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cythena · 6 months

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‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ CLOSER

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ " i just can't leave you alone "

synopsis . . . choso is so infatuated with the shy girl from his forensics class. his hobbies outside of school make it so easy to get to know more about her but he just wants to get closer to her.

warnings . . . college au, ghostface!choso, reader is very sick in the head, dubcon, dark content, reader has longish hair but the texture can be in whatever way you want, breeding, slapping, hair pulling, bdsm (not with reader), choking, breaking n entering, stalking, porn, choso is a huge creep, voyeurism

notes . . . 2.7k words, 10 minute read, a little longer than usual. this is not not sum light but iykyk. so proceed with caution if you're concerned.

his eyes are attached to every movement you make. it could be anything. you clicked your pen, your head slightly tilting to the left, your sigh after glancing at the clock. he noticed it all. he loved it. it was the way he passed his time at 10 in the morning. unfortunately, this was the only avaliable time for this class but fortunately for choso, it was the same time you picked.

you were a dream; pouty lips and doe eyes fit your soft face. then he could drag his eyes down to your chest, admire your waist, and fantasize about your hips. he had an hour of time with you, albeit a table away from you, but still. for an hour, he memorized every feature he could to save later for his sketchbook.

he would arrive early just to see you walk in, and sometimes you would walk past his seat. on those days, he would catch a whiff of your delicate perfume. it was sweet vanilla, soft. you'd think it would fit you. you looked very sweet, with your hair styled with bows and a large collection of skirts. your voice rose in pitch whenever your existence was acknowledged by others.

but choso's seen you. he's really seen you — in such a raw state that no one had the faintest clue about it. you're very forgetful, leaving your curtains open like you wanted him to watch. you were such a tease. your room was true to your aesthetic. he watched you open up your sanrio decorated laptop and settle into your lush bed. from his angle, he could see the screen with you.

you leaned against your pillows as your fingertips moved naturally to a website. the sight excited him to the core and he started spinning his various rings around his fingers. he wasn't dumb, he knew you would get lonely. but he wasn't sure what site you were on. nevertheless, he was so interested in what softcore video caught your eye. you weren't into the dirty stuff. you liked it clean, amateur for sure.

to his surprise, your video was nothing of the sort. a masked man pulled on the bare girl's chain. her skin was red and dripping. a grin spread across her lips as the huge man slapped his cock on her face. your hand was already between your legs. your pajama top had the first few buttons popped open while your other hand palmed your tit.

choso's cock hardened at the view. your lips parted as you played with yourself. he was eager to join you, but he stopped himself — forced himself to burn the moment into his memory. the priceless sight needed to stay with him forever.

the woman and the video was tossed onto the bed. the camera propped in front of her face but a majority of the man was visible. his upper body towered over her as a large hand left bright marks onto her ass. her face contorted in pleasure. choso wondered how your face really looked now. he wanted to hear your sounds.

your thighs clenched together around your hand. your shoulders caved in and your entire body shook. choso's breath quickened. the man in the video wrapped his hand around her neck. he yanked her against his chest while keeping her pinned by the waist.

you quickly pressed a hand over your mouth while your eyes shut. chills racked through choso's spine. he wasn't sure he blinked until you were settled in your bed again and your laptop was shut. his hand clutched the neck of his shirt, now feeling warmer than before.

he took a moment to gather himself. his legs felt like jelly. he sank down to the grass outside your window but stared at your windowsill. the small window of light shining on the grass suddenly snapped off. you finally shut the curtains and he knew it was time to go. standing up, he felt an odd warm feeling in his pants.

looking down, he could barely see the faint glistening on his dark pants.

"fuck..."

that was months ago. over time, he's felt closer to you. you've shared so many intimate moments together, unknowingly. in his mind, you've consummated your love on numerous occasions. but it still wasn't enough. he wanted to really touch you.

he wanted to kiss you and caress your hips. in the same thought, he imagined his knuckles rubbing against your scalp as he pulled your hair back. he knew you would love that. your dirty searches told him many secrets. they helped him collect so much information about you.

there were a few attributes those videos shared. they were nasty, dirty, spit and cum covered those girls entirely. those girls were treated like a personal pets to serve those men. but the one that was in every single video, no matter the genre...those men were always masked.

even the nights you decided to take a softer route, the man's identity was unknown. it seemed you had a strong taste for the mystery. he's never seen you take a second glance at any video with a man's face.

he was so proud to know this about you. he watched you walk past him every day and all he could think about was how you would feel if he was the man and you were his to use. you'd be a toy he could never get tired of. he's felt a cord attach the two of you ever since. it was made of the secrets you shared.

the videos started getting more intense, more bloody and brutal, and your orgasms became harsher. this video had the man forcing himself into the unsuspecting girl's room. the man covered her mouth to stop what choso assumed were her loud moans.

choso watched your heaving chest. you're such a sick freak, he thought but he wondered...if watching it made you cum so hard, then would experiencing it be even better? an unknown and unexpected man having his way with you. he cock ached with the desire to climb through your window and test your theory.

you were much earlier today, choso had barely arrived and settled in to wait for you when you walked in. he was sliding his rings on his fingers again when he heard your footsteps. you looked so adorable. you wore a white tank top with a cute bow decorating your cleavage and a brown skirt. you were so effortlessly pretty in his eyes.

your perfume was different today too. you must've run out of your vanilla pearl. he loved the scent so much he went a bought a bottle to remind him of you. he'd spray it on his shirts every night. this new scent was fresh, floral. it was so light and refreshing. the charming mixture of flowers was irresistible. it lingered around him.

"excuse me, choso, would it be alright if i moved to sit with you? i'm sorry, i just wanted to see better."

you nervously tugged on the strap of your bag. your index and thumb toyed with the cat pin on it. the smile forced itself onto his face. he hoped it wasn't scaring you. there was no stopping the joy of hearing you say his name.

"yeah, that's alright." he even pulled the chair out for you to sit with him. the table had enough space for the both of you yet he scooted it a little closer to his side.

minutes of silence passed. choso had decided to entertain himself with your his sketchbook. it was his but the only thing he could bring himself to draw was you. it didn't look like that at first glance but it was you. he could draw you from his pure memory. there was you sleeping, playing in makeup, changing. one of you sitting in class caught your eye. you admired the faceless drawing.

"you're really good."

choso stopped, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. he even tried to cover some of the drawing with his palm. he could see part of your smile from the corner of his eye.

"thank you...do you wanna see more?" he offered, feeling his nerves tingling.

now you scooted closer to him. your shoulder pressed against his now. he slid the sketchbook over to the middle of you. his mind wandered and he could no longer completely focus on giving you a tour of his drawings — not when your tits were so close to him. he could ever see a little of your bra peeking out in a gap.

your nail ended up pointing to the one of you changing shirts. it was the one time you faced the window. he remembered you didn't even bother to put on a shirt again that night.

"this is the same girl, isn't it? why don't you draw her face?" you asked.

"she's too pretty, i'd never be able to do her justice."

your eyes widened, for a second you wished he was saying it about you. still, it was romantic. oh. it also meant choso had a girlfriend.

"she must be beautiful then."

you were so clueless to his affections if one could even call them that. you stared at him with what looked like stars in your eyes. he couldn't bring himself to look any further. instead, he pulled the sketchbook closer to himself and smiled at your portraits.

"incredibly."

every time choso set up outside of your bedroom window was more exhilarating than the last. it was his favorite part of the evening. it was your time together. tonight he would be doing you a favor. he felt significantly better about it knowing you'd appreciate it. he knew you better than anyone and tonight he'd proof it.

he wanted to get to you before you were ready for bed. you were in the shower for twenty minutes so when you grabbed your towel and left the room, he pushed open the window. he was careful not to dirty your clean floor as he tiptoed towards your door. he stood and waited for the water to stop running.

choso's heart raced, blood and adrenaline pumping a thousand times faster. his fingers twitched at the touch of sinking into your flesh, especially the clean skin after your shower. he ran his fingers over the textured metal and pressed against them. he was finally going to make you his even if you didn't know it was him.

time couldn't have gone by any faster. the water shut off and within minutes your footsteps came padding down the hall. he adjusted his mask in your mirror, the white ghost mask identical to the man's in the videos.

the door opened and his hand smacked over your mouth. he shoved your back to his chest and pinned you against him. he held you close, inhaling this new strawberry scent of your soap. his hand caressed the side of your hip.

"calm down," his chilling voice demanded. your breathing slowed and he relaxed as well. you stared at your reflection. this form towered over you. the towel you clutched to your chest began slipping out of your grasp.

choso steadily removed his hand from your mouth, ready to clasp it again if needed. "good girl, you can be a good girl for me. yeah, get on the bed." he patted your side and let you walk towards your bed. he stalked behind you. you turned around to face him with teary eyes. he tucked your chin between his thumb and index.

he moved your hands away from the towel and let it pool around your hips now. your soft breast filled his palm nicely. he felt like such a virgin looking at your body. it's like even when he's so close you can't help but be a little tease.

"spread, now."

you were so obedient. you followed every command like a well trained puppy. he kneeled between your spread legs, shifting the towel completely off of your thighs. your body was everything he ever dreamed of and more. he wanted a taste but this stupid mask was in his way.

he hovered over you, trapping you between him and the wall. you slapped your hand over your mouth when he snatched your neck. the mesh couldn't hide the beautiful panic on your face. your breathing quickened. he forced you to look into the droopy eyes of the mask while he unzipped his pants.

what he really wanted to do was kiss you. then, he wanted to hear his name. next time.

he didn't give you a warning when he shoved two fingers into your cunt. you squealed against your own palm — the most heavenly noise he's ever heard and it was his doing. you were at his mercy. the cold metal sent chills through your walls. he twisted and curled his fingers inside of you, pulling you closer to your finish.

he squeezed your neck enough to make your eyes cross and you go dizzy. a smile planted on your lips behind your hand. your walls contracted around his fingers and stayed tight.

he admired the strings of slick between his fingers. he needed it. he was so desperate to taste you. so he slipped his fingers underneath his mask and into his mouth where he sucked every last intoxicating drop. it seemed everything about you was sweet except that fucked up head of yours.

he yanked your legs around his waist, lining your hole up perfectly with his hard cock. the tip swept against your clit. your sensitive body reacted to every touch. he wanted you to beg for him to do something. he didn't care what it was just, beg.

he planted his hands on your waist. you clawed at his forearms while writhing. "please," you whimpered. "please, sir, i wanna feel you."

"my dirty girl." taking your breath away, he buried himself into your hole. you were so full of him it felt impossible. he gathered your wrists in one hand while slamming his cock into you.

drool dripped out the corner of your mouth stuffed with choso's thumb. you loved grabbing onto nothing and digging your nails into your own palm. you sank your teeth into your quivering bottom lip. choso laid a slap on your cheek and you moaned.

"oh! please! f-feels so good!" you gasped. moans continued to interrupt any word you could think to say. you just gave up trying to speak. he kept reminding himself that next time you'll be crying his name.

the need to feel you tighten around his cock powered him. he frantically drove himself into your hole working towards that blissful release for both of you.

he forced you further into the mattress by the neck. it was like his strength tripled when with you. it was like he was fucking a message into you. a message he wouldn't leave until he knew it was engraved in your mind.

"you're all fucking mine. all mine. say it."

"aha! yes!" you grinned. "i'm all yours!"

he dropped your bruised hands and you gripped his shoulders. your eyes crossed and rolled back into your head. your body convulsed as you tried to steady yourself with his shoulders. you felt your legs go weak and slip from his waist.

he flipped you over to your knees, his thick hands grabbed onto your waist while pushing you into the bed. it was pure instinct at this point. he brought his hand deep into the strands of your hair. using this, he made you squeal when he yanked your head back. tears fell from your doe eyes.

every signal in body told him he needed to fill you and he wasn't going to stop until he did. he let out a heavy growl with his head throw back as his cum spilled into you. he stayed inside you, forcing his seed to stay inside you.

"thank you," you breathed. choso rubbed your bruised hips and other darker spots littered across your body. he inhaled your scent again before pushing himself off of you. he watched you roll onto your side and close your eyes.

the next school day, you took your seat next to choso. you bounced into class with a bright smile. today your perfume was new. it was a sweet strawberry scent that filled his nose. he is cheeks heated up, remembering your smell that night.

"good morning choso," you smiled as you began unpacking your bag.

"good morning y/n."

choso shut his sketchbook and spread his palm over it. something you dropped clattered on the desk. looking back down, he saw one of his rings spinning around. he swept it up and slid it back on his finger.

"i knew it looked familiar but i think there was one more. could you come get it tonight?"

of course you knew. you shared every sick fantasy with him. "i'll be there tonight."

— © cythena 2024. do not share on tiktok, plagiarize, repost on other platforms, copy, or translate.

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luvvixu · 4 months

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mind over matter pt. 1

synopsis: witness how your marriage was bound to fall apart with you on the front seat and your husband gojo had missed the show—now, he gotta figure out the story on his own.

tags: arrange marriage au, angst, husband!gojo, mean!gojo, mention of blood, miscarriage, strong languages, some unsettling scenarios, emotional trauma, read at your own risk

a/n: y'all, im back after ghosting this page for way too lonh cuz im on my process of taking psychology. yep! this random bitch is up for being a psychologist despite her mental health place amidst the fluctuating status. and you know what's crazy? my sanity is slowly decomposing! all thanks to that one mf and one chapter in which im not going to name about (gege and jjk chapter 261)

previous / masterlist / next

it all started when he started caring for you.

after being inside an arranged marriage for like five years, satoru was confident with himself that he doesn't need a wife to console his woes as he is perfectly capable all by himself.

to say the least, the start of your marriage was a definition of an absolute disaster. clearly, you and satoru were like a magnet in the same pole, it can never collide despite how many efforts you push on both magnets.

from fights, misunderstanding, up to almost divorce after you caught him kissing another girl when you decided to give him a visit during his mission.

you were hurt, yes. but you would always tell yourself that neither of you want this marriage, so being hurt when there's no even love is called invalid. yet, you can't still help it but to feel somewhat jealous because he was supposed to be your husband—but oh well.

your family begged you to stay as it was for the peace of mind and safety of your clan. you snorted sarcastically as you wondered if they ever cared for your personal peace of mind and safety also.

nevertheless, you still stay inside this loveless marriage and maintain the gojo surname. you forgive him even though he's not explaining himself nor asking for your forgiveness.

as for satoru, he's aware that he's being a dick to you. his reason is that this marriage was his least priority as it was a hindrance for him. so basically and truth may hurt, he thinks you're only a hindrance and a distraction from the higher ups.

there were times where he would bury himself with work so he doesn't have to go to his original home and breathe the same air as you.

there were also times where he spent almost two months without seeing you or even communicating with you. it was like you didn't exist in his life nor he doesn't have a wife!

although, he is not that cruel to the point that he would slam the fact in your face. no, he's just leaving his presence until you feel it yourself that he doesn't want you.

his shenanigans would continue for almost a year until that night occurred.

that night when it was your wedding anniversary and he came home very late after fighting some annoying curse. he took a swearing underneath his breath when the stinky smell of curse blood hit his nose.

scrunching up as he was about to proceed to his own room (despite being married, you two sleep in a separate room) to clean up when he saw you up by the garden. you are currently watching how your little seedlings grow into beautiful flowers swaying along the air with a calm look on your face.

your husband broke the silence by asking you what are you doing this late. in which you replied that you couldn't sleep as you slowly looked at him.

satoru watched your face, it did not even flinch with any kind of emotion—nothing, just nothing. you're basically acting like a robot to him, and he hates it.

"i'll prepare a warm bath for you." you mumbled, standing on your feet and was about to leave when he grabbed your arm.

"i heard what happened earlier." satoru said slowly, as if he's being careful on his words which was very out of character for him.

"really? great." detaching from his hold, you left him no chance and instantly left.

"y/n." the man followed you until both of you reached the bathroom. you paid him no attention and just did the usual things you do, prepare him a bath.

"talk to me, please." his tone becomes soft, pleading. turning the water on, you refused to turn around, you refused to make physical contact with him, you refused to let him see the tears brimming in your eyes.

"go on. say what you want to say. i'm listening." you mentally curse yourself for almost stuttering. satoru looked at you, eyes finally unveiling an emotion. he aches to hold you for some reason but to think that he doesn't want to upset you even further, he stops. all he can do is watch you serve him.

"do you want to keep it?" he asked quietly, his ocean blue eyes dropping on your stomach. getting uncomfortable, you tried to hide it.

splash, splash, splash, you did not answer him.

"i said, do you want to keep it?" satoru asked once again. this time, his voice was a bit louder than before.

"i don't know. do you want to?" you asked him back the question, quietly.

your husband went quiet. having a child is not part of your plan but you have to because that's your purpose of marrying him, to bear an heir. now, satoru was asking you nicely if you want to keep it when in the first place, it should happen this way.

"how many months?"

"two."

"and you didn't tell me?"

"do you want to know?"

"of course i want to know. that's literally my child in there." he pointed to your belly with a slight frustration on his face.

you did not say anything back, just continuing your duties as his wife—wife on papers. satoru was growing upset, tired, even angry at you. where was the talkative and fierce look that you have? where's the harshness in your voice? why do you look so vulnerable now?

"you can take a bath now. i'll be downstairs to prepare you dinner."

"y/n, wait—"

*slam*

before satoru could even stop you, you already left, leaving him in all silence. the husband heaves a deep sigh within him as he recollects the events prior to this day. he remembers how he acted when he discovered to ijichi that you went to the hospital and went back home with a pregnancy result in your pocket.

satoru remembers almost getting killed by the special curse when the news caught him totally off guard. you two only have intercourse when both are drunk after coming home from shoko's birthday and that's it. you also told him that you were on pills so he's relieved. but how?

what if—

no, no, no. you wouldn't. you wouldn't do that to him. you are his little loyal wife and even though both of you aren't on good terms, he trusted your loyalty…or was he? were you?

everything was so messed up that he couldn't think of anything even after taking a shower and now he's on his way downstairs to eat dinner. once he was in the kitchen, he saw you almost absentmindedly cutting the vegetables.

satoru took a seat, quietly. he was watching you as your back was facing him. his six eyes weren't dumb to notice how much weight you are slowly losing. unconsciously, satoru was clutching his fists tightly.

"i bought you your favorite milk tea. it's in the fridge, you can drink it later." your voice seemingly dropped him from his daze. satoru looked at you once more, only to find out that you're still not facing him back.

"o…okay, thanks."

minutes later, you place a plate of curry in front of him. satoru noticed that there's only one plate on the table, which was his.

"where's your meal?"

"i already ate." oh right, it was literally midnight now. you should be asleep by now, yet here you are, serving your husband. also, why does it seem like satoru was hoping to eat dinner with you? it is unusual, to be honest.

for your five years of marriage, you two would only eat together for formal matters. but with a simple domestic setting like this, there's no way a peace would occur if the two of you shared a table and a meal.

while he is eating, satoru watches you grab the said milk tea from the fridge and place it in front of him. "just leave the dishes on the sink. i'll wash them later." and with that, you left the dining room.

the food was great, it was very delicious. satoru can't deny that you're great at cooking, and you really have a specialty when it comes to curry like this. but why does this meal taste bitter? perhaps, was it because of the taste of his conscience? he doesn't know.

the six eyes ate in silence. he was planning to talk to you later about everything. but anyway, satoru has been eyeing the milk tea you bought for him. now this wasn't unusual. everytime you would go out, you would always buy him some of his favorites, mostly food.

like there's a time where you bought him his favorite mochi, crepe cakes, churros, ice creams—basically every dessert or food stalls you happened to pass by. it warms his heart, though. there's also a time where he anticipated what kind of sweet delicacy you would give him next.

anyway, satoru finished eating his meal. he was drinking the milk tea you gave to him while searching for you. he saw you sitting on the same spot when he first saw you this evening, by the patio of your garden. silently, satoru took a seat beside you with a mindful distance between you two.

"can we talk?" he started. in which you reply with a soft hum. satoru finds himself gulping, he sets aside his drink first before mimicking your posture—wrapping his arms on his folded legs.

"so um, since there's a baby now…i'd like to discuss this matter with you, properly. i was thinking about…moving you in one of the jujustu high's dorms." satoru nibbles the straw of the sugary drink, absentmindedly.

"it's for safety measures, since i'm not always at home and the risk will be doubled by now. but if you're inside the campus, a lot of sorcerers would be able to protect you." he added.

"okay." you did not even question him or even argue with him, you just simply agree without a second thought.

the man could feel himself gulping, the bitterness increasing despite the sweet liquid he was drinking. he's starting to get uncomfortable the way you are currently acting.

also, come to think of it, you agreed to temporarily live in jujustu high—does that mean you are keeping the baby? satoru couldn't help but to finally ask you.

"d…does that mean—"

"the baby has nothing to do with us. i'm not that cruel to take its life." before satoru could beat you, you already beat him.

"when will i be moving out?"

satoru gulped the growing rare anxiousness down to his throat. "probably next week. give me some time to deliver this news to the higher ups." you just mumbled an okay as your response.

"y/n, are you really sure about this?" the man couldn't really pinpoint your decision. although you made it explicit, he still couldn't comprehend you.

"i'm okay with anything. it's just you who didn't. also, if you are planning to ask me about keeping the child once again, go ask yourself instead. your decision is my decision." you replied.

satoru made a mental note that your voice sounds more tired than before. it kinda ignited something that he was not used to feeling before as literally a man-god himself who's full of pride.

"i'll be resting now. have a good night." he did not stop you, in fact, he thinks it's for the better. satoru could only follow you by his gaze as you enter your own room.

yes, your own room. the two of you did not share the same room. you two couldn't even bear to eat together, what more on sleeping together. this is not what satoru meant when he asked you to talk. but oh well, guess he should also call this a night. with that, satoru retreated to his own room and slept.

fast forward, you moved to jujutsu high and started teaching as a history teacher in a world full of related curses(suggested by satoru) since you're an alumni at this school like your husband. you like that idea too since it's a great way to distract yourself from everything.

currently, you are watching your third year students train themselves along with the second years and the first years. it was quite a good sight since all of them have a nice and strong potential as a sorcerer.

suddenly, one of your husband's students came to you with a big smile on his face. that must be yuuji, the vessel for the infamous king of curses. you always adored him, he's a good kid. but you couldn't help but to be saddened by the fact that he was literally carrying a big burden over his life.

"y/n sensei, good afternoon!" he waved at you before taking a seat nearby you. behind him, you saw his two other friends—your husband's students too.

"oi, you're being too loud." megumi scolded his friend. he was worried that yuuji's loudness was too much for your situation, your pregnancy.

"it's fine, megumi." you just chuckled. "i have some extra chocolate bars here, you three can have it." the trio thanked you happily, while you just smiled in return.

"by the way, we have a question for you, y/n sensei." yuuji said, munching on the chocolate. you asked him to shoot the question but he suddenly hesitated, looking at his two friends for support.

when he received the support he needed, he took a deep breath. "y/n sensei, we were wondering about your husband a-and…" yuuji trailed off. you already know what he meant, so you didn't wait for him any further.

"oh, i suppose you are curious because you haven't seen my husband even though i technically lived here?" the smile still lingers on your face as you watch them nod their heads.

there's something that you forgot to mention to them, they don't know that their teacher is your husband and the father of your child. you were prepared for a situation like this, though.

megumi on the other hand, could've known this beforehand since satoru took care of him during his childhood. then your marriage came through and your husband was already taking care of megumi, but it was kept a secret to everyone—including him.

stroking your six months belly, a recent hobby of yours when you want to seek some comfort. "he was a busy man. most of his job requires being out of town. but he never fails to shower me with love by making sure that we still communicate despite his busy schedule."

"lately, we've barely talked. yet, he promised me that he will finish all of his jobs and tasks before going home to me. probably that's when our child is about to be born." you sigh just to justify this facade.

the students seem to believe your story. although you're quite worried that they might tell this to gojo and your cover will be blown. you planned to talk about this to him, anyway.

"that must've been hard, y/n sensei." nobara mumbles out of sympathy. she was worried for you and your child due to the absence of your husband.

if only they knew that your experience was much harder.

"you could always come to us, y/n sensei. we will not hesitate to help you and your child." beaming brightly as the other two agreed, you really adore yuuji. the amount of softness he gave to you is something that your future child would like to possess.

"thank you, you three. now, you all better go back to training. i will be heading to shoko since i promised to visit her." watching as the three wave their good-byes to you, you couldn't help but to feel an urge to protect them at all cost. probably due to your maternal instinct but whatever, you just hoped they would stay safe.

another fast forward, you are on your way towards shoko's office to spend your free time. knocking softly on her wooden door, shoko opens the door with a smile on her face.

"how's my little mama doing?" she engulfed you with a hug, which you returned warmly.

"good. the morning sickness did not attack me today, thank goodness." you said as you took a seat on her sofa.

shoko also commented that she was happy too. as mentioned before, stroking your six month old baby bump is a must on a daily basis. you are now used with a thought and feeling of a growing child inside you.

"and how're you and dickhead gojo?" shoko changes the topic.

"we were just fine like i have said before."

your friend heave the deepest sigh you've ever known. "just fine? y/n, do you want me to say the like i have said before too?"

"sho, ever since we knew that we're having a baby, we really tried our best to be compatible with each other. but we just couldn't." it's true, on the exact tomorrow of that eventful night wherein gojo discovers your pregnancy, he tried to make it up to you by lessening the sparkling arguments, making sure you are well feeded, and even showering you with things your eyes would have landed on.

you are delighted, of course. even though he absolutely fails his duty as your husband, at least he's trying his best to be a good father for your child. you appreciate him for that and also start to open your heart and pour a little more trust to him.

however, you are not dumb to notice the faint smell of a female's perfume and lipstick stain on his neck whenever he's with you. your heart slowly closes once again and your little more trust shatters.

once you saw yourself crying silently—feeling betrayed and angry for yourself on trusting him shortly after that. guess old habits never die, you are crying about something you've already expected. self-blaming is an understatement for letting your guard absolutely down.

gojo's still a jerk even though you had his baby. i should've expected this. having a baby doesn't mean he's going to change for me.

"we both tried, sho—we both tried. but we just couldn't." your voice dropped its tone once more. you still felt bitter even if it happened way back like two months ago.

"or he just couldn't." she snorted sarcastically.

you both knew she's right, gojo just couldn't. for years of being married, you unfortunately learned how to love a man like him who doesn't even give a one shit about you. tragic. very fucking tragic. if only you could see yourself directly, you would laugh at her nonstop.

"maybe this marriage is meant to be loveless—"

*slam!*

"yo shoko, i need—oh…" the door suddenly bursts open as it reveals your hot issue for today and probably for the rest, your husband gojo. you could tell that he was also surprised (but he shouldn't be) to see you here in shoko's infirmary.

"learn to fucking knock, gojo." shoko hissed at the white haired male.

"oh sorry. am i interrupting something?" he asked, looking at everything but you. he refused to spare you even a small glance, which you kinda do the same.

"you're not. now what do you need?" shoko was the one who answered him.

before gojo could even open his mouth , you already excused yourself. "i'll be taking my leave now. thanks for the check up, shoko." and then you left, leaving shoko and gojo with an awkward silence.

"aren't you going to talk about your business or maybe you want me to kick you out?" shoko sarcastically made a comment.

"right…" satoru cleared up his throat. for some reason, he doesn't know why he's suddenly getting iffy.

"ho…how's the child doing?"

"you have to be fucking kidding me." shoko groaned loudly. somehow, she expected this, but she couldn't believe that she would actually encounter this.

"y/n was just right there moments ago and you didn't even bother to ask her that yourself?!" the doctor could feel herself getting really annoyed. the truth may hurt but she's getting annoyed by the two of you.

fight here, ignore there—ignore there, fight here.

"bet she told you that we're not on good terms even though we really tried to work it out. yet, you're seemingly acting clueless." satoru snorted sarcastically. he's not dumb that you're telling stories to your friend, shoko.

the doctor rolled her eyes. she was this close from smashing his old friend's face to the wall to wake him up and stop being an idiot. "every fucking time, gojo. but that should not be an excuse to not talk to her. you two are still married for god's sake, and now, there's even a child along the way. i can see how much effort y/n has put in your marriage, you must do the same."

"don't you dare to compare her efforts to mine, you know nothing." he growls.

"but i sure know how shitty you are."

something inside satoru snaps. "why are you being angry at me?! you've been like this since we got married. always defending y/n, but what about me?! i have been your friend since highschool and you just met that girl! wouldn't it be unfair to side with someone whom you just met?!"

"you're asking me that when you have six eyes and yet, you can't see how much she suffers from you?!”

“but what about me? am i not suffering too?!”

how did we get here? things are getting pretty out of hand. two friends getting fired up because of a marriage that was about to fall apart. one being inside the marriage while the other one has the eye inside the marriage.

both shoko and gojo have their own sides but it all leads back to one thing, you are involved.

“you don't know how much pressure i take just because of that fucking marriage. everyday that i woke, another constant nagging from these bastards of higher ups. i'm getting so, so tired and i just want to…”

“just want, what? end your marriage by divorcing her?”

the moment the last syllables escaped her lips, she already knew the answer.

“fucking gojo.” shoko mumbles under her breath. “if you want to fix your life, you better not act dumb.”

satoru was still caught silent. his wide eyes trailed on the floor and unable to move. shoko saw how she hit the point. sighing over herself, she motioned the door. “get out, gojo. if you're gonna rethink your life choices, do it in your home with your wife.”

and with that, without a word, satoru left her clinic feeling heavy and defeated.

along the hallway, he saw you. satoru saw you looking at him with horror in your eyes—for the first time in one month, you finally looked him in the eyes, but it's filled with fear and tears.

“y/n, i—” just like what he had done before he left shoko's clinic, you left without saying a word.

satoru felt everything become hazy, his knees were trembling, his six eyes were stinging, his lips were turning white on how hard he bites them. the man shuddered in disappointment, you must have heard everything.

his feet act on their own and chases you, holding you by the wrist. but it was torn away immediately after you forcefully snatched it back. while doing so, satoru didn't fail to notice the hot tears streaming on your pale face, in which you immediately wiped it out.

“y/n, i-it’s not what you think. i…” as much as satoru would like you to hear himself, he hasn't gotten the words. he was left stuck by his own thoughts and self-doubt that he puts himself into shame.

meanwhile, you thought you could've just walked away from the scene. but from the moment you hear shoko and satoru exchange heated words, it gets you glued to the floor and unable to move. despite her clinic being semi-soundproof, you hear everything. even if you're not there in the room physically, you seemingly know everything.

“you don't know how much pressure i take just because of that fucking marriage.”

“everyday that i woke, another constant nagging from these bastards of higher ups. i'm getting so, so tired and i just want to…”

“y/n,” satoru called your name. his tone was very far from you used to. you grow accustomed to him saying your name venomously, but now it seems like he's saying your name delicately and vulnerable…and satoru hates being vulnerable.

“i know what you're thinking. i accidentally eavesdropped but i didn't t hear everything.” you internally praise yourself for being a great actress. you thank yourself for not stuttering and not sounding so dejected.

but you lied. you're a terrible liar. you heard everything. you heard every single thing that escaped his lips during his argument inside your friend's office. and you feel like dying, his words hurt you so much more than any deadly curses.

“have you eaten already? do you want me to prepare you for a bath?” satoru couldn't understand why the heck you still care for your wife duties when your husband, him, just broke your heart not so long ago?

you're acting absolutely strange in his eyes and he hates it. he hates how you would just bury or bottle your emotions. you're creating a facade and a labyrinth where you keep it by yourself.

“y/n, it's not time for anything. let's just talk please.” you hate it how he sounds like he's begging, but satoru never begs.

“let’s go to my room. let's talk this out—”

“gojo sensei! yaga sensei was looking for y—oh…” yuuji trailed his tracks when he saw you and satoru together.

“dummy! why do you just yell like that?!” megumi bonked his friend's head for interrupting your talk.

wearing your mask again, you smiled at the duo then brushed yourself away from the scene. satoru couldn't stop you any further, you're already away from him.

either way, satoru does the same, he wore his mask just like you. smiling at his students, he let them navigate the way towards yaga and deal with all of his shits so he would have time and talk to you properly this time.

meanwhile, yuuji and megumi were dismissed after they had done their task. nudging his black haired friend, yuuji pointed out things earlier.

“hey, fushiguro. is it just me or did i just see y/n sensei…crying?” he questioned. megumi remained silent because even saw that you were crying—they’re also not dumb to notice the burst energy somewhere inside your body.

“whether she is or not, it's none of our business.” megumi replied.

“i know. but i couldn't help but to feel really worried about her. you know crying can be bad, especially when you're pregnant, that could stress her out.” yuuji surprisingly knows how pregnancy somehow works. but they both know he's right again. they're worried about you and your baby, so they both take a mental note to visit you later.

as you slam the door behind you, a silent sob escapes your lips as you slide your back behind the wooden frame. along with the sound of your cries, was also the sound of your heart breaking.

for some reason, the facade you just put up there early makes you suffocate. it burns your eyes and it makes you shudder in pain. the hyperventilating noise escapes from your lips while you clutch the handful of fabrics of your blouse.

“you don't know how much pressure i take just because of that fucking marriage.”

“everyday that i woke, another constant nagging from these bastards of higher ups. i'm getting so, so tired and i just want to…”

god, that feeling burns! his words keep on burning in your head, engraving the letters piece by piece. those words are not too cruel, it's a little far from what you had heard before. but it came out directly from your husband's mouth, the father of your baby.

maybe, you think you acted this way because of your hormones. but nonetheless, he's like blaming you for all of his misfortunes and that made you recall your past arguments with him before.

it was like a collection of puzzles coming up together, picturing a clear image; you were just a distraction, he wanted nothing to do with you, you were just a burden, he wanted to dissolve this marriage, you would never be his, he wanted to be free from you.

you put your hand on your baby bump, stroking it ever so gently. you swore to yourself that you would never let anyone harm your baby, you would never let this marriage harm your baby, you would never let satoru harm your baby, you never let yourself harm your baby. that's for sure.

because as the clock ticks, time passes. and as the time passes, more tears flow to your cheeks along with blood on your legs.

[part 2 is out now — ©luvvixu2024]

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk satoru #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #fanfic #anime #luvvixu #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk angst #angst #gojo satoru angst #satoru angst #satoru x reader

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delightfultheoristfox · 1 month

Text

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his.

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this.

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #jealous simon riley #ghost x reader

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annabelinlove · 7 months

Text

No Games

Pairing: Wolfstar x reader (Sirius Black x Reader, Remus Lupin x Reader)

Summary: You were injured by some Slytherins and the boys worry for you.

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings: angst, description of violence, language, Snape is a dick, English isn’t my first language, Peter doesn’t exist in this, lmk if I missed any

Being a muggle born never really bothered you. You loved your parents, and you were glad for the childhood you had. They were really surprised when you had gotten your letter but were supportive nevertheless. They didn’t understand your new world and even though they were happy for you, they never cared to learn more about it. Part of you was bothered about it, because living in two different worlds, yet still trying to communicate, was hard. You drifted apart and whenever you visited during the breaks, they never wanted to hear about your school year or the magical world. It was usually awkward and uncomfortable, but you still loved them dearly and knew they loved you. You weren’t ashamed of your parents and defended them any chance you got.

Your first year was pretty hard. Not only were you getting used to this whole new world you were suddenly thrown into, but you’ve also learned the hard way, that being a muggle born was viewed as a bad thing. Being called worthless, stain on the wizarding world and mudblood were suddenly a daily occurrence. Thankfully, being sorted into Gryffindor led you to meet some amazing people and become best friends with Lily Evans. You tried to get through it together and it was suddenly much easier to have someone who understood you. You’ve befriended the Marauders as well and since the start of the second year, you were inseparable. Lily had some apprehension at the beginning, since James Potter was an ‘arrogant toerag’ in her words, but you’ve helped her realize, that there was much more then mischief in the boys. It didn’t take long for you to develop feelings for two of the troublemakers. There was just something about Sirius Black and Remus Lupin that made you fall, and you fell hard. You still remembered the conversation with Lily, where you revealed your feeling by accident. It was soon after Sirius and Remus started dating.

“I don’t get how the two of them could be together! Don’t get me wrong, I’m really happy for them and I hope they’ll be happy but they’re just... they’re so different!” Lily told you drunkenly at one of the famous Gryffindor parties, looking at the couple snogging in the middle of the made-up dance floor.

“And that’s the beauty of it, you know? When Sirius is hotheaded, Remus is there to calm him down and where Remus is reserved, Sirius helps him get out of his shelf. They’re two sides of the same coin,” you defended them fiercely. Seeing them like that made you so happy, but the darker side of you was jealous, wishing you could be part of it.

“I kinda wish a coin had three sides, you know? Can you imagine how amazing that would be?” You said without thinking, gaze fixed on the two boys. Lily shot you a confused look.

“A coin with three sides? How would that even look? And what kind of shape would it have to have? Why would you want a three-sided coin?” Her confusion was not only in her eyes, but you could also detect it in her voice as well. You just rolled your eyes at her oblivion.

“I don’t want a three-sided coin Lily, I wanna be part of their relationship. How you’re on top of every class, I have no idea.”

The memory always made you smile. And your wish came true. Not long after your conversation with Lily, even though it felt like years for you, you became a part of the relationship. It was quite complicated at the beginning, you were no stranger to dating, but dating not only two boys but two Golden boys of Hogwarts was no easy task. But you’ve happily settled and after some long conversations, when you all tried to figure out, you were as happy as you could ever be.

Your sixth year was however when things turned complicated once again. The war raging outside the walls of the castle was taking a tool on you. You were constantly worried about the safety of your family as well as your own. It was no secret that you had muggle parents, which made you a target at the school as well. Every time you saw some Slytherins, mostly Snape with Malfoy and Mulciber, you were called names and even hexed multiple times. But it wasn’t only you, every muggle born was treated like that, which didn’t make it better, yet it seemed like you were the biggest target, wether it was because of your connection and close friendship with the Marauders, the constant pranks you pulled on them or the fact, that you always fought back and never let them get away with it. You had many serious talks with Lily about this topic. She tried to tell you to take it easy and ignore them like she did, and they’d get bored of it soon. You never had the heart to tell her, that the reason the boys didn’t target her as much was because Severus still had feelings for her, even after their falling-out, and threatened other Slytherins to take it easy on her.

“Why did you do that?” Lily asked you as you laid on your bed with a pack of ice on your face that still stung from the hex they threw at you.

“You mean why did I turned them into snakes? Because that’s what they fucking are Lily. I can’t juste let them call me names and walk away. Plus, they started it,” you said tiredly, the headache making you nauseous.

“But you could! If you had just ignored them, you wouldn’t have been hurt and in detention” she tried once again “that’s what I do, just walk away. So what if the call us mudbloods, its not like its harmful anymore.”

“But its not about the name calling. They’re fucking death eaters and acting like they’re better than us, but they’re not! It’s about the principle. You can’t do something bad and not get punished for it.” The conversation was almost identical to the one you’ve had many times in the past.

“Well, at least you’ve answered your question why you have to go to detention for the following week,” Lily sighed and went to change you ice pack.

The boys tried their best to protect you, they always made sure that at least one of them was with you. Wether it was in library with Remus, quidditch with James, the kitchen with Sirius or at least one of them walking you to every class and the Great Hall. They never talked to you about it, but you knew what they were doing, and the thoughtfulness warmed your heart. But they couldn’t be with you every second of the day no matter how much you wanted them to or how much they tried. That’s how you found yourself walking to your common room late at night after another detention with McGonagall.

“I’m sorry, you did what?!” Remus shrieked, staring at you in disbelief.

“I set Snivellus on fire. I mean, just his robes,” you mumbled sheepishly. Your boyfriends stared at you with mixed amazement and incredulity. James bursted into laughter.

“How come we never thought of that?” He said between laughter.

“Pff, don’t encourage her Prongs or she’ll think it was a good idea and will do something analogously stupid.” Your scarred boyfriend scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitching.

“And what was I supposed to do? Let him torture the poor second year and just walk away?” You tried to defend your actions, slowly getting worked up.

“That’s not what he meant, pet. We just want you to be careful. Moony means well, he’s scared, just like the rest of us. They’re getting bolder and bolder. We’re proud of you for defending the kid, aren’t we, Moons?” Sirius finally joined the conversation, trying to calm you all down. He pulled you into his arms, kissing your head. Remus sighed and took your face into his hands, looking deeply into your eyes.

“Of course I’m proud, you're our brave girl, darling. Just don’t wanna see you hurt.” And with those words he kissed you deeply.

Walking down the dark and empty corridor, you tried not to think about the sickening smell you’ve been inhaling for the least couple of hours. Professor McGonagall made you wash one of the dirty bathrooms without magic as your punishment. You were disgusted with the Hogwarts students and the mess they could make. So lost in your own head, you didn’t even hear the steps of people behind you. Not until it was too late anyway.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here?” Said the voice behind you that belonged to no other then Severus Snape. Before you could even pull out your wand, it flew out of your hands with a simple Expelliarmus from Mulciber, whom you just noticed standing behind Snape.

“I’m not in a mood for your games Snivellus,” you snapped at him, already tired from the day you had.

“Oh, trust me, this is no game,” he threatened, smiling at you maliciously. You wanted to punch him so hard.

“What are you even doing here, aren’t you supposed to be at the infirmary? Those burns looked pretty nasty earlier.” His smile disappeared and something much more dangerous appeaed on his face.

“You’re gonna pay for that, you stupid bitch,” he sneered at you. Your fight or flight instincts kicked in and you moved to him with the intention to rip his head off his body. But before you could take more than few steps, he hit you with a Petrificus Totalus spell. You tried to mask your panic when you realized you could possibly be in an immense danger without your wand and the ability to move with two deatheaters, who loathed you. The grin Snape and Mulciber gave you was a sign of how much of a shit job you did to hide your emotions.

“Not so brave now, are you, mudblood?” Mulciber gave you a sickening smirk. You could see nothing but madness in his eyes. They started to circle around you, eyeing you like predators wanting to hurt their prey. You watched them carefully, waiting for their next move.

“Not in a mood for games, did you say? What a shame because I’m ready to play,” said Mulciber before casting a Flipendo and suddenly, you were upside down, your head hitting the floor. You wanted to do something, protect yourself, scream for help, but you were powerless, unable to do any of the things you wanted to.

“I feel like it’d be much more fun if she didn’t see us, don’t you agree?” He asked Severus who chuckled and nodded.

“For once, I must agree with you. Obscurs!” And all of a sudden you were blindfold, your panic rising. You had no idea what they had planned for you, but were sure it was nothing pleasant. Everything went pretty hazy after they hit you with the Confundus charm. The two deatheaters were taking turns hexing you. They made you slowly bleed and ache, but they haven’t done anything terrible to really harm you, which somehow made you even more nervous. They were slowly becoming more and more harmful with their hexes, causing you more pain. Until they grew bored of the wand work. You were thrown on the floor, all spells lifted from you, and you thought it was finally over before you were harshly kicked into the stomach. You could hear them laughing as they continued to hit you and kick you around the cold floor. They’ve caused you more then enough harm. You were bleeding from various places and was more than sure that you had a few broken bones as well as a concussion from them throwing you around like a ragdoll. Your foggy brain couldn’t comprehend all that was happening. Both of them suddenly stopped and quietned down as you tried to crawl away from them. The silence was broken with a shout.

“Crucio!” Yelled one of the boys. You couldn’t care less which one, as you were hit with an immense pain. You were on the floor, whirling in pain. You trashed on the ground, somehow in hopes off gettin rid of the pain, but all in vain. You tried to let out a scream, but you weren’t sure if you did because you couldn’t hear anything but their laughter. The curse was lifted and you sucked a breath of air into your lungs, or at least you tried to. You didn’t have time to even move before they’ve casted the curse again. And again and again. You felt like your insides were being twisted and ripped out of you. At that point, you just wanted them to kill you. You didn’t know how much time has passed, before Snape leaned over you.

“You’ll learn where your place is. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as we do, mugblood. Let this be your lesson. Hopefully one you’ll remember until your pathetic life ends. Which may not be that long, now that I think about it.” You didn’t even notice that the curse wasn’t on you anymore. You couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t do anything then whisper a pathetic please, hoping your suffering would end soon. He just smirked at you and looked like he wanted to say something else, but Mulciber beat him to it, shouting Crucio once again. There was nothing you could do than just to take it while begging them to stop. You were slipping into unconsciousness, the pain being too much. You couldn’t even tell the difference between being under the curse and not because all you could feel was agony. You thought you heard someone shouting, but it may have just been a hallucination. Opening your eyes, you could make out a silhouette of someone else coming and you were praying to Merlin it wasn’t Malfoy wanting to join in on all the ‘fun’. To your surprise you saw, or at least thought you did, Snape and Mulciber running away, but not before the last curse Snape sent your way. Sectumsempra were the last words of Severus Snape, before he took of, disappearing in the darkness. You realized; you didn’t know pain until now. Your body was on fire and instead of drawing in a breath, you coughed out blood.

“Hey, hey, can you hear me?” Somebody was leaning over you, but you couldn’t make out who it was.

“It’s okay now, please just try to breathe. You’re safe, you’re safe.” Those were the last words before the darkness took over you.

“Lay her here, carefully! And quickly, sent for Dumbledore!”

“I don’t know what to do, I’ve never dealt with something like this.”

“Just hold on, it’s gonna be okay.”

“What the fuck happened?!” “You can’t be here right now, mister Black.”

“This is gonna hurt, dear. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re safe now, my love. I’m never gonna let anything like that happen to you. I swear on my life.”

“What the hell do you mean, they’re not gonna be punished?!” “We are not discussing this topic with you, mister Lupin.” “They can’t just walk away, have you seen what they’ve done to her? She’s fucking dying!” “Enough Remus, please.”

“Please, wake up. I know it’s selfish of me to ask this, considering everything that happened, but please, I really need you to wake up.”

You kept slipping in an out of consciousness, hearing bits and peaces of the conversations happening around you, but the darkness has always won and took you under.

The first thing you felt was something wet on your hand. You tried to open your eyes, but even such easy task seemed like something impossible. You tried to move, but it was like you were under the binding curse all over again. After much effort, you were able to open your eyes very slowly. The bright light made you blink a couple of times, but you were able to recognize your surroundings. The hospital wing. You wanted to sit up, but the pain suddenly consumed you like a tsunami, and a groan tore itself out of your throat.

“You’re awake!” Said a quiet voice. Your eyes met Lily’s beautiful green ones. Tears rolled down her cheeks and the realization that you’ve felt her tears on your hand hit you. You tried to open your mouth to say something, but your throat felt like sandpaper and nothing came out.

“Shh, don’t say anything, its okay. Here, try to drink some water instead.” She handed you a cool glass of water, but you were unable to sit up and drink. When she noticed, more tears welled up in her eyes and she softly squeezed your hand and with the words, that she’ll be back soon left you alone and disappeared behind the white curtains around your bed. You didn’t know how much time passed with you just looking at the ceiling, but Madam Pomfrey was suddenly by your side with some other woman in white.

“This is nurse Bimley, we’re just gonna do a quick check, okay?” She asked and both her and the nurse started to examine you and move you around. They asked you some questions, but you didn’t really pay attention, your mind tired to function properly. With their hands on you and calming words, you fell into the darkness.

Opening you eyes the second time was easier and even adjusting to the light was quicker. You found yourself half sitting, half laying on the hospital bed. Did they move you again? How long has it been since I last woke up? Why am I even here?

“Hey.” Whispered a voice beside you, interrupting your train of thoughts. You looked at the boy sitting on a very uncomfortable looking chair next to your bed. You’d recognize his stormy eyes everywhere, but the ever-present spark in them seemed to disappear, worry replacing it. Your hand was squeezed and you looked on your other side, seeing a scarred hand placed in yours. You felt somewhat calmer knowing that your boyfriends were with you.

“Here, drink this.” Remus lifted a glass of some murky liquid to your mouth waited patiently for you to drink the whole thing and you did even though it tasted like shit. He placed the, now empty, glass on the table, avoiding eye contact the whole time, contrary to your other boyfriend. You were all quiet for a while, just studying each other before Sirius broke the silence.

“How are you feeling, love?” You wanted to answer, but instead of words, you started to cough. To your horror you’ve realized droplets of blood came out of your throat, and Sirius was quick to hold a small bucket near your mouth.

“Shh, its okay darling. Just let it out. It’s okay.” Remus tried to soothe you, suddenly standing next to you. He looked like he wanted to place his hand on your back, but for a reason unknown to you, he decided against it. After your coughing fit, you closed your eyes and tried to properly breathe, which suddenly seemed like almost impossible task. When you calmed down a bit and looked up, you saw Sirius’s eyes pooling with unshed tears. He tried to smile at you reassuringly, but it felt fake.

“We should get madame Pomfrey,” Remus murmured, the words aimed to Sirius who slowly nodded, but before any of them could move, you croaked barely audible no. Your voice sounded like nails on chalkboard, and you cringed before starting to cough again. Sirius held up the bucket again while Remus spoke.

“Okay, okay. We won’t call anyone just yet. Just try to breathe for us darling.” And you did what he told you. He sat on the chair again. After you stopped coughing, you tried to speak once again.

“What..” but before you could finish your sentence, Sirius gently shushed you. “Don’t speak, my love. You need to rest and talking just makes it worse.” You nodded at his words, resting your head on the pillow behind you.

“Do you remember what happened, angel?” Remus asked you carefully to which you just shook your head. You didn’t remember anything; you mind still not working properly. The only thing you knew was that you were in terrible pain. Remus sighed before continuing.

“You were attacked darling. When you were walking from detention, some Slytherin cornered you and..” his voice broke, not being able to finish his sentence. Thankfully, Sirius took over.

“They did horrible, horrible things to you, angel. They didn’t tell us exactly what happened, but it almost killed you.” His voice was barely above a whisper at the end, a single tear rolling down his cheek. It almost killed you kept on replaying in your head over and over again as you started to remember bits and pieces. Their laughter, their hexes and curses, the pain. You didn’t even realize you started shaking before Sirius gently laid his hand on your cheek.

“Hey, hey, baby listen to me, you’re safe now. It’s over and you’re safe, do you hear me? We’re never gonna let anything like that happen to you again, okay? You’re safe with us. I promise.” He tried to calm you but you didn’t register his words as you kept on remembering everything. It felt like you were in a trance, not being able to do anything beside cry and shake, ugly sobs tearing out of your throat. You didn’t even realize that Remus quickly left your side to get Poppy to help you. To you, she appeared out of nowhere, suddenly by your side.

“I told you to get me when she wakes up, mainly to prevent something like this from happening. Now leave us alone and get professor McGonagall.” Both of your boyfriends left rather quickly without a word but sending you a sorry look. You really didn’t want them to leave but were unable to voice you thoughts through the sobbing. The sweet nurse got you to calm down after a while of sweet talk and reassurance that you were safe.

“Let me check the injuries, okay?” She asked but already started to take off your hospital robe that you didn’t even notice you were wearing. Underneath your whole body was bandaged, some of the bandages red from the blood seeping through them, you could see black and blue bruises where your skin was showing and you felt like you were going to be sick. Madam Pomfrey, thankfully, saw that coming and quickly brought a bucket to your mouth, the same that Sirius gave you earlier, and you puked your guts out, all that while she whispered calming words to you. When you were done, you closed your eyes and let the nurse rewrap your wounds after rubbing some ointment on them. The second she was done, professor McGonagall came into sight with Dumbledore on her heels, it was like they scented they could come.

“Good evening miss Y/S. How are you feeling?” He asked you politely, his eyes searching yours. You shrugged your shoulders, not trusting yourself to talk just yet.

“Do you remember what happened?” He asked you again to which you just nodded your head, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“I know its hard, but would you be able to tell us what happened?” You dreaded this question, but took a deep breath before finally answering verbally. You vaguely told them the events of that night. I don’t even know how long I was asleep ran through your head, but you pushed it aside and continued talking. About how they cornered you, taking your want and hexing you. How they grew tired of it after a while and decided to beat you up. How they used one of the Unforgivables on you before someone came to your rescue. How they ran but not before sending some unknown spell in your way. By the end, you were silently crying once again.

“Thank you, dear. You should rest now. Don’t worry about anything else. I’ll come and talk to you when you feel better.” Professor McGonagall thanked you and you heard in her voice how sorry she felt for you. You sent a smile her way, or at least tried to, before they left you again.

“You should really rest now. I’ve put some sleeping and calming draught next to your bed, if you want it.” Madame Pomfrey decided and went to leave you alone before you stopped her.

“May I speak to Remus and Sirius please?” You pleaded with her before adding “it’d make me feel much more at ease.” To which the nurse nodded before disappearing behind the curtain, hopefully snatching the boys. And soon enough, Remus’s head poked from behind the curtain, smiling at you soflty.

“Hi there, darling. James and Lily are here to see you, if you feel like it. If not, that’s completely okay and they understand. Anything to make you comfortable.” You smiled at his thoughtfulness, and you considered it for a second. You didn’t want your friends to see you in such state but you knew that seeing them would make you feel better so you nodded. Soon enough, around your bed were the four most important people of your life. You gently smiled at them, feeling calmer already. Remus carefully sat on your bed, Sirius in the chair next to him with Lily in the chair and James standing next to her on your other side.

“Hi.” you said timidly. Lily almost started to cry when she heard your voice and James laid a protective hand or her shoulder, smiling gently at you.

“Hello there, sunshine.” He responded just as gently.

“Are you feeling any better?” Remus asked you carefully, not wanting to make you cry again or overall worsen your state. You didn’t know whether to say yes or no so you just shrugged.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. We were all so worried.” Lily whispered, looking deep into your eyes. A flashback of her crying when you woke up suddenly popped up in your mind.

“You were here, before I mean.” You realized, looking at her.

“We were all here at some point. You kept on waking up and falling asleep the whole time you were here.” She looked like she wanted to add something, but her quiet sobs prevented it.

“Yeah, you’ve been here for two days. We sneaked in whenever we could. Sometimes you woke up and started babbling some nonsense, sometimes you just screamed. Do you remember any of that?” James added and that’s when you noticed the dark circles under all of their eyes. You felt bad for making them so worried.

“No. I mean, I remember some of it, but it’s all blurry. I remember some other woman tho, I think she was a nurse.” You tried to fish for your memories, but nothing else came to the surface.

“That was nurse Bimley, she came from St. Mungo’s after Dumbledore sent for someone to help you.” Lily explained, now more composed, but it left you even more confused.

“Why? What happened?” You decided to ask, wanting to hear their side of the story. They all looked at each other in apprehension, apart from Sirius, who was uncharacteristically quiet and avoiding eye contact, before Remus decided to put you out of your misery and explain.

“When you didn’t come from your detention, we started to worry. The more time passed, the more terrified we were. James tried to look for the map, but we’ve put it somewhere and none of us were able to find it. We kept on telling ourselves that you were fine, and that Minnie was just making you work extra hard, so we didn’t go to search for you. Something that I’ll never forgive myself for and I’m terribly sorry for it, love.” He took your hand into his and softly squeezed before continuing. “Then some Gryffindor prefect bursted into the command room, ordering everyone to go to bed, that there was an attack on a student, and we weren’t to leave our dorms. I felt my soul leave my body at his words, I swear. We didn’t even take the cloak, we just ran straight to the infirmary. There, we saw...” but before he could continue, Sirius interrupted him, his eyes unfocused as if he was remembering the night.

“It was Reggie. He found you and took you straight to Madam Pomfrey. He saved your life. We found him sitting on the floor, looking like he might pass out or puke. When he spotted us, he quickly started to explain how he didn’t have anything to do with it, how he wasn’t part of it and just tried to help you. I was so confused at that minute but when I saw the look on his face… I just knew that something horrible must have happened to you.” He exhaled, still not looking at you. It was Regulus who helped you. Regulus saved your life. You were tremendously grateful for Sirius’s little brother. Sirius took a deep breath.

“After he calmed down, he explained what happened. Told us that he was just wandering around when he heard screaming, so he went to see what was going on. He found you on the floor with Snape and Mulciber above you with wands in their hands. Doesn’t take a genius to know what was going on. He went to you aid, yelling at them to leave you alone. Before he could make it to your side, they ran away, but Snivellus casted some weird curse at the very last moment. We don’t know what it was but..” he choked on his words, not being able to continued. You could feel the anxiety from remembering that night rolling off of him. James decided to add to his speech.

“It slashed up your whole body.” He said before Remus send a dark and disapproving look his was which shut him up pretty quickly. Thank Merlin for Lily who decided to carry on explaining before the two of them started fighting.

“The curse made numerous of gashes appear on your body, they were all so deep and you were slowly, but surely bleeding out. If Regulus hadn’t brought you to the infirmary so quickly, you’d bleed to death.” She said quietly, not looking into your eyes.

“We heard Poppy screaming at Dumbledore to sent for help, that she wouldn’t be able to safe you by herself. Then he and McGonagall came out of the door and saw us. I don’t think they were even surprised to see us there. Dumbledore left without saying a word, surely to sent for someone from St. Mungo’s, while Minnie stayed behind. She was crying but tried to look strong for us. Told us that you were hurt really badly, but that they were going to help you. Then she made us all leave with a promise that we would be updated as soon as she knew something. She walked us all back to our dorms, even Regulus, to make sure that we wouldn’t try to stay. But once inside the common room, we just snatched the cloak and decided that one of us would always be by your side and we were until you woke up. And now we’re here.” Remus ended the story and a long pause followed. You tried to compose your thoughts but it all seemed too much for you. So I did scream. Your head started to hurt and you were just so fucking exhausted from everything.

“We’re gonna let you rest now, Merlin knows you need it. We’ll be back tomorrow, I promise. I hope you’ll feel better, sunshine.” James broke the silence first and he gently kissed your forehead.

“Thank you, Jamie. For everything. You too, Lils. Please, try to get some proper sleep as well, okay?” You pleaded with them and softly.

“Only you would worry about us getting some sleep while laying in a hospital bed.” Lily shook her head but laughed a little bit and you smiled at them as James took Lily’s hands and they both left, leaving you with your boys.

“I’m so fucking incredibly sorry, my love. We promised you that we wouldn’t let anything happen to you and look where we are now. I’m so so so sorry.” Remus whispered, ashamed of himself.

“We won’t let anything like that happen to you again. I swear on my life. We failed you once, but it’ll never happen again, okay? I’d rather die than seeing you like this again. I’m so sorry, my darling.” Sirius apologized as well and your hear hurt for them.

“This wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have done anything. I don’t blame you and never will. Please, don’t blame yourself either. I’ll be okay.” You tried to reassure them, wishing they wouldn’t be so hard on themselves.

“But it is out fault. We should’ve protect you but instead left you alone to your misery.” Sirius kept on beating himself but you were quick to stop him.

“Please, don’t. You can’t be with me every second and that’s okay. You’re here now and that’s what matters.” Remus looked like he wanted to say something as well, but you stopped him. “Let’s talk some more tomorrow. I’m exhausted and in pain and I just want to sleep. I’m here and I’m alive, that’s what matters.”

“Of course, of course. We’re gonna leave you to rest. Merlin knows you need it. We’ll come back tomorrow.” Remus said as he started to stand up, but you quickly shot your hand to stop him, the quick move making your whole body ache again and you let out a groan. Sirius quickly brought the draughts that Pomfrey left for you to drink and you happily did so while smiling at him in thankfulness.

“Please stay, I don’t wan to be alone.” You whisper shyly when you’ve set the potion down, still holding Remus’s hand. He smiled at you gently but looked unsure.

“Are you sure? You need to get some sleep and we don’t wanna bother you or make you uncomfortable.” He made sure to know you’re comfortable.

“You could never make me uncomfortable. Please, I really need you right now.” You assured him and pleaded with both of them to which Remus nodded and performed a spell to make your bed bigger so all three of you would fit and have space.

“Oh, thank Merlin. I don’t think I’d be able to leave you alone tonight.” Sirius sighed as he laid next to you, very careful not to hurt you. You smiled at his words and turned to him.

“Have you talked to Regulus?” You whispered to him while Remus drew the curtain shut and went to lay on your other side.

“Yeah, sent him a message thanking him and telling him you were okay. He asked if he could see you.” He whispered back to you and gently put his arm under your head, to pull you just a bit closer.

“I’d like that. I wanna thank him myself.”

“I’ll let him know tomorrow. Wanna talk to him myself. But now sleep and don’t worry about a thing okay?” He kissed your head just as Remus lied on your other side and took you into his arms slowly, waiting for a sign of discomfort from you but when you didn’t show any, she kissed your head as well before whispering.

“Sleep now, my darling angel. We’ll be here when you wake up and then every second for the rest of our lives.”

#the marauders #marauders era #marauders x y/n #poly!marauders x reader #sirius black x you #remus lupin x you #sirius black x reader #remus lupin x reader #wolfstar x reader #wolfstar angst #angst #harry potter #marauders x reader #remus x sirius x reader #fluff

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iiotic · 1 month

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WHO FELL FIRST, WHO FELL HARDER?

including: wanderer, kazuha, xiao

<- part 1; neuvillette, lyney, cyno

wc: 0.8k

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wanderer; you fell first, he fell harder.

while you don't remember how it happened, you felt yourself being drawn to wanderer. You wanted to be by his side more often than you realized, pheraps it was the mysterious aura that he had or the snarky attitude of his that annoyed you so much. Pheraps it was that ugly haircut he had, so ugly on any other people, but on him? You didn't realize why you found it so stunning. Pheraps it was those mesmerising eyes of his that softened slightly when they looked at you. Pheraps it was that stupid hat of his that he would always offer to you when it started raining. Pheraps.. oh wait.

he didn't necessarily mean to fall in love with you in the first place, in fact he was quite annoyed when you started following him around like a lost puppy. however after some time he realized that he has grown to like your company more and more, he'd never admit it, though. He'd always make snarky comments about your outfit or laugh at you when you did something stupid. He didn't even realize when these actions changed to more gentle, affectionate ones. He was truly terrified when he realized what was happening, why was he doing these things, why he felt this way. He thought that he never deserved love, how could he feel these things if he doesn't even have a heart? He'd distance himself for some time but it didn't last long, after that period of time he realized that now he was following you like a lost puppy. truly mortifying.

kazuha; he fell first, you fell harder.

some might tell you that it was love at first sight, some might tell you that while it may not have been love at first sight, kazuha, couldn't help but fall head over heels for you faster than anyone ever could. everything about you was just so mesmerising, he couldn't help himself! from your head to your toes to your personality, he thought that you were the prettiest person in the whole teyvat. whether it was how the wind flew through your hair to how your eyes could tell him the best stories, to the way you dress always expressing yourself, to the way you laughed when he told you something too cheesy.

you've grown to accept his acts of service, accepting his gifts or the romantic poems he wrote just for you. he'd always take you on dinner when he wasn't on a trip, and when he was he'd always write you letters that you'd write back to him. that wasn't how friends act wasn't it? you'd think every night about your relationship with kazuha and you really hoped that it wasn't how he acted with every girl he met, the burning jealousy in you. you'd ask about it when he get back, wanting to end this circle of madness in your head. oh wait he thought you were already in a relationship and thought it was abvious.. nevertheless what a gentleman!

xiao; he fell first, he fell harder.

he first saw you when he was on his usual patrol around the liyue harbour, thinking nothing of it. then he bumped into you at the streets at night, so embarrassing.. he disappeared before you could even acknowledge what happened. then he saw you again and again and again.. unintentionally, of course. at least at first, after some time he was drawn to you, from your beauty to the way you interacted with people, to your smile and eyes. he didn't know what the feelings are, he had never experienced them before, is he sick? after some time he decided to talk to zhongli about it, and then he realized that he was indeed sick. sick in love. how though? it was so weird, you didn't even know he existed and he stalked you like the weirdo he was. he'd never let himself get close to you, he didn't want to curse you with his karma.. or at least he thought so.

you two eventually met, much to his dismay and oh my God you were even more gorgeous in person.. a really big time skip of the slow burn you two would have to go through, you showed him so many pretty, lively things. you showed him how it feels to feel loved, appreciated, and all he could do was show you the view from the highest mountains in liyue. you did so much for him and he was just so awkward. tell me, how come he couldn't fall harder?

#wanderer x reader #wanderer #wanderer x y/n #wanderer x you #genshin impact #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #xiao x y/n #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao #kazuha #kazuha x y/n #kazuha x you #kazuha x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you

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astralnymphh · 29 days

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ellie learns the world by touch. it began with a palm at midnight, dipping under the covers and holding your breath. slim, warm fingers spread like fabric against flesh on your stomach, welcoming in each inhale into it. for her, it represents security; that you lay groanless and predisposed to stay in her space of old sorrows and new cherishings. the garage felt empty otherwise, and so did her body. she remembers the places that make you giddy: rolling her kisses all over them, and she knows you never plan to decline them: extending your neck so discreetly for more. to fill herself with something. extracting the nature of you from physical connection.

she learned it made you smile, or cup your hand over hers, when she did this forgettable little thing. so, she carried it over nights, did it again and again. rayed it into days. already guessing your exact words as her lips slowly bothered your collarbones on the couch, smacking and marking visible nooks with hickeys. “this never—”

“—never gets old, does it?” she bites the words from your neck, snorting into it when she knows she's about to pay the price for stealing them. “hey!” a subtle punch to the shoulder does the trick; ellie parts from your neck with a hushed grouch. so quiet, it does not exist. so fake, she wades adversity to taste your skin again. “stop predicting what i'm going to say.”

“well..” but, her mouth always retreats with something even more crass and immature alongside, being a smart-ass. “you're the one being predictable.” which—by the contrary; she's the one who spends the night tossing and turning until her limbs find themselves interwoven with yours! “just focus on your work. ignore me, babe.” yet the sweet sounds of her kissing you are hard to ignore.

i wanted to write more on this but i'm literally so tired and sickly-feeling that i could not be bothered rn. nevertheless, ellie fluff ♥

#⤹𓍢ִ໋aestras footnotes #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie tlou #lesbian #sapphic #ellie x reader #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams fic #elliewilliams #ellie williams tlou #the last of us 2 #the last of us part 2 #ellie williams blurb #ellie williams fanfiction

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ckret2 · 19 days

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Do you think Bill Cipher is his real name? The book suggests it is since he used to be called Billy but he also tells Gideon that his true name would drive mortals insane. But maybe he was lying! About which we’ll never know.

I personally think it would be really dumb for

an alien

with bizarre alien biology that involves speaking through some organ that clearly isn't a mouth

because his mouth is also his EYE SOCKET and occupied by an EYEBALL

who's not only from a different planet but from a different UNIVERSE

which is so different from ours that the LAWS OF PHYSICS aren't even compatible

because they don't have a THIRD DIMENSION

and who was named ONE TRILLION YEARS before any humans existed

never mind human languages

never mind "common" human names like Bill

to have a normal human name made with normal human sounds.

So I buy the "my name is unintelligible to your species; Bill Cipher is just a dimensional pen name I use because you can pronounce it" explanation, due to the alternative offending my sci-fi worldbuilder sensibilities. The "if you heard my name you'd explode with an expression of ecstasy and agony on your face" part in the Bill Cipher AMA might be a boast to sound cool, but nevertheless I buy that his name can't be spelled, pronounced, or possibly even heard correctly by humans.

The most common explanation I've heard for why he would claim his REAL name is incomprehensible if his name is actually just "Bill" is that he thinks "Bill" is lame and wants people to think he has a cooler name. But, if that were the case... why wouldn't he just... y'know. Give himself a cooler name? Like, who's gonna call him out on it? Birth certificate's incinerated. Parents aren't gonna call him his deadname in front of his friends. The only reason he'd tell people his name is Bill Cipher would be if he wants to go by "Bill Cipher."

When he goes by "Bill" and refers to himself as a child as "Billy" I'm assuming that that's, like... the dub version of his name. Like how the main character of Pokémon is named サトシ but in the dub it's changed to "Ash" because surely American children can't pronounce that bizarre foreign name!! Bill's real name is [EERIE INCOMPREHENSIBLE SOUND] and as a kid sometimes his mom called him [A SIMILAR BUT SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT EERIE INCOMPREHENSIBLE SOUND THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO US BUT TO BILL'S SPECIES SOUNDS LIKE A CUTESY VERSION OF THE FIRST SOUND] and when talking to humans he translates those as "Bill" and "Billy."

#bill cipher #gravity falls #meta #(also when does he tell GIDEON his true name would drive him insane?? the only thing I remember is the quote in the Reddit AMA.)#anonymous #ask

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the-oblivious-writer · 9 months

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Get Her Back!

Clarisse La Rue x Daughter of Athena!Reader

One-shot

Summary: You and Clarisse have always had a reputation for the rollercoaster you both called your relationship. While on another one of your "breaks," you decide you want to mess with her

Warning(s): Swearing, Clarisse & r are hella toxic, jealousy (on both ends but mostly jealous!Clarisse), making out (nothing more is hinted at, just Clarisse & r kissing like the problematic girlfriends they are), & arguing

Notes: Wooo this one got a bit heated before I knew it. Hope you enjoy

You and Clarisse La Rue… how does one sum up your relationship with the Ares kid? You and her were known for being on and off, arguing almost as much as you made out. You were both in a toxic, heated, yet passionate, relationship.

Oh, how you loved each other.

You met Clarisse the first summer you got to camp. It didn’t take long for you to discover what you had gotten yourself into. She argued with you about everything, she had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye; you couldn’t help but be attracted to her, even when she was so obviously lying about her height.

The first time you left Clarisse was in the spring, that was when your current dynamic truly started. You lasted about a week before you were back in her arms, forgetting how you threw all her stolen clothes out your cabin’s window just a few nights before.

You were currently going through another one of your breaks with Clarisse while you laid down on your bed, reading as you tried to ignore another little lecture from your friend.

“All I’m saying is that I don’t understand why you stay with her, you know? The second my boyfriend did me wrong, I kicked his ass out the door. For good,” he said, sitting at the end of your bed.

“That’s because you didn’t have what me and Clarisse have,” you responded, looking up at him from your book. He shrugged, mumbling, “Whatever.”

“Do you love or hate her? I honestly can’t tell anymore. One second, she’s the worst human being to ever exist but then the next, she’s the love of your life, the woman you’re gonna marry.”

“I guess it’s up and down,” you replied in a nonchalant tone before looking back at your book.

He lightly chuckled, shaking his head a bit as he said, “I need to learn when to give up trying to figure you out.”

—

Later that night was the bonfire. You didn’t really feel like attending but your friend had basically begged you to go. Just five minutes in, and he was already flirting with a girl from cabin ten. You were staring off into the fire, red solo cup in your hand, when you suddenly heard somebody sit next to you. You turned your head to see a dark haired boy, looking at you with a smile as he spoke.

“Hey gorgeous, I’m Steve. I think I’ve seen you around before. Athena cabin, right?” He asked, his eyes never pulling from you. You didn’t feel like entertaining him. You weren’t stupid, you knew he was flirting with you. But thoughts of not reciprocating his flirtatious attitude quickly disappear when you see Clarisse watching from the corner of your eyes.

All night you had to watch Clarisse cuddle up with someone who wasn’t you. And all night you refused to give her the attention you knew she was hoping to get out of it, your pride and stubbornness wouldn’t allow you to. So when you finally get the chance for that sweet revenge, you don't hesitate.

You looked at the boy next to you, putting on a sweet smile and placing a hand on his knee. “Yeah, cabin six. What about you?” You slightly tilted your head, looking at him as if he was the most interesting person on earth.

“Hermes cabin,” he responded. He suddenly grew a bit shy under touch, but welcomed it nevertheless. “Hey do you uh… wanna get out of here? I know this cool spot I could show you.” You knew what that was code for; do you want to make out?

“Sure, sounds good,” you winked at him before getting up. He held his hand out for you, which you took as you both began to walk away from the fire. Clarisse's eyes were on you the whole time, clenching her jaw as she watched you walk with him hand in hand. She ignored her siblings’ confused looks as she walked over to you before you and Steve could go any further.

“I think she’s good here,” she said—not asked.

“Um, I think she can make her own decisions. She’s a big girl, if she wants to go, she can go,” he responded.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but she’s not leaving with you.” She glared at the boy with storms in her eyes, her fists balled up. By now your hands were separated from the boy’s, watching the entertaining scene in front of you with a knowing look on your face.

“Excuse me–” Before he could get himself into any more trouble, you walked to Clarisse’s side—she instantly put her hand on your lower back.

“Listen it was nice meeting you Steve, but she’s right; I should really get going; it’s getting kinda late.” You gave him a fake apologetic look. “Maybe I’ll see you around some other time?” You managed to get out as Clarisse was practically dragging you away.

“What’s your problem?” You said to her when you both finally made it to the cabin—her cabin.

“My problem? What’s yours! You know Steve is a douchebag, we were literally laughing about it last week,” Clarisse let out with an aggravated tone.

“Why do you care so much? Shouldn’t you be thrilled that somebody else is stuck with my high maintenance ass!” She only rolled eyes, shaking her head. “Yeah, you really think I wouldn’t bring that up!” You dryly laughed.

“Oh my Gods,” she mumbled before continuing. “You are the most frustrating woman I have ever met!”

“And you’re the most hot-tempered woman I have ever met!” You shouted back, throwing your hands up as you stepped closer to her. “You’re a hot-headed asshole!”

“Well it’s better than being a stubborn know-it-all!” She took a step towards you; your faces were now no more than inches apart. You both stole a glance at the other’s lip before a moment of silence. Suddenly, your lips connected. She was firmly gripping your waist while one of your hands found itself in her hair as the other held the back of her neck.

“I fucking hate you,” you mumbled breathless against her lips. She pushed you up against the cabin door; Gods, you didn’t even care that you were still outside and anybody could just walk by.

“I fucking hate you too.” Her kissing was hungry, passionate. Blood was rushing through veins, your cheeks were warm, and butterflies had erupted in your stomach. You could feel Clarisse feeling for the door's handle for a few seconds before you reached behind you to turn it.

You both went inside, Clarisse kicking the door shut. You could feel her warm touch as her hand grazed the skin of your lower back. She walked you backwards toward her bed, never daring to pull away.

“Fuck, I love you,” you let out as Clarisse moved down to your neck.

“I love you too, don’t you forget it,” she murmurs against you.

Clarisse La Rue may have been narcissistic, stubborn, hot-headed, and pretentious, but you were your mother’s daughter, so maybe you could fix her.

-----------

A/N: she could abuse me, beat the dog-shit outta me, cheat on me, hit me with her car

#clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse larue x reader #clarisse la rue #dior goodjohn #pjo fanfic #pjo x reader #heros of olympus

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inknopewetrust · 9 months

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𝔉𝔬𝔬𝔱𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔰

summary: in the blistering summer evening heat, you and felix play a little game. [felix x fem reader. WC: 2.6k]

warnings: smut. minors dni (18+ only). p in v, fingering (fem receiving), saltburn bathtub, slight voyeurism, dirty, dirty talk, some degrading language, not the dirtiest thing but still like… kinda hot?

Though the sun had set long before, the lingering scorch of the sun sat like a film on your skin. Its thin veil dry and aching to shrivel against the boiling water of the tub. You felt the sticky nature disappear under the trails of steam that painted the surface of the water.

A bead of sweat pebbled from your temple to cheek to chin to neck.

But you lit a cigarette anyway. And if you listened close enough, you could hear the crackle.

A blistering bud sizzles; the porcelain was drawing cool waves against the skin of your arms and for once, in the vast nothingness of the bathroom, the heat that rose from its surface made the ghosts vanish.

It made them disappear in house once home to Kings.

Now, as it boiled under the night sky, it was home to something other. It had bled itself into the walls and the ghosts wished to witness not the haggard scrounging of wealth that festered within.

But you imagined Henry the Eighth liked to stare as you bathed. They all did. Felix had told you that once a few summers ago.

How they all wanted to touch you in the ways that he did. How they wanted to whisper in your ear that they were better than him. No one truly was and it kept you crawling back with the poor souls who got sucked into a heated whirlpool of pity each and every summer.

Nevertheless, you envisioned Henry in the corner itching to touch.

They all trembled to flutter their hands onto your skin, onto your breasts, squeezing pieces of you dipped below the waterline.

If his ghost could smile, Henry’s ghastly teeth gleamed.

‘Fuck off, Henry,’ you saw the paunchy apparition lounging in the chair in the corner with a bead of sweat dribbling from his own temple.

Oh, envy, King Henry.

A bit of ash fell onto the tiles below.

“You’re making a mess of it.”

You tapped the cig on the side of the tub as another bit of ash wilted to the cold floor.

Felix hummed.

Stocky Henry vanished. If you gazed toward him, Felix’s eyes bore deep. Heavy and brooding, downcast at a peak of what existed beyond the bubbled suds.

Dinner had long passed. Everyone was supposed to be in bed.

He could feel you in inches. The soft skin of your back, the plush thighs that laid between his own. A hand of his traced over the skin of your collarbone gently as the ash continued to drift.

You were nearly on fire. In the swelter of the stone walls and the patterns of the paper before him, you glowed in a red sweat.

“You’re letting it die.”

“I was thinking,” you murmured.

“About what?”

“King Henry.”

“King Henry?” Felix’s voice peaked. His head leaned to rest on your shoulder, his smile leaving a trail as it grew. His nose drew a delicate line on your dampened skin.

You liked Felix in this way. So quiet and removed. But Saltburn always kept pace in the background.

“Yes, King Henry,” his hand glided along your own, gently taking hold of the cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The smoke of the puff rose high into the air beside you. It’s curls twisted like your insides aching for a touch too far but never too close.

“I like to imagine them sitting… staring at us now.”

“Now?” Felix questioned. “So erotic in an ugly tub. I can see him now,” he pointed to the corner of the room, “he just popped one. Can’t you see it? In his trousers there.”

You grinned. Your laugh filled his chest with a shuddering life. So fulfilled and free yet trapped in this same world as he.

And he was never far away. Here, in Saltburn, always waiting in the same shadows for the opportunity to strike while the others weren’t around. No sister or friends or parents or mewling poor fighting for his attention. They were retired for the evening; all snuggled in beds with curtains drawn and fantasy dancing in their heads.

“He isn’t the only one.”

You tipped your head to the side. The profile of your face meeting his forehead as he dipped his own downwards. The cigarette still burning from his fingertips. It was a mere bud now.

You could feel what waited for you on your lower back.

“I can feel that, you know?” You feigned an innocence he liked. Keen and blatant, but cunning with sin.

“Is it Henry that makes you feel that why?” You whispered, lips ghosting his chin.

Felix breathed in deeply. The same chest that shuddered with joy in anticipation.

Every summer.

The excitement would stir within his bones as the gates would open wide and beside his family would be the one steady thing he had everything to give.

“I hope,” Felix hushed, “for your own sake that’s not the fucking case.”

“So it’s me?”

Felix groaned as you pushed against him. The gentle pressure of your body arching into him without a touch, he begged to put his hands on you.

The cigarette fell to the floor in its end.

Felix took his hand and turned your head back to face him with a firm grip on your jaw. The water around you sloshed. It cleared the bubbles from your chest.

“I want to play a game,” he suggested in a dusty, breathless tone. “Want to play, darling?”

“Can I win?” You suggested. His hand loosened, letting the fingers dance along the column of your neck before beckoning up toward your mouth once more.

His index finger traced the outline of your lips. In a slow glide, Felix pulled your lower lip out slightly, gathering the wetness with his finger before inching it back to the space where your lips had parted.

You kissed his finger with your tongue as it found purchase in the suction of your mouth. The plushness of your tongue, the slight drag of your teeth as it emerged from between your lips.

“I don’t want to play if I can’t win, Felix,” you whispered.

His eyes now hooded with a thick want. He watched his finger redraw the lines of your lips again as you begged with doe eyes to win. A near child’s play of a woman’s ability to seduce.

“You can win,” Felix huffed as his other hand snaked itself from the edge of the tub to your torso under the water. “But I’ll need you to be quiet. We have guests and as much as I do love our dear, sweat guests, I can’t have them imagining the way I fuck you, can I?”

“No,” you relished in the way his hand returned to the base of your throat and squeezed with the slightest amusement. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” Felix smiled at you. Your heart squeezed in the same way your cunt ached for his fingers to gather the strength to follow through.

“What do I win?”

“Whatever the fuck you want. You just have to be quiet.”

You smiled deviously that the thought.

“I can’t see how we’d be able to look a boy like Ollie in the eyes if he heard the sounds that come out of your mouth.”

His hand swooped past your center and to your leg, drawing one over his own which sat you straighter in his hold. You felt his cock jump at the pressure of you pushing on him. Felix flitted his finger tips from your knee to waist, switching hands to bring his wet palm to your breast while the other perched your opposite leg over his other.

The pebbled nipple was taut as he kneaded the skin in circles. He pressed down hard, pulling up on your nipple to elicit the sounds he wanted so badly to hear but knew you’d repress.

You were like him in many ways. He too wanted to win a game of control.

With you in his hands like a play of putty, he felt in control but with one hand on the wheel.

As he palmed your breast, his hand gripped your thigh. His mouth traced a pattern of hot breath along your neck as his tongue relished the salty sweat that had gathered at its leisure. The goosebumps that rose from your skin welcomed his breath kindly.

“I want this house to ourselves,” Felix moaned. “So we don’t have to be quiet.”

“Tell me what you’d do,” you asked him, placing your hand over his own and bringing his fingers to you. He cupped your heat as you groaned, guiding him back and forth to gather the wetness he could feel different from the water of the tub.

“Tell me what you’d do to me.” You spoke faintly. “Tell me and I’ll be quiet.”

You guided one of Felix’s fingers in you as he shushed the sounds that threatened to speak themselves into existence.

He put his lips on your ear as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you with a slow glide. So plush and tight, he thought to himself. It sucked him in and dared not to spit him out.

“I would fuck you on the floor,” he breathed out against your cheek. “I’d spread you wide and taste your sweet pussy as the sun bathes the floor. And when I’m done, we go to the pool-“

Felix pulled out his finger, tracking it along your folds before going in with two. You arched against his back, drawing up as he pulled you back down and rested his hand on your waist.

You curled the toes of your right foot down the edge of the tub.

“-we’d go to the pool and sit out in the sun. You’d give me head in one of the chairs and I’d paint your fucking face with my cum.”

You clenched around his fingers. His thumb pressed into your clit, another jolt aching to send you squirming but he held you down as he patterned circles on the gentle flesh.

“You like that, don’t you?” He breathed in the smell of you. “And maybe we’d go for a walk through the maze after dinner. I’d fuck you in the center and you could scream as loud as you fucking want. No one could get to us. No one would hear us.”

“F-F-“

“No, no, no, shh,” Felix shushed. “Good girls only win by being quiet, yeah?”

You nodded, clenching onto his fingers again as a strangled ‘fuck’ tumbled out of his lips. He could imagine the coil building. Felix wasn’t going to let you finish alone.

Felix pulled his fingers from you and felt the disappointment in the wither of your body.

“But I don’t want to imagine what’d I’d do if we were alone,” Felix blanked. “Turn around.”

As the water sloshed around you, you turned to wrap your arms around his neck. Like you, Felix had sweat beading from his jaw that glimmered in the red light of the bathroom. He looked intoxicated, entranced but in control of what he could.

“I want to see you ride me like the fucking whore you are.”

You weren’t a whore. But for Felix, you could be anything.

At the nape of his neck, you gripped the back of his hair and drew his head back as your other hand gripped him under the water.

Hard and lengthy, his cock was a welcome intrusion every time. You pumped him in your hand slowly. The sounds of water creating currents was soothing against the sounds of your battered breaths kissing his own. You lifted yourself on your knees, leaning against Felix as he squeezed your ass tightly, watching as you lowered yourself onto him under the water. Slender and veined, your cunt molded to him like art. You both would never tire of the feeling so profound.

It would never be like this with anyone else.

Loose pants left his lips as you sat completely full of him. A fit for a King in his own home, he supposed. Once you had settled with him inside, you moved above him.

The water moved languidly too. Meeting the fiery skin of two intoxicated minds too oblivious to see the peering eyes between the crack of a door.

“Right there, baby, right there,” Felix mumbled as you rose again and again, drawing him in and out as he stretched you with every swell and spur he could muster on his own.

“You’re such a good girl, darling. So good for me.”

You could peer down at him from above. Your breath fanning his face and lips but never seeking to truly kiss him as your hand tangled in his hair.

Bits of water spilled over the tub and splashed onto the floor. It soaked the ash tray and the speckles of ash and bud that littered the floor.

“Don’t stop baby. Don’t fucking stop,” Felix crooned in the room’s empty sounds. Only the pleasured sighs and gasping breaths filled the air.

You bounced on his cock with a measured pace. Each stroke of his manhood against your velvet walls lured him deeper into you, entangled with the missing links of a year gone by.

“Felix,” you broke the rules to whisper in his ear. He was taken away by the insatiable need of his rapture. He listened. He beckoned to your call.

“Tell me that you love me.”

From the shadows, Oliver Quick felt his blood run as hot as the sun. He loved Felix.

“I love you.”

Whom did not love him back.

“Tell me you need me.”

He was enamored by the idea of Felix.

“I need you.”

Who was enamored with the idea of Oliver.

“And what do you want from me?”

He was taken by the sight before him.

“I need you to cum, baby. I need you to fucking cum for me.”

Oliver was taken by the gleam of your skin. The way Felix’s throat bobbed as a strangled groan escaped his lips and the way your own melted onto his forehead in a silent struggle to come down from a high.

You placed both hands on his slender chest, careening like winged victory in a heated satisfaction.

Your fingers shook.

He had never seen a woman shake so elegantly before. The tremble of your lips as you breathed in shaking respite, the jolt of your shoulder blade as Felix ran a hand up your back.

Oliver licked his lips at the sight.

Felix lifted his head from its position against the tub. His eyes fluttered open as you pulled away in the slightest.

And Felix smiled.

You returned the grin with one of your own as his still sat erect inside of you. The bubbles of the tub had long ceased to exist and the water that was left was filled with the combined spent of you both.

“I don’t think I won that one,” you chuckled quietly, pushing hair out of Felix’s face before cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I’ll take pity on you, I guess.”

“The water’s gone cold.”

Felix kissed the inside of the palm of your hand. He cherished the high that lingered.

“The water’s gone cold,” he repeated. “But we could stay here forever.”

“Pruned and sweaty? Not a chance in fucking hell, Felix.” You laughed a bit too loudly. Oliver disappeared at the groan Felix let out as you pulled off of him.

You stood before him as the water dripped from every piece of you. Marbled and finite of the most precious carvings he only wished to hold forever.

As you exited the tub and the throb of him began to settle, you grabbed his linen shirt from the floor, draping it over you as it stuck to the wetness of your skin.

“The bed is just the slightest bit more comfortable.”

And you disappeared behind his doorway with call for more as the walls of Saltburn added another sordid story to add to it woven trims.

But it was never just the walls of Saltburn watching.

A/N: as always, the best gift of reading is likes AND reblogs and why not, we love comments too. Thank you for reading and feel free to check out my other works on my masterlist here. xo

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