste good."

Sometimes he uses his magic to turn things around: if you have a tail, he'll give you legs for a day, and if he has legs, he sometimes puts on an artificial tail to swim with you.

He finds it very amusing to watch others deal with the problems of him dating someone who lives in the water. Especially Sebek.

"Did you know that mermaids used to seduce sailors in ancient times to sink their ships? I wonder if that's what you did to me~"

He's just joking, but who knows…

Silver

At first, he wasn't sure how the relationship would work, since his world and yours were so different. But that doesn't stop him from wanting to be with you.

If you sleep in the water, Silver will try to stay on the shore to keep an eye on you…

Bro fell asleep on the sand

Sometimes he wakes up in the water because the waves have swept him away. More than once, you've had to pull him out before he floats too far out.

He prefers to swim in lakes or rivers with you rather than in the open ocean. Partly because he doesn't want to lose sight of you, and partly because the salt water gets in his eyes MY POOR BOY 😭😭

He wants to learn to understand the mermaid language, but it's complicated. He hears you sing underwater and sometimes tries to imitate it, though he's not very good at it.

If you teach him how to breathe underwater with the help of a spell, he'll feel strange at first, but he'll love the experience.

Gentle underwater caresses and hugs. Since he moves slower than you in the water, you use him as a floating pillow when you need to rest <3

Sebek Zigvolt

"A MERMAID?! HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THE YOUNG MASTER HAVE A FRIENDSHIP WITH A MERMAID?!"

He doesn't really have anything against you personally… but he's having a hard time accepting it. You have a different culture and different customs, and that baffles him.

So he started watching you every way he could to make sure you didn't do anything strange with Malleus.

It takes a while to get used to it, but he eventually accepts it and becomes a very protective companion.

Bro ended up falling in love with you 💖💖

He doesn't like swimming. Or rather, he doesn't like to admit he's not very good at it. He tries really hard to keep up with you in the water, but sometimes he feels more like a dog splashing around I LOVE HIM

"I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP! I CAN SWIM PERFECTLY WELL!"

Meanwhile malleus magically floating him so he doesn't sink

He gets very excited when he learns about merperson traditions and the importance of music and song. He may not admit it at first, but he enjoys it when you sing to him ❤️‍🩹

"IF A MERPERSON IS GOING TO BE MY BELOVED, THEN I'LL GET STRONGER TO PROTECT THE SEA!"

Suddenly, he has a new personal workout: holding his breath as long as possible to patrol the water with you…

but ends up passing out.

I love him sm please protect him

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst x you #diasomnia x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia #lilia x reader #lilia vanrouge #silver x reader #silver vanrouge #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst oc #twst wonderland #t

329 notes · View notes

arctasy · 1 year ago

Text

what makes las nevadas feel so artificial, even more than the fake sand on an icy tundra, is that it inverts what a city is fundamentally supposed to be. a city is created by its people. the people must always come first ,and the city is built according to their needs. that's what made l'manberg so loved and so real, even with all its shitty dirt huts and cobblestone courthouses (affectionate). las nevadas on the other hand was created for no real individual but c!quackity. a lonely man surrounded by far too much splendor and entertainment he could need or use in a lifetime. it was built for a fantasy, for him and his dream of a nation that simply did not exist. and maybe he doomed it never to exist, because it's quite hard to live in a prop, a city that was never made for real people

#auaaghjagfhkgfhgh #does anyone get what i'm saying. i feel unwell.#dsmp #las nevadas #quackity #og post

940 notes · View notes

cheriqube · 2 months ago

Text

Fishsticks

My take on Rafayel's and MC first meeting as kids. Content: Mostly fluffy(?) Kind of angsty if you squint. Not canon compliant! Reader is AFAB, is referred to as 'girl'. No use of Y/N. 5.2K words

-------------------------<º))))><¸.·´¯·.¸¸.·´¯·.¸><((((º>---------------------------

It wouldn’t be long before Rafayel turned into a glorified fish stick. Two, maybe three hours tops? Then the ocean’s last great deity would be nothing more than a shriveled husk, stranded helplessly upon dry land like a dumb, oversized, tragically misplaced whale. No disrespect intended to whales, of course, he mused with a faint smirk, even now unable to resist a sardonic thought.

The young Lemurian’s mind churned as swiftly and chaotically as the muttered curses slipping through his parched lips. Every grain of sand felt viciously sharp, tiny shards of fiberglass embedding themselves deeper into his scales the drier they became, scraping mercilessly into his gills and fins. Definitely not his preferred exit from existence, but admittedly, there was a grim sort of poetry in it.

Pure, twisted artistry. The Last Sea God Abandoned. Rafayel could already picture it vividly: his tragedy immortalized on canvas, paraded shamelessly in some grubby human gallery, patrons sipping champagne while greedily devouring his suffering.

After what felt like two grueling hours of stubborn defiance—twenty minutes in actual, painful reality—he finally allowed himself to collapse in exhausted resignation. But hey, give him some credit; he'd made at least some pathetic inch-by-inch progress toward salvation, hadn't he? This whole melodramatic spectacle was turning into a rather embarrassing performance.

Still, despite the hopeless theatrics, there remained an irritatingly persistent spark inside him. It was a reckless whisper confidently promising he'd make it back to the sea—because he had to. At least, that's the story he desperately clung to, repeating it like a mantra even as doubt stubbornly clawed at his thoughts.

Trapped somewhere between complete despair and detached indifference, Rafayel let his head sink back into the gritty warmth of the sand, his gaze reluctantly drifting upwards toward the glaring sun. It burned like an overexposed photograph, harsh and brutal against his vision. How did humans tolerate such relentless brightness? Beneath the waves, sunlight danced softly, fractured into glittering patterns, gently cascading through the currents in a mesmerizing ballet.

It painted everything in hues of liquid gold and shifting sapphire; a sight infinitely more enchanting than this merciless blaze. He much preferred that tranquil beauty to this cruel, blazing spotlight. Especially now, as he lay helpless beneath it, slowly roasting alive.

For the first time, Rafayel actually paused to take in his surroundings. Up until now, he’d been too consumed with the singular, burning need to get back to the ocean to bother looking around. But now, stranded and marinating in his own bad decisions, the reality set in—this beach was far too close to Linkon, a sprawling human city that hummed with noise and metal and artificial light.

His guardian had warned him, of course. Don’t get too close to the surface. Stay clear of the cities. They’ll ruin you. But did he listen? Naturally not. He was a god, after all. Listening to others felt… beneath him. Why take orders from subordinates when you’re supposed to be the one giving them?

Still, as he lay half-buried in the sand, salty skin cracking under the sun, he couldn’t help but admit, just this once, maybe his judgment hadn’t been so divine after all.

Rubble and discarded remnants of human life choked the shoreline, a grim demonstration of the tsunami’s wrath. Shattered wood, twisted metal, and forgotten plastic clung to the coast like scars, making each step a gamble. The sea churned a venomous gray, seething with fury, and the sand had turned the color of ash. Dark, heavy, solemn.

Rafayel could still feel the weight of the tsunami’s rage, echoing in the waves and soaked into the earth itself. Its sorrow hadn’t just passed through; it had seeped in, stained everything it touched. In a way, he understood it. Sometimes, he felt like that too. Wild and wounded, desperate to be heard.

Jagged rocks jutted from the water like ancient blades, defiant and raw, while scattered boulders created a fractured path that led nowhere but the deep, open sea. It was tragic, chaotic… and yet, there was beauty in its ruin. A haunting kind of beauty. The kind that made you stop and stare, even if it hurt.

With a deep breath, Rafayel finally let his eyes flutter shut, arms stretched wide across the sand like he was offering himself to the sun. Maybe, for the first and last time, he’d get a tan. Or maybe he’d just combust into ash like an overcooked scallop. Honestly? He had no clue. But now seemed like the perfect time to find out.

Just as the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, the oppressive heat of the sun suddenly faded. A reprieve? A benevolent cloud, perhaps, drifting in with divine timing, moved by the tragic sight of a young, too-beautiful-to-die sea god wilting under its gaze?

Curious, he cracked open one eye, half-expecting to see a majestic puff of white mercy above him. Instead, he was greeted by a small, wide-eyed human child peering down at him like he was some exotic beachside cryptid. He gasped—you gasped—then thunk!

In a flurry of startled motion, he sat bolt upright and slammed his forehead directly into yours. Both of you recoiled, groaning and clutching your heads in synchronized agony, as if the universe had decided you needed to suffer together.

You let out a dramatic “owwwww” as you stumbled back a few clumsy steps, clutching your forehead like it had been personally betrayed.

Rafayel snickered, wincing as he rubbed the sore spot between his eyes. “What was that for?!”

You blinked at him, still dazed, and jabbed a finger in his direction like a tiny, furious judge. “W–what? You hit me!”

The two of you stood there, frozen in mutual indignation and confusion, both flustered and vaguely starstruck. Rafayel had never seen a human child up close, his only references were the blurry surface images drifting through currents and warnings from his guardians.

And you? You’d certainly never come face-to-face with a mermaid—or, well, whatever he was. A mermaid boy? Mer-kid? Mer–child? You weren’t exactly sure what to call him. Up until about fifteen seconds ago, they were nothing more than bedtime stories and glittery cartoon nonsense.

But here he was. Breathing. Blinking. Possibly sunburnt. And very, very real.

You were the first to break the silence. “Are you… really a mermaid? Or is that, like… a costume or something?” Your gaze drifted down, wide-eyed, to the tail sprawled out behind him—an iridescent masterpiece of blues, greens, and glimmers of violet that shifted with the light like living stained glass.

Rafayel’s expression soured instantly. Offended. Deeply. The kind of offended only a divine being could muster. Being gawked at by a human was bad enough, but to be questioned like some beachside street performer in glitter and spandex? Unforgivable.

“I’m a mer-MAN, actually,” he snapped, his voice sharp with wounded pride. He crossed his arms in an exaggerated huff, the pout on his face somehow both regal and childish. “And no, it’s not a costume. What kind of ridiculous question is that?”

Then, with a theatrical flick of his tail that sent a spray of sand in your direction, he added, “Not that it matters. You need to get out of here. Before I make you leave.” It was a bluff, of course. An empty threat dressed in bravado, tossed out in hopes you’d take the hint and scurry off without getting curious. He wasn’t exactly in the best shape to be intimidating… but he could still pretend.

Not that Rafayel expected much from a human child. Especially not one that had the nerve to poke at him like some beached curiosity. His voice remained cold, edged with disdain. He didn’t trust humans. Didn’t like them. Didn’t want anything to do with their noisy, stinky, chaos-loving ways—

“I think your scales are beautiful.”

The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, completely bypassing his scowl and the thinly-veiled threat. You weren’t listening to his attitude… you were looking.

His scales had caught you in a spell. No, he had. You’d never seen anything like him before. He shimmered like the ocean trapped in a prism, a living tidepool of blues and greens, glinting purples and silvers, every movement catching the sun like a whispered secret. He reminded you of the fish you’d stared at through thick aquarium glass, or seen flicker across TV screens and glossy textbook pages.

He was a storm In starlight. A rainbow with teeth. A myth dragged straight out of the sea and dropped into your world.

The sudden shift left you uneasy, a quiet tension blooming in the spaces between heartbeats. Had you said something wrong? Surely, it was just a compliment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Rafayel was utterly disarmed, the bravado he'd worn like armor crumbling in an instant, replaced swiftly by a charmingly flustered vulnerability. Heat surged to his cheeks, blooming into a deep scarlet that stood out vividly against his normally composed demeanor. His mouth fell open slightly, poised to retort with some witty comeback or playful threat, but nothing came forth except a choked silence.

Anxiously, you shifted your weight from one bare foot to the other, relishing the comforting scratch of the warm sand beneath your toes. It was something to ground you amidst the awkwardness of the moment.

“You-you don’t even realize what you're saying,” Rafayel stammered, each word tumbling clumsily over the next as embarrassment overtook him completely. “Where I come from, if someone says they like your scales, it-it means something entirely different. It means that you genuinely... like them!” His voice trailed off into an awkward murmur, thick with confusion yet woven through with threads of cautious curiosity. His eyebrows knitted tightly, reflecting the storm of intrigue and bewilderment swirling within.

“Okay, so maybe I do like you,” you admitted casually, watching carefully for his reaction. “What d’ya have to say about that?”

A mischievous hum escaped your lips as you brought the sleeve of Caleb's oversized sweatshirt thoughtfully up to your chin, the soft fabric comforting and familiar. With exaggerated deliberation, you pretended to consider Rafayel's words, eyes sparkling with playful amusement at his evident discomfort.

The words achieved exactly what you'd intended. Rafayel froze completely, eyes widening in startled disbelief. Truthfully, there was sincerity beneath your playful facade; why shouldn't you like him? Rafayel was charming in an unconventional way, a bit sassy perhaps, but fascinatingly mysterious. Plus, he was literally a mermaid! That alone elevated him beyond ordinary.

Rafayel opened his mouth, then closed it again quickly, abandoning any attempt at speech as if words had suddenly vanished from his reach. His pulse thundered wildly in his chest, each heartbeat resonating loudly enough to drown out the quiet crash of the waves. It felt as if every nerve within him buzzed simultaneously, shaken and uncertain. He couldn't grasp why he was so deeply affected by you… your voice, your laughter, even your playful teasing. Why, despite your obvious humanity, did you feel so strangely familiar?

“You look like you could use some help,” you pointed out brightly, gesturing once again toward his glittering tail, partially submerged in the sandy shore, surrounded by disturbed grains that marked his fruitless attempts at escape. Pointing, it seemed, was rapidly becoming your new favorite pastime.

“No, no, no! Absolutely not—I don’t need your help—” Rafayel protested emphatically, his voice edging on frantic despite the stubborn set of his jaw.

Confidently, you stepped closer, moving gently but determinedly over the sand. Rafayel immediately released a startled, almost desperate yelp, freezing you mid-step. You paused, eyes flicking upward to his face, cautious curiosity mixing with genuine concern at his apparent distress.

“Yes, you do!” you chirped back defiantly, inching toward him without hesitation.

“No!” he insisted, backing away as much as he could in his stranded state. Yet despite the melodrama, Rafayel made no real attempt to repel you. “If you so much as lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll curse you—I know how! I'll cast curses that—”

But whatever wild threat he'd intended evaporated abruptly into the evening air as your warm, determined fingers clasped tightly around his trembling hands. Rafayel instantly fell silent, his eyes glassy and distant, lost somewhere far beyond the moment. It was as though your touch triggered a spell of its own, placing him in a delicate trance.

“I can’t carry you,” you sighed dramatically, bracing your feet against the soft, shifting sand. You tugged at the stubborn mermaid with every ounce of strength your small limbs could muster, gritting your teeth against the effort. “Ugh, you’re so heavy!”

The accusation snapped Rafayel instantly from his reverie, and a scowl replaced the bewildered expression that had softened his features only moments ago.

“Heavy?” he spluttered indignantly, his voice pitched with scandalized outrage. “Did you really just call me heavy? First, I never asked for your help, and now you’re implying I'm big—”

“Well…” you mused mischievously, dropping him suddenly and stepping back to dust off your hands in exaggerated indifference. The mer-child toppled onto the sand with an unceremonious thud, limbs sprawled and hair wild as he landed gracelessly like a sack of potatoes. “You're right, I don’t have to help you. Maybe I'll just say bye.”

“Wait-wait a minute! You're seriously going to abandon me here?!” Rafayel called after you, disbelief crackling sharply in his voice as you purposefully trudged away, your back facing him. Each step was slow, exaggerated, crafted purely for dramatic impact.

Rafayel’s eyes widened comically, panic surging through him as he scrambled upright. The water was so tantalizingly close—just a few agonizing feet away—he could practically feel the gentle lap of the waves beckoning him home.

“Yep,” you drawled lightly, enjoying the theatrics of your exit, until a quiet sniffle reached your ears, stopping you in your tracks. A small pang of guilt squeezed your heart, compelling you to whirl around anxiously.

Your eyes widened in instant remorse as you caught sight of Rafayel, now dramatically collapsed onto the sand, his face buried deep within his hands. His body shook gently, as though he were some tragic royal mourning a lost love on a theater stage. The effect was immediate—you fell entirely into his trap, your resolve shattered.

“Oh—no, no! I-I'm sorry! I was just joking!” You rushed back over, sliding onto your knees beside the crestfallen mer-child, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on his trembling back. Your heart twisted uneasily at the spectacle you'd inadvertently caused.

“You… you really would've left me here to die,” Rafayel whimpered softly, voice dramatically thick, muffled behind his crossed arms. “How cruel can one human be? I'm the last of my kind, you know!”

“I’m really, really sorry, okay? Let’s just… start over.” Your voice softened as you crouched beside him, offering the olive branch with a small, sheepish smile. You told him your name, letting it hang in the air between you like a peace offering.

The sorrowful quiver in his voice stabbed sharply at your chest, twisting into a deep ache. A hot flush rose to your cheeks as guilt churned anxiously in your stomach. You dropped your gaze to your restless hands, twisting nervously against each other in your lap. It was only supposed to be a playful joke, yet somehow, you’d managed to upset him anyway, and that realization was unbearably uncomfortable.

Rafayel stayed quiet for a moment. Then, as if sampling something foreign and sweet, he whispered your name back to you. Slowly, deliberately, rolling it around his mouth like it meant something sacred. The way he said it sent a strange warmth skittering up your neck and into your cheeks, leaving you flustered for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down.

After a pause, he finally lifted his head. His face was suspiciously dry, not a single tear in sight.

“My name is Rafayel,” he declared, trying for regal but landing somewhere between smug and bashful. “From Lemuria.”

He stopped there, deliberately omitting The Last Sea God. No need to add that complication. Humans had a habit of getting grabby when divine titles were involved.

“Rafayel,” you repeated, grinning. “What a pretty name!”

That did it. With an audible groan, he buried his face in his arms again, but not before you caught the flash of crimson coloring his cheeks. Compliments weren’t rare for him—he was objectively, irritatingly beautiful—but when they came from you, they somehow bypassed all his practiced indifference. And he hated that.

“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “So… are you gonna help me now?”

With a laugh bubbling from your lips, you reached out and gently took hold of one of his arms, then the other, tugging him carefully toward the waterline. He didn’t resist, just grumbled theatrically under his breath as you resumed the awkward task of dragging a slippery sea god across the sand like a misbehaving seal.

The foamy edge of the tide met your feet with a sharp, icy kiss, and you inhaled through your teeth. The contrast between the sun-warmed sand and the cold embrace of the ocean made you shiver, but you pressed forward, wading deeper until the water licked at your thighs, your legs stinging with each step.

“A little further, please,” Rafayel requested softly, his voice unusually gentle, and since he asked so sweetly, how could you refuse?

“Okay,” you said, glancing down at him with a mixture of triumph and exhaustion. “You should be able to swim from here, right?”

Moving him grew easier as the ocean buoyed his weight, gently lifting him from your aching grasp. Soon, the cool seawater rose to your collarbones, forcing you to balance precariously on the tips of your toes. Caleb was definitely going to murder you for returning his favorite sweatshirt soaked with salt and smelling like seaweed, but you knew his anger would melt into fond annoyance within minutes. It always did.

Finally, Rafayel managed to gracefully slip from your hold, freeing himself effortlessly. He turned to face you, his silvery tail shimmering beneath the gentle afternoon sunlight, the ocean rippling around him like satin.

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, avoiding your eyes with sudden shyness, his gaze cast downward toward the glittering reflection dancing atop the waves. He reminded you of someone who longed to stare into the sun—captivated yet unable to bear the brilliance.

His voice softened to something vulnerable, almost pleading. “You can’t tell anyone you saw me, okay? Promise?”

Shivering slightly, your teeth chattering uncontrollably, you nodded vigorously. You wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone—not a single soul. Your heart held the secret safely tucked away.

“You…you really should get out of the water,” Rafayel noted with gentle concern, noticing your trembling. “It doesn’t look like it’s good for you.”

“N-no, I’m okay,” you protested, stubbornness coloring your tone. “I want to stay in… just a little longer.” The truth was simpler, quieter: you didn’t want to leave him yet. You craved the strange warmth of his presence, curious about his story, his home, most importantly, about him. You secretly wished you could see him every day, even knowing how impossible such a dream was. Still, you clung tightly to that tiny speck of hope, refusing to let it slip through your fingers. “I… I like swimming. Really.”

The Lemurian giggled at your insistence, the sound light and silvery like wind dancing over water. Then, with surprising tenderness, he lifted his hands and placed them gently on your shoulders. “This might help,” he murmured, almost bashfully.

The ocean around you had stilled, waves brushing gently past your body like silk ribbons, serene and infinitely tender. The waters felt alive, quietly rejoicing at Rafayel’s safe return home. And somewhere deep within, hidden beneath layers of conscious thought, you understood their gratitude, their happiness. It was a quiet celebration whispered in currents and tides.

From his palms radiated a soft, pulsing warmth that seeped deep into your skin, chasing away the tremble in your bones. The cold retreated like a shadow at sunrise, leaving behind a glowing calm that settled in your chest. For a heartbeat, you questioned everything. Was this real? Were you actually in the ocean, being magically warmed by a mythical sea boy with glowy hands? If it wasn’t real, you didn’t want to wake up.

He didn’t move his hands, and part of you was certain that if he let go, the chill would come crashing back in full force—icy, bitter, and deeply unwelcome.

You floated together in silence, not speaking, not quite looking at each other, but acutely aware. The kind of silence that felt full instead of empty. Like something important was being said without words.

Then Rafayel finally broke the stillness, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the sea. “Did you mean it?”

You glanced up, surprised by the tremble in his tone. His eyes met yours—vibrant violet-blues that shimmered with something distant, almost ancient. There was a strange familiarity in them, like he was seeing something in you that even you hadn’t yet discovered. His expression was gentle, searching. A softness poured from him that felt vital, but strange, like a melody you didn’t know the lyrics to.

“Mean what?” you asked, your voice quieter now too, respectful of the moment.

“That you liked me,” he said again, more deliberately this time, and his face flushed pink, rosy with nervous hope. He looked like he needed the answer—not just wanted it, but needed it. Even if your version of liking wasn’t quite the fairytale romance he might’ve been imagining.

“Of course I did,” you replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Rafayel’s breath caught in his throat. He nearly pulled away, hands twitching upward as if he might bury them in his hair in disbelief, but stopped himself just in time. His face suddenly shifted, a serious look overtaking his features—well, as serious as a sea child with a flushed face and sparkly eyes could manage.

Your eyes went cartoonishly wide the moment the words left his mouth, like someone had just proposed marriage in the middle of a math test. Then came the laughter: bright, genuine, and unstoppable. You laughed so hard your sides ached, until you caught the way Rafayel’s expression shifted from confident to confused, and then to downright devastated.

“We should get married,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it were the natural next step.

“Wait—wait, you’re for real?” you gasped, stifling your giggles as guilt crept in. “I’m only nine! And you don’t look much older than me either!”

He blinked, long and slow, as though your words were puzzling and distant, as though the concept of age was a tiny detail he'd forgotten to care about. “Well... you could just come back with me to Lemuria,” he said earnestly, like he was solving a simple puzzle. “We’ll get married in fifty years. Is that better?”

Clearly, Rafayel had no idea how human lifespans worked, or how short they were in comparison to… whatever he was.

You giggled again, but this time it was softer, laced with warmth, and you offered an immediate apology, sensing how tightly wound he’d suddenly become. “I can’t just leave, Rafayel. I’ve got someone really important to me here. I can’t abandon him. Caleb needs me.”

You saw it then—the way his face faltered, the way his grip on your shoulders tightened ever so slightly. Maybe wasn’t the word he wanted to hear.

“But maybe…” you added gently, “maybe one day I’ll run away with you.”

Maybe?

The word echoed in Rafayel’s mind like a crack through crystal. His lips formed a pout, but there was a storm behind his eyes. Who was this mysterious someone you couldn't leave behind? What kind of human could possibly be more important than the thread of fate Rafayel felt between the two of you? The thought gnawed at him—uninvited, irrational, and too loud to ignore.

“Next year,” Rafayel said, his voice steady with conviction, “let’s meet on this same day, at the same time. And every year after that… until you’re ready to marry me. I’ll chase you until I find you again if you don’t return to me.”

It wasn’t fair, he told himself. You were just a human girl, someone he’d only just met. And yet, deep in the marrow of his being, in the secret place where memory blurs into myth, Rafayel was certain he knew you. Not in this life, perhaps, but in another. A thousand tides ago. A thousand names ago. He knew you, and he had already chosen you. And you him.

He said it like a vow, carved into the ocean air, a promise wrapped in tides and time. Beneath his calm exterior, though, was an ache too vast for his small frame to carry. So much hurt pressed against his heart, fractured and layered like coral reef. But none of that mattered. Not now. Not when he looked at you and saw something he couldn’t explain—something that felt right. Even if it wasn’t today, or tomorrow, or ten years from now… he would wait. As long as it took.

And now it was your turn to blush. Your face lit up like the sun had turned its gaze directly on you. How could someone you’d only known for thirty minutes speak with such unwavering devotion? It was terrifying. And beautiful. And weirdly… comforting.

Without thinking, your hands floated up to his cheeks, cupping them with the gentlest reverence, like he was something fragile and rare. The gesture felt achingly familiar, like you’d done it a thousand times in a hundred forgotten lifetimes. Rafayel didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He simply leaned into your touch, eyes flickering with quiet awe.

“I promise,” you whispered. “But—”

Your voice faltered the moment your name rang out over the waves, sharp and urgent. You whipped your head toward the sound, panic rising like a wave inside you. Caleb.

You weren’t supposed to be out here. Not this far. Not alone.

The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, its final light spilling across the sea in ribbons of gold and rose. It caught in Rafayel’s eyes, turning them into twin galaxies—deep, endless, impossible to look away from.

He was glowing. Or maybe the sea was. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Your name came again, closer this time, slicing through the magic like a knife.

You had to go.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.” Your voice trembled with regret, fragile as seafoam. It wasn’t your fault—none of this was your fault—and yet the apology hung heavy in the air, like a promise you wished you didn’t have to make.

Now.

“Next year, okay?” you added softly. “Same day. Same time. And every year after that.”

You tried to smile, but it barely reached your eyes. It was a ghost of joy, hollowed out by the ache in your chest. You didn’t want to leave any more than Rafayel wanted to let you go. His hands stayed firmly planted on your shoulders, as if by sheer will alone, he could keep you anchored there forever. The sea murmured around you, reluctant to give you up.

Only when you quietly whispered his name did his grip falter. His fingers slid from your shoulders like seaweed slipping through the tide, falling back to his sides with quiet defeat.

“I’ll see you again,” you muttered, the words catching in your throat like sand in the wind.

You both lifted a hand in parting. Then, with one last look, you turned and began waddling out of the water, the hem of your soaked clothes heavy and dragging. Rafayel stayed where he was, motionless, then ducked behind a jagged rock, the coral-slick surface cool against his skin. He needed to see it. Needed to see who was taking you from him this time?

A boy. Slightly older than Rafayel, but not by much. Dark hair, sharp gaze, and wearing a thin white patient’s gown and matching sweats that fluttered in the salty breeze.

Then he noticed you were wearing the same thing—only yours was half-hidden beneath a dark cotton sweatshirt. Your feet were bare, and bandages wrapped your right hand and neck like the sea had tried to take pieces of you with it. A pang of unease twisted in Rafayel’s chest.

Is this… what all humans wear? he wondered. Are you sick? Hurt? Trapped?

He didn’t know. And that frightened him more than anything.

“You’re lucky I found you before they did,” the boy said abruptly, grabbing your soaked arm and pulling you against him protectively. “What were you thinking, coming all the way out here?”

Caleb. Rafayel heard the name in your voice earlier, soaked in affection.

“I’m sorry… I just wanted to swim…” you murmured, voice barely more than a ripple in the wind. You looked down at your feet as you walked, salt still clinging to your skin, hair dripping a steady rhythm onto the ground. You truly sounded ashamed, like a child who’d broken something delicate. But you hadn’t said a word about Rafayel. You’d kept your promise.

Wherever it was you stayed, wherever you were being taken back to, it needed you to return. Urgently.

The older boy sighed, not with irritation, but with weariness softened by care. “Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I just need to make sure you’re safe.”

His voice trailed off as the two of you disappeared down the beach, toward the dock bathed in the last golden blush of sunset. Maybe back to the city. Maybe to somewhere secret, tucked away from the world.

For a long time, Rafayel didn’t move. The sea lapped at his tail, beckoning him home, but he stayed crouched behind the stone, eyes fixed on the path you’d vanished down. Only when the beach was swallowed by dusk did he finally slip beneath the waves and return to the deep blue—where a very angry guardian awaited.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t know who that boy was. He didn’t know where they were keeping you, or why you wore such strange clothing. But he would find out. He had to. Because you were living in his head now, like a melody half-remembered, a face from a dream. He couldn’t stop thinking about you—about the bizarre certainty that he’d known you before, long before this life.

He would tell you next time. He would tell you everything.

About Lemuria, about the sea that sings his name. About how he’s a god—the last sea god. About all the lifetimes you’d met before. About how, century after century, you always found each other, and always fell in love.

But that’s how a child thinks. That stories are spells. That if he tells you, really tells you, you’ll remember too. That your eyes will light up and your arms will open, and you’ll come back to him forever.

Because you promised.

Next year.

Same day. Same time.

And every year after that.

#lads #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #qi yu love and deepspace #qi yu x reader #fluff and slight angst #i love the lore and story of lads so much #idk if im using the term fluff right LOL #the fishes look weird bc i made this on my laptop #on mobile it looks off

102 notes · View notes