#i kind of started and then just... kept going...

[all-with-angel]

High Voltage

❥ Electric Fly Swatter Sukuna x reader

❥ With the heat being unbearable and flies swarming you practically every minute, you have nothing except a faulty fly swatter on your side. even then, the thing does nothing except zap you randomly! Sick of its shit, you throw it out the window, only for it to come stomping back to fuck some manners into you! Don't you know its rude to throw things out of windows?

Content. CRACKFIC, smut, dubcon, afab!reader, sukuna is mean(duh), grinding, oral(f!receiving), his fingers vibrate, he zaps you sometimes, p in v, doggystyle, dacryphilia, begging, creampie :P

A.N. I blame @yenayaps and @madamechrissy for enabling me so i take no accountability whatsoever. @yamadramallamaqueen here you go unc ily

It was hot.

Like, skin-sticking-to-furniture, every-fan-sounds-like-it’s-pleading-for-death, consider-lying-on-the-tile-floor-like-a-cat kind of hot. It was hellish during this time of the year. The heat outside would've been fine, if not for your AC breaking at the start of the week and your landlord doing absolutely jack shit about it. Thus, your humble little home had turned into a sauna and your overhead fans could only do so much. And if that wasn’t bad enough?

Flies. So many damn flies.

It was just the season for them, and you were getting tired of swatting them to death manually. Lucky for you, you stumbled upon a quaint little yard sale on your way home. It was small, stacks upon stacks of books and old cds, and a few barely-working pieces of electronics. A worn out looking fly swatter caught your eye, and when you asked the old grandma about it, she gladly gave it to you in exchange for a few dollars. It was black with pink highlights, residue of stickers clinging on to the plastic.

Lucky you, It was way cheaper than any of the newer models you’d seen, and it worked fine. Sure, it vibrated and shaked whenever you turned it on, and it took way too long to charge, but it worked.

For a while.

A week later, the thing turned on you. You were waving it around in your living room, a surge of slight satisfaction at every loud bzzt! that signaled the death of another one of those flying bloodsuckers. You were about to walk to the kitchen, satisfied with the lack of any more flies buzzing in the room when you felt a sharp sting of electricity course through your hand. You yelped and dropped it, hitting the edge of the sofa and clattering loudly onto the floor.

“What the hell?!” 

You hissed, massaging your hand for a moment before grabbing the fly swatter with a cloth. “Stupid old thing.” Murmuring curses and complaints under your breath about how its faultiness was showing after just a week of owning it, you set it on the counter and plugged it into its charging port. You eyed it as it lightly hummed and a red light blinked on and off, you could've sworn it started blinking out of sync— its patterns more similar to a human blinking than an electronic with a set program.

Whatever. It was too hot for this. You brushed it off and turned away.

Over the next few days, it kept zapping you. Randomly. It started when you were just holding it, using it actively when it would zap you when you even dared to put it down. Then, it started to zap you when it wasn't even on. You had turned it off, the phantom pain of getting electrocuted in your hand earlier fading as you tucked it under your arm. Before you could even reach halfway to your room, it had zapped your entire side. 

Nothing too painful, not exactly enough to be an immediate health hazard– but the surprise made you scream and drop it (again), clutching your side in betrayal.

 It was less a bug killer now and more of an abusive relationship that you couldn’t let go of. At least not with your current fly problem.

On another day of trying to survive through a damn heatwave, you were sweating even as two fans were working overtime fanning you. They were your real friends in this situation, even if they just blew hot air around the room, doing little to help you. 

Still, help is help.

But that morning, sweaty, stressed, and so over it, you swore that anything would set you off. As if sensing that you were on your last straw, the fly swatter had zapped you mid-swing. You flinched, face contorting from pain to anger. “Motherfucker!”

You shriek as it hits the floor, except this time you didn’t use a cloth to pick it up, you didn’t fear it anymore. Who the hell cares if it zaps you again. You grabbed it and threw it out your window, hearing it hit the soft grass of your yard as you huff. 

“You wanna fucking electrocute me?? Well I’m not having it anymore!” you yelled, flopping onto your couch with all the grace of a damp spaghetti noodle. You swung an arm over your eyes, cringing at the feel of your own sweat-slicked skin but too tired to care. With a sigh, you slump further back and practically melt into the couch.

The crawling feeling of exhaustion caught up to you, crawling from your head down to your chest. A nap at this time would probably fuck up your sleep schedule, but you couldnt seem to care in between the heat and the occasional buzz of a mosquito in your ear. The lull of sleep almost drowning out the sudden bang of your back door.

Wait, what?

The sudden bang of your backdoor startles you awake, loud stomping accompanying your racing heartbeat as you shoot upright and turn to see a very naked and very angry looking man. He was broad, large with black inky tattoos adorning his chest and arms. His head almost reached the ceiling and  you were sure that his dick— DICKS, were the size of your forearm.

You could feel both heat and fear crawling up your spine, settling uncomfortably in your throat as you try to find your words. Before you do, he beats you to it.

“You–!” he snarled, pointing a finger at you. “Did no one teach you to not throw your shit out windows!?”

“What the hell are you talking about!?” You stammer for a moment, eyes flicking around you to his glaring red eyes. You grab the nearest thing to you, a throw pillow and point it in his direction. “Who even are you?! And why did you just break into my house!?”

The pink-haired hunk of a man rolls his eyes, muscles flexing as he crossed his arms. As if this was just another nuisance to him. “I’m your goddamn fly swatter, or whatever the fuck you call it.” He hissed. “Congratulations, you broke the seal and set me fucking free. By throwing me out the window.” His voice was laced with sarcasm and brimming anger, finger tapping idly on his forearm.

“You’re my what??” You asked again, stunned. Unconsciously lowering your protective throw pillow as the hot demon man snarled at your stupidity and confusion.

“Your fly swatter.” He repeated through gritted teeth. The fact he was such a menial object irked him, clearly so.

Your eyes raked over him again, from his broad chest to his.. Sizable cocks. Your eyes seemed glued to the pair, your gaze sending a pulse or arousal through Sukuna. One that went straight to his dicks, making them twitch.

God, how long has it been since he’s had a good fuck? Too many years, that's for sure.

You made a noise in your throat that may or may not have been an inappropriate giggle. That seemed to piss him off. He clicked his tongue stomping over to you, who took a few steps back his looming figure. “Something funny, brat?” He snarled, glaring down at you like he hates your guts. But his half-hard cock(s) told a different story.

You swallowed, breath hitching as you craned your neck to look up at him. God, he was so much bigger upclose, not to mention that his chest was right up in your face distracting you from making any proper thoughts. “N-no. Just— this is so weird.” Your voice drops into a mumble as you continue, every three steps you took back, Sukuna would take one– And it was enough to bridge the gap. “Who knew my shitty fly swatter was hot..”

“HUH? The fuck you just call me?” He roared. “I’m Sukuna, the King of curses you heathen. Not some ‘shitty fly swatter’– Who said you could talk to me so casually!?” Sukuna, now you knew his name, had cornered you against the wall. “Throw me out of the window, no less.” He added, seething.

Alarmed by the dangerous— almost predatory look in his eyes, you hit his chest with the pillow in your arms a few times. “THE HELL? How was I supposed to know that?” Unknown to you, with every shriek and pathetic excuse for an attack, Sukuna could feel his cocks harden– throbbing painfully as his body screamed to show you your place. 

He was grinning, the hungry look in his eyes snapping as he grabbed your wrist and halting your (fairly worthless) struggle against him. You gasp as you feel your wrist get engulfed by a much bigger hand, shame filling your head as you feel the warmth pooling in your stomach.

“You really think that’ll do anything, brat?” He inches closer, scarily handsome face inches away from yours. “Or did you just want to piss me off even more?”

As if caught like a deer in headlights, you stammer, feeling his intense gaze on you making your heart clench and stomach flutter. “I– No, I mean I didn’t–”

“Shut it, slut.” He grabs at your throat, not quite squeezing— But just enough pressure to shut you up. “I don’t need your excuses.” Sukuna grins. “I know what you want, anyway.” He slides his thick leg in between your thighs, putting pressure on your core as you let out a mix of a yelp and a moan.

He grabs your hips as you slowly start to grind on his leg like a bitch in heat. “Ha, pathetic. Is that all it takes for you to give up?”

Your hips stutter, but Sukuna continues to guide your movements against his thigh. “N-No,”

“Liar.”

Sukuna pulls his leg back and in a blur, you end up manhandled onto your couch with your shorts pulled off of you. “Tsk. No panties? What a perfect whore.” He snickers, and as soon as he sees your already dripping cunt, he knew he was in for a sweet treat. He dared to look at your face, waiting in anticipation and beautifully aroused. He took it all in, the curve of your body and every inch of skin bared all for him. He was one lucky fly swatter. And you were one very, very lucky owner.

“W-wait–” You tried to plead, but Sukuna wasn’t a patient man. He didn’t wait. He took what he wanted when he wanted it. And he wanted you. He took his sinfully long tongue to drag across your folds, groaning loudly at your taste. “Fuck..” He muttered, immediately grabbing your hips to pull you into him as he let his tongue explore your perfectly sweet cunt.

Sukuna was like a wild animal– Or an insatiable toy, brimming with electricity ready to be expended on poor you.

He let his tongue curl inside of you, nose brushing and rubbing against your clit as your hands found purchase in his pink hair. The same shade that matched the fly swatter form this so-called King of curses had unwillingly taken.

Suddenly, you feel a zap of electricity on your thigh, making you flinch further into Sukuna’s mouth. “So fucking loud.” You could feel him smiling against your pussy, just before he continued devouring you like a man starved.

You held into his hair for dear life, tugging whenever he’d hit just the right spot, making him groan and send vibrations straight to your core. It felt more intense, more electrifying than anything you could have ever felt from any other man. 

“That needy, brat?” Sukuna pulled away, licking his slick-coated lips before tucking one, then two fingers right into your needy hole. Just as he did, he put his mouth back to work. He could feel you clench against his fingers, the tightness of your hole having Sukuna’s cocks leak pre down his thick cock.

“Y- Y-es!” You moaned out, voice breaking as Sukuna curled his fingers up into that sweet spot of yours. You couldn’t control the desperate gasp escaping your lips when you felt his fingers vibrate inside of you, right against your G-spot. “Oh- Oh god, fuck–” The stimulation felt intense, so much pleasure all at once as Sukuna licked and sucked at your clit.

He was merciless as he finished you off, lapping up at the juices squirting out of your fluttering pussy. You could practically feel electricity shooting up your spine as your back arched further into him, as if fucking his face.

You were definitely testing this demon(?), incubus(?), whatever the fuck he was’ oxygen, but he wasnt complaining. Not even when he pulled away from your cunt, slipping his thick fingers out of you and licking them clean.

“On your stomach. I’m not done with you.”

That's how you found yourself face-down ass-up and drooling onto the couch as Sukuna pounded his fat cock into your pussy, the other slapping against your abdomen with every thrust. You just felt so full, every push of his dick into you hitting every single spot you thought couldn’t be reached.

“Fucking— Fucking slut, shit–” Sukuna growled from above you, barely holding back his own moans from how fucking good you felt around him. So warm, practically made for him— Even if you were such a disrespectful brat. “Throwing me out the goddamn window–” Ah. He still hadn't let that go.

His eyes were glued to the back of your head, occasionally tracing his warm hand on the arch of your back, all to zap you randomly. Relishing in the way you’d flinch and tighten around his length, a condescending grin spreading on his face as he felt himself getting closer to filling you up. To put you in your place.

“Puh-lease–” You gasped as your legs shook, if not for his bruising grip on your waist, you’d have collapsed into a pathetic cum-puddle by now. Tears streamed down your cheeks, staining the couch along with various other fluids.

“Please what, huh?” Sukuna taunted, continuing to thrust his hips into you at an unrelenting pace. His lips parted, breathing heavily as he could feel his cock throb and twitch at the idea of cumming inside of you for the nth time.

Your hips moved back to meet his thrusts, you let out a pleasured sob at the feeling of attempting to rearrange your own guts on Sukuna's dick. “Please cum– I’m sorry, so so sorry for throwing you out the wind-AH!” You shiver as you felt Sukuna slap your ass, his eyes following how a red mark slowly started to imprint itself onto your skin. “What was that?” He mocked, voice condescending as he leaned forward, his chest flush almost flush against your back. “Say that again.”

“I'm sorry for throwing you out the window!” You repeat, moaning and gripping at the sheets as you feel Sukuna angle his hips to fuck you deeper, harder.

“Yeah, you better— fuck, you better be.” Sukuna continued to pound into you, twitching as he felt your pussy spasm around him. His breath was hot and heavy above you and you could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as his other cock was slapping up against your clit again and again. “Take my fucking cum, take it since you’ve learned your lesson you brat–”

In a second, you could feel warmth start to flood your insides, making your pussy flutter and cum around his girth with a strangled cry. The pleasure was overwhelming, white-hot and so fucking good. Sukuna growled and grunted as his hips continued to fuck his cum deeper into you, cock throbbing with every shot of his seed pooling into you. There was just so much, enough to start leaking out your pussy along with your slick.

You were distantly aware of the cum sticking to your stomach and the couch, but your muddy, post-orgasm brain had barely adjusted when Sukuna's voice had cut through the haze. Unforgiving.

“You think we’re done? I haven’t even gotten my second dick wet yet.”

A.N. I was projecting my breeding kink a bit. Woops

[byfawn]

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole. 

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment. 

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you. 

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed. 

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse. 

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest. 

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber. 

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you. 

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy. 

 the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement. 

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent. 

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught. 

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says. 

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. 

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands. 

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it. 

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you. 

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable. 

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

 you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town. 

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation. 

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off. 

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway. 

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin. 

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be. 

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him. 

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so. 

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful. 

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

[cressidagrey]

Override: Denied

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Five times Bee’s intelligence left kindergarten teachers speechless—and one time they tried to go behind Felicity’s back, only to learn that Oscar Piastri is many things, but a husband who betrays his wife’s trust isn’t one of them.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1. The Gruffalo

The whole thing started with The Gruffalo.

Bee had picked it up during free play and started reading it aloud. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. Her voice was small, her finger tracking the lines one by one. Half the class had gathered around to listen. One of the assistants had smiled indulgently, assuming she was reciting from memory.

Then she turned the page and kept going.

By the time the final line came — “And now my tummy’s beginning to rumble. My favourite food is—gruffalo crumble!” — the room had gone still.

Apparently, one of the teachers had laughed. Said it was “adorable pretend reading.” Bee had corrected her. Politely. Then read a second book just to prove the point.

Now, Felicity was standing in the cramped hallway outside the kindergarten classroom, still holding Bee’s raincoat, and trying very hard not to lose her temper.

Felicity had never liked the way Miss Caroline looked at Bee.

It wasn’t unkind — not exactly. But it had that edge. That clinical, calculating gleam Felicity knew too well. She’d grown up seeing it in the faces of tutors and family friends, in admissions panels and the polished smiles of dinner guests. The one that said: what can we make of this child?

Like potential was something you could bottle. Like brilliance had to be measured to be made real.

“I think we should consider a formal evaluation,” Miss Caroline said. Tight smile, worried eyes. “It’s highly unusual for a child her age to read like that. We want to make sure she’s getting the right support. Beatrice shows advanced pattern recognition. Abstract language comprehension. Her reading retention is—”

She didn’t say of course I know. She didn’t say I taught her to read before she turned two or I watched her sort herbs in the garden by both function and taxonomy last week. Felicity didn’t say she absorbs the world like light through glass.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Felicity said calmly.

Miss Caroline  blinked. “I understand your hesitation, but identifying her cognitive profile early can help us tailor her learning environment. There’s no harm in—”

“There is, actually,” Felicity interrupted. “There is harm in assigning numbers to children before they have the language to understand what those numbers mean.”

“But Mrs. Piastri, don’t you want to know how advanced Beatrice really is? We’re talking about early gifted indicators. She could—”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t need a label. She needs kindness, and structure, and not being treated like a science experiment because she reads well. She’s three,” Felicity repeated. “And intelligence tests aren’t reliable anyway until at least seven. I assume you know that.”

The teacher had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Miss Caroline’s expression pinched. “I understand your concern, but you’re quite young—”

And there it was.

Felicity blinked. Once. Twice. The hallway was full of the shrieking post-nap chaos of pickup. Bee was sitting near the coat racks, legs swinging, chatting happily to a stuffed duck.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, tone like ice cracking underfoot. “My age is… relevant how?”

“I just meant—sometimes younger parents don’t realize how early intervention can benefit —”

“My daughter is three,” Felicity said tightly. “You’re not slapping a number on her.”

“Mrs. Piastri—”

“Doctor Piastri,” she said, before she could stop herself. “PhD. Mechanical Engineering. Oxford,” Felicity said, her voice soft and cutting. “I earned it while raising a medically complex toddler and making all of my daughter’s baby food from scratch. Please don’t mistake my age or my trainers for incompetence.”

The teacher flushed deep pink.

Felicity adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get told their value is how exceptional they are. Who are taught to equate achievement with worth. I will not put Bee through that. I will not let you quantify her.”

Miss Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Felicity’s tone stayed level, but her words landed like a scalpel. “If Beatrice wants to build rockets when she’s ten, I’ll be first in line with the duct tape and codebooks. But right now, she’s three. She wants to make frog houses in the backyard and eat her weight in strawberries. That is more than enough.”

She stepped past her and crouched beside Bee, gently helping her into her coat. “Ready, baby?”

Bee nodded, duck tucked under her arm. “Did you know frogs have teeth on their upper jaws only?”

Felicity smiled. “I did not know that. Thank you for teaching me.”

She stood, lifting Bee’s backpack and taking her hand.

The teacher tried again: “She really is extraordinary.”

Felicity turned back, her expression softening — not for the teacher, but for the child who’d asked this morning if plants ever got tired of growing.

“She is,” Felicity agreed. “But that’s hers. Not yours to catalogue.”

Then she walked out, head high, daughter in hand.

Because if Bee was going to grow into everything she could be, it would be without a chart. Without a score. Without a number that hung over her like a ceiling.

She’d be brilliant.

And free.

***

2. Music Notes

It started — as it always did — with a well-meaning concern.

“Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor at pickup, her cardigan slightly askew and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, “do you have a moment?”

Felicity, who had just arrived after wrestling a leaky chicken feed bag into the boot of the car and still had dirt under her nails, nodded. “Of course.”

“It’s about Beatrice,” the teacher began.

Felicity offered a politely neutral expression, the one she reserved for conversations that were already exhausting before they began. “What about her?”

Miss Eleanor lowered her voice. “During quiet time today, Bee was reading from one of the classroom books — which is lovely, of course — but when I asked what she was doing, she said she was reading the music. Not the words. The sheet music.”

Felicity blinked. “And?”

“Well… it’s just rather unusual, isn’t it?” Miss Eleanor said, shifting uncomfortably. “For a child her age to understand music notation. We just wanted to check she wasn’t, ah… mimicking it, rather than actually reading it. Sometimes gifted children blur the line between memorization and comprehension—”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity said flatly.

Miss Eleanor paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity repeated. “She can sight-read simple compositions. Because I taught her. We have a piano in the living room. I have been playing piano and violin since I was two. And we practice for twenty minutes most mornings, because it helps Bee focus.”

The teacher blinked.

“She knows what a treble clef is,” Felicity added. “She can count beats. She prefers Bach to Bartók, and last week she told me Mozart was ‘a bit fussy, but nice.’”

Miss Eleanor gave a slightly strangled laugh. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The words came out sharper than Felicity intended — but she didn’t apologize. She was tired of Bee being treated like a walking warning sign just because she was curious and quick and quiet.

“She’s not showing off,” Felicity said more gently. “She just loves music. It makes her feel steady. And she’s allowed to love it without being flagged for it.”

Miss Eleanor gave a stiff smile. “Of course. Thank you for explaining.”

Felicity crouched down to where Bee was waiting, humming softly and carefully zipping her backpack.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Felicity asked.

Bee nodded. “I was playing the notes in my head. They were from Clair de Lune.”

Miss Eleanor’s mouth twitched.

Felicity stood, offered one last smile — sharp and sweet all at once — and said, “Next time, maybe ask her what she’s doing before assuming it’s a problem.”

She held Bee’s hand as they left the classroom, tiny fingers warm in hers.

“Did I do something bad?” Bee asked quietly once they reached the parking lot.

“No,” Felicity said, squeezing her hand. “You did something beautiful.”

3. The Absence of Tantrums

Felicity didn’t expect much from pick-up anymore. A mild sunburn from the pavement. Bee’s curls plastered to her forehead. Crayons in her pockets and a rock in her sock. Maybe another baffling comment about her “advanced auditory memory” or her “preference for multi-syllabic words.”

What Felicity didn’t expect was to be asked in again.

“Just a quick chat,” Miss Kate said gently, gesturing toward the staff room. “About Beatrice.”

Felicity’s heart stuttered — just a fraction — but she nodded.

Bee, for her part, ran out with her usual boundless enthusiasm, clutching a folded worksheet and humming the melody to some Vivaldi piece she’d overheard last week. Felicity kissed her cheek and passed her a bottle of cold water, then followed Miss Kate inside.

Two other teachers were waiting, seated politely with that expression that said we are deeply concerned and also don’t overreact.

“Bee’s been doing really well,” Miss Eleanor began. “Very well. But we’ve started noticing some things that… well, we wanted to flag.”

Felicity sat. “Such as?”

“She doesn’t… react the way most of the children do,” Miss Kate said delicately. “No tantrums. No outbursts. If someone pushes her, she just… moves. If the class gets loud, she goes quiet.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Felicity said slowly.

“No, of course not,” Moss Caroline jumped in. “But it’s… unusual. Concerning, even. We’re wondering if it might be worth evaluating her emotional range.”

Felicity blinked. “Because she doesn’t scream?”

“Or cry. Or talk over other children. She listens. She waits. She helps clean up when no one asks. At snack time, she shares without being prompted.”

“She’s empathetic,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exceptionally so,” Miss Kate agreed, as if that were a diagnosis.

Felicity’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Are you saying there’s something wrong with her because she’s kind and self-regulates?”

“Not wrong,” Miss Eleanor said quickly. “Just… atypical.”

Felicity had tried. She really had.

She’d bitten her tongue. She had kept her mouth shut. 

But this?

“You think something’s wrong with my daughter because she’s quiet?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Children her age are typically more… expressive—”

“She is expressive. Just because she doesn’t throw herself on the floor doesn’t mean she’s emotionally repressed.”

Miss Kate shifted in her seat. “It’s just something we’d like to observe further. Sometimes these traits stem from environment—”

Felicity’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Let me save you the speculation. She’s calm because we treat her like a person, not a problem. She’s gentle because she’s never had to scream to be heard. And she listens because we listen to her.”

A pause.

Miss Eleanor blinked rapidly, cheeks pinking.

Felicity stood.

“If Bee was loud and unmanageable, you’d call her disruptive. But because she’s quiet, she must be broken. Do you hear how absurd that is?”

Nobody spoke.

Felicity gathered her bag, expression cool.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect,” she added. “But if you’re going to label a three-year-old as suspiciously well-adjusted, then maybe re-read your developmental psych modules. All of them.”

And with that, she turned and walked out — just in time to find Bee gently rescuing a worm from the pavement and moving it to the grass.

“Ready, love?” Felicity asked, her voice soft again.

Bee nodded, slipping her hand into hers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked quietly.

Felicity crouched and kissed her temple. “Never.”

Because the world might not understand her daughter’s quiet brilliance.

But Felicity? She would fight for it every single time.

***

Felicity had barely made it past the coat hooks when she was intercepted.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor, with the same clipped tone she always used when she thought she was being subtle. “Do you have a minute to chat about Bee?”

Felicity’s spine stiffened. She offered a neutral smile. “Of course.”

Miss Eleanor led her to the side, just out of earshot of the pickup line. “We’ve been observing Bee’s behaviour over the past few weeks and… well, we’re slightly concerned.”

Felicity blinked. “About what?”

“She’s very… mature for her age.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exactly!” Miss Eleanor chirped. “And we’ve noticed she doesn’t… well, engage in the typical behaviors we expect at this age. She doesn’t throw tantrums. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes we’re not even sure she’s here until we turn around and she’s just… building an alphabet tower or alphabetizing the nature books.”

Felicity stared at her.

“I’m sorry, are you concerned that my daughter is well-behaved?”

“She’s very… compliant,” Eleanor said, with the faintest wince, as if the word tasted wrong. “She listens too well. Doesn’t push boundaries. Never screams or throws tantrums.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Felicity said slowly. 

“It’s just… unusual,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice like she was revealing something terrible. “She uses complete sentences. She lines up her toys by material and colour. She thanks the classroom aides without prompting. She doesn’t interrupt story time. She’s never once needed a time-out.”

“And this is… bad?”

“It’s atypical,” Eleanor stressed. “Children this age should still be testing limits. We’re wondering if she’s suppressing emotion. Or possibly masking.”

Felicity exhaled. Hard.

“She’s not masking. She’s self-regulating,” she said flatly. “She has a secure attachment style and a predictable environment at home. She has space to feel safe. She doesn’t need to scream to feel seen.She’s just… happy. We do emotional work at home. We talk. We teach. We model. You don’t see tantrums because she’s not trying to earn attention. She already has it.”

Miss Eleanor blinked.

Felicity crossed her arms. “If you ever do notice her in distress—if she starts withdrawing or acting out or going quiet in a different way—I want to know immediately. But please stop treating her self-regulation as a red flag. Not all children need to be loud to be healthy.”

Miss Eleanor flushed. “Of course. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t fit your expectations,” Felicity said tightly, “but I am not going to apologize for raising a child who understands her own feelings and trusts her environment.”

There was a long silence.

Then Felicity walked past the clipboard, past the chart of developmental milestones, and straight to Bee—who looked up with bright eyes and said, “Mama! I made you a pigeon out of pipe cleaners.”

Felicity knelt and hugged her tight.

“Best pigeon ever,” she whispered, and meant it. 

Bee grinned. “Can we make mushroom soup later?”

“Absolutely.”

She took her daughter’s hand, turned back to Eleanor, and said — as calmly as she could manage — “Please don’t pathologize her calm just because it makes your classroom quieter.”

And with that, she walked out of the building.

4. The Protest

It was nearly pick-up time, and Felicity was early — for once. She lingered outside the classroom with her coat still half-buttoned, scrolling through a work email when Miss Julia waved her over with that careful, tight-lipped smile that meant “We have notes.”

Felicity braced herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” Julia began. “Just wanted a quick moment to talk about Bee. Nothing major, just… a few things we’ve been noticing socially.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“She’s very sweet,” Julia said — the kind of tone people use when they’re about to say but. “She shares well. Listens. Helps clean up. Very mature for her age.”

Another pause.

Felicity waited.

“It’s just — we’ve noticed she lets other kids take toys right out of her hands without standing up for herself. And she doesn’t always speak up when someone skips her turn, or if a game gets too rough. We’re a bit worried she’s not asserting herself. That she’s letting other kids walk all over her.”

Felicity’s mouth tightened.

“Did it occur to you,” she said coolly, “that maybe the other children shouldn’t be walking all over her in the first place?”

Julia blinked. “We just want to make sure she’s building resilience.”

“She is resilient,” Felicity said, voice calm but edged in steel. “She was in the NICU for the first three weeks of her life. She sat through a cardiologist appointment two days before her second birthday without flinching. She’s fluent in kindness, not confrontation — and that’s not a weakness.”

Julia opened her mouth again, but Felicity cut in. “If she’s uncomfortable, she tells me. If she’s overwhelmed, she seeks quiet. She doesn’t scream or shove — she removes herself.”

“I just worry that she’s not developing the ability to self-advocate.”

“She does self-advocate. She just doesn’t do it by yelling. Bee knows her own mind better than most adults I’ve met. And if another child repeatedly ignores her boundaries, maybe the question shouldn’t be about Bee’s assertiveness. Maybe it should be about why that behavior is allowed in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “It’s just important she learns not to be a pushover.”

“She’s not a pushover,” Felicity said, voice cool now. “She’s three, and she has empathy. She doesn’t hit or yell. She shares. She lets things go because they don’t matter to her. But when something does matter — when it’s her stuffed frog or the storybook she loves — she’ll hold her ground.”

“That’s not what we’ve observed—”

“Because she’s smart enough to pick her battles,” Felicity interrupted softly. “And because you don’t see what she’s like at home, when she’s explaining to her father why the frog gets a seat at the table, or insisting we play the same memory game four times in a row until she wins.”

She paused, gaze steady.

“You’re not raising her. We are. And we are teaching her when to hold the line, and when kindness is more powerful than claiming the toy first.”

Miss Julia opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind them, Bee came skipping down the hall, her curls slightly lopsided from the day, her paper crown from craft time slightly askew.

“Mama!” she beamed. “Guess what? I let Henry borrow my glue stick, even though he never shares his paint.”

Felicity crouched to hug her. “That was generous of you, bumblebee.”

“I think he needed it,” Bee said seriously. “His crown fell apart. Mine didn’t.”

“I bet it didn’t,” Felicity murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She took her daughter’s hand and turned back once, calm and composed. “We’re not raising her to win playground wars. We’re raising her to know her worth doesn’t come from pushing the loudest.”

And that was the end of that.

Bee tugged her hand gently. “Can we go home now?”

“Definitely.”

Felicity stood and gave Miss Julia one final, polite smile.

“She might be soft-spoken,” she said, voice pleasant and sharp as glass, “but make no mistake. Beatrice knows exactly who she is. And that’s not something I’ll ever teach her to shrink.”

Then she took her daughter’s hand and left without another word.

***

Felicity knew something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Not from Bee — who was calmly drawing little frogs in a corner with a pink crayon clutched in her left hand — but from the way Miss Julia looked up like she’d been waiting.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said, that same faux-gentle tone wrapped in tight-lipped concern. “Could I have a word?”

Again?

She nodded, stepping aside as Bee waved from her corner, already announcing, “Mama, I gave Hugo a lecture today!” like that was perfectly normal.

Felicity raised a brow. “Oh?”

Miss Julia’s smile tightened. “Yes, about that.”

They moved near the coat hooks. Felicity braced herself.

“There was a small… altercation,” Julia began.

Felicity blinked. “Bee? My child who apologizes to furniture?”

“Hugo took the magnifying glass she was using during nature station,” Julia said. “And when Bee asked for it back and he said no… she didn’t let it go.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “She asserted herself.”

“She told him, and I quote,” Julia said, checking her notes — her notes — “that it wasn’t kind to take something mid-use, and that he could wait his turn like everyone else. When he laughed, she told him she would be speaking to an adult, and that sharing only works if both people agree.”

Felicity’s mouth twitched. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Well, then she… sat down in front of the nature tray and told everyone that until Hugo returned it, she wouldn’t move.”

“So she staged a protest.”

Miss Julia frowned. “It disrupted the flow of the station.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Because she asked for fairness?”

“She was very firm. Quite… unbending.”

“She asked for something politely. Was told no. Stood her ground. Warned she’d escalate. Then followed through.”

“It’s just that—last time, we discussed how she was too passive.”

“Yes,” Felicity said flatly. “And now she’s too assertive?”

“She could’ve come to a teacher immediately instead of creating a stand-off.”

“She tried to resolve it on her own. Respectfully. Which you flagged as a developmental concern the last time. So now that she’s advocating for herself—politely, might I add—it’s a problem again?”

Julia hesitated. “We just want her to strike a balance.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said, voice low and firm. “She doesn’t need to be perfect at conflict navigation. She needs to feel safe enough to say ‘this isn’t fair’ and be taken seriously.”

Julia looked mildly uncomfortable. “It just caught us off guard.”

“She was taught to speak gently first. Then stand her ground if kindness doesn’t work. And frankly, that’s more emotional regulation than I see in most adults.”

There was a pause.

Felicity reached for Bee’s cardigan. “I’m proud of her,” she added, quieter. “And if your takeaway from this is that she was too composed while being mistreated, then maybe your focus is off.”

5. The Mechanic

The first red flag was Miss Caroline’s tone — that overly careful cadence that meant someone was about to say something profoundly stupid with a polite smile.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said as Felicity arrived at pick-up, Bee’s hoodie slung over one arm and a spare tyre gauge still in her coat pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Felicity replied evenly.

Bee darted ahead toward her cubby. Miss Caroline waited until she was out of earshot before stepping slightly to the side, just enough to imply Serious Educational Concerns™.

“It’s about something Beatrice’s been sharing with the class this week. She’s been telling the other children she helps fix cars.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yes, well…” Caroline’s smile strained. “Yesterday she said she replaced a belt drive on a Daimler and… recalibrated a carburetor?”

“She did,” Felicity said, already irritated.

“She’s three,” Miss Caroline replied, as though that explained everything.

“And Bee’s been coming to work with me since she was a few weeks old. That particular Daimler is a restoration project I’ve had ongoing with a friend. Bee did most of the bolt placement herself. If you want to test her, you can hand her a ratchet set and ask her to identify sizes in metric and imperial.”

“She told one of the boys that she reassembled a gearbox,” Caroline added, as though accusing Felicity’s daughter of claiming she’d flown to the moon.

“She did that too,” Felicity said. “With my supervision. And torque charts.”

There was a brief pause.

Miss Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s just that… some of the children think she’s making things up. We don’t want her getting in trouble for lying.”

Felicity smiled, thin and tight. “She’s not lying. She has excellent recall and a near perfect memory. If Bee says she did something mechanical, odds are, she did.”

“Right,” Caroline said, clearly still trying to compute. “It’s just… unusual. Most children pretend to be mermaids or astronauts—”

“Bee prefers pretending to be a pit lane engineer,” Felicity said. “She likes impact wrenches. And ballast weights. Her father brings her telemetry data to colour in.”

Caroline laughed awkwardly. “Oh — is he a mechanic too?”

Felicity blinked. “No. He’s a driver.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “…Like a delivery driver? Or a taxi service?”

Felicity inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No. Like a Formula 1 driver. He drives a McLaren at over 300 kilometers an hour while managing energy deployment and brake migration settings,” she said calmly. “He handles complex race engineering telemetry on a regular basis. So — no. Not quite pizza delivery.”

Miss Caroline turned a frankly amazing shade of pink.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

At that moment, Bee came skipping over, waving a drawing with great enthusiasm. “Mama! I drew the brake system from Uncle Mal’s Jag! It’s accurate! I even did the cross-drilled rotors.”

Jenna peeked at the paper, which did indeed feature what looked like a labelled cutaway of a Jaguar brake disc assembly.

“Can we go home?” Bee asked. “I want to check the tyre pressure on the Peugeot. It looked squishy.”

Caroline made a faint choking sound.

Felicity smiled down at her daughter, then looked back at the teacher.

“Yes, love,” she said sweetly. “Let’s go check our PSI.”

As they walked out, Bee held her hand tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bumblebee?”

“Do teachers not know Papa is a race car driver?”

Felicity leaned down and kissed her curls. “I think they’re just catching up.”

+1: Oscar 

It started like most drop-offs.

Bee had insisted on wearing her chicken-themed socks and packing three small rocks “for educational purposes.” Oscar had carried her in one arm and her bag in the other, already rehearsing strategy notes in his head for a post-sim debrief. He wasn’t really expecting anything more than a “Have a good day, Papa!” and maybe a small argument about snack order.

Oscar should’ve known something was coming the moment Miss Caroline said, “Mr. Piastri, do you have a moment?”

It was that same tone — the one that made it sound like she was about to gently suggest his child might be possessed.

Oscar turned. Miss Caroline again. Her smile was pleasant, like always — but too polished. Carefully rehearsed. Like the kind PR did before they dropped a ‘concerned’ statement.

He gave her a small nod. “Sure.”

They stepped slightly to the side, out of earshot from Bee, who had already launched herself into a group of kids with all the dramatic flair of a physics demonstration.

“It’s about Beatrice,” she said. “Nothing serious. She’s doing wonderfully — incredibly bright, of course. We’ve just been noticing some recurring markers that suggest she may benefit from formal assessment.”

Oscar blinked, already tired. “What kind of assessment?”

“IQ testing,” she said brightly. “Just to help tailor curriculum options and give us a clearer picture of her developmental profile. It’s quite standard for children who show early gifted tendencies.”

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, the muscles tightening.

“She’s three.”

“Yes, and early identification—”

“She’s three,” he repeated, voice low.

“Your wife mentioned she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cognitive testing for Bee, which of course we understand—but we were hoping perhaps you might… talk to her about reconsidering?”

Oscar stared at her.

Talk to Felicity.

Like she hadn’t made herself very clear. Like she hadn’t already explained — politely, firmly, and with the weight of her own experience — why she didn’t want Bee tested at three years old. 

Oscar smiled. But it was the smile he used in press conferences when someone asked if he thought he should’ve gone for the overtake on Lap 27 and lost his front wing in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone even. “Are you asking me to override my wife’s decision?”

Miss Caroline blinked. “Not override—just… maybe you could help her understand the benefits—”

“She understands perfectly,” Oscar said, voice still calm. “She speaks three languages, teaches Bee how to calculate G-force with flour, and once wrote a statistical model to predict tomato yields in our garden for fun. If Felicity says no, it’s no. Full stop. Not ‘ask again later,’ not ‘see if her husband agrees.’ Just. No.”

Miss Caroline flushed. “Of course, we didn’t mean—”

“And for what it’s worth?” Oscar said, voice still low but no longer soft. “She’s Bee’s mother. Not just ‘your wife.’ She gets to have the final say.”

A pause.

“Unless Bee needs medical attention or starts dismantling the plumbing system,” he added dryly. “Then I get a vote.”

“Let me be absolutely clear,” he said, voice calm but steady now, like carbon fibre under pressure. “Whatever my wife says goes. She’s not hesitant. She’s informed.”

“She may not realise how helpful a formal measure can be for placement later—”

“She’s got a doctorate,” Oscar snapped, finally. “She’s been teaching Bee how to fix brake calipers since she was two. My wife knows exactly what it means, and she still said no. Which means you don’t get to go around her to try and change that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I… I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable,” Miss Caroline said awkwardly. “I just thought perhaps coming from you—”

“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” Oscar said. “She needs people to stop mistaking quiet for weakness and young for unsure.”

He glanced back at Bee.

“My daughter spent the first few weeks of her life hooked up to machines I can’t even pronounce,” he said quietly. “And if my wife says we’re not slapping an IQ score on our toddler like it’s a bloody badge of honour, then that is the final word. From both of us.”

Miss Caroline looked mildly stunned.

Oscar gave her a polite smile that absolutely wasn’t polite. “Thanks for your concern. I drive a car for a living, but my wife holds our life together. You can guess whose opinion wins.”

And then he turned and walked back toward the car, resisting the urge to punch his steering wheel.

He didn’t need a test to tell him what kind of person Bee was.

And anyone who underestimated Felicity?

Didn’t understand the reason Bee was that person at all.

*** The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Felicity didn’t move.

She was still curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, Bee’s tattered picture book in her lap — the one with the loose page that always made Oscar flinch because he kept meaning to fix it properly. Her fingers were idly tracing the corner of the cover, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

Oscar poured two mugs, dropped a chamomile teabag into hers, and crossed the living room.

“She’s out cold,” he said quietly, setting the mug beside her. “Didn’t even stir when I carried her to bed.”

“Long day,” Felicity murmured. “She was playing rocket launch with a laundry basket and physics blocks after dinner. Something about thrust-to-weight ratios.”

Oscar huffed a laugh and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he added, “Your favorite teacher cornered me again.”

Felicity didn’t look away from the book. “Caroline?”

“Mhm.”

Her jaw twitched, just slightly. “What now?”

“She wanted me to convince you about the intelligence test.”

That made Felicity look up, brows knitting. “Seriously?”

“She even smiled when she said it. Like she was doing me a favor.”

“And?”

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I told her no.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Not exactly.” He paused. “I said no. Then I told her that if you say no, that means the answer’s final. And that she could stop trying to go around you because I don’t entertain people who undermine my wife.”

Felicity blinked.

Oscar turned to look at her now, calm and clear. “I don’t care if Bee’s the next Einstein. She’s three. Her job is to eat blueberries and invent words and ask impossible questions about the moon.”

“She asked me yesterday if gravity works on dreams,” Felicity muttered.

“Exactly. You think a test helps that?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “I just hate the idea of someone putting her in a box she didn’t choose.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “And I told her that. I told her that you are Bee‘s mother, and that if anyone gets to decide how Bee grows up, it’s you.”

Felicity let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to thank me for siding with you. We’re a team.”

“I know. It’s just—some days I feel like I have to justify everything I say to them. Like they’re waiting for me to slip up and prove I’m just… young. Or weird. Or too intense.”

Oscar took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“They don’t get to define what kind of mother you are. You do. And you’re brilliant.”

She went quiet, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like protecting Bee would also mean protecting the version of myself I never got to be.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

And on the table, the tea went cold. But neither of them moved.

[vin-taege]

slasher summer (m)

Summary: erik gets more than a little excited because of your couple costume for a summer-ween party.

Genre: pwp! smut

Pairing: Erik Campbell x f!reader

Words: 4.9k

CW: Knife play (not a real knife!), mirror sex, face sitting, roleplay (kinda?), very brief panty kink (erik is a freak), gagging, light slapping, degradation

Note: 0% proofread, 100% self-indulgent

It was game over for Erik the second you walked out of the bathroom.

A major thing that you both bonded over was your love for horror films, especially with slashers. There’s just something so fun about watching a group of teenagers getting picked off one by one. Not to mention, how hot some of the killers are. This fixation of yours was something Erik loved to tease you about—not that you were ashamed.

There’s something weirdly sexy about a big, strong man in a mask chasing you. And when he catches you, he pins you against the wall, and sticks something inside you? Verbatim, you’ve explained this to Erik time and time again, only to be met with a soft snort—and at times, followed by rough sex.

This time, Julia and a bunch of her high school friends held a mini-reunion, which was mixed with a Summerween celebration. For the first time in your relationship, you have never seen Erik get so excited over a reunion of any kind. He immediately agreed to putting on a couple costume with you—but of course, done in a way special to only the two of you.

So here he was now, sitting on the foot of your bed, starting to sweat a little under the shimmery, black fabric of the Ghostface robe. He passed the plastic knife from gloved hand to gloved hand while he waited for you to finish your makeup. The mask was lying next to him, ready to be used for the night.

Just as he was about to get up to check on you, the bathroom door opened. You walked out, adding an extra sway to your hips. Subconsciously, Erik licked his lips. The white sweater hugged your figure, tucked under light, baggy jeans. The bob wig was a bit silly, so you made the executive decision to ditch it. You held the cardboard phone up and pressed it against your ear.

“Oh, Mr. Ghostface, the star of your movie is here,” you sing-songed. You walked towards Erik, yelping as he pulled you into his lap. His eyes roamed your body, briefly stopping at the dip of your v-neck, just above the swell of your breasts. You whispered, “Someone likes the costume.”

“As if you don’t like mine.”

He pressed his lips against yours, slowly, deeply. He coaxed your mouth open with his tongue, letting it dance against yours. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer. His hand wandered to your chest, kneading your breast over the fabric of the top.

“Erik,” you murmured, trying to pull away. His lips chased yours, continuing to kiss you between words. “We’ll be late.”

“What if we just don’t come?” He pulled away to smirk at you, only to be met with the usual response of you rolling your eyes. He pouted, leaning back into your neck. Finding your sweet spot, he went back to kissing you. This time they came hot and heavy.

You moaned softly as he marked you, alternating between nibbling and licking your skin. When he was satisfied, he sat back, admiring his work. Right under your jaw was a pretty little bruise. You could only hope that the strobe lights and alcohol could mask it.

“Happy?” You furrowed your brows, pretending to be angry, though far from it.

He chuckled, his laugh low and beautiful. “You’d really rather be at that party instead of letting me fuck your brains out?”

“I promised Jules I’d go. She put a lot of effort into planning this, okay?” You ruffled his hair, already getting up. “And Bobby kept talking about how excited he was to show us his costume.”

“He goes as ‘human Lightning McQueen’ every year! You’ve seen this before.” Erik groaned, dramatically plopping back onto the bed.

You giggled at his antics. “We’ll stay for only 30 minutes, and I swear we can book it.”

Just like that, Erik reanimated back to life, a pleased smile on his face. He hurriedly fitted the mask back over his head. Standing next to you in the mirror, he patiently waited as you reapplied your lip gloss.

“Smile for me, gorgeous.” His phone clicked, followed by a flash.

────୨ৎ────

Erik has been eyeing you like prey for the past ten minutes. There you sat, amidst a sea of Bobby’s football friends and Julia’s sorority sisters. True enough, Bobby was chugging a pint of Hice Pale Ale, ignorant of the liquid spilling into his shiny, red, racer jacket. The yellow “95” gleamed across his back. Beneath it, someone had taped some notebook paper with the word “kachow!” on it.

The last time you saw Julia was when she greeted you at the doorway. You almost didn’t recognize her with the red wig. Fake vines wrapped around her limbs, little leaves jutting out of them. They all connected to the back of her green dress, the hem distressed to look like foliage.

“Poison Ivy?” you grinned at her. Her eyes lit up. She hummed in approval, twirling around for you. When she spun back, she took one look at your couple costume and snorted.

“Woah, you guys really are freaky.” She pretended not to notice the hickey on underneath your jaw.

Since then, she’s been whisked away into the backyard. You could barely hear the trampoline springs over the booming music, making you feel as if the whole house was jumping along. Beside you, Stefani was telling you about her latest college troubles. You would’ve taken her more seriously if she weren’t dressed as a Disney-bound version of Mirabel Madrigal. She lost you two topics ago, when you caught Erik basically undressing you with his eyes from his side of the room. Not that you could see his blue irises—of course he kept the mask on.

There he was, your Ghostface. A constant reminder of your 30-minute deadline. He was so focused that he didn’t even drink. You tilted your head, biting your lip as Erik followed suit. He lifted a gloved hand, making a call sign against his ear. You brought your attention to your phone.

Nothing.

You raised your head to look back at him, only to find that he was gone. Glancing around the room, you tried looking for the bright, plastic mask. Still no Erik.

“Hey, you okay?” Stefani asked, looking around with you.

“Yeah, sorry. I just thought I saw Erik just a second ago.”

Right then, your phone buzzed, the screen lighting up. You held the caller screen up apologetically to Stefani. She waved you off, promising to get coffee with you the next day.

You side-stepped between bodies in various outfits, sighing in relief once you stepped out the front door. The music was fainter out in their porch, the air fresher. You took a deep breath of it before answering.

“Enjoying the party?”

Almost immediately, you scanned your surroundings. Save for a few costumed smokers, no one else was outside. You looked up at the windows looming over you, all of them blocked by curtains or blinds.

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head over finding me.” You could almost see Erik’s smirk deepen.

“What, you aren’t even gonna say the line?” you bit back sweetly.

“I already know what your favorite scary movie is,” he paused. “Just like how I already know that you’re out on the porch with wet panties. You thought I couldn’t see you rubbing your thighs together the entire time on the couch?”

Your breath hitched. Swallowing thickly, you heard him laugh. “You sure it’s not just the mask making your eyesight shitty?”

“You better fix your tone before I fix it for you.”

“Yeah? And how are you gonna do that when you aren’t even here?” You bit your lip nervously. It wasn’t beyond Erik to find a good, quiet spot out in the open and take you right there. Honestly, his primal need for you never failed to turn you on.

“That’s up to you to figure out, princess. I want to play a little game with you.”

“Wrong movie, smartass.”

“You mouthing off at me?” He chuckled as you stayed quiet, already slipping into subspace. You wanted to whine at him, to beg him to just take you home and fuck your brains out like he promised. But you also still had your pride, and if he wanted to prolong the chase, then damnit, you’ll give it to him before your ego takes a blow. “That’s more like it. What a good girl.”

“What do you want?”

“Do you know the game, ‘hot and cold’?” You perked up. The fucker was going to make you find him.

You took a tentative step towards the road. Erik, his eyes never leaving you from wherever he was, automatically responded. “Cold. Freezing, actually. You learn fast, smart girl.”

Turning around, you slipped back into the house, straining to hear him over all the noise. “Warm.”

You made your way to the kitchen, carefully surveying the packed crowd for even a glimpse of him. You felt eyes boring into the back of your neck. Before Erik could speak, you already knew he wasn’t there. Instead, you followed your gut, pointing you to the staircase.

Maneuvering around college kids passed out on the steps, you finally reached the second floor. The music was still going strong, but you could hear Erik clearly this time. Your eyes roamed across all the doors, some of them left ajar, others shut.

“Warmer.”

One by one, you peeked into each room. Before you could even fully step into one, Erik would already steer you away with an “uh-uh” or an even more annoying “cold, lukewarm.” Finally, you’ve exhausted all other options aside from the last door to the left. Without even looking inside, you already knew that it was Erik’s room, your backup hangout spot ever since he moved in with you.

The door was slightly opened, moonlight seeping into the floorboards as it strained against the sheer curtains. So that was how he could see you before.

“You’re on fire.” His voice was lower, dangerously quiet.

You pushed the door open with a creak. The room looked ordinarily chaotic, yet empty. A mountain of CDs was piled over his desk, next to the spot where he used to keep his PC. His sheets were a mess, a deep, blood red and crumpled. A single sock and a hoodie spilled from his tipped-over laundry bin. Laying neatly in the middle of the bed was the Ghostface mask.

Fully inside now, you shut the door softly behind you. At this point, Erik has fully succeeded in messing with you. You were horny, and now, a bit freaked out and spooked. The light still hasn’t been turned on. Your eyes were just starting to adjust to the darkness, the furniture farther away from you looking like dark splotches bleeding into his bedroom walls.

“Erik!” you whisper-shouted. You rolled your eyes, walking to the foot of his bed. All the noise from the party downstairs was muffled. It almost felt like you were in a separate place, an isolated reality where you lived out the character you dressed up as. Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t catch how the closet door slowly opened. Instead, you were glancing at the ceiling, calling out to him mockingly. “Oh, Mr. Ghostface, please don’t kill me! I want to be in the sequel!”

A clothed hand wrapped around your mouth, stifling the scream from your throat. The tip of a plastic knife pressed against your stomach, forcing you back into the masked man’s body. Something hard pressed against your ass, rutting teasingly against you.

“Finally found me, princess,” Erik drawled out.

Your heart hammered against your chest. Blood rushed to your ears, adrenaline fuelling you. You thrashed around in his grasp, fully playing into your role. His grip on you tightened, pushing you until you were pressed against the wall mirror.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, you asshole,” you whined as soon as he took his hand off your mouth. You grinded your ass into you, making him let out a groan.

“Shut up and hold this for me.” He pressed the knife handle sideways against your mouth. Like a brat, you pressed your lips together tightly. Sighing at your antics, he drew a hand back and slapped your ass. When you yelped, he quickly slotted the knife handle in between your teeth. “There we fuckin’ go. Didn’t have to be so difficult.”

Sloppy kisses trailed down your neck. Erik took his time going over the marks he had already made, making a show of holding your gaze through the mirror as he sucked and bit on the little unmarked skin you had left. He pinned your hips against the glass, bucking into your jeans. You swore you were leaking into the denim.

“Did you have fun playing? I still need to give you a prize. Still need to stick something inside you. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” He softened his voice condescendingly.

He let go of your hips, hands travelling up your stomach. His fingers caught on the fabric of your shirt, lifting it teasingly, before settling on the neckline. You saw his knuckles tighten, your eyes widening as you shook your head in protest. Smirking at you, Erik ripped your shirt down the divot of the v-neck. He pulled the tattered fabric under your breasts, bunching it alongside your bra. You shivered as your nipples pressed against the cool glass.

Erik didn’t waste any time. His large hands enveloped your breasts, offering warmth as he kneaded the flesh. You moaned as he rolled your nipples between his fingers, lightly tugging at them. Gritting your teeth, you threw your head back, letting it fall against his shoulder. The additional friction from the leather gloves made your head swim. He cooed, gently prying the knife from your mouth. Strings of saliva fell from it, dribbling down your cheeks and throat.

“You look so good like this, princess,” he whispered into your ear.

He pressed the tip of the knife into your sternum, putting just enough pressure for it to leave a red mark, but not to actually hurt. You brought your head back down, looking at your position. Erik stood behind you, still fully clothed—save for the mask. And you, on the opposite end of the spectrum, looked spent even before you had properly begun.

Your hair was a mess, stray strands sticking to your cheeks with a mix of sweat and spit. Red lovebites littered the sides of your neck, some of them only deepening in color. What used to be your thin sweater was now a mess of fabric crumpled under your breasts, almost as if framing them. You were panting hard.

On the valley between your breasts, Erik ran the knife up and down. He pressed the flat side onto one tit, slowly scraping it until the tip was digging lightly into your nipple. You moaned, steadying yourself against the mirror. “What are you gonna do to me, you psycho?”

Erik chuckled darkly, withdrawing the knife from you. He turned his attention to your pants, quickly unbuttoning them and unzipping. He yanked them down your legs, letting you shift from one foot to another so you could kick them away. With his free hand, he held you by the throat, dragging you with him as he walked backwards. Hitting the foot of the bed, he pulled you into his lap.

Tucking the knife into the waistband of your panties, he pried your thighs open. You breathed heavily, staring at yourself in the mirror. Reaching around you, Erik rubbed your slit through the ruined fabric.

“I’m gonna have some more fun with you. I wouldn’t want to waste something as precious as this.” He brought his fingers up to your face, pressing them together and separating them, a string of your wetness connecting the digits together. “You’re a sick little whore for enjoying this, aren’t you? Getting wrecked up here while your friends don’t know any better.”

“I-I’m not,” you protested weakly, shuddering when he circled his fingers around your clit. Subconsciously, you arched your back, chasing after his touch. He added pressure, listening in bliss as whines and moans spilled out of your mouth.

“Yeah, you’re not what? Enjoying this, or a slut? Can’t make your mind up when you’re too busy gushing through your panties, huh?” With his other hand, he unsheathed the knife from your panties, pressing the dull blade against your neck. His ministrations grew faster, coiling the rope in your stomach tighter. He growled into your ear, “Look at yourself when I ruin you.”

As soon as you tilted your head towards the mirror, you came undone. Erik rubbed you off, slowly down as you rode out your orgasm. Mentally, you thanked the loud music, clouding the animalistic shriek you just let out.

Limbs turned to jelly, you collapsed back into Erik’s chest. He set the knife aside, slipping both fingers into the waistband of your panties. With your remaining strength, you lifted your hips, letting him peel the ruined fabric off you. You watched, entranced, as he uncovered your wet core. Slick coated the sides of your thighs, dripping down into the curve of your ass.

Erik held your panties in his fist, closing his eyes as he took a whiff. “Jesus, I’d get drunk on that.”

“Fucking freak,” you muttered teasingly, grinning at him.

“What the fuck was that?” He raised an eyebrow. He cut you off with a sharp smack to your cunt. Though not painful, the contact made you jolt in surprise. He then cupped a hand over your heat, soothing you. “Color?”

“Green.”

He lifted you off, stretching your legs as he placed you gently on the bed. You waited patiently as he kicked his boots off, lying down so that the top of his head was pointing towards the mirror. He brought his hands up, gesturing for you to come to him. “Take a seat on your throne, princess.”

You chuckled, scrambling to get on top of him. As you slung a leg over his chest, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You lifted your hips, admiring the sight of Erik’s face between your legs. He grabbed both of your thighs, guiding your pussy to his mouth.

“Can you breathe?” You checked on him.

“Don't need to,” he grinned lazily. You rolled your eyes, slowly dropping your weight until you felt his tongue part your folds. You slotted perfectly on him, his gorgeous nose brushing against your clit.

“Fuck yeah,” you hissed, feeling him lick up your slit. His lips suckled your clit, alternsting between kissing and licking.

You whimpered, rolling your hips in time with each flick of his tongue. Steadying youself, you leaned back, planting your arms on the top of his thighs. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched yourself ride his face.

The feeling was addicting, and the noises were pure filth. Erik didn't shy away from moaning in contentment—the act of eating you out was already so sacred to him. He was loud, messy. Nothing turned him on more than to slowly become lightheaded from being smothered by your pretty pussy.

His grip on you tightened, and you thought it was a sign for you to give him some air. So, like a good girlfriend, you moved to lift your hips up. Almot immediately, Erik clamped down your thighs, digging his fingers into your flesh. He lifted his head up, chasing after your dripping cunt.

“Get the fuck back on me,” he growled, eyes dripping with want, pupils blown out the point where there were only blue slivers around it.

You wanted to laugh at his eagerness, but it was cut off by a moan. You relaxed your thighs again, wholly presenting yourself to him. He focused on your clit, licks getting slobbier. He sucked loudly, smacking his lips as he devoured you.

It felt so good you had started to tear up. The feeling of his tongue on the bundle of nerves consumed all of your thoughts. As your moans got more high-pitched, you shifted, leaning forward so he had better access to your clit. You knotted your fingers into his hair, bringing him impossibly closer to your cunt.

“F-fuck, it's so fucking good baby. So close. ‘M close, ‘m gonna cum. Fuck, I'm gonna cum—!”

You threw your head back, tears leaking as you screwed your eyes shut. Beneath you, Erik kept a firm hold on your thighs, refusing to let you off. Your body shook as you came hard, mind going black for a few seconds until you've reached the end of the high.

Clumsily, you rolled off him when he finally loosened his grip. You collapsed next to him, chest moving rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. Beside you, Erik took a few gulps of air before sitting up as if he wasn't inches away from passing out just a few seconds ago.

“What's with the stupid look on your face?” You tried to sass him, though it came out pathetically in between breaths.

He scoffed, smile only growing wider. He made a show of licking his lips. Your cheeks heated up when the moonlight hit his face, revealing the aftermath. Slick coated his mouth, dribbling across his cheeks and down neck. The tip of his nose glistened, equally covered in your juices.

He draped himself over you, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss. His lips moved slowly against yours, tongue slipping sensually into your mouth. You moaned softly as you tasted yourself on him.

“You still alive or are you tapping out, final girl?” He asked when he pulled away. His words were playful, but you could hear the worry in his gentle voice.

“Drew Barrymore was the first ever kill in the franchise, you poser.”

He snorted at your monotoned delivery. You quirked your lip, offering a small smile. Your eyes landed on his crotch, a prominent tent poking into your thighs.

“I remember talk of sticking something inside me?” You wiggled your eyebrows.

“Oh princess, that was a promise.”

As if flipping a switch, Erik's eyes darkened. He hitched up the thin robe, unbuckling his belt and slipping it out of his belt loops. He wrapped it in between both hands, tugging harshly to make it snap. You rubbed your thighs expectantly, doe-eyed as he took both of your wrists and brought them above your head, tying them together.

He sighed in relief when he finally freed himself. Your mouth watered at the sight of his cock, pre-cum dripping from the red tip. It curved towards his stomach, a vein wrapping around his thick shaft. The metal ball of his prince albert glinted invitingly.

Erik fisted himself slowly, looking down at you like a present he can't wait to tear into. His gaze started at your mascara-streaked face. It crawled down to your tits, chest heaving in anticipation. Finally, it settled on your pussy, the oasis in between your legs. He's gotten you so wet that a damp patch had started to form in the covers.

“Why don't you take a picture, it will last longer,” you huffed impatiently. His eyes snapped back to yours, a dangerous glint in them. You swallowed thickly.

He looked pissed. Pissed in a way that got your thighs rubbing and your throat dry.

He clamped a hand over your mouth, then looked around, as if trying to find something. You caught the way his eyes lit up when he finally saw it. He repositioned his hand so he was holding your jaw. Squeezing down, he forced your mouth open, quickly stuffing your ruined panties in.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” he mimicked you. He grasped the base of his dick, slapping it twice on your clit. “I'm not taking your shit anymore, princess.”

“That fucking mouth,” he punctuated each word with a light slap to your cheek. “—is a punishment waiting to happen.”

Suddenly, in one move, he buried himself into you. A muffled scream tore its way out your throat, the sudden intrusion becoming a mix of pleasure and pain. You blinked back tears, wriggling your hips away.

“Yeah? That hurt, princess? Little slut gonna cry?” He goaded, bringing his hips back only to thrust into you again. You mewled, seeing stars as the tip of his piercing brushed your cervix. “Not so fucking smart now, huh?”

He continued to fuck you like that, slow and deep. Each time he snapped his hips, he hit the delicious spot that made your brain short-circuit. You gasped out, shuddering breaths barely making it through the balled up cloth.

Everything felt too much, yet too little. He had hooked his arms under your shoulders, hands pressed flat against the top of your head. Erik used you to push himself deeper, pulling you towards him whenever he sheathed himself in you. You were leaking from both ends, tears streaming from pleasure as your pussy gushed and clenched around his thick cock.

“Fuck, you take me so well. Look at this greedy hole, so fucking eager to get filled with cock,” he flicked your clit, which was still sensitive from the earlier round. You cried out, arching out of the mattress. “All bark, no bite. What's wrong, huh? Out of words?”

“Fuck you,” you wanted to scream out. It came out disjointed, more like an “uck ou” intermixing with a prolonged “aah!” when he hit your g-spot again. He widened his eyes in mock sympathy.

“Oh, you poor thing. Is it too much for your pretty head? Fucking you dumb aren't I?”

He pulled out and—in contrast to his harsh words—gently rolled you onto your stomach. Caging you with an arm on either side, he re-entered easily from all the slick you've made. His scent, alcohol and menthol, his moans, his leather, his hair trickling into your own as he bowed his head—everything about him took over you.

No other thoughts, your eyes glazed over, arms dangling off the footboard, wrists marked by the belt—Erik shifted gears and pistoned in and out of you like his life depended on it. You could already feel another orgasm building up in your lower belly. Your walls clenched around him, toes curling as he abused that fucking spot that made you see stars.

“Look,” he rasped, breath stuttering. Using a hand, he pulled your hair back, tilting your head up. You whined, locking eyes with your wrecked reflection. The girl in the mirror barely resembled you anymore, eyes unfocused, neck in shades of red, face coated in spit and sweat and tears—so much tears from how good it all felt. It spurred you more, moans growing high-pitched.

“I know, I know,” Erik cooed. “Gonna cum? Cream all over my cock, princess, go ahead.”

He sped up, the room filling with loud sounds of skin slapping against skin. Your orgasm washed over you like a rolling tide. Your legs shook, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you bit down hard on your panties. Meanwhile, Erik thrusted shallowly a few more times before burying himself to the hilt. His chin laid against your shoulder, hot breath heavy on you when he let out a long groan.

Ropes of his cum spurted against your walls, filling you with warmth. Sweat dripped from his fringe, dropping to intermix with the light sheen on your shoulder blade. His weight pinned you to the bed, an almost comforting feeling as you both stilled—spent.

Sluggish, he reached into your lips, pulling your panties out and chucking them into the oblivion that was his room. You sighed in relief, opening your jaw a few times to get the ache out. Next, he fumbled with his belt, eventually getting it loose. It fell to the floor with a small, metallic thud.

You panted into the sheets, dizzy as you came down from the high. You were too out of it to recognize him sitting back up, nor the quiet ruffling of sheets. Erik grabbed the hair at the base of your scalp, pulling your head back. You barely registered seeing yourself in his phone camera—eyes glossy, lips and chin slicked with spit. Erik loomed behind you, equally a mess but doubly cocky. He fixed the mask back over his head before feeling around for his phone. When he found it, he bit the tip of the glove on his free hand, dragging it off. He stretched his arm past you, angling the device so you were both on screen.

“Smile for me, gorgeous,” he echoed, snapping a picture.

────୨ৎ────

It was reaching 3 a.m. when you finished. You vaguely remembered the feeling of a damp cloth wiping in between your legs, followed by a fluffy towel. You were still incoherent when Erik had carried you over to Bobby's room, now fitted with his oversized shirt and boxers.

“Not your room,” you had mumbled into his shoulder. Your voice was rough, the result of screaming your lungs out and a dry mouth.

“I know, baby, but I'm not letting you sleep on sticky sheets.” He disappeared downstairs to a mellowing party, and came back with a glass of water. He was still wearing his sweat-soaked costume.

After making you drink water, he quickly changed into new clothes and laid down next to you. You shuffled around, letting him place an arm under your head as you faced him to cuddle.

“I think I passed out,” you whispered. You could feel his chest rumble with a chuckle.

“I might have, too.” He threaded his fingers through your hair, attempting to untangle the knots. “You okay?”

“Won't be walking well for a week, but so worth it,” you grinned lazily. “You ruined my costume though.”

“I'll buy you a new one. Or we can go as someone else next time?”

You hummed in consideration. “Pearl and the projectionist?”

“You know the way to my heart.”

[potatodemon-beesensible]

I really like how closeted Kris looks here. Like… genuinely not feeling right being human and trying to present as a goat monster like the rest of their family. Reminds me of when I REALLY did not want to be masculine and went full femboy. Nowadays I’m still that, just more confident and assured in it. I still hate presenting as masc ^^”

Like… when I say “masculine/masc” I mean outright short buzzcut tanktop kinda masculine. Frankly… I’d be fine wearing a tank top since my hair’s all grown out and fluffy now. Because it’d feel more andro i and I love androgynous fashion. Like… I always love going for andro with feminine vibes y’know? Most of the time that’s how I’ll dress. But there was a time I wore pink every day and tried concealing myself as much as possible. Had a pink beanie to hide my short hair, it bothered me if I wasn’t wearing my fem shorts, I kept my legs shaved, all that. Well- any leg hair I have grates on me and I hate looking at it even now. But yea. Oh, also always wore a scarf because I was self conscious about my shoulders. They aren’t that broad and if anything people’ve called them skinny or average but my mind’s always conflated it. Nowadays I’m cool with my shoulders. I used to have a lot of dysphoria with them though.

Okay, back to the comic. First off, Kris is dressing as Ralsei. Ralsei being Kris’s ideal version of themself they had back in middle school is really cool to me. A part of them exploring their identity. Even now in the current events of Deltarune with Kris being a teenager they’re uncomfortable seeing other humans in that one library book… so I imagine anytime it’s pointed out that they’re human is highly uncomfortable for them. Which may be a part of why they’re so depressed by the time the game starts. Everyone in town didn’t seem to think much of them wearing the horn headband around everywhere as a kid… I think it was Kris trying to express that they REALLY weren’t comfortable being referred to as a human. And as everyone kept brushing it off without picking up on the signs Kris got more depressed, closeted, less genuine. In Chapters 3-4 we see that Kris has genuinely opened up and can share some REALLY cute and happy moments with Susie. And it’s cool to see them heal and progress in such small yet significant ways.

This also adds some cool layers to Kris being defensive about Ralsei looking different from Asriel. Because if the Ralsei fursona theory’s correct then Ralsei’s a lot more personal to Kris than we may have thought… of course Kris wouldn’t feel particularly close to Ralsei as meeting the middle school you’s ideal version of themselves would be pretty awkward. But Ralsei does seem to have grown on Kris in the more recent chapters… assumedly because of how much more genuine Ralsei’s being. Which makes Keis more comfortable around Ralsei since he’s not putting on a front all the time. Like… Ralsei doesn’t seem like the kind of person Kris’d hang out with one on one in the same sense as they’d do with Susie. But Kris does very genuinely care and basically shushes us if we try hurting Ralsei’s feelings. Which is… ungodly adorable. So damn sweet.

In other words, in Kris’s eyes Ralsei is one of the homies. That’s how I’d sum up their relationship. Also, I wouldn’t doubt it if part of the reason Ralsei could follow Kris and Susie from fountain to fountain without a Light World Object is because he’s Kris’s shadow basically. As long as Kris is in a Dark World, Ralsei belongs due to being a part of Kris’s identity at one point. And now Ralsei’s getting close to Susie and he means MORE than the purpose he was assigned. He’s his own person now with people he wants to live for and that terrifies him after so long not considering himself to be one. Which… hits for me. Very 1:1 to my own life. I love muh fluffy boi ;-;

Ralsei’s ona my trauma comfort characters now. He just is. Also just a normal comfort character but ye. Fluffy boy.

Also Kris getting euphoria from their nose being compared to Noelle’s is… so damn precious.

one step closer to fitting in

close ups:

[bueckersworld]

halley’s comet

synopsis: on a rainy afternoon in the campus library, you meet paige bueckers by chance. what starts as a quiet moment turns into something soft and unexpected — a slow-burn connection that feels a little like fate, even if she doesn’t believe in it.

content warnings: soft romantic tension, slow burn, themes of emotional vulnerability and openness, lowercase intended.

authors note: i really like how this turned out, lmk what you think !

WORD COUNT: 2.9k info. masterlist. taglist.

paige never put much stock in fate. she didn’t believe in signs, or divine timing, or whatever people meant when they said meant to be. that kind of thinking belonged to dreamers and poets — the ones who found meaning in broken clocks or streetlights flickering at just the right moment.

she preferred plans. structure. routine.

get up. go to practice. finish class. get it done.

repeat.

don’t stray too far. don’t get distracted.

so when she ended up in the library on a tuesday afternoon — not because she had to be there, but just because the rain felt too heavy to walk through without purpose — it felt like a pause. a detour. but not a sign. not anything more than a quiet place to sit and be still for a while.

it was mostly empty. the second floor always was. paige liked the way it wrapped around you — tall windows, rows of shelves, the occasional whisper floating by but never lingering. she sank into a chair near the back, stretched out her legs, and let the rhythm of the rain tapping on glass lull her into something soft and shapeless.

she wasn’t reading. not really. her eyes skimmed the words on the page, but none of them stuck. her thoughts drifted, slow and unhurried, like everything inside her had finally exhaled for the first time that day.

and then she heard it.

a hum. quiet. warm. a little off-key in a way that made it feel real. not a playlist, not a ringtone. a person.

you.

you didn’t notice her at first — not when you turned the corner with a coffee tucked between your arm and your ribs, a stack of books in your hands, and a bag that kept slipping off your shoulder like it had a vendetta against you. you looked like someone who’d taken on too much without really meaning to. maybe that’s what caught her attention.

you were muttering something under your breath — maybe a lyric, maybe a complaint, maybe both — when one of the books slipped. it hit the floor with a quiet thump, and your coffee wobbled dangerously.

paige stood up instinctively.

you blinked up at her, startled, as she knelt to grab the fallen book. and when you smiled — crooked, sheepish, like yeah, that was embarrassing but also kind of funny — paige felt something flicker in her chest. not big. not explosive. but definite.

“you okay?” she asked.

“i swear i’m usually more graceful than this,” you said, laughing softly.

paige handed you the book, her fingers brushing yours. your skin was cold from the rain, or maybe hers was just warm from sitting still too long. either way, the contact lingered in her memory for longer than it should have.

you found a spot a few tables down, but you didn’t disappear. every now and then, you glanced over. and so did she.

when she finally got up to leave, you did something paige didn’t expect: you looked up and said, “hey — if you ever want the window seat, just say the word.”

your smile was a little braver this time.

paige smiled back. “i think i like it better when someone’s humming.”

and that’s how it started.

quietly.

softly.

like a comet passing overhead — brief, unexpected, but unforgettable.

after that, the library became something else.

you showed up on tuesdays, sometimes thursdays, always with too many books and a coffee that steamed up the lenses of your glasses. paige started choosing her corner based on where you sat. she told herself it was coincidence the first few times. routine. just like everything else.

but then she started bringing two granola bars instead of one.

and taking her earbuds out.

and looking for you the second she walked in.

the third time, she brought you a book.

it wasn’t much — a small poetry collection she’d picked up from the free shelf near the front. she didn’t even know if you liked poetry. but the cover made her think of you — all soft blues and rain-colored edges — and she figured it was worth the risk.

“i don’t know if it’s your thing,” she said, setting it down on your table, “but it felt like you.”

you opened it right there, gently, like it might fall apart if you didn’t handle it right.

you didn’t say anything for a moment. then you looked up and said, “thank you. i’ve never had anyone bring me a book before.”

and that stuck with her too.

the first time you sat next to her instead of across the aisle, neither of you acknowledged it. she just pulled her legs in to make room, and you placed your coffee between you. your shoulder barely touched hers when you shifted, but she felt it anyway — that small, electric jolt that made her chest tighten and soften all at once.

“you’re quieter today,” she said.

“i hum when i’m nervous.”

she glanced over. “nervous now?”

you smiled without looking up. “a little.”

she didn’t know what to do with that. but it stayed in her head the rest of the day.

she learned things about you in pieces.

you liked reading at night, especially when it rained. you loved sweet coffee but never finished it before it went cold. you always carried pens but rarely used them. you doodled in the margins of your notebooks. you wore sweaters that always hung a little loose, and your socks never matched.

you made the world feel slower. lighter.

like maybe not everything needed to be planned.

sometimes, when it got too quiet, you’d lean over and ask her what she was thinking. and paige — who’d spent her whole life not talking about feelings unless they came in the form of a win/loss record — started answering.

it was raining again the day it shifted.

you were both at your usual table. your hair was still damp from walking in without an umbrella, and she handed you a napkin from her pocket without saying a word. your fingers brushed again.

“what are you thinking?” you asked her, voice barely above a whisper.

paige looked at you. really looked. your lashes were clumped together, your nose slightly pink from the cold, your smile soft like you knew something she didn’t.

she swallowed. “that i want to kiss you.”

your breath caught — barely, but enough.

“okay,” you whispered.

so she did.

not right there in the library, no. she waited until you both stood up to leave, and you paused by the door, turning to say something else, maybe something ordinary. and she didn’t let you. she leaned in, kissed you slow, steady, like she had all the time in the world.

you tasted like coffee and rain and something sweet she hadn’t figured out yet.

and when you kissed her back, it felt like the stars didn’t need to align after all.

maybe they already had.

she walked you home that night.

you didn’t let go of her hand the entire way.

and somewhere deep in paige’s chest, something shifted.

not loud. not blinding.

but soft and steady.

like a comet, circling back again.

right on time.

© bueckersworld

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold @lol-12n @sayurireidotcom @slt4kavanagh @kl0verk @agnesblight @scarlett177 @syraxsbigfanfr @youmeandjennessey @asapeveryday @avvwritesstufff @rand0mmmgg

[softtdaisy]

_____confessions cookies

pairing. Aaron Hotchner x media liaison!reader (part of the dating game)

summary. after your conversation, Aaron needs answers: would you consider him, your boss, to start your dating game?

words count. 2 308

a/n. thank you everyone for the nice feedback on the first part, I'm so happy you enjoy this series as much as I do!! I promise the dates are starting in the next part 👀

___the dating game masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

Aaron had a problem. You.

Well, not you. But the fact you had been on his mind non-stop these past days.

“Can you just imagine how much easier it would be if we could just discover the dating world again with someone we know? Someone we trust?” 

He had learned to know these 26 words by heart. The intonation, the way you paused after your first question. The little sigh at the end, like you had been desperately trying to say these things for so long. How you sounded like you believed no one could understand your feelings.

But that wasn’t the worst part, no.

The worst part was that he felt like you didn’t care as much as he did. He felt like you didn’t care at all.

When you came back to the office on Monday, you greeted him with a very professional “Hotch.” 

The team knew you used a different tone for each one of them. You sounded protective with Spencer and in a constant private joke with Emily. 

As for Aaron, there was always this sweet and encouraging smile, telling him you would have his back no matter what. And if he could taste your tone when you said his name, Aaron would notice some vanilla hint: a safe bet, sure, but something reassuring. That was how he liked to picture it. Maybe it was indeed reassuring that nothing had changed after your conversation. You still treated him as your chief with the same kind attitude. He could count on you, even with you being two desperate lost souls. 

Yet, he couldn’t stop imagining what could have happened if you had five more minutes. Just five more minutes to end this conversation and not be left disappointed.

So now a whole week had passed, a case had been resolved, and Aaron needed answers.

Everyone had left the office except for the two of you. No surprise that this was happening very often. With the number of new files and case requests piling up every day on your desks, you could probably build a new wall. 

Needless to say, your personal life also had something to do with that. You had no one to go home to. And if Aaron was being honest, sometimes his guilt was taking over, and he couldn’t find the strength to go home early and face a disappointed Jack. Even if his son, being the angel he was, would never say anything about that.

“You should really take a break,” you heard him say when he walked in your office. 

You were so focused on your last case file that you didn’t even hear the knocks on the door. You’d like to think he maybe didn’t even knock. Your office was just a kind of extension of his, and you kept telling Aaron that he could walk in as much as he wanted. You loved to say you could always feel him coming.

The truth was that you could usually see him, from the shadow through your window to the fact the door was right in front of you.

The other truth was that, indeed, you felt like you had some kind of sixth sense letting you know when he was near you.

The final truth was that in case you missed Aaron’s presence, Blossom couldn’t. Even if right now, your dog was more interested in the little treat you gave her and didn’t move from her bed.

“You, Aaron Hotchner, are the one saying that?” You laughed, lifting your head up to watch him. “That’s a bit hypocritical.” 

More than once tonight, you considered leaving and coming back earlier tomorrow morning to finish your work. But just for the simple view of the lazy smile growing on Aaron’s face, the one he had when he got so tired he couldn’t control his facial expression nor had the strength to give a proper smile, staying late was worth it. 

You had barely seen him today. The days after the team came back from a case were always full of paperwork, and you didn’t even leave your office to eat lunch. Not even when the girls took turns to convince you to take a break and instead took Blossom with them.

You really wanted to get up, leave your office for a few minutes, and forget about the atrocity you were reading. But some other people couldn’t take a break, and their pictures were lying on your desk. So no, your propriety truly wasn’t your appetite. 

However, was it weird that seeing your chief right now was lifting a weight off your mind?

“At least I ate today.”

“Who are you?” you replied in a fake shocked tone, watching as he walked to your desk and sat in front of you. 

Yes, hearing his short and spontaneous giggle definitely made the whole staying late worth it. 

“I thought you might need some of these,” he said, finding just enough space on your desk to put down the plate he had been carrying.

One of the agents had brought some cakes and cookies from their child’s birthday. Aaron knew what it was to see the big picture, to compensate for their absence and make sure their children aren’t mad at them. Turns out, at the end, it was the Bureau who could enjoy all the leftovers.

And he was making sure that you got your daily sugar dose too.

“Don’t be too nice to me, Aaron, or I could cry,” you laughed, taking a cookie in hand before biting into it. 

You couldn’t care less about the little moan that escaped your lips when you felt the sugar melt in your mouth. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine a little paradise, peacefully away from the FBI. You clearly needed this more than you thought. 

Blossom was quick at jumping off her bed after hearing you. She ran and tried to charm you into giving her a piece of cookie too. She was absolutely not interested in the caress you gave her in exchange and even granted you a judgmental look. One that you didn’t even bother noticing. 

You were so focused on your own pleasure that you didn’t think Aaron could hear too. Or noticed the little change in his posture. How he moved his thighs on the chair, clearly not as comfortable as he was a few seconds ago. Or how he played with his tie to keep his hands occupied on something else. Something that wasn’t, well…you.

Not even Blossom was nice enough to help him, going back to her bed in a lazy and disappointing walk. 

He cleared his throat, looking for his composure back. “You deserve some kindness,” he then said.

You tilted your head to the side and pouted slightly. The simple thought of someone thinking about your own good was touching. And not only was it a man, it was your boss. More than your boss, it was Aaron. That was more than what your heart could handle at 8 p.m. on a Friday night. 

You grabbed another cookie from the plate and handed it to him. “Have some too.”

Aaron looked at it and considered refusing your offer. He already ate some earlier, and the ones he picked were for you, not him. But the sweet look in your eyes made him think that you could actually cry if he said no. 

He chose the safe option and took it from your hand. His fingers brushed yours softly, and he let that moment last longer than he should have.

The view of the two of you sharing cookies in your little office made you laugh. “This is, like, the closest to a date I’ve been to in months.” 

This was enough to remind Aaron why he was there in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night.”

Your eyes grew big at the sudden thought that you might have said something controversial or problematic. You remembered the conversation—or at least you thought so. Did you say anything inappropriate to your chief? You sure had inappropriate thoughts in the past—and I, in a not-so-far-away past—but you were secretly praying none of them escaped your mouth.

To be honest, even now, totally sober, you weren't 100% sure you could trust your mouth. It wasn’t your fault his rolled-up sleeves made his arms and his veins so visible you were dying to look at them. 

Thankfully, Aaron was quick at putting a hand on your arm to stop your overwhelming thoughts. 

“About wanting to start dating again with someone you know and ttrust, he completed in such a serious tone you could forget the context of the conversation in the first place.

Your lips formed an O for a few seconds before you replied with a soft laugh: “Yep, sounds like something I said.” 

It didn’t sound like something you said. You said that, and you knew it. 

You knew it just because your brain made sure to perfectly memorize Aaron’s face when he heard those words. His confused but also relieved expression, telling you he had been working hard to express his own feelings. But also the expression when he asked if you had someone in mind. Like it was a need for him to know. Like a part of him expected an answer you weren’t sure you were allowed to give.

“I still mean it,” you said. “I still think this could be a good solution. The whole thing now is…”

“Finding that person.” Aaron completed it, and you simply nodded.

And soon the room fell into silence again.

If you were in a movie, you would yell at the characters to speak the obvious. Because it was obvious to both of you.

How Aaron, as your chief, didn’t feel like he had any right to speak his mind and feared being accused of harassment—even though he trusted you enough to not do it. 

How you, as his agent, were scared you might lose the job of your dream for a fantasy—even though you trusted him enough to not fire you for this.

But how you both had the same idea in mind.

“Do you think…” Aaron started.

But you spoke at the time. “...Want to do it?”

Another silence. Then a shared laugh that lightened up the mood.

“This would stay between us?”

You could tell how important it was for him. The low voice he used, like he was sharing some secret. Like a child asking for something he shouldn’t be. Like a part of him still wasn't sure this was the right thing. 

It was easy to start it; it would be harder to face the consequences if anything went wrong. And the list of possible consequences was already long enough in his head. 

Starting from professional procedure for going on dates with a member of his team to potential unsub taking advantages of this. To broken hearts. Yes, broken hearts were the worst scenario, even for Aaron Hotchner.

“I didn’t plan on adding a new slide on my case presentation about this, no,” you replied, taking another cookie from the plate. 

Your sarcastic remark kind of worked when he rolled his eyes and let out an amused sigh. But this wasn’t enough.

“The only person aware of this is Blossom right here,” you said, pointing to your dog. Blossom, who apparently couldn’t care less about whatever you were talking about. But still got up from her bed and walked to Aaron.

Either she was still mad at you for not giving her any treat, or she finally noticed Aaron’s presence. In any way, it didn’t take her long to jump on his lap and get some new caresses.

You found it funny how she had a very different relationship with the members of this team, especially the men of this team. She knew she could easily get treats from Spencer, who couldn't resist her sweet face. She went to Derek when she wanted to play, and you didn’t have the time. 

And Aaron was kind of her safe place. Sometimes, she would disappear in the middle of the afternoon just to rest on his lap. Not even asking for any cuddle or anything, just like she needed to be with him.

“Can we trust you, Blossom?” He whispered in a very serious tone that you actually heard him use once with Spencer. 

And the only answer Aaron got was a cuddle against his hand and a peaceful sight from your dog. Something he seemed very pleased about from the smile that grew on his lips.

He then looked up at you, who were on the verge of freaking out from the cuteness of the situation. “I guess we’re good,” he said, making it sound like he made an agreement with your dog about you. Without you.

If it meant seeing a softer look on his face, you could accept being sidelined from this. 

“I won’t say anything, Aaron.” You finally replied for good, giving him his long-awaited answer.

“I just don’t…” he started before sighing. “You’re very important to the team. I don’t want to make things weird here because I…you know.” 

Aaron had to fight hard to not add you were important to him too.

“We don’t have to make things weird, you know.” You smiled. “We could start with a simple coffee…date, and if we find it too awkward, we call it a day and laugh about it at David’s next dinner.” 

The smile he gave you was probably the most sincere of the night. It was a thank you.

Thank you for understanding his fear and validating his feelings.

Thank you for accepting to take care of his old and still broken heart.

“Thank you," he then said. For being you.

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife@winyourheartemma @aaronhotchnersgf @averyhotchner @liilysblog @storiesbynova@lemoncee@mayhills @deeninadream @sillymuffintrashflap @alediao @jsjcue @marina468 @violettablackwood @yasministration

📬FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[simplyhansel]

So I just finished my second watch of k-pop demon hunters

And I have a theory. I saw someone point out that the Saja Boys names are based on who they are: Abs is muscular, Mystery is mysterious, Baby is youthful, Romance is a chick magnet, and Jinu's name means "true"

But I don't think their names JUST represent what they are. I think it represents what turned them into a demon in the first place. As Jinu puts it, their shame. First things first: I think there are two types of demons. Demons born in the demon world, and demons that used to be humans.

Outside of the Saja boys, we can see a few other demons in the background who have very similar outfits, most notably the hats. These are the demons that were once human, turned into demons by Gwi-Ma. The other demons with more exaggerated features were born in the demon world.

Starting with Abs. Strength, muscles, looking manly; that's his schtick. There are a few ways he can go. 1) it's possible that he wanted to be stronger to protect someone he loved, but I don't think that is the case. 2) Abby was weak and being weak made his life worse "you are weak, no one will ever respect you. but I can make you strong." this, or some variation of it, is the one I think is most likely. 3) Abs was born appearing very fem (transgender or genetics, take your pick) and Gwi-Ma made him manly and muscular.

up next, we have Mystery. He kind of stumped me at first (which is honestly kind of fitting tbh) but then I rewatched the scene where Jinu pitched the band to Gwi-Ma. during the small transition scene, we see slight shifts in Romance, Mystery, and Baby. Of all the boys though, Mystery's is the most interesting.

Mystery is the only one of them to have exaggerated demonic features, specifically his teeth. I believe that Mystery is half human, half demon, just like Rumi. "but Han!" I hear you say, "Jinu was surprised that a human had demon blood!" but to that I say; no he wasn't. He was surprised that a HUNTER had demon blood. he says specifically "A hunter who is part demon?" This implies, however loosely, that half demon/half human hybrids aren't unheard of. Mystery was ashamed of his heritage, wanted to hide it, be free from the scrutiny. I also think this can be supported by the way he acts during the joint signing. He quite literally barks and growls at the fans at one point lmao. Even if he isn't actually half demon, I think it would still be safe to assume he was born with some sort of physical defect or oddity, more than likely something that affects his eyes.

I feel like Baby is pretty self explanatory. He was made eternally youthful, to the point that he basically looks like a 5 year old. My guess is that he looked older than he was, and he was self conscious, or mocked, or something to that effect. Maybe his wife left him cause he was old looking? idk. In any case, this is what makes the most sense to me.

Romance is somewhat self explanatory, but there are still a few ways it could have gone. 1) He wanted to be able to have anyone he wanted, so Gwi-Ma granted him the ability to charm any and everyone. 2) He had an unrequited love. Gwi-Ma made his love fall for him, but it ended terribly in some way, shape or form. I can honestly see either, as both are fairly self-serving.

Last but not least, Jinu. He is the only member with a normal sounding name, but that doesn't mean we cant infer anything from it. Jinu in Korean means "genuine" or "true" and I think in this case, it symbolizes that he was the only one in the group that had good intentions with his actions. He did legitimately want to help his family, and I believe Gwi-Ma prevented him from doing so. Even if his family wasn't allowed into the palace or wherever, I think he had full intentions to send his mother the money he made. He was never able to, though; Gwi-Ma sent excuses and opportunities to squander away his money, then kept whispering in his ear that he was abandoning them. Don't get me wrong, he did abandon them. But I also understand that when the voice of doubt has you in a strong grip, it's well and truly paralyzing. Gwi-Ma accuses Jinu of being self-serving, but he is arguably the only one in the group who was trying to do the correct thing for the people he cared about the most.

Anyway I really fucking loved this movie: the visuals were stunning, the symbolism was spot on, and that soundtrack was KILLER! If anyone has other ideas or theories Id love to hear them! Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[linoxpudding]

Through The Grief - Bang Chan

summary: he comforts you when you lose a loved one

pairing: bang chan x gn!reader

genre: hurt, comfort

word count: 1761 words

warnings: grief, death of a loved one, emotional distress, sadness

a/n: this fic (based on this request) covers heavy themes around grief and loss— so I haven't included my taglist to avoid any unintended triggers, please take care while reading ♡

Masterlist

~°~

You hadn’t moved much since the funeral.

The black outfit you wore still hung from your frame, slightly crumpled from how long you'd been lying in bed. The silence in your shared apartment was louder than the wails at the burial, louder than the condolences that kept pouring in. It was as if the world had fallen still just to let your grief echo louder.

Chan had been checking on you every hour or so. Never pushing. Never rushing. Just… there. He would peek in, sit on the edge of the bed, sometimes stroke your hair and whisper, “I’m here.”

Now, the sun was starting to set. The gold light filtered through the curtains like a warmth you couldn’t quite feel. Your stomach hadn’t made a sound all day. Neither had you.

A soft knock at the door broke the quiet.

Chan peeked in again, holding a tray. His voice was low, careful. “Baby… just a little soup? You don’t even have to sit up. I’ll feed you a few spoons, yeah? Just a little.”

You didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly at the ceiling.

He sighed softly but didn’t look disappointed. He set the tray down on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed behind you, wrapping himself around your curled form. His arm rested over your waist, his hand splaying over your stomach, grounding you.

“I know it hurts,” he whispered against your shoulder. “I know it doesn’t feel real. But I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Your eyes stung again, dry from crying earlier. Still, no tears came,  just that horrible weight that made you feel suffocated.

There was a shuffle outside the bedroom, followed by soft footsteps. Chan looked up but didn’t move.

“Can I come in?” Felix’s voice was gentle.

You didn’t speak, but Chan said, “Yeah.”

Felix entered quietly and crossed the room. He leaned down, kissed your forehead tenderly, his hand brushing over your hair. “We love you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Han followed next, kneeling by the bed. He didn’t say much—just placed his hand over yours and pressed his lips to your knuckles before squeezing them gently. His eyes searched your face like he was begging for some sign you were still there, behind the silence.

Hyunjin sat beside you and placed his cheek against yours for a long minute, arms curling around your shoulders. “We’re here. All of us.”

After staying with you for a while, the boys quietly made their way out of the room. Felix lingered for a moment, brushing your hair back one last time before following the others. Han gave your hand a final squeeze, and Hyunjin glanced back from the doorway with teary eyes, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together.

Not long after, a soft knock came at the door again. This time Minho came.

He didn’t say much at first. Just sat at the foot of the bed, his hands folded.

Then he turned to Chan. “Call me if you need anything. Yeah?” He glanced at you, eyes softening. “No matter what time.”

Chan nodded, holding you just a little tighter. “Yeah. I will.”

Minho gave your leg a gentle pat and stood. Before leaving, he bent down to kiss your forehead too—chaste and comforting.

One by one, they all came. Seungmin, Jeongin, and Changbin entered quietly, carrying the same heavy sadness in their eyes. No one said much—but their presence alone filled the room with warmth, a quiet kind of love that didn’t need words to be understood.

Changbin wiped his own tears quickly before leaning in to hug you tightly and whisper, “You don’t have to be strong, okay? You just have to be.”

After the final goodbye, Chan stood and quietly followed them to the front door. He didn’t say anything at first, just opened it for them, letting the cool evening air drift inside.

Changbin lingered.

He turned around just before stepping through the gate, placing a firm hand on Chan’s shoulder. His voice was low, gentle. “You okay?”

Chan swallowed hard, eyes focused on the ground. “Seeing Y/N like that…” His voice cracked, and he quickly blinked the tears back. “It’s shattering me. I don’t know what to do. What if I’m not enough for Y/N right now?”

The others stopped walking, turning back to him.

Jeongin stepped forward, his brows knitted with concern. “You don’t have to fix it, hyung. Just be there. You already are.”

Seungmin nodded. “Y/N doesn’t need answers. Just your presence. Your arms, your voice… the way you always make everything feel just a little more okay.”

Jeongin offered a small smile. “And if you feel like breaking down, do it. Just not in front of Y/N yet. Be their strength now, and when Y/N’s ready to stand again… we’ll be here for both of you.”

Changbin gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve always taken care of us, hyung. Now it’s your turn to carry Y/N through this. And you’re not alone either, okay?”

Chan nodded slowly, pressing his lips together to keep the emotion down. “Thanks, guys.”

Seungmin stepped back and smiled softly. “Call us if you need anything. Even if it’s just to cry.”

As they walked away, Chan stood in the doorway a moment longer, letting their words sink in.

Then he shut the door quietly behind him, took a deep breath… and headed back to the bedroom. To you. To where he was needed most. 

The moment he stepped inside, his chest tightened again.

You were still curled up on the bed, exactly as he’d left you—small, silent, shattered. The dim light from the hallway spilled across your face, and something about the way you clutched the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to this world made his heart twist painfully.

He stood there for a second, breath catching in his throat. Seeing you so broken, it gutted him. It hurt him in a way words couldn’t reach. 

Quietly, he walked across the room slowly and carefully, then gently climbed in the bed next to you, wrapping his arms around you.

He held you like he wanted to protect you from everything. From the pain, from the world, from anything that could hurt you more. One hand rested under your head, the other around your waist, pulling you close.

And though he didn’t speak, his mind was screaming: “I can’t lose you too. I won’t.”

He held you tighter, as if his embrace alone could protect you from the weight of everything you'd lost.

You shifted, just a little, and whispered so softly, Chan almost missed it.

“I miss them.”

His breath hitched. He turned you slightly so he could see your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I know, baby,” he said, eyes glassy. “I miss them too. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He cupped your face gently, and for the first time all day, you moved—pressing your forehead to his chest. You clutched his shirt, fists tight in the fabric.

Chan sat up slowly and pulled you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms like you were the most fragile thing in the world. His hand cradled the back of your head, guiding you to rest against his shoulder. You sobbed into him, soaking his shirt, your cries growing hoarse and desperate.

“They’re gone. I—I can’t call them. I can’t see them smile again. I didn’t even get to say everything I wanted. What’s the point of living if—if the people you love just… disappear?”

He didn’t shush you. Instead, he wrapped both arms around you tightly like he was shielding you from the world, from the pain, from the unbearable emptiness.

“Baby,” he murmured, voice low and steady despite the tremble in it. “I know it hurts. I know nothing I say can take that away. But listen to me…”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his warm, gentle hands. His thumbs brushed away your tears as he looked into your eyes, his own misty with grief—for you, with you.

“I know it feels impossible right now,” he continued softly. “But I promise—promise—you’ll feel the sun again. You’ll smile again. Not because you forget them. But because you remember them with love instead of only pain.”

Your lip trembled again, eyes filling with fresh tears.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “They would want you to live. Not just exist. They’d want you to laugh, to find joy in little things again. Not to cry for the rest of your life. They wouldn’t want that for you, love.”

You let out a broken sob, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt. He held you close, like he could shield you from the ache.

“They’d want you to keep going. To be happy. To carry their love in your heart, not just the sorrow of losing them. So when you smile again one day, it’ll be their light shining through you.”

You sniffled, burying your face into his neck again as your tears soaked his skin. He just held you, hands rubbing up and down your back in slow, steady motions.

His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going.

“And I’ll be right here with you through all of it. Every heavy step. Every silent night. You're not alone, okay? You never will be.”

You closed your eyes too, breathing in the familiar warmth of him. You didn’t know how to move forward yet—but in his arms, for now, the pain didn’t feel like it was swallowing you whole.

Your voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper. “Will it always hurt like this?”

Chan held you tighter, resting his chin gently on your head. “Not forever,” he murmured. “Some days will be heavy. Some will be lighter. But I promise, one day… you’ll breathe without crying. You’ll remember them with more love than pain.”

You let out a soft whimper, tears finally slowing. “Just… don’t let go of me. Not tonight.”

He kissed the top of your head, lingering there. “Never. I’ve got you, baby. For as long as you need. For as long as I live.”

Eventually, your breathing evened out. You drifted to sleep, cheek pressed against his chest, fingers still fisted in his shirt like letting go meant losing something else.

And Chan held you the entire night, his lips brushing your hair every so often, as if his love alone could hold you together while you grieved.

[vingtetunmars]

Uncharted Territory

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: During a study session that turns into something more, a simple kiss on the forehead unexpectedly leaves Eddie completely hot and bothered.

Tags: fluff, humor, teasing, implied praise kink, new couple, established relationship, first time, reader is sunshine incarnate, tender intimacy, virgin!Eddie Munson. No description of Reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: This fic is inspired by this post by @sheneedsrocknroll92 , I thought it was funny and probably something that would happen to Eddie. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 1.8k

masterlist

You weren’t supposed to notice him.

Not in the way that mattered.

Eddie Munson knew his place at Hawkins High. Resident freak. Satanic panic poster boy. The kid teachers gave up on and parents warned their kids about. People stared, sure—but only long enough to whisper, then look away.

But you never looked away.

You smiled.

The first time was in the cafeteria. You were sitting with your friends, those pastel, soft-voiced types with glitter pens and locker decorations. You didn’t look like someone who would know his name, let alone say it. But when he passed your table, you lifted your head and smiled straight at him. Bright. Simple. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He almost dropped his tray.

The next day, you waved in the hallway. He looked behind him just to make sure it was actually for him. You laughed. Said, “Hi, Eddie!” like you’d done it a thousand times.

He spent the rest of the week convinced someone put you up to it.

Except… you kept doing it.

You showed up near his locker. Lingered near Hellfire with a soda and a snack in hand. Laughed at his dumb jokes even when no one else did. It was like you orbiting around his life was normal, like he didn’t have to prove he was worthy of it.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because you were sunshine in a person. The kind of girl people opened up to without meaning to. The kind who said things like “you look handsome today” with complete sincerity, not even knowing the chaos it would cause in someone like him. Eddie was used to being mocked, dismissed, at best tolerated. You were different.

The scary part was how fast he got used to it.

He started looking forward to you. Every hallway run-in. Every shared lunch on the bleachers. Every time you curled your fingers around his wrist like it was no big deal. And then, the moment that flipped his world upside down—you kissed his cheek and said:

“I like you, Eddie. Just putting that out there.”

Then you smiled and walked off like you didn’t just detonate a bomb in his chest.

It took him a week to build the courage. A week of sweaty palms and bad dreams and practicing in the mirror. Then he found you after school, heart in his throat, and said something completely idiotic like, “I also like. You. Like-you. You, I like.”

You just grinned, slid your fingers into his, and said, “Cool. Because I think we look good together.”

Like it was that simple.

And, god, maybe it was.

You made it easy.

Eddie had no idea what the hell he was doing. You were his first everything. First kiss. First girlfriend. First person to call him “baby” like it belonged to him. He thought he’d mess it up. He still thinks that, sometimes. But you’ve never once made him feel like he was falling behind.

You make him feel… like he could be good at this.

You play with his hair when he’s sprawled out on your couch. You cheer for him when he wins boss fights in Hellfire, even though you barely understand what’s going on. You bring him peanut butter M&M’s and wear his Hellfire shirt, even though it’s baggy on you and smells like his cologne. And you hold his hand like it’s just what people do.

He doesn’t always know how to respond. He’s still learning. Sometimes his brain fries when you lean into his side or call him “pretty boy.” But he loves the way you look at him when you do.

Like he’s something precious.

Like he’s not some loser hiding behind loud clothes and louder words.

And two months in, Eddie Munson is still stunned every single day that he gets to have you.

That someone like you wanted someone like him.

That maybe—just maybe—he’s not entirely unlovable after all.

It’s late afternoon and the sun is doing that lazy golden thing through Eddie’s window, casting long, warm streaks across his bed. The two of you are sitting cross-legged on the mattress, notebooks and worksheets spread in a hopeless mess between you. Eddie’s handwriting is still a disaster, half the math problems are half-finished, and somehow there’s a doodle of a dragon in the corner of the page.

You should be annoyed.

But instead, you’re beaming.

“Okay,” you say, tapping your pencil against your knee. “You didn’t totally flunk that one. That’s, like, a B-minus effort. Maybe even a solid B. I’m proud of you.”

Eddie groans, flopping back dramatically on the bed. “I got five out of twelve, sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “You got two right last week. That’s progress.”

He peeks at you through his hair. “Baby steps, huh?”

“Exactly.” You crawl closer, lifting a hand to brush the bangs from his forehead. He freezes beneath your touch, a familiar stiffness he still hasn’t grown out of. It’s not discomfort—it’s reverence. Like he still doesn’t understand how you touch him so gently, like you don’t think twice about it.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

Simple. Sweet. Warm.

And that’s when it happens.

You pull back like nothing’s changed. But Eddie is suddenly dead quiet. His body tenses, his arms shoot around his torso like he’s guarding something, and before you can even blink, he’s curling up into himself like a human shield.

“Eddie?”

He lets out a strained noise. High-pitched. Embarrassed. “Yeah, no—I’m good. Just. Just need a minute. Maybe a few minutes. Don’t look at me.”

You blink. “Wait… are you—?”

“Don’t say it.”

“…Did a forehead kiss really just—?”

“Don’t say it,” he groans, pulling a pillow into his lap like it’s a weapon, dragging one of his old Metallica hoodies across himself in record time. His ears are bright red. His hair’s a mess from how fast he moved. He looks like he’s about to combust.

And you… start laughing.

Not cruel, not mean. Just startled, delighted giggles spilling out before you can stop them. Because this boy—this five-ten, metal-loving, D&D-obsessed chaos gremlin—just got hot and bothered over a forehead kiss.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You poor thing.”

He groans again, flopping backward like he’s dying. “You don’t understand. It was too sweet. Too nice. My brain short-circuited. I didn’t even know that could happen.”

You slide closer, biting your lip to suppress another laugh. “Eddie, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! You just kissed my head and now I’m having a hormonal crisis. That’s not normal. People don’t just do that.”

“Actually,” you say gently, brushing your fingers through his curls, “they do. It’s just that most people don’t feel everything all at once like you do.”

You duck your head until your forehead rests against his. “It’s okay, Eddie. I love that about you.”

He stares at you. Flustered. Overwhelmed. And still very much refusing to move his pillow.

“…Okay, but like, next time maybe warn me before doing something that affectionate.”

You didn’t stop smiling.

Even after his dramatics. Even after he tried hiding under the pillow like it was a shield from the embarrassment of having a boner caused by a forehead kiss. You just kept looking at him like he was the cutest thing in the world.

Which, unfortunately, did not help his current situation.

You leaned over him, voice light and teasing. “Y’know… this is kinda flattering.”

He peeked up. “You’re flattered?”

“Yeah,” you giggled, poking his ribs gently. “It’s nice to know I can wreck you that easily.”

Eddie let out a low, half-strangled groan. “You are so unfair.”

“I’m very fair,” you said, tilting your head. “I just didn’t expect forehead kisses to be your weakness.”

“It’s not,” he muttered. “It wasn’t. It—god, I don’t know, it felt like you were taking care of me.”

You stilled a little at that. Your voice softened. “Well… I was.”

He looked up at you.

You bit your lip thoughtfully, then reached down, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You know… I could keep doing that. Taking care of you.”

Eddie blinked. “Wh—what, like… now?”

You nodded. Your voice was calm, careful. “If you want. We don’t have to. But if you do want… I’ll be gentle. I’ll go slow. I just want you to feel good.”

Eddie swallowed hard, pupils blown, breath catching in his chest. He was pretty sure his brain had left his body a few minutes ago. You were so soft, so sweet, so stupidly beautiful, and you were looking at him like he was the precious one.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Yeah. I… want you to.”

You smiled at him like that was the best answer he could’ve given.

“Alright, baby,” you whispered, removing the pillow and climbed into his lap with slow, careful movements.

Eddie’s hands found your waist instinctively, holding you like you might vanish if he let go. You brushed your nose against his, pressing a light kiss to his lips first—then another, and another, deeper each time.

It started slow. Gentle.

Then his fingers tightened.

Then your hips rolled.

And by the time his head tipped back against the pillow, both of you breathless and warm, you were rocking slowly together, hips bumping in a soft rhythm, mouths never parting for long.

Your hands cupped his face.

His arms circled your waist.

And the world outside his bedroom melted away as you kissed him deeper—teaching him, guiding him, loving him like no one ever had.

Eddie was still staring at the ceiling when you flopped beside him with a satisfied sigh, your limbs brushing his.

There was a long pause.

Then, in a dazed voice, he mumbled, “I think I saw God.”

You burst out laughing, burying your face into his shoulder.

He turned to you, blinking slowly, curls a mess, skin flushed pink across the cheeks and down his chest. “Like. I’m serious. She looked just like you. But like—glowier.”

You nudged his side with a grin. “Are you trying to flirt with me after we had sex?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Because now I really don’t want you to leave me.”

You laughed again, kissing the tip of his nose. “Baby, I’ve been your girlfriend for two months.”

“Yeah, but now I feel like I need to propose. Or like, write a ballad. Or get your name tattooed on my—”

“Eddie.”

“I’m kidding. Mostly. Unless you think the tattoo thing is hot. I’ll do it.”

You rolled your eyes, cuddling into his chest. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

He let out a breathy chuckle and pulled the blanket over both of you, his arms curling around your shoulders. “Ridiculous and lucky.”

You smiled into his skin, fingers drawing slow shapes across his ribs. “You did great, baby.”

There was a pause.

Then, a groan. “Don’t say that again right now.”

“Why not?” you asked innocently, already giggling.

“Because last time you said that, I got bodily betrayed, and I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to recover twice in one night.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you rest… for now.”

“Threat noted,” he muttered, but he was smiling—broad and crooked and deeply in love.

And so were you.

[lyricwritesprose]

"Aaaand now we get the fuck out of here," Clay said very quietly, and started walking. I fell in step beside him. The paramedic looked as if she was going to call after him, but Clay's pulled-up hood and scrunched posture may have discouraged her. Or else she wasn't sure what she had seen.

I was sure.

Look, Clay was my roommate. Right? And he intimidated me at first. Well over six feet tall with jet black hair and a profile to die for, green eyes that I swear change color with his mood like some teen wish fulfillment, muscles like a Greek statue under warm brown skin—he looks, on the surface, like a guy who could fold up a skinny nerd like me and stick me through a basketball hoop.

As time went on, it became subtly obvious—that was the least of the things he could do to me if he chose. He just didn't want to. He didn't want to pick a fight with anyone. He didn't want to pick a fight with Jared who made fun of him for belting "Let It Go" in the shower. (Does he have perfect pitch of fucking course he has perfect pitch. And really good tone quality, and a killer high note. Also I am not sure he knows how hot showers are supposed to be, because the steam just rolls out. Anyway.)

So there are a lot of things, including the one time we went down to the frat house and got tipsy (you would not believe the amount of alcohol), there was an odd trail of wildflowers the next morning where we crossed the grass on our way back—almost like someone had forgotten that flowers weren't supposed to sprout in his footsteps. He was careful-ish, but you don't live with someone and not see things.

This was the first time I'd seen him raise the dead, though.

We took several turns almost at random. As if to throw off anyone following us. "Any reason we can't just—zoop—vanish to wherever?" I asked in a low voice finally.

"I honestly don't know what that would do to you," Clay said. Voice equally low. "It looks like—just a sort of rainbow tunnel, to me. But I don't know what it is for you, and I don't want to hurt you."

Okay. Made sense.

"My mother told me that if I ever show you my true form, you'll actually catch on fire, even though I mostly just look—this, but moreso." Clay motioned to himself. "Of course, Mother had—sort of strained relationships with mortals even back when we interacted with them. They basically just called her The Maiden rather than use her name. I think she found it kind of hurtful? Although being widely recognized as the most terrifying thing in the room at least kept her out of idiotic fights over apples and things, which is worth its weight in gold."

Oh. Well. That explained the wildflowers. It was also one of the least reassuring facts I had ever absorbed. "So the reason you can bring people back from the dead—"

"Is that Dad will snarl a little bit about his bookkeeping, but he's not actually going to get angry angry. Yeah. It doesn't always work. Sometimes there's another power involved, and if I started a fight—yeah, I might win against someone my age, I've got the lineage and 'kind of everything to do with earth and soil' is a crazy strong dominion if you know how to work it—but typically they'd find a way to screw over the mortal as they lose, and that's usually worse. Than just letting death take its course. As much as that sucks. You're not freaking out."

I considered. "I think I am a little?"

"You're a Classics major, I expected you to freak out a lot."

"You've been going out of your way not to intimidate me ever since we met. I mean. I've told you a little bit about what happened in high school, you know how twitchy I was about bullying, and you not only made it clear that you weren't going to do that—you shielded me from the people who would, and you did it without ever throwing a punch. If this had happened freshman year, then yes, I would have lost it, but I've gotten to feel safe around you. I've—" I stopped.

"You've what?"

I looked at my shoes. "Picked-up-sort-of-a-crush," I admitted, "but I'm fine, it doesn't have to be a big deal or, or any kind of deal, half the campus has fallen for you at one point or another and mostly you've been fine just waiting for it to go away."

Clay stopped, and turned to face me. I swallowed. I come about to his shoulders. Have to look up to meet his eyes.

Which were very bright green, just right now. He pushed a strand of hair away from my eyes. "It—usually doesn't work. You know that. Something fucky happens and someone gets turned into a tree or a constellation."

I swallowed again. "It always ends between—mortals, too. One way or the other. No real happy endings, just—the best happy middle we can manage."

"Yeah. Yeah, I would—I'd like to try it, but—look, there are so many pitfalls, we have to make rules." He stroked the side of my face. It felt divine. In several senses.

"Talk about it back on campus?"

"Yeah. Let's go get the bus."

A passer-by yelled, "Get a room, assholes!" and then tripped on a dandelion growing through the pavement and ate shit spectacularly—no serious injuries, I didn't think, but he'd look like he did a round with Mike Tyson.

I barely noticed.

You've always had a sneaking suspicion that your friend was secretly a god pretending to be human, but you've never been able to prove it. Until they slipped up one day by doing something only a god could do.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

No doubt jakeyn has my heart ☹️☹️ could i req a scenario about them having to babysit a niece/nephew and they get baby fever from it..... and possibly discuss about starting a family one day?

& this request! (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡ oh my gosh this is so freaking sweet stfu rn...this is ADORABLE. oh im crying jakeyn as parents one day??? the most chaotic, but yet, cutest parent duo ever.

──── ONE DAY 🍼☁️🧸 ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

"She's too fast," Jake's skidding to a full stop in front of you, hands braced on his knees as he pants, breath heaving, but still—he's smiling. Like his heart has never been so full.

Down the hall—your two-year-old-niece shrieks with laughter, her tiny feet pounding against the floor as she disappears into the bedroom, giggling like the maniac she is.

"She's impossible to catch," Jake chuckles, shaking his head as he watches her turn the corner and into the room, eyes wide with defeat.

You giggle, your hands occupied with assembling three slightly lopsided PB&Js, "You need to get her here for lunch."

"And I will," he promises between wheezes.

You reach across the kitchen counter and hand him a juice box—which he opens and takes a sip from, "Thanks, baby."

"I gave that to you to give to her, but okay. Sure."

An hour later, the three of you are tucked into the couch—your niece curled up fast asleep on Jake's chest, tiny fingers still clutching the fabric of his hoodie.

Her empty juice box abandoned on the floor.

Untouched crusts of her sandwich on the coffee table.

Bluey humming quietly from the TV across from you three.

Jake's stroking her hair gently. Your head rests on his shoulder, your breathes matching his own.

Everything smells of faint peanut butter and baby shampoo.

You glance up at your boyfriend—all soft, quiet, warm, his eyes looking down, watching your niece sleep like she's made of glass and gold.

You smile.

"You're a natural," you whisper.

Jake's eyes flick to yours. His voice drops, soft and quiet—

"Yeah?"

You nod. "She loves you. She hasn't let go of your hand all afternoon."

He glances down again—at the toddler tucked into him like he's the safest place in her world. Then, he looks back at you.

"I kind of...like this," he murmurs. "Like, I knew I'd love her—she's just like you—but this? This feeling? With you here too?"

You nod softly, your cheek brushing against his shoulder, "Yeah. Me too, Jakey."

There's a beat of quietness. Quietness, softness, everything that feels like home.

The sound of the TV. The soft hum of the air conditioner. And the three of you breathing in sync.

Jake's voice lowers again, like it's meant just for you.

"We'd be really good at this," he says. "One day."

And your heart stutters. With hope. Excitement. Wonder.

You lift your head to look at him, your eyes softening at the view.

His cheeks slightly pink. His lashes brushing the top of his cheeks as he blinks at you—pure and tender, like he's never looked at anything longer.

"Not saying we're anywhere near that," he adds, voice a little shy now. "But...I don't know. Watching you with her today—I just kept thinking. You'd be such a good mom, Y/N."

You grin, "I do already make sure you and the boys take your vitamins."

Jake chuckles, matching your smile, "And you always remind me to drink water."

"And I do your laundry and color-code your side of the closet and help you pick out your outfits."

He laughs again—a breathy, shoulder-shaking sound—and leans in you, nudging your temple with his nose. Your fingers absentmindedly go to twirl the soft ends of your niece's hair, Jake's fingers brushing slightly against your own as he continues brushing through her knots.

"Okay, so maybe I'm already the child," he mutters jokingly. "You'll have plenty of practice already."

You snort, nudging him with your knee, the both of you falling quiet again. Jake's hand reaches for yours, guiding it gently so your fingers overlap across her tiny back—closely holding her together, and—

You're smiling. Like your heart has never been so full.

"I think about it sometimes too," you admit softly. "One day."

Jake looks at you—and his eyes go soft again. Round. Deep.

Like he's falling in love with you all over again.

"Yeah?" he murmurs.

"Yeah," you whisper back. "As long as it's with you."

Later that night, after your niece is picked up and the apartment is clean again—PB&J crusts tossed, stray crayons gathered, juice boxes in the recycling—

Jake wraps you up in his arms and mumbles sleepily against your forehead—

"Five kids. Minimum."

You lift your head, giving him a look that says he's absolutely lost his mind.

"Five?"

"Okay, fine," his eyes still closed, a small grin forming on his lips. "Three. And two dogs. Not including Layla. So...three dogs."

"Mmhm," you drop your head back onto his chest. "You're ambitious."

"I'm in love," he says simply, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Same thing."

no doubt m. list

tag list pt 1!: @bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @heekolazz @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[g1rld1ary]

pushing it down and praying - ex! james potter x fem!reader

part 2 to let things go wc: 5935 cw: angst with some comfort, lots of crying, swearing, blood and cuts, toxic partners, kind of misogynistic speech? sex but not in graphic detail, pls lmk if i miss any me: has taken me a hot minute but part 2 is finally here! it ended up being so much longer than i expected so i assume there will probably be a part 3 at some point bc theres so much to explore with this dynamic

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Lily’s apartment was cozy but refined, absolutely perfect for her. You could see furniture and decorations you recognised from when she first got her place with Mary, but it was clear she’d grown up, and the flat had matured with her. Your heart clenched as you realised you’d missed it all.

Thankfully, Lily hadn’t commented on your absence, hadn’t made any snide remarks that you were crawling back because you had nowhere else to go. She just held you in a long embrace the second you walked through her door, rubbing your back softly as you began to cry again.

Remus was standing behind her, a pitiful frown on his face.

“Long time no see, love.” He pulled you towards him, his knitted sweater warm and soft against you.

“I’ve missed you,” You mumbled against his chest, holding him tighter until you were almost sure you weren’t going to bawl anymore.

Remus and Lily fussed around you until you were wrapped in a thick duvet, sitting on Lily’s couch with a steaming mug of tea.

You were glad you’d let everything out over the phone; it negated the necessity to explain it under their pitiful, sympathetic gazes. Instead, you let them both fill you in on their lives.

It seemed like everything had changed, yet was still exactly the same. The friendship group had stayed, but jobs, partners, and living arrangements had shifted and altered in the time you’d been away. You hung onto their every word, filling in the gaps that had slowly appeared over the years.

Then Lily asked you to return the favour. You hesitated, unsure of where to start. You started on something safe: your career. Objective achievements, a linear progression between positions and responsibilities. You told them about the hobbies you’d picked up and those which you’d long abandoned. Finally, you told them about your flat.

You described the shitty heating that only worked once every four or five days, meaning you had blankets ready on every surface just in case. You told them about the single square metre kitchen (only a slight exaggeration) where you had to contort yourself to open any of the cupboards, but how you turned it into a game and had even started to love it. You told them about your bedroom and the sanctuary it had become, with eccentric lamps you’d found antiquing and the same cozy bedspread you’d had since adolescence.

Speaking about your bed brought you back to thoughts of Adam, though, and you could feel your spirit sink again at the idea of him moving in. Remus and Lily exchanged concerned looks, unsure of how to broach the subject.

“So, Adam’s moving in?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Can I ask something that might be uncomfortable?” Lily continued at your nod, “You and Adam have been together for, what, a couple years now, and he still hasn’t moved in? What’s your hesitation?”

You looked around at both your friends for a long moment, feeling bile rise in the back of your throat. It was bitter and burned inside your mouth, echoing how you’d been feeling all day.

“I don’t know,” You croaked, staring daggers through your tea mug, “I mean I love him! I think. But, I just… I don’t know if I want to wake up next to him forever, you know? If he moves in, it feels like that’s it. It’s permanent.”

Lily looked at you in a way that was very familiar, eyebrows knitted together in pity. You kept your eyes anywhere but hers, carefully examining some of the framed photos on the wall.

“You know it’s okay to not want what someone tells you you’re supposed to, right?” Remus said, pulling a blanket over himself on a plush armchair. You nodded, duh, but really hearing it, you bit your lip.

“It’s just, like, it’s been years, right? He’s been asking to move in since before we hit a year, and it just feels like if we don’t do it now, then he’ll break up with me. And I don’t want that! I don’t think, or — or, I didn’t, but now things are extra weird and… Ugh.” You didn’t mean to ramble or reveal so much, but you were sure it wasn’t such a surprise after the previous events of the night, and the way that Remus and Lily had known you for a million years and were intimately familiar with your tells. Evidently, you hadn’t changed that much with Adam.

“Lovely, you can’t be making huge lifestyle changes just to hope that someone doesn’t break up with you. If Adam is really the one for you, he shouldn’t mind if you tell him you’re not ready for it yet.”

“Besides,” Lily added, “We’re all still young. It’s okay to just want to experience living alone in your twenties. There’s no timeline that you have to do anything.”

“Okay,” You nodded shakily, “I’ll tell him tomorrow that I’m not ready for him to move in, but that I want us to stay together. Maybe we can reevaluate or something in a few months?” You missed the look that Remus and Lily exchanged — not ideal, but it’s a start.

“That sounds good, honey.” Lily smiled, asking if you wanted any of the ice cream she had left in the freezer.

Ten minutes later, you were all chowing down on chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, giggling over much lighter subjects.

“Is Sirius still working on that bike?” You asked, remembering the broken-down motorcycle he’d bought for almost nothing right when you graduated. He’d still been trying to repair it the last time you saw him.

“It’s working now, he’s even managed to get it flying,” Lily replied with a smile.

“God help us all,” Remus interjected, shaking his head, which made you giggle.

“You’ll have to come round and see it sometime, it’s actually quite a good-looking bike. ‘Course we’re all scared half to death whenever he rides it, but you know Sirius can’t be dissuaded.”

You asked a few other questions — had Marlene made much progress with the electric guitar? Was Peter still the best in the group at chess? Then, quietly, nervously, you asked, “How’s James?”

They both paused before answering, clearly choosing words carefully.

“He’s good,” Remus said, “Still playing quidditch, of course, but he’s beginning to think of life outside of playing and branching out to other projects. Have you seen any games?”

You shook your head. “Not since… it ended. And Adam doesn’t know I’m a witch, so it’s just easier to tune out of it all.”

“Still?” Lily asked, disbelief clear in her raised eyebrows, “They’re at the top of the ladder this season anyway, maybe you can come over and watch a match one time if you’re not up to attending in person — they’ve finally caught up with muggle television.” Remus brought over one of the framed photos sitting beside the television as Lily spoke, clearly a recent one. James looked good, like always.

“Outside of work?” You poked, trying to talk around your point. Remus just raised an eyebrow. He always was too smart for his own good.

“He’s had a few short-term girlfriends, but nothing more than a few months. I think he’s looking to settle down, though.”

“He always wanted a family.” You nodded.

“As do you,” Lily said, though it sounded more like a challenge. You choked on your ice cream at the implication, shaking your head.

“I’m with Adam,” You confirmed, partly for yourself.

“Never said you weren’t” She held her hands up in surrender, “Just something to think about.”

The next night, you invited Adam over for a home-cooked dinner. An apology of sorts for the night before, and a softener for what was to come.

You sat across from him, pushing your pasta around the bowl as you tried to broach the subject. Adam was focused on his food, attacking the bowl like he had something to prove.

“So, um, I have to tell you something,” You said, fork scraping against the porcelain bowl.

“What?” More of a statement than a question, but you proceeded anyway.

“I don’t think we should move in together.” Adam’s head snapped up to face you, already clouding over with anger. “But I don’t think we should break up! Not at all, I want to be with you, I do. Just… I’m only getting started in my life, and I think I need to have this time where I’m figuring so much out to be okay with being alone and self-sufficient.”

“And you can’t figure that shit out with me in the flat?” He asked, unimpressed.

“It’s not about you, Adam,” You sighed, running a hand through your hair, “That’s the whole point. It’s about me. I want to be a fully formed woman, I need to know who I am in my soul before I attach my identity to yours!”

“I don’t get it, isn’t that the fucking point? This is a serious, grown-up relationship, is it not? What are you waiting for? Do you not love me, is that it?” It wasn’t like Adam was yelling or flipping tables or anything, but tears welled at your lash line, threatening to bubble over and down your cheeks.

“Can we just take a minute?” You begged, hands splayed out on the table like they were keeping you upright. “I don’t want this to be a fight.” Adam huffed but nodded, and you went to go sit in your bedroom while he took the couch as you both cooled off — well, Adam cooled off and you cried.

Your bedroom was still a mess from your attempts at cleaning out yesterday, but you sidestepped the piles of junk in order to throw yourself across your mattress, sobbing into the pillow as you clutched it tight between your arms.

It went exactly how you thought it would — Adam taking it overly personal and blowing up. He just didn’t get it. He’d already done all his figuring out by the time he’d even met you; he was almost thirty! Adam had his whole life planned out, and you were dragging him behind.

In your devastation, to your entire shame and disgrace, you began to think about James. What would your life be like now if you hadn’t broken up? Would you have moved in together by now? Or would you be resisting it like you were now? A memory struck you, one that had you crying harder.

You lay on James’ naked chest, hand softly playing with his curls. You’d both just lost your virginities and were basking in the post-sex haze in his bedroom over the summer holidays, shrouded in white sheets, orange sun rays filtering through the window.

“How long do you think we’ll be together for?” You asked, voice small, though you didn’t pull away from him. It was an insecure question, you knew, but it had been a vulnerable day.

“As long as you’ll have me,” James answered without hesitation, hand drawing gentle circles in the small of your back. You smiled, so big James could feel it against his skin.

“Will we get married?” You followed up, tracing his jawline featherlight.

“Somewhere gorgeous,” He replied, “In a garden with those flowers you like, the purple ones.”

“Sirius will be your best man, and Lily will be my maid of honour, and your mum will cry buckets.” You were both giggling, giddy in the way only teenagers in love can be.

“Will we have children?” He asked, pulling you so you were directly on top of him, the two of you nose to nose.

“Yes,” You paused to think, “Two or three maybe. One boy and two girls.”

“Sounds good to me, lovely. Can’t wait for forever.”

You were smiling through the tears, the nostalgic joy of the memory flooding through you. A knock at the door had the warmth seeping out of you, pulling you back to the moment you were living in. You made an affirmative noise, and Adam cracked the door open, looking a little like a kicked dog.

“I don’t want to fight, babe. I won’t move in yet.”

You managed a weak smile, nodding as you blinked a few times until your eyes were dry.

Adam sat next to you, the mattress dipping under him. He put an arm around you, your muscles tensing under his touch.

“It’s okay, babe. I get that you need time to grow up or whatever, but we love each other, so it’s fine. I can still stay over, right?”

“Yeah,” You hesitated, “Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” He said, leaning over to kiss you, “Because I couldn’t live without you.”

You let Adam kiss you, malleable under his direction. He pushed you back onto the mattress, and you let him slide your red woollen sweater over your head, kissing down your neck and collarbone.

Soon you were naked, lying still underneath Adam as he slid in and out of you, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure. I love him, you told yourself, I love him. And so you kissed him, craning your neck to reach him, hoping he couldn’t see written on your face what was creeping into your heart.

You closed your eyes, a big mistake. In your head, instead of Adam fucking you it was James, his doe eyes boring into your own. Fuck, you wanted to feel guilty. You knew it was wrong, Adam was your boyfriend. Not James. James hadn’t been your boyfriend for years.

And yet, you didn’t feel guilty that you were fantasising about your ex whilst you were actively having sex with your current boyfriend. In fact, you’d just started feeling good. Your back arched up into Adam’s chest as you moaned, “Fuck, touch me.” You fell just short of crying James’ name, thank god.

Adam finished, collapsing on top of you and wrapping his arms around your middle.

“Love you,” He mumbled, holding you tighter.

“Yeah,” You whispered, rolling onto your side, “You too.”

You were still awake an hour later, staring at the wall, bathed in silver light from the moon outside the window. On your nightstand stood two framed photos, one of you and Adam early in your relationship, his arms around you as you both stood in a nightclub, wide smiles on both your faces. The second was of your Hogwarts friends when you were much younger, at Remus’s sixteenth birthday party.

You were all squished around the armchair that Remus sat in, a crooked birthday crown sitting on his hair. You were next to James but your arms rested on Remus’ shoulders so it wasn’t obvious that you guys were a couple at that time — but you knew his hand was resting on your arse behind the back of the seat. If Adam was privy to that knowledge, then you knew the photo would have been thrown away years ago.

You couldn’t help staring at James. He looked the same as he did when you broke up, bright grin and mischief in his eyes. His glasses were crooked across his nose, you remember reaching up to adjust them after the picture was taken. You missed him; you couldn’t deny that to yourself. But it wasn’t romantic, you reasoned, just nostalgia spurred on by the past few days. You only pictured him instead of Adam because it was an experience you were used to, no other reason. You repeated that mantra until you fell into an unsatisfying sleep.

A few weeks passed, and you were making a conceited effort to stay in touch with your old friends. At first, it was just Lily and Remus, confident in knowing that they still liked you. But eventually, you reached out to the rest of the girls too, pushing through an awkward coffee date to reestablish your previous connection. You hadn’t reached out to Sirius yet, and you knew you’d never contact James, but you were content that you were taking steps to bring back the old part of your life.

“I’m off,” You said one evening, pulling on your coat, “Headed to the pub with Lily and some of the girls.”

“Since when are you hanging out with them?” Adam asked, looking up from the football match he was watching on your couch.

“Just recently,” You answered blithely, “I realised I hadn’t seen them in forever! Crazy.” You purposefully left out any suggestion that it was Adam’s doing; it would just cause another fight.

“I thought you didn’t like them anymore? Remember you said they were too immature?”

“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off, shrinking in shame when you recalled the moments the words left your mouth, trying desperately to seem cool in front of Adam’s older friends. “Well, um, you know. It’s been a couple years, maybe they’ve changed.” You slipped out the door before Adam could say anything else about it.

Later that night, or earlier the next morning, you stumbled in, blissful from a night of laughter and dancing with your friends, just like when you were younger. You didn’t expect to see Adam still up, a sitcom rerun playing, but he clearly wasn’t watching.

“Where’ve you been?” He asked, standing.

“I told you, out with the girls.”

“Til two in the morning?” He took a step towards you, and you headed towards your bedroom.

“We went dancing.”

“Great, so you were probably grinding on some other fuckin’ guy,” He huffed, and you hurried over to him, a soft hand on his bicep.

“I would never! Adam, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Prove that you love me.”

You were beginning to have a problem. Lying naked in bed, Adam inside you, yet you couldn’t enjoy it unless you were picturing James instead. You had to imagine it was James’ lightly calloused fingers running up and down your sides to derive any pleasure from it.

And still, you couldn’t feel guilty, because when you closed your eyes and James’ kind smile replaced Adam’s, you’re insides finally ignited, giving you a release you’d been waiting for. The same which convinced Adam you hadn’t cheated on him. Funny how that works.

Things were shaky, but mostly alright, for a few more weeks. You saw your friends when you could, but tried not to bring it up very much in front of Adam. He got moodier every time you mentioned them. Snide comments, subtle insults, you had no idea why he hated them so much.

It all came to a head a few weeks later.

“I’m off to lunch, you can stay here if you’d like,” You said, applying your mascara in the hallway mirror.

“And I wonder who you’re going out with.” He rolled his eyes with a huff.

“It’s Remus’ birthday,” You pleaded, “I have to go.”

“But Remus hates me, how could you be friends with someone who hates your boyfriend?”

“He doesn’t hate you.” He does. “Besides, it’s his birthday, and it’s just lunch. I can’t miss it.”

“Fine, whatever. I just can’t believe you’re choosing them over me.” Adam turned back to the television, your shoulders slumping as you sighed, hand making its way up to your forehead.

“I’m not choosing either of you — whatever, I’ll be back in a few hours. Let yourself out.”

At your lunch, you recounted the story to your friends with a casual air, scolding Remus when he interjected with a deadpan “I do hate him.”

“He’s really not that bad, Remus. He’s just not maybe your kind of guy.”

“He’s no one’s type of guy,” Marlene snorted, “He’s barely a man. Six years older than you and acting like a child.”

“Come on, guys,” You sighed with a small smile, “We’re here for Remus, not to rag on my boyfriend.”

The conversation moved on to lighter subjects, but you couldn’t help the sinking feeling that maybe your friends had a point. It wasn’t like they would lie to you, right? Surely if all of them thought Adam wasn’t right for you, there was some truth to the statement.

You figured it was an issue you’d deliberate over when you were home alone, not when you were in the company of friends.

Even Sirius was there, giving you a long embrace when you reunited, though the energy between you wasn’t as effortless as it had been in the past — you couldn’t blame him. You were told James couldn’t make it because of quidditch training, but Remus said he saw James enough that it didn’t really matter whether or not he was there for the official celebration.

You stumbled along the path with Mary, who lived nearby, giggling as you’d perhaps gone overboard at bottomless lunch. You were unaware of Adam still in the apartment, watching you with contempt from your front window, three stories up.

“See me soon, okay?” Mary made you pinky promise, kissing you on both cheeks.

“Of course, we’ll go see that movie you were talking about — the one about the cowboys.” You nodded eagerly, squeezing her hand as you turned towards your door.

You fumbled with the keys, missing the slot two or three times before pushing into your flat. To your surprise, instead of the tranquil apartment you were expecting, Adam was standing in the middle of your open plan area, clutching something tightly in his hand.

“Hey,” You said lightly, stepping closer. You could finally make out James’ postcard wrinkling under Adam’s grip, and your face fell. Looking over, your room was in disarray, your memory boxes strewn across the floor.

“What the fuck is this?” He held up the postcard, practically vibrating in his fury.

“Adam…”

“No, what the fuck is this? How can you possibly defend having all this just sitting in your bedroom?”

“Adam, it’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think? You’ve got boxes full of shit from your ex-boyfriend, how can there be any other explanation?”

“It’s stuff from my friends too, it’s just from my school years!” You tried to defend yourself.

“Don’t lie to me!” Adam yelled, and you faltered, shrinking away from him. “You’re still fucking in love with him, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” You protested, tears welling in your eyes.

“You know, my friends all told me you weren’t worth it. That you were immature and hung up on that dick, that I was dating below my league. But I defended you, said you were mature for your age, that you were cool. And this is how you fucking thank me? By emotionally cheating on me with your fucking teenage boyfriend? You’re just a pathetic girl.”

You could only watch, paralysed, as Adam ripped up the postcard, tossing it to the floor. A fat tear rolled down your cheek.

“Adam, please, can we just talk about this, it’s not like that!”

“Talk about what? That I’ve given you years of love just for you to run back to some washed up high school jock you dated when you were sixteen?”

“I haven’t seen James in years!” You yelled over him desperately, sobs wracking through your body.

“If you’re going to act like a child, I’ll treat you like a child. I’m fucking done.” Adam stormed past you, pausing only to throw your framed graduation photo on the floor, the glass of the frame shattering into a thousand pieces at your feet.

The door closed with a violent slam, and you sank to the floor, hardly noticing the shards of glass tearing up the skin of your knees. You clutched the remnants of the photo, too distraught to care about the blood dripping from your hands as you grasped the ruined frame hopelessly.

You cried for what felt like hours, alone in your dark apartment, unable to gather the energy to even switch on a lamp. It was only when you had no tears left to cry that you pushed yourself up onto shaky legs, stumbling out of your flat in a daze.

You wandered down the streets, limping from where a particularly deep cut had sliced into the join of your knee. You weren’t bothered by the disturbed stares of passersby, too emotionally drained to even be self-conscious.

You didn’t stop until you were standing at Lily’s doorstep, weak hand extending to the doorbell.

Inside, the gang had continued Remus’ birthday celebrations, everyone giggling over wine and a Bowie record. When the doorbell rang, clear and piercing even through the joyous noise, no one expected the visitor waiting to be let in.

Of course, it was Lily who opened the door, gasping in horror as she took you in, grabbing the attention of the rest of the party.

You stood in the doorway, mascara running down your cheeks, your hair a mess. You were still wearing the mini skirt and blouse you’d worn to lunch, but your bare shins were covered in blood, matching your hands, from where you’d been cut up by glass shards.

Lily ushered you in, and you followed her numbly down the entrance way toward your friends.

“Hey,” You croaked, voice rough from harsh sobs.

They all spoke at once, questions of what happened and whether you were okay, exclamations of horror at your sorry state.

“Did he do this to you?” Sirius asked, and no one had to clarify who ‘he’ was.

“No,” You shook your head, “Not directly.”

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Lily said, comforting hand warm on your back. For the first time, though, you’d noticed James.

He looked the same, yet entirely different. The years had changed him for the better. James had grown into his features, strong jawline just dusted with a five o’clock shadow. His curls had grown out slightly, sitting just below his ears, but his glasses were still crooked on his face, just as you remembered them always being.

Right now, though, his face was far from the sunny, mischievous expression you were used to seeing. As you locked eyes for the first time in years, conflict was clear on James’ face. You were sure yours was exactly the same.

“Uh, come on.” Lily pulled you gently, leading you along to the bathroom. By the time you arrived, you were crying again.

Lily didn’t question you as she sat you on the closed toilet lid, letting you silently cry as she wet an old rag. There was a knock at the bathroom door, just two quick ones which echoed against the tiles. Lily cracked the door open, a slight gasp escaping her as she came face to face with James.

“What are you doing?” She asked softly, a hand reaching out to comfort him. There was no reason he should be coming after you.

“I’m the only one here with any first aid training,” He replied, studiously avoiding you, “Glass is trickier than a plan cut.”

“Oh, ok,” Lily nodded, “Do you want me to stay?” She whispered, and you pretended you couldn’t hear despite the three of you all occupying the same square metre. James shook his head, and they swapped places, Lily giving him a long look before leaving you two alone.

James didn’t say anything at first, simply taking the rag that Lily had left in the sink, wringing it out so it wasn’t dripping, before making his way over to you. You didn’t make eye contact.

“I’ll just clean off the dried blood first, shouldn’t hurt too bad.” James’ voice was more gruff than you remembered, but maybe that was because he was with you. You didn’t say anything, but gave him a small nod.

James started with your knees, pressing the rag lower on your shins where the blood had run to. That part didn’t hurt, so you sat in silence, the only reprieve coming from the music floating softly from the living room. The bathroom door was only open a crack, closing by itself in the movement before.

“What are you holding?” He broke the silence. You looked down, snapping out of a daze. You didn’t have the words to describe the picture without absolutely sounding weird or talking yourself into a hole, so you just held it out for him to inspect.

James took it from you, careful not to cut himself on the sharp edges. You watched in real time as his eyes softened, the beginnings of a smile twitching at his lips as he examined it.

“From graduation?” He asked. You nodded, your own smile threatening your lips.

“It made me happy every time I looked at it; I had to keep it.”

You locked eyes, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed, that you were both freshly out of school and in love. Then, in an instant, you were both back in the present moment. You both averted your eyes quickly, examining your injuries.

“Um, this part’ll hurt. I would do it with magic, but honestly, the glass kinda stresses me out, I’d rather just do it by hand.”

James dug around in Lily’s bathroom cabinet until he found a pair of tweezers, and you winced before he’d even approached with them.

It took fifteen minutes for James to fish all the shards out of your knee, the only sound being your whimpers and James’ quiet apologies.

“You ready for the hand, or do you wanna take a break?” He asked softly, still not looking at you.

“No, do it. I just want this whole nightmare to be over.”

You whimpered as the tweezers fished around in your cut, screwing your eyes shut tight as you tried to stay still.

“It’s almost over, love, you’re alright,” James said, before visibly remembering where he was and becoming serious once again, “Uh, I’ll be quick.” You didn’t say anything, too focused on trying not to jerk away from James’ intrusions.

James pulled out a bandage and some rubbing alcohol, preparing to treat the wounds. You hissed as James cleaned the wound, the alcohol burning inside the raw flesh. He put a hand on your thigh to comfort you out of past habit, thumb caressing the skin gently.

He wrapped your hand up in the bandage, touch soft though you still weren’t talking.

At long last, you were finished, yet James didn’t move from in front of you. You stared at each other, years of unsaid feelings coming to the surface.

“Did he hurt you?” James asked, tone low and dangerously controlled.

“He didn’t do this.” You looked down at your bandaged hand and knees.

James just nodded curtly, clearly satisfied that he didn’t have to go kill a man. He stood, holding the door open politely so you could rejoin the others.

You took a seat next to Remus on the sofa, smiling weakly when he put a comforting hand on your thigh.

“Do you wanna tell us what happened, honey?” Mary asked sweetly, bringing you a tea from the kitchen.

“I don’t know, it seems so stupid now…” You recounted the afternoon anyway, tears burning behind your eyes. Your friends all looked to be in various states of shock and horror as you told them what Adam said to you.

“You’re acting like a child? Be fucking for real,” Remus snapped to no one in particular.

“So what now?” Marlene asked.

“Well, ‘I’m fucking done’ was quite clear. We’re broken up.” You didn’t look at James, too afraid of his reaction.

There was a moment of silence in the room before your friends erupted in thunderous applause, hooting and hollering as Lily fetched a bottle of champagne from the kitchen. James didn’t partake in the external celebrations; in fact, you couldn’t read his face at all.

Still, when a bubbling glass was handed to you with an accompanying congratulations, you couldn’t help but smile through your upset.

“Our girl is free!” Sirius sang, draping himself across Remus to cheers your glass, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek.

“Shove off,” You laughed despite yourself, “I’ve just been dumped, you dick.”

“Yeah, by a man who we’ve been hoping you would see the light and break up with for years!” Mary cackled, and you giggled, the bubbles already floating up to your head through your bloodstream.

“Where do you go from here, practically?” Lily asked kindly, always the one to be thinking pragmatically.

“Well, thank god he didn’t move in, so I don’t have to deal with any lease stuff. Honestly, the only thing I lose is his friends, but they never liked me anyway. They thought I was immature, or too much or whatever.”

“So literally no loss,” Remus said casually, “You’re better off, even. Though we could have told you that after the first date.”

“Hindsight’s 20/20, right?” You said weakly, revelling at least in your friend’s laughter. “Lils, would it be possible for me to stay here tonight? There’s still a bunch of Adam’s stuff in my flat that I couldn’t bear to look at tonight.” Lily agreed in a heartbeat, of course.

The night wore down, and your friends all eventually set off for their own homes. You were mostly left with congratulations and celebratory hugs, but you stood in front of James as he set off for the door, tension thickening before your eyes.

“Thank you for helping me,” You said earnestly.

“It’s no problem, wouldn’t want you to have to deal with a messy breakup and glass embedding in your body,” He tentatively joked, the new dynamic between you entirely unexplored.

“It was really nice to see you, James.”

“Yeah,” He hesitated, “Yeah, you too. You deserve so much more than that jerk ever gave you.”

With that, he walked off, leaving you stunned and conflicted in the middle of Lily’s living room.

Half an hour later, you were lying beside Lily in her double bed, the moment feeling perfectly like you were having your childhood sleepovers again.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” You whispered, squeezing Lily’s hand under the covers.

“Anytime, you know that.”

“Thanks for letting me come back.” You both paused, the weight of what you’d let happen over the years sinking in. You’d missed so much. Nobody was the same as they were, including you.

“This is your chance, my love. Figure out who you are. Not who he wants you to be.”

[colouredbyd]

Wrapped In You

Regulus Black x fem!reader

summary: in which you cannot sleep no matter how still you lie, and regulus, impossibly patient for a man being kept awake, does his best to soothe your chaos. he scoots closer, cages you in, and entertains your increasingly absurd late-night questions.

warnings: sleeplessness, excessive rambling, clinginess, overthinking, reader being annoying on purpose, regulus being sleep-deprived and dramatic, ridiculous questions, fluff, silly banter, implied established relationship, no actual plot, fluff and crack.

w/c: 2k

masterlist

“Regulus?”

His voice comes back, heavy with sleep, soft and low like the distant roll of thunder on a summer night. “Yes, amour?”

“I cannot sleep.”

You flop back against the pillows with an exasperated huff, arms spread out like a starfish in defeat. The sheets are twisted around your legs, one foot poking out from under the covers, cold now but too stubborn to pull back in.

He shifts slightly beside you, not fully awake, voice slow and warm with drowsiness. “Close your eyes and try, ma belle.”

“My eyes are closed,” you say quickly, far too quickly to be convincing. You screw them shut even tighter, jaw tensing with the effort. You can feel the faint ache starting behind your eyelids already.

There is a faint sound from him, something between a sigh and a chuckle. “No, they are not, amour. You are squinting. That does not count.”

A tiny pause passes before your lashes flutter open for a brief moment, and you let out a frustrated puff of breath, telling yourself that this time your eyes are truly closed, so you sink deeper into the bed with your arms folded across your stomach, willing your mind to go completely blank.

But it does not obey your wishes.

Instead, every little sound in the room becomes painfully obvious—the ancient wall clock ticking steadily on the dresser, the soft creak of the bed as you shift your weight, and worst of all, the steady sound of Regulus breathing right beside you.

How on earth does he manage to fall asleep in mere minutes as if it were the simplest thing in the world?

His breathing is slow and rhythmic, practically a lullaby, yet somehow it only makes you more painfully aware of your own restless state.

You picture his face in the darkness, eyes closed, lips parted just slightly, the faint crease between his brows that never quite disappears, and the mess of curls pressed softly against the pillow, his expression peaceful in a way that feels almost unfair.

And then the thoughts start.

Does he always sleep this peacefully? Does he dream of you? Would he still love you if you turned into a frog? Or a goat? Could goats and wizards fall in love? What kind of goat would you even be?

The questions spiral faster, one after another, each one more ridiculous than the last. Sleep drifts further and further out of reach.

You let out another frustrated huff.

“Regulus?”

A low, sleepy groan. “Yes, amour?”

“I really, really cannot sleep.”

His chest rumbles faintly with laughter as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I know, my love. Try again and close your eyes.”

You close your eyes. Again. Properly this time, with less of the scrunched, frustrated effort from before and more of a gentle surrender to the dark, a quiet intention to will yourself toward sleep.

You inhale deeply, the breath slow and deliberate, imagining your mind emptying like a room with the lights turned off, cool and still.

For a fleeting moment, it works. There is calm, there is quiet. And then—

Is the window open?

A faint chill brushes along the bare skin of your arm and you shift beneath the sheets, the sudden awareness unsettling. The air feels colder than it should, which sends your thoughts spiralling toward the catastrophic possibilities. 

What if you catch a cold? What if the room is somehow filling with an insidious draught? You inch the blanket higher, tucking it beneath your chin with painstaking care so as not to disturb the already-too-patient boy lying beside you.

Another breath. Slow in, slow out. This is fine. You are fine.

How many breaths does a person take in a lifetime?

The thought arrives uninvited and lodges itself squarely in the centre of your mind, stubborn and immovable. You try to banish it, to focus on the softness of the pillow or the warmth of Regulus’s arms, but the question blooms and multiplies, ridiculous and persistent. 

Tens of thousands of breaths a day. Millions, surely, over a lifetime. Billions, even. And here you are, wasting perfectly good breaths by counting breaths.

You sigh, unable to help yourself.

“Amour,” comes Regulus’s voice, rough-edged with sleep but warm and teasing beneath it.

You can tell he has not bothered to open his eyes. “You are thinking very loudly.”

“I am not!” you reply, the words tumbling out with such urgency that not even you could believe them.

“You are,” he insists, far too smug for someone half-asleep.

You bury your face into his chest, as though pressing close enough might muffle the buzzing in your head and block him from hearing the steady stream of restless thoughts that refuse to quiet.

His arm tightens instinctively around you, fingers curling lightly against your back, lazy and affectionate.

You close your eyes again, this time with solemn determination. You can do this. You can sleep.

You inhale, exhale, matching your breath to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

The sound is soothing, hypnotic even, and for a few blissful seconds your mind begins to drift, thoughts softening at the edges.

One more breath. And another. You settle deeper against him, anchoring yourself to the rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart.

Slowly, the edges of your mind begin to soften again, thoughts growing quieter—

Why is the pillow so warm on this side? Should you flip it?

But if you move, will you wake him up? And if you do not, will you overheat and die a slow, tragic death beneath this pillow?

You lie perfectly still, caught in the throes of an absurd internal debate. Surely the consequences of a slightly warm pillow are not so dire. Surely you can endure a little discomfort for the sake of his sleep.

A soft chuckle hums through Regulus’s chest. Of course he can tell what you are thinking. He always can.

“Would you like me to flip it for you?” he murmurs, voice edged with amusement.

You let out a long, pitiful groan, burying your face against him. “I am trying so hard to sleep, you know.”

“And you are very valiant,” he says solemnly, the faint smile curling into his words.

“Hopeless,” you mumble into his shirt, though the warmth of him is already soothing something restless inside you. “I am hopeless.”

“Never, amour.” His reply is soft but certain, his fingers brushing through your hair with a rhythm so gentle you can almost mistake it for the start of a dream.

Then you feel him shift, the mattress dipping slightly as he moves. 

You had been lying comfortably on his arm, but then he scoots closer, inch by deliberate inch, until there is no space left between you, and you find yourself gently but completely caged in by the warmth of his body.

His arm shifts, wrapping fully around you now, securing you against his side as he turns onto his side to face you. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, shine faintly with fondness as he watches you.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice low and slow, the invitation unmistakable and tender.

Your heart skips its familiar little beat—the one it always does when he looks at you like that, as if the world and time could pause just to hold this moment.

Without hesitation, you wiggle closer, letting him pull you fully into the safety of his arms. His chest feels solid beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady and calming.

His other hand finds your waist, drawing you just a fraction nearer, as though there could ever be enough closeness between you two.

“Better?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath warm against your skin.

You nod, eyes fluttering shut for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but this time softer, easier somehow.

“Much better,” you murmur sleepily, already feeling the pull of drowsiness at last, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the weight of his arms around you.

“Good,” he whispers, voice heavy with sleep now. “Now close those pretty eyes and sleep, ma belle. I have you.”

It almost happens, truly.

You are drifting, at last, the constant hum of your mind finally dulling beneath the weight of Regulus’s arms around you, the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady and grounding. 

Your breaths have started to slow without you noticing, your body loosening where it had been so stubbornly tense before. Sleep teases at the edges of your mind, soft and inviting, closer now than it has been all night.

But then—of course, because you cannot leave well enough alone—another thought slips in.

“Reg?” you murmur, voice thick with drowsiness but still bright enough to be dangerous.

There is a pause, a sigh so long-suffering you can feel it vibrate through his ribs before he answers, voice raspy and bone-weary. “What is it this time, amour?”

You shift slightly against him, frowning. “Can you match your breathing to mine? Your breathing is too loud.”

For a moment, he is utterly still beneath you, as if debating whether he truly heard what he just heard.

Then, without warning, he sits bolt upright in bed, the sudden motion jolting you slightly and making you blink up at him, startled and blinking in the dark.

“You want me to what?” he says, audacity dripping from every syllable, eyes barely open but glowing with that particular blend of disbelief and exhaustion only you seem capable of inspiring in him.

You clutch at his arm, tugging gently as you whine, “Reggieee… your breathing is too loud!”

He stares at you for one incredulous beat, then flops back down onto the mattress with a dramatic thud, dragging a hand over his face.

“I am so sorry my breathing patterns offend you,” he mutters, tone halfway between sarcasm and surrender.

You pout against his chest, snuggling back into him as you sigh, “I just wanna sleep.”

With another groan, one so dramatic you have to fight back a giggle, he rolls toward you, opening his arms. “Fine. Come here. Let me apparently synchronise our vital signs like a lunatic.”

You grin and snuggle close, letting him pull you in until you are pressed firmly against him, your ear to his chest.

With great, theatrical effort, Regulus begins slowing his breathing, long exaggerated exhales that make your body shake slightly with suppressed laughter. “Better?” he mutters, already sounding like a man resigned to his fate.

“Mmhm,” you murmur, trying to follow his rhythm. A few breaths later, voice soft and serious, you add, “Slower.”

Regulus freezes. You can practically feel his eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Amour… if I breathe any slower, I am going to die on this bed beside you.”

You huff. “I just want to sleep.”

“So do I!” he says, voice inching toward near-desperate. “More than anything in this entire world. Please, ma belle, I am begging you — close those beautiful eyes and sleep.“

Minutes pass. The room is quiet at last. His breathing evens out again, no longer quite so comically slow, and his hand on your waist grows still. You are both almost, almost asleep.

“Reg?”

A low, strangled groan, muffled by the pillow. “What now?”

“Do you think the Sorting Hat ever gets bored of sorting?”

For a second, there is only silence.

Then, voice hoarse with despair and disbelief, Regulus groans, “Oh my god, woman. Sleep!”

[oleander-cup]

VANNAH MY SWEET BABY <333 i love you so much and am so glad that we kept in contact <333 okay if you don’t get tagged chat don’t be upset i’m tagging random ones !

@hiraethwa - ave of course you’re included in this list, you were my first moot and have stayed with me through thick and thin. i appreciate you in ways i won’t be able to ever fully express

@hatsukeii - i know you’re not on tumblr much anymore but i still love and appreciate you. you’re so funny, never go bald. thank you for keeping in contact with me even though you left tumblr for hiatus!

@kameyyy - mey !!! ough, i need to come visit you one day my sweet, you’re always such a breath of fresh air and make my day better. i think of you when i see green apples now and i hope you’re doing well with everything in life, you’re amazing and i want to remind you to be patient with yourself and that you’re genuinely such a funny person

@phoenix-eclipses - of course you’re also included, i mean we’re literally sitting in a vc right now watching a show together ! you have so quickly become a part of my daily routine and it feels weird on days that i don’t talk to you. you always manage to put a smile on my face and i can’t wait to go see you again, make sure to take care of yourself

@tansypansydandy - hi tansy, welcome to my very special list of people. thank you for being a moot that got me back into drawing, i don’t draw much recently mostly because my art is frustrating me but it’s comforting as we crash out with each other over oc ideas and giving up on drawing for the day. thank you for being here and for making me laugh <3

@koibitogata - you’re new here soldier! your comment on my kita fic actually made me so happy and i’m glad we continued talking outside of ao3 our conversations are all over the place and it’s so fun. stay funny and manifesting an akaashi for you

@megapteraurelia - jelly!!! we also only started talking recently but i get such warm vibes from you. idk, you’re so very sweet and i love randomly messaging you with things to make you crash out and then going down a rabbit hole for a little bit on the idea and it becoming larger than it was meant to be. take care darling!!!

@cheriisae - i know sav tagged you too but you also belong on this list. it’s been amazing being able to talk with you and you’re such a kind and amazing person, thank you for coming into my life because it truly is better with you in it <3

@ottocre - wyr!!! my love!!! you get to round up my list! i miss being able to talk with you everyday but it’s also nice in a weird way that even if we don’t talk for a while the friendship is still just as welcoming and lovely as it was when we were able to talk every day. i hope your job is going well and we’ll talk soon love! <3

once again, to reiterate, if you didn’t get tagged don’t take it personally and i still love all of my moots and i hope you’re all doing wonderfully. take care everyone and remember to drink water and get lots of rest. the most important person you should be kind to is yourself so be patient and understanding with yourself when things don’t go right immediately. you’ve got this and i hope you all accomplish the goals you set for yourself but also understand that goals can change and you shouldn’t force yourself into a box you no longer fit in, or a box at all. be yourself because it’s the most amazing thing you can be. i’ll stop yapping now; i fear i’ve yapped too much.

favirote moots?

(People you tag have to reblog and say their favorite moots)

Okay wait

@ibrokeurheartbcuzubrokemine @foliverfalls @allyeilishh @addisonraesbaby @emiliesblohsh @bilsslut @noodleswashere @bilsbabyy @bitchesbrokenpromises @billsdollie

[demie90s]

She Never Touched You

Paige Bueckers x You

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: She looked at you like you were hers. Spoke to you like she’d been waiting. Touched you like no one else ever could. But hey…

Word Count~ 0.8k

Genre: Obsession. Possession. Control. (Not everything is what it seems.

Warnings: Delusion, fixation, false memory, psychological unraveling.

She always says my name like she owns it.

Soft around the edges, slow at the end. Like she’s tasting it before she lets it go. And every time she says it, I feel like I’ve been chosen. Picked out of a lineup and kept like something rare.

“You okay?” she asks like she already knows I’m not. “You blinkin’ hard as hell.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, because the truth is stupid. The truth is: I’ve been staring at her. Again.

Paige smirks like she caught me mid-thought. She stretches her arms out behind her, leans back on the couch like she’s at home in my space, like it’s hers now, and maybe it is. She’s wearing my hoodie—stolen, never returned, sleeves rolled up over toned forearms like she owns the whole damn room. One leg tucked under the other, socks mismatched, braid draped over her shoulder.

She looks like she just rolled out of bed and still somehow manages to look better than anyone should. She’s not even trying. She never has to.

“Seriously, though,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “you got a staring problem or you just in love?”

“I’m not in love,” I say way too fast.

“Mhm.” She taps her foot against mine. “Liar.”

I roll my eyes. She kicks me again—playful, light, persistent. Then leans forward, body shifting closer until her knee brushes mine. When she looks at me like this—head tilted, smirk soft—it feels like the floor underneath me gives just a little.

“I think you’re obsessed,” she says.

“I’m not.”

She smiles. “You are.”

Then she climbs into my lap like it’s her seat, arms draped over my shoulders, voice near my ear. I can smell her shampoo—coconut and lavender. Feel the weight of her legs over mine. Her hands rest on my chest like they belong there.

“You let me do this every time,” she says.

“Do what?”

“Be close to you. Touch you like this. Say shit you don’t stop.”

I try to say something back, but her hand comes up and cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not for a second. It’s unblinking. Intent.

“You’re not gonna stop me now,” she says, voice so low it hums through my ribs. “Are you?” I shake my head. Barely. She kisses me.

It’s not the kind of kiss that’s rushed or messy or impatient.It’s quiet. Focused. Like she’s holding something in. Like she’s making sure I feel it exactly how she wants me to.

Her lips are soft, and her hands move slow. She kisses me like she’s scared I’ll forget. Like she’s imprinting herself into my mouth. Into my skin.

“I should ruin you,” she whispers against my cheek.

“You already did,” I breathe, and I don’t even mean to say it out loud.

She just laughs, real quiet. Not surprised.

Later, she tries to do my hair.

Paige sits behind me on the floor, legs around my waist, fingers tugging through my curls like she knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t. She keeps twisting pieces, then giving up, then starting over. But she’s focused, tongue poking the corner of her mouth, brows furrowed in concentration like this is a real assignment.

“You’re so bad at this,” I say.

She hums. “Don’t care. I’m being romantic.”

“Romantic would be not pulling my hair out.”

“Nah, romantic is letting me try.”

She leans forward and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. Then another. Then one behind my ear that lingers too long. Her hands stay tangled in my hair while her lips move slow.

I let her. I always do.

She sings in the car like she’s the only one who exists.

It’s bad. Like really bad. Off-key. Loud. Overcommitted to the runs. And I should be annoyed—but I’m not. She’s laughing. Rapping a Doja verse with confidence she didn’t earn. Sunglasses too big on her face, hand on the wheel, leg bouncing to the beat.

“Tell me I’m good,” she says through a smirk.

“You’re loud.”

“Loud and sexy. You’re welcome.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling. She knows I’m smiling. At the red light, she leans over and kisses my cheek.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Like you love me or something.”

I look down. Her hand finds mine on the center console. Fingers lace through mine like it’s muscle memory. She squeezes, then says it:

“I love you.”

I don’t question it. Because of course she does. Because how could she not?

Later, when she holds me—on the couch, in her car, outside the gym in the backseat with the windows fogged—I let myself believe this is what it means to be wanted.

Really wanted.

Her arms around me are tight. Strong. She kisses the top of my head. Tells me I smell good. Calls me baby without thinking. Reaches for me in silence like I’m the habit she couldn’t shake if she tried.

“You’re all I want,” she says, and she means it.

But. She told me she didn’t want people knowing.

“It’s not like I’m ashamed,” she said, looking down, hands in the sleeves of her hoodie. “It’s just… I like having something that’s mine. Just mine.”

I nodded, even though I didn’t totally get it.

The first time she kissed me in public, it was in the parking lot behind the gym. No cameras. No teammates. Just the sound of her car cooling and her thumb against my jaw.

She kissed me like she was starving. Like she’d been waiting the whole day for this exact three minutes and couldn’t take another second.

When she pulled away, she smiled.

“You make me crazy,” she said, and I felt it. All of it. Every word.

Being with her was like playing a game no one else knew the rules to. We weren’t hiding. Not really. But we weren’t saying it either.

She’d whisper things under her breath in the back row during team meetings. Steal fries off my plate and kiss the corner of my mouth when no one was looking.

She kept my hoodie in her bag. My lotion in her car. My voice in her ears on bad nights when she couldn’t sleep.

I kept her in every version of my future and never told a soul. She liked it like that. Just us. Just ours. Sometimes she’d pull me into her lap and hum songs against my shoulder.

Sometimes she’d make fun of my playlist and then add every single song to hers. Sometimes we’d sit on the kitchen floor with the lights off, just breathing.

And sometimes…she wouldn’t talk at all.

The first time we really fought, it was because I asked if she loved me when she was mad. Stupid, I know.

She was already tense—season stress, media shit, exhaustion—and I asked her something soft like it would help.

She looked at me too long.

“Why would you ask me that right now?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She shook her head. “You don’t trust me?”

“I do.”

“Clearly not.”

I tried to pull her hand into mine but she stepped back.

“You don’t get to question that,” she said, voice tight. “Not after everything I’ve done to keep us.”

“I’m not questioning us—”

“Yes, you are.”

She wasn’t yelling. She never yelled. She just… stood there. Hurt. Quiet. Angry in that cold, still way that makes you feel like you’re not real.

“You think I don’t love you?” she whispered. “You think I’m just doing this for fun?”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing. And that was worse.

She turned away. Grabbed her jacket. The keys on the counter.

“You don’t get it,” she said softly. “You never really did.”

“Paige.”

She didn’t turn around. Just one more breath.

We don’t talk after that night. Not really.

There’s no loud ending. No slammed doors. No screaming in driveways. She just stops showing up in the ways that matter. Stops laughing at my jokes. Stops reaching for me when I’m near. And I don’t fight it. I don’t ask her to stay.

I think I wanted her to love me hard enough to stay on her own. And she didn’t.

It starts small. She replies late. Doesn’t call back. Says she’s tired a lot. Says she’s “just dealing with stuff.” I try to give her space without making her feel the gap. I don’t want her to think I’m suffocating her. But all that space? She fills it without me.

I stop bringing her up in conversation. People ask, and I just shrug. We’re fine. She’s just busy. She’s just tired. We’re fine. I say it until I almost believe it.

And then one day, she’s tagged in a post. Some blurry photo of her at a restaurant. Not the team. Not the coaches. Just her—and a girl I don’t recognize.

The girl’s hand is in hers.

That’s it. No soft goodbye. No closure. Just a photo on my feed and the weight in my stomach that tells me I knew this was coming. I knew.

She moves on.

And not in a cruel way. Not in a “look what you lost” kind of way. She just… does. Quietly. Completely.

I stop listening to the songs she liked. I stop walking past her building. I stop keeping her name in my drafts.

But she still shows up.

In the back of my throat when I’m trying not to cry.

In the mirror when I catch myself wearing the hoodie she left in my room. In the silence between texts that feel too dry to care about anymore.

She still exists in all the places I don’t talk about.

And I think that’s what hurts the most. She didn’t leave me angry. She didn’t leave me broken.

She just left. And she never came back.

But you’re still here. And that’s the problem.

Because nothing after this point is for you. This is where it changes. This is where you were supposed to leave.

She never came back. Because she was never yours. She was never even here. But you are. And now I can’t stop thinking about that. You’ve been imagining her longer than I have.

You read all those other stories and still came here.

She’s out there breathing. You’re here rotting.

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